Cherries

Tonight was filled with Reiki, gifted chicken noodle soup and clean linens.  I just don't know how an evening could get any better- oh, wait- yes.  I do.  Add to it an *amazing* oracle reading that really helped to dispel a lot of fears.  I realize that any reading is a snapshot of a given moment in a very non-linear time-continuum, but, for that ONE split second those cards were representing, delighted my heart in an effulgent, overflowing, bear-it-all and let me bask in the glory of it, sorta way.  It was the spiritual cherry on top of a dark chocolate gelato sundae-day.  The "oh you thought it couldn't get any better? Oh, you think the Universe didn't notice you busting your ass trying to do more than just survive?  Oh- wait, what is it your heart longs for?  Yup.  Pretty much... wait... for... it... could it be... THIS?  Yeah.  Thought so.  Here ya go.  Here's your cherry."   So, now I'm sitting back, watching the flickering candles dance shadows about my home, drinking it all in, savoring every fleeting moment for all it's worth.  Think I'm gonna tie a tongue knot in this here cherry stem- just to remind the Universe that I've got skills and I'm not afraid to use 'em.

Emotive Upheaval

I sometimes wonder if I could survive without my voice.  Maybe what I really mean, is without my thoughts; for I seem unable to not have them immediately spill off of my tongue, creating a slick mess everywhere.  A mess I always tend to slip in- like a child on ice for the first time, finding herself too quickly on her ass, not sure if she should cry or laugh and instead choosing to stare into emptiness with a trembling bottom lip, arms flailing about in under-water slow motion.

I sometimes wonder if I weren't tripping over myself,  feeling the hard crack! of earth under me, wind knocked out of me, embarrassment washing over me, petticoats disheveled, head in a daze, would I even know I was living?  Without the harshest of reminders cutting through the bullshit, would I just meander about in mute ineptitude, oblivious of the need to ache? Picking my way carefully about the slippery spew of others who chose to live a vocal-life of emotive upheaval, damn proud of my tidy underpinnings, muckless shoes and little else?  Makes me want to scream.

Strong Enough

I've been reading David Deida's work.  This is a muddled, not-direct sampling:  when you're distraught, raging and throwing punches and all but scream (and sometimes do) to be left alone; do you want a man who will quietly step out of the room and let you storm? or do you want a man who will wrap his arms around you while you forcefully tempest-thrash until you can *feel* his love, feel that he's on your side through his silent, patient embrace?

I want that.  I want Shiva.  I need Shiva.  For I am Kali, and at times I rage and at times I go insane from the blood of life's demons and I war-dance-crazy.  Though I may look like Lalita: coy, sweet and innocent, I am none of those things and all of those things and everything in between and beyond those boundaries of reason.  I am unapologetic and I believe there is some-man who will recognize my passion for what it is- raw, emotive energy; and be empowered and driven and intoxicated by it.  For I am intoxicating.  I am breathtaking and unbroken, unfettered and glorious in my wildness.  I am.

I am humble.

I am small as I am vast.

I am the silence that echoes before- and after the waves crash.

I am the ringing of bells and wafting incense.

I am Emptiness.

I am effulgence.

I am deep sorrow and exultant joy.

I am orgasms and dark chocolate; Hail Mary's and retreat cave prostrations

I am afraid.

I am surrender.

I am all that is ugly and all that is sane.

I am unhinged.

I am balance.

I am.

Strong Enough

An Ode to Claire

Today I just wanted to write a few choice words about my choice friend Claire.  She's marvelous in a way that makes you crave bruschetta.  She's just choice.  She's earthy-granola-crunchy in stilettos, with naturally cool-blonde hair (the kind that others pay way too much to unsuccessfully emulate).  She has a "thing" for dandelions, Danish-mid-century-modern furniture, 60's French films and Bump-Its.  We fantasize about what it would be like to be 70 and fabulous and wear kaftans and own too many pomeranians and drink martinis before getting out of bed while piling on the amethysts.  It's just what we do- when we're not fantasizing about bruschetta.  In other words, I heart Claire.

The Chariot

Everything is cyclic... everything has a beginning, an end and a rebirthing period... wheel-like.  Why it is we cling to one phase and shy away from others is beyond me, but it is what we do.  It is what *I* do.  Husby packed up and moved out the final scraps, pieces and straggly bits of his belongings today and although it wasn't "much" it feels very empty in here now.  Very vacant.  Very nothing-full.  I feel very small.

It's heartbreaking when things just don't turn out as planned- when the unforeseeable occurs and you're left standing in a rubble-pile of nothingness and could-have-beens.  Heartbreaking.  How is it that your best friend, your favorite being can just not fit any longer (maybe never did)?  How does it happen?  How does it get to that point where it's unfixable even though you're both crying for it to be fixed?  How did something seemingly so perfect in one light show how imperfect it was in another?  As those filters are retracted, how different Reality appears in the light of non-dualism... and how I miss him so.  Heartbreaking.  I think I said that already.

Dukha.  The ill-fitting wheel of samsara.  I thought all I needed *was* a wheel... how was I to know..?  Why wasn't THAT in the manual?  "Not only must you find A wheel, you must find THE wheel with unrecognizable XYZisms or you won't get your cart anywhere on that Path of yours anytime soon, not without throwing your back out in the process."  And now I am wheel-less... ill-fitting or not.  Now I must find ways to compel myself across this bumpy, seriously-needing-to-be-paved-what-the-fuck road, all by myself.  Fashion my own set of wheels- and start anew.  I wonder if I could just hire a mechanic...?

Muchness

Realizations flash past my eyes, open or closed, and I've now realized it's time to wake up.  There is no knight in shining armor, no valiant prince going to come and sweep me off my feet.  What a realization for a woman lost in the mythos of her own personal fairytale.  

It makes me contemplate Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland- where she returns to Underland (Wonderland) to discover her inner muchness and slay her own (inner) dragons.  She falters, she mis-steps, but in the end, she uncovers her true Self; fights, defends and conquers that which has repressed her for nearly her entire existence- societal constraints and a lack of self confidence.  Alice realized she didn't need saving, and there was no one better for the task at hand than herself.  What an awakening.  What an empowerment.  

I wonder, where is my Vorpal Blade?  Truly, my tongue is razor-sharp- though I wonder if perhaps my slaying power comes not when my tongue lashes snicker-snack.. but in its silence.  If only I knew how to recognize my personal Jabberwock.  He is not nearly so vast, or slithy as would make him unmistakable in a crowd.  He is smaller, far more mundane.  Perhaps my own Shadow-self.  All the dark aspects of my being that I've fought against so long- rebelled and pushed against, the cultural and societal pressures of what it is to be an American, a Woman... Maybe I don't need a prince.  Maybe I just need to find my muchness.  After all, if Alice didn't need to live happily ever after, maybe I don't, either.

Never was me

It's smooth... let me guide your hands, let me help you understand how easy it all is.  How sad.  This thigh, this ring, this thing that holds us together, tears us apart and breaks us down to the nothingness that crowns and crashes and thrashes about between tangled sheets and slow, wet dreams of yesterday that we pretend will take place into tomorrows.  Don't make me cry- don't let me fill up, well up and over-flow with all that moistness you thought so sweet now starting to stink of blind-sob-stories with no real plot.  It's not true- this visceral existence that has me drumming and coming and laughing out loud- like that day milk came out my nose- ah, but you forgot, had more pristine remembrances than that: of a white dress or black lace and maybe it was some other girl's face that you can't quite remember... don't want to concede, admit, or challenge that thought, subliminal though it is.  How sad- never was me.  Just roll over, forget the nudge, the grind, the hands down my side- they'll do no good, for though I feign sleep, really I'm just too awake to fuck out this dream-scheme.

June 26, 2007

an excerpt from my journal...




Will you do the laundry?
Yes, my Love.


Will you wash the dishes?
Yes, my Love, though I hate the feel of hot of water on my hands...

But why?
It reminds me of work- that heat.  And you are my relief.  I don't like the two linked, though without the one, this Love wouldn't exist...


Will you be home when I get there?
Always, my Love.


Will you-
-Always, but why does loving hurt so much?


Excuse me?
Why does it ache? Why?


What..?
...joy...


It shouldn't... don't cry...
I don't know how else to feel.


It's alright.
But how can it be?  The dishes aren't clean.

Chloe antics

Sometimes, more often than naught, I believe Chloe is not in fact a dog; merely stuck in a canine body.  I come to such conclusions when she offers her toys to the cat when the cat hisses spasmodically at her; saying with her eyebrows "I love you so, if only you could love me in return.... bone?  They really do make everything better."


Or when she cleans and licks her Pink Dragon, when she thinks I'm not looking, the way a child tends to her dolls with the utmost reverence and devotion.  I caught her placing a pink tennis ball at Pink Dragon's feet the other day, before sitting down beside said dragon, with her own yellow tennis ball plopped between her paws.  (Where is a camera when you need one? Exhibit A: she shares her toys with her toys... and stages them. Not normal doggie activity.)


Or how later, she gingerly placed Pink Dragon on my head, balancing her gently, then standing back to admire her handy-work, head cocked to the side approvingly.  Followed by the next day, gently draping her (pink) rope toy round my neck, feather boa-style, sitting back, head cocked apprasingly, tail wagging in delight.  


Pink is her favorite color, though I am erroneously and regularly told dogs are color blind.  She will always choose the pink toy over an identical one of a different color. Who ARE these people who decide how and what animals can or can't see?  Seriously?  


Chloe's newest, most favorite-st game is soccer with tennis balls, preferably two at the same time.  I get the yellow one, she gets the pink.  They must be quickly rolled across the living room so as to ricochet against the baseboard... this allots her something to not only chase after, but pounce on, kick, paddle and throw (yes, throw) back to me.  Repeat.  Endlessly and tirelessly.  With the hugest puppy grin.  Eventually she will tire, and then it is time to curl up with Pink Dragon and nap.


Right now she is seated beside me, reclining against a plethora of pillows, watching me type- and possibly checking for typos.  I prefer to do my own editing, but I do love her company while I'm writing, so long as she keeps her paws off of my laptop.