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Join me in figuring out "what now?"


Yikes! I am remiss in writing on this blog. I guess I was waiting for something to write.

I miss passion. And sex. I was watching an old movie that had the most passionate love scene that really, in most people’s estimates, was very tame. But what was there, what the movie did a good job of portraying, was passion. The way that you might throw your head back when something feels too good, the way your body moves in a rhythm of its own, how you can lose yourself in the warmth and the moment and the way that it just feels oh so good.

To indulge in the sweat and the smells and the heat that bodies generate just from being in close proximity. That touch that almost isn’t that brings a shudder and raised skin when his fingers glide gently along your arm, your leg, the small of your back. When the hours vanish in the blink of an eye, when you breathe together and moan and every little movement is a single note of an orchestra,

As I have gotten older, I knew that passion (and sex) would be less frequent, a more wandering moment than a regular event. The more things don’t work like they should – knees and backs and legs and arms – that make the truly good sex more difficult to have. You never think that in the throes of passion that this might be your last, that once completed, never to begin again. Or how that passion begins so very much before you are ever close enough to one another to touch. To wonder of the thing, of lust and passion and desire. To see him across a room. To lock eyes for the first time. To sense that it is what you want, he wants, and you both want from one another.

Yes, this movie has portrayed this all to well. At least to me. How is this something that has escaped me? Has been too long from me? I think that I may have purposely kept myself from the situations that may have preceded the desire; avoided the disappointment, or inability.

Perhaps I need to change it. Either understand it or stop watching these damned movies.


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Way Up High or Down Low

When did it become too late for passion and love and heat and romance and sex? Seems I am rolling along getting to experience all the highs and lows of the intricate dance of a man and a woman and then one day, listening to music, you realize that you no longer experience what is being sung about. No more, do you do “the dance”.

Does it happen in a single moment? Like crossing some horrible black finish line? Or does it just come on slowly and gradually so that all of a sudden, you realize like I did, that it is just – poof! – gone?

God I used to love the feeling of falling in love. Or was it the feeling of lust? That sensual attraction that makes you want to have your hands and your mouth and your lips and your body on another person? To be near that person? To hear their laugh, their anger, their joy, even their silence?

Is that just a natural end-to-life? You’ve passed the point of procreating and even raising your babies and now, all of a sudden, there is no need (for the one that has been around) to be around anymore.

I was working in the garage this morning and listening to music. The song tells of a love of a man who wishes he had done it differently – “If I could, then I would; I’ll go wherever you will go, way up high or down low, I’ll go wherever you will go.”

Boy do I remember feeling so hopelessly entangled and endlessly in love that I would have walked on water for a man (or men) from my past. To feel so strongly and to care so little for myself, it was like an addiction to the strongest drug in the universe and you keep looking for that initial “high” over and over.

Maybe it is what my mother experienced once her children were all grown and she looked around and saw that the ‘spark’ of what makes life worth living was gone and why suddenly, she announced one day that she was ready to go. Can it be that life is not worth living without that rush and heat and flush? That once the passion is gone, it takes with it the passion for life?


Read more: The Calling – Wherever You Will Go Lyrics | MetroLyrics
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