"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.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
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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