Thursday, January 28, 2016
Weekend Wax
We sat on the couch, after a day of shuffling and cuddling around the house, making love,watching television, making love—now, through the window a light up on the hill, beyond the trees and limning motion distracts us from our comedic plot. At first, we thought it must be a car, paused at the top of the road, picking up, or dropping off a neighbor in weekend revelry—but the light was too clear and too bright and too clean, and after a few moments still it did not recede— in fact, it was growing more luminescent. You got up, and looked more closely and then, the first sliver of lunar flesh appeared. For the next few minutes I watched her slowly sway across and over the horizon, the trees dancing in her glory and our eyes reflecting her rising delight.
She was there with us, all weekend, just peeking in the window, over our shoulders, finally awing us, brazen and full frontal as we crested the town hill after washing our duds. She caught us unaware, our chattering immediately interrupted by exclamation. So close and full, a glowing ocherous orb fixing her impunitive gaze upon the land, only wanting to see and be a scene, then demurely taking cover behind gossamer and lace. A very great lady, full of grace.
Thinking of You
It breaks my heart, a witness to what You do.
What I see in Your inklings and notions— the sheer magnitude of process, the energetic drive to touch more, more thoroughly, the motion of thought and colour and sound in You and through You, the tender and the terrible, the terrific and the tragic, all the world expanded to include and contracted to exact, dreams and philosophy and politics and sex and horror and joy and wonder and befuddlement, a cascade of empathy and sympathy always at he brink, a genius that cannot be duplicated, a boy that cannot be consoled, a man that cannot be yet is, a mind ever stretching and feeling it's way, sensitivity and sensuality, the marking You leave, remarkable— so much that I cannot describe for my own clumsy ways, some day it will be known, and received by those who can appreciate, respond in kind, inspire and uplift.
You are greatness, unacknowledged, undiscovered but for the likes of me. Someday that must change.
What I see in Your inklings and notions— the sheer magnitude of process, the energetic drive to touch more, more thoroughly, the motion of thought and colour and sound in You and through You, the tender and the terrible, the terrific and the tragic, all the world expanded to include and contracted to exact, dreams and philosophy and politics and sex and horror and joy and wonder and befuddlement, a cascade of empathy and sympathy always at he brink, a genius that cannot be duplicated, a boy that cannot be consoled, a man that cannot be yet is, a mind ever stretching and feeling it's way, sensitivity and sensuality, the marking You leave, remarkable— so much that I cannot describe for my own clumsy ways, some day it will be known, and received by those who can appreciate, respond in kind, inspire and uplift.
You are greatness, unacknowledged, undiscovered but for the likes of me. Someday that must change.
Thursday, January 14, 2016
The Strongest Woman You Know
So often, I feel and I fear inadequacy, but I am trying to clear a path through those thoughts that mire me down and tire me out.
So often I fear that even giving my all will not satisfy, that more will always be demanded, and I find myself unable to give in at all; but I am seeking to open my heart.
So often I look at You, and in my tri-centered core both anxiety and elation swell and swirl and either can sweep me along but, I am looking for ways to balance my mind.
And, so often, looking at them, I find hopelessness and envy seeping into my thoughts and pricking at my heart. But, I am learning to find joy in my surroundings.
And through this, through all of my faults and flaws and feelings and fears and fuck-ups and fragmented thoughts, there is a love that is infinite and ever expanding, as implausible and magnificent as the universe, a love that inspires me to become the strongest woman You know.
So often I fear that even giving my all will not satisfy, that more will always be demanded, and I find myself unable to give in at all; but I am seeking to open my heart.
So often I look at You, and in my tri-centered core both anxiety and elation swell and swirl and either can sweep me along but, I am looking for ways to balance my mind.
And, so often, looking at them, I find hopelessness and envy seeping into my thoughts and pricking at my heart. But, I am learning to find joy in my surroundings.
And through this, through all of my faults and flaws and feelings and fears and fuck-ups and fragmented thoughts, there is a love that is infinite and ever expanding, as implausible and magnificent as the universe, a love that inspires me to become the strongest woman You know.
Friday, January 8, 2016
Mystery
Mystery.
You said that I don't realize to what extent I remain a mystery to You, as if it were a bad thing that there are things in me You have not seen, or heard, or felt—of course, these are still mysteries to me, also. But if I am , as You have claimed, a goddess, then do You dare attempt to strip away the layers of mystery that protect the divine? What right have You to know any goddess fully? What would happen if suddenly You could read my mind as words on a page, and there were no thing left to inquire about or seek? What use would You have for me then?
You said it as if it were a personal affront, a crime, but I cannot help but feel that You know me all too well, and that there is nothing mysterious about me, for when You speak of me to me, You hit so close and hard, perhaps not with perfect accuracy, but with incredible insight. You implore me to speak, to narrate, to astound You with soliloquy. And at the same time tell me I have nothing to say. The very reason I remain so silent is so that You will not discern my emptiness—better mysterious or somber than vapid and trite—, and the more You force me into vocalization, the more panicked I become, and the emptier. It's as if You don't believe me when I say that I have run out of words; but it is true, that in those moments, those haltering phrases that I manage to utter slide away into fragments of "I don't know," "Say something, quickly!" and "You're losing Him!" The pressure to come up with not only the right words, but any words at all, paralyzes, and literally the thought repeats in my head "I can't think. I don't know what to say now." I fear I have run my course.
I hear myself sometimes, sounding exactly like my mother, and it is disgusting to me, and intolerable. I know You see and hear it too, so how can I not be ashamed to open my mouth? I never know when it is the wrong thing to say. You tell me of little men who live in our stomachs. I ask "What do they live on?" I thought I was doing well by starting with questions, but You respond with "That's your question?" It was only a start, but it was immediately dissatisfying to You, and You put me down for saying anything at all. What am I to do? Is this how You support me? I'm afraid to have You read what I wrote yesterday for all of these reasons...I can't do it like You, and because You want me to , I will always be lacking.
Fear fear fear...I have been trying so hard to escape you all week.
And after a long day, I return home, wanting only to crawl in bed and drift off while nuzzling in Your skin and hair and scent, I am chastised for having nothing to say. My small accounts of what have happened, all I can offer in the moment, are seen as so much pitiful prattle, worthless and useless and valueless. I had just begun to feel a tentative sense of accomplishment in what I had done this week, and now I just feel inadequate, again. The stirrings of excitement in me were quenched by a sense of failure . Today, I feel hurt and low, and the feelings I have been trying so hard to ignore, the voice telling me I am not good enough, are coming not from me, but from You. I thought I was rising, but it seems I have only sunk further into Your disapproval.
I thought You understood. My great pain, is that I cannot do for You what You do for me, even though I would give so much to do so. I don't know what I can do, or do, other than frustrate You.
The week was good, yet now it seems like it isn't worth much at all.
But the most hurtful thing is that I have disappointed You, again, when You need so badly for someone to override Your own rampant thoughts with their vivid descriptions and recollections and imaginings. Sometimes You tell me that the narrative in my head that tells me I am not good enough is a lie, and that other people aren't thinking or saying it, so I should stop hearing it and being difficult with myself. But, doesn't this prove me right? Isn't it sign of...something, that as soon as I decide to try a different mindset, someone puts me back in the place I was trying to leave?
I know that I need to share more, but so much of my thinking is shrouded in pain of various sorts, it seems that I cannot get around it, or outside of it, or away from it, or out from under it. It is hard to let your mind fly freely when the weight is always upon you.
You said that I don't realize to what extent I remain a mystery to You, as if it were a bad thing that there are things in me You have not seen, or heard, or felt—of course, these are still mysteries to me, also. But if I am , as You have claimed, a goddess, then do You dare attempt to strip away the layers of mystery that protect the divine? What right have You to know any goddess fully? What would happen if suddenly You could read my mind as words on a page, and there were no thing left to inquire about or seek? What use would You have for me then?
You said it as if it were a personal affront, a crime, but I cannot help but feel that You know me all too well, and that there is nothing mysterious about me, for when You speak of me to me, You hit so close and hard, perhaps not with perfect accuracy, but with incredible insight. You implore me to speak, to narrate, to astound You with soliloquy. And at the same time tell me I have nothing to say. The very reason I remain so silent is so that You will not discern my emptiness—better mysterious or somber than vapid and trite—, and the more You force me into vocalization, the more panicked I become, and the emptier. It's as if You don't believe me when I say that I have run out of words; but it is true, that in those moments, those haltering phrases that I manage to utter slide away into fragments of "I don't know," "Say something, quickly!" and "You're losing Him!" The pressure to come up with not only the right words, but any words at all, paralyzes, and literally the thought repeats in my head "I can't think. I don't know what to say now." I fear I have run my course.
I hear myself sometimes, sounding exactly like my mother, and it is disgusting to me, and intolerable. I know You see and hear it too, so how can I not be ashamed to open my mouth? I never know when it is the wrong thing to say. You tell me of little men who live in our stomachs. I ask "What do they live on?" I thought I was doing well by starting with questions, but You respond with "That's your question?" It was only a start, but it was immediately dissatisfying to You, and You put me down for saying anything at all. What am I to do? Is this how You support me? I'm afraid to have You read what I wrote yesterday for all of these reasons...I can't do it like You, and because You want me to , I will always be lacking.
Fear fear fear...I have been trying so hard to escape you all week.
And after a long day, I return home, wanting only to crawl in bed and drift off while nuzzling in Your skin and hair and scent, I am chastised for having nothing to say. My small accounts of what have happened, all I can offer in the moment, are seen as so much pitiful prattle, worthless and useless and valueless. I had just begun to feel a tentative sense of accomplishment in what I had done this week, and now I just feel inadequate, again. The stirrings of excitement in me were quenched by a sense of failure . Today, I feel hurt and low, and the feelings I have been trying so hard to ignore, the voice telling me I am not good enough, are coming not from me, but from You. I thought I was rising, but it seems I have only sunk further into Your disapproval.
I thought You understood. My great pain, is that I cannot do for You what You do for me, even though I would give so much to do so. I don't know what I can do, or do, other than frustrate You.
The week was good, yet now it seems like it isn't worth much at all.
But the most hurtful thing is that I have disappointed You, again, when You need so badly for someone to override Your own rampant thoughts with their vivid descriptions and recollections and imaginings. Sometimes You tell me that the narrative in my head that tells me I am not good enough is a lie, and that other people aren't thinking or saying it, so I should stop hearing it and being difficult with myself. But, doesn't this prove me right? Isn't it sign of...something, that as soon as I decide to try a different mindset, someone puts me back in the place I was trying to leave?
I know that I need to share more, but so much of my thinking is shrouded in pain of various sorts, it seems that I cannot get around it, or outside of it, or away from it, or out from under it. It is hard to let your mind fly freely when the weight is always upon you.
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