Things I’m Embarrassed to Say

I hate keeping secrets.  But today I feel so aware of all the things that I dare not say.  Where does that leave us?  Where does that leave the page and the moment and the words that gratuitously sprinkle upon it?  Dunno, but I’ll find myself as the sprinkling sprinkles, eh?  Sprinkle sprinkle little star named Athena, how I wonder what you ARE not saying…
One thing that I’m afraid to say is that I have started wearing rings again.  It had been like two years.  Basically since I gave Eric back his engagement ring, made from his mama’s own pear shaped engagement diamond.  No, none of that is too risky to say… the risky thing is that I have been missing Eric so much for the past month or two.  I feel like I am holding a burning yoga pose.  Life feels like that in general.  Life burns my insides.  But so does the missing of my Beloved.  My best friend.  I miss the way we played.  I still laugh, sure.  But laughing with Eric was ecstasy.  Anyway, I came upon this silver ring in my jewelry box (a birthday gift from his mom) and I put it on the middle finger of my right hand.  This silver ring was the ring Eric originally bought to propose to me… though he didn’t end up using it.  He gave it to me days after.  He told me he had bought it from a Tibetan shop on University Avenue, which was owned by a man he did some wilderness training with.  A man from Bhutan.

At the time, I couldn’t believe that he even entertained the idea of proposing to me with a measly silver band.  Blasphemy!  But I kept it.  And now it means more to me than diamonds.  I wear it on my middle finger and I think of him.  I study its smoothness, its simplicity and its invisible sentimental value.  I look at it on my long, slender hand and I feel… What do I feel?  This is one of those laughable moments where I realize that there indeed has not been a word invented for every feeling scape.  But it’s refreshing to remember that.  It makes me feel so much larger than I have remembered myself to be.  And that is a good thing.  But let me stab at telling you how I feel as I gaze at my hand clad with this cheap-assed engagement token of the past.

I want to say I feel more complete.  But not because I was incomplete before.  Oh!  I got it!  I feel content.  Similar to one of those moments in bed in the morning.  You know, when you are awake, but still slumber-strewn, dream-tangled.  You are in no hurry to get up and bed feels somehow better than usual.  Snugglier, warmer, softer and so safe.  I suppose like heaven might feel.  (I’ll confirm it if and when I ever make it to that privileged village above the clouds) (If you don’t know me well enough, I must tell you that I am making fun of the silly ideas we as a collective consciousness uphold.  And, at the same time, I believe in that heaven.  My mind is big enough for so many paradoxes to take up residency, it can be maddening.)

Speaking of all of that, I found a new trick!  If you are at all contemplative like myself, and you find yourself mulling over truths and meanings, wondering, is it like this, or like that?… And the potential perspectives grate upon one another in your mind, metal upon metal, or more likely, mental upon mental (hahaha), the way that I have found to make peace of my vantage points is to ask myself, “which of these perspectives has me feel most inwardly expansive?  Which has me feel peace, oneness, inclusion?  Those are the qualities and values that inspire me.  But I suppose you could choose the ones that inspire you, and then lean into the perspective that generates those qualities.

Is that all I wanted to say about my ring?  No.  Why was I afraid to say that?  Because now Mykael is my partner and it feels confusing for me to be missing Eric so much and wanting to be connected to him.  I feel wrong.  Ashamed.  Should I exercise more mental discipline?  Should I just hide inside my experience and keep smiling and blushing my way down the path of long term, committed partnership?  Maybe… But I’m way more interested in airing out my closets than keeping them locked for the pseudo benefit of others.  How ‘bout you?

Grief.  Maybe I should check out a book on it from the library or something.  I feel like a novice when it comes to allowing and inviting the grieving process.  But I’m not gonna do that, so for now, I’ll just imagine that I am doing everything just right.  I’ll keep skipping along my path dedicated to truth and trust that someday the dust and the smoke and the clouds of ambivalent glitter will all settle of their own accord.  Quite likely they will.

One more thing that I don’t want to say.  (God, I could write volumes on this general topic!)  I don’t want to say that I went out to dinner with Dan last night.  No, silly, that’s not the part I don’t want to say.  It’s that when I arrived at Caesar, he was already seated and somewhat blissfully sipping wine.  Cool.  So far so good… But then I sat down and gazed at the menu, which titillated me, because last time I checked, Caesar was a Spanish tapas restaurant… and last night, everything on the menu was more Mexican-esque, which I generally dig a lot harder on than dumb olde paella and jamon Serrano and scrambled eggs.  Come on, CRUNCHY chips!!!  Vibrant green avocado mush!  Black beans…  TACOS.  So what am I afraid to say?  Come on, Athena, just blurt it out, already!  Okay, okay… So Dan had ordered for both of us, before I had even arrived!  I was DENIED the privilege of scouring the menu, feeling into the culinary rainbow of possibilities.  Flavors, textures, shapes, scents.

Granted, he knows me pretty well and his selections, chips and guacamole, black beans and jicama (!!!!) with chili and sesame seeds was damn good.  But come ON.  Reading menus and making the perfect choices is what life is all about at the end of the day.  I suppose that’s all we are ever really doing, anyway… reading the menu of life, of the moments we find ourselves in, the thoughts we think, the feelings and the dreams that wash through us, riverish.  And given all the options that we can conceive of, we must choose.  And choose.  And choose again.

Anyway, it was a stretch for me to surrender his choices and just enjoy.  Not that enjoying was that much of a challenge, between the top notch company he is, and the warm spring evening~ twilight giving my skin cool, coy kisses.  Not to mention that he mostly ordered what I would have chosen anyway… BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT.  The point is that Dan is probably my number one fan and I’ll send him this as soon as I deem it complete.  And then I’ll be left to blush it the shameful truths of my ever imperfect humanness.  I would be such a better person if I surrendered better and appreciated more and was at least as enlightened as the new age-soap box-brigade who rape the masses by ever selling us self help books despite our hopelessly broken state.  But I’m just me.  And I wish that he didn’t order without me.  And now I will bathe in frivolous shame for that truth.  But not for too long.

Mating Sparrows and the Happily Ever After Syndrome

What will I write about today?  All of the freaky people out on this warm spring morning?  My obsessive, tortured heart?  The incessant battle in the name of good posture?  My unconventional dream of becoming a saint (after I retire as a writer, of course)?  The bitterness of my cappuccino today as a metaphor for the way “It” has been?  Everything is interesting.  Everything teeters on the edge of insanity.  Or maybe that’s just me.  What do you think?  Are we all precariously balanced, wobbling on the brink of madness, or is that just me?  Do you ever have those moments when you’re just going about your business and suddenly you are washed with this wave of… what is it?  Fear.  Maybe that’s how Alice felt as she free fell down the rabbit hole.  It’s an out of control feeling like whoa, I’m so small and so big and so alone and so connected all at once and this moment is everything and it’s too much for me to open to and accept.

I started to feel it again just describing it… and then this guy walked by outside with his dog.  Dang it, I forget what the breed is called.  One of those long, slender, tri-colored hunting dogs.  The ones that run about the Shires of England, pointing out the water fowl to their oh so civilized, shot gun clad masters on horseback.  Now you can dig it, cantcha?  Well, it was soothing.  Something so captivating, present and finite.  A resting place for my roving attention.

Aloneness.  That’s been one of my most unwieldy and essential pills demanding to be swallowed.  Why?  I’m alone right now and it rocks.  So what’s the big deal?  I don’t know.  Oh, wait, yes I do.  It’s the illusion of being separate from God.  For me, it kinda blows after a while.  Okay, okay, lemme back up.  I realize that I treaded on landmine strewn terrain by using the G word.  God seems so obvious to me.  No, I don’t have a shred of evidence, so don’t bother asking.  I just imagine that I know.  Fill in what ever word you please~ Creator, Spirit, Universe (I think Universe would win the popularity contest by a landslide right now, since it isn’t affiliated with any pukey institution of organized religion… unless you count science as organized religion for the devotionally parched…)

I’m feeling like bringing up a “higher power” was a bad idea.  But too bad.  Because I’m borderline obsessed with the topic and at the end of the day, what else is there to talk about, besides sex.  But come on, even sex is really just a covert attempt to return to our natural state of Orgasmic Oneness.  (Orgasmic Oneness… for all you hard nuts to crack, can you consider using that word to describe something wildly desirable, natural and so much greater than just your piddly egoic self?)

Ahhhhh, my words feel so bound up today.  My mind has been mummified while I slept and dreamed of Suzette and the ever titillating subject of destiny.  Muses?  Where have you fled to today?  You are probably out at the beach, bikini clad, drinking deep of these rare and precious days of summerish sunshine.  That’s what I would be doing if I wasn’t so stinkin’ ambitious and dependant on the comfort of routine and the necessity of self expression.  Well, please forgive me, my muses are away for the day, playing nude, beach volleyball, invisible breasts flouncing as they feverishly lunge for the neon pink ball that plummets over the etheric net.  The etheric net which accidentally traps baby angels, just learning how to fly.  And a few token fairies with startlingly ornate wings, teeming with colors that you never even conceived of.  But I can do it without you guys.  It’ll build character.  It’ll put hair on my chest.

Here’s something that might actually be relevant to you~ Relationships seem to be very strained these days.  I just found out that three married couples I know are divorcing.  That’s not to mention all the relationships I have been watching crumble over the last few months.  Including my own.  Seems like the last year or two, I have been reviewing a lot of the formative experiences that have contributed to shaping the hopelessly human and perfectly flawed creature that I am.  I am.  That is a dangerous thing to declare unconsciously.  I am.  How many times have you said, “I am afraid”, or “I am angry”?  Language.  Be forewarned, it shapes reality.  The only thing that should REALLY follow the words, “I am” is “the magnificent, raw energy of creation”.  The rest is all a lie.  A necessary lie, if you want to get along in this rhythmically twisted fantasy land called life as we know it… but a lie nonetheless.

“I feel afraid/angry/sad/horny”… way more accurate.  But I did not step up to the plate expecting it to be a soap box… it just morphed into one.  Pardon me, I just wanted to get a modest base hit, like the rest of you.

Relationships.  I have been seeing my programs and conditioning way to clearly for any semblance of comfort.  Seeing that I have been relating to Love in a very young way.  I learned that “love” was a survival skill.  A transaction.  You take care of helpless little me and I’ll “love” you.  I have had that subtle filter blindfolding my sacred sight.  What can this person do for me?  Will this man take care of me?  And now that I am taking care of myself (and my man), I feel a deep and recurring disappointment in my relationship.  I find myself often feeling resentful, and wondering what the point of holding on to him is… What is the point of being in a long term, committed relationship?

Saved by the bell.  I just looked out the window and saw two horny house sparrows gettin’ it on right on the telephone wire.  The female, significantly smaller than her mate, bowing her body in a submissive posture, eager to be mounted and pounded by a microscopic sparrow penis. (what an adorable thought)  Then the male leaping into the air and fluttering above her, landing almost gracefully on her back, beating his wings gently as he gives it to her.  She doesn’t put up any sort of fight.  I remember watching the sparrows mate in the breezeways at my elementary school.  I would feel turned on and captivated.  Curious and ashamed.  I tried to be casual, terrified that anybody would catch me in the act of watching nature’s pornography.  Is that weird?  Well… c’est la vie… I am as the Universe created me.

What is the POINT of committed partnership?  Marriage?  Once upon a time, I believed it was to live happily ever after, of course… But at thirty years old, I am finally able to admit that life is NOT a Disney movie, and I am not a wistful princess waiting patiently to be saved and royally fucked by my flawless, hunky soulmate from the Kingdom next door.  I still often act like it, though.  (stay tuned to my blog for inevitable more on this topic… but trust me small bites are the new black)

The last pressing confession is that I often do a little dance in the bathroom, here at café 504.  Dancing.  I feel self conscious about doing it in public, mostly.  Because I think too much when there are other people around.  I judge myself too harshly and the fun is devoured by all the blood thirsty critics who take up residency inside me.  But still, I am a dancer at heart.  And especially when I am hoppppped up on cappuccino and listening to upbeat music… it’s the most natural thing to do when I lock myself in the bathroom, wouldn’t you say?  I look in the mirror and seduce my eager, sassy reflection.  I feel so ALIVE!  And I usually think to myself, “I am a good dancer, I should get over myself and go out dancing once in a while.”

Try it.  I dare you.  On one of those inevitably mundane days.  A little dance behind the benevolently locked bathroom door.  It’ll change your life.

The First Day Of The Rest Of My Blogging Life

Blog.  There’s been talk that it’s the way and the light.  This is my new get rich quick scheme!  You don’t know me yet, so you don’t even know if I am joking or serious.  I know me as good as anyone, and I am still not quite sure… But I’ve heard tell that the hard ball playin’ bloggers make more than nurses and fire fighters… Or some two minorly serious careers like that.  I feel like that might be a less than tasteful foot to start out on with you, the fashionably anonymous reader~ “Hey, read these words, freshly milked from my tangled, messy head, so I can get rich!”  I could see that that might be a turn-off.

Or it could be a turn-on.  Because something you should know about me, Athena, is that I write (besides because it is a soul compulsion, a calling to whose bitch I am destined to be) I write because I get off on telling the unflattering truths inflicted upon me by my “condition”…  My HUMAN CONDITION.  And the beauty of it, is that YOU are afflicted too, so I know that there is at least a chance that you will understand.  I love reading a writer who is willing to tell the truth, as unattractive as it may be… and feeling something in me breathe a sigh of relief when I remember that I’m not so totally alone, and not the only would be circus freak among us.  So… read on, and know that you’re doing okay, whoever you are, wherever you are, how ever you are.

It’s six oh nine am.  Not so ungodly.  (Though honestly, I don’t believe there is a time in all of creation and beyond that is “ungodly”, so maybe that was the wrong adjective…)(Yeah, I’m pretty into God… You’ll see.)  Anyway, now it’s six eleven and my tea tastes really delicious, which is weird, because it doesn’t always.  The same tea, more or less and it always hits me different.  It’s Irish breakfast from Trader Joes.  (I recommend it to tea drinkers who are hallowedly plagued by this recession business.  You get like eighty bags for like three dollars and fifty cents or some’m like that!  And it is a tea with balls!)  I heat up some coconut milk. (which is another recession special~ one can of coconut milk plus two and three quarters cans of water, plus a dainty teaspoon of stevia, half as much salt and a few mindless sprinkles of cinnamon all swirled around in the hand blender that Eric* won at a raffle once upon a distant, nostalgic time.)  Anyway, I like my tea MILKY, and this coconut brew is wimpier than milk, so I use at least twice as much, heated up in a sauce pan and then added to the small amount of hot water and tea bag.  And a modest plop of honey.  I would go into great detail on all of this, but it seems boring.

I just thought I’d be like Like Water For Chocolate, and give you a sexy recipe strewn with a heart wrenching story.  But it didn’t really work out that way.  I just took a deep breath.  Wow, those things are really useful sometimes.

Six twenty now, and what I was driving at when I announced the time, was that I normally would not be awake now.  Well, yes, at six twenty, maybe, but not at five twenty, when I originally woke up.  Especially not since yesterday was “spring forward”.  So if you do the MATH! (I am starting a new fad~ putting an exclamation point after the word MATH!.  It’s really healing.  Especially if you suffered through math! in school.  It makes it more jazzy and promising.  Try it.)

Anyway, I usually crawl into my sweetie’s bed in the wee hours of the morning and drift in and out of thoughts and dreams and prayers for another hour or three.  But this morning I was anticipating an e-mail from Eric* and so when I stirred at just after five, I couldn’t resist checking my IPHONE for his message.  HARK! MATH! It was there!  And it was so stirring and made my mind crawl with insect swarmish thoughts and there I was, in Mykael’s bed, spooning him as the muses screamed at me.  I swear, sometimes I feel abandoned by them.  But in his oh so squishy bed in the dark, the most brilliant things were racing through my wide awake mind, maybe not as fast as lightening, but at least as fast as… cheetahs or thoroughbreds or fireflies.

So it was either receive this gift of inspiration by hurling it on the page, or just lay there with a mind on fire, trying to push the thoughts down and “meditate”.  As if this is not “meditation”.

Woops.  I think that was it.  No more inspired words.  I fell into a quiet lull.  Oops, here they come again.  I want to exclaim that writing is my savior!  My messiah!  Whereas before I landed on the page, all my tangle of chaotic thoughts and feelings was a source of out of control-ness, lonliness, insanity… here on the page, I feel SO WHOLE.  How is it, that the simple act of organizing my mind into a linear succession of fleeting ideas is so soothing?  Really… It must be some kind of holy alchemy.  But honestly, I am NOT exaggerating.  Recently I have thought that I might just drown in my very own life, and now, here in my dimly lit bedroom, with the darkness whispering distant freeway songs outside my white curtain drawn window and the cat licking her crotch at my feet, I am suddenly more than okay.  I am here.  Is this what Jim Morrison meant when he said “stoned immaculate”?  …probably not…

I thought I was going to write about Eric*.  That’s why I put the little asterisk by his name.  But just like MATH!, Eric* shall hence forth be followed by a holy asterisk.

Once Upon A Time.  I like using that phrase to start up a story.  And too, I like Happily Ever After, as much.  Because it speaks to the sugar coated, princess fairy tale mind fuck that has all too subtly sculpted my mind as a woman in this culture.  Or more appropriately said, this cultureless society.  Ahem, Once upon a time, me n Eric were engaged to be wed.  Five years of life together that made and broke us.  (That last sentence was only in there for dramatic flair, but come on, it totally worked.)  Then one day, one spring day, that is, things seemed common enough, Eric drove a large, white van full of privileged waldorf high school students home from their vision quest… The kind of large white van that somehow always gets associated with child molesters… Eric ate random snacks such as chips and bananas with nut butter and a host of (shoot, I suddenly really have to go pee, but my cat is laying on me and I’m on a roll.  Dang.)

Okay, I just went, I had very little choice in the matter.  And then, while I was in mid stream I just remembered this really important thing I had to tell you.  This is requisite, like a disaster drill.  In fact, it IS a disaster drill of sorts!  Last night I accidentally ate chicken liver pate!  I swear I didn’t mean to.  I was at this potluck and it was getting hella late, but dinner was not served… until like nine o’clock, which in my rigid little world is HARDLY okay… thankfully I had eaten a piece of celery with almond butter on the way… Ahem.  Then at nine, like four random foods were informally presented.  Yay! One of them was a large bowl of grayish brown… “mash”… surrounded by an inviting spray of little cute toasts.  I wondered.  I might have secretly known it was danger.  The question did slither-whisper through my mind… Is this liver-slop?  Nah… Plus, there were lumps in it, one of which I bravely investigated.  WALNUTS!   (not the same as MATH!~ it is not requisite to be a perpetual exclamation)  Granted, the slime around the WALNUT! Tasted reminiscent of dog food, which should have been my first clue, but I justified it like this~ Pate is too fancy and comes in small, round molds.  This was a big bowl full, which is atypical of all things “delicacy”, right?  WRONG.  I was hungry, so I tastefully scarfed both toasts, only to be regretfully informed by my man that it I had fed us chicken liver pate.  REMORSE!  That’s the best way to express it.

Now it’s six fifty nine am.  The sky is blushing with the promise of a brand new day.  Not blushing like pink though, just blushing with light.  Get it?  And the bird’s song has changed from morose to promising.  That happens when they feel the light flood in once again.  Like a nocturnal tourniquet.

Anyway, I am about to turn into a pumpkin in this daylight, and I realize that I have already written fifteen hundred and twenty something words, which is a mouthful, or an eyeful at least.  A somethingful.  And I want to leave you wanting, so I’m just gonna spew out this last moral, because in the book of how to write a successful, lucrative blog, THEY say that you must inflict the world at large with copious amounts of unwieldy morals!!!  Just kidding.  Did I fool you even for a second?!

The moral of this story, is that if you are twisted enough to bring a wash basin sized bowl of liver pate to a pot luck, the LEAST you can do is LABEL it.  Please.  Take that to heart.  Otherwise, people might mistake it for babaganoush that has been sitting out way too long and incidentally tastes like cat food.

And as for the Once Upon A Time, Eric* thread, stay tuned.  And until then, Champagne Dreams and Liver Pate nightmares.


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