Monday, May 01, 2006

Portland Whore

peonies (c) KR Silkenvoice 2006
A very, very special friend wrote this for me. It is deeply meaningful and quite, quite accurate. It is perhaps the most beauitful thing anyone has ever written me. I am posting it here mainly because I do not want to lose it. I hope he doesn't mind my sharing it too much (if he does, I'll be taking it down).

Portland Whore

Slut. A slut to the gray-green wilderness that hovers over her home, the misted mistress of the environment she loves so deeply, that covers her, disguises her, renders her safely anonymous and—at the same time—places her at the center of the universe, demanding her full attention with senses, camera, and pen, embracing her with the quiet inevitability of adiabatic currents that rise from river, creek, and marshlands, gentle powers that blend air and water, seamless, the water breathes the air, the air inhales the water. Slut.


Whore. A whore to self-discovery, prostrating herself to the truth of where she comes from, selling her past to understanding, spreading herself open to redeem her future and celebrate the day in which her heart beats, now. Today. Here. Whore.


Harlot. A harlot to hedonism, to the exultant complexity of unabashed awareness--of the body, its senses, their frenetic, joyful dialog, the dance between body and soul, mind and heart, brain and genitals. Harlot.


Bitch. A bitch to her own unique principles, snapping at any bastion, shibboleth, or vestigial, arcane supposition that dares to hint at impinging on the freedom that she carves from the dense environment of ponderous, bible-bound past (not her own), a reactionary society, and a bankrupt, dumbed-down culture that would surround her with tawdry stereotypes and diminishing contempt. Bitch.


Concubine. A concubine to knowledge, knowing its power, a courtesan devoted to the nurturing of of the millennial growth of understanding, at once a geisha and a canny perpetrator of the struggle that all artists and thinkers have undergone to leave a deeper imprint of human experience for others to share. Concubine.


Goddam! What a fuckin’ whore this woman is…


Thank you, love. I may be Simone de Beauvoir to your Sartre, but you are Henry Miller to my Anais Nin.
peonies (c) KR Silkenvoice 2006

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1 Comments:

Blogger kujmous said...

So how I think you could read aloud a soup recipe and hold me on edge. This, however, would push me over... happily.

2:55 AM, January 24, 2007  

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