scratch

This evening I sat on the bathroom floor against the locked door. It was a moment of having lost myself. I stared ahead at the bathtub and saw me in it, standing, naked. Scratched all over, hair a wild mess: a tiger in a woman’s body. I saw myself terrified, displaced, taken hostage, unaccustomed to the slippery porcelain, out of my element. I paced back and forth in the bathtub, disoriented. They tried to talk me out of it and I lashed out, roaring, arms and legs flying. I spun in circles, head chasing tail, unable to make sense of my surroundings or my circumstance. Terror turned to anger, and anger begot self-destruction. I tore at my own body, looking inwards for a way out. This was fear and rage, colliding.

  

Tonight I came home from class and, how appropriate—the light bulb inside the lamp next to my bed had gone out. I have no replacement in the apartment. My single safe place, now enveloped in unavoidable darkness—the very thing causing my crazies. The universe has a terrific sense of humour.

in the dark

I put some puzzle pieces together. I’m going through the crazies, lately. When the things my eyes see and the things my mind thinks don’t match up. When I scream and yell and throw things. When I fall on the ground because my legs give out. When I cry super hard at night and laugh uncontrollably—on a super duper high—during the day. When I have panic attacks in the grocery store and spend so long burying my tears in the raisin display in order to appear uncrazy that I ruin my cover and get sidelong glances from store staff. When I spend long periods watching my hands. When I love and hate the same people at the same time. When things fall apart. When I become extra afraid of the dark. When I spend hours in the bathtub, staring at the wall.

I found a name for this. This thing is in my blood but the dark sky wakes it up. Every year around this time I fall into crazy. In college, when I lost control and slammed cupboards and screamed at people and cried endlessly and ended up spending hours with the therapist—that was late Fall. In Virginia when things were so horrible and I came home from work every day and went to sleep immediately, when I thought about killing myself, when I hated everything and everyone—that was late Fall. The year before last when I begged you not to leave the apartment and watched you go from my knees on the sheepskin rug and then cried on the floor for hours—that was late Fall. There’s a name for this—the internet told me so. I’m glad it has a name, that means I can put it in a box but, more importantly, it means it has an end. It will pass, like your sarcasm. It means I don’t need to go to the doctor because I can’t breathe and the world is—no really, it is—ending. It means the intensity of my need to control everything that happens--and the strain on my shoulders and neck and stomach when things aren't exactly in place and don't go according to plan...it means it's ok, and I'll loosen up eventually.

summer eve

lately i've been feeling like my home is more in the treetops than the streets
and i've been feeling like truth spills more readily from the mouths of birds than the mouths of men.
lately i've been feeling like no one can be counted on the way a rock can be counted on,
so i brought a rock into my home. i brought four, and stacked them tall, to mark my path
and remind me that i'm on it, that i'm somewhere between beginning and destination.

midnight butter

today

today i drove. that is not the point.

today i was driving. but let's start before then.

today i was walking through the market, admiring 

kale, hard-neck garlic, july tomatoes, with a lump in my throat.

something was not right. something was difficult to know,

and wouldn't make itself known to me, just then.

it wasn't until i was driving, like i said before, i was driving.

and i began to cry, without knowing for what reason.

these are some of the most intriguing cries--spontaneous, 

without apparent cause. they can be most frightening to witness.

but for the crier it's quite miraculous. emotions having their way with my body, no permission asked.

it's like witnessing a plant grow, unfurling from the depths of my stomach,

the coiled stem unfolding slowly, 

climbing up through my rib cage, creeping higher

into the throat. blossoms bursting from behind my eyes,

and tendrils springing from my mouth, great wet leaves

spreading across my tongue--and the tears begin to fall. and before

you know it, a great thing has happened. it hurt, yes, but

this is a necessary pain--it's the pain of letting go and release--blessings for my journey.

through the windshield the light parted, curtains of sun gave way

to an even brighter truth. the air in front of me split, cracked, and opened

i understood in a flash what had pushed those tears out. i could name the fear.

and the funny thing? the funniest thing. i was afraid--really scared--of things being okay.

i was clinging to all things gone awry, all things unfair, incomprehensible, impossible, and understood the clinging

as a security blanket. to step into a place where everything is okay, no matter what happens--now that is really frightening.

if nothing is wrong, what will i hold on to? what keeps me bound

to this life? it's the challenges to be worked on that i tie myself to, that i wrap myself around.

and if there are no challenges, no problems, nothing to be overcome… well then i'm free.

and what is more disturbing than freedom? nothing comes to mind.

if everything is already ok, then i don't need to be. i don't need to exist. i have no purpose.

and is that liberating? or frightening? or both? and,

if everything is ok, and i don't need to worry, well…what will i do with my time?

what will guide me? anyway the moment closed up again, and i came upon my 

destination, and i closed the top of my box up and peeped through the eye-holes so i could play pretend

with the sales clerks. and i thought of you, and i needed you, as i will need you

in ten thousand ways between sunsets for the rest of my life.

dreamed last night of my guard(ian angel).

she came to me over and over, relentless,

and wore a yellow scarf.

Found the lions. They keep me safe, and are everywhere.

And now, for the first time, my heart begins a slow

and imperfect migration from my stomach

to my chest. I leaned my hands against my breast and,

miracle of miracles, felt a pulse.

come up come up to you your home.

breaking

I break a heart every morning

And it ain't mine

I dip my muscle in the steely truth

And squeeze it out, wring it out

I break a heart every morning

But it ain't mine

My throat is flat on the hot stove iron

Words come out in smoke, up in smoke

I break a heart every morning

And it ain't mine

Pulling freshwater from my eyes

I'm in charge

I break a heart every morning

But it ain't mine

'Cept for when it is mine

And I leave the yolk runny

And serve it on a white plate

To a stone face

The Parts

Part I

Stretched out on a table face up, I am offered to those who come to receive.

Like at a restaurant's buffet, onlookers sidle up to the table and have a look,considering their options, smacking lips and pairing combinations in their minds' palette.

With take-away boxes balanced in one hand, they grip oversized spoons and dip

into my stomach, piling rounded ladle-fulls to steal away.

They take turns with a smaller spoon, scooping out slivers of my heart, taking as much as possible without looking greedy in the eyes of other hungry patrons.

With tongs they pull bits of truth from my mouth, holding tightly on the journey from origin to destination so as not to drop any, and releasing the pieces in small heaps, careful not to mingle nuggets of truth with juices of a different flavor.

The diners scrape layers from my thigh like a mille-feuille pastry, trying in vain to preserve the delicate structure.

They pull strength and stability from deep within my rib cage, parsing out the pieces, looking for the best cut.

They pluck strands of love from my head to season, to make the rugged, dry truth palatable and smooth. I haven't resisted yet, I cannot, it is only right this way.

Part II

I own and operate the smallest shop the world has ever seen, made up of me and myself only, minimal revenue, substantial brick-and-mortar costs but that's the tax of doing business Oh I know. I rent myself out, but not my whole self, No not like those girls. I rent out only pieces and parts at a time, to those who ask/need/require/request/don't even know they need me. A knock on the door Yes hello how can I--

Yes, yes of course, my left eye. Let me browse the catalogue here well, Wouldn't you know, the left eye's already over on the other side of town with so-and-so, you'll have to make do with the right. It's not the same exactly but it will make do if it's the truth you're looking after. Remember to return it promptly at 8pm or you'll incur a late fee.

Oh another, a new customer are you? Heard of the Shop by word of mouth have you? You're in need of a leg to stand on, is that it? Feeling a bit shaky lately, need some support? Let me just pop mine off here...now, if you have any trouble with her, just give her a twist and a shake and she'll be solid and dependable for you through the hardest of times. That's a two-week rental, on the leg.

Unconditional love, is that what you're in need of? I expect you'll return mine in the same shape you're receiving it, no marks or scratches or tears. Remember to keep the heart submerged in olive oil nightly or she'll dry out. You'll never feel so loved, I can promise you that, but watch you don't get too attached--I've got a fella here that'll come looking for you if you don't return her on time.

You've got to run a tight ship in this business, make no bones about it.

And you, comfort--that's what you're after? Lucky for you my whole breast is available just today, plenty of room for you to lay your head. Now, be on your way and be soothed.

And the other--just bursting to be listened to, just itching to tell your story, to lay it down? How about these fine ears--I'll rent you two for the price of one, today's special. These will never tire of you, your voice will never grow old to them. Keep them warm; they're prone to cold.

Oh and here, this guy wants to purchase the whole package, every part. You mean from head to toe, no exceptions? I rent here, to purchase would be a mighty high price--you may not be so willing once you've heard it. And besides, pieces of me are all over, I couldn't possibly get them all together at once. But sit down and wait a while, if you've got the patience, and we'll see whether the stars are in your favor.

mountain and shadow

In an afternoon orgasm, a great moment of flying potential before an earthly grounding, the question arrived:

And what if you reach the mountaintop, and it's raining ?

Not so much a sentence, as an image. What does it mean to reach upward heights, skyward movement, heaven-bound ascension and be greeted by downward-driven momentum, the pull of disappointment, the deflating unexpected. Then what ? So what ? Like a dream, the more I think on it, the more I try to attach words, the more I lose my grip on the emotional footprint and the significance of the thought. I will keep the question with me in my back pocket. Note, I did cry.

As with most orgasm revelations, I open to a feeling of release but also succumbing, smallness in the presence of greatness, a "mountaintop perspective" on troubling issues, submission, realization of my insignificance and a great relief that follows. My strain, my stress, my pain and concerns are but a small part of me and I am but a small part of it All.

_______________________________________

I see my form walking leftward across a plain scene, driven on by ferocious cravings, unrelenting optimism, foolish naiveté, unwarranted and baseless certainties, confused desire, a great loving zest to know, in the most experiential sense of the word, and a death-defying need to sustain and inspire those I deem worthy of worship. This, my form, is a bruised and worn yellow with orange and red moments. Behind me, I drag my own shadow, who sometimes kicks and screams in protest and other times allows itself to be pulled forward, having relented in disbelief. My shadow is not shadow but common sense, pragmatism, pessimism, doubt and self-doubt, grey and black from misuse and abuse, wear and tear and truth. We move forward, my two selves, without path nor destination, only traveling and always bearing the tension between us, the Yes and the Absolutely Not, Think Again. Somehow, so far, the Yes has tended to have greater strength--but it is not overt muscle. The strength is a spectacle of determination, resilience, endurance and foolish immaturity. I wonder though whether my shadow is truly at odds or only playing its role convincingly.

from 4 January 2012

last night i went to bed, feeling icky and sickly. i slowed down my breathing and closed my eyes and lay still. all of the sudden, a golden lion with a big mane came walking to the foot of my bed. he made a few circles the way felines do when they plan to settle down for a sit, and then laid himself on the floor just along the bottom edge of my bed. his head and giant poof of hair was visible, and i saw him both from my vantage point and from others, from above and in this space but without the bed. he was absolutely beautiful and powerful, and i felt completely safe with him there. he was guarding me, he was there either to protect me or to make me feel protected or both. he did normal lion things, like cleaning his paws, and went about his business settling in for the night. it was a wonderful feeling, and i appreciated his presence.

strange things happening in my head lately. or, strange things happening outside my head always, and i'm noticing them more of late.

Failure of Goals

The failure of goals exists in the dark shadow that accompanies each one we set for ourselves. Goals do not exist without the threat of failure; were it not for the very possibility of failure, a goal would not be a goal; it would be readily achievable and therefore a reality. What drives us every day is not the shining beacon of potential success but rather fear of the abyss of failure and whatever disappointing or even devastating psychosocial signals that accompany it. This dangerous dichotomy unfortunately persists even once we achieve the goal we initially set out for; this is why, no matter how much we gain, earn, produce, win, own, create, name or claim, we are rarely, if ever, satisfied. The burning fear of failure shadows each success, and propels us forward to the next marker of achievement. This is the rope which keeps us bound to an existence marked by judgement and criticism--of ourselves and often of others. To loosen this tie we must not strain further in the direction of greater goals and successes, since that strain only thrusts us deeper into the shadow of fear. Perhaps instead we can relax our rigid expectations, reign in our goals closer and closer to our true selves until we eclipse them, and the shadows of failure, in the essence of who we truly are. In this way we are free to progress organically and creatively in the direction or directions that most suit us, instead of down those linear paths we have convinced ourselves we should follow. Without goals, the shadow of failure has no source and we are unlimited in our potential.

The Clearing

I see my life progress as a gradual clearing of clutter. Clutter of the mind and spirit and maybe of the body as well. As a child I survived on clutter, on noise, on a blanket of distractions that overflowed from my mind and kept me safe and hidden from the terrifying truths that knocked at my door. Truths about the people I thought I knew, the ones I loved and hated. Truths about mistakes and pain and fear. Truths about the best of intentions giving way to the weight of mortal weaknesses and the passions and addictions, both physical and mental, that drive us ever forward in the harshest of conditions, blind to a different path just next to us. There was a time when I feared silence, when I could not fall asleep feeling as though I was also falling into an abyss of vulnerability. I could not bear to hear the truth from anyone else or from myself; I could not bear the horror of my greatest fears coming to life. I chose ignorance, believing it offered me a safe haven. I never slept without a radio by my side, first tuned to music and then, as rhythms lulled my conscious mind dormant and awakened the unconscious, escaped to only spoken programs, tuning out the messages while I took comfort in the protective shroud of words woven together as endless bedclothes. I would not have to believe in the darkness beyond the blanket, if I could not see it. Now, I crave silence. I crave mental space to come back to the ground, to find a truer version of me out of the many versions I construct daily, to cancel out the ceaseless chatter around me and from me and listen to what time and mind have to say to each other. I want the truth; I welcome it into my home and my heart. I sit waiting patiently, opening myself to the tragedies and the miracles of the truth, more courageous for the earth which holds me tightly and protects me, which sustains me in a fundamental way that cannot be destroyed by the egos of men. Now I sleep soundly in silence, letting myself drift into the unknown, welcoming silence as a guide. In my mind's eye I see a black canvas slowly chipping away in bits and pieces as I open myself further to reality. The truth waits for me beyond the canvas, and I slowly reveal it to myself, and reveal myself to the truth. As piece by piece falls away, as I pull down the wall of ignorance and fear that separates me, I warm slowly to the constant and tranquil glow that lays beyond.