By Jenn Frisbee
IT'S 6:15AM AGAIN AND I'M MASTURBATING LIKE A FIEND; I'm so incredibly turned on that there's no stopping this freight train from comin'.
In my dream, M--- whispered to me a quote from Krishnamurti:
"The ART is BEING"
Immediately I knew the folly of being an "artist". There is no trying, only being.
So I pounced on M--- and in our half-asleep state we rumbled through the sheets for an hour like cats on the prowl. I was on fire, burning with being, lit up and exploding in every direction. Never before had I woken up in such a flooded, frenzied state.
As I walked the tightrope toward the show's big climax I could feel every bit of tension in my body screaming at my mind to JUST LET GO. But my mind is a tenacious bitch and she holds on for dear life, not wanting to give up control of the show. My mind drifted back to thinking about how to explode as my body fought for its freedom.
Last year, in our sex and spirit therapy group, one of the elder women explained to me "le petit mort". She told me how she had been inorgasmic for the first 50+ years of her life during a long and boring marriage. Through working with Betty Dodson's videos that she was able to finally let herself go into the little death and find bliss on the other side.
I echoed back her frustration, feeling my own inadequacy at being unable to let go into the void. For most of my life I had been the deer caught in the headlights, out of my mind with fear every time I came close to orgasm with a partner. It seemed safer just to run off into the woods, and I would literally dash out of the room whenever that big bad mack truck blared its horn.
This morning I was still the deer, but the truck had stopped in the middle of the road and we stared each other down. The ART is BEING, the truck blared at me. I looked back at it with doe eyes and waited for the next move.
My mind, still grasping for control, needed a new visual to keep it occupied. I put myself on train tracks and found the single light of a train waiting down the line. As M--- and I ripped each other apart most lovingly, I let the train come closer, knowing that I could walk away at any time.
I remembered Storms, the screenplay I had written as a youth. The catalyst of the story was a teenage boy who kills himself by standing in front of a screaming freight train in the middle of a thunderstorm. Right as the train descends upon him he cuts off his penis and screams in a moment of pure liberation before the metal twists into his flesh.
And as M--- and I are fucking each other into sleepy oblivion I am that catalyst and the train is coming closer. One single light becomes the entire world. I can feel the wind rushing, calling me home. My hands fumble across the bed, the wall, the sky as my atoms are lost in convulsions. I find my knife, stare right into the light and cut the penis in my mind.
There are no screams this time.
There is only silence as I let the train run right over me. The beauty, the perfect stillness of death as every fiber of my body explodes with light.
The ART is BEING. We laugh together as I thank Krishnamurti before we drift back into our dreams.
Free-spirit-for-hire Jenn Frisbee, currently of Los Angeles, is a member of IU-Art and a damn good glass blower. This is her first article for The Manifest, but check out her fantabulous Live Journal.
