Like something of you etched on my heart

Part question, part answer, part rant, part roar, part howl, part confession, part growl part here and now to answer all those questioners who want to know about lesbian love. Follow the cadence, and, use only five breaths. 

Love like waves like air like clouds like hot espresso like electricity like a lesbian, like stars like night like trees like sand like mountains like teardrops like linen like paper like wood like silk like satin like fire like laughter like folding wings like beauty like explosions like history like science fiction and fantasy like yesterday and today tinged with now, like an audition, like a rehearsal, like a spotlight like winning like sinking down into the water in the bathtub, like a cupcake like birds on wires like stones smoothed by time, like the space between yes and no like a song that never goes away. Like something of you etched on my heart.

But if I close my eyes, there’s more:

Love like questions with no answers, like breakfast, like driving fast, like a cactus forest, like fog hanging on a bridge, like wind, like sunshine beating down and sucking moisture out of the air, like pixels like bits like pieces of the whole, like myths like memes like filthy lucre like dust in the corners, like a favourite story, like watching an old movie like an angel pinned to a bulletin board like the moment between sleep and awake, like fingernails marking skin, like a mid-day call full of words ears want to hear, like driving beside a rainbow, like a bite into an apple, like melting chocolate like the ocean sucking in its water, like a tidal wave, like soapy hands, like puppies like tigers, like walking over the treetops, like spider silk, like energy and mystery. Like something of you etched on my heart.

But, maybe — just maybe — if I open my mind, I’ll find more and more:

Love like sinking into sleep, like falling into dreams, like being edited, like a slow, shy  smile like a moment like an inexpressible not knowing, like walking alone in snow like footprints at the shore of the lake, like fingertips touching, like stepping into a painting, like being a sculpture, like sailing into the night, like looking to the moon, like that sharp intake of break, like waving to Orion, like a bite of a Habanero pepper, like a photograph like a hero’s journey, like drawing an arrow in its bow, like acting like traveling through the universes, like bass C, like prime numbers, like sugar cubes, like that first taste, like a wish coming true, like the pulse of emotions left in an empty room like a mirror that shows your soul like frankincense and myrrh mixed with parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. Like something of you etched on my heart.

~~

found on tumblr.com

Love

What is love? Love is. For lesbians, LOVE IS. It is!

Love is?

Yes. Love is. Except for when it isn’t or won’t or can’t. But mostly, Love is.

~~

Love exists. It’s mysterious. Defies explanation. It messes with your brain chemistry and neurotransmitters. It mangles and expands your mind. It gives you powers you never had before.

Love breaches borders and boundaries, transcends time and space, crosses cultures, causes art, madness and crazy contentedness.

~~

If you love seven different women in your life, you will experience Love seven different ways unless you have made a pact with some lesser, evil goddess to repeat your mistakes over and over with interchangeable women because Love is such a fun ride. And if it isn’t the lesser, evil goddess, maybe it’s that addiction you have. You know the one. Addicted to endless looping of Act One in the Play of Love, playing over and over because Act Two requires something more of the leads, insisting that the players dig inside a little deeper and give a little more — to themselves, to each other.

Act Two, Play of (Lesbian) Love:

It’s where the work of Love steps out from behind the curtain, where masks comes off, where doors in walls open, where fences get gates, where baggage is opened. It’s also where Love gets richer, layered, fascinating, silkier, stickier, deeper and more and more mysterious. Every day nuances of love and loving mixed in with life’s mundane things that everyone — even lesbians — must do to live in this world.

Act Two: Love has added dimensions to its definition: today love is breathing together. Tomorrow love is a foot rub after dinner, the day after that, Love is holding hands in the theatre, and on the weekend, you do something different with all the love you have inside you and share time: lend an ear and hugs as you listen to your best friend decide what to do with her life.

Maybe you get to Love by the time you reach the magic number eight; a Love like you’ve never known or experienced. Life changing. Heart busting. Calming and crazy. You want to stay for Act Two. You will stay for Act Two, and Act Three and all the acts in the Play of Love, that indescribable Love; a complex connection, a never-ending scaffolding of contact points between the two of you that makes for a lesbian Love that simply, just is.

~~

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That love is all there is

is all we know of love.

- Emily Dickinson

Just breathe…

For the past little while some people — lesbian type people — have been skimping on their breathing. This happens more times than I care to mention, but for some reason it’s happening more and more often and is beginning to have some deleterious effects for those of us working for the cause.

To remedy the situation, I have a request of all of you who find that you’re doing this. Plant your feet flat on the floor, drop your shoulders down from your ears and for one minute just …

Deeply. Slowly. From your core. Breathe in deeply to the count of five, hold it a moment and then breathe out just as slowly for another five count.

Do this each time you notice you aren’t breathing. Til it becomes a healthy habit. Please. It would be most helpful.

And for anyone who does this and finds that she is no longer doing plagued by shallow breathing, know that when you least expect it, someone wonderful is going to give you a wee kiss on the forehead. Just our lesbian way of spreading the energy of a heartfelt thank you.

Pulled from the L files

~~

There are at least 1541 million lesbian stories in the Sacred Lesbian files stored in the hundreds of thousands of cabinets in safe houses all over the Goddess’ lesbian world. For lesbian love stories, we know with great certainty that the majority of them can abstracted into five broad plot lines, which are coded and cross referenced thusly:

1. Girl meets girl/woman meets woman. They fall in love, they live together, making it work, forever.
2. Girl meets girl/Woman meets woman, one falls in love, the other one doesn’t.
3. Girl meets girl/Woman meets woman. They fall in love, life intervenes and they are forced apart but through great courage and perseverance find their way back to each til the end of their days.
4. Girl meets girl/Woman meets woman but can’t stop her damaged and/or self-destructive ways and drives good woman away forever.
5. Girl meets girl/Woman meets the woman she’s longed for but chooses duty over love. Lives with an ache in her heart.
6. Girl meets girl/woman meets woman. One is sociopath. Rough ride for someone.
7. Woman is married to a man. Meets woman. Whole new life chapter.

Looking through a few cabinets, (access granted by the Goddess to all the pre-2000 stories) I took a file, read it through and mashed it into a single story.

~~

She’s superstitious. On Mondays she has to wear a piece of clothing that’s white next to her skin: socks, underwear, shirt. Tuesdays she has to wear red, but it doesn’t have to be close to her skin. Wednesdays are relatively easy: any shade of blue and it can be anywhere, but she doesn’t much like blue except the magic shade of blue that happens with jeans that have lived an adventure and have been washed a thousand times. Thursdays are hard because that day’s colour is purple: back to underwear, or bra, or a T-shirt, or winter scarf. Friday is the colour green. Found in shirts and sweaters and watchbands. Saturday is the colour black. Sunday is, of course, yellow. She is so superstitious that she doesn’t realize she does it automatically, without thinking, without remembering why she does it.

She’d been doing this since college, since the time she spent four months with Fil and some of Fil’s friends who were older and made a comfortable living as professional psychics. She was doing it to indulge an interest in things considered occult, psychic and unexplained; dug into strange ideas and beliefs, including the power of colours. They spent every weekend together from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. deep diving aboriginal medicine wheels, Tibetan mandalas, Theosophy, energy medicine, Atlantis, Indigo kids. Cosmic consciousness. The karmic benefits of being vegan.

It was fascinating for a while, and she kept a healthy dose of scepticism. But then it got all weird. The professional psychics who talked so much about peace and raised vibrational frequencies for enlightened beings started bickering and being cranky and petty.

One of the women started to wonder out loud every time she was near about sleeping with a woman because it had to be better than sleeping with a man. Didn’t it?

Fil, short for the Portuguese name Filomena, was a friend from school and it seemed that over the course of those weekends, Fil somehow developed feelings for her and could not keep them to herself, oh no; couldn’t let those feelings run their course. Fil couldn’t see that the only thing they had in common, other than this weekend thing and going to the same college was that they both happened to be interested in women: Fil of the sports puppy tribe and she of the don’t you dare categorize or label me as anything but a woman tribe.

It wasn’t like Fil to be subtle, either. Told their mutual friends at school who turned around and said, “you know, Fil’s in love with you.”

She laughed it off. Fil was a friend. End of story.

One afternoon she and Fil met for lunch in the cafeteria, a Tuesday when their calendars aligned, after a weekend with the professional psychics, after weekend nights of dates. They stood side by side in the line for food.

Uh oh. She sensed, knew then that Fil’s feelings were bubbling up and she felt trapped.

They sat across from one another and talked about their different classes in their different programs as they ate their fries and coleslaw. Fil asked questions and listened to abridged stories of date nights and grew quiet, speaking again only when the subject changed to the weekend’s session with the professional psychics.

As they got up to put their trays away Fil said, “I need to tell you something.”

Inside her brain, red lights and sirens went off. A cold feeling of dread descended from the top of her head down to her toes as she looked at Fil, ignoring an impulse to run away.

“Okay,” she said.

“Not now. After class,” said Fil.

This time it was a flash that went off in her brain, like an old-fashioned camera bulb: blinding, but giving off the necessary light for a perfect picture. It gave her immediate clarity. She didn’t want to see or hear Fil after class or ever again. She didn’t want to see or hear Fil or the professional psychics or the past lives or the spirit guides or the Ouija board or tarot cards or runes or chakras, or crystals or auras or lightworkers or shamans or medicine woman or diviners or astrologers ever again. But she didn’t say that to Fil. Instead she said, “okay.”

They met after class and headed to the pub where they found a booth, sat down, and ordered their drinks. Fil’s shoulders were pulled up around her ears.

She said nothing. Waited for Fil to say something, hoping that the sudden clarity she felt earlier was wrong and that this wasn’t heading in the direction it seemed to be going and that it would turn out to all be okay.

“We should be girlfriends,” said Fil, looking her straight in the eye.

Any other day, she’d be flip and sarcastic and answer in a way that would deflect the statement or question or interest. It seemed wrong to do that now. Fil kept her eyes locked on her. Watching. So she didn’t say anything. She didn’t say that she didn’t feel the same way. She didn’t say anything because her heart was sinking to irretrievable depths of something that later in life she would label sadness, and she was having a hard time catching her breath. Fil continued.

“We get along and we’re interested in the same things and we have a lot of fun together with all this psychic shit and … I’m in love with you. I think we can be girlfriends.”

She sat, listening, wondering if there was anything that Fil was going to add, hoping there wasn’t because what Fil had said was bad enough. Fil stopped talking and looked down at the table. A minute passed.

“Say something,” said Fil.

“I don’t know what to say. I’m surprised. I’m flattered. I’m worried…

“About what?”

She took a breath. “I’m worried about saying that I’m fine with where things are with us, you and me being and staying friends.”

Fil picked at the label of her beer bottle and tore off a little strip of it.

“I guess I realized that I’m not fine just being friends with you.”

“What does that mean?”

She listened to all that Fil had to say. Listened, but did not take it in, because that would mean making space for something she just couldn’t make space for: the loss of a friend.

Wasn’t this a table turned around from where she was just a few years earlier?

There were tears in Fil’s eyes. “I kinda knew it wouldn’t go anywhere, me saying what I feel for you, but I couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

She covered Fil’s hands with her own. “Fil, I don’t want to disappoint you. I’m sorry that I am.”

“Don’t be. But I think … I think I can’t see you. I need to stay away  for a while”

“Oh. Oh, of course. I understand.”

“Do you?”

“No. Not really. I want to but I don’t know how this happened. I thought,well, I guess I thought we were friends. I thought you knew where I stood about getting involved with friends.”

“I know what you said. I thought maybe since we’d gotten close over the past while that you were having feelings for me, and that you would think about it differently now. I thought you’d figure out that I was falling for you.”

In some faraway place in her mind she heard that old song… what was it? “then I go and spoil it all by saying somethin’ stupid like I love you…“

She lowered her eyes. Fil didn’t know her at all.

“I would never have thought that, Fil.”

They both sat there, saying nothing. Feeling sad for different reasons.

She stood up to leave. Disassociated. Compartmentalized. Some unknown version of herself talking.

“Will you tell them that I’m going to take a break from the weekend workshops and I’ll call if I want to join in any more?

Fil didn’t look up.

“I will,” said Fil. Then, still not looking up, added: “I’m gonna miss you.”

“Me too, Fil.”

She left the pub. Never called to go back to the group.

Fil stayed away forever.

~~

~~

Maybe it’s letters or maybe it’s love

There are letters and then there are letters. This is a story of both types of letters, with a bit of love thrown into the mix of imagination, memory and music.

~~

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Sometimes, we don’t have much time. She’s away more than usual — busy life, busier work — and I get busy too. When that happens, I keep a part of my brain focused on us, to imagine my imaginings, to hold us close when time and space insists that we be apart.

In my imaginings, I write her words and sentences and paragraphs and pages, with lots and lots of doodles in the white space of the margins, making visible and known those invisible, silent mundane goings-on which catch my fancy and if done just right, can serve to ferry thoughts and feelings from me to her.

In my imaginings, I imagine that I’d create a letter to her every few hours. I imagine the words and images and how they might sound and feel to her and how she’d read them and what would pass through her eyes as she took what was on the paper into her mind and heart.

Sometimes she travels and I don’t see her for longer stretches of time. My imaginings change: instead of little letters every few hours I imagine writing one long, wide, tall letter each day, full of colour doodles that snake gently around key words. I imagine that when each one is finished, I’d roll it up like a scroll, tie it with a ribbon, place it in a burlap bag with all the other ones and give the bag full of scrolls to her upon her return to open, unroll and read at her leisure.

I imagine these things, but don’t do them.

One day when she was away, I imagined that I distilled all the word and image imaginings of that day into a single letter of the alphabet, like a glaze reduction: intense, dark, layered, rich. To be tasted and savoured. I liked the idea of that so I explored it more. I imagined the letter written out and the images in the margins and then closed my eyes to see what it became, what mystical alchemy would transform it all into one letter that contained everything; a single, solitary letter seemed more poetic or enigmatic, or Zen-like: a letter of the alphabet that held the sights and smells and feelings and longings of that day, a letter that would spark more words and wonderings to share.

I imagined creating these reductions but don’t do these either.

Thoughts of letters — the one that involves writing and images on paper and the one that involves the alphabet — were still with me when I took the dogs out and we walked about the streets one day not too long ago, enjoying the time and the sunshine and the sniffs in the air, heading for the dog park. Once inside the park I let the dogs off of their leash and ran with them, playing and teasing.

We reached the far side of the park, in an area nearest the high school’s football field and running track. There’s an ancient tree there and its roots are exposed, gnarled and textured and gorgeous, growing over the edge of a steep hill. Lots of earth and leaves and spaces for things to get lost. Walking toward the roots I saw something out-of-place: a small square of paper, bright white in marked contrast to the muted winter colours of the ground and the roots and dried leaves. An unnatural white for this place. I stopped. Picked it up to look at it. It was blank on one side, so I turned it over to see a single letter: e, lowercase, sans-serif typeface, possibly Helvetica or Arial. The dogs wanted to see what stopped me, so I showed it to them. They sniffed and sniffed again and showed their lack of interest by turning around to continue running up and down the hills.

I looked at the little piece of paper and imagined writing a letter full of words starting or ending with the letter e and then, oh then, didn’t a memory kick in:

In my ears, in the part of my brain that stores musical memories, next to the part that remembers letters of the alphabet emerged a warm alto voice, half singing my name and adding in singsong, “with an e, with an e, with an e?” and the memory is so full of feeling and sound that it makes me laugh out loud which makes the dogs stop and turn around to look to make sure that I’m okay.

“S’ok!” I call out to them. “Go: run!” And they do.

How did “with an e, with an e, with an e“ start, anyway?

A bunch of papers were on the counter, some of them waiting for me to give my signature, my full name. She read out my name and pointed out the different letters that are repeated in each of them. We talked about cadence, chance and coincidence. And then she stood beside me, saying my name as if it was such a secret that even the dogs ought not to hear it and then added in that alto singsong, “with an e, with an e, with an e.“

I laughed. Letter games? Oh dear goddess, yes.

I looked around the roots of the big tree to see if there were other little white squares of bright white paper. There weren’t any. It was time to head back home. I slipped the little square carefully into my coat pocket and called the dogs to continue walking. As we made our way through the hills and the leaves of the park, I started thinking of the words that started with the letter e because I found a real, live letter and it’s sitting in my pocket, waiting to be woven into words, into something good. Like a love letter.

Thoughts of love, pieces of a love story

found at tumblr.com

It’s raining outside. Inside, thoughts of love float in the air, following me around. I let them. They whisper snippets of love stories to me. They are always welcome here. Later, I’ll sit with them. For now it’s time to walk the dogs. In the rain, through puddles in big ‘ole rainboots and smell the earth and see the muted colours and feel the damp and hear the sloshy sounds of cars and trucks rushing by and get cold enough to enjoy going back home and warming up with a cup of something hot.

It’s a weekday. You left for work hours ago, after the alarm, after espresso, after we sat reading side-by-side on the couch, the fingers of my left hand fitting into the spaces between the fingers of your right hand, before you had to shower, dress, gather up your stuff, share a brief kiss and go out into your day.

As you headed for the door, I headed upstairs. You stopped and the last thing you said to me was, “Did we kiss goodbye yet?”

I was nearly at the top step, and stopped to turn around to see you standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me. You looked as if I had neglected something important. You looked serious.

Odd that you would forget our brief kiss just moments ago, but I answered you anyway.

“You don’t remember? A minute ago, under the archway in front of the bird-cage as you were about to put your coat on? Remember?”

You looked dubious so I came back downstairs, rested my elbows on your shoulders, touched your nose lightly with mine just before we shared a kiss, a breath, a bubble of time. And then I smiled. Duped again. You smiled.

“Gotcha,” you said as you made a mark in the air. “That’s 10 for me and zip, zero, niente, rien, nada, nul for you.”

I sniffed. “That’s because I am gullible in all languages. I can’t do what you do. I can’t keep a straight face with people I know…”

I frowned at you and came to the rescue of my gullible self. “You know, I am soon going to get to the point where I don’t believe anything you say.”

You just laughed, enjoying this game.

“I doubt that. I’ve figured it out. All I have to say to you is this: ‘did you know researchers found’ … and I will have your undivided attention not to mention your faith.”

My reaction was minimalist: a raised eyebrow and a smile. But it was clear that you have thought about my patterns of behaviour, my reactions; you have thought about me. Or at least, you have spent time putting together in your mind things about me to make such a predictive statement which, unfortunately for me, happens to be a true statement. I needed a strategy.

Nothing like a good offence.

“Isn’t it time for you to leave? And just for the record, I am now, as of this moment,  officially, not ever going to believe a word you say about anything, ever again.”

You smiled that smile, the smile that pulled me in, that captured my attention the moment I saw it. You stepped close and whispered, “I love you.”

I grr’d at you half-heartedly. “So you say. Go. You’ll be late.”

“Okay, okay. Call me later?”

“Maybe.”

You smiled. Dark eyes sparkling. The freckles on your nose moved. You turned and headed out. I closed the door behind you.

Floating in the air, waiting, were all those thoughts of love and love stories.

found on tumblr.com

~~

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“And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.”

- Khalil Gibran

Oh, those silly straight women

A rant.

~~

~~~~

Oh, those silly straight women, the ones in need of airtime. Who create churn and who get quoted. Who open their mouths to let silly words tumble forth which then get picked up and used to fill space and time by silly media whose business it is to make money finding and broadcasting such stilly things to the silly masses.

Why silly? Well, we’re supposed to be sophisticated people. Educated. Informed. Knowledgeable. And yet? There are some seriously silly straight women out there who think that their life would be so much better and less painful in the romance, love, relationship departments if only they were gay because everything is so much easier (read: less painful) if a woman is in a relationship with a woman.

Right.

AfterEllen.com ran a post about a music video called I Wish I was Gay by an American actress/singer/someone in search of celebrity or notoriety, Jessica Lowndes. The video’s premise is that a woman wishes she was gay because all the guys she chooses treat her all the same as in, presumably, badly. Then there was her interview with an American newspaper.

“I wrote the song when I was going through a bad breakup, and I think it is something all girls can relate to,” she said. “When they’ve gone through a bad breakup, they want to throw up their hands and say, ‘I wish I didn’t have to deal with this anymore.’ We all say we wish we were a little gay.”

All girls? All girls she knows? All girls in the world? Girls not women? A little gay? What on earth is a little gay??

Perhaps I should give her a discount on my world-class media training, the one that teaches you how to graciously keep your mouth closed when you are so out of your element that opening your mouth will let people know that you do not have a clue.

But back to the video: the music is bad. The lyrics are worse. The concept as realized is cliché. And she brags about having creative control. She shouldn’t have. No, really. The interview was bad, even allowing for some editorial hijinks.

But allowing for how awful the video is, and the adolescent comments in the interview, what struck me is the absolute invisibility of lesbian, because Goddess knows, straight women don’t want to be considered lesbian, because that term — lesbian — is far too loaded with political, psychiatric, clinical, noxious baggage. No one except academics and radicals want to be associated with that label, lesbian. In fact, younger women coming out now are increasingly disavowing the term lesbian, preferring to use the term gay. After all, it’s a far more upbeat, inclusive term, isn’t it? Aren’t we all happy, shiny people? We’re nothing like those serious feminist lesbians. We’re gay! Or some refuse any label of any kind: lesbian, queer, straight. The ultimate in the maturing notion of identity and me-ism. I am just me and that’s the only label I need. Don’t box me in, don’t define me, and don’t think you know me by a label I chose not to use.

Full disclosure: I am adjusting to the term ‘gay girl’ and yes it takes up less space when texting, but, I do not have to like it much. I like the cadence of three syllables of les-bee-ahn, to the short, curt, to the point, monosyllabic gay. To me, les-bee-ahn is a linguistic, semiotic reflection of women in the same way the word gay is for men. But I get it: taking back a slur, an epithet was the last generation’s strategy. It is not so much a thing that this generation feels a need to do.

Gay today? No way

Meanwhile, back to the subject at hand. A certain level of controversy can drive sales of product. The song, I Kissed a Girl gave Katy Perry a hit record and started lots of conversation around the world. It was, on the surface, a fun dance song about a thing that seems to happen for women in their 20s: a few drinks, a few kisses, that gave a taste of Cherry Chapstick and innocent play. Ya, right. Nothing like controversy to get more people to find out what the fuss is all about.

Perhaps I Wish I was Gay is meant to be edgier, meaner. Perhaps it was designed to garner interest and sales for Lowndes so that she can get picked up by some star-making music machine. I’d say it falls flat, but for that to be true it would actually have to rise to something, and it doesn’t because it’s just plain bad. Gay in the title just to get the attention?

Oh, some straight women are silly.

To believe that it’s easier to be in a relationship with a woman compared to a relationship with a man; to believe that the kind of hurts which happen in a relationship with a man are not going to happen with a woman, well, that’s just silliness squared. And sadly, it’s sexist. You see, for a woman (or girl) to think that it’s easier to be in a relationship with a woman seems to suggest that a woman’s relationship with another woman can only be considered counterpoint to a relationship with a man, that being with a man is the only real, meaningful relationship for a woman to have, and that a relationship with a woman is second best, a knock-off of a real relationship, a pretend, wannabee but never will be, a real relationship.

That view, that it’s easier for a woman to be with a woman than it is for a woman to be with a man, suggests that a relationship between women lacks depth, emotional richness, intensity, ferocity, grace, sweetness, anger, contentment, happiness, fun, and all the other things that are felt and happen in a real relationship. That view also suggests that relationships between women don’t have the kind of emotional investments that can lead to being hurt, crushed, having your heart broken to bits. On the other hand, that view also suggests that women don’t do stupid things to each other, either. An equally sexist view.

Oh, silly, silly straight women who continue to regurgitate such culturally construed crap that only a man is the pinnacle for a relationship, and if that’s not working, go to the next not-as-good thing available, those gay girls you might play with are hardly going to make you or turn you gay.

It is true that men and women are different. And it is equally true that not every woman is like every other woman, which means being in a relationship with a woman is nothing like being in a relationship with your mirror self.

For those silly straight women who think it’s easier to be in a relationship with women, there are only three ways that’s possible:

1. approaching a relationship with a woman as if it means nothing, with no emotional investment. Just go for the dancing and the sex and the make-up and the clothes or cuddling, and for someone to go places with and nothing more. Don’t share anything of yourself; or
2. realizing that relationships with men are not what you want and that you might actually be a lesbian; or
3. recognizing that romantic, emotional relationships are not something you want or need but feel socially pressured to have happen in your life. None of that is of any interest to you with anyone, man or woman.

It may surprise some silly straight women, but, women can be jerks and assholes too. And just like men, they can do stupid things, like make really bad music videos, and be quoted saying things they know nothing about.

A relationship between two people who care about each other, who share intimacies, both emotional and physical, who trust each other, who open their vulnerabilities to each other, who offer loving consideration to each other, and who, at the end of the day, want to have a life, or at least a now, with each other that makes room for two people to be who they are, together and as individuals. There is an emotional bond that’s there, wrapped with similar values and a way of working things through. And love. There’s always love to consider, unless of course it isn’t there to begin with. And that’s about the choice of partner, isn’t it?

Seems the star of the video has some work to do in that area of her life because if she makes wrong choices with men, and is playing at gay, chances are she’ll make wrong choices with women because she won’t be able to take in that the only perfect relationship is one where two people want it, work at it, and accept each other as being imperfectly perfect for each other. Now THAT’S a video I’d love to see!

~~

~~

Ah, women. They make the highs higher and the lows more frequent.

— Friedrich Nietzsche

NB: No straight women were harmed in the creation of this rant.