Solis

I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging ...

On Saturday, I wrote about the definition of stress (at base: what your mind does to your body when it encounters something new) and the two types of stress (the energizing "eustress" and the dulling, familiar "distress"). In order to help folks who are experiencing nervous anxiety as they begin (or contemplate beginning or panic about contemplating beginning) lifestyle changes, I offered the metaphor and science of mazes as a way of understanding what your mind is doing to ...

Defeated by Love
The sky was lit
by the splendor of the moon

So powerful
I fell to the ground

Your love
has made me sure

I am ready to forsake
this worldly life
and surrender
to the magnificence
of your Being.

There's a lot to be said for surrender.

Jalalud'din Rumi, 1207-1273. Rumi practiced Sufism, a mystic version of Islam. He's one of the most widely-read poets ...

"Il est du genre a tirer un coup avex sa soeur sans demander la permission de leur mere."

Roughly, "He is the kind of person who would bang his sister without asking their mother’s permission."

Credit to Alexis Munier, Talking Dirty French (2008)

Most of us sleep walk through most of our days: same time to get up, same gulped breakfast, same route to work, same forgettable chat with coworkers, same complaints, same concerns (overweight, underappreciated, underpaid), and the same vegetative evening routine. It’s easy and efficient, and it will, bit by bit, suck the soul out of you. 150 years ago, women – bright women, trapped in riskless, monotonous lives, of whom nothing more was asked than to play along with the “good wife” game – were ...

Lady, i will touch you with my mind.
Touch you and touch and touch
until you give
me suddenly a smile, shyly obscene

(lady, i will touch you with my mind.) Touch you, that is all,

lightly and you utterly will become with infinite ease

the poem which i do not write.

e.e. cummings, ca 1920

her heart's pierced with the beauty
breathless helpless, precious butterfly
she offers her life for Him to treasure
held fast for this moment of mounting
her lips burn with her Master's name

her heart was speared by his eyes,
in her surrender her soul is set free
her hunger wakened by His firm touch
impaled deep upon Him, her hips rock
circling close, moth drawn to a flame

(from a singularly improbable poet, WI ...