The ethical cunt of my mind / the ALIVE:ness cunt

Sometimes I use mind imagining games to help with feelings of jealousy. I can’t imagine not being polyamorous or queer, so trying to not be so would be like suicide. But I also cannot imagine not being jealous at all ever about my lover having sex with someone else. So I use mind games, I use a “sociological imagination” to help reframe my mind. I meditate on it. I like to meditate on my lover fucking zis lover or whomever I can imagine. The more detail, the more exact image of the person, the more useful in helping me practice. I like to imagine every detail. I like to imagine myself in the room. If I can, if I am allowed, I like to experience being in the room, at least once. Then the details are sharper, for the next time. Then I can ruminate on it, I experience it, I practice it. Because through practice we learn to sit with all the feelings, the stabbing feelings, the sad feelings, the confused feelings, the insecurity. Then we let the experience teach us something, about how jealousy feels through the body.

What does the body know? What does the body know? We study where we feel the pain, and why the pain. I learn often in the physical experience of being in the room with my lover and zer lover that I am turned on–tremendously–sometimes for reasons that are beyond my intellectual reasoning of them. I discover that I can masturbate while watching my lover and zer lover and that I am inexplicably wet. There I go again back to physical evidence that we feel through the body, those physical sensations that we produce outside of intellect, sensations that we crave.

What makes you wet? Sometimes we cannot understand why, we can only acknowledge that we are. The physical presence of the wetness reminds us that our minds are powerful enough to convince us that we feel or should feel hurt when our body does not.

Our minds are so powerful to believe this, that we can also use our minds to Unbelieve this.

I have been thinking about the dreams—though they were not exactly dreams, as they happened while I was trying to fall asleep—I had as a child. The dreams of growing larger and smaller; how at one moment I would be huge, enormous, blown up, and increasing in size indefinitely, as though I would explode like a balloon in the sky. And then in the next moment, I was tiny, minuscule, so so so sososo tiny seeing the rest of the world looming and vast around and above me. I recently learned that this dream is a recurring dream not just of mine, but of many other people. I learned that this experience happens most often as people are falling asleep, just as it happened to me. And now I think I am beginning to understand the dream finally, and why so many people experience it. I think that I am understanding that the dream is about the meaninglessness of size and distance and the condition of our humanity. The arbitrary relativity of it and the infinite paradox of our existence. Great and small. Unique and homogeneous.

On the one hand, the distances between us are sososo large, that we have to invent planes to fly to each other to see each other. But when one thinks of this distance in relation to how small we are, in relation to the distance from the sun to the moon, this is hardly distance at all between us. In fact, we humans on the earth appear from the sky as one big blob of humanity. There is really no space between us. And so imagining this, I see so many possibilities for pleasure, for good, for beauty. I feel wet between my thighs. You see, because I realize that when you love someone else, you love me. And when you make love to someone else, you make love to me. Because their body is no different from mine. In fact their body is my body. It is the body of love that we are.

When I think about the size of my body, or of yours, I see that it is sososo large, the distance between my brain to my cunt, the distance from your hand to your heart. There are so many cells to travel between them. There are so many potentials for mutation, so many strands of fiber of tissue, so many blood cells traveling so many times around in its circuit. And when I think about my body’s uniqueness, or your body’s uniqueness, I can study it for hours and still not memorize it all–every hair, every position of each and every tiny mole. I can see the millions of minutia that distinguish every arrangement of each protein. I can see that where my cunt folds in, yours appears to fold out, that where my clitoris swells large, yours appears to swell larger. I can see that where my nipples hang low, yours stay close, or what appears close, to the body. I can see the relative difference in the amount of melatonin in our skin, creating details of lightness and relative darkness running over and throughout your body and mine. I can see these relative measurements and I can still not remember all of their minutia of difference as they are ever changing and ever dynamic.

But then when I think of my body, or your body in relation to the size of humanity, in relation to the size of the universe, I see that there is practically no distance at all between my cunt and my brain, and there is practically no distance between your hand and your heart, and there is practically no distance between my cunt and your cock, and there is practically no distance between my thigh and your foot. I can see that there is no difference between the mutations that run within the cells of your body, that your illness is mine. I can see that your mutation is mine; is ours. I mean to say, all this skin is crammed together, all crammed into one ball of flesh, when seen from far away. And I can no longer distinguish any difference between skin color or between your cunt and mine; these minutia of difference, this seeming uniqueness falls away and the fact of our cunts remain. Just the fact of our wet cunts of humanity remain.

So when we make love to a wet cunt of another we are just one wet cunt of humanity making love to itself. Where then is there room for my jealousy?

And when I think about the span of my life, it seems so long. It seems so very very long and I am still only one third way through the expected life span of my life. I can see all the lovers that I have loved and all the experiences of sex and romance that I have been witness to. I can see their trajectory and I can see how very deep we went, and how much deeper we could have known and understood each other, had we had more time. And yet how long we were together. But when I think about how very long humanity has been living and how very long the world has been living without humanity, and how very long the universe has been living and breathing without the earth, I think: there is no time, there is no time between yesterday or today, there is no time between my childhood and my adulthood. There is no time between this lover and my first. In fact the innocence I had as a child; I am still and always will be so innocent. And the wisdom I seem to have as an adult, and will have as an older adult, I have always had and have always had access to.

So I see, that the loves I have loved, I have always loved; and the lovers that I have learned from and appeared to have lost, I have had and have learned from the beginning. I can see that whatever I believe myself to have improved from, or to have recovered from, I have always faltered from. I will always and forever be a product of both mistake and failure.

That I have not ever “moved on” but that I am and always will be within this paradoxical state of acceptance and resistance.

So my wet cunt, it pulsates, or appears to pulsate, between acceptance and resistance, thruogh all time. But this movement, this appearance of pulsation, is exactly where the pleasure lies.

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