"I don't wanna be a vapor of heavenly light, everyone try to guess if I'm an Angel or sprite-
If you (know who you are) saw me now, you would likely think that I was crying because- somehow- of something you did. Or said. Or did or said wrong. Even worse, to me at least, you might rush to that gut-twisting urge to apologize. When the truth is, my most overwhelming urge would be to thank you.
Sometimes I think (often I wonder): if the song a friend of mine wrote years ago; and which has led to much laughter, tearful-smiling nods, and a general sense of utter understanding; might best serve as the anthem for the oft-unspoken hearts of "our generation." By Our Generation, I mean something more like people who are currently in their teens, to people in their mid-to-late thirties.
Said song is so simple and amusingly circular in its' name, but attach it to my above words, even to your own experiences, and the word funny definitely takes on further connotations.
The song title, and recurrent lyric? Oh, but of course!, it's I'm Sorry I Say I'm Sorry So Much. (If said writer is reading this: Hi, M. I miss spilling gossipy truths under umbrellas with you. I miss you visiting me in Portland, happier and looser in your words, lanky body language unfolding with the days. You first found Sophie with me; she misses you too.)
But this song; this potentially oh-so tragic/self-deprecating anthem: Was written; and I say this with an arched eyebrow, and another but of course!; by a lone, lovely person. A bundle of Truths tucked beneath quick wit and flaming mannerisms; a banter-bot with their tender-heart, bruised but bared, tucked so clearly (just LOOK A LITTLE CLOSER, seriously!) beneath their left arm.
It was performed in our College coffeehouse, though maybe all the more appropriately, our itsy-bitsy teahouse; the little glass building turned Legend, after housing Joseph Campbell in his many years there. Performed collectively, by a motley crue of laughing Sarah Lawrence students, tucked into their ironic thirftstore-wear and striped scarves- Casio keyboard and mandolin optional, but often included. The reedy reach of a solo vocal, high-thrown and soft.
(If you listen to a lot of what calls itself Emo, and know even a little bit about the much larger range of Indie music that came before, and continues to grow after Emo created itself: you're most likely following.)
But see, if You of recent hours past were to read this: I'm also remembering so many (too many?) other things. Words written to me only a day or three ago; songs sung to me entire continents and years ago. A brief, absurd attempt to be involved with a woman who considered herself Healed and Sane, Sign Sealed Deliver!, but couldn't see the inherent irony in making such absolute statements. And far more, yes and yes yes- yes- a dozen upon two dozen upon a dozen more: Memories of tear-tracks that I was or wasn't allowed to see. That fell hard and rich, or couldn't allow themselves to fall at all. That I kissed clean, salty-tracked and all, before kissing cheeks, noses, foreheads, lips. Tears (internal or external) that we cried together, rocking some self-discovered lullaby rhythm. Catching each other long before the fall might come- so then at once, in the midst of falling.
Because, yes: Ani, as often, you win this lyrical round: You can't fight gravity on a planet that insists/ that love is like falling/ and falling is like this. It's like This.
I'm reacting with oxygen, heart, words: To a single conversation with a unique creature, with his own stories and scars to tell, his own journies made and to make. A person whom, however deeply they may or may not imprint me in the long-turn of it all; is amazing, is Now, is at the true heart of these moments. These are words I began writing, after first sitting in front of my door; lotus-curled and breathing, flooded with the soft intensity of one persons' words. Their echoes, their footprints across my own journey- however light, however unintentional in the overlap.
Me, in front of my door: Surrounded-safe by two piles of books (new and old, bought and given.) By a bag brimming over with tea, with vegan cookies, with herbs, postcards to send and numbers to call, new journals to spill myself across in what times may follow. Me, hair some jumble of deep reds and orange-pinks, layers past my shoulders by now: Draped in deep blue satin that just hangs at my hips by some invisible thread these days; black mesh and purple cotton layered beneath. And oh, lovely: Curled like its' own soft animal beside me: A new coat of rose-pink velvet with silver-gold threaded across its' soft surface; a rare vintage find which I found before it was even on the thrifstore floor; stumbled smack into, so it seemed.
I was unfolding myself from the way that last evening evolved from our banter-littered conversations into something much more on the metaphorical flip-side. More like deep, soul-puzzle-pieced conversation, scattered with laughter and grade-school outburts, Daft Punk and brief technicolor visuals.
So when I uncurled from my (apparently unconscious lotus position;) since it's how I often- just- fall into place, but My Mother The Yoga Master calls an enviously good lotus pose: When I moved into the high-ceilinged breadth of this room, and then curled into downy pillows and blankets, white on white on pink on white, green eyes wide still:
That was when I could begin to cry. Softly at first, like some gentle instrumental build-up into the next moment. Then it was me, allowing the thick rocks of memory and overlap and Now This Now to come free. To sob my own soft animal heart free, where I hoped you couldn't see or hear. Where I knew only too well how much of your first move (if not your emotional Truth, or gut instinct) would be to apologize for yourself. And that's the opposite of what I would want- and yes, too- of what I would need to hear.
Because I remember K. and I joking about Apology Diets; her admirable attempts, my sad laughter at brilliant Hope mixing with societal infliction.
I remember Debra, my Movement Teacher, closer to me than many friends during that dark, cold Year of Boston - speaking to us of how much our bodies, themselves, apologize. How even moving out and about in the world, riding the T., interacting with others: So often, so many of us, are unconsciously apologizing for simply Taking Up Space.
And the teacher before her; who brought my vocal chords to decibels I'd previously never known; who taught theatre while also giving us social-psych studies to read. About babies throats; the screams they burst into the world with; the thousands upon thousands of subtle and un-subtle messages that cause so many voices to revert to a point where they can cover barely a tenth of the ground that a newborn child does freely. Often, even, does first. (When my Daughter's born, I'll tell her to scream, and to never stop screaming. Fucking THANK YOU, Nicole Blackman!)
I rememember recent letters, apologies tumbling over apologies- all of which felt the need to be spoken, so I'm glad they were. But nearly all, also un-needed or unnecessary; circumstantial, the twisting guts of self-blame, of guilt in reverse.
The generations of which I speak- they may get a bad rap in many ways. But they (we) don't deserve all this inherited blame and guilt- at the very least, not without more people who can help those who need to translate their shame into Truths. Their hiding into finding. Their pain into Hope.
I don't want our tragic/supposedly ironic anthem to be my friends' Apology Song; I don't want it to be Aimee Mann's lush lyrical pain about freaks who believe they can never love anyone; nor, at least please, not in entirety; do I want it to be the brilliance of Jeff Buckley's Cold and Broken Hallelujah. I want to stand fiercely by other words, other songs; by lyrics and images and people; that as helpless as they may seem, contain some certain if quiet determination. Some fierce Hope still in the mix of it all.
I know you follow where my words are taking this- too many of you, as well as (in whatever ways this reaches you) the You who helped bring these words bubbling out of me. I hate that so many of you do follow me, but I also-
find some measure of Faith, and then, yes- Hope, in the fact that so many of you follow me, but do so with self-awareness. With a caring that takes yourself into account, when considering kindness. When considering "some measure of human frailty."
I could read books, I could find thousands of quotes to speak back to me of this. But I'm asking you to respond- you, friends, lovers, you whom I trust with as much of my heart as I can. When I can. Which is stunningly often, in a rare number of instances, considering the rare beings that often find themselves at this journal.
So tell me, then- tell me your take, read me back your own quotes, tell me some story of your own that relates- Please. Why for you; why for Us- why does Love as a cold and broken Hallelujah ring so deeply true with so many people in these worlds and ages, even these specific realms of specific souls, of which I speak?
I'm asking with my hands up, child vulnerable and child-curious- so answer only if you want, only how you can. I'm asking everything, some might say- yet also, only
Why?