Psychadelic Retrospect

I slept with my window open last night, so that full moon beams could splash my vulnerable, dreaming face while I slept.  The moon looked like a flower more than a glowing marble last night.  It had a halo.  This brings me to a crucially important point.  The other day, Mykael regurgitated a scientific finding, as he tends to do every once in a so often… He said that if a memory surfaces in a human mind for the first time, years after its occurrence, it’s details are much more likely to be accurate than if it is a memory that has been revisited often since it’s original occurrence.  That totally makes sense to me, since I experience my mind’s eye as a much more psychedelic land than stiff old moment to moment reality.  When I have a memory, I see it as a projection of light, blurring at the edges and becoming surrounded, enshrouded by vast black.  Always.  And the surrounding blackness offsets the colors and the images, which makes the images more dramatic, sharp, creative.

Last night’s burgeoning full moon is a stellar example.  I went outside to put in a load of laundry shortly before bed… And the vision of the moon was stellar enough to knock me on my ass.  It seemed more colorful than usual.  You know?  Sometimes the moon looks icy, blue… Even gazing upon it can make me feel chilled.  In a good way, like chilled champagne.  There is never an unpleasant moon if you ask ME.  (And probably ninety seven percent of the population or above would agree with me.)  But this moon… in my mind’s eye, now, it glows like a mother of pearl disco ball, slowly turning to reveal its seductive spectrum of brilliance.  No, that’s not quite it… it’s more like an Easter egg hunt moon.  Feel into childhood Easter, when the verdant garden was strewn with freshly died eggs and sugary treats all winking like broken rainbows, exiled to Eden, waiting mischievously patient to be resurrected and devoured.

The moon as it lives in my mind’s eye is reminiscent of an animated flower, speaking to me on a refreshingly benevolent acid trip.  I see greens and oranges, and in the halo, live soft spoken petals.  The moon had a loose tongue last night, and she told unabashed secrets.  What kind of secrets?  I didn’t stick around in the cool spring darkness long enough to listen, because I have inexplicably become grown up and act too important to bother listening to the moon.  What good would Her secrets do me anyway???  Would they earn me worldly success?  (Probably… but at this point you must know that I am playfully stabbing at the mindset of our modern day America… and even my blood-stained hands’ participation in this wretched machine…)  If I had it all to do over again… I would have sat with a watering mouth, eagerly lapping up every single secret this enchanted moon had to offer to the ears of the universe.

Actually, she probably has a lot more interesting secrets to tell as she exists in the exalted throne of my memory.

Is it like this for most people?  Does life become poetry only when spun on the loom of retrospective nostalgia?  Or is this just the cursed blessing (blessed curse) of the poet’s heart?  I guess I can think of a few counter examples… like when I was in the pool at eight am this morning… as I made my way slowly across the length of the pool, I penetrated the curious sky with my awe.  The purple-grey clouds reverberated with an exaggerated aliveness.  Tremulous might sum it up.  As I studied them, I felt more vital and electric than normal.  Usually, grey clouds just look grey to me… unlike Mykael, who always sees rainbows in granite, ostentatious parades of color in common dirt.  So when I tell you that these clouds were PURPLE, trust me.  They were purple.  Not quite in the literal sense… more in an energetic sense.  But they trembled the way only violet can tremble.  When the world speaks this way, telling of changes in the weather and pointing coyly at hidden layers of the psyche, I usually only feel it subconsciously.  But today it touched the surface of me as if I were an innocently gaping wound.  I let myself be mystified, tickled and teased by the strange, vibrating expression of the purple morning.  As if this was not poetic enough, add to that that moving through the crystalline aqua water felt like gliding through buoyant silk and that toward the end of my swim a light mist began to sprinkle from the sky just like powdered sugar would fall from a sifter… only slightly cooler than sugar.  No, I am NOT making this up.  It REALLY happened.

But I suppose wrapping words around these already poetic moments does change their very nature…  Language versus experience.  Being versus describing being.  Not a very fair or honest comparison.

I guess it’s the same with relationships.  Like me, drenching myself with all these recent torrents of nostalgic grief about E*.  When we were together, I was just as nitpicky and perpetually unfulfilled as I am now… but in this glamorous hind sight vision, all I see is the way we used to laugh.  I would laugh until my abs were washboards and my face hurt.  He would remark between peels that my eyes had disappeared into my face, swallowed completely in the hilarity.  I remember clinging to him for dear life as we sped down large hills in golden gate park on our rollerblades.  I remember being out in the world with him and seeing a particularly quirky, facinating person and knowing that he saw what I saw, or vice versa.  I miss that shared seeing of people.  That is a rare and priceless bite of experience to share with another, if you ask me.  God, I could go on and on, spouting the nostalgic facets of memory that I shared with this long departed partner in the crime called living life… but why???  What treasures of this present moment do I miss by gluttinously digging my heals into the embellished perfection of the past?

Besides, is it EVER anyone but God who is by my side, sharing the joys and the pain of this human mess?

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