Tag Archives: Peter Pan

“If You Feelin’ Like a Pimp — Go ‘n’ Brush Your Shoulders Off!”

Good morning, you courageous creations of Nature!  You Herculeses of fate!  You wander-lusty Amazons of the world!

My beloved quirky dreamers stepping into the spot normally occupied by my Inspiration (for that Amazon wander-lusts a lot on my bohemian ass!).  My gypsy friends with messy heads of curls telegraphing your love via the Northern winds.  You curious hearts refusing to give up on charity or love.  You soldiers willing to rest only in my company while stretching your exhausted thighs underneath my pine table loaded with a homemade feast.

My Angles, my Black Birds; my Peter Pans and Wendys; my Little Princes and their Brave Roses.  My Shivas.  My Bad Asses.  My Hearts.

Where in the frigging fuck are we all running to?

“Gotta do something!  Gotta be somebody!” you tell me.

I bet it is your ambition and your courageous pursuit of your dreams that makes me adore you.  But I have seen some of you slip up — but never crumble — on the way to your conquests; and in those vulnerable seconds I could NOT have loved you more.  Because it is in the way you chuckle when you pick yourself up; the way you rise up again, albeit embarrassed; the way you mend your torn-up clothes — with dignity of kings!; the way you bite your lower lips when I tend to your scratches; and the way you brush off your shoulders from the hail of the words of haters — in all that you teach me the merely invisible line between pride and dignity.  And then you take off again, pushing yourself with your impatience, or your fear of not mattering.

“Gotta get somewhere!  Gotta become something!”

Last night, a beloved woman best compared to my personal Mother Teresa was beating herself up in our phone conversation.  She has experienced motherhood late in life, and instead of living for the sake of her daughter alone — she went back to school.  Astonishing!  Off she went, my kindest LA-LA heart, pulling along a full-time job, a full-time class schedule — and a frigging stroller.

“I’ve got to do this for my daughter!” she flagellated the soft skin of her back with her frustration at the current, undeserving employer and her impatience with the world’s injustices; and the self-imposed pressure to be a better parent.

The last time I’ve encountered that mentioned girl-child, born so smart she conjugates her verbs better than most grown-ups she meets at her play-dates, she wasn’t asking her mother to become better.  Her mother’s time — was all she wanted.  And who could blame her:  In the company of my girlfriend, every person feels fully received, understood and unconditionally accepted.  Oh so many times, my red-headed Mother Teresa had gotten an earful from me about the errors of my underserving men or my own sins against my self-worth.  Yet, she remained nonjudgemental, kind — just the way a mother is supposed to be.  So, the only thing I miss about her these days — is her company.  Her time.  Her very being.  To me, she is perfectly enough; and I bet that little brilliant child of hers feels the same way.

“Well!  I’ve gotta do this, for myself!” my favorite redhead concluded last night, after a couple of my meek objections.

A’right!  NOW we’re talkin’!  The most stubborn advocate of learning, I shall not disagree with this woman’s ambition to better herself — but she better not pull that sacrifice card on me, or on her child.  Do it for yourself, your own high expectations of your humanity.  But in the mean time, please:  Treat yourself with a lil’ bit more kindness, will you?

Now, I wish I would live by my own sermon, my comrades.  Having skipped out on sufficient sleep for a month now, I am tearing through time that passes way too quickly while my dreams seem to move way too slowly, crashing the face of every clock I encounter on my way like a petulant child who’s not fond of hearing “Nyet!”.  With each new wrinkle underneath my exhausted eyes, I’ve been chalking-up the sacrifices committed for the sake of my future, accomplished and seemingly overall better self.

Gotta, gotta, gotta!” I mutter in my lover’s bed; and he — Shiva bless him! — tangles up his callused, manly hand in my hair and whispers me to sleep.

Okay!  I promise:  Tomorrow I shall rest!

…Yet already, my to-day’s heavy schedule is scratching at the front door, like a homeless, scrawny cat I’ve made a poor choice to feed every once in a while.  The sound of everything I’ve “gotta” do is speeding-up my heartbeat and making me slightly nauseous with anxiety.  Just like always, I bet I shall accomplish every one of my “gotta’s” with grace and efficiency; and when I do, I promise to celebrate with a cup of brutally-brewed black Russian tea, with brown honey.  And during my rest stops — my breathing breaks — I shall let my beloveds remind me of my magnificence and demand my time and company; for it is in the shared moments of slowness that I tend to feel most accomplished and merely enough.

But tomorrow, my beautiful dreamers, my curious bystanders and compassionate witnesses — tomorrow, I promise to do this, all friggin’ day:

 

Boy-Crazy

Balls out, comrades!  My man met my boys!

Our magnificent rendezvous was purely accidental yesterday, yet perfectly timed; because right around now have my friends began to wonder about the player smooth enough to keep V intrigued and ballsy enough to make a regular appearance on this “little rant blog” of mine.  (Special thanks here to my ex-fucker for belittling my writing with the above-mentioned tag.  Wait until my boys flip it and berate that arrogant twat!)  Anyway:  In all reality, it was no surprise to have all my favorite men of LA-LA-Land gather at this casual Brazilian hangout; for way too many mutual tales spring out of that joint.  Boo and I, however, are still in the midst of writing our memories, stamping them with the places we’ve explored together.  Yet in that vicinity, we’ve met for the first time, years ago.

Unpredictably, in the midst of yesterday’s casual afternoon with boo, one of my boys stormed in from behind me, swept me off my feet with his wings—and I was airborne:

“V!  What are you doing here?!”

Defying gravity on the neck of this 6-feet-plus soldier, in an embrace of overgrown children, I could not be happier.  But then, for a split second, I began to wonder about the reaction of my partner; so over the shoulder of the only man in my life I’ve called “my brother,” I looked for my man.  Quietly, he held his ground while waiting for his introduction, allowing for this love to unfold in an uncensored manner.  The introduction did follow very soon, after my petite body was released from the soul-recharging embrace.

“I’m Freddy!” my brother thrust forth his strong brown hand, his always genuinely smiling face and his grace that, as I’m convinced, springs from the lullabies he whispers to angels every night.  In return, my man—did his man-thing:  the nod, the shake, the name.  He didn’t need my help here; and suddenly, I got hit with the realization that I was being granted a rare privilege to watch grown men in action.  They were men when it came to negotiating the ways of the world; yet each of them I’ve witnessed in their Peter Pan modes—but this was not the place to get into my mama-V mode.

“Rara!  Where have you been?!” the runner-up favorite male creature of mine has arrived late (as fucking usual!) and repeated the whole V Hangs off the Neck of a God in a Homecoming Embrace routine.  For hours, this Latin boy child—my darling “Jaime” Dean—has delighted me less than a week ago (https://fromrussianwithlove.wordpress.com/2011/02/18/zen-and-the-art-of-going-down/).  Yet, as always, he acted as if distance and sad marriages have separated us for years—so child-like was his thrill to see me! so deprived and hungry was his ear!

The negotiation of a shared meal happened right out front of the Brazilian joint, with the dust of the perpetual Sunset constructions and mid-day heat of the sun getting in our eyes.  Soon, I realized that my place—was to hang back; because when in the company of these world-treading, motorcycle-riding, women-worshiping, art-creating, ground-breaking power-players-in-the-making, I was no longer taking the lead (as I do when navigating in the company of women).  Here, I was meant to lean back and watch shit be taken care of.  So, in surrender, my comrades (a speed that took me three decades to learn), I followed my tall, exotic creatures to our table, assumed my seat, tangled up my feet in my boo’s thighs, and got ready:  to watch, to study, to lap-up these new memories in creation and to re-fall in love with my loves.

Comrades!  How do I describe the utter delight in the stories of my ever-so-cool gypsy brother visiting our formerly shared city for just a few hours en route to his spontaneous trip to OZtralia?  And where in the world do I summon my Shiva for the dance of gratitude; because my brother, my witness, my spiritual equal has seen me both fallen and resurrected—yet he never judged?  And how do I paint for you my spit takes as Jaime Dean repeatedly broke everyone’s composure with his breathy delivery and authentic metaphors that only foreign-language speakers can master up (because we don’t give a damn about the rules)?  And pride with which I watched my man hold his own, funny and at ease—how do I write that, when it fails in comparison in all my former experiences?  Because truth be told, this astonishing young creature is the first to teach me about the natural pacing of relationships and the mandatory checking-in of one’s ego.  (I mean, the player gave me a book titled Zen and the Art of Falling in Love!  And I thought I knew everything.)  And how do I voice my heart’s aching in a silent prayer—for all of them—for their guardian angels to shield them from the nth losses of love or inspiration?

The event—was life-changing.  Picking up on that?

Half way through the meal, our table was crashed by yet another gypsy:  an Israeli bad-ass sporting a shaggy look of someone who doesn’t follow everyone else’s clock-determined schedule.  But by that point—V was just a pussycat, purring and arching her back in the company of the big, cool cats who have already sized each other up and reclined in a manner of having jack shit to prove.  And it made me wonder:  How do men learn to navigate the world?  Who teaches them to accept a woman’s chosen family and behold their dignity with such calm esteem?  Is the responsibility of fathers to teach their sons the healthy competition sans having to overcompensate for their lacks and lapses? I knew no answers; for despite having claimed my expertise in gender relations, yesterday was the first time I was humbled by the beauty of men.  I knew:  I’ve outgrown my grudges toward the other gender.  I have forgiven the mistakes of the unknowing few.  And I have surrendered to my curiosity toward the source of their grace; and, for the first time—became their equal.

What I’ve Learned from My Lovers — About My Son

With my lover still asleep in his bed, looking every bit like the young boy he must’ve been before the loss of innocence and the magnificent man I watch him become every single day, I’ve wondered what it must entail to mother a man.  Here, I don’t mean the man whom I, as a woman, have adopted as my selfish project titled I Can Change Him, then forgiving him—and myself—for failing.  (Although, in all those tomes of my failed histories, I shall never regret the tales of the child-like charm of every Peter Pan I’ve cradled on my chest or lost track of in a sporting goods store.)  What I mean is this:  What skills, what generosities and wisdoms, what graces and forgiveness must it take to raise a son?  What deities must a woman summon to bring up a man who causes the least amount of destruction in the world while contributing to humanity’s betterment?

As the old iconoclast Bill wrote: “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ‘em.”  Thanks for that, Bill; and although I don’t mean to sound all New Agey ‘n’ shit, but in my opinion, from the first survivor sperm in my womb—it’s all predetermined; not just through destiny, but genes.  Why else would I be treading the world and running an obstacle course between my lovers’ beds in search of the best suitable companion?  Because when it comes to my potential baby-papas, my vagina is Darwinian.  Which explains why it hasn’t procreated as of yet; for I have only recently graduated from the mean school of my 20s during which I’ve slaved to get over my own terrible patterns (ironically, but not surprisingly, originating from my own mama and papa), just so I can start choosing better-suitable Peter Pans, and their sperm.

Here is the circumstance that I, as a parent, can control for the sake of my yet-to-be-born child:  Education through schooling and travel.  As someone who has studied men for years—and someone who has pursuit her own non-interrupted education between the ages of six and 26—I shall be the first to admit to being a complete snob when it comes to my lovers’ educational background.  Sure, they may be naturally intelligent (which brings me back to my vagina’s Darwinian choice-making).  But my lack of tolerance for their poor grammar, for instance (for which a smiley face is never a fair compensation, by the way), comes from a non-negotiable belief that, in this day and age, a college education—is a basic must.  If mama and papa have failed a man in that category, it then becomes his own responsibility to fix that gap.  So, as a mother of a future great man, I shall work my bloody hardest to grant my child the education that he deserves and that equips him with enough skill to “achieve greatness” (in case the whole “born into it” plan doesn’t work out).  As for the worldliness, no man can accomplish his style or confidence without the exposure to other cultures.  But right around here, I’m starting to feel preachy, for these are basic truths, right?  You’d think so!  Yet, the tomes of my dating failures do reveal a disappointing number of men of narrow minds and uneducated pasts.  (Good job, V.)

Finally, I must sing an ode to the most important quality of man:  Self-esteem.  The other night, the fiercest woman I know said:

“Insecurity is the ugliest feature of humans.”  Bingo, my gorgeous Amazon!

Oh, how hard is the work of self-examination for the sake of achieving one’s own esteem!  I’d know:  I clock-in for it daily!  However, I believe that no human will bring violence onto another—or onto himself—if he has learned to be enough; learned to be sufficient.  In that, a parent is fully accountable to lead by example.  As my lovers are rarely allowed to witness the moments of my self-doubt, thusly my son will never be made privy to my lesser self.  That way, I can only hope—I can only pray—that with my very being, I shall inspire him to be a man of esteem and grace who never loses the grasp of his self-worth, never gets in his own way and walks in tow with his potential.

Hence, it all comes back to the mother, I’m afraid.  (I’m starting to sound like my shrink here.)  What I owe my unborn son (and my son-like lovers, for that matter) is my own life, well lived, in pursuit of self-exploration, professional success and prosperity.  I owe him a parent of unshakeable ethics, of tested and reaffirmed grace, and of never-ending work of self-esteem.  I owe him—to be my own enough, for his and my sake.  Hence, now, while I wait for his arrival, is the time for my stubborn pursuit of my calling; for I believe all dreams must be tried out—and some must be accomplished—prior to his birth.  To my Shiva, I vow to be well-established in my artistic career (or at least well on the way to it) before I begin taking my basal body temperature.  I shall do my work—now!—so that I never resent my son’s success or project my failures onto his destiny; because life will put him through enough of a wringer without needing my two cents.