May: Taurus
Original Taurus watercolor by Read Gallo will be featured on this month’s FREE bookmark giveaway. Winners will be drawn from the subscriber list and notified by email on 06/01/2022.
Dharma Direction’s 5th issue explores the stubborn nature of the patient Bull, Taurus. Are you ready to Go With The Flow?
Taurus: The Bull
April 21 - May 20
The blood of the bull runs deep.
Angels: “Bloodlines”
Personal Essay by Debbie Abbott / Read time: 10 minutes
In last month’s Aries issue, I mentioned that while my mother had thought she was going to have an Aries baby, the angels had other plans. Through divine intervention, maybe, I refused to leave my womb as a Ram. I wanted to be a Bull like my mother. Like my mother’s mother.
And so it was. Born on the first eve of the Taurus season (or the second eve, depending on where you get your info), I arrived in stubborn silence—the umbilical cord was knotted around my neck. The deft skills of the doctor kept me here. And my epigenetic code got a serious “survival update” that I believe was given to me by the angels … for the greater good.
Diluted or Concentrated?
If you make an old-fashioned copy of a copy on a regular office printer, the resolution of the third will be slightly degraded. Not as sharp as the original.
But, if you’re making chicken stock and you reduce the first gallon down to a cup, then add more water and reduce it again, then add more water and reduce it for a third time—the result is an incredibly concentrated version of the original stock. Chefs even call it by a fancier name: demi-glace.
Being a third-generation Taurus woman is a bit like being both concentrated and diluted at the same time.
I can’t remember when I began noticing the similarities and the differences between who I wanted to be and who my genetics were telling me to be. Planetarily speaking, the Bull embodies patience and calculation; this much I knew to be true for me, my mother, and my grandmother.
In three very different ways.
Taurus is always keeping their boldness at bay … until lowering their horns and charging are the only option.
The Yin-Yang Yoyo
Contrary to its imposing nature, Taurus the Bull mostly embodies feminine energy: Yin. This softness allows them to walk through the proverbial china shop without disturbing even the most delicate of items (or people) surrounding them. Not all Bulls are created equal, however, and my grandmother was one who found it hard to resist snapping her sarcastic yang-tail at things she didn’t like. Or didn’t understand.
Sometimes she’d poke her metaphorical horns into especially fragile items, like her grandchildren, letting the Bull’s undeniable masculine energy create emotional scars to remind the inflicted of the error of their ways.
It wasn’t until I was about 13 years old—when I saw her laugh lightly after teasing my four-year-old cousin—that I understood my grandma’s heart.
For so long, I’d believed she was just mean-spirited, a trait inherited from her abusive father.
Turns out, she was just trying to toughen us up without literally giving us the knuckle-sandwich she was always promising.
In nearly the same breath, though, the yoyo would reel back in and my Grandma Dee would turn on the charm for the deserving ones. The ones who could roll with her impropriety knowing that her tough hide was merely a protective layer she needed to survive.
She’d been dodging matadors so long, she knew no other way.
The First Copy
My mother’s diluted energy is far more tolerant than her mother’s was. Proof of that is found in my father. He’s been married to my Taurus mother for 58 years. My grandmother got hitched three times and had just has many boyfriends waiting in the arena she charged around in between betrothals.
True to the Bull’s ruling planet, Venus, love has been the missing link that kept my mother from making the same mistakes her mother made. I’m not sure how a Leo and a Taurus have managed to maintain such a copacetic existence, but my parents’ trickle-down effect of commitment and forgiveness has undoubtedly shaped the sharpness … or dullness … of my own horns.
So there was hope for me, as a third-generation Bull, to take the best bits of my maternal DNA strand and use it for the greater good I knew I’d been saved for on that April 21st night back in 1964. Breaking out of such a strong mold takes purpose and intent.
I needed both the light and the darkness of my Taurus bloodline to achieve the lofty goals my soul had chosen long before it arrived here.
Steering The Herd
Aware of the commitment my soul made, I struggled to find the “thing” that would ignite my passion fires and lead me toward the dharma path of destiny I needed to be on. A path that the Angel Asmodel keeps lit no matter how far I seem to stray from the main flow of life’s stream.
After years of observing the Yin-Yang methods he sprinkled into my life through my mother and my grandmother, I’ve come to fully appreciate the patience of my star sign.
Asmodel emanates from the angelic Choir of Virtues.
He is known as both an Angel of Creativity and a Demon of Punishment.
He is light and dark.
And he will remind you, as many times as necessary, that you cannot have one without the other.
Hindsight provides me with the clarity of a mountain stream. I can now see beyond the reflective surface into the real life-forces teeming underneath. I needed to be a third generation Taurus with strong feminine influences. I also had to hone my patience and shore up my sensitivity, knowing that waiting for me downstream was a chance to make a difference for the greater good.
From my Taurus grandmother, I gained a steadiness of spirit that buoys my belief that there’s common ground between all of us no matter what separates us.
From my Taurus mother, I gained the ability to bite my tongue, mind my Ps and Qs, and make a list of Pros and Cons—always. She was (and still is) the queen of clichés and one of her favorites when I was growing up was: “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”
This advice is gold, y’all.
If more people could bite their tongues (no matter how desperately they want to prove a point or be right), we’d all get along much better. Everyone is going to disagree with everyone else about something at one time or another. That is the beauty and the curse of being human. Let it go. Move on. Lashing out is self-defeating.
As for the Ps and Qs, in my family, that meant mind your manners … say please and thank you. Be kind and considerate.
The lore of the Ps and Qs expression refers to an old-fashioned typesetting term when newspaper staff had to manually place each individual metal letter into rows of type held tight inside wooden frames for the inked presses. The tiny letters were backward (like a scrapbooking stamp) so that their printed words would read forward on the newsprint. Lower-case p and lower-case q were often swapped inadvertently, causing typos. An editor’s nightmare.
Is it ironic that I eventually became a writer and an editor?
Asmodel would say: No—it was written in your stars long ago.
Then there’s that list of Pros and Cons. The go-to. The solve-all. Or so my mother tried to teach me. This was the thing that taught me the value of being prepared. Having a Plan B, and a Plan C. This list consistently reveals the weak spots in plans and in life.
But don’t be fooled by the length of each column. A few Pros can easily outweigh many more Cons … and vice-versa. And, honestly, there are some things that just shouldn’t be decided by a list. Some decisions require sacrifice. Going outside of the bounds of what others may want from you, or need from you.
Thought By Thought
Following your intuition requires faith. Not the God-fearing kind. Rather, faith in that little voice that guides us. The one only we can hear. The one that hears our thoughts. Whoever you believe that voice to be.
For me, this voice is that of my guardian angel.
This ever-present being has never been wrong and she often graces me with uncanny foresight. She takes her direction from the higher angels, like Asmodel, and she works with the other guardians to help steer my way.
Common among Taurus traits, I am rarely wrong.
Because I know things.
Because I listen to my guardian angel.
There have been moments when I didn’t like what she was telling me, but I knew she was right. Kind of like my mother and my grandmother. I’ve tried to go against my guardian’s wisdom. To prove her wrong. Each time she waits patiently for her I-told-you-so moment when I come out on the other side of bad decisions.
Yet, this—ironically—is where truth hides. In the mistakes and missteps. And this is where we find our “thing.” Because to discover Dharma, we must go boldly into our hearts’ desire. Matadors be damned.
Worry less about finding the path.
Simply journey toward destiny and trust that the dust will clear.
Debbie Abbott is a former managing editor for an upscale food and lifestyle print magazine from Scottsdale, Arizona. She now spends as much time as possible working on her debut novel and sharing accounts of her life through her website and as editor and publisher of Dharma Direction.
Connect with Debbie on Facebook, through Debbie's Twitter page or visit Debbie on Instagram.
Audio Visual Art: Angel Asmodel
From digital artist Peter Mohrbacher comes a fast-forward visual adventure into the computer creation of the Taurus angel. Find the artist, and more of his work at Angelarium.net. Watch time: 4 minutes
The bull who decided to be a dog.
Humor: “Gryffin, the Gentle Giant”
Personal Essay by Colleen Markley / Read time: 9 minutes
In my next life I’d like to come back as my own pet.
If there were an award for pet ownership, I’d be a finalist. I have loved, trained, cajoled, dispensed meds of every variety—including four-times-per-day pill regimens, weekly injections, and sub-cutaneous fluid IVs on demand. I’ve carted creatures across state lines to find vet specialists to help me care for my furry loves. Chemo treatments. Medical animal massage. Canine chiropractic treatments. Acupuncture. And, yes, animal “acu” actually works; dogs don’t understand placebo effects.
To be a pet owner is to be a caretaker, and that is one of my superpowers.
(Replenishing self-care and compassion are still areas I am developing, and I recognize this as a necessary element in the over-giving space I tend to find myself—often without a map or a flashlight, and a very empty tank). But all that care is worth it. There isn’t anything like the unconditional love and adoration in the eyes of an animal who is devoted to you.
I’ve spent the last four months with Dharma Direction mulling and musing astrological vibes for some important people in my life: husband, child, friends. The next two months (Taurus and Gemini) I will be focusing on the amazing ways that the zodiac traits are also applicable for two others I have loved: my dogs.
A True Gentle Giant
I have written about Gryffin often, as well as his furry brother Nicky, who was less giant and less gentle.
Gryffin, as a Taurus, was astrologically suited to be compatible with Capricorn, Pisces, and Cancer (the three sun star signs present in my house).
Our love was designed in the stars.
Nicky, a Gemini, was particularly compatible with my youngest, a Pisces. They had a bond that was different from everyone else’s. I mostly looked at Nicky with curiosity and confusion. My furry loves were both muses of different flavors and were both true to their star signs.
Gryffin could be as stubborn as a bull (the Taurus symbol), or any other number of large obstinate beasts. A bear-sized Bernese Mountain dog, he possessed the same adamant attitude, but in a gentle, loving, and non-confrontational way.
That doesn’t mean it was easy.
Each walk began the same way …
A series of excited barks when he saw the leash.
Some panting and head-butting as he forgot that the fastest way to get outside was to let me actually attach the leash to his 120-pound body.
And then his insistence that he hold his own leash in his mouth. Gryffin liked to be in charge.
Once outside, walking Gryffin in the neighborhood was less about the walking and more about the sniffing. When he was younger, we’d go on three-mile treks and even longer hikes, and he’d stop when he found something exceptionally interesting. The snort-snuffle sounds he’d make while investigating who had been where before him made me think of a pig hunting for truffles.
Pace Yourself
In his older years, he slowed down his pace and stamina, and we didn’t venture far from home. The intense sniffing increased, until a simple walk around the block would take 40 minutes instead of five.
When a giant dog has decided they are tired and would like to lay down—even though you’re still three blocks away from home—it sort of throws a wrench in your schedule. And traffic.
Gryffin didn’t really care where he laid down. He just didn’t want to be upright anymore, and if he was the middle of the street, he was fine with that. I wonder if the double yellow lines painted in the center were cooler than the black asphalt of the road, as that was often his favorite place to find some respite.
I once directed traffic around his prone body for ten minutes—through six traffic light changes.
The cars would wait at the red light, watching us stand in the roadway, and then when it turned green, I stood over his body, straddling him to keep him safe. I learned a lot from one of these particular experiences.
First, the light seems very long to wait at when I’m in a car. But it seemed much faster when I was waiting for traffic to come towards me, waving at drivers with a lunatic fake plastic smile.
Second, you can tell a lot about a person as they drive along and encounter a middle-aged woman doing a split over a giant dog who is lying in the middle of the road. Do you stop and roll down your window and ask if everything is ok? Do you at least wave as you drive by my nonsense? Or did you honk? I know who you are. This is a small town. And I will remember your angry face as you leaned on the horn.
I also remember that my spirit animal Gryffin ignored all of this, and that brings me to the third lesson: Ignore the assholes. Finish resting. Move when you’re ready. Not when others want you to be ready.
Get Off My Asphalt
Taurus are known to be a little lazy at times. Maybe we should all be a little lazier. It’s easier to go with the flow if you’re letting yourself chill and feel which way the current is trying to pull you … or pause you.
Taurus are also known to be foodies, enjoying the simple pleasures in life. Sometimes to excess. Gryffin was an indiscriminate eater, not letting pre-conceived notions or limiting beliefs about food get in his way of ingesting everything that smelled interesting.
The cardboard box would be eaten along with the raisin bran. The loaf of bread and its plastic bag were consumed with equal pleasure.
Corn—and all the cobs.
The birdseed incident was one that deserves its own telling and will have its own space for publication another day. Soon. It’s worth knowing. A Taurus always is.
But Gryffin’s voracious appetite was always satiated in a manner consistent with his gentle nature. He might have counter-surfed and unwittingly stolen dinner from his family on multiple occasions, but that was food left unsupervised.
In his defense, we were the ones who put an entire roasted chicken on the counter and walked away. Ditto with the multiple pizzas that he ravaged, moving the boxes and cheesy contents from the kitchen to consume in his favorite spot under the dining room table.
If we had been there, he wouldn’t have taken from us. He loved us and would never dream of taking our food. He always waited for what was offered to him, even the time he had a misunderstanding with a toddler.
Isla had come to visit with her brother Josh and their parents—my very best friend and her husband. After an evening where we grownups stayed up way too late and talked until our words didn’t make sense, we were a bit groggy during breakfast the next day. Isla was bubbly, and like many toddlers, didn’t have the same sense of personal space as others.
She was sitting in a little booster seat, safely strapped in, munching on her croissant while Gryffin sat at her side, watching her with soulful, longing eyes. She talked to him, her brother, the dog again, and then casually relaxed her wrist—her croissant hand—so that the petit-dejeuner was just a wee bit on the outside of the normal sphere of protected space that Gryffin readily respected … and then he curled his ten-inch tongue around her tiny digits and extracted the pastry.
Gryffin’s tongue was the size of Texas, enhanced with the gentleness of a fairy, and he stole the croissant while barely feathering against her fingers.
He inhaled it in a flash, leaving Isla empty-handed and confused.
“What. Just. Happened?” came her hysterical wail.
Gryffin licked his chops, waiting to see if any more delectable delicacies would be presented over the invisible force field of human space versus dog space. He sat next to Isla, waiting for more offerings, and with his eyes he said “I love you. Thank you for the gift. Do you have more?”
Sorry, Not Sorry
There were no other croissants.
There were tears.
There was drool.
There was forgiveness—after a while.
Gryffin’s loving eyes shifted to sadness but lacked regret. As my son described him: “Gryffin has guilty eyes that say I’m sorry but I’m—also not stopping.”
Like any Taurus, Gryffin might not be sorry for what he did, but would most certainly always be sorry for how it made you feel.
And that’s part of my deeper lessons about life—how things don’t always go the way we hope, but we forgive each other anyway. We take the time we need for ourselves, even when that disappoints someone who loves us, stands over us, guards us when we need the help. We are all needy and disappointing at times. But we are all worth it.
Especially the unconditional, lazy, drooly, loving adoration of a Gentle Giant Taurus.
“Gryffin”
Sir Godric Gryffindor Markley
May 7, 2011- March 31, 2022
Colleen Markley is a novelist and freelance writer living in New Jersey. Her award-winning essay “Unflappably Calm, Occasionally Furious, Ready and Willing to Hide the Bodies” was recently published in Sisters! Bonded by Love and Laughter. Colleen’s essay “Spaghetti-Gate” was published in April of 2022 in an anthology called The Order of Us. Named the June 2021 winner of the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop Humor Writer of the Month, Colleen attempts to be funny every month as a regular contributor riffing on the zodiac for Dharma Direction. Her novel-in-progress, Lilith Land, is a story about the end of the world where only the women survive. (It’s a novel, not an action plan). Find her at www.ColleenMarkley.com or sign up here for her newsletter and updates.
Visit Colleen on Instagram, see what’s up on her Facebook, or shout-out to Colleen on Twitter.
Buy Local. Support Local.
Culinary Craft: “Of The Earth”
Portfolio pics from Chef Mark Abbott
Truthfully, the way to a Taurus’ heart is through their stomach. (That’s not the only way, but it sure is a good one!)
Feast your eyes on some delicious dishes that highlight the bounty that Mother Earth provides for us. Nothing frozen here. All fresh, prepared with the kind of love that pushes every recipe into a realm of savory memories.
In order of appearance, here’s a list of Chef Mark’s dishes featured above …
White pizza, cooked in cast iron on the grill and topped with grated mozzarella, grilled onions, sautéed mushrooms, candied bacon, fresh basil, and fresh grated Parmigiano Reggiano.
Chevre goat cheese, organic Roma tomatoes, Extra Virgin olive oil, fresh sweet basil, and cracked pepper.
Grilled Char Siu Pork Ramen garnished with diced Roma tomatoes, scallions, cilantro, and medium-boiled egg.
Grilled lemons and free-range rosemary chicken.
Grilled pork tenderloin on bed of spinach with grilled onions, cherry tomatoes, and sliced hard-boiled egg.
Veggies on the grill: spaghetti squash, zucchini, onion, and peppers.
As a professional chef for over 20 years who cut his culinary teeth at a Five-Star Scottsdale resort, Mark Abbott was a regular contributor to AZ Food & Lifestyle magazine for several years. Mark was also the host of the “Two Chefs & A Car” segment, which aired locally in Phoenix on the AZ Food & Lifestyle Show. He is currently pursuing his passion for cooking with fire at Little Miss BBQ in Phoenix, where award-winning brisket is only the beginning of their smoked delights.
Connect with Mark on Instagram.
Don't let the horns scare you.
Romance: “Toreros”
Fantasy Fiction by L.J. Longo / Read time: 7 minutes
Content Warning: mild language and slightly sexy
Let The Fight Begin
The bull in my brain charges at every change, and this particular text conversation sends it into a frothing rage.
What the hell does he mean by: “WE need to move forward, or I don’t want to see you anymore?”
Ray isn’t supposed to make demands. He’s supposed to answer my texts with an enthusiastic: ‘Yes, let’s do some activity which will result in great sex and then go away again.’ Or a stern: ‘No, I’m busy tonight.’
I type, “Move forward? What kind of weak-ass remark is that?”
The bull in my brain swings its horns and I’m about to ‘press send.’ Then I stop. There’s no reason to fight with Ray. No reason to respond so unkindly. This isn’t a competition. This isn’t even work. This is . . .
What is it, Camilo? Love? The bull snorts and charges. No reason to fight? He’s stampeding all over your freedom with weakness.
In a bull-fight every second counts, every choice matters.
A twist to the right and the horn gores. You cater to Ray’s every whim, buy him nice things, and he doesn’t want to see you? He’s never had it so good.
A duck to the left and a flourish of the cape. I type: “Ray, I’m worried I’m not coming across well in texts. Are you breaking up with me or asking for more commitment?” Send.
“Yes,” he texts back.
Son of a bitch. The bull snorts and lowers its horns for another charge.
I might not be able to dodge this one. I fill the box with text, mostly in capital letters, but before I finish, Ray texts: “Let’s talk about it in person.”
The bull twists again and I grab my keys instead of sending my text.
The Prelude
Last June, my administrative assistants bought me a tie to celebrate pride month. Their serious boss wearing a little rainbow amused them, but I diligently displayed my gift for the rest of the month out of respect. It was the invitation he’d been waiting for.
We rode the same ferry across the river everyday. I’d noted him: short, a sun-burned man who waffled between formal tweed suits and extraordinary casual graphic tee-shirts and jeans and carried a wheeled suitcase of books and papers. He’d noted nothing unique about me. I’m one of a hundred men and women in black and grey business suits. Maybe he noted that I was slightly darker. Nothing special.
The tie made the difference. The tie made him stand next to me at the ferry’s rail and smile. Then chat about work. I thought Dr. Raymond Elias was networking his way into my firm’s consulting department—college professors make good expert witnesses—and gave him my business card. When Ray called outside of work hours to flirt and invite me to dinner, I’d been caught utterly off guard.
A calf in the field startled by a housecat.
I rejected him out of hand, polite and business-like. Then reconsidered and called back.
Ray never forgot my rejection. He never understood that I wasn’t rejecting him; I was rejecting ‘WE.’ I have always been frightened of a ‘WE.’
The point of a bullfight is not widely understood even in the places where it’s still legal. The goal is not the bull’s death; that’s just the foreseeable result. The point isn’t the cultural significance, either; I’ll happily argue a bullfight is no more or less animal cruelty than the average American slaughterhouse.
No, the purpose of a bull fight is the dance.
The bull’s brute power and raging passion against the matador’s ritual weaponry and cool intellect. The contest of two strong survival instincts. The glorious performance of feints and darts, stretching and contorting, a rhythm and flow between man and beast.
What enthralls the audience in each pass is the beauty, power, and elegance of animal and man.
Shall We Dance?
Each flourish of the muleta, every jab of the sword is an exploration of explosive violence being narrowly avoided. Which must inevitably culminate in a clean killing blow.
The first man I ever lusted for was a matador. At first, I thought I admired the courage, the valor, the respect afforded to these gods of the bulls. His cool confidence in the face of a raging beast.
This man I am driving to fight with is no matador.
The bull in my brain snorts and paces. A weak little man. Hardly any career. What are you doing dating a professor anyway? You can do better. You don’t need him.
As I drive, I let the bull run wild, let it tire itself out. A bullfight is a contest of stamina and focus. In the first stage, the bull must be closely observed. One must watch how he bucks and see which horn he favors.
You were better off alone.
One will find the bull’s weaknesses, the lies it has told itself.
Better off alone?
I’d put so much work into Ray. Those early days were filled with frustrations, because my usual tricks didn’t consistently work to land him in bed. He enjoys conversation, even arguments, is unimpressed by wealth, and hates being drunk. And now, I’m used to him, to his body, to his whims. I’m no longer satisfied by my own company, and I dread the idea of finding new strangers to sleep with.
In the manner of rampaging beasts, the bull in my brain turns its attacks on me. Stupid lonely boy. Sad and pathetic and now you can’t even bear to be alone with yourself.
Ray laughs when I talk badly about myself, telling me: ‘Don’t insult my favorite person!’
This parry in my mind surprises the bull. It is not used to having another voice in the ring with it and it had no way to crush the sound of Ray’s genuine laugh under hoof, to trample his warmth.
The bull dodged and swings around for another attack, undeterred. But he doesn’t want you anymore. You’re not anyone’s favorite person any more; you probably never were.
I glance at my phone and remember the text. The first part. WE need to move forward.
Change isn’t always bad.
The bull in my brain snorts and disagrees. I’ll hang you on my horns.
The dance continues.
Bullfights Are Not A Solo Affair
The matador leads a team of toreros, bullfighters in silver who wear down the bull. They draw first blood, stop it from charging at any and all distraction, and bring the bull to a point of pure focused rage.
When the matador steps into the ring, on foot, armed with only his sword and his cape, he confronts the bull at its most aggressive and its most vulnerable. Exactly how I’m feeling as I park illegally, blocking Ray’s driveway and his neighbor’s. This always makes Ray nervous and annoyed. In the highly unlikely event that I am ticketed, I can afford the fine and so I don’t care; he calls my attitude bourgeois.
Why am I behaving like a child? Oh well, I can’t change my parking now. I open the door, stand by the car, and look up at him.
Ray would be a very silly looking matador—frail and white, without the legs to pull off the taleguillas, but there’s steel in his spine right now. He’s wearing his stiff tweed jacket and a severe frown, a bit like a sexy librarian who would punish you for making too much noise if he didn’t think you’d enjoy it too much.
It’s more like him to wear over-sized cargo shorts, belted with a tie-dye scarf, but he’s taking himself seriously today.
There’s a part of me that wants to crush his will, to deny his agency and fight his desire for change. Why should “WE” move forward? I should get exactly what I want from him whenever I call him in the middle of the night or show up at his house uninvited. He can’t say he doesn’t enjoy it. He can’t tell me he deserves more than a drawer in my condo.
Ray barely looks up from his book. “You drive very fast when you’re angry.”
Then don’t make me angry. The bull bellows in my mind.
I do not let my temper stampede my humanity. I have to be as reasonable as this man, as cool-headed if I want to win. My happiness depends on this fight. “I do. When I’m worried, too.”
My tone catches him off guard. Even and level and nowhere near the brusqueness he had every right to expect from my texts. I lean against the car unsure if I’m invited onto his balcony. “I … probably should have called instead of driving all the way over.”
“I’d rather have this conversation in person, too.” He rises, sets the book down, and leans over the rail. Elegant, cool and composed, on the brink of great violence. “Camilo.”
He’s paused. Baiting me with my full name? No. Hesitating. Because Ray has never forgotten I rejected him, because he’s always afraid to tell me no.
I watch his every move, feeling the flare of my nose and trying to keep my breathing steady. He’s going to make a demand, an ultimatum, and I—
You will fight. You will get your way. You always do because you’re always right.
No. I will accept. I will move forward with Ray. I will learn to share and support and go with him to stupid things like his cousin’s barmitz-thing. It will be humiliating and uncomfortable, but I will do this because I am not an animal, but a human being who is rational, and pathetic, and fair, and lonely and—
“Camilo, I love you.”
Olé!
There’s a moment in every bullfight, where the matador surprises the bull. Where the sword sinks behind the horns, between the shoulders, and pierces the heart. Where all the beast can do is stagger on its feet and then lie down amazed by its own frailty.
I can only stand by my car amazed by him. How nearly effortlessly he spoke—even my mother never said those words so easily. And certainly not in the middle of a fight.
“I can’t just be the person you call on Fridays after happy hour, or in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep. I either need to be the person who is already next to you in our home or the person ignoring those calls.”
He’s given his closing argument as the lead. He can’t possibly build a defense from there. No, of course not. He’s an academic. He’s led with the most important information. He’s given me his thesis.
Such a small little thing. I love you. I need you to love me, too.
Well, no actually, huge ask. Monumental ask. Life changing ask.
I catch myself nodding, dully. “Good. Good.”
Ray smirks, a little sadly.
“No, this is good. It’s a good market for selling real estate. Though I think we should buy a new place first and then sell our individual properties. I can’t live here and it would feel all wrong for you to move in with me. To invasive. We must have a new place somewhere in between. Near your school with room for a home office for me. I have very little style, but I do need things to be in some order, so as long as you can be patient—”
“Wait … are you—” His eyes dart after his thoughts, like a sharp-clawed beast chasing its prey. “Okay. So … we agree to, like, the next step.”
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“Which I had thought of as being boyfriends.”
“What the hell are we now?” Raising my voice, Ray’s confused face darkens to stone-cold. “Sorry,” I say at once. “We should take a moment to discuss—job description, isn’t the term …”
“Relationship expectations?” Ray grins and leans on the balcony rail, suddenly all smiles and charm. “Are you nervous, Cam?”
“Yes. I’ve never …” I can say it, too. I will say it. Right now. I will. “I’ve never, moved forward with anyone. I—”
He laughs at me.
The bull in my brain riles up but can’t find the energy to rise from his defeat.
So I laugh at myself. “Expressing myself is difficult. And I’m mildly annoyed that you said it first because I … I do love you.” There. I said it, too. And I meant it. And he knows.
I shouldn’t stop there. “And also, I need you to know, you should never take my first reaction as anything personal. There’s a bull in my brain and he charges at everything.”
“Sounds right.” Ray smiles amused. What beast is batting around in his brain that is so easy to dismiss?
I smile because I’m going to get the chance to find out.
“Come inside and we’ll have a conversation where we treat relationship expectations like job descriptions, you corporate kiss-ass.” He smiles full of mischief, then commands, “Pull into the driveway, first.”
“I won’t.” I refuse, just for fun.
“My neighbor is going to have you towed.”
“Then I’ll learn.” I’m already halfway up his stairway. The last thing we are going to do in privacy is talk.
L.J. Longo is an award-winning Romance author, a queer geek and feminist writing a medley of dark romance (which can be found through Evernight Publishing) magical realism, weird sci-fi/fantasy, and very implausible creative non-fiction. She recently received Third Place recognition for her submission to the Writer’s Digest Annual Short Story Fiction Contest with her entry titled, "To Harvest Lavender."
Connect to L.J. on Facebook and on L.J.'s Twitter page.
Finding the rhythm of life.
Poet-Tree
Original poem “What the Day Takes” by Elle Becker
Connect with Elle through email at ellebecker@therarebirdwrites.com, or find her on Facebook where she extends her branch of The Rare Bird Writes cooperative.
Music
Too strong to tell you I was sorry / Too proud to tell you I was wrong / I know that I was blind …
“If I Could Turn Back Time” written by Diane Warren, performed by Cher.
Playlist: Taurus
True to the creative nature of Taurus, this month’s playlist is brimming with an eclectic mix of songs, including a few you may never have even heard of. Spanning decades of musical expression, our contributors have put together their melodic messages in the hope that as you listen and/or watch these music videos your day will be brightened by their gift. ~ DA
Please enjoy Dharma Direction’s playlist for May celebrating all things Taurus. Keep in mind that the playlist on YouTube changes each month to focus on the current Zodiac. This month’s songs are listed below ~
“The Woman In The Moon” - Barbra Streisand from A Star Is Born (1976)
“If I Could Turn Back Time” - Cher
“Steer Your Way” - Leonard Cohen
“Fade Into You” - Mazzy Star
“Banana Pancakes” - Jack Johnson
“Green & Dumb” - Roger Clyne and The Peacemakers
“Toes” - Zac Brown Band
“Istanbul (Not Constantinople)” - They Might Be Giants
“Sunday Candy” - Donnie Trumpet & the Social Experiment
“Torito” - Rodrigo y Gabriela
“When You Say Nothing At All” - Allison Krause
“Behind These Hazel Eyes” - Kelly Clarkson
“Fight To Make It Up” - Takenobu
The Reading Dingy
Escape into a good book.
Welcome to Dharma’s new department!
See what our contributors are reading now, what they recommend, or what’s on their “must read” list. Our picks may be new releases, forever favorites, hidden gems, or classics we can’t wait to read again. If we love it, we’ll let you know here!
Color Therapy: Taurus
FREE Downloadable/Printable — just get your crayons, pencils, pastels, or paints and right-click the image below.
Taurus People
