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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