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May 20, Journal
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May 14 – Day 50, Journal
People are pressing outwards from the lodge, like cheese through a grater.
We’re saying our goodbyes, each one tender and dear. Tears shone in our eyes when Miriam and I hugged one last time. She’s been my colleague and confidante, and I wish I’d been a better friend. Same with Davina. My dalliances with the Mormon prevented me from putting energy into being a true friend. I’ve been unavailable, detached, and secretly happy to keep some distance between us.
The Christians are trying hard to conceal the joy of their deliverance. They’ve been airing the place out preemptively, keeping their angelic smiles fixed in place as they sweep and hurry us to the door.
Ariel, Judah, and the family conspired to lighten the mood yesterday by playing a little prank on the Christians. They hid Noam, the littlest, in a laundry basket and covered him with a large pile of sheets. When Peter came to pick up the basket, Noam shot out at him like a vicious blond Velociraptor. Sheets flew, Peter shouted, and Noam roared triumphantly over his prey. That did such a good job job of scaring Peter that he hid the the garden for the rest of the day, taking his aggression out by over-pruning some under-prepared Rhododendrons.
This morning, Moshe and I hugged goodbye in the gravel driveway along with everyone else, so our hug wasn’t as delicious as I would have liked. Naturally, I try to inject sex into every hug that I share with every guy who isn’t related to me. Oh, how I love making a public hug secretly sensual! It’s just a little risk-free mind-fuck, just enough to titillate both of us.
It’s a delightful exercise in transferring energy without moving a muscle. The second chakra will spin slowly in a controlled weave: in and out of center in a flower pattern, but the thread is not pulled tight. The weave is very loose and also precisely placed, to keep the energy flowing cleanly within the confines of propriety. Let the feeling of sex rise in your spine, and then release it like a warm flood into the areas of your body where you’re physically connected to your partner. A heave of the breasts on a deep inhale cements the message, but it’s not really necessary. The rush of blood to the lips makes your voice thick and low, so sigh or say a sweet little something.
To draw him into you, the hug’s squeeze comes from the center of the body (i.e.: the energy highway of the sushumna*, which carries the sex-energy generated by the second chakra), not the periphery. So, rather than squeezing in with hands and arms to get closer, press the heart up. The arms linger just a quarter of a second too long… let a voluptuous heaviness add languor to your upper body; peeling away almost reluctantly while the fingers drag across skin.
It does take some finesse to make that action look innocent from an outside perspective: it’s a slow drag and a quick release, like tape unsticking; like you don’t want to get caught. And then the reward: a quick look up through the lashes, and he’s dropping into your gravitational pull; thirsty pupils open wide.
Given a little privacy… well. A hug can be orgasmic for me.
I gave Moshe that public treatment, same as all the other men, but I let my gaze hold his for an extra moment. I thanked him for our time together, and he gave me the same look that he’d been throwing my way since that naked afternoon: fiery and probably significant, but hidden and incomprehensible behind his round glasses. Silly boy. Was there something that he wanted to say to me? Did he ever realize how much sex he could’ve had if he’d just asked? Was once too much?
They all eventually left, shedding into the deepening autumn.
The countdown calendar has been removed from the large notice board in the foyer, along with all of the other adorable reminders of who we were as a group: the ‘mila tova’ box, the list of movies that one really should see, the chore chart, the Shishi night potluck sign-up sheet… All that pattern of black on white; lines of connection, gone. Gone, leaving the neutral brown corkboard behind like freshly-dug earth.
I’ve made my farewells to that secret spot of mine along the impossibly blue river. It is such an idyllic spot to smoke and meditate and masturbate. That small patch of coarse green grass between the rocky riverbed and the wayward willows was my refuge when I just need to be alone. I did a fair amount of disappearing in order to get those refreshing hours that I spent in nobody’s company but my own.
I saw a heavily bearded young man come down to the river for a bath from the campsite yesterday. He wore yellow swimming trunks, and went into the chilly water with no hesitation. When he got about waist deep, he paused and relaxed his hips to face down-stream. I couldn’t see his face where I was, in plain view on the opposite bank of the river, but I could feel his deep pleasure at pouring warm piss into the bubbling current.
The lockdown has flowed past us and through us, rinsing us clean of our old selves. I never thought I’d find such happiness in sharing a home with 21 people. The Coronavirus is so much bigger than those it infects physically. It’s purged us of our certainty, which was always a falsehood. Without that false structure, we’ve been exposed to our quiet insides, and those that care to listen to that vast silence are learning a wild, loving way of interacting with the world.
I knew this time would come: when I stride through the empty and silent hall to the family’s room (Room 4 – I have arrived!), where I’ll smoke by the open window with the heater blasting and sleep like a king on that decadent down pillow. One last night to savor perfect solitude.
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May 8 – Day 44, Journal
Judah is playing the guitar masterfully and sweetly in Room 5. He is God when he plays. I’m quiet and at peace, and I hold back from disturbing him, even though I want to sing those familiar songs and be one with him. But the time for drawing together is over. The tide is going out, and we can all feel the gentle gravitational shift.
I’ll probably forget to write a little note of gratitude to him; the ‘mila tova’, or good word box, will be emptied one last time before we leave. One of these large-hearted kids put up an old ice-cream box in the main foyer, and we’re supposed to just write kind, random notes to people and put them in the box. Every Friday night after our communal dinner, the slips of paper in the box are read aloud in Hebrew by the youngest child, Noam, and then translated into English by his Dad.
It’s hard for me to put my special appreciation for each of these delightful souls into words that cannot be misconstrued as sexual harassment, so I don’t participate in ‘mila tova’ as often as I’d like. It was so nice to get one, though! I got a few for teaching yoga in the beginning, before I started seeing the Mormon almost every day.
He scratches my itch, and I’m trying not to fall into addictive patterns with him. I know I’m supposed to give him space to miss me so he’d want more sex. And little is more satisfying to me than the warm spread of his ejaculate.
I’m trying. I fill my free time with yoga and cooking and meditation and writing. I’m working on re-mastering a yoga pose that I’d only been able to stick one or two times before my shoulder injury in 2012. It’s a tricky Vasisthasana variation: a side plank with the bottom leg being extended overhead by the top arm. I’m getting close! My right collarbone keeps reminding me that it’s no longer attached at the arm end, jostling around the meat at the top of my shoulder like a Chinese tourist. If I can just work past that discomfort, I’ll be back to where I was before the word ‘divorce’ ever crossed my lips.
I’ve told the Mormon that I’m not into commitment now, and he seems to understand that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with one person. He’s told me that men need women, and I can’t argue with that. I’ve seen firsthand how a man can flourish, given kindness and devotion. I don’t think my ex-husband wouldn’t have been wealthy without me. It always seems to go one way with my relationships, though. I invest my heart easily and thoroughly each time. My goal is His happiness, and I forget my Self. Every time.
Of course a guy would want this sort of relationship. Forever, or at least until I grow difficult. I don’t see how I can flourish like this, though. I’m a better artist when I’m alone because I’m closer to the one-ness of God. I’m happy and at peace. I really enjoy who I am. Who God is. Men get in the way of that union, and that deprives my soul of its sustenance. And then the art shrivels up to nothing. I’m trying to change the dynamic so I can be in charge of where my heart spends its time. I need to be truly my Self while still getting laid on the regular.
Everyone’s talking about Level 2, making plans to travel hard-core as soon as they can bust out of the lodge. We won’t know the verdict for another few days. I’m the only one enjoying my current adventure, and I don’t want it to end. This steady influx of passion, kindness, and optimism (and, more likely, youthful testosterone) has given me new life. This may be the happiest I’ve ever been.
I guess the lockdown will have to end eventually. Kiwis are astonishingly healthy and obedient. My English Mormon is a little disobedient, and it’s sexy. He’s hooked on me, and I want to enjoy him more. I trust him to find a way to keep me around for a couple weeks before I have to go back to the intolerable reality of the United States.
It’s fascinating to watch the Mormon allowing me past one barrier at a time. He finally invited me up to his home today!
I’ve been to his town, but he’s always kept his home private. Now I know why. It’s not fancy.
The Mormon lives in a caravan on a small farm as a WWOOFer, so he works in exchange for rent. He told me to come on over today, as though he hadn’t been avoiding my intrusion. I didn’t get much instruction, so I parked next to a caravan that seemed to match his description: ‘a little green box.’ That box proved to be empty, but Rex found me wandering aimlessly and came to my rescue.
I greeted him gratefully, and he was overcome with doggy happiness. His tail whipping, Rex led me deeper towards the belly of the farm. There, a small, colorful circle of caravans huddled together staunchly against the wind that swept through the flat-bottomed valley.
I followed Rex around the outer edge of the circle. Pale, long grass gathered at the edges of each man-made thing that squatted there: caravans, shipping containers, farm equipment, and rickety crates full of something worth saving. The afternoon sun was already low, and the angled light gilded the mustard-yellow caravan ahead of us. I saw the Mormon standing there, loose as a scarecrow and dressed in black. His jacket blew around his hips, and he cradled a rollie in his left hand.
He was talking to someone just inside the caravan. As I softly made my presence known, his friendly gaze shifted from the caravan to Rex to me, and I was welcomed warmly.
“This is my mate, Colin,” the Mormon introduced us, “I call him Farmer Colin. He farms this place, and he’s good.”
Farmer Colin grinned at me from his seat in the doorway of his caravan. He looked weathered and grimy around his edges. He wore many layers of voluminous clothes, a green bandanna warmed his head, and the fat gray hood of his uppermost sweatshirt shaded his eyes. I could see his youth in his large, bright eyes, but the wrinkles around them were the badge of a life lived outdoors in the harsh New Zealand sun. His smile revealed that he thought I was attractive.
It’s in the corners of the mouth, you see, when they expand an extra 2 millimeters out and slightly down from the initial smile. Maybe that microexpression facilitates salivation? I tried it, and there does seem to be an energetic connection all the way down into the second chakra.
Colin wasn’t sure how to proceed under Level 3 lockdown regulations. He extended his hand and then retracted it. He wanted to touch me, but we were used to being in our Level 4 bubbles. It was hard to pop those safe havens.
“Hi.” Colin said, “I don’t know if it’s OK to shake your hand.”
“Yeah, it’s cool, whatever feels right. It’s nice to meet you.”
Colin reached out again, and we shook hands like Covid rebels. It felt naughty somehow, and my desire rose as our hands warmed together. Yeah, I liked Farmer Colin with his large eyes and his strong hands. I couldn’t see anything else of him but an achingly regal nose; a nose that was carved into monuments and coins, that could have graced an eagle, and that left no doubt as to his divinity.
“Farmer Colin is another kind of farmer, too,” the Mormon said, proudly. “He’s got a little weed farm somewhere out here. Sometimes he takes care of me wit his homegrown. They call it bush here, don’t they, mate?”
Colin laughed and ducked his head modestly.
“Yeah, mate,” A girl’s voice wound its way towards us through the labyrinth of caravans. Her French accent was overridden by an exaggerated Kiwi drawl. When she appeared, she was also swathed in grayish warm things from head to toe. Her youthfulness showed in her unlined face and light step, but she held herself against the unremitting cold in a brittle way.
“Colette!” the Mormon was delighted to have a little group together. This was, in fact, the largest group we’d been permitted to enjoy since lockdown started. Our bubbles were more mobile now, and more likely to collide. Colette was less hesitant to break through the physical barrier of her bubble, and I shook her lovely hand. She settled into the doorway of the caravan, snuggling into Colin as we talked.
I was delighted to meet the Mormon’s mates. I liked them, and I liked their way of life. Could I live this way?
They did notice when the Mormon talked about nothing in his goofy way. They kindly steered the conversation back to normal when the Mormon spoke at length about Rex’s stinky farts. I was glad to see that I wasn’t alone in my misunderstanding of the Mormon. He’s on a different wavelength.
He’s odd, but so am I. He reminds me of my father… he’s somewhere on the autism spectrum. He believes in his faith as strongly as my father believes in his. I’m not sure whether or not the Mormon’s faith aligns with the book of Mormon, but he seems to fall back on it when asked.
He has a particular view of the world, and if I know my Dad, it will be almost impossible to get the Mormon to budge from whatever preconceptions he might have. I’d have to learn his rigid framework, and work with it. If he’s open enough, and I can be free enough, we might be able to live together.
I’ve learned to work with my Dad. His inane conversations drive me to a special sort of painful frustration as well, but I’ve learned to place boundaries on our time together. I’ve learned to set myself up for success. I do want to spend time with my father, because I love him. And because he loves me, he allows me to choose when and where we meet. It breaks my heart that my father knows that I can’t handle his energy.
Maybe, upside down in the southern hemisphere, I can resolve this dissonance between heart and mind. Can I shut off my unsatisfied mind and just let my heart expand unhindered?
I can do this. For the first time in years, I want to hold on to something. Not the Mormon in particular, but I do want the sweetness of new love, safe arms to hold me, the peace of a home, and a regular hard fucking. I want a shelf where I can put my stuff.
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May 7 – Day 43, Journal
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May 1 – Day 37, Journal
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April 30 – Day 36, Journal
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April 29 – Day 35, Journal
Rogue, my dear kind-hearted Rottweiler, Rogue, came to me this morning in the moments between sleep and wakefulness.
I saw her at the back door of our old house, and I followed her outside and through our spectacularly blooming spring garden. Spring was thick, and loud tulips jostled with carefree daffodils for attention. A green haze frosted the limbs of the tall Tulip Poplars above, and weeds needed pulling.
Rogue floated up the driveway, in huge leaps, her soft feet pressing on swooping currents of air rather than on the ground below. I saw her lovely black furry wings, unfurling and spreading like smoke across the sky.
Somehow, i followed her over familiar rolling countryside, to Granddaddy E’s house where she lay buried. There, she danced across the sky, her wings and spirit swirling through wispy clouds in the huge blue sky. Rich green grass grew thick under budding trees, and the river rushed by with brightness and purpose. Granddaddy E was well.
I cuddled into her soft fur, and she told me: “Love and be loved.”
The simplest and richest thing for a dog to say. What does she mean?
“Love…” She danced free, ghostly tendrils of black following her sweeping wings. Moshe came to mind, then the Mormon.
I could feel the sweetness of Rogue’s love, and a sensation of being pulled away from paradise.
“Love and be loved!”
I wish it had ended there, poignant and mysterious – a perfect visit from a beloved spirit guide. But then, a last whisper of words:
“And remember… Remember the numbers. Keep count. Remember.”
Dammit. Why? Why am i plagued by numbers? Why did they intrude on this lovely moment? Why is the universe fucking with my head? It serves no purpose. The numbers mean nothing.
I think i woke Jessica with my dramatic sigh. I hope this day will give me some satisfaction.
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April 24 – Day 30, Journal
Every once in a while, I catch Christine hard-core staring at me. Am I a threat, an inspiration, or a conundrum to her? Why do I stub my toe or burn myself in the kitchen, and then I always look up and see those enormous blue eyes drilling into me as though her thick round eyeglasses could magnify their penetrating power?
Christine stopped trying to convert me a couple of weeks ago. This situation is more stressful on the Christians than they’d like to admit. There are only four of them: Alma’s bedridden with her concussion, Jessica is absorbed in her own fears, Peter is frustrated with his obsolete role of patriarch, and Christine is overwhelmed. She’s spending more time alone, playing hymns on the lodge guitar. She’s good. It sounds like a prayer.
The last time I spoke to her, I was trying to convince Christine to dance with us one night when the wine was flowing freely and DJ Joseph wanted to give us a good time. That might have been Itai’s birthday. I wasn’t drinking, but I was tipsy with the freedom of moving my body to the music. It felt tribal. The Israeli kids were all on the dance floor. I saw Jessica moving her shoulders to the beat, but she and Christine remained glued to their chairs, as heavy as pillars of salt.
I wanted them to experience the hedonism in their hips, so I sat next to them to dispense some wisdom or encouragement. Jessica fended off my invitation to the dance floor with a wave of depression disguised as superiority. I turned to Christine, and asked her if she danced.
“Well, yes, kind of,” she said in her tight German accent. She’d prefer it if I said that her accent was Swiss, because of the Israelis, you know. “I dance, but not like that! That is so not me!” Her laugh sounds like wooden window shutters left unlatched in a storm to bang sharply against a corrugated tin house.
“You know,” I suggested, “It’s OK to experiment. You’re in a safe place. We love you here. Try something that’s not ‘you’. That’s how you get to know yourself better. You don’t have to be yourself all the time.”
Well, that was the wrong thing to say.
“I like who I am,” Christine snapped. She immediately pretended to soften the chastity belt that slammed up around her virgin mind by smiling sweetly. The wooden shutters of her laugh clanged again. Since then, she’s been staring at me with her wary bovine eyes.
I’m used to being watched, so it’s OK. Well, it’s not, it makes me radically uncomfortable, but if I yell at someone for staring at me, they’ll just stare harder. I’ve made it OK in my mind by telling myself that people look at the things that they find attractive. Unfortunately, I don’t want people to find me attractive. I just want to be left alone; to move without judgement.
It’s massively unfair. The observed is forced into a contract with the observer. They find me attractive, they feel desire or jealousy or some stupid fiery emotion, and now I’m obligated to validate their emotions by being either more or less than who I am? Why? What do I get out of it? Well, there’s only one thing to do: take back the power. Observe the observer.
I’ve caught Avi staring at me intensely several times, too. He is definitely one of my favorites, but he always does the right thing, and he has a wonderful girlfriend. So, he’s not supposed to stare at me, which makes it that much more delightful. I love the way men look when they’re trying to pretend that you didn’t catch them staring. Such discomfort in preserving the ego!
But I’ve played that game of unrequited lust far too much in my life, and it’s boring. It’s just not fair to see the naked blackness of desire in someone’s eyes and to not be able throw a match into that powderkeg. Mindfucking someone is fun if that’s all you’re allowed to do, but (to quote the Six-Fingered Man), I’m a girl of action now. I can’t waste my time. I want my interactions to be more than just the mind or the heart. Maybe I’ll take the soul… that’s interesting enough to replace the physical. Maybe I’ll ask Avi for his advice on which of the four single guys I should go after. That’ll send his logical brain spinning into dark places.
I think I know the answer. Itai has a girlfriend at home, Moshe broke his back, and Ariel is too distracted with his own machinations. Judah is left. I bet that round ass makes a nice handful. But Judah is often in the company of Shira, who is Joseph’s girlfriend. Those three eat together, walk together, and sing together. I dearly hope that they sleep together, too, but I’d guess that the chances are low, considering Judah’s carefulness around Shira. More unrequited love? What’s that about? I need to get one alone.
Peter, the head Christian, called them a flock. Last Friday, over our communal Shishi dinner, we agreed that we were both lone wolf types, and that to be a sheep would be intolerable. His precise South African accent clipped the roundness of his vowels tightly. His fiercely honest eyes were almost always set on God. That night, his wife, Alma, was missing from the long banquet table, pouting in bed with a broken face.
With Alma gone, Peter indulged in twice as much wine as usual that night. Somehow, I always end up sitting near the Christians at the head of the table (probably because we speak in English while the others speak in Hebrew), so I had the pleasure of sitting next to Peter. After the meal, we enjoyed an excellent conversation about walking our own paths, and his kind face began to loosen with gentle intoxication.
He’s quite an attractive man; he has a tall, hearty physique and a shining smile. I caught him in the Kiwi uniform of well-fitted little shorts and big black galoshes the other day, and I can only hope that my lascivious stare conveyed my appreciation of what I observed. What a shame that’s wasted on Iron Alma.
Sometime during our conversation, our knees touched under the table. I slid my warmth and attention into that leg without moving a muscle, concentrating on the inviting orange quality of the space between us. It only took a minute for Peter to relax his entire thigh against mine, and we remained pressed together under the table for a solid half hour.
I enjoyed every second of feeling his hard thigh pouring warmth into me, but I don’t dare jeopardize my home here. I’ll take anything I can get from Peter’s frustrated masculinity, as long as he comes to me. And he won’t, poor fellow; he’s far too good. I’d offer him a blowjob if he didn’t scare so easily.
It is extraordinarily wonderful to me that I feel love towards everyone all the time now. It is entirely inappropriate that I would happily have sex with any adult in our little lodge, just to hold their dear little hearts close and kiss them all over. Even Alma. They’re all fucking adorable.
Is this agape love? Or nymphomania? Did the Mormon open the floodgates of my heart so that it flows indiscriminately outwards forever? Some might choose a middle road… I am either living an enlightened life of love or I’m a menace to society.
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