Date: Aug. 1, 2014
Time: 6:15 am
Place: Garden Patio with cool feathery breezes
My feet sense chilling patio stones. Cool breeze feathers against my arms, back of my neck. Chilled, yes. I’m writing in my underwear.
There is something terrible that happens when we cannot write from the heart. Even writing half-naked and a twisting-tweak to your left nipple doesn’t tune in the voice of the heart. Not that easy. Repetitive story: we are born with heart disease and spend our lifetime curing it. No transplants available. Yet, so dependent, at least, we think so, on the love from others. This is where cynicism plays in. “The hell with them all. I don’t need anyone’s love.” Ha Ha. Fool.
So I sit here in my underwear. Pen in hand. Topless. Sun milk lighting my chest; nipples alert in the chill of morning’s air. Alert, but useless as radar or receivers.
So you think that writing in your, not “yours,” in my underwear is a bust. Failure. No. Not really. This forces us, me, to face the illusion or delusion that what we, I, want is love and — that is not the real issue. Tweaking my left nipple the heart voice says — not love — but intimacy, an intimacy that is fearless, honest, and complete. An intimacy that is truthful without hurting anyone. A warrior of the heart.
Writing in your underwear: Day 2, 6:35 am. Outside on the lower patio.
Already the alert coo-cooing of the dove sings to the sun and I am not writing in my underwear — you guess — naked? In the chill of morning on the patio? Visible to the birds, trees, anyone passing by in the alley? Or clothed? Ah, the protection of clothes and the attitude that I am somehow ready for work. Is it the cummerbund belt for back strength around my waist? Or my heavy, torn, work pants? Nonetheless, my feet are bare on cool stones and my arms feel the cold metal of the green patio table. Who cares — I’m moving the pen. But it’s quite obvious to me that writing in our underwear is very different from writing in our clothes, especially the clothes you’ve selected for your image today.
Although, it might be fun to write in ‘your’ underwear. I’ll take bets that such writing would produce a few words seldom linked together on this page.
First of all, if you are a woman of normal size, whatever that may be, by slipping it on, I’d probably stretch and ruin your underwear. Well, I’m not fat, but certainly at six feet and 205 pounds, I’m sizable. My point is, I’m rather certain that whether you are male or female, tall or short, skinny or beefy, if I did, was able to wear your underwear, I’d write something really different than if I was writing in my underwear. I guess the test would be to put out a call and request, “Send me your underwear and I’ll write in it (them?).
Herein lies the question of identity and ‘vestis virum facit’ — clothes make the man. But put a suit on a monkey and it’s a monkey still. Ultimately, I, you, we take on a character or mental attitude because of what we are wearing. Like suiting up for work gets us ready for work. Sometimes. Imagine, I put on a tuxedo at 6 am and sit at a formally set dining room table to write. What would my mental posture be? Attitude copped?
I’d prefer to be writing naked but then, naked writing is not easy.
The dove’s coo-cooing is calling out and receiving a coo-cooing reply from another dove. I cannot imagine they’d want to wear another’s feathers, or question their own identity. Never hear the doves cawing with the ravens or hooting like an owl.
The simplicity of being who you are, in your own clothes. But then, it might be fun, scary, erotic, worrisome, exhilarating, to write while in “your” underwear. And what if your underwear came in the mail to me, anonymous, no return address, would my pen pour out different words than those I’d write if I saw your name on the return address? See what I mean?
(To be continued, maybe tomorrow.)