Relationship, the Inner Critic’s Reign of Terror and a Visit From Jim Morrison

God is really trying to test me today.  I got to café 504 and they are playing disco music pumped up to exorbitantly high volumes. Is it the Bee Gees?  Maybe.  All I know is that the base is bouncing me like I’m a fussy infant, which ironically is making me feel like I’m a fussy infant.  I feel a lot of pressure to say cool stuff today, because yesterday I came to the café and wrote, but was not nearly brilliant enough.  My thoughts just never coalesced into much beyond dirty pond water.  So today I have to prove myself, or else I am not a writer.  Do you believe I think like this?  Cruel and almost unusual… Except that it is usual.  This is the kind of unconscious pressure I live under in every waking moment.  Do you think that’s why I’m so tired all the time?  I bet.

God, I have a bone to pick with you… Lately you have been sending your muses to fill my mind with excruciatingly brilliant ideas for writing topics at the most heinous moments.  Little gemish sentences flutter through my mind when I am trying to sleep and my linguistic butterfly net is more than hidden in the thick folds of nocturnality.  Why do you do this to me?  And then I come to the café, hoping that all these dazzling, winged strings of English will reappear the instant I call upon them, but instead you fill my head with whiny disco, a superficially bassy beat that could only be a result of black market “roids”…and I am left to fend for myself.  Well, God, I just want you to know, that this scenario is NOT ideal for me… but God?  I also want you to know that I’m gonna roll up my sleeves and muscle through it.  I don’t need your tattered, greasy “magic feathers”… No way, dude.  I can do this by myself.

Okay, that was my inner teenager, rearing her pimply, confused head.  Thank you Dear One.  Now, the truth is that I may be able to live life all by myself, write cool shit in a state of divine renunciation, but yuck!!!  Who wants to do that?  I want every single word that sprays across this virgin page to be graced by some kind of Love that would knock the socks off of socks themselves.  If it is not from love, for love, by love then why bother?  I wish they had taught me that in school.  No, not bible study class.  Don’t try to label me a god fearing Christian, just because I have a proclivity for holy names.  Jesus Christ.  School.   You know, garden variety, limping and broken, public assed, free education…

My foot tickles. (Strictly for the record…) I have been feeling the seven year itch with M.  We haven’t even made it to two years yet.  And I’ve been making ready to quit him.  But then I keep coming back to the unrelenting question which auspiciously haunts my mind.  Am I just meeting my own edge and choosing to collapse out of habit?  M has been helping me illuminate this vicious critic in me.  Yes, that would be the very same one who tries to prevent me from writing by leading me to believe that if I don’t do it perfect, than I oughtn’t even bother doing it at all.  So who am I to think that I’ll EVER be in a relationship with a man who is exempt from this merciless, fault finding beast who lives in my wounded mind?  There IS no such a man.  (I would probably even scrutinize the large pores on Jesus Christ’s nose, or become repulsed by Krishna’s luminous, blue skin over time…)

I sure have created M to be hella faulty though… Why?  Why is it so much easier for me to exist in the problems, when perfection sings out unabashedly glorious from beneath every footstep?  No, I’m not just being poetic.  Life is so generous with me.  Love blooms inside me, regardless of the season.  Not Hollywood love.  Maybe that’s the problem.  No, Athena, the “problem” is your addiction to problems.  A Course In Miracles teaches that the O-N-L-Y problem there IS, is the problem of “separation”, which is already solved, because it was an illusion in the first place.  Wow.  I know we all “know” this… It is beyond IN to preach about how separation is an illusion, right?  But have you ever just been sitting at the café, or parading your cart about the grocery store, and dared to actually look around you, feel around you and do your darnedest to just surrender into oneness?  Hmmm, doing your darnedest and surrendering seem kinda antithetical… On your marks, set, SURRENDER!!!  I said SURRENDER, damn it!!!  Then her face twisted into a soft, modest grin.  A grin that actually smoldered like a dying fire, but still it gave off plenty of heat to thaw the hearts of cynics.

Well I am sitting here imagining oneness as I scan the scene, abounding with a colorful bouquet of “others” and “things”.  It feels awkward, given all my habitual ways of perceiving “others” and “things” outside me.  But yet there is something that tingles with shy unity.  It sorta tickles like they’re all in me… Is this far fetched or overtly obvious?  Flip a coin, if you ask me…

Back to my edges in relationship.  I am waking up from this dream of co-dependence.  But then it feels so familiar and comfy that I don’t really WANT to wake up.  But then I do.  But then I don’t.  But then I DO… confusing, eh?  Totally.  All of these voices inside me, vying for the driver’s seat.  The warrioress rises to command at the surface of my mind.   She is intolerant of my stuckness, (and has a proclivity for blaming external circumstances and people I portend to love) intolerant of my habits of closure, hiding, playing small.  Her less than gracious response it to knock over tables and pillage the ancient villages built with bricks of dense repetition and plastered with calcified thought forms.  She is a revolutionary at all cost… unfortunately, though, her head is still stuck up her egoic ass hole more often than she cares to admit, which doesn’t always  make her the most trustable leader.  Then there’s the father, who is constantly scrutinizing all my actions and thoughts and telling me that I could be doing better and more and better and more and better and more.  And the child who is always just a little too empty and needs a bit more… more of anything, you name it, but at the end of the day, if you’re keeping score, it all simmers down to Love, doesn’t it?

What’s the point of all of this nattering?  The point is very clear.  There is only ONE solution to all of theses neurotic problems!!!  I MUST THROW MYSELF AT ERIC*’S FEET AND BEG HIM TO TAKE ME BACK!!!!!  Just kidding!  Did I trick you?  Even for a second?!  Sometimes that’s all I have is the ability to poke fun at my severely limping humanness.  Honestly, I do think that from time to time…to time.  That if I was back with Eric*, I would be happier.  More at peace and there would be hope that one day, I might be blessed with a single, tantalizing taste of fulfillment.  But no.  It’s find the light inside me or BUST.  And not just one, single bust, like bust and be done with it… no, it’d be like bust and bust and bust some MO’.  Maybe they call that “combustion”.  Bust until the day I die.  Bust until this illusory body is beyond exhausted from racing manically about on the hamsterish wheel of samsara.  I know it’s playing the odds, to hope for liberation anytime soon… but what is the alternative?  An unfulfilling, abuse ridden marriage to insanity.

My old landlord once told me that Jim Morrison often wore the same outfit for weeks at a time.  That was very healing for me to hear, because I only have one hoodie and I wear it every day…  Is it because I’m too poor to buy another?  Or is it because I hate shopping?  Laziness?  Unworthiness?  Could be all of those… or it could just be because I am a careless rock star at heart.  Sometimes (often) I wake up and put on the very same clothes that I peeled off and threw on my floor the night before.  Now, once upon a time that was a wholly unattractive behavior… but thanks to Jim Morrison, now it is rebel-hip and careless-creative.  You wouldn’t understand unless you were a *real* artist.  Grin.  Maybe… Maybe not.  But like I said, it’s healing for me to consider this.

Now for a quick update on the orgasm front~ It is strange… I have met so many edges and instead of spilling over them, I just hang out, like a leisurely Parisian, strolling thru the Jardin Luxumbourg on a Sunday.  Have you seen the Parisian contingency in the jardins on Sunday?  They might just sit, dressed in Sunday best, quietly drinking in the spring sunlight as it pours with passive passion on their native French faces all morning.  MAYBE they’ll read the paper.  So that’s how I have been meandering through sexual ecstasy these days.  It’s not half bad… though I do miss cumming.  Another trick I use to keep from spilling over the edge of the pounding waterfall is when I feel that “ohmigodd shoot here it cums” feeling… I totally relax.  Then I put my attention on the physical location of my heart, and naturally, the energy rises.  Jeepers, who knew it was that simple?!

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