| 06 july 99. | |
|
spinning: |
cree summer, revelation sunshine. jennifer lopez, una noche mas (english version). |
"muchacho."
miryam's voice was hushed and sweet as her fingertips
lightly stroked my side.
i trusted her to, i wanted her to. her comforting me
was something genuine, something heartfelt, not something
with an agenda, thus empty and void.
it was an act of compassion.
the compassion broke a spell, released a blockage inside.
"... how can you tell?" "i just can."
i forgot what we said after that -- it was overshadowed in my
memory by what happened afterward: she unexpectedly put her arms around
me in a gentle embrace, held me. i began softly crying, in spite of
myself.
she was a healer.
i've missed this, i've suppressed this for so long: the
need to trust someone with it, to cry safely in their arms. to
free myself from the dark clot that sits in the center of my
chest, pumping black oil through choked veins.
i still lapse into confusing sex with affection. i still shy
away from the simple warmth of people. i still gravitate toward
solitude. i still lapse into being self-conscious and closed-up.
at these times it feels like nothing has changed, even though so
so much has changed for me.
i have so many fond memories of this new place -- places throughout
the City and the Bay where i see the afterimage of something
amazing that i did or someone cool i crossed paths with. so
why does it all
still feel so fluid and intangible and unreal, like there's no
texture, as if my fingers have no fingerprints, and when i run my
fingertips loosely over a smooth surface i can't feel anything.
why am i unhappy?
i miss feeling that head-in-the-clouds ambition. i miss
total openness. playful spontaneity. a total lack of fear
of simply being me, motivated not by reckless fatalism but by
joy. i miss the omniscience i once had, that ability to see
above and outside my side of the situation, my point of view.
i miss so much finding beauty in simple simple things -- watching
nature at work from a rolling surf, the patterns in shimmering
water on the beach, seeing and hearing a child's smile and laughter,
unrestrained, glowing, godlike.
god is on the face of a child with a beaming smile -- on the face
of every child experiencing pure released joy.
if literally every last child on this planet were to experience pure
joy together and simultaneously, a global transformation will
take place. god will appear worldwide,
in all its many forms and religions and faiths.
i know i live inside my own bubble, that certain portions of
my brain are insane. bizarre thoughts, intense emotion, inhuman honesty,
raw intimacy. but if i'm relegated to this solitary place, this culture
of one, i want it at least to be a place of warmth and light and
amazing possibilities, not life-draining darkness and constant
nightmares. i want it to be a place i can call home.
i've been holding my breath for too long ...
i need to exhale and express and radiate. i need a change. i want
to assert myself over myself. i want to target what is darkening me
and hindering me and holding me back and eradicate it. i have the
ability to do so. i will not wait for events to happen around me, to
do my work for me.
i need a change of daily existence, of living conditions, of
internal expression. me chronicling it here is a pact to myself, to not
forget, to not let it go unfulfilled.
i know the first step to take, the initial catalyst. (the final step,
the end game, is laid out, destined: to make the one who violated me
somehow suffer for their crime. but i can't get to that point, off in
the future, without taking the first step in the here and now.
releasing my emotion will give me eyes, let me see the bigger picture.
off to regroup and strategize, to set my energy in motion.
"you have a lot of emotion inside, you are holding a lot in."
as much as i've changed since starting my new life, as much
as what life has thrown at me that has soldered and fused and
permanently re-wired parts of my brain, i realized tonight
that deep down inside the old me still exists.
Time goes from present to past. - Dogen Zenji
