Bright days. Clear skies.
Summer rain. Winter sunshine.
Strong. Safe. Ease. Red roses.
Desire. Passion. Sexication.
Brain tickles. Soft slow. Lovemaking.
Throbbing. Soft. Easy. Easy.
Love bade me welcome
And I stepped right in.
I can go months without clicking on the music app but I’m the kind of person that sometimes listens to secular music and hears in the lyrics the very words I want to pray to my God. I’m also the kind of person that sometimes hears worship music and hears the very words I want to say to somebody -a lover usually- in my life. It’s not blasphemy people, chill. The lyrics are not automatically imbued with divine essence because they’re about God, okay? That’s not how divinity works. I know the Hillsong crew don’t want to hear that but well, there you are. I said it. Just because a song makes you feel holy or whatever does not mean that the song is in and of itself holy. It just means you’re highly suggestible but we all are to varying degrees so that’s ok.
Take for example the song Find Rest by Francesca Battisteli, above. I listen to that song and I yearn for that rest and as I
croak sing along I feel as though I have indeed cast all my cares away and found, believe it or not, rest for my soul by putting my hope in my Divine. I’m not religious but I am highly spiritual.
On the other hand, Pieces by Amanda Cook (above) is everything I want from my partner. Someone who wants ME. Someone who will do for me and with me and to me all the things that a man does when he has found the woman he wants at his side. Someone who will not be ashamed to claim me publicly nor be fearful of being publicly claimed by me. Feminists can stone me I don’t give a fuck but if I remarry I WILL take my husband’s last name because the world must know that this man owes me his provision, his protection and his body (I’m big on conjugal whatwhat), and to show that only he, out of all the men in the world, is entitled to my charms
which I won’t go into because I am modest, humble and shy. Obviously.
I don’t want to be anyone’s side-piece or anyone’s FWB/fuck buddy – I’m over casting pearls before swine, doncha know, chief reason being secrecy does not work with my flamboyant Leo nature and I don’t share well at all. Not that I’m into astrology by the way, I’m just saying, you know. And yes, it is very possible to be both flamboyant and modest. It’s either possible or I’m a unicorn. Take your pick.
Some of the lyrics:
Unreserved, unrestrained, your love is wild for meIt isn’t shy, its unashamed, your love is proud to be seen with me
When I love I love hard and I want my expression of that love to be unencumbered by considerations of safety, propriety, or anything else. I want to be able to write and speak my feelings freely, unashamedly, and I need those feelings reciprocated equally freely. I don’t want to be loved only when no one else is around because no one must know; I want to be confident and secure that I am loved and appreciated. I’m not saying he has to get on rooftops every few days to declare his undying affection, but I -at the very least- I should know that he loves me unreservedly and unashamedly.
Love keeps it promises
It keeps its word
It honors what’s sacred
Cause its vows are good
Your love’s not broken
It’s not insecure
Your love’s not selfish
Your love is pure
Isn’t that what we all want from the men who say they love us? For them to step up and put some action to the damn words so we don’t have to second-guess if they really mean it or if they’re just saying it to get some Valentine’s loving?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying Amanda Cook doesn’t put me in that celestial frame of mind with this song. She absolutely does and until fairly recently that was the only frame of mind that song put me in. It is one of my most played love songs to God but it is also, sometimes, my cry for that kind of love simply because that’s the kind of love I want to give to a man who wants that kind of love from me.
*edit After writing this I began re-reading old posts. Looky here. Turns out I’m repeating myself.
People say such hurtful things to and about mothers raising their children alone, men included and other women not excluded.
One day I’m going to write a book about the real struggle of parenting alone and why as a woman parenting alone radical self-care is vital to your survival.
It’s not just the constant money worries aging you before your time, or not knowing if you’ll ever get laid again and fear making you put up with bullshit, or wondering if you’ll ever have a genuine female friendship in which you’re not constantly uninvited places because of your alleged tendency to attract all the mens to you like the constantly horny femme fatale you are. You’re not, but single women are too busy making men the centre of their lives to notice the stereotype doesn’t even apply. In the jungle where everything women do is a competition for men, single mothers are everybody’s greatest fear. Women think men are panting after you because of your proven fertility and your lack of morals (single mothers never say no, the sluts) when the reality is that most men are scared shitless of a woman handling her shit or are too idiotic in their approach to be anything but slightly amusing or very boring, or just too full of shit to be taken seriously. This shit is displayed only to single mothers. Clearly we’re a bunch of immoral wenches with no standards. So there’s that. And if you do get invited out and go, there’s listening to other women tell you how boring you are when you have to leave because you know, sleep and work, and sleeping in just doesn’t happen with a child under six…
Those things are tragic but it’s the sheer weight of exhaustion – emotional and physical – carried by single mothers that I’ll one day write about. Everything I’ve mentioned takes its own toll and you still have to function normally (and smile) in a world that is decidedly cruel if you don’t have the protection of a man AND, yes AND raise well-adjusted children which means your tiredness and whatever else you might be going through can never be acknowledged inside the home. Ever. Or outside the home, unless you’re paying for a therapist (you can’t afford) because nobody is out here trying to be a good supportive friend to a single mother (even though we’re expected to be motherly and supportive and shit to everybody).
These kids need more than just food and clothing and education and almost all of it must come from their mothers. All of it. All the unpaid and unseen work we do around our children is emotionally exhausting, draining, and without support it kills us. So watch your mouth and ask yourself what you’ve done to help a single mother in your life before fixing your mouth to talk shit about one and her child/ren. And no, texting me you’re there if I need anything doesn’t count. Real friends say that and then make concrete offers. Single mothers are in need of time (and money but who’s giving that away), so offer to watch the kids for a couple of hours at minimum cost to me. Gift a cleaning service for one day. Come over for a chat so I don’t have to spend money I don’t have to maintain this friendship. Invite me over and make my children welcome instead of asking me to get dressed up and spend money just to catch up. I’ll do it because I love you, but it would be nice if once in a while you thought of me too. You know, things like that.
*And to all the friends who do come through in concrete ways, thank you. A special thank you from me goes to A and C. You two have kept me sane and I’m so grateful for you both.
Seen on social media, my response below: (not for the sensitive, the stupid, or the male-identifying)
Say no to gaslighting. Stop drinking the koolaid the patriarchy is serving. Yes patriarchy, because who the fuck else expects women to do men’s work?
The woman who can date a man who is afraid to date her has not been born. Try to be that woman and you will be visited by the hurt of a thousand heartbreaks.
The woman who can ‘fix a man’ who doesn’t want to fix himself for her does not exist. Try to fix a man who doesn’t want to be fixed by you and you will wish for those days of singleness while sitting in a pool of your own tears making like Alice.
Women do not change men. Men do what they need to do to be with their game-changers. If you’re his game-changer, trust and believe you won’t have to ask.
When in doubt remember: there is not a woman alive who can keep a man who doesn’t want to be kept by her, and there’s nothing anybody can do to stop the man that wants to from loving you.
Take a moment and re-read that last sentence.
Women are not fixer-uppers and therefore neither are you. Equal but different, remember? In case you missed the memo, life is already fucking hard and you don’t get to gaslight us into doing your share of the work. We need partners, not development projects slanging dycke to every sdwaba on these streets. Fuck all the way outta here.
Love like you can’t handle
Like you can’t even imagine.
Respect for your strength and strength to fucking EARN your respect –
Think you can do the same?
We won’t fix ourselves and the world YOU broke and fix you too – not anymore.
Hear me well:
It’s not that we can’t, it’s more that we won’t. Because actually, we don’t exist for your convenience.
We won’t be tricked into living half-lives with half-men because you can’t be assed to do YOUR share of the work. Where they do that at, though?
Fuck all the way outta here with that bullshit and I’ll say it again for good measure:
Fuck. All the way. Outta here. With that. Bullshit.