1. Grudges can't live on their own, they need someone to hold them. They wear costumes of self righteousness, which keep them hidden (even from their holders).
I didn't always know this. I didn't even know I had made one until one day someone tried to love me and I couldn't love back. It was unsafe to trust anybody.
2. You can't give a grudge away. They do not live the body of their subject, but in that of their holders. This is very important.
I kept mine, holding it tightly, thinking it was good protection against someone who might hurt me like you did. It took so much energy to bare it and you didn't even know it was there. This made me angrier. And it became even heavier.
3. Grudges are poisonous. Their synonyms include: resentment, bitterness, rancor, pique, umbrage, dissatisfaction, disgruntlement, animosity, anitpathy, enmity. These are not healthy to keep inside you.
When I began to feel ill, the kind of ill that covers up beauty, I knew I needed some medicine.
4. Grudges are social. They respond to other people's grudges, getting worked up and feeding off of mutual justification.
For a while this was the only relief. I thought it was relief. I thought I was strong when I yelled about the wrongs done me in the past. But beauty did not come back. I had confused vulnerability with childishness and weakness.
5. The real medicine for grudges is not revenge - this is how they propagate. It's a sneaky way to breed.
One night as I walked to the top of a hill covered in moonlight, I looked up at the sky and asked for help. The moon put a four leafed clover in the ground right next to my feet. I picked it and felt better. I had found my special thing! I thought this was the medicine I needed.
But I lost it on the way down.
I called myself terrible names. I pulled at my hair and yelled to the sky. I was mad at you too. I was furious that I still had ugly feelings. I felt stupid for ever having trusted you. How could I have done that? I cried for a long time.
6. The real medicine for grudges:
Is forgiving yourself for having exposed a part so delicate and tender. Forgiving yourself for trusting someone with your heart. Forgiving yourself for hurting so badly. That is step one.
Step two is feeling the hurt that the grudge has been covering up. No stories, just pain.
You might try wrapping your arms around yourself and saying I'm sorry. You might try a long walk. And hot baths. And some really good food. I suggest holding hands with a friend. Someone else might have pain to share with you as well. I call this a two-way-feel-good.
(The moon also helps. Appreciating anything unashamedly beautiful, helps.)
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
noun - a persistent feeling of ill will or resentment resulting from a past insult or injury (Part I)
We met in front of your house. I was looking for four leaf clovers. You asked to help. I said yes.
I showed you my secrets. I brought you into the hiding place in my parents closet where I keep soft blankets and books I like to look at. You sat down with me and we peeked through the holes in the wood, spying on the grownups out there, giggling as they did normal grownup things without knowing we were watching.
Every Sunday you came over and we played this game. One day, you asked me if I wanted to practice kissing like they do in the movies. I said yes. We pretended we thought it was gross at first, then kept doing it because it felt good. I gave you my favorite rock. The one I kept with me always, the one I found in Yellowstone park last winter when I went snowmobiling with my father and the herd of buffalo walked by so I had to jump into the deep snow off the trail. It came up to my waist. One rock sat on the white path once they passed. I wanted you to have it. Because it's special.
We explored the woods together. One time, when you were Mario and I was Luigi, we found a warp zone which brought us to another dimension. Right there in the woods we discovered a meadow. I collected pieces of birch bark for next season's fire (my grandaddy told me they are good burnin'). You found three lady slippers, but didn't pick them because they are rare and it was illegal to pick them. So we crouched down low to look into the bulging blossoms and guessed about the color of the lady's dress who was wearing them. Next to the fallen log with the mushrooms growing out of it was a patch of clover. I looked down (like I always did) to see if I could find a four leafed. It was my first one! I had to check one, two, three times before I really believed it. After spending hours looking for them, I wasn't sure they even existed and here I was, so lucky, to have found one of my own.
When you came over to examine it with me, your eyes lit up in such a way I couldn't help but give it to you. You hugged me, do you remember? And told me you would keep it safe forever.
Maybe you didn't mean to lose it. It was a hard thing to keep. When we pressed it in the Sesame Street Alphabet book under letter O, it was hard to see against Oscar the Grouch's green skin or fur or whatever covers his body.
I wouldn't have lost it though.
I cried when I found out you had given the rock away. Nobody saw me cry. I did it by myself in the special spot in the closet. And you told Stacy that I made you practice kissing me there and she told lots of people.
That's when it started to grow. I couldn't cry in front of the others, so I changed the sadness into something else, something I could stretch over my thoughts of you so that I wouldn't have to feel that hurt in the same way. I kept it inside and added to it, feeding it with the knowing that I was right and you were wrong.
It was the only thing I brought into my secret closet now. I sat in there and imagined myself doing everything better than you. Winning the race in gym class and growing up to be more beautiful so that other people wanted me more and I would kiss them someday right in front of you.
How could you do that? Why did you treat me that way? How could you forget how special those gifts were?
These are the things I thought, but didn't tell anyone. I had to keep it secret. I didn't want anyone to know about my pain, so it kept growing. Maybe I thought I could give it to you someday.
I showed you my secrets. I brought you into the hiding place in my parents closet where I keep soft blankets and books I like to look at. You sat down with me and we peeked through the holes in the wood, spying on the grownups out there, giggling as they did normal grownup things without knowing we were watching.
Every Sunday you came over and we played this game. One day, you asked me if I wanted to practice kissing like they do in the movies. I said yes. We pretended we thought it was gross at first, then kept doing it because it felt good. I gave you my favorite rock. The one I kept with me always, the one I found in Yellowstone park last winter when I went snowmobiling with my father and the herd of buffalo walked by so I had to jump into the deep snow off the trail. It came up to my waist. One rock sat on the white path once they passed. I wanted you to have it. Because it's special.
We explored the woods together. One time, when you were Mario and I was Luigi, we found a warp zone which brought us to another dimension. Right there in the woods we discovered a meadow. I collected pieces of birch bark for next season's fire (my grandaddy told me they are good burnin'). You found three lady slippers, but didn't pick them because they are rare and it was illegal to pick them. So we crouched down low to look into the bulging blossoms and guessed about the color of the lady's dress who was wearing them. Next to the fallen log with the mushrooms growing out of it was a patch of clover. I looked down (like I always did) to see if I could find a four leafed. It was my first one! I had to check one, two, three times before I really believed it. After spending hours looking for them, I wasn't sure they even existed and here I was, so lucky, to have found one of my own.
When you came over to examine it with me, your eyes lit up in such a way I couldn't help but give it to you. You hugged me, do you remember? And told me you would keep it safe forever.
***
Maybe you didn't mean to lose it. It was a hard thing to keep. When we pressed it in the Sesame Street Alphabet book under letter O, it was hard to see against Oscar the Grouch's green skin or fur or whatever covers his body.
I wouldn't have lost it though.
I cried when I found out you had given the rock away. Nobody saw me cry. I did it by myself in the special spot in the closet. And you told Stacy that I made you practice kissing me there and she told lots of people.
That's when it started to grow. I couldn't cry in front of the others, so I changed the sadness into something else, something I could stretch over my thoughts of you so that I wouldn't have to feel that hurt in the same way. I kept it inside and added to it, feeding it with the knowing that I was right and you were wrong.
It was the only thing I brought into my secret closet now. I sat in there and imagined myself doing everything better than you. Winning the race in gym class and growing up to be more beautiful so that other people wanted me more and I would kiss them someday right in front of you.
How could you do that? Why did you treat me that way? How could you forget how special those gifts were?
These are the things I thought, but didn't tell anyone. I had to keep it secret. I didn't want anyone to know about my pain, so it kept growing. Maybe I thought I could give it to you someday.
Monday, February 25, 2013
The Burden of Fantasy
Sunday, February 24, 2013
The Common Spird
is a medium-sized Prasserine bird and member of the family Icteridae. Its colors vary from bright orange and purple with black patterning on the marginal coverts to sparkling indigo with silver flecks at the tip of its primary feathers. It is known to emit an odor similar to that of peanut butter in moments of distress.
The song of the spird begins with a series of rhythmic and percussive peeps, similar to those of the stork. These are followed by soft winnowing, thought to attract mates. The discordant sound has been described by those who live among the species as resembling the auditory quality of one with mild sleep apnea.
The spird can be found in Northwestern Florida, with concentrations in and around the Tampa Bay area. Much like its cousin the shit grackle, the species has flight patterns that do not reach much higher than two to three feet above the ground. It is commonly observed hovering near the recreation centers of retirement communities.
The spird subsists on a diet comprised primarily of afternoon margaritas and Metamucil. It is speculated that the swelling of psyllium husks in the latter contributes to the bird's swollen belly, which in turn, interrupts the pattern of wing beats per minute and may contribute to relatively short and low flying distances. In some public spaces, it is considered a pest, dragging its distended gut across shuffle board courts and mini golf courses such that scoring becomes difficult with the disruption of the game pieces.
Spirds are primarily a monogamous species, though on some occasions the female has been known to take on more than one mate at a time. As part of its mating ritual, the male spird will build a nest of golf tees and wig fibers, then sing to female passersby, changing the color of his plume and repeating a popping gurglecall in rhythm with intermittent flights. These displays occur mostly in early March and can be another source of animosity among its human neighbors.
While troublesome to the participants of certain outdoor activities, the spird is celebrated among members of yoga and wellness communities for the spiritual value of their polychromatic feathers and the claimed calming effects of a drink prepared with its droppings.
Though otherwise diurnal, on evenings when the moon is full the spird has been known to perform a variation of its mating "dance", in which both the male and female change the color of their feathers and fly inverted in figure eight patterns above the reflective waters of shallow swimming pools.
The song of the spird begins with a series of rhythmic and percussive peeps, similar to those of the stork. These are followed by soft winnowing, thought to attract mates. The discordant sound has been described by those who live among the species as resembling the auditory quality of one with mild sleep apnea.
The spird can be found in Northwestern Florida, with concentrations in and around the Tampa Bay area. Much like its cousin the shit grackle, the species has flight patterns that do not reach much higher than two to three feet above the ground. It is commonly observed hovering near the recreation centers of retirement communities.
The spird subsists on a diet comprised primarily of afternoon margaritas and Metamucil. It is speculated that the swelling of psyllium husks in the latter contributes to the bird's swollen belly, which in turn, interrupts the pattern of wing beats per minute and may contribute to relatively short and low flying distances. In some public spaces, it is considered a pest, dragging its distended gut across shuffle board courts and mini golf courses such that scoring becomes difficult with the disruption of the game pieces.
Spirds are primarily a monogamous species, though on some occasions the female has been known to take on more than one mate at a time. As part of its mating ritual, the male spird will build a nest of golf tees and wig fibers, then sing to female passersby, changing the color of his plume and repeating a popping gurglecall in rhythm with intermittent flights. These displays occur mostly in early March and can be another source of animosity among its human neighbors.
While troublesome to the participants of certain outdoor activities, the spird is celebrated among members of yoga and wellness communities for the spiritual value of their polychromatic feathers and the claimed calming effects of a drink prepared with its droppings.
Though otherwise diurnal, on evenings when the moon is full the spird has been known to perform a variation of its mating "dance", in which both the male and female change the color of their feathers and fly inverted in figure eight patterns above the reflective waters of shallow swimming pools.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Scott Lays Out a Checkered Cloth
"Scott, this anger is a bastard. I hate feeling it. It's like poison."
Scott lays out a checkered cloth and tucks a napkin into his collar. He gives a whistle. A stout fellow appears wearing black slacks, a short sleeved white, collared shirt, a berberry scarf and red, Nike tennis shoes. The man looks as if he just tasted something unpleasant. He has a ruddy complexion and a deep line runs vertical between his eyebrows.
"Welcome Sir, what will it be?" Scott asks the guest in a genial tone.
I whisper to him, "Scott, this is Anger. You know that, right? Are you sure you want him here? He's kind of an asshole."
"Sure? I'm positive! Welcome, my friend! A sausage you say? And to drink? Yes, yes, of course we have beer. Come closer, here is a napkin."
"Stuff it Dogturd. Why would I need a napkin? What are you suggesting? I'm messy? You gonna charge me for it afterward? Fuck you and your elitist manners. You know, the last douche bag who offered me a napkin was trying to sell me something. Everyone is trying to sell something! What the fuck do you want me to buy?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing. I'm sorry to have offended. Please sit down."
We sit with him and listen to his righteous laughter. I squirm with the stentorian demonstrations. On several occasions I move to leave the rendezvous, tired of his volume. Scott looks over as I begin to shuffle and winks. His blue eyes flash a Father Christmas twinkle and I settle back down with a weary exhale.
Not particularly easy to be around. No, this Anger is a challenging one. His red face swells as he yells a story about waiting in the cold for a friend who never fucking showed - inconsiderate bitch - do you know how shitty it is to stand in the city at night, freezing your ass off after a long day? He badmouths brothers and fathers and teachers and mothers and society and the weather, chortling maniacally about the state of the world and everything wrong with it.
After a while I ease into his relentless carping. I must say, I am impressed with his energy. When he eventually pauses to takes a healthy swallow of beer, I find myself strangely engaged. Despite the subject matter, there is an interesting mirth to his negative opinions. Could it be that he enjoys himself? As the sun's light turns to gold in the wizened afternoon, I warm to his gestures.
There is another peculiar aspect to his manner. He is a conscientious diner, smelling his food and chewing every mouthful carefully. The behavior surprises me, having assumed a sloppier manner from so brazen a character. Then a curious thing happens.
While I hearken to his anecdotes, my ears ring less and my breath slows. As he becomes louder, I listen more intently and my body begins to feel very calm.
Scott is beside himself with Anger's expressions, thoroughly entertained. He slaps a knee and exclaims with a boyish grin, "No way! Kat, did you hear that? Woooweee! Oh please, tell us more. But first, another beer my friend? Some dessert?"
"Ha! Don't mind if I fuckin' do!"
Scott passes him a slice of dark chocolate mousse cake. Anger slaps him on the back, receiving the plate and singing a verse from "God Save the Queen" by the Sex Pistols.
"The fascist regime
They made you a moron
Potential H-bomb!"
He ends the verse, pokes me in the ribs, smells the cake and roars, "Fuuuuck!" to the darkening sky. He makes a delicate bite with the fork. The trees lean in to watch him savor the morsel. Space around us seems bigger, quieter as he attends to the confection. The twittering of sunset birds and periodic rustle of leaves whisper softly in comparison to the (now quiet) loud guest. His eyes are closed. Scott and I watch him closely. A dimple forms in his right cheek.
Suddenly, the flavor of deep chocolate spreads across my palate. I feel the creamy mousse pressed between two layers of dense sponge. I'm chewing (as is Anger), feeling the pleasure of his precious cake squish between my teeth. I look over at Scott, a hopeful witness to this miracle of taste transference. Scott is smacking his lips and grinning. He shoots me a thumbs up and points to his mouth, spontaneously masticating in the same fashion. I rub my belly with the comforting sweetness. Anger takes another bite and I close my eyes to savor the deliciousness.
Without warning, a thunderous note pierces the muted scene. The screeching howl, reverberates off now shivering trunks and branches. I jump with the shock of it, spilling a glass of beer and sending a sausage into the dirt. The powerful sound continues, filling the picnic air with passion. Heat rises in my body, electrical currents crash up my spine and explode with firework intensity through my heart. I look to Anger, sure he must have begun another howling session with the newly risen moon. He gazes at me placidly, lifting his mug in a gesture of good health. In a moment I realize the sound is coming from me. I am yelling to the sky, on my toes somehow, ascending higher now, so that I hover a foot above the ground. The call seems to have lassoed itself to a cloud. I am traveling with it, great hot medicine singing through me.
The otherworldly sound ends and I collapse onto the checkered picnic cloth. My left foot lands in the cake, catapulting a chunk of it onto Anger's forehead. I'm expecting him to throw his arms into the air and yell at me. Instead he dips his finger into the mess on his face and enjoys another bite. Scott continues to chew happily, nodding his head at me and patting his belly.
When he is finished, Anger stands, takes a deep bow and walks toward the forest. He sings a song as he goes, a softer tune now...
"My funny Valentine…"
I'm still pulsing with the excitement of my howl flight. "Scott, did you see that? Oh wow, how amazing! I feel full, energized. Am I stronger? I think so!"
"Yep," Scott muses, staring peacefully at the smooshed dessert, "That Anger… he certainly has some good stories."
"Who shall we invite next time?"
Scott lays out a checkered cloth and tucks a napkin into his collar. He gives a whistle. A stout fellow appears wearing black slacks, a short sleeved white, collared shirt, a berberry scarf and red, Nike tennis shoes. The man looks as if he just tasted something unpleasant. He has a ruddy complexion and a deep line runs vertical between his eyebrows.
"Welcome Sir, what will it be?" Scott asks the guest in a genial tone.
I whisper to him, "Scott, this is Anger. You know that, right? Are you sure you want him here? He's kind of an asshole."
"Sure? I'm positive! Welcome, my friend! A sausage you say? And to drink? Yes, yes, of course we have beer. Come closer, here is a napkin."
"Stuff it Dogturd. Why would I need a napkin? What are you suggesting? I'm messy? You gonna charge me for it afterward? Fuck you and your elitist manners. You know, the last douche bag who offered me a napkin was trying to sell me something. Everyone is trying to sell something! What the fuck do you want me to buy?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing. I'm sorry to have offended. Please sit down."
We sit with him and listen to his righteous laughter. I squirm with the stentorian demonstrations. On several occasions I move to leave the rendezvous, tired of his volume. Scott looks over as I begin to shuffle and winks. His blue eyes flash a Father Christmas twinkle and I settle back down with a weary exhale.
Not particularly easy to be around. No, this Anger is a challenging one. His red face swells as he yells a story about waiting in the cold for a friend who never fucking showed - inconsiderate bitch - do you know how shitty it is to stand in the city at night, freezing your ass off after a long day? He badmouths brothers and fathers and teachers and mothers and society and the weather, chortling maniacally about the state of the world and everything wrong with it.
After a while I ease into his relentless carping. I must say, I am impressed with his energy. When he eventually pauses to takes a healthy swallow of beer, I find myself strangely engaged. Despite the subject matter, there is an interesting mirth to his negative opinions. Could it be that he enjoys himself? As the sun's light turns to gold in the wizened afternoon, I warm to his gestures.
There is another peculiar aspect to his manner. He is a conscientious diner, smelling his food and chewing every mouthful carefully. The behavior surprises me, having assumed a sloppier manner from so brazen a character. Then a curious thing happens.
While I hearken to his anecdotes, my ears ring less and my breath slows. As he becomes louder, I listen more intently and my body begins to feel very calm.
Scott is beside himself with Anger's expressions, thoroughly entertained. He slaps a knee and exclaims with a boyish grin, "No way! Kat, did you hear that? Woooweee! Oh please, tell us more. But first, another beer my friend? Some dessert?"
"Ha! Don't mind if I fuckin' do!"
Scott passes him a slice of dark chocolate mousse cake. Anger slaps him on the back, receiving the plate and singing a verse from "God Save the Queen" by the Sex Pistols.
"The fascist regime
They made you a moron
Potential H-bomb!"
He ends the verse, pokes me in the ribs, smells the cake and roars, "Fuuuuck!" to the darkening sky. He makes a delicate bite with the fork. The trees lean in to watch him savor the morsel. Space around us seems bigger, quieter as he attends to the confection. The twittering of sunset birds and periodic rustle of leaves whisper softly in comparison to the (now quiet) loud guest. His eyes are closed. Scott and I watch him closely. A dimple forms in his right cheek.
Suddenly, the flavor of deep chocolate spreads across my palate. I feel the creamy mousse pressed between two layers of dense sponge. I'm chewing (as is Anger), feeling the pleasure of his precious cake squish between my teeth. I look over at Scott, a hopeful witness to this miracle of taste transference. Scott is smacking his lips and grinning. He shoots me a thumbs up and points to his mouth, spontaneously masticating in the same fashion. I rub my belly with the comforting sweetness. Anger takes another bite and I close my eyes to savor the deliciousness.
Without warning, a thunderous note pierces the muted scene. The screeching howl, reverberates off now shivering trunks and branches. I jump with the shock of it, spilling a glass of beer and sending a sausage into the dirt. The powerful sound continues, filling the picnic air with passion. Heat rises in my body, electrical currents crash up my spine and explode with firework intensity through my heart. I look to Anger, sure he must have begun another howling session with the newly risen moon. He gazes at me placidly, lifting his mug in a gesture of good health. In a moment I realize the sound is coming from me. I am yelling to the sky, on my toes somehow, ascending higher now, so that I hover a foot above the ground. The call seems to have lassoed itself to a cloud. I am traveling with it, great hot medicine singing through me.
The otherworldly sound ends and I collapse onto the checkered picnic cloth. My left foot lands in the cake, catapulting a chunk of it onto Anger's forehead. I'm expecting him to throw his arms into the air and yell at me. Instead he dips his finger into the mess on his face and enjoys another bite. Scott continues to chew happily, nodding his head at me and patting his belly.
When he is finished, Anger stands, takes a deep bow and walks toward the forest. He sings a song as he goes, a softer tune now...
"My funny Valentine…"
I'm still pulsing with the excitement of my howl flight. "Scott, did you see that? Oh wow, how amazing! I feel full, energized. Am I stronger? I think so!"
"Yep," Scott muses, staring peacefully at the smooshed dessert, "That Anger… he certainly has some good stories."
"Who shall we invite next time?"
Friday, February 22, 2013
Honey
I sing with it in my throat, enjoy its rich company before bed, contrive all numbers of things for it to enter into my body. It is not just honey, however, but the bees themselves that intrigue. The organism composed of individuals - metaphor to an imagined utopia, one where individuality flourishes. Rather than seeking to adorn ourselves as individuals, we are content to remain fixed in our matching yellowblack bodies and let individuation come to us through the varied experiences of the world. The flowers we visit are different, the flight patterns, particular to each one. Yet the ultimate meaning is shared among the whole. Keep the organism healthy and alive. Make something beautiful (like honey) from the collective effort of millions of unique journeys. It is working for something beyond the self.
Honey is the traveling bard of sweeteners. Tasting it is to be given a window through which to know the clover blossoms wrapped up in its flavor, the small patches of peppermint and lavender. Landscapes are painted in the flavors of honey. We can taste the flora, experience the world in a golden, concentrated moment. It is the flavor equivalent of a classical composition, bringing the sounds of different flowers into a coagulated and sublime whole. It captures orange blossoms in its golden cape, tells of tobacco fields, buzzes of the once thought to be mythological flowers hiding in the bellies of New Zealand volcanoes.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Naked is.
What happened was nothing short of miraculous. Call it a revelation or the discovery of buried treasure. Simply put, it was the permission to be naked.
More specifically, it was the willingness to admit that the self abusive behaviors in which I indulge are not only pleasurable in their fleeting satisfaction or distraction, but also in the essence of their being destructive.
But if I continue to destroy myself, I can't enjoy just being naked.
And naked is five years old, staring into a frog pond, waiting innocently for a friendly amphibian to break my reflection with the ripples of his surfacing. It is the carelessness for my reflection, the concentration on the spry fellow, the anticipation and the sorrowful excitement when I try to catch it and miss.
Naked is feeling the presence of something else there, interrupting my concentration. A looming predator, desirous of me, just as I am of the oblivious frog.
Only I am not oblivious. And I don't hop away. I stay there because I'm scared and I think I'm supposed to do what monsters say and this monster, I happen to love. Naked is giving myself to the monster because I think this will break the spell that has been cast upon it, the one that makes it need me. So I give willingly, even though there is a voice inside screaming, "NO! This is not okay!"
I ignore that. And then I sit with the smelly beast, allowing it to hold me while I gaze back at the pond, pretending I'm still just catching frogs. That voice is screaming, but there is another. And this one (which I have hushed until now) says, "Hey, you're good for doing this. You are giving yourself up for this damaged thing."
Do you know what? It feels good - even if I am damaged in the end - it feels good to give myself to something.
Sitting here, looking at the parts of myself I have deprived of sunshine, exposing their pallor, I realize they are beautiful too. I crawl into the damp memory. The little girl is naked. She scrambles desperately for a tee-shirt. "If only I had been wearing something," she cries. "It's my fault."
I walk gently up to her and smile. "Tell me a story," I say.
"Well, I'm just looking for my clothes, because when you're naked, the monsters come and get you. I wasn't brave enough to run away. I let it get me. And part of it felt good and part of it felt really bad. So I don't want it to happen again... But I like to be naked."
"Come sit with me," I say. And I hold her in my lap and sing to her about the sunshine. She cries a little, then starts to sing with me. We watch the frogs jump around.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Keep Your Eyes Closed...(an excerpt)
"Anything grows here," she used to say. "It's subtropical. Close your eyes Hazel and listen to the sounds around us."
It was a game we played often. Close our eyes and listen to the rumbling traffic, the harsh clangs, the barking dogs.
"Now imagine those are night bats whizzing past. That isn't a dog barking, it's a coyote, looking for its pack. Keep your eyes closed. That's it, now come here and smell this. " She had readied the crushed boughs of a hemlock, or scavenged a piece of bark from an oak in the park two blocks away. "You see? We are in the forest now - the wild noises are grumpy animals, stirred too early from their winter hibernation. Those honks are giant geese, yelling to protect their babies. Now come here, hold my hand, smell this."
Her rooftop tomatoes were the best I had ever tasted. They grew next to the basil. She was right. Anything grows here.
"We're in Italy now, walking along the Amalfi Coast. You might think those are car engines, but really it's the ocean crashing against cliffs."
I squeezed her hand with my own, painting landscapes behind my eyes. "This one, now this one is special." She put something in my free hand. "There you are, do you feel it? We are on the moon now Hazel. This is a glowing moonstone, it will guide us on our next adventure, we'll need it because do you know where we are going? Yes, we are coming down from outer space! That's right, down down down, keep your eyes closed. Ah ha! We have landed. Come here."
She put my hands on the steering wheel she had mounted to the side of one of the legs of the water tower. This was always my favorite part.
"We're here Hazel! Steer us ahead. Do you feel the ocean wind blowing in your hair? The stars are so bright above you now and the moonstone is glowing. Onward! We're sailing to Africa! Or maybe to France. Or shall we go to India? What do you think Hazel?"
It's always when I opened my eyes. I didn't know what those other places looked like, but I knew this one and I had to make sure we were still here.
The buildings reach up to the sky like magic wands all casting their spells to the moon at the same time. The bridges across the river, those are the real ships - they never move, but stay frozen in the giant harbor with ants crawling along their backs bringing things from one island to the next. It all twinkles like the stars I cannot see very well. A pigeon flies overhead and I try to pretend it's a bat or an eagle, but I know it's a pigeon and I like knowing that. The familiar smell of salt and garbage, the reliable screeches, the people everywhere, even though my mother pretends we are the only ones entire world. But there are people everywhere - people in office chairs, people worrying about their families, people having affairs, people cleaning, cooking, hating themselves, kissing their children, making love, making money, breathing - everybody breathing at the same time.
It was a game we played often. Close our eyes and listen to the rumbling traffic, the harsh clangs, the barking dogs.
"Now imagine those are night bats whizzing past. That isn't a dog barking, it's a coyote, looking for its pack. Keep your eyes closed. That's it, now come here and smell this. " She had readied the crushed boughs of a hemlock, or scavenged a piece of bark from an oak in the park two blocks away. "You see? We are in the forest now - the wild noises are grumpy animals, stirred too early from their winter hibernation. Those honks are giant geese, yelling to protect their babies. Now come here, hold my hand, smell this."
Her rooftop tomatoes were the best I had ever tasted. They grew next to the basil. She was right. Anything grows here.
"We're in Italy now, walking along the Amalfi Coast. You might think those are car engines, but really it's the ocean crashing against cliffs."
I squeezed her hand with my own, painting landscapes behind my eyes. "This one, now this one is special." She put something in my free hand. "There you are, do you feel it? We are on the moon now Hazel. This is a glowing moonstone, it will guide us on our next adventure, we'll need it because do you know where we are going? Yes, we are coming down from outer space! That's right, down down down, keep your eyes closed. Ah ha! We have landed. Come here."
She put my hands on the steering wheel she had mounted to the side of one of the legs of the water tower. This was always my favorite part.
"We're here Hazel! Steer us ahead. Do you feel the ocean wind blowing in your hair? The stars are so bright above you now and the moonstone is glowing. Onward! We're sailing to Africa! Or maybe to France. Or shall we go to India? What do you think Hazel?"
It's always when I opened my eyes. I didn't know what those other places looked like, but I knew this one and I had to make sure we were still here.
The buildings reach up to the sky like magic wands all casting their spells to the moon at the same time. The bridges across the river, those are the real ships - they never move, but stay frozen in the giant harbor with ants crawling along their backs bringing things from one island to the next. It all twinkles like the stars I cannot see very well. A pigeon flies overhead and I try to pretend it's a bat or an eagle, but I know it's a pigeon and I like knowing that. The familiar smell of salt and garbage, the reliable screeches, the people everywhere, even though my mother pretends we are the only ones entire world. But there are people everywhere - people in office chairs, people worrying about their families, people having affairs, people cleaning, cooking, hating themselves, kissing their children, making love, making money, breathing - everybody breathing at the same time.
Maps and Moons
I climbed up some rocks, knowing in some part of my body that I would not be able to get back down. There, in the wild and happy breeze of the island, stood a small man, barefoot and wearing a checkered scarf.
"Hello," he said with an Irish accent. "I've been waiting for you."
"Oh?"
"Yes. I've been waiting for you and I want you to know that it's a good thing you climbed up here."
Until this point I had been hanging halfway off of the rocky slope. He reached a small hand down and handed me an old map.
"You won't be able to read it right away. In truth, you'll probably get lost if you try and follow it, but keep it with you for now and soon it will make sense."
I examined the piece of paper then tucked it into my pocket. The view around me was astonishing. I sipped in the green, the white peaks, the blue, I sipped the vast blue of the ocean until he tugged at the bottom of my shirt.
"Don't forget the moon," he said, pointing to the faded crescent, barely visible in the bright day. "She has no light of her own, but reflects that of the sun."
"I know."
"But the only reason she can reflect light at all is because she knows her darkness."
I thought about that.
"Shall we go then?" he asked, interrupting my thoughtfulness and pointing to the treacherous route I had just finished ascending.
"Okay," I said. "But why would I go back down? I just spent all that time climbing up. And where will I go once I'm there?"
"Don't worry so much. You have an unreadable map, that inconsistent satellite and your own confusion to guide you."
"Will you hold my hand?"
"Nope. Though you can hold your own hands if you like, but it might make climbing down harder."
I didn't go down with him. I just sat still on that high hill and looked at how beautiful it was. I just waited for a while. He went down.
A long time passed. I saw a hand reach up and tug at the grass. A young man was pulling himself up.
"Hello," I said as he scrambled to lift himself, "I've been waiting for you."
"Hello," he said with an Irish accent. "I've been waiting for you."
"Oh?"
"Yes. I've been waiting for you and I want you to know that it's a good thing you climbed up here."
Until this point I had been hanging halfway off of the rocky slope. He reached a small hand down and handed me an old map.
"You won't be able to read it right away. In truth, you'll probably get lost if you try and follow it, but keep it with you for now and soon it will make sense."
I examined the piece of paper then tucked it into my pocket. The view around me was astonishing. I sipped in the green, the white peaks, the blue, I sipped the vast blue of the ocean until he tugged at the bottom of my shirt.
"Don't forget the moon," he said, pointing to the faded crescent, barely visible in the bright day. "She has no light of her own, but reflects that of the sun."
"I know."
"But the only reason she can reflect light at all is because she knows her darkness."
I thought about that.
"Shall we go then?" he asked, interrupting my thoughtfulness and pointing to the treacherous route I had just finished ascending.
"Okay," I said. "But why would I go back down? I just spent all that time climbing up. And where will I go once I'm there?"
"Don't worry so much. You have an unreadable map, that inconsistent satellite and your own confusion to guide you."
"Will you hold my hand?"
"Nope. Though you can hold your own hands if you like, but it might make climbing down harder."
I didn't go down with him. I just sat still on that high hill and looked at how beautiful it was. I just waited for a while. He went down.
A long time passed. I saw a hand reach up and tug at the grass. A young man was pulling himself up.
"Hello," I said as he scrambled to lift himself, "I've been waiting for you."
Monday, February 18, 2013
sounds to me like slime molds are selfish
In a Boulder restaurant with stained glass art corresponding to our chakras and a trio of fermented cabbages, gluten free flax crackers and a beet hummus, I learned something new.
Slime molds are altruistic.
Because sometimes, when things get rough and the world around changes unexpectedly, the individuals that make up the slime mold form themselves into a sporulating structure. They undergo a metamorphosis allowing them to reproduce, spreading with the hope that the fungal offspring will find a friendlier home. In the process, the individual organisms that make up the newly formed reproductive system sacrifice their own genetic propagation and, for the benefit of the species, reach beyond themselves to help cultivate the seed of their slimy cousins.
I was confused.
"That doesn't sound like altruism," I said. "It sounds like what a species does to survive."
His response was something to the tune of, "Well, when you think about it in human terms, it might be a nice metaphor for altruism, a way of thinking outside oneself for the betterment of the whole."
I was confused.
"To be honest, the idea of 'altruism' has always confused me," (perhaps I was a bit righteous) "If each individual is, in truth, part of the whole, what is altruism, but another word for selfishness?"
The whole idea of altruism presupposes that actions geared toward the individual are the norm or the natural way to be. The suggestion that altruism exists removes us from the possibility that we are all connected, that the natural state of being is one of fundamental collaboration for the creative evolution of our DNA.
"Sounds to me like slime molds are selfish. Or altruistically selfish."
If I could look into your face and see myself, how could I not make a reproductive system of myself with the hope that your spores might someday travel to fertile ground?
Slime molds are altruistic.
Because sometimes, when things get rough and the world around changes unexpectedly, the individuals that make up the slime mold form themselves into a sporulating structure. They undergo a metamorphosis allowing them to reproduce, spreading with the hope that the fungal offspring will find a friendlier home. In the process, the individual organisms that make up the newly formed reproductive system sacrifice their own genetic propagation and, for the benefit of the species, reach beyond themselves to help cultivate the seed of their slimy cousins.
I was confused.
"That doesn't sound like altruism," I said. "It sounds like what a species does to survive."
His response was something to the tune of, "Well, when you think about it in human terms, it might be a nice metaphor for altruism, a way of thinking outside oneself for the betterment of the whole."
I was confused.
"To be honest, the idea of 'altruism' has always confused me," (perhaps I was a bit righteous) "If each individual is, in truth, part of the whole, what is altruism, but another word for selfishness?"
The whole idea of altruism presupposes that actions geared toward the individual are the norm or the natural way to be. The suggestion that altruism exists removes us from the possibility that we are all connected, that the natural state of being is one of fundamental collaboration for the creative evolution of our DNA.
"Sounds to me like slime molds are selfish. Or altruistically selfish."
If I could look into your face and see myself, how could I not make a reproductive system of myself with the hope that your spores might someday travel to fertile ground?
Sunday, February 17, 2013
It's Hard To Sleep When I'm Yelling At Myself
I'm tired today.
I spent the afternoon wandering through the dreamy genius of the Longmont flea market.
Quite the mise en scene. Worn barbies, ancient tools, expired boxes of decongestants and enema kits. Glass figurines, feathered hats, tired stuffed animals, confusing magnets, dented license plates, stiff mink stoles, chipped wooden desks, comic books, faceless dolls, crocheted blankets, horseshoes, and thousands upon thousands of happily beaten books.
Last night I ate too much and drank too much and passed out wearing Kitty's plush pink cotton candy coat. When I woke in the middle of the night, feeling terrible about myself, I urinated then started in with enthusiastic diatribes of self deprecation.
It's hard to sleep when I'm yelling at myself. So, after close to an hour of auto-detest, I turned the abuse into something else. I made a puppet of my right hand and whispered aloud (so not to wake anyone) in ventriloquist fashion all the terrible things I was thinking at myself.
"You are substandard, Katrina, pathetic. You can't stop yourself. Keep this up and nobody will love you. Do you want to be alone? Do you want to be fat, so that everyone knows how weak you are? Do you enjoy feeling like shit? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Look," I said to the ugly character, "It was an intense day. This is an intense time in my life. I'm not sure where I will be living in the next few months, my body has been out of whack, and I take a great deal of comfort from food and drink. Did you see that cheese? Oh my god it was so good, oozing out of its skin like that, turning itself on. And the wine was lovely too and the gin with St. Germain, and the dark, hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps. I love filling up. It helps me escape."
"Exactly. You're a coward."
"You know what Petunia?" (I figured she ought to have a name) "I've had enough of your psychological assaults. You can stay awake all night if you like, but I'm not going to deprive myself of any more sleep listening to your crap. Have a miserable evening if you like, but I refuse to be miserable with you."
When I woke the next day I felt better. I mean, physically I was exhausted, but I was far more gentle with myself than I would normally be following an evening of such excess.
Today, as I walked through the flea market, I continued to cast my worries, frustrations and self hatred into the bodies of old rocking horses and Peruvian finger puppets. Liberated from the cave of my mind, these characters were free to roam the dusty avenues of the store, converse with one another and make friends with the shabby toys and figurines animated by the imagined anxieties of other patrons.
I watched as stories were born of the inner torment that often stifles creative work. I listened to my pain without having to identify with it, without needing to change it. I let it wander, watching it with wonder and curiosity. I became grateful for the tragic theater, and came home inspired, ready to glue antique buttons on lonely socks.
I spent the afternoon wandering through the dreamy genius of the Longmont flea market.
Quite the mise en scene. Worn barbies, ancient tools, expired boxes of decongestants and enema kits. Glass figurines, feathered hats, tired stuffed animals, confusing magnets, dented license plates, stiff mink stoles, chipped wooden desks, comic books, faceless dolls, crocheted blankets, horseshoes, and thousands upon thousands of happily beaten books.
***
Last night I ate too much and drank too much and passed out wearing Kitty's plush pink cotton candy coat. When I woke in the middle of the night, feeling terrible about myself, I urinated then started in with enthusiastic diatribes of self deprecation.
It's hard to sleep when I'm yelling at myself. So, after close to an hour of auto-detest, I turned the abuse into something else. I made a puppet of my right hand and whispered aloud (so not to wake anyone) in ventriloquist fashion all the terrible things I was thinking at myself.
"You are substandard, Katrina, pathetic. You can't stop yourself. Keep this up and nobody will love you. Do you want to be alone? Do you want to be fat, so that everyone knows how weak you are? Do you enjoy feeling like shit? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Look," I said to the ugly character, "It was an intense day. This is an intense time in my life. I'm not sure where I will be living in the next few months, my body has been out of whack, and I take a great deal of comfort from food and drink. Did you see that cheese? Oh my god it was so good, oozing out of its skin like that, turning itself on. And the wine was lovely too and the gin with St. Germain, and the dark, hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps. I love filling up. It helps me escape."
"Exactly. You're a coward."
"You know what Petunia?" (I figured she ought to have a name) "I've had enough of your psychological assaults. You can stay awake all night if you like, but I'm not going to deprive myself of any more sleep listening to your crap. Have a miserable evening if you like, but I refuse to be miserable with you."
When I woke the next day I felt better. I mean, physically I was exhausted, but I was far more gentle with myself than I would normally be following an evening of such excess.
***
I watched as stories were born of the inner torment that often stifles creative work. I listened to my pain without having to identify with it, without needing to change it. I let it wander, watching it with wonder and curiosity. I became grateful for the tragic theater, and came home inspired, ready to glue antique buttons on lonely socks.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
We Call It Confusion
I just got off the phone with my cousin. She is 9 and 1/2 months pregnant. I love her.
She doesn't know who is arriving. Can you imagine that? Really picture what it might be like to have a human living inside you? Some mysterious guest you have helped grow in a wonderland of endometrial tissue and prolactin? The uterus is an open space waiting to incubate heroic possibility.
On Valentine's day eve I danced with some beautiful women to some epic 80s beats. A break dancing troupe occupied the dance floor, circling into an impressive performance of inverted acrobatics and pop and lock shoulder snaps. We spun around the happy crowd, voguing in another fashion, reinforcing the monumental truth that really "girls just wanna have fun."
Their handstands inspired us and we decided - when they left - to invert ourselves, going upside down in a headstand trio, touching our feet and creating a six-pointed star of space.
"What do we do now?" One asked. And us other two giggled, not knowing.
Suddenly, a fourth woman ducked into the space created by our upside down shape and began dancing her ass off. It was the perfect center to our flower. Perfectly unexpected. All we did was make space.
My friend Kat - she not only shares the name, but looks like me and cooks like me and enjoys making puppets (like me) - she just popped into the room with a gift. It was a doll we had bought earlier at the Good Will. When we found her she had a porcelain face, sewn into her soft body. Attached like a mask, the rigid expression begged removal. The doll sits next to me now, blank faced and beautiful. A canvas for the myriad expressions that might touch the cranial architecture of a brown haired prairie girl. Space, possibility.
It takes strength to make space. It takes courage to hold it without agenda, a willingness to welcome the unknown. Most of the time I call it confusion and try to escape it, to fix it, to plan over it.
Lately (luckily) I find myself confused more often. I find the strength, the courage, the curiosity to let confusion be. Most of the time, it reveals itself as the fertile space for whatever I didn't know I always wanted to see.
She doesn't know who is arriving. Can you imagine that? Really picture what it might be like to have a human living inside you? Some mysterious guest you have helped grow in a wonderland of endometrial tissue and prolactin? The uterus is an open space waiting to incubate heroic possibility.
On Valentine's day eve I danced with some beautiful women to some epic 80s beats. A break dancing troupe occupied the dance floor, circling into an impressive performance of inverted acrobatics and pop and lock shoulder snaps. We spun around the happy crowd, voguing in another fashion, reinforcing the monumental truth that really "girls just wanna have fun."
Their handstands inspired us and we decided - when they left - to invert ourselves, going upside down in a headstand trio, touching our feet and creating a six-pointed star of space.
"What do we do now?" One asked. And us other two giggled, not knowing.
Suddenly, a fourth woman ducked into the space created by our upside down shape and began dancing her ass off. It was the perfect center to our flower. Perfectly unexpected. All we did was make space.
My friend Kat - she not only shares the name, but looks like me and cooks like me and enjoys making puppets (like me) - she just popped into the room with a gift. It was a doll we had bought earlier at the Good Will. When we found her she had a porcelain face, sewn into her soft body. Attached like a mask, the rigid expression begged removal. The doll sits next to me now, blank faced and beautiful. A canvas for the myriad expressions that might touch the cranial architecture of a brown haired prairie girl. Space, possibility.
It takes strength to make space. It takes courage to hold it without agenda, a willingness to welcome the unknown. Most of the time I call it confusion and try to escape it, to fix it, to plan over it.
Lately (luckily) I find myself confused more often. I find the strength, the courage, the curiosity to let confusion be. Most of the time, it reveals itself as the fertile space for whatever I didn't know I always wanted to see.
Friday, February 15, 2013
Naughty Truth Treasures
My computer is about to die. I have 21 minutes to write something inspiring and brilliant, something that makes me worthwhile, that helps me feel like a good girl, something that might inspire you to break free of imaginary prisons.
I have 20 minutes to write something true.
It's a little embarrassing to talk to you this way. If you were here, I could register your response. I could tell you a story with my body, waving arms around and speaking in a witch voice or with a German accent. I could listen. I could look into your eyes and hold your hand and we might not even speak. That would be okay. I like just being with you.
But now I'm letting you in - the faceless you, the audience, the five people (or more?) who may be indulging in this distraction - I'm letting you in on secrets and thoughts. What are you supposed to be doing? Surely reading this is not on your to-do list. Unless it's you Mom. And I know as much as you would like to, as often as you add it to your list, you don't read it. That's okay. Knowing that allows me to share secrets with the others, like this one: you know how I promised to not have sex until I was 16? Well this one time when I was 15 and 3/4 I mounted my boyfriend (you know who he was) and I let it slide in part way and oh my god it felt so good so I let it go in a little deeper and it was like I had these lights on the inside of my vagina that had never been turned on before and as he entered my body a rainbow exploded inside me. It lasted three seconds, so it didn't really count. But it counted enough to keep it a secret.
Nine minutes left.
Secrets can be like that - naughty truth treasures kept harmlessly in furtive pockets.
Sometimes, they aren't like that though. Sometimes secrets (when we don't realize we're keeping them) are ruthless.
Why do I do I turn away from truth? Because I have practiced since I was a little girl, swallowing it, doing the opposite, telling my parents, teachers, friends, the opposite of what is real. No I don't masturbate. No, I didn't break it. Yes I like chicken, see I ate it all, I'm a good girl. No, I didn't just smell my own pee. I didn't pick my nose and eat it. I wasn't curious about what it would be like to kill that animal, to think about suicide, to have a sex dream with my brother, to want to scream in the movies, to punch Mrs. White - the one who keeps telling me magic is not real - right in the face.
Many people I know have been kidnapped by Truth. It pulls up in a van with no windows and breaks into homes, takes away the precious, comfortable, expensive things. It tears us apart (like an unstoppable asteroid) so nothing is left but a terrible mess and some bruises.
The worst part though is the shame. It's knowing all along that truth was there, whispering itself. It's the difference between the kind of secret I've kept from one person and the kind that I've kept from myself.
3 minutes.
The truth is this: we know what is best for us. Until we (yes that's you Katrina) find the courage to live what is real, get honest about our secrets and stop caring what our mothers (and everyone we imagine won't love us unless...) think, we will be subconsciously waiting for the inevitable visit, holding breath until our realities are trashed and violently reordered.
Hold my hand, wherever you are. Tell me what it is that inspires rainbow explosions inside your body and follow that. We can help each other. We don't have to prove anything. We don't even have to talk.
0 minutes.
I like just being with you, whoever you really are.
I have 20 minutes to write something true.
It's a little embarrassing to talk to you this way. If you were here, I could register your response. I could tell you a story with my body, waving arms around and speaking in a witch voice or with a German accent. I could listen. I could look into your eyes and hold your hand and we might not even speak. That would be okay. I like just being with you.
But now I'm letting you in - the faceless you, the audience, the five people (or more?) who may be indulging in this distraction - I'm letting you in on secrets and thoughts. What are you supposed to be doing? Surely reading this is not on your to-do list. Unless it's you Mom. And I know as much as you would like to, as often as you add it to your list, you don't read it. That's okay. Knowing that allows me to share secrets with the others, like this one: you know how I promised to not have sex until I was 16? Well this one time when I was 15 and 3/4 I mounted my boyfriend (you know who he was) and I let it slide in part way and oh my god it felt so good so I let it go in a little deeper and it was like I had these lights on the inside of my vagina that had never been turned on before and as he entered my body a rainbow exploded inside me. It lasted three seconds, so it didn't really count. But it counted enough to keep it a secret.
Nine minutes left.
Secrets can be like that - naughty truth treasures kept harmlessly in furtive pockets.
Sometimes, they aren't like that though. Sometimes secrets (when we don't realize we're keeping them) are ruthless.
Why do I do I turn away from truth? Because I have practiced since I was a little girl, swallowing it, doing the opposite, telling my parents, teachers, friends, the opposite of what is real. No I don't masturbate. No, I didn't break it. Yes I like chicken, see I ate it all, I'm a good girl. No, I didn't just smell my own pee. I didn't pick my nose and eat it. I wasn't curious about what it would be like to kill that animal, to think about suicide, to have a sex dream with my brother, to want to scream in the movies, to punch Mrs. White - the one who keeps telling me magic is not real - right in the face.
Many people I know have been kidnapped by Truth. It pulls up in a van with no windows and breaks into homes, takes away the precious, comfortable, expensive things. It tears us apart (like an unstoppable asteroid) so nothing is left but a terrible mess and some bruises.
The worst part though is the shame. It's knowing all along that truth was there, whispering itself. It's the difference between the kind of secret I've kept from one person and the kind that I've kept from myself.
3 minutes.
The truth is this: we know what is best for us. Until we (yes that's you Katrina) find the courage to live what is real, get honest about our secrets and stop caring what our mothers (and everyone we imagine won't love us unless...) think, we will be subconsciously waiting for the inevitable visit, holding breath until our realities are trashed and violently reordered.
Hold my hand, wherever you are. Tell me what it is that inspires rainbow explosions inside your body and follow that. We can help each other. We don't have to prove anything. We don't even have to talk.
0 minutes.
I like just being with you, whoever you really are.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Make Death Worth It
So here we are - you and me - resting, sitting, wondering about what is next to come on the platter of what is next to come. I sit with a warm tea warming my right foot. It's green tea, but I don't really want to drink it because I am enjoying this feeling of tired.
Today is Valentine's day. I don't know what to write about. In fact, I have been dawdling all morning trying to avoid writing altogether. I made a smoothie. Then I memorized all the ingredients on the special powder I used in it. I checked my email seven or eight times. I stretched my back by positioning my body upside down on the staircase. I sat in a squat while reading the abstract of an essay about the relationship between certain pollutants and type 2 diabetes.
I popped a pimple at the end of my right eyebrow. I made another cup of tea. I looked through the refrigerator for cream and found three containers of sour milk products which I brought out and intended to throw away, but got sidetracked and forgot about them.
I plucked a few hairs from my chin. I sent some text messages. Now, here I am...thinking about food, thinking about mermaids, contemplating dreams.
Among other things, including (but not limited to) images of stealth bombers practicing loop-d-loops in a pristine sky above a dirty beach, I dreamed a dagger was thrust into my heart. Through the protective barrier of my ribcage, the implement entered my back with keen force, then twisted with a combination of subtlety and confidence that indicated skill on the part of the stabber. I did not feel physical pain. I attempted to identify my assailant, but could not easily turn around. When I did eventually, I was met with faceless onlookers.
"Vengeance!" my brain yelled, "Who has done this? There must be retribution!" This was the thought, a forceful mechanism for comfort in a moment of great confusion. It was the logical thing to do in a time of coming undone.
"Attack back!" a voice sounded, though I knew there was nothing left to defend, nothing left to save. The humble realization slowed my frenzied movements. For a moment I wondered if I had stabbed myself.
I sat down in the space that was now becoming blurry, much like the physiognomies of those nearby. Alone. A question arose, "Now that I'm dying, what do I wish I had done in life? What am I most proud of?"
I woke after, the sensual remnants of heart piercing lingering as I lie in a soft bed. Why is it scary to do what I love? Why is it scary to love?
I ask you now, whoever you may be, is it as scary for you to love? To love yourself so much that you give yourself the gift of doing what you love? Or loving what you do?
Is it like that for you, kind reader? The experiences that highlight mortality are those which so vividly illustrate the importance of love?
One of the scariest things for me (as well as a thing I love most) is to write. So I give myself a gift today: I promise to write a blog every day for the next month.
If you have certain things you like to read, let me know. I'll write those. I can write you stories, or sensual encounters, I can include recipes, advice, my anxieties, yours. Manifestos, diatribes, reflections on academic abstracts regarding the relationship between pollutants and type 2 diabetes.
If you like I will write specifically to you, something special - not faceless - personal.
Because - chances are - I love you. And I love myself enough to indulge in the ridiculous universal love that is always driving a knife into my heart and demanding I do what I love most. Today we celebrate (or don't) Valentine's Day, the marrying saint, VD, a famous mobster massacre. Today and in the days that follow, let us love the shit out of ourselves and do something (maybe it's scary) that makes death worth it.
Today is Valentine's day. I don't know what to write about. In fact, I have been dawdling all morning trying to avoid writing altogether. I made a smoothie. Then I memorized all the ingredients on the special powder I used in it. I checked my email seven or eight times. I stretched my back by positioning my body upside down on the staircase. I sat in a squat while reading the abstract of an essay about the relationship between certain pollutants and type 2 diabetes.
I popped a pimple at the end of my right eyebrow. I made another cup of tea. I looked through the refrigerator for cream and found three containers of sour milk products which I brought out and intended to throw away, but got sidetracked and forgot about them.
I plucked a few hairs from my chin. I sent some text messages. Now, here I am...thinking about food, thinking about mermaids, contemplating dreams.
Among other things, including (but not limited to) images of stealth bombers practicing loop-d-loops in a pristine sky above a dirty beach, I dreamed a dagger was thrust into my heart. Through the protective barrier of my ribcage, the implement entered my back with keen force, then twisted with a combination of subtlety and confidence that indicated skill on the part of the stabber. I did not feel physical pain. I attempted to identify my assailant, but could not easily turn around. When I did eventually, I was met with faceless onlookers.
"Vengeance!" my brain yelled, "Who has done this? There must be retribution!" This was the thought, a forceful mechanism for comfort in a moment of great confusion. It was the logical thing to do in a time of coming undone.
"Attack back!" a voice sounded, though I knew there was nothing left to defend, nothing left to save. The humble realization slowed my frenzied movements. For a moment I wondered if I had stabbed myself.
I sat down in the space that was now becoming blurry, much like the physiognomies of those nearby. Alone. A question arose, "Now that I'm dying, what do I wish I had done in life? What am I most proud of?"
I woke after, the sensual remnants of heart piercing lingering as I lie in a soft bed. Why is it scary to do what I love? Why is it scary to love?
I ask you now, whoever you may be, is it as scary for you to love? To love yourself so much that you give yourself the gift of doing what you love? Or loving what you do?
Is it like that for you, kind reader? The experiences that highlight mortality are those which so vividly illustrate the importance of love?
One of the scariest things for me (as well as a thing I love most) is to write. So I give myself a gift today: I promise to write a blog every day for the next month.
If you have certain things you like to read, let me know. I'll write those. I can write you stories, or sensual encounters, I can include recipes, advice, my anxieties, yours. Manifestos, diatribes, reflections on academic abstracts regarding the relationship between pollutants and type 2 diabetes.
If you like I will write specifically to you, something special - not faceless - personal.
Because - chances are - I love you. And I love myself enough to indulge in the ridiculous universal love that is always driving a knife into my heart and demanding I do what I love most. Today we celebrate (or don't) Valentine's Day, the marrying saint, VD, a famous mobster massacre. Today and in the days that follow, let us love the shit out of ourselves and do something (maybe it's scary) that makes death worth it.
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