November 15th, 2008

Today is the autumn day that would give an autumn day a run for its money.  Hell, it’s an autumn day that would give Muhumud Ali a wild ride.  It’s the exact kind of day when Mary Poppins rode into town, way back in the day.  In fact, if I’d have kept my gaze trained skyward, I’m sure I would’ve seen many a token governesses arriving to work their via their magic umbrella.

When Mykael and I first met, I told him with stalwart conviction that I did NOT like the wind.  He said he loved it.  Hence we began a tally of the top ten ways we are different.  But as I was out, merged with the blustery, dry morning, stirring with nature’s fire-colored confetti of death and decomposition, my ipod spewing hard, pumping beats pounding at the invisible reaches of my awareness, reminiscent of tribal meat pounding rituals, I gave myself quite a sobering surprise to realize that I might not BE who I was yesterday.  I might actually be enjoying the wind today.  Seven twenty AM, another crystalline day on the rise, and the gentle violence of the wind was only seducing me to fall apart.  To let go and be redistributed in the random, whimsical perfection of nature.  This dragon-esque wind, indeed rearranged my weather preferences.  I wonder what ELSE she displaced, shuffled.

I have to change the subject, for but a moment… will I ever get published with impulsive writing behaviors like this?  Is there any appetite for a writer with a mind so disorganized and free?  I know, I know, I can hear you, hand on hip, furrowed brow, “Duh, Athena, what do you think EDITORS are for???”  …I guess I have a desire for there to be a calling, an appetite for this kind of sincere randomness.  But what I was needing to “get off my chest”, was the great stress I feel when I pack myself a nut butter and jelly-jam sandwich, and inevitably, HALF of the good stuff, especially the nut splooge, insists on squirting out the sides, lost to the foily oblivion, from which I do my best to resurrect it upon completion of my journey into the mind-bending world of the sandwich.  Would somebody please invent an alarm system, so that the oozing, nutty goodness would think at least twice before slipping with sensual rebellion out the sides of its bready boundary?

Thank you for letting me get that off my chest.  Now, Athena, is there more to say about autumn wind?  Well, I wonder what ELSE I might have IDEAS about that are not truly accurate reflections of my inner state.  God, I’m afraid that’d be most things.  “Inner state”.  That’s a treacherous precipice to climb.  Or a slippery sandwich to endeavor to ingest.  What is my inner state, anyway?  Is it the ecstatic birth right of peace and bliss that enlightened masters adamantly insist dwells somewhere in me, where the sun don’t shine?  Funk that.  For the sake of argument, let’s just say that it’s my immediate feeling/preference, opinion in any given moment.

Relationship.  Let’s revisit that seventy nine headed beast, shall we?  Today I see relationship as an invitation to continuously step into being the best.  There is some really intense energy happening right now.  Gawd.  I am at the Arete Experience.  Taking a break.  I feel afraid.  Maybe part of it is just not being outside all day.  Florescent lights~ they are NOT my friends.  Relationship.  Why bother?  To be deeply known and held.  Fuck.  I don’t know where I am, right now, but it is not on the page.  Maybe I don’t want to talk about relationship.

I want to talk about what I have at stake in serving on production here.  What’s at stake for me is letting go.  Letting go of old ways of being/relating to work, to my value, to serving, to time.  I need to get my fucking act together.  Ahhh.  There.  I am feeling myself land NOW, tears, rage and all.  My home is at stake, too.  I have been asked to leave my house, and have been continuously paralyzed since.  What have I done to forward myself, propel myself into the next scene?  Well, I’ve started taking 5HTP.  So I haven’t been fixating on wishing I was dead.  I actually feel hope.  I actually believe that I can do it.  Writing has been life saving.  Although THIS particular writing feels awful.  I am writing, thinking I will NEVER get published if THIS is all that’s coming out of me.  But I’m gonna take the stance that this needs to come out to make room for the next wave of poetic brilliance.  Every time I press “control s”, I cringe, like “this sludge should NOT be saved… I’ll just have to go back in and throw it out later.  What a waste.  Okay, I am totally in an unproductive loop.

But when I see people in their processes, I realize how far I have come.  How much space I DO give myself to BE.  But what about in regards to work?  How much space do I have there?  God, I am so fucking stumbly and fumbly and human.  And ANGRY.  Ahhh, there’s the anger again.  Good.  I think that’s the entry point to my success.  The next step.  I have been so resigned.  So collapsed.  I want to harness this fire, and let it be the bow for my arrow.  I have really been into the bow and arrow metaphor these days.  It’s the sharp, penetrating precision.  Focus.  My context for this weekend is “fierce, focused Lover”.  And that’s about the quintessence of who and how I want to be in my life.  I want to be an unapologetic heavy weight.  (different than a fat person, okay, so don’t get any ideas…)  I want to be someone that will occasionally intimidate others with my bold, unapologetic intensity and depth.  And I want to not only be a-ight with that, I want to SAVOR it.  Ewwwe.  I hate being in this little claustrophobic room, with no natural light.  And will I EVER be enough?  And I’ve been fucking sitting on my god fearing ass all fiddle-stickin day.  I want to kick and punch and dance.  This is not a novel.

Okay, can I just get all of this out of my system?  Here are all the reasons why I will NEVER succeed~  Ahhhh, I’m so ANGRY.  I will never succeed because I am constipated… which means that I am holding too much in.  I don’t feel powerful or beautiful.  I actually feel immense discomfort in my belly.  I don’t want to be seen or felt.  I feel repulsive.  That’s the essence of it for me.  So I feel that sensation of fullness, of stagnant, bloated despair, and I don’t want to just BE with it, so I go into this frenetic reactive space around it.  Try to figure out all these tactics to survive this discomfort.  (God, this music is so beautiful.  It is the Lee Combs DJ set from Burning Man, 2007.  There are so many fucking layers to it and the base line is so hard.  Perfect for me right now~ that HARD fuck.  Not only do I want to receive the hard fucks, I want to BE the hard fucker.  But then, on top of all this rough, gritty penetration, there are various lighter, less dense textures of sound that seduce and suck off.)

FUCK.  I am so fucking PISSED.  Ahhhh.  Is it just being at the course that’s bringing all of this up for me?  God, I renounced you last week, but then I realized that that was inauthentic bullshit.  I am feeling like such an emotional tangle.

November 14th, 2008

If enlightenment is a spiral staircase, stretching from Infinity to Beyond, and each of us are ascending it with gracious, casual strides, feigning fear and attachment, just for the sheer bang of it…  Stop.  Right now.  Yes, just pause and check it out!  Where ARE you?  Where the fuck do you think you’re going?   No doubt, just where you belong… but do you remember, that you belong RIGHT HERE?  This rung, on this ladder… would you believe me if I told you this hovering moment, on this sacred rung… contained the entirety of the meaningless though entirely meaningful song and dance of Life?

Can I go there?   Can I become an exquisite little hummingbird, hovering, hungry and determined, yet entirely poetic and sensual around this bombshell flower of an enigmatic, black hole of a topic?  Dare I wet my lips of the eternally cascading, elusive and even clichéd nectar of the inquiry of the meaning of Life?  Yes!  I can do whatever I want, because this is my universe, right here, right now, and I make the rules! I am the lone rider of the popular vote.  I just thought about riding votes, because Mykael drove me home this morning, THIS MORNING!!!!  This morning was the poster child of crystalline.  This morning puts all other expressions of clarity, precision, miraculous manifest to shame.  SHAME.  But I will come back to that after I tell you about the horses.  We drove past Golden Gate Fields, as we entered the freeway.  This secret world of mythical equine beauty, tainted with exploitation and the understated shadows of humanity.  A cyclone fence, laced with anonymity inducing slats.   (Athena, babe, you’re gonna have to back off on the seizing attachment to being perfectly, poetically articulate right now… It’s causing quite an unsightly back up of expression.)  So there we are, merging onto the freeway, and me, entirely captivated, the way children are~ absorbed in the most yogic state of enwondered presence.  Athena Fixated Grace Heavenly-Body [Lazzeri].  My hungry eyes, glued to the fence, which is barely see-through.  The slatted cyclone fence causes the illusion of a reality formed entirely by shadow play.  Sillouhettes of solid, graceful power, in the form of thorough bred horses.  Most of them, jockeyed along at the laziest speed of canter.  I peer into this world behind the fence, and feel as though I am seeing into another dimension, entirely.  I feel like I am blessed with a hyper-sacred sight.  Behind the slatted fence, their motion is revealed to me as though it were a flip book.  As though it were a spontaneously combusting disco strobe light dance of equine grace.

As I drink of this incredible beauty, I can not distinguish what sets these beasts apart from myth.  What is the difference between a horse and a unicorn,…but a single horn.   A horse from a Pegasus?  …Just a pair of measly, pearlescent wings.  As far as I’m concerned, I peered into the Great Beyond this morning.  The great beyond the slatted cyclone fence.  This world we inhabit IS myth, and myth IS the world.  We are the angels and the demons, the deities we exalt and fear.

Ahem… Is THAT the meaning of life?  No way, Jose, I haven’t gotten to that juiciest of parts yet.  Because, I have to tell you of the crispness, in which the world revealed it’s self to me.  Yes, the world was a beggar, throwing its fragile, precarious, highly imperfect beauty at my feet!  It has been said by the torchy-jazz league of America that on a clear day, you can see forever.  Well fuck that.  I did NOT see forever on THIS clear day.  I saw just the bay area.  And yes, One could argue that in its most  pristine demonstration of Being, this morning, if One were to look hard enough, might be just able to make out the rough outlines and brutish whispers of a notion named Forever.  But trust me, just let it be enough that I SAW the bay area.  Let it be enough, too that I saw the ever so slightly deflated moon.  WAS it the moon, or had a very large, high society angel just spent a wild, irreverent night partying the way most people mistakenly assume only demons can get down, stumbled home thru the pale, ecstasies of dawn, across the bottomless dance floor of the sky, and still slightly drunk, the crystalline, stiletto heal of one of her regal shoes catches on a stray spray of spiraling galaxy, and she takes a spill that would give milk a run for it’s money.  A tough run… Her pearl necklace snags on a shooting star, and the large, moony pearls scatter, bounce about the multitude  of worlds in which she exists, and one, particularly large, smooth, round one rolls to a stop, right in our very own burning, baby blue sea of prayer-smoothed oblivion.

Mostly, though, what hijacked my eyes, kept them in a playful though intimidating head lock, was the bay.  I wish I could tell you it was “blue”, like my simpleton interpreter of a mind tried to tell me, but my soul’s vision knew better.  This bay was blue, but it was beyond blue.  It was beyond prismatic, full spectrum white.  It was the keeper of holy secrets that are strictly uttered in indecipherable flirtatious whispers.  It was pussy-sloshing harp music as played by the quintessence of autumn morning on water.  It was that shimmerine, fleeting window of epic pleasure, right before spilling over the edge of a Niagara Falls-caliber orgasm.  If God could gasp without actually making a sound…  The bay, spreading out like a vast, glowing carpet in my dream mansion that exists in the Heaven that those good olde Samaritans, the Christians tell of… A carpet spun of the innocent wishes of children.

My defenses were down.  I was just emerging from the birth canal of a ragged six hours of sleep.  I was still recovering from the most intimate fuck of my entire existence this embodiment around the dizzying human block.  (Which, by the way, MIGHT just BE the meaning of life~ chasing the perfect fuck.  Do you see me winking?)  (every time a bell rings… Athena gets her wink on!)  I’m gonna be brazen and jump tracks, because through out the course of this writing, I have indeed been on the prowl for the bottom lined, unapologetic core of the purpose of intimate partnership.  And I think I am getting closer.

I wonder~ how I can EVER, possibly write erotica, when I am entirely satisfied, to be thrust beastially into the missionary position, penetrated by my Beloved, and fucked OPEN, and opener and opener.  Because I love Mykael, like I have never loved another, because I trust Him with my life and my soul, I offer my body to him as pure feminine effulgence.  I surrender my orgasm to his command, further and further dissolving into the sentient, holy penetration of his cock.  (Suddenly I got self conscious, worried that someone would read this over my shoulder… what would that mean about me?  That I’m DIRTY?  Inappropriate?)  He took me to the edge… well, okay, I must admit that I intermittently worked, squeezed, sucked his cock off with my ravenous pussy muscles, in order to attain these sky scraping heights of pleasure.  (I worked a little too hard, by my insurmountable standards).  In the perfect story of the most sublime love making of the most x-rated rendition of Shiva and Shakti, I would have opened into completely surrendered fullness sooner… instead of contracting to get to a specific intensity and quality of sensation.  But alas, there we were, bathing in this most exquisite little pocket of paradise.  Primordial sounds were stirring from deep in the previously uncharted waters of my womb, cascading out of me, with involuntary innocence.  A state of pure Grace.  And, too, my motions came from the hallowed state of pure impulse.  When my mind stood up at the podium to speak, all it did was direct me to give myself over once again, to the artful, heart-full command of this man-stand-in-for-God.  Over and over again, I offered my heart, my pleasure, the well spring of the poetry that is Athena.  He penetrated my poem with his entirely trained, restrained fountain of a pen.  He co-authored the flood of poems that spilled in a casual and ecstatically screaming stream from my Meaning of Life.

November 13th, 2008

I asked Mykael again yesterday if I could kiss Hugh when I saw him today for yoga.  Juvenile?  Yes… Powerless?  Sure.  In Desire with a capital D?  Absolutely. (with a capital A)  When I posed the wiggly, wormy question, I anticipated awkwardness and closure.  When it came, when Mykael offered his stance, “I don’t have an answer for you right now,” it was indeed delivered with disconnection and a stale, hollow air of dissatisfaction.  I was NOT satisfied in the least.  “I” as played by the spoiled little five year old in me, whose mother never gave her a taste of what it is to hear the word, “no”.  I replied with a flippant, attitude infested, more teenage reply.  Mykael snapped like a mouse trap.  No, not quite that dramatic.  More like an old, wise tortoise.  At first, I thought, “Fine, who cares, I can totally play the bitchy, childish, tit for tat game.”  But that got boring and unsatisfying after about four minutes, and I invited him to connect with me and get clear.

In that space, he was able to articulate his feelings beyond what he had had conscious access to, up until that very moment!  Though it took me a while to catch up and realize this, once I did, his perspective was actually quite revelatory.  He asked me what it would serve, kissing Hugh.  How would it impact him, Hugh’s Missus, even Hugh.  He reflected to me that I am very powerful in my seduction, that my radiance weakens men, even Hugh.  He used the example of Maha, as well.  As he was sharing this with me, my ears perked up,  “REALLY?!?!”  My face did one of those blasted smiles that cuts in, takes over, without my control or agreement, displays my raw delight, right on my sleeve~ a place that feels too embarrasingly vulnerable for me sometimes.

So there I was, accosted by my own smile.  And he affirmed, that yes, indeed, I AM that sexy, seductive, powerful… and potentially dangerous.  What would a kiss be in service of?  ME… and THEN what?  And then what, indeed.  I sat with the aftermath of the conversation for a few golden moments, and as I turned it about, rolled it around my eager, sensitive palate, I recognized that it was a pretty big deal that I was able to actually HEAR Mykael.  In the past, I have been so attached to getting my way, a communication like that NEVER would have been able to make its way much past three feet in front of my thick, stuffy skull.  What was different?  Well, for one thing, Mykael was different.  He didn’t make his response about HIM.  It didn’t come from a place of his own insecurities, fears or shallow self interest.  (Believe me, he has PLENTY of all three of those things.  And I’ve met the sniveling little boy-man who speaks from those places enough times to smell Him from a hand full of galaxies away.)   As the wisdom settled to the bottom of my being for continued digestion and integration, I acknowledged to him that he had gotten thru to me.  He told me that he had been surprised to realize that I was not aware of my feminine power.  New wires continued to connect inside me.

As I’ve continued to feel into this topic since then, I recognize that I have held on to the awkward, ugly duckling self that I was in high school~ cursed with an infestation of devastating and painful acne, a “victim” of violent incongruity between my inner and outer world, sexually clueless, eager, clumsy, full of shame “and the list goes on, a day dream long”, as the galactically renowned poet, Dawn Athena Grace Kourage so eloquently and accurately, once stated.  Beyond that, my personal FAVORITE cross to bear is my very own mother’s relationship to her sex.  Actually, her lack of relationship to her sex would be a much more accurate way to state it.

What did I learn from my mother about being a woman?  Well, I know that I have had a more than occasional recurring feeling of dire discomfort, awkwardness and shame as a result of being in, feeling my body.  Embarrassment and shame.  Clumsy.  Like “don’t you DARE ask me to DANCE, or in any way express the luminous divine feminine thru my body right now, or I will actually die!”  Which is odd, coming from me, who’s honest to goodness essence IS that radiance.  Talk about a schizophrenic disconnect!   What a stellar awakening!   What an absolutely powerful invitation to let go, to invoke healing of my very own blood.  I want to talk about this more.  I want to book mark this place, so that I can come back and explore all that I feel I have inherited from my mother.  As I round the corner, head into my Saturn-bloody-return, this is massive time of letting go.  Shedding former skins, releasing my parents’ obsolete ways, unconscious social conditioning, blind reactions to old wounds.  It is a time for me to recognize, refine, claim the truth of who I am.  Athena.  Athena is…

What could be available as I move into a gracious ownership of my feminine power and influence?  More than I can yet recognize… I imagine this sacred shedding and becoming will be a sideways, back door route to all the amazing realms and experiences I am destined to dance in.  Will my deeper recognition of myself impact my leadership?  My confidence?  My teaching of yoga, writing or anything else I am called to offer?  Even just the moment to moment way that I engage with others… Yes, yes and YES!  What about my willingness to have all that I desire?  Ahhh, Desire.

Let’s take a pit stop along this holy road to nowhere in particular that we are meandering down, for the base pleasure of exploration for her own sake.  Desire.   Fuck.  Forget it.  Too daunting.  Makes me want to edit my words, say the mother fucking RIGHT THING.  Uh-oh, here come the “mother fucks”.  Time to call in back up!:  “The ferocious, demonic, ironfisted ruler of the land of Say the Right Thing has accosted me, is currently holding me hostage and raping my innocent, helpless guts out.”  (That was a substitute for “mother fucking”… WOW… I’m starting to have my doubts about this gratuitous mother fuck business.   I might just be way too creatively brilliant to collapse into that shiny seduction of the queen of linguistic cop-outs…)

I wonder, though, what it would be like, to live my life courageously connected to, and in service of my Desires…  I hear Mister Devil’s Advocate interject that maybe I already AM.  Fuck.  This is boring.  I’m feeling way too much resistance to have any fun exploring that.  My words are getting more constipated by the second.  My mind is feeling like hardening concrete, and the thoughts are freezing their way into fossil candidates, who might be discovered in the abandoned rubble littering the groundlessness, long after the final destruction of the multiverse.

************************************************************************

Tell the story of the rock rolling down the seemingly endless mountain of life…

Once upon a time, there was an immense, jagged, unwieldy rock, named Athena.  Too, there was a seemingly endless mountain, called Life.  Athena the rock yearned to become so smooth, and so round.  So threw herself down Life’s ever so steep precipice, and began to clumsily roll.  She rolled and rolled and rolled down Life’s sometimes craggy scapes.  Over the jagged peaks of time, she began to become rounder and smoother and rounder and smoother.  And, too, smaller and smaller.  So she rolled.  Time passed, and Athena the rock continued to build momentum, and grow smoother and rounder and smaller.  After many revolutions of the earth around the sun, and the moon around the earth, she became so small and so round and SO smooth, that with an anticlimactic “poof”, she was entirely dissolved.  No longer did Athena the rock roll down the mountain called Life, longing to be perpetually rounder and smoother.  The End.

I came up with that story today, after yoga with Hugh, because he said we had to do something about my filthy mouth.  (I was still riding the “Fuck Pony”)  I took his comment seriously, and asked him if it was true.  Would I be a “better person” (I believe those were the words that I used) if I swore less, mounted that nasty equine with more discernment and restraint?  He hugged me, and said I was a great person.  But I persisted.  I really wanted to know.  Right now, I feel like such an eager student, stalking the holy refinement of my character.  I want to show up as a powerful leader.  Someone who will be listened to.  A weighty, substantial presence.  (Time out~ I just felt my mom.  So clearly.  She so clearly entered my space and said “hello”.  In that moment, I entirely tasted the truth as it exists beyond time and space.  There was no gap, no separation and no doubt.  She was inside me, and her presence rose up and broke like a wave on the shore of my awareness.   Wow.  Hi, Mom.  Time in…)  I told Hugh that it did not matter that I was already perfect, because I still strove to become even MORE perfect, and I knew I ALWAYS would.  That’s just my nature.  And I felt so right in that.  I don’t want to become more perfect because I am not already perfect and whole and all that significant mumbo jumbo… I simply want to become ever more refined, because that is my way.  And then, all at once, that story flooded me, as metaphor, and I recounted it to him with satisfaction that spread thru my invisible inner scapes, like the Cheshire cat’s wide, cocky grin.

My next topic, which I will merely book mark now, and really address tomorrow, is the epiphany that I was graced with around relationship, just a couple of hours ago.  It landed all at once, like an “of course”… I felt that there is a certain potency, ease, depth, to the relationship between Mykael and I.  A revelatory, profound (and profane) ISness.  And it is a GIFT.  I felt that our epic and highly nourishing relationship is a Means, not an End.  Think of a warrior.  A warrior shows up for battle with a sword, a shield, some bitchin’ armor.  Our relationship is a necessary tool an ally for each of us in fulfilling our respective (and collective) purposes in this incarnation.  Our relationship is the bow, from which we may launch our divine arrows (and eros).   From that perspective, I feel an invitation not to fester in the gritty details of the relationship, but to rest back, surrender into the relationship as a container, a power source for purpose, for Being with a capital B.  I feel the invitation to give thanks and treat it with reverence.  To use it as a bindu- a center point to gather into, before expanding out, as light, across the universe.  To be continued.

November 11th, 2008

Is it necessary to walk thru this portal of fear? Didn’t talk to Mykael yesterday, and today, at ten nineteen am, I feel so utterly alone. It doesn’t help that the sky is so gray, and there is a lone fly buzzing around this clattery, baggy café. I am realizing that I resent Mykael for not taking care of me. I want him to say, “Athena, come here, baby, I’ve got you. Put down your struggle and rest into my masculine support.” What are relationships FOR, if not for my man to take care of me? Time to get real. Time to hunker down and bring the unconscious conscious… painful as it may be. Dawn engaged in relationship to be taken care of. Why does Athena choose to be in relationship? What does she want? What does she need? Why does she bother? Is it for the sex? For the boundaries?

I keep stumbling over my clumsy, needy self. I am shadow boxing with an unrelenting desperation to be held emotionally and even more despicable, to be constantly entertained. I engage from this need-infested space, feel repulsed by it, and then pull way back, close off and become unhealthily autonomous with an undercurrent of obliterating loneliness. I feel almost perpetually disappointed by Mykael.  He mostly refuses to fill me, fulfill me, lick and cleanse my deep, gaping wound of loneliness.

I know that’s God’s job. My job.  To open, and with every breath, receive the love that is always here.  If it is love that made me, why do I mostly feel so hollow?  I don’t want to feel so hollow. Empty. Alone. I feel so afraid. And I deeply yearn to stand up in my life and feel powerful, inspired, free… or even just okay. And especially grateful.

Why choose relationship?  There is a loose, rusty idea rattling around in me, that says relationship is the ultimate spiritual path~ an alchemical container of gradual awakening and soul purification. An opportunity for continuous growth. But isn’t that always true of life?  Yes… if that’s what one intends. Love. Is it about Love? It’s the practice of loving in the darkness and the light. Loving when it’s not comfortable, natural or easy. Ahhh, that struck something deep. Made me want to text Mykael right away. I have been resisting reaching out to him. Why? I’m not quite sure. My behavior is five twelfths in the light, sixteen thirty thirds in the dark. And I am here, on the page this morning as a midwife~ to birth my actions and feelings more fully into the light, so that I may choose, rather than being played by my shadow (although that does sound pretty linguistically sexy…).

I can feel the punisher in me. She is involved in this delicate equation. She is angry. Angry and resentful at the world. At feeling stuck, uncertain, unloved. Fuck. That’s some toxic and dangerous bullshit to be run by. Seriously. But swirled in with that, is my Warrioress self. I am exploring my independence. What does it feel like to choose solitude in moments when I feel most needy and afraid? It’s like going to the gym. Building the muscles that will hold me through anything.  Remember my wholeness, even in moments of searing discomfort. Can I choose this path with an open heart? Because as it stands, I feel like I am being bullied into it by awful feelings that I can’t control. Who is Mykael, when not shrouded by my deep-seated need, expectation, resentment?  That’s a potent motivation for relationship~ the commitment to continuously discover and reveal another as a whole, independent and fascinating creature. And encountering myself this way too. Maybe relationship is an opportunity to keep dancing on the precarious edge of individual fulfillment and compromise, finding equal freedom in both realms. Serving and being served.

Tears are pooling in the invisible realm that loosely and tenderly swaddles my heart. I wish I could completely lose it, no matter where I was, or who was there… I have so much grief. Why do I have so much grief? Do I want to bother answering that? Yes. I don’t want to get lost there, but I want to remind myself where I have come from, so that I can grow in my compassion, self forgiveness and healing. Athena, sweetheart, look where the fuck you have come from. Bart and Susan. Look what you inherited cellularly from them. Bless their graciously tangled hearts. Two beings so contorted by pain, they never saw you in a way that had you recognize your beauty, perfection, wholeness, greatness.

Bart, who was emotionally volatile, selfish, reactive, impulsive. How often did he give you his word and stand in it? (Maybe a couple of times…) You never learned to trust. What would you say about men, if your dad was the prevalent model in that arena? Men are______? Men are self-absorbed, narsacistic, emotionally immature. Men are erratic and untrustable. Men are perpetually disappointing.

Susan. Oh, her immense, perpetually starving heart. You came into the world and from day one, were in charge of giving her the love that she was aching for. Her mother, your grandmother was CRAZY. Athena, C-R-A-Z-Y. Do you GET that? Your grandmother is crazy (paranoid schizophrenic, for the record). Imagine being the daughter of that. Would the world occur as safe? Fuck NO. Would the world occur as dangerous, unpredictable, punishing, conditional, cruel? That’s more like it. As a mother, Susan, (bless her massive, sincere heart) was hard working, perpetually in the red, running on the fumes of fumes, financially, emotionally. She often made promises she was not able to keep: mansions, horses, maids, dream vacations, a goddamn life style of the rich and famous. And then came one disappointment too many, and your trust in her word shattered beyond repair. Maybe I am being slightly dramatic, but I don’t trust her as far as I could throw her, which isn’t very far. I suppose she could earn my trust… if she gave me her word and delivered, come what may. When she tells me about all the books she’s gonna write, I just want to slap her fucking face. She is so gifted, visionary, creative, articulate… and yet COLLAPSED. She has no self discipline or belief in her own worth and gifts. Is that me? It is the image of me that I have been squashing myself inside of. And Athena is pissed about that. Athena, you are here, writing. Okay? Let that in. YOU ARE NOT YOUR MOTHER.

Complete this phrase, Women are______. Women are untrustable, disappointing, weak, liars, lack integrity. Women are incapable, needy, emotional suck-holes. Ahhhhh!!!!! I’m gonna pull my fucking hair out. Does that give you a little more room to navigate your current reality, Athena? We did not visit these realms so you could collapse into hate and victimhood. It was an opportunity to honor and bless where you have come from.  And graciously transcend it.

My heart aches. This writing has been torturously conceptual. Let’s take a three minute vacation to sensual, descriptive realms. As in orgasmic meditation, there are the up strokes, which take one higher, and the down strokes, which are firm and grounding. I have gotten pretty high in mental, emotional realms. What is right here, right now? There is indeed a world. A world indifferent to memory and heart ache. I see a man with fluffy, strawberry colored hair and a narrow, ruddy face, gorgeously absorbed in a book, devouring an almond biscotti. I imagine he is enjoying it immensely, but it doesn’t show.  Behind him, through a floor to ceiling window, a steady stream of traffic swims by on College Avenue. Tori Amos sings inside my ears. The album is Scarlet’s Walk. It is a particularly gentle album of hers, and the soft, swaying songs feel like being stroked by feathers. The café is almost full. So many lives, extending their embreathened tendrils thru time and space. This world of unceasing action often drives me crazy. A comical, manic flavor of crazy.  I thrust myself forward, because I must… laughing, fighting, cursing, crying all the way.

Ahem. Did that bring me down?  Debatable. And now for another excruciating upstroke:  who do I want to be, in the face of where I have come from? I want to break through the barriers of fear and need. I want to live a courageous, adventuresome life of service and unquenchable exploration. God, that sounds beautiful… but way too esoteric, Athena. Say something with undeniable gravity. I want to master integrity. I want to trust myself. When I commit to something, I want to know in my blessed bones I will see it through. How’s that for gravity?  It terrifies me. I want heavyweight-champion-caliber self discipline. Here I am, writing. Day eleven. And though I am no longer writing a novel, I am writing vulnerable, heartfelt words. Healing words.  I am deepening my relationship with myself. Carving out space Inside. Might they serve others, too? I would be ecstatic and fulfilled if I knew that my process, my devotion to honesty and depth could heal and free others, too.

God… who ever the fuck you are… Mighty Creator of Life and Death and ALL… God, please help me serve as a channel of healing light.  Inspire my words, that they may lift and bless others. Help me to act with strength, courage and integrity. Amen.

And what of relationship NOW?  From this place of understanding, forgiveness and prayer… I don’t know. Is it okay to rest in the “holy I don’t know”?  I want to know. But I mustn’t rush to fill this essential void of uncertainty… to avoid discomfort.  I will master the art of luxuriating in the space between.

Dec. 19th, 2008

Today I am going to write up a storm!   (My rule around cliché use, is that I must use them consciously, and RELISH the ridiculous frivolity they invoke in me…) “Write up a storm”!!  It IS a rainy day today… Although that devilish sun is trying to bust its way thru the clouds and cause a raucous sparkle about the pavement.  I wouldn’t consider it silver, as it can some times be… today it is more of a soft white-gold.  The morning glows with equal parts warmth and cold.  I think it’s a sign that its almost the solstice… oh, no, that’s the EQUINOX, when everything is equal…  tomorrow is the darkest day of the year, so if the pavement were a map, a mirror, a barometer of that, it would shine with an eerie midnight silver, like a particularly enchanted raven’s wings.

God, I LOVE writing so much!  It is entirely socially acceptable masturbation.  Except when I write about something that causes too much squirm in the masses… like masturbation? Too bad I don’t do that…  Anyway, is it okay to feel this fulfilled about life?  Yes, I know “about” was a queer word choice, but I stand in it fully and if you want to challenge me, step up, biotch!  Because there’s no way around it~ I feel entirely fulfilled ABOUT life when I am writing.  Writing and drinking caffeinated fantasticness.  Warm liquids that flood my mouth with a fantastic panoply of flavors and textures.  Foam thick as rabbit fur and dangerously well hung marshmallows.  But will I ever GET anywhere with my writing?  Will I ever be graced with enough coherency to drive at something substantial?  Maybe… but that is definitely not my impulse these days, so I shant go there.  And who am I to question how this river of Godness insists on pouring thru me?  Maybe all you linear fools NEED me to throw my monkey-wrenched-chaos-strewn word pies at you.  I am a vessel for language to make its inevitable and colossal leap from the severely chapped land of the linear, to the more mystically inclined realm of the unabashed SQUIGGLE.

I have been wearing the same outfit for three days.  Well, this is the third day, and it’s only nine thirty seven am, and I do plan to change as soon as I get home at ten thirty… but I want to exaggerate because it brings me pleasure.  It makes my existence seem more epic and substantial.  Plus, I feel embarrassed to admit that I would do something like this.  Although I don’t feel embarrassed to gush out my front door and into the river of Lila (divine play) and be witnessed in my greasy, grungy, all too comfortable and very soul satisfying expression of fashion (or lack thereof).  Nobody even notices, do they?  It’s embarrassing to admit that I fling off all my clothes, just before I flick off the light and dive into the sea of covers and dreams, and then at the crack of dawn, I slither right back into them, so that I can clamber sleepily out into the dark kitchen and rustle up my cup of coffee… And it is CERTAINLY none of your business, I repeat, NONE, that I sometimes even put on the same pair of panties.  FUCK, I am really on an embarrassment binge.  I bet one life lesson that maturation will provide is that there are some secrets that are meant to be kept… That’s why you’d better read my writings NOW, before I wise up.  Take advantage of my innocence and fragile, cracked ache to taste the experience of Truth and Freedom.  But I swear, I’m wearing fresh panties NOW… honest.  Ask ANYbody… And I really AM gonna change my clothes when I get home.

Fifteen more minutes.  What can I possibly write in fifteen more minutes?  Can it be brilliant?  Can I set myself free?  Can I absolutely let go into the flow of words, into the moment, and be revealed, naked, torn apart by the perfectly natural and descimationally inclined, alphabetistically poetic trade winds of inspiration?  YES!  I believe.  I offer myself to His Royal Highness, Creative Oblivion…

I finally gave notice at my job taking care of Nathan and Max.  I feel the angels throwing a very high-end and risqué party on account of this.  (I want to have karaoke at the Capricorn party… and lap dances… and Champaign and absinth…)  Can’t you hear those entirely etheric Champaign corks popping?  WHAT?  Something just clicked into place in an entirely outrageous fashion~ this WHOLE time, it’s been the Champaign corks of angels that have been stirring widespread, miscellaneous ruckus down here on earth!  Pay attention, you’ll see, and then you’ll feel as giddy and drunk as I do… But back to leaving my job.  It feels so essential to my integrity.  To my path.  And yet I haven’t fully rested into this undeniable rightness.  I have mostly been living in fear and guilt.  It’s way more fun to cling and worry, than swim in Grace’s overt intelligence!  When I told Kelly, I was expecting her to freak out and be [passive-aggressively] angry with me.  To my dismay (just kidding), she was a RIP TIDE of support and willingness!  And it was her reflection that had me recognize the purity and the potency of my inner compass.  I am following due north, after pretending that north was south-east for longer than I care to admit.  So unless my compass is totally busted, and perhaps the earth’s poles shifted covertly in the night, I am undeniably being moved by The Invisible Hand.  (The one that I am always begging spankings of…)  It’s a double edged sword to be moved by that hand, because it is mostly not in cahoots with our crippling, stiff friend, Linearity… But also, it is a wildly exhilarating experience to say YES to benevolent and inspired Impulse with a capital I.  (Not to be mistaken with impulse with a small i, by ANY means)…

Ladies and gentlemen, this concludes our fifteen minutes of raw, unbridled potency.  It is time to cast your votes~  Was it worth it?  Did I live up to my sky scraping standards of expression, divinity and freedom?  YOU BE THE JUDGE.

january 17th, 2009

Fuck.  I need more coffee before I can even HOPE to write anything brilliant.  On the phone just now, my mom compared my potential move to Flagstaff with Mykael to her move with my dad to RENO.  Gross.  It actually felt like a curse.  A curse.  But talking to her was a blessing.  Being her daughter is a blessing too, but blessings can sure be complicated.  It drives me crazy how oblivious she is to her emotional starvation.  It drives me crazy.

Right before she called, I realized that I could change my name to Athena Garland.  Garland.  Garlands are strands of flowers in praise and recognition of the divine.  Or maybe there can be garlands of prayers and blessings.  Garlands woven of community.  Athena Garland.  Athena Grace Garland?  Sure resonates a fuck-load more than Lazzeri.  Mykael has been driving me the fuck crazy on an all too regular basis.  I don’t know what to do with that.  I can’t breathe.  I smoked a clove last night.  After screaming at Mykael the way I have RARELY screamed at another human being.  It was that kind of screaming where NO amount of volume and force seems to be able to break thru the other’s sealed off bubble of stupidity.  I poured everything I am thru my scream, and He would not wake the fuck up.  It was about me feeling heard.  Very often I speak something that feels weighty to me.  That matters.  That impacts me.  And right away, he says something that is completely unrelated, off topic and stupid.  This time he said something about lighting up a cigarette.

Lighting up a fucking fag.  And I had just spoken a belated acknowledgement of how much I had been energetically holding all week while Kelly was gone.  Holding a BIG mommy space.  Holding the boys in a very emotionally coiled, challenging place.  Whoa.  I don’t want to be with him.  Fuck.  I think I need to be single.  I love him, but we don’t belong together.  I will become a sensual masseuse, as I attend community college classes, live alone in a studio, and make it entirely on my own.  Encounter all these young, wounded parts of myself alone.  I am not fucking sure.  He’s a good one.  In so many ways.  But I feel myself rejecting him like a phat splinter.  But after all our fighting last night, he requested to come inside (I was falling asleep in the midst of our conversation) and when he kissed me, it was electric.  Fucking electric.  He turns me on so much, and I can’t help but think it’s because we fight like we do.  Because we are such individuals.  But fuck, he drives me crazy.  I really want to take up smoking.

Athena Garland.  Athena Garland Lazzeri?  Fuck.  I can’t get into the groove with writing this morning.  I want to take ecstasy today.  That will solve all my fucking problems, won’t it?  I just want to smoke and smoke and smoke.  And I want to knit and knit and knit and take ecstasy.  I want to take ecstasy and mushrooms and G.  All is lost, isn’t it?  Because I feel like I could so easily go down that path.

You know what ELSE I want to do?  I want to study relationship.  Like at JFK university or something.

january 4th, 2009

I wonder how often they sweep the floor here at Hudson Bay… It’s always full of particularly disturbing debris.  Oooh, they are toasting a croissant!  I’m gonna declare these lusty moments of sweet, butter-drenched inhales affirmative whispers from our very own God Almighty.  Whenever I spot a lonesome balloon drifting through blue stratosphere, I imagine the angels are calling out to me, singing a soul-stirring choir of holy “hello Athena”.  And from now on, when I smell a croissant toasting… hmmm… I declare it evidence of my inevitable success and fulfillment!

Speaking of which, yesterday while riding BART, I tried to start up a conversation with Mykael around creating a conscious and powerful partnership in the next chapter of our unfoldment…  Because so far, it seems ambiguous.  I will leave for Ananda… and then somehow I will return and he will have a job and we will have a home and I will be doing SOMETHING with myself and my life and maybe making money… I brought up my desire for clear vision and alignment.  Almost immediately it came down to that I just need to have a vision and a life.  He seemed pretty fuckin clear about what he’s moving towards.  A nursing job and a new home (with me).   I look into the future, and I have no fucking idea what I want to do to make money.  All I know is that I want to write.  But I also want to make money.  What will it take to make money as a writer?  It will definitely take writing more interesting things than this stupid, remedial mind slog.

I wanted to say, “Babe, I want YOU to earn the money right now, and I want to write and take care of our home and cook for us and take art, dance and yoga classes.”  But does that seem fair?  I dunno if fairness is really at the epicenter of the considerations.  I think it’s more like is that viable?  Which it doesn’t really seem like it is.  We can’t have the lifestyle that we are looking towards on just his income.  I don’t think.  And I’m afraid to ask, because I feel wrong and terrifyingly vulnerable in my desire, and being rejected would absolutely suck, like being doused in skin decimating acid.  Just thinking about this subject makes me want to knock over my table and kick the shit out of everything in my path.

On New Year’s Eve, I declared in our midnight circle that what I want this year is to recognize my value.  Then, later, I was having a come-down-from-ecstasy moment and I took myself out to the balcony to smoke, and lo and behold, there was RosyMoon, doing the same thing!  Sucking a fag, that is…  So we bonded, and I felt the closest thing to peace that I had felt in like twenty minutes.  Her presence felt silken against my own gravely thrashed existence.  After some time, she offered to share with me the way that I impacted her.  Even though it felt like a jagged, dangerous edge to absorb what she had to offer, I concurred, and proceeded to breathe deep and carve out as much space as possible to receive her generous and sincere offering.

Her eyes became profoundly still, beaming with the luminous promise of deep, divine seeing.  Wide, brown moons… with twinkling stars at their vast centers.  She told me that I was magical.  Fuck, I just want to go back to bed.  I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.  I am putting so much pressure on myself to write the BEST words that ever lived, so that I can save my fucking desperate ass from this borderline poverty existence, this nanny job that is grinding my few remnants of integrity to cursed fairy dust.  Shit.  I DO NOT want to fall down this mine shaft right now… it’s just that I am having so many feelings.  It is the beginning of my period today, and my first day of writing in a number of days… hard to say precisely how many, because when I take ecstasy, days seem to vanish, unaccounted for… And I can’t exactly remember what Rosy said to me.  My mind is turning to bland mash, because this exercise feels dry and soulless and I want to eat a chocolate biscotti instead.  Oh, yeah, she told me that I am LUCID.  Magical and LUCID.  And OH YEAH, that I have this “heavy wisdom”.  It is so ancient and I have not grown into it, and she can recognize how frustrating it is for me to be so young.  My innermost Self always heaves an immense sigh of relief when another recognizes my excruciation at being so young.  Most people preach about how awesome youth is, and that I SHOULD enjoy it, and I say fuck them, because they have no fucking idea what a burden it is to cart this heavy-assed wisdom around everywhere… with a crippling inability to fully embody and express it.

Ahem, so she said this uncomfortable, unwieldily space I am in is essential to my journey.  Then she said she also sees my wounding.  She sees me “limping along”.  Suffering.  I felt both relieved and ashamed to be seen as wounded.  Limping…  I am limping along, aren’t I?  Is that the way it will always BE?  Who knows.  But now I just want to cry.  Mykael chose not to see me today, and it was jarring, because this is the first time EVER that I can remember that HE made that choice.  And I am bleeding and my heart extra aches and I feel more alone than ever.

Please don’t make me make sense right now.  All I want to do is cry and scream and kick everything over.  All I want to do is express and destroy.  Which somehow reminds me of the queerest bit of what Rosy said to me at the end of her confessional:  She said that what it will take for me to heal is LOVE.  And I realized that when I hear the word love, I feel lost and bitter and cynical.  LOVE.  That word is WAY over used, cheapened, exhausted.  It goes beyond “so five minutes ago”… It’s like five YEARS ago.  Five thousand lattes ago.  LOVE.  What does she mean?  I’ll have to ask her some day.  Right now, though, as I write about it, it only makes a silent stream of tears leak down my warm, forsaken cheeks.  I saw a fire truck drive by from my periphery.  Please, distract me… any way you can, Life.  Because I can’t tolerate this pressure.  I can’t breathe in this suffocating sea of hopeless unknown.  Why am I writing?  Do I have a goal?  I will write until noon.  That gives me another half an hour.  Actually twenty six and a half minutes.

I might implode.  I need to burst into a blowtorch stream of tears.  But I won’t.  Instead, I will grapple for language that will give you a taste of this torturously bitter moment.  God.  My eyes just lit on the handicapped guy next to me’s sandwich.  He doesn’t have normal use of his arms, but he sure has a good looking sandwich.  I think it’s on sourdough bread.  It’s one of those scrambled egg and gooey, melted cheese jobs.  I see a pink, dryish slab of ham hanging out of the side, too.  It looks like it has cooled off…  The cheese no longer looks like slow-leaking liquid love handles.  No steam rises up.  And yet, I am still seduced.

Twenty one minutes of writing left.  Twenty one not-so-holy minutes.  I need a hot tub.  I want a massage.  Who will take care of me?  I want to be nurtured.  It is remarkable how alone I feel today.  A man just sat down with a pint glass full of black, steaming coffee.  He dipped a pristine slab of almond biscotti in it.  Poetry.  Perfection.  Is that going to pacify me in the midst of this consuming loneliness?  Nineteen minutes.  Black coffee.  What is coffee with out cream?  I’d say it’s mostly gross.  But now, gazing upon this book-doning, biscotti-dipping specimine of a man, it almost looks fantastic.

The Hispanic dude who works here– the one with ample sass and abrasive charm– I declared a staring contest with him when I procured by my biscotti earlier.  I gotta give it to the brotha– he can really GAZE.  But I won.  He declared a rematch on neutral ground (when he’s not behind the counter working).  Then he said that he didn’t want to be competitive.  He just wants to see into me.  I was taken aback.  For all the consuming energy he expends dominating, being funny and lovingly cruel, he really just wants to see and be seen.  Connect deeply.  Reveal and celebrate indwelling divinity.  Ouch.  My heart is breaking again.  I want to give it to him.  I want to see him and hold his heart and convey to him, even for an instant that passes all too fast, that he needn’t do ANYTHING to be loved and held and enough.  I want him to know that I see his holy innocence… and I won’t tell a soul (unless he PAYS me).  Am I too much of a push-over?  Should I make people work a little harder to get my love?  Oh, mostly, I certainly DO make people work plenty hard.  This guy (whose name I don’t even know) somehow found his way into a spacious, elegant room in my heart.  I think it’s his almond shaped mystic eyes.  They are so chocolaty and sparkling.  Maybe it’s because they remind me of my dad’s.  But it always breaks my heart in just the right way to meet someone who acts so ordinary, while secretly reeking of extraordinariness.   If there was a phone booth nearby and he happened to find his way inside it, certainly he would burst forth in a matter of moments, wearing his underwear on the outside of a very shiny, tight, brightly colored unitard and a cape that flapped, regardless of whether there was a breeze blowing.  He’s that kind of man.  I’m a sucker for those of us who roll under cover.  Most people take him for your average barista.  I see him outside playing chess with the regulars pretty often.  Maybe he’s a chess whiz… and a few people know that he’s actually got some substantial brains.

I have four minutes left to write.  I have to go pee.  Mykael has not texted me back.  I texted him that I was lonely and sad and wanted to kick everything over.  I guess he isn’t wishing to get hooked in my little, despicable menstrual drama.  Well fuck him then!  I’ll just relish this immense and endless lonliness.  I’ll wear it around like a fashion model as I go about my mundane activities.  One minute to go.  What needs to come out of me, before I call it a day?  I guess I’ll offer a prayer.

Dear God.  Please help me heal my relationship to LOVE.  Help me allow it to heal my wounding, my perpetual limp.  Please make me a great writer, with unwavering disciple to my craft.  Make my words a healing balm.  A service to the world, without my having to try.  AMEN.

PS~ I hate Mykael.  No, I really love him so much it HURTS and I feel hurt that he doesn’t want to see me today, and angry that he was such a fucking pansy about expressing his truth and desires.  I’m two minutes over now and pissed as EVER.

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