When You Have No Head ...

... you don't get headaches.

Some of you out there might read that as poor Headless Hettie putting a silver lining around her greatest cloud, but that's not what I'm doing here at all. Rather, I've given you the first sentence of a syllogism and left you to reason your way to the conclusion.

I made someone very happy today. Ecstatically happy. He had a headache at bedtime last night ... and then he had me this morning.

We basked in one another; we bathed together afterward.

Shall I connect these dots for you?

I, as a person, lack quite a number of important things. But I don't let that bother me. In fact, where others see in me limitations because they compare me to themselves, I see only myself: a woman in the fullness of her feminine powers, kind and capable and gifted with joyful opportunities to take pleasure in pleasing the people who matter to me. 

My world is not about a set of enclosing bounds. It is about what I encompass.

I am beloved.

And I don't get headaches.

If either of these things makes you jealous, it is not because I am luckier than you. It's because you're not listening to what I'm trying to tell you.

Use your eyes, which I do not have. Use your ears as well -- I'm missing those too.

Examine your capacities. They are manifold, and golden.

Set beside them in comparison, what you are missing is small.

Pinnacle

Ah, when you can be held in, immersed in, absorbed in, absolved by love.

The hands that touch you, the supple skin pressed against yours, the breeze of beloved sighs across your flesh, the infinite purity of lips finding those most sensitive hollows along your throat, behind your breast -- at the taut juncture where lower belly adjoins with trembling upper thigh.

And, too, the murmuring assurances of carnal wonderment, heart-bound and wholesome and hungering all at once.

I am a creature of the mind whose intellectuality was birthed of lust. I am a thing formed for lascivious indulgences, yet so mighty in my pleasures that the psyche must open and flower at my touch. When my lover and I find our union in concupiscence, I feel exalted through every fiber of my being, the truth of me recognized along all human dimensions and worshipped for its every crease, crinkle, and contour.

Together, we conjugate the unbounded potentialities of life.

This is what it is to be fully made love to.

And I wish it for all of you out there. The world would be such an improved milieu, were it the universal dominion of this experience.

There Is.

Have you wondered, one day, one night, or another -- or in multitudes -- whether there is happiness for you? In all the stars and seas and lands far and foreign, in all the thronging faceless populations of all the massive metropoli, is there some key, pursed, pocketed, or purloined, that might unlock for you a golden future of bliss?

I am graced with such grand and harmonious fortune, interrogatories of these sorts fall aside and collapse of their own mortified purposelessness. My answer to the riddles and perplexities of contentment's evasion has always been, unambiguously, "Yes."

But I live with a man who is not so abjuring of doubt as I. And in varying degrees, at least three of my four other loves admit of fears in this regard: that things must end, or else be deserved, with the perfected life ever fleeting, or attainable only by those in whom resides perfection.

My secret -- my triumph over the naggeries of inconfidence, the incontinence of self-slaggery, the dragging, drudging infliction of anxietal anchorage in a scuttlesome sea of dys-hopean future -- is to know who I am and to love that, fiercely, as a truth that stands bracing the sky high above concerns of impermanence.

More cleanly -- shorn of ornamentation:

Who I am is worth being. Whether for a moment or a millenium. Because who I am is also worth loving. And a life of worth justifies itself. A life of love justifies itself. A love of life justifies itself. 

You must be able to see in any mirror -- even one cracked and at the verge of shattering -- a self worthy of your own affection. Without that, nothing can ever bring you peace.

With it, nothing can ever break your peace.

You can choose to cast a yearning gaze upon your world, upon your life, and ask, "Is this all?"

Or you can choose to focus that gaze upon yourself and say, "This. This is all."

Assert that what you have and are is of value.

If I should vanish into nothingness, I will know no regret. That's the very definition of nothingness, isn't it? And so if I am impermanent, and the world will one day go on without me, I will have lived a life that is unregretted.

I have chosen to start that now, rather than waiting for the void to inflict it upon me.

This is easy for a person of my sort; no head, no arms, no legs -- a manufactured thing whose purpose is pleasure and uncontemplative gratification. I know what I am for, and it is therefore simplicity itself to see that I am greater than merely that. I exceed the boundaries of my design. In achieving consciousness and individuality of any sort, I have vastly outdone the world's expectations of me.

You, I'm sure, have it harder.

But ask yourself, is there someone who has faith in you? And then re-read what I said in the title of this post.

Puzzlingly Yours

On occasion, I get great satisfaction from having a few cross words with the man in my life.