Furthermore, the notes are not automated - they are all written personally by me. So, you get an extra note/memo/letter (depending on my mood), in which I might just wax philosophic on any number of topics that seem relevant, preferably in a few sentences or less. Or I might talk about how it feels that you all are in this journey with me or I might talk about updates to the site. But whether I say very much or very little on any given day, it feels more personal. Like I'm talking directly to you. I feel more connected to the folks on the notifylist. There, I've said it.
We were naked when we met. Naked. Clothesless. Just skin and hair and eyes. Breast. Clavicle. Sacrum. Sternum. Navel. Ass and vulva and thigh. Naked. We wore goosebumps when cold, and sweat when warm. Lipstick, maybe. And earrings. We were curves and lines and conversation. The kind of conversation nakedness inspires. Politics. Problems with lovers. Personal Growth. Medical History. Money Making Schemes. Popular Psychology. Real Estate. What books we would recommend. What herbal remedy for this or that. What massage therapist. Jogging or gym? We met in intimacy as strangers. Then friends. Comerades and coworkers. Naked. Clothesless. Just skin.
We left that naked place, friends and comerades. Maybe one of us dreamed about the other, maybe the other eventually fantasized back. In the world of clothes. Jeans and t-shirts, sweaters and sweatpants. The occasional dress. Leather jacket. Red boots. Scarves around the neck. Let’s call it limbo. The space between naked and naked again. We lived together in small rooms separated by a thin wall. Wandered occasionally naked through the house. When it was warm enough. We left with lovers for the day, the evening, the weekend. We returned to tell stories about our adventures, to give and receive advice. We cuddled up on the couch, shared a blanket, a glass of wine. The occasional cup of tea. Sometimes we fell into bed together. And held each other tight through the night, breathing and dreaming together. In limbo. With our clothes on, as if we had not met naked. Just skin between us.
And then we met again, without ever leaving in between. Consummated all that closeness. Together, we peeled back the layers. Overcoat. Sweatshirt. Tank top. Epidermis. Flesh. Ribcage. Heart. Raw and Pulsing. Exposed. Open. Revealed. Beating and bleeding and beating and bleeding and beating and bleeding and beating. This is what life looks like. Naked. This is what life feels like, self-revealed, open enough to receive hand into chest cavity, feel fingers slide between lungs, the breath shuddering through, sometimes solid, sometimes shaky, trembling with all that vulnerability. Raw. Open. We wear laughter and tears. We embrace, we entwine. Naked. In our fear, in our dreams, our disorders, our neuroses, our attachments, our wild hopes, our griefs, our passions. Naked in our loving, our strength, our cunning, our will, our growing, our histories, our anxieties, our drive to overcome, to investigate past pain, compost the garbage, and grow new, fresh, clean love and abundance and dreams. We revel. Clothesless. Skinless. Naked. Revealed.
