Iron and Wine have a song like this...

I spent most of the morning explaining my pilgrimage away from relating. Can a pilgrimage ever be away from, instead of towards, something holy? The truth is that I am trying to go towards something. Closeness. Nearness. Away. In session I figure in and out of resolutions, in and out of clarity. As if under the tide. Where are our fathers floating? Michelle Puckett has begun to blog, though timidly, about water. I think the ocean's influence is inescapable. Somehow the Mediterranean keeps getting dry. I keep re-filling it with my own mix; salt, water from the tap, words of encouragement. I am relieved to know that everyone is as confused about sex as I am. The Oedipal trumpets sound, the Electras of the world respond. How is it possible to live in archetypal mode? Are we all to partake in the narrative? What I am finding is more reasons to part with the narrative; as in away. As in from. Men, sex. Now that I have become (for the first time) the other woman, I have truly earned my title. The work begins like this. As a woman. But I choose, I choose everything from a simple gesture of "no" upon my body, in mouth, to awkwardly stepping into a bed, completely. Jezebel, now who was she? Is she really holy? I thought of Southern men and SoCo and felt that chivalry for the first time. The kind of voice, gesture, that undresses you despite your efforts to remain decent. He took me. We were across a counter, an interaction 24 seconds long. He took me because I am female, because he could. He drew a smile out of me and it might as well have been my nakedness, I mean it. Now that I have crossed the threshold of honest women and traded it for the hearth where women lead men to infidelity and secrecy, I am scared of what I can do with this body. So I decide to walk away with this sense of dejavu. Of having, certainly, had this dream.