She's Botticelli's Venus. She a little girl with carrot red hair
squinting in the sun playing with her brothers and sisters in front
of a dusty western American farmhouse. She's a woman, vibrant and
full and totally in charge. She's big enough to lead. She's soft
enough to cry. She's a young girl, overly cautious, polite and
satisfied, unstoppable, and she's totally clear about her own
power. She's Mother Kali, the multifaced
of all women, of You, of I.
The Birth Of Venus
Alessandro Di Mariano Filipepi Botticelli
She drives with the steely aggression and stone cold calm of a
Mario Andretti. She gets misty when she points to the antique
rocking chair in which she breast fed her children. She decorates
her home with sea shells and glass, aqua hues and tenderness. She
yank starts a lawnmower and uses power tools and heavy equipment
like a construction worker.
She dresses like a hard rocker, like an elegant business executive,
like a hillside hiker - cool and comfortable. She shows me how to
make love with the amazement each time of the first time and the
relaxed unhurriedness of knowing it's never the last time. She
plays like a finely tuned instrument with no margin for error or
assumption. She takes me beyond merely giving and receiving
pleasure: she shows me how to really share pleasure.
When I'm naked, and she, fully clothed, holds me, it's an
expression of her sheer full hearted generosity lit by the
rippling shadows through bamboo blinds for nights that never end.
She serves fresh strawberries and dipping sugar for
Each of her days start like a new page, like a clean slate, like a
fresh mound of cut hay.