Dec. 3rd, 2008

I have a headache.  Reading that, you’re probably like, “whoop-di-doo”, but it’s a pretty rare phenomina for me to experience a head ache.  Even more profound, it started at about 8pm last night, and now it’s five minutes to eleven the next morning.  I know this is not the most captivating topic, and it is not even close to publishable words that are pounding like lightening, thru my ten little fleshy lightening rods… but I have to get this out.  I feel tragic today.  Like the world is dying, and I can only stand by and watch and grieve.  I just spoke with my dad for the first time in over a month, and he is doing terrible.  He’s depressed even.  He told me that he’s eating bad, which makes him feel even worse.  The economy is pummeling him to the ground.  He has a vacant house for rent… it has been vacant now for too long, the gambling scene in Reno is not only down the toilet, but into the great beyond, the sewage holding tanks where nightmares are born and innocent babies die by the bakers dozen.  Mercedes is leaving for Spain tomorrow (she didn’t want to talk to me), and he’ll be alone with the kids for a week?   Is she really only gonna be gone for a week?   That seems too short.  HE’S on vacation for a week… He says he lays awake at night in muted panic.  He spoke all this impersonally, like a laundry list.  God bless all his strategies to survive.  But I am left feeling melancholy~  I almost wrote devastated, but that would not be true.  It’s not an extreme, immediate feeling, more of a substantial, weight that sits like an unwieldy elephant’s ass on a copious portion of the space time continuum.  Think sprint versus marathon.  My ache has the endurance only pure soul can muster.

And then there’s Mykael.  He showed up barely on time for his haircut this morning, because he was pulled over by a police officer.  Thankfully, it was only a fix-it ticket.  He didn’t even have his driver’s license on him.  Then he announced that he is getting sick and the far reaches of his sinuses ache.  He looked a little ragged and clumsy.  He trimmed his beard to the status of barely rebellious stubble, and upon intimate inspection, I saw that he left a ton of stragglers, so some of the hairs are twice or three times longer than the general consensus of his modest army of stubble soldiers.  I felt embarrassed for him, like I would for an old man, who still insists on dressing and feeding himself, but only messes, injuries and hassles occur as a result.

And on top of all that, my head just feels like there is a slightly more benevolent rendition of nails on the chalk board going on inside.  The morning was foggy, but I see some smears of blue as I glace out the dirty second floor windows of Peter Thomas salon.  I bought Mykael a haircut today, because his hair was getting so scraggly and existential, and it frustrated me to look at him too long.  If left to his own devices, he’d’ve just buzzed himself a fresh “faux hawk”… and since I’m the one who has to look at him all the time, I volunteered to sponsor a professional haircut.  I want him to keep the sexy length, just look sharp and clean.  God, it is painful to write such boring words, but I have this desperate feeling, like if I don’t skim off all this surface garbage, I’ll naught be able to say what I really want to…

Is there anything else, Athena?  Before you get to the really essential and brilliant stuff~ the stuff that’ll make you millions?  I thought there was, but I can’t think of it now… I’m getting better at not spending money.  Should I give up coffee?  I SHOULD… but will I?  That’d cut out so much.  Fuck, I don’t want to talk about such stupid shit.  The world is just really fucked right now.  Everyone is feeling it.  Everyone is afraid.  How do we find God in the midst of this?  God… I want so badly not to want God so badly.  I SO want to say “I don’t care one way or the other about the existence of that infinitely benevolent jerk-off in the sky”… (I think there’s a word for that= agnostic) but I can’t shake it.  I can’t deny my knowing.  I was successful lying to myself for about a good, solid week, and it felt like a honey moon.  I was free from the identity called “spiritual”, which has gotten me so much exquisite mileage all along my arduous journey as Dawn Athena so and so.  (I’ve gotta write a piece about my name… or lack thereof.  I am craving an open season of unabashed wrath towards my torturously force-fed sir name.)  I am starting to feel into the difference between the identity facet of “spiritual” and the essential facet of spiritual.  I don’t have to cling to mental images of what it is to be spiritual, and work really hard to show up according to those, in order to get love.  I can be my self, FREE, and even “unspiritual” by some standards.  “Endarkened”.  Inappropriate.  Dense, angry SELFISH, attached, arrogant, entirely human… and I’ll STILL be spiritual.  The best way I can describe it is Peppy LePew.   Every where he went, his ass wafted with those cartoonish tendrils of steamy stink.  And he was completely oblivious.  He just went about his [radically romantic] business in an oblivious and ultimately free manner.  But it was entirely common knowledge that he fuckin stunk like a skunk.  Period.  He didn’t have do lift a finger, or a skunky claw, or even a woo-worthy eyebrow.  He just stinks.

And I am an ambassador of the Divine.  No point in fighting it.  It is a high honor, and I admit, that I have not fully grown in into it.  I have been a spoiled, two thirds unconscious sword-wielding baby… but that’s okay.  It’s gotta be okay, because I didn’t know any better.  These cursed vows of forgetfulness get me every time.  And trust me, they’re SUPPOSED to!  (I got distracted, because I am at guerilla café, and apparently it’s the dish washer Yuesef’s birthday, because the staff busted out this absolutely beautiful cake for him, and we all sang… that’s how I discovered his name is Yeusef.  I felt resistant to being disturbed, as though all the beautiful, chaotic humanity was a threat to my existence.  But for some reason it felt like it was, (I’m no longer at Guerilla, so present tense fades to past…) because not only was there an icy chill in the air, and the room a little too dim, giving a dingy cast to everything, and the jazz music turned up more than a little too loud, but the copious amount of staff outnumbered the customers, about three point seven to one, so that I felt more like I’d stumbled into a reality t.v. show about a tight knit group of workers at the hippest, greenest, artsiest, culturalest café in Berkeley.  Then the metaphorical cake got frosted when they played some funk-happy birthday song, blaring loud enough to be more salty lemon juice in the gaping wound of my accidental and misplaced sensitivity… and one of the two very well kept, very white, very Berkeley women flung herself out of her seat (she had already tried to announce that HER birthday was in fact YESTERDAY, but nobody had responded to her self important news flash…) and began to boogie like a stiff though admirably expressed “wild woman” over fifty.  I was glad she was having fun, living life fully AND I was embarrassed for her, AND I was annoyed because I just wanted to exist in the peaceful oasis of my own psychic cubicle, and WRITE.  But I guess I picked the wrong location for that.  So there I was, wanting to embrace the impregnated to bursting present moment, and having to fight myself and my noble, very legitimate ambition to do so.  Before the self reflective mechanism kicked in, I experienced the discrepancy as static, but then I saw myself, and it became a source of lightly twisted amusement.

So what was I saying?  God?  Oh, lord, I dunno.  God is unknowable.  At least to date, It is.  That used to kill me.  That gaping, unsightly chasm between the Divine and Real Life.  Dream.  Nightmare.  Right.  Wrong.  I spent so much time and energy yearning for an experience of ascension.  Yearning for an Etheric yet somehow tangible God to lift me up and carry me, wilted, beaten and beautiful, into skyward heaven.  But that doesn’t seem to be on god’s radiant, pulsing agenda.  What DOES God have in mind for Miss Athena?  Oh, ya know, the basic human one oh one stuff.  Working thru challenges in relationships, learning to fully see and be seen, be and be been…  God seems pretty bent on me getting the survival game down to a bloody, pulpy, blessed science.  (and God, I WILL, mkay mutha fucka?!?!?  Just you watch and learn…)

See, there it goes again!   I don’t even WANT to talk about stupid old God.  I feel so desperate when I do.  Because all these finite and conceptual dingle berries cling to the word God for dear life, and it makes me want to puke.  Everything makes me want to puke these days.  I regret to say, that I can’t talk about the blasted Heavenly Father (or the Divinest of Mothers) right now.  I want to find new ways of communicating the reverberating and highly mystical essence of all life.  This Intelligence, this Being, is occurring as intense pressure that is a forceful insistence for me to be in my body.  Be ENGAGED in what IS.  What truly IS, (which is a tricky one, because as a luminous-bodied creator, I am constantly impacting and shaping the Isness…)  What truly IS?  Well… Do I really want to go there right now?  Only if I can do it HELLA skillfully.  Soberly.  What IS?  Well, what IS, is that I am compelled to be a writer.  And I am inspired to put the entire weight of my being behind this dream, this goal, this sacred vision in a way that I have not yet engaged.

I have always known that I’m a powerful son of a bitch.  Duh.  But I have not felt compelled to channel my power into any one thing.  Hence the self-imposed title of a spoiled, two thirds unconscious, sword-wielding baby.  (Nicole Daedone once called me a spiritual rich girl… which comes close)  But now, as his lordship Saturn returns, and Pluto transits over my first house, there is a summoning.  My twenties seemed pointless, painful, ambiguous and generally a waste, but it turns out they have not been.  On paper, for sure they have… but in the realm of Soul, I have been in boot camp training as though my life depended on it, which is actually debatable… but it was what it was, and I am becoming who I am becoming, and I am delighted with the woman that is (arduously slowly) revealing herself to me.

Oh, alright, you asked for it!  I’ll tell you “what is”…  what is, is Athena alone in her three hundred and seventy eight dollar (and eighty three cent!) bedroom, sitting in bed, blasting the space heater for warmth, on this bay area “cold” evening of December third, two thousand and eight.  The edge of Athena’s ache is benevolently softened by a glass of red wine, and a bowl of hot brown rice porridge topped with a delicious combination of, and listen closely, because you DO want to try this at home!… I’m gonna get “Like Water for Chocolate” on your azz for a minute, okay?  This is gonna be a heart wrenching, prize winning story turned recipe book for a moment, okay?

So warm a sturdy little skillet, and then add pecan pieces.  Hell, cover the entire bottom of the blessed skillet with the sweet, tender, oily little suckers.  You can use walnuts, too if you prefer.  Oooh!  Or macadamia nuts might be epic and miraculous!  Anyway, toss them around a bit with a spatula, so that they don’t burn, but rather toast evenly.  Keep the heat at a higher version of low.  After about a two minutes of tossing, add some very finely shredded coconut.  About half as much as you did nuts… toss it all around, so that the coconut can catch up with the nuts.  (shouldn’t take long, since the coconut is so fine…) add a dash of [gourmet] salt, and then a generous pour of [grade B] maple syrup.  Keep tossin’ the party around, so that everything gets mixed around together, and all of the skillet diving crew can share in the alchemical love of the maddening heat.  Actually, just turn the fire off at this point, and just let the remnants of heat do the remainder of the dirty work.   You should have a toasty, (but not burned) sticky, cohesive blob of sweet, salty, coco-nutty goodness at this point.  Oh, and once the fire is off, you might want to dash in some cinnamon, nutmeg, and MAYBE even cayenne pepper…(the cayenne might create caustic fumes in the kitchen that’ll make you choke, but trust me, a little uncontrollable choke around the block is a small price to pay for this uncharted delicacy.)  But it’s also fine to be a purist, and leave it simple.

I guess if we were REALLY playing “Like Water for Chocolate”, the recipe would be more wrought with emotion.  But I was too busy stuffing my face with this divine comfort food, while my half full (half empty?) glass of wine winks and glimmers at me, promising a soothing and emotionally subdued, though maybe still lonely, evening.  Besides “Like Water for Chocolate” has already been written.  This is “I could have done a better Job”, and that considered, I think the evening, and the writing is unfolding with eerie perfection.  I almost want to utter that vomitous G-word thru my rebellious though desperate little finger tips, but I won’t, because in the long run, it will only serve to get my panties all twisted up, and the nuts and porridge and wine in my stomach at odds with each other.

“What is”… Who knew it was such a loaded topic?  Who knew it could get so tangible and embarrassing and so text book “unspiritual”???  There is a lot to be said for our intimidating friend, “what is”.   What is, is that I feel lonely still, thru the wine and the food… and I want to run to Mykael and be held and loved just as I am.  I want to nestle into the cloud-soft folds of his downy bed, entwine my body purposefully with his, and nestle in together to a frivolous and secure evening of The Office viewing.  (after I have digested for at least forty five minutes, of course)  But instead, I am sitting at home, alone in my very imperfect housing situation, which hopefully I will soon write about, so that this most comically imperfect of realities, of life slices, will not go lost forever, buried deep like a secret bone for hard times that may come, but irony of ironies, the bone still goes eternally forgotten.

But running to my man is all too familiar.  It falls in the category of “great taste, less filling syndrome”.  It’s ultimately not who I want to be in relationship.  I want to be someone who intimately meets herself in all circumstances.  I want to be a woman who can stand strong in the face of her storms, and it is from that place, she embraces her man.  You see, I don’t always have to stand strong, I just have to know that I can and will, and then I can fully surrender to my man, not because I HAVE to, but because I choose to, because it is natural, and sexy and feels delicious.  But still I want to have won a fair number of wrestling matches with my own soul, before I surrender to his.  Lift this discussion off of the linear grid, though, because it just doesn’t work like that.  I don’t win six wrestling matches with the Maha Me-ness and THEN reward myself by surrendering to Mykael.  It is a simultaneous effort, like time before the advent of the continuum.  All layers are playing out more or less at once, except we are not allowed to know that here in time-space-land.

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