...sing me a Love song....

So i'm spending lots of time with Durga these days.  ya' know.  that lovely Hindu deity who straddles tigers and lions as her primary form of transportation, fights demons in her spare time, knows her way around a sword and can counter all resistance with the heat and concentration of pure, unadulterated LUUUUVVVV.  not that ooey-gooey saccarchin shit but the type that can Move MOUNTAINS.  Yeah.  that kind.

so.  we're hanging.  she and me.  she's occupying a little corner of my schmancy roll-top desk my parents just bequeathed me.  casting me a sidelong glance with that celestial glimmer of hers' each time i look up to take a breath, or take a look around.  incline my head for a mini burst of inspiration.  and she meets me.  this paper depiction of righteousness, beauty and strength.  and we do a breathy little tango, she and I....  me inhaling her image, her symbols, her reminders and remembrances...  maybe even a smidgeon of her girly-hurly-burly strength.... her guts and grandness.  borrow a snippet of her generosity.  and grace.  and she emits a low Hummmmm.....  somewhere between Eartha Kitt and Muddy Waters....  cuz any goddess -pal 'o mine, she knows her way around the blues....  and she lends me her freedom, her heaven, touching down to my earth...  a small sip of her air... reminding me that it's the same stuff I've got swirling in and around me.  if only i would care to remember.  once more.

the great Natalie Goldberg does this lovely thing to combat the naggings, war-mongering, and endless oscar-the-snappy-ass-drunken-grouch rumblngs of the Inner Critic.  Craft yourself a sweetheart.  A person, real or imagined, or a gorgeous compilation of all the high holy aspects you can name of all the souls of this world, or any other, who fill your heart with JOY.  Give 'em gusto.  Give 'em balls.  Or better - tits.  and a fabulous caboose.  grant them the voice of a young and hopeful Judy Garland, an aged to perfection Nina Simone, a sinewy Martha Graham, Mother Theresa and your dear Aunt Marilyn.  Roll them into some holy, omnipotent alchemy - able to combat the demons of inadequacy and fear, impotence and anxiety - melt them with a single honeyed tone or crumbling, benevolent glance.  Infuse them with all the Mirth and Gusto they could want, in order to lay that cat-calling jerk-face wildebeast you've been taking orders from these umpteen years past in a bed of its' own shame.  She can tell 'em all to go to hell.  and you can help them pack their bags.

Cuz that Chorus of Woe - who've been humming their endless tune of mockery and smug mediocrity - turns out they're just sitting there.  chain-smoking and squinting atop creaky, fold-up metal chairs.  Their seats are cold and hard.  Their feet chained to where they lay.  And they're always more than happy to have you in the mix.  mired in your own thick shit.  or theirs'.

And so you choose a Singer - whose voice can drown out all the rest.  A song so sweet and flowing, your feet begin tap-tapping....  your heart again to beat...  the breath coming heavy in your chest, your stomach and toes.

And She drives a sweet ride, this Singer of Yours - maybe a lion or tiger - my oh my - a cherry moped or a ten-speed bike - and she beams and offers you a LIFT.  and quietly extends a HAND....

and maybe it's not all so very grand as Myths and Deities.  Maybe your Honey prefers jeans and Top 40.  and maybe rides the Bus.

But how good to know... you've got a Sweetheart - in there - out there.  Somewhere.  Ready.  Whenever you decide to look.....