I’m ninety thousand words in. After committing that much of myself to paper, I can say that my book and I are in a serious relationship. There is no stopping, no denying, no forgetting, no falling out of love with the characters I have created. All the articles that I’ve had published, have been the proverbial warm-up that my confidence needed to set on this much awaited road.

My views on love, on mysticism, on passion, on caring for the earth, all collide in a book about four people who share their hearts, their beds and two very different centuries. When they are born to the rest of the world, when they no longer live only in my mind and my soul, I hope that they will be ambassadors for change and the ever increasing tolerance we need to foster in our society.

Longing For Darkness

I still long for darkness, the deepest thoughts are always tinged with black.

The darkness of my soul intrigues me, calls me,

Stirs me, haunts me, asks for release.

I long to run to wilderness remote and abandoned

Where I can live free and wild, with mountains to cradle me, forests to sing to me, streams to nourish me, and mysteries to wrap me in their moody cloaks.

A cabin, a candle, a wood stove and books. Some honey, some wine, some venison and whatever grows in a garden I have sown.

A woman who visits and lingers while I cook. She loves, but hates me, she shares me with a man. Sometimes she brings new books, sits in the window and reads with her hair spilling into her lap, my cat watching but reserving judgment of this woman who has taken his spot.

A man who brings meat and delivers propane, chops the wood and also my heart with a side of good cheese that he gets in town. Will I come to town to buy a new dress? No, because that will mean people and people are still the enemy. But can I live with only Aspens as my friends? Will I always wash my clothes in this tin bucket with lavender scented soap? Carry my water and yell at the winter because it lasts seven months?

This place I long for, but know I cannot have. Who will come with me to this place, leave me to be alone and visit me when I call? My love for quiet, for leather and man smells, for solitude mixed with altitude, mountain air and women who dare to share me, leaves me angry. No one can give me this, because no one wants what I want, it is only what I dream.

Even the man I love and who loves me without strings and expectations, will not come with me to a place of such loneliness. But my soul wants loneliness, dotted with wine poured over the tangled bodies of my lovers, who join me in my madness, even as they wonder who lives like this?

People. Not sure why I came here, but the people make things worse. Maybe on my planet people were easier to read? I am confused and bruised by humans, never really sure when to shield myself from their words. Run! My soul wants to run, to this place that I love and the man and woman who love me and each other without losing themselves in questions on propriety.

Love is a question, as far as I see it. Do you love me, do I love you, do I love myself? The answer does not matter, just that we ask the question, and bathe it in the flame our lust provides. Practically speaking, love is what brings us to this place, but once here, we lose our way, and look for love till the journey ends. My darkness is my friend. In this cabin, in this dream, darkness pulls me in to where I am truly Me.

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