Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 86

“I . . .I don’t know,” said Mr. Farrow. “I’d never thought of it before. It just struck me suddenly that she hasn’t really got a single friend in the world. Unless it’s Mick Watts, who nobody could call a friend to anybody. Oh well,” he added, shrugging, “perhaps it’s only natural. How can you think of a friendship with a woman like that? She looks at you, but doesn’t really see you at all. She see’s something else. No one can guess what. She speaks to you—when she speaks, which isn’t often—and you don’t really know what she’s thinking. Sometimes I’m sure that she doesn’t think what we think at all, you and I. Things don’t mean the same to her as to the rest of us. But what they mean and what she means—who can tell? And, actually, who cares?”

“About seventy million people or so, judging by your box office reports.”

“Ah, yes. Which, perhaps, is all that matters. They worship her, millions of them. It’s not admiration. It’s not just fan enthusiasm. It’s much more than that. It’s worship. I don’t know what she does to them all—but she does something.”


Ayn Rand          Written 1934, Published 2015

Love vs Sex 173 (Part 2 of 2 – His version)

Night, in the Tent

(a parody of love and other sorts)

I smile knowing a Fairy is
as a Fairy does
a fulminate midsummer’s night dream
finds its roots
buried not in town,
but deep within fire, stone, wood, wind,
asleep, awake, in between
it matters not
a Fairy muse of mischief

an odiferous bombardment
of exuberant and abundant patchouli…
undulating and lingering
clouds of apricot, barley, wheat,
Stanford, Tadcaster, Yorkshire of North…
Insatiable fluttering Fairy pheromones
pungent and eagerly poised
a sightless though titillatingly sweet
pollinating dance in the dark

knees, scepter, tongue, neck and back
making themselves known
in spasm and exhaustion
for their contortionist offerings
yielded in the only tribute
capable of turning verbose meandering pillow talk
into the spun golden threads
of peaceful silence
Her mouth so shut and sweet
an exchange of the utmost worth
for all of my aches and throbs and throes
an auditory paradise of a finally faded off Fairy

the waxing and waning rhythmic resonance
of sonorous cacophony
rolling and tumbling jaggedly
upon itself
a distant encroaching Fairy thunder
manifesting all about me
trapping me in the bellowing midst
of the inescapable close confines
of our nylon nest
rousingly punctuating its proclamation
of restless perturbedness and perpetual startlement
for all of the woodland creatures
near and far
an erratic and ineludible staccatic roar

I hear her unzipping the tent,
stumbling out into the dark night.
slow, irregular, and unsteady foot thuds
hit the nearby ground
in the tiptoeing stealth and steadiness
of a inebriated pirouetting elephant.
another unzipping
the cascading trickle of micturition
when her flow finally wanes
she ebbs back awkwardly into the canopied ocean from whence she recently arose.
sliding, crawling, burrowing, closer and closer
crushing my ankle
squashing my genitals
head butting my chin, my cheek, my brow
finally approaching my lips with a kiss…
honeysuckle dripping with the dew of early dawn
her aim only slobbers a nubbin of my nose
before bubbly voice ablaze chimes the bells of four AM
gleefully inquires if we might
in the here and now
discuss the meaning of the universe
along with transcendental metaphysics
and various other interesting and sundry things.



Love vs Sex 172 (Part 1 of 2 – Her version)

Morning, in the Tent

I smile in that cloudy space between
asleep and awake as I slowly realize we
are in the tent and not our bed.

Smells: someone’s distant breakfast fire, my sweat, his sweat.

Sensations: usually unobtrusive junctures between muscles,
bones, ligaments, and tendons making themselves
known for having slept so close to the ground. The gentle
pressure of his leg interlaced between mine, his
arm draped over my waist, hand resting near my

Sounds: wind tickling leaves and jostling clinging raindrops
from last night’s storm, until they reluctantly let go and plummet
onto the tarp. His even and deep breathing, my favorite
sleep-inducing drug, and I can feel myself succumbing
to sweet drowsiness, until. . .

I hear him zipping up the tent, sacrificing the morning breeze for
privacy, and I smile again to myself and grab my pillow, because I might need
help staying quiet enough during our impending union.

Jody Bryan


Love vs Sex 171

A couple of years before, under the guidance of an intelligent French-speaking confessor, to whom, in a moment of metaphysical curiosity, I had turned over a Protestant’s drab atheism for an old-fashioned popish cure, I had hoped to deduce from my sense of sin the existence of a Supreme Being. On those frosty mornings in the rime-laced Quebec, the good priest worked on me with the finest tenderness and understanding. I am infinitely obliged to him and the great Institution he represented. Alas, I was unable to transcend the simple human fact that whatever spiritual solace I might find, whatever lithophanic eternities might be provided for me, nothing could make my Lolita forget the foul lust I had inflicted upon her. Unless it can be proven to me—that in the infinite run it does not matter a jot that a North American girl-child named Dolores Haze had been deprived of her childhood by a maniac, unless this can be proven (and if it can, then life is but a joke), I see nothing for the treatment of my misery but the melancholy and very local palliative of articulate art. To quote an old poet:

The moral sense in mortals is the duty

We have to pay on mortal sense of beauty.


Vladimir Nabokov          1955