המתת השור

was it there really ?...
Journal Entry | over 4 years ago
Was it there really? when these two bodies finally met.. I was withdrawned a bit warry after my body hurt and my soul bold but bullied by the past; maybe a bird not a player, just a sitting doll on the bed. But he had started to kiss me. I had started to feel his breath ..then, hugging the width of his shoulders, where the hundreds of words we had exchanged beforehand lingered, starting to chase awat the remains of a dream, of a previous lover whose shoulder laid there that was still between us...

there I thought helplessly, I had tried to mourn this little mourn for this little whimper...I could not. Would he come in order to comfort me, too, from these world aparts, this never ending embrace...the tragedy of unlove, the pursuit of endless love through the naught of night really....But like a phoenix standing from its ashes, a love story is a story of love and this man would take the lead and lead away, as I took to my feet, determinate, to walk again....

I had wanted to wait for the night but he would not. he had wanted me far before. I know the power that can lay in the embrace of a world with merely words, growing with emotions, sensations one put there in this useless endeavour to capture the essence of the other... I had known that that rare power I had at my hand, but in his hand, I had to become his, and yet, the touch down was not going to occur, only if he was persceptive enough, he would carry me into the cradle of his palms, one near the other...

there is this immense field which has been almost unploughed. It lays there for years. sometimes, a passersby or two and they go on it; take a few step in the earth almost cracking as it is dry..and do it a favour : they piss on it...
and then, they just go.

it is called the desert where the rain never falls from the beginning of times. it was born naked. a few rags are covering its willowing trees, on branches, by the dust only kissed.

sun burns it from beneath. it is waiting for the cool rain of tears. these will be chilly as dew, as a morning rises, waiting for a new one coming by. will it come ?

and then, a moment before dawn, his wisper chased away the one before him, another gost as dense as a leaf...all is passage in this world..He, was de passage too... I had promised myself that I would not be counting the hours left....

His hand hovered softly over my breast. at the touch of his palm, my nipples went hard and like a little beggar, the back bone of my crouch went after the touch of his finger, wanting more, asking for me, caress, oh caress...

after a few seconds he had touched me in silence, his other arm went around my body and took me in an embrace he had guessed, long ago, that amounted to take me prisoner to his grip " you like to be hugged like that mm little kitten..;" he said...
I just answered by getting closer to him as if every inch of my skin had to catch his male scent, the hair on his chest, the muscles of his arms, his shoulder, his height and finally, his cock, handsomesly, exactly right in me.

there, in the dawn of Paris, calm morning on its roofs, this cock was penetrating deep, seeding me with his sperm, taking its rythm, stiff as can be the desire of a man for a woman.

I moaned I cried, I whimpered, I begged, I begged for me and then, just before I had the time to become lioness, he withdrew and whispered to my ear, softly : "shhhhhhhhh"

then we fell asleep again...arms locked one around the other....

לפני 8 שנים. שני, 8 בדצמבר 2008, בשעה 00:30 Ma Cherie

toute ma vie, je me suis posee la meme question. Quand je passais devant un miroir et evitait la plupart du temps son regard; quand je me regardait dans ce qui a de plus touchant : le regard des autres, et pas seulement ceux de ceux qui vous aiment car le monde n'est pas rempli seulement de ceux la : suis je belle ?

J'ai eu 15 ans, j'ai vu ma poitrine de femme naitre sans que je lui demande quoi que ce ce soit. J'en ai eut 20 et la meme arretait les hommes dans la rue. pas mes yeux, mes seins, ma feminite naissante, celle que ma mere m'avait donnee mais sous ma propre version. La sienne, petite mais ronde comme un pain de matin frais, aussi laiteuse que le flan du poisson encore plein de l'odeur de l'eau. oui' c'etait son heritage mais je l'avais recu en multiple, generosite de la jeunesse' fremissante' ignoree. Il m'a fallu plus de 20 ans pour reconnaitre ce don de la nature' pur hasard herite mais pas moi tout a fait tant que je le compris point, ce long fils d'ariane qui nous mene du reveil vital a celui de l'etre enfin decouvert: epanoui.

mais la question restait toujours la meme' insoluble' butee dans sa mouvance triste ou gaie a la fois' plein de tournants et de guets, au gres des nuits de decouvertes, seulement celles qui rapproche le corps de l'un vers l'autre : suis je belle ?et aujourd'hui, a 49 ans pourrais dire que la question se pose de la meme maniere ?je ne sais...ou plutot voici ce que je sais : l'on ne repond jamais a cette question.

la beaute, c'est comme l'amour: elle dure un instant tant que l'instant n'existe pas. la beaute d'une femme' c'est comme l'amour: elle se mue dans cette dimension qui' comme l'univers se contracte et grandit, plus loin meme que le subjectif ou l'absolu, contraction eloquente de l'esprit et du moi' de l'autre de de moi meme, la bas dans ce volcan de la gestation du moi.

une autre dimension? reste t'elle si longtemps a se definir? reste t'elle si longtemps a se former et au fond: est ce si important? oui c'est important car elle touche aux sources l'harmonie' notre proche souche d'inspiration. Alors' serait ce cette harmonie qui nous tend dans la main une verite? une verite bien lourde a porter en heritage ?

Il n'y a pas de hierarchie en beaute. il n'y a pas seulement du chaos a l'ordre dans la beaute. il n'y a non plus de materiel au spirituel dans un balancier qui allant de l'un a l'autre justifie les comparaisons. Il y a tout proprement de l'affect pur et de la purete de l'affect quand au fils des recherches, l'ariane continue et rouler et enrouler autours de l'etre ressenti

alors quoi dans le ressenti ? comment gerer cette existence du moi en mouvance' doux volcans aux aines brulantes parfois ?
j'aimerais tant designer son point de depart et l'embouchure de sa fin mais en fait il en existe tant,

Il est vrai', il existe des modeles et nous les suivons tous. tendre vers ses modeles nous rassurent mais ne sont ils pas eu fond que quelques

העולם הינו כולו סבל
לפני 8 שנים. ראשון, 21 בדצמבר 2008, בשעה 22:48 לא אני אומרת
כך שמעתי
אוצרים בבודיזם שזהו בסיס של החיים כולן : סבל
היום, צפיתי בתוכנית על חיות ובני אדם
היה שמה סיפור של כלב קטן שניצל ממוות איומה. מסתבר שבאיים שמה, משתמשים דייגים מפקפקים בכלבים קטנים כפתיון לדוג קרישים. ילדים לקחו את הכלב הזה והצילו אותו ממוות נוראית. הראו צילום שלו, מעט אחרי שלקחו אותו אחרי שהוא ברח - כוח ההיסרדות - מקרוב הראו את המבת שלוף וכול כך הרבה סבל היה שמה.
גם המחשבות שלי הינם יכולות לנוח מהרגע הזה שחיה שכזו רואה ומתקרבת המוות במלתאות הקריש...מחשבה נוראה...אין צרוך להמיך ולתאר.
העולם כולו הינו סבל. לא אני אומרת, כך שמעתי הבודיזם אומר....

Relationships are sprawled with little clics like the Petit Poucet spread the little white cobbles for him not to be lead astray (a french tale for children). As in a small symphony, one starts with the beginning clic. It is a bright morning light but still not yet flckering. In short, cold at heart. Then some following clic comes between two individuals. It is less of a light more of a covering fire not still yet brought to ember…. Yet another clic, followed with others functionings and some not quite filled but with silence that brings some odd individual to open to another, always timid, not always determined but with an essential search for meanings. From clic to clic, it is maybe the song of a nightingale, or that of a stealing magpie, but a music starts in a song’n start dance. Yes, a dance. Still a dance to be written. There is always a beginning but the end is never known.

Prospero:
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158

 ..But  never was I able to launch a stable relationship from this platform

99%

of who I did find here were men who only were interested by sex and only

and this is the pity 

there were 3 relationships that were out of this spectrum 

the rest came to screw me and over was it afterwards

some of the worst, if not the worst encounters were made here through this platform

from the individual who totally dispossed me of my belongings and persued me through courts and threats to the ones who  abandoned me within a night 

it is obvious that we, a vast majority of women, do try and find a relationship 

it makes us needy and clinging with men who cannot relate to it. 

of many, few are staying with a woman, and even more are able to promise their heart for their spouse or companion

what did strike me is that the gap between my conception of love and reality was as wide as the black holes which are swallowing all energy in space

it took me 50 years to understand that and today, I am finally myself. it is a pity that i cannot have children anymore 

some of my best sexual adventures were unabled through this platform though 

i will write more about it next time;

Sometimes, I still remember what it can do to a desiring body and soul the shape of a woman. It was then time when hormones were running through my skin like a burning bush. 

  I can still relate sometimes to this feeling close to what magetism deos to you;

 an indefinissible 

wish to touch the Other. 

But I am far away today. I have learned my lessons from a too much never learned

and one cannot touch me even with the end of his stick

אני מנשה לחזור לעברית. חלמתי שאיני יכולה יותר לכתוב בשפה הזו. זה היה שוק. התעורתי עם חרדה. כרגע אני מקלידה על עיוור זאת...ממש כמו הפצנתית שהייתי בעבר. בעבר גם יכולתי לעשות זאת עם שלושת שפות אם שלי. הקשה ביותר כמובן היה למצאו  את הביטיו ההולם הנכון ברגע החולף  של תחושותיי דרגע

הריבוי בשפותיי בלי לשכוח את ריבוי השפות האחרות כגון מוזיקה היה לי לתקופות יותר מקשה לאומת מקל...תקופות מעבר במלוא מובן העינין...זהו מצב תמידי. זה מה שהבנתי. שפה זה כמו שריר. אם לא מתרגלים אותה, היא מחלישה בזמן. כרגע אני רוחשת עוד אחת ולפעמים אני מוצאת את עצמי במצב מצחיק כזה שכאשר ישנם תוכניות בטלוויזיה בשפה זרה, אני נעזרת ב3 שנושפות שאני מכירה חלקית כדי להבין. וזה עובד 

המצב האנושי הוא של רכישה תמידית של ידע ורגש. לאחרון היה לי ליותר מדי זמן. לראשון לא מספיק ועכשיו הוא הזמן ללימוד ממש. 

אך לא לשכוח שאנו חושבים כאן אבל יותר קשה לדעת להרגיש 

זה מה שהיה מרכזי בסרט  blade runner