The Scent of Ancestral Memory

Passion So here I sit my heartflaps open and the hole in that space leaking liquid hurt all over the page and you tell me to tame my passion? To curb my desire? So what is your agenda? Do you want release or affirmation or devotion or just to be left alone again to be allowed to love another or yourself? I sit here and I tell you that passion is not something that can be tamed like a pet to be fed regularly and trained and patted on the head for being good and mild. Passion is a flamenco dancer stomping centuries of bullsblood through the soles of her feet and feeling the soul spreading of Spanish rhythms. Passion is the spider who eats her mate. Passion is the salmon who exhausts itself swimming upstream to breed. Passion is the libertine, who cries, “let the tanks come I am ready to die for my cause.” Passion is the throes of lust, panting for release. Passion is the breaking of the string from the fury of the playing. It is the shattering of glass on the highest note which sends shivers up the spine of the listener. Passion is risk and flight and racing heartbeats and running headlong in front of a train. Passion is leaping from a mountain without so much as an umbrella to break the fall. Passion can only fall away or fizzle out of its own accord. It will not and cannot and must not be tamed. It will find its own expression in its own release. But this recent rashness is only a part of me. And I know this is not love but impulse. Lotus love unfolds petal by petal towards the sun which seeps life slowly through its slender stamens and showers its splendour on the beholder. This lotus opening this calm act of life is how I wish to know you now. Slowly gently smoothly lightly seriously smiling in the flitting sunlight. Anita Jetnikoff