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viewsTied Down by his Kiss
By Brenda G., Saturday, September 11, 2010In response to a question my heart continues to ask my head about the one that got away….
Ms. Mae West
ICON
1000 Feather Boa Ave
Penthouse in the Heavens
ICON
1000 Feather Boa Ave
Penthouse in the Heavens
Subject: "A man's kiss is his signature"
Mae~
I was raised by Latin women, not the stereotypical, in fact, there are few books written about the likes of my foremothers—Apache, Gypsy, Mexican, Ute, full-stop exotic—because they refused to follow the rules, kind of like you really. Their moxie is where I take my strength and what I am most proud of, and it's the source of all my love and heartache alike. But blessings are rarely pure, as you might recall. For the Ortega women our mixed blessing lies in the snarled wiring of our brains. We trip over generations of emotional corpses when it comes to the handling, processing, and managing, of our passionate feelings. After years of outside influences ranging from medicine men, Popes, Fathers, lovers, and the occasional tango with free thinkers, we crash going 100 MPH into imaginary brick walls, when we swallow love-magic in one gulp. In a wink, our fearless-empathic-selves evaporate, and we're left to tossing the dice hoping for sevens.
Mae, you're a woman who knows more than you ever had the chance to say. How I wish you were around today with your own prime time television show, or satellite talk radio program that takes calls from women like me, befuddled by romance. Here I am writing to you asking for guidance about a man. Heaven help me. Of all women to be tangled up in her own genetic wiring, a woman who's Great Grandmother took her life in her own hands by taking the life of the man who beat her daily (this was back before forensics and the Texas Rangers). I hang my head in shame having to confess this to you of all women, but here goes. Mae, I am tied down by one man's kiss.
It's everywhere I look, in the wind that dances across my lips, in my dreams at night when my body surrenders to the spirit of the viaduct, in the quiet of my mind between thoughts; it's at the back of my mind always. You said once, "A woman in love can't be reasonable - or she probably wouldn't be in love," I ache for my old in-control-logical-sensibility, because I’m ten feet under the crazy unreasonableness of love. The problem for me is HE is not who I want to love, think, dream, lust, imagine, about every time my mind is unoccupied. He wasn't the first, but he was the one to take my heart without warning. I'm doomed now. I feel the world closing in all around me no less than one hundred and seventy-seven moments of each day. I fight it. I do, but I don’t always win.
I don't think love is a choice we make; rather it falls over a woman like a storm in December. Now that I am stumbling in the wake of him, I can't remember the way back to myself. I remember you said that "All discarded lovers should be given a second chance, but with somebody else," but I don’t want him to be any other's arms. I don’t want him, yet I do and how, and I don't want him to want anybody but me. I want to be the only one that lights him from the inside out, as he continues to do to me. It's twisted.
I can hear my Apace Grandmother hexing me now. Enough is enough. I suppose we all have one lover whom we carry in our heart until our dying day, and the inside of a kiss that leaves its permanent mark. He is mine and I can still taste his. At least I can say when I am laid eight feet below that I loved once, and I did it right, and it was enough to keep me curious all the days after.
Mae, it's not looking good for me down here, maybe you and my great-gran can send down a bolt of lightning to shake me loose from this love.
Lost in paradise,
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