(no subject)
Annie and I began writing a story tonight. Feel free to add a paragraph or two if you like!
Wandering in and out of dancing she wonders if she is as they see her or is as she knows herself to be. Wandering in and out of dreaming and in and out of a drooling daze, she who is me, is wondering. I am wondering if there is truth in the journey if it leads nowhere, wondering if the process is purposeful if the path is a sidewalk constructed by fools and consuming the green grass of the gods. And I who am always dancing in my dreams and smiling to the neighbors I know not, am wondering if these wonderings are leading my wanderings into dangerous territory. And then I begin to smile at the semi-nonsensical musing of my mind striving for artistry and falling on my face. And now I am laughing at the big words, the rhyming rhetoric of timing and timeless metaphors of muses and fire, of rain and the eclipse, the cosmos and the clowns-the real players of this scriptless script, this naked and laughing smile of a screenplay. And this riotously roaring amusing recluse that I am is sitting in my parents home waiting for a real life that is just far away enough and just in this moment enough to seem simultaneously like sick humor and relentless realism.
Living is hard. Being is hard. Sometimes I want to return to the ‘simple things’ that life has to offer, and then I realize that nothing about life is simple, and maybe hard is beautiful. The little ordinary things in life are in themselves an intricate dance, and I am dancing all of the time. Me and my personal spirits, my spirit-gods, my life forces. They take my hands and in their arms I waltz around the ballroom that is the earth, and that is the vast experience that awaits me, and that is the confines of my past, and that is the recluse that is my parents home. They take my hands, and press their lips to them. They are my chivalric knights in shining armor, and my hands are hardly worth their kissing. My hands are mere buds not yet in bloom - they have none of the worn skin and wrinkles, the character, the tanned chapped skin of my mother’s hands. They have none of the strong confidence of my father’s hands. They should not be kissed. They are not yet kissable. My hands are small, but soft, with thin and flexible fingers. I stretch them in front of me, and they look like the hands of a child, innocent and eager. I believe they will grow to be strong and powerful when real life does begin. And that they will be sure and gentle and will heal and create. Yet now there is some beauty in my hands: they smell of oranges bursting with flavor, of leaves plucked from trees in the springtime, of peanut butter. Take my hands, oh spirits, oh gods, and dance with me, and make me old again, and young again, and take me away from myself, and bring me back.
i spend hours in the kmart. brooding about consumerism. the story shifted. when did it stop being about toys and start being about the evil empire that we have become? My college professors offer up theses directing our attention to nuances of the narrative that is and has become our history. they pontificate beautifully, compelling us into revolution! reform! and i am struck more by their smiles, their gentle ways and magic that create the
I am overwhelmed. There is more than one answer to every question I ask. Who am I? What should I be? What do I want? The universe is expanding even as my diaphraigm expands with every breath I take. I stand up. My feet are on the ground. My head hovers above and it is cloudy and I feel vaguely faint. I take one step. I take another. I am going to take a walk, for some fresh air. Walks are meaningless circles around a suburban neighborhood. Sometimes I worry that the kind of living that I do is only a waste of time. But at least I keep doing it. One of these days I am bound to walk somewhere. Today I am walking to the corner, turning around, and walking back.
"oh it's your turn, it's your turn. it's your turn to turn this brutalized body about!" that's what my feet said to my head earlier today when i left home to find hope and found myself finding i wasn't lost but broken. and he said that the world is broken and we are to be the healers and i said, fuck you, I'm tired and he said I'm sorry I didn't catch that and I said oh. I said fuck you I'm tired. And he said yeah, me too. And then I said, but you're a professor. and he said, so what, you're young. And i said i'm not interested in intergenerational therapy even if the trauma is transgenerational because you said peace is possible but it wasn't and whilst it still might be. I ask you, when will it be? when will peace be possible? after this war, or after the next? shall i wait until one more baby has her head blown off or shall i offer up my children to be soldiers in this war for peace, then will it be possible. then will i remember what the fuck we were talking about and forget the feeling i have in my brain that we call a headache and medicate with mild pain relievers but that feel like, it feels like...
It feels like despair. It feels like screaming pain. It feels like generations of fear. It feels like being born, I think. Over and over again I am seeing light for the first time and it is blinding and it hurts and I am hungry for answers and I want protection and I want to call for help but I don’t know how to yet. So I will keep walking. Down to the corner and back again. One step and then another. I hold hands with myself. I stroke my own hair, pat my own back, kiss my own hands. The spirits have left me, the gods are spiteful, but maybe if I sing myself a lullaby the world will stop expanding so fast and I will be able to regain my balance.
Wandering in and out of dancing she wonders if she is as they see her or is as she knows herself to be. Wandering in and out of dreaming and in and out of a drooling daze, she who is me, is wondering. I am wondering if there is truth in the journey if it leads nowhere, wondering if the process is purposeful if the path is a sidewalk constructed by fools and consuming the green grass of the gods. And I who am always dancing in my dreams and smiling to the neighbors I know not, am wondering if these wonderings are leading my wanderings into dangerous territory. And then I begin to smile at the semi-nonsensical musing of my mind striving for artistry and falling on my face. And now I am laughing at the big words, the rhyming rhetoric of timing and timeless metaphors of muses and fire, of rain and the eclipse, the cosmos and the clowns-the real players of this scriptless script, this naked and laughing smile of a screenplay. And this riotously roaring amusing recluse that I am is sitting in my parents home waiting for a real life that is just far away enough and just in this moment enough to seem simultaneously like sick humor and relentless realism.
Living is hard. Being is hard. Sometimes I want to return to the ‘simple things’ that life has to offer, and then I realize that nothing about life is simple, and maybe hard is beautiful. The little ordinary things in life are in themselves an intricate dance, and I am dancing all of the time. Me and my personal spirits, my spirit-gods, my life forces. They take my hands and in their arms I waltz around the ballroom that is the earth, and that is the vast experience that awaits me, and that is the confines of my past, and that is the recluse that is my parents home. They take my hands, and press their lips to them. They are my chivalric knights in shining armor, and my hands are hardly worth their kissing. My hands are mere buds not yet in bloom - they have none of the worn skin and wrinkles, the character, the tanned chapped skin of my mother’s hands. They have none of the strong confidence of my father’s hands. They should not be kissed. They are not yet kissable. My hands are small, but soft, with thin and flexible fingers. I stretch them in front of me, and they look like the hands of a child, innocent and eager. I believe they will grow to be strong and powerful when real life does begin. And that they will be sure and gentle and will heal and create. Yet now there is some beauty in my hands: they smell of oranges bursting with flavor, of leaves plucked from trees in the springtime, of peanut butter. Take my hands, oh spirits, oh gods, and dance with me, and make me old again, and young again, and take me away from myself, and bring me back.
i spend hours in the kmart. brooding about consumerism. the story shifted. when did it stop being about toys and start being about the evil empire that we have become? My college professors offer up theses directing our attention to nuances of the narrative that is and has become our history. they pontificate beautifully, compelling us into revolution! reform! and i am struck more by their smiles, their gentle ways and magic that create the
I am overwhelmed. There is more than one answer to every question I ask. Who am I? What should I be? What do I want? The universe is expanding even as my diaphraigm expands with every breath I take. I stand up. My feet are on the ground. My head hovers above and it is cloudy and I feel vaguely faint. I take one step. I take another. I am going to take a walk, for some fresh air. Walks are meaningless circles around a suburban neighborhood. Sometimes I worry that the kind of living that I do is only a waste of time. But at least I keep doing it. One of these days I am bound to walk somewhere. Today I am walking to the corner, turning around, and walking back.
"oh it's your turn, it's your turn. it's your turn to turn this brutalized body about!" that's what my feet said to my head earlier today when i left home to find hope and found myself finding i wasn't lost but broken. and he said that the world is broken and we are to be the healers and i said, fuck you, I'm tired and he said I'm sorry I didn't catch that and I said oh. I said fuck you I'm tired. And he said yeah, me too. And then I said, but you're a professor. and he said, so what, you're young. And i said i'm not interested in intergenerational therapy even if the trauma is transgenerational because you said peace is possible but it wasn't and whilst it still might be. I ask you, when will it be? when will peace be possible? after this war, or after the next? shall i wait until one more baby has her head blown off or shall i offer up my children to be soldiers in this war for peace, then will it be possible. then will i remember what the fuck we were talking about and forget the feeling i have in my brain that we call a headache and medicate with mild pain relievers but that feel like, it feels like...
It feels like despair. It feels like screaming pain. It feels like generations of fear. It feels like being born, I think. Over and over again I am seeing light for the first time and it is blinding and it hurts and I am hungry for answers and I want protection and I want to call for help but I don’t know how to yet. So I will keep walking. Down to the corner and back again. One step and then another. I hold hands with myself. I stroke my own hair, pat my own back, kiss my own hands. The spirits have left me, the gods are spiteful, but maybe if I sing myself a lullaby the world will stop expanding so fast and I will be able to regain my balance.