Alone. My favorite word. Ever. Sometimes.

Wouldn’t it be fucking aweful if I died before I got famous as a writer?  As much as my tongue lusts for the taste of faaaame… I’m not feeling the “waste your life becoming a dead prodigy” vibe.  There is this– what are those people who love to flaunt themselves all over the place–exhibitionist, oh yeah…  There is an exhibitionist in me who neeeeeds to liiiiiiive this.  She will not be silenced by masking tape, nor death.  She must cry the words of her heart like a jubilantly bubbling volcano.  

Oh my goddd what am I talking about.  I have written like twelve books today already… and then the salty swagger of my mind has whacked them all down as though they were mere weeds in the orchard.  And here I am now, stoned as I’ve been for the past…. Ummm…. Weeeeeek annnnnnnd God I have fallen off the time space  continuum and I really don’t love it.  I’m not really a stoner at heart I guess.  Well… I DO love to trip.  But I don’t love to recoil deeper into myself.  Oh maybe I do.  But only for a little while.  And then pop out into the euphoric thrill of palpable Togetherness.  

Anyway I’m NOT in love with being stoned and coffee is the magikal friend who hustles and rustles the ride’em wild brain cells; brings them back into an orderly bunch upon their magic carpet.  Yeah this is waaaay too hard.  To write.  But I need to do it.  And say something juicy and profound.

It’s like I’m walking about the Train that is Life and peeking out the picture window where death lurks.  And this seems at first like a scary thing, but it’s really just another window to look out of.  Until you’re off the train…

Anyway I just spoke with my dad.  I wanted to claim this time alone ALL FOR MEEEE…. But… I’m tested every time and made to face that ancient and essential question… when faced with my last mOMent (which perhaps is really the first and the serpent is greedily slurping his slick and slimy tail) would I keep said mOMent alll for my smarmy little SELF…. 

Or would I, for example, answer the phone and share it with my Dad.  And then, if I chose to share it with my dad, as Life would have it… Would I REALLY be “sharing it” with my dad, or would I just pretend to be, while I clutched “it” close to my chest and clenched my heart and hoped for the best.  No.  That’s not such a fulfilling way to have relationships, Athena.  So there I am with my soft coffee buzz melting across the screen of “Reality”.  My dad’s voice on the other end of my smart phone.  

And basically people~ it’s a classic case of two people who would just be better off if they just loved each other (haha this is our quintessential collective classic case)… and…. And what?  What gets in the way for me with my dad?  I guess I want him to be more consistently demonstrative.  And enthusiastic.  And shamelessly adoring.  Haha.  Just laughing because expectations are so unwieldy to carry around.  And if I had to show up that way all the time, I’d be tired for sure!  

This play is so stupid!  And so precious.  THAT is the moral of the story.  Take it to heart people.  We’ve probably all had moments of hating life, cursing our own… part of Her very own dark seduction is this searing hatred.  The liberated and throbbing ecstasy of aversion.  Yes, I have marinated in my own thick, sludgy pool of misgivings and then when this fragile and stunning dream threatens to be torn from my irreverent fingertips and I am uproarious.  Absolutely NOT you CAN’T rip this poetically dripping life from me.  Not yet.  No way.

But back to my dad…

I try to imagine what it’s like for HIM.  Seventy two or whatever… and he’s facing the possibility of losing his forty one year old daughter who lives across the world from him with her two young kids and your relationship was never a sparkling example of sunday skool, Jesus Mary and Joseph kinda love.  I often feel defensive… when he asks me questions about my healing path.  But today I remembered that he is simply seeking connection.  I was gonna throw in some kinda cheap afterthought blow to his character… like that he’s not the expert at creating connection. But then I realized that perhaps he IS.  He has been working the Crap Table for longer’n I been alive.  Such a post does require a hearty dose of connection I believe.  I tend to put myself on a pedestal at times and imagine others as less than divine brilliance (sometimes I put others above and me below, just to keep it fresh)… And through this experience of “sickness”, I can see that when I cast others in the “inferior” intelligence roll, the Play is not so much fun to “play” in…. Let alone “STAR” in.  

That’s a huge piece of this thing.  This “sickness”.  Is like groping inside to find that OTHER life.  The one that is an expression of WELLNESS.  The me that is living in Alignment.  AS alignment.  I feel myself reconfiguring… I hope it all works out ok!  Wink…

So my cute dad… It’s sorta understatedly endearing that he flounders and falls short.  The humanness is the point.  I too often forget this, expecting everyone (and myself) to be holier than Thou… and the world becomes a cacophony of crashing cups and plates as porcelain songs and blown glass dances CRASH, here and there and all about!

Something else that I don’t want to talk about is what will happen to Serena if I don’t make it to the other side of this raging river.  Suddenly it’s so like that.  The water is roaring in my ears and I’m screaming out above it… 

Don’t fuckin drop me.  

Yeah I don’t want to talk about what will happen with Serena.  It’s just a Thing.  A very Serious and Important Thing.  And it’s wild… trying to be “good” and “responsible” and face it.  But it’s basically like peeping your head down this corridor of time in which you do not exist.  And at some point along in this humming hallucination, you realize you are dreaming into your own bodily demise and then you hafta ask yourself if that’s really the neighborhood you want to linger in…  

I don’t. 

But also I do… a little bit.  

Enough to add juice and spice to my simmer.  I try to remember who I was… before I had kids.  Before life got so top-heavy.  Before my hope was blue lipped and frigid.  I was all hopped up on magical sauce.  People called me “Peter Pan”.  I had never walked the darkest streets.  Is that true?  No.  I’ve always veered onto dark streets.  But how can anyone have the rooted maturity to inhabit their life as the Unsayable Gift that it is, until they have nearly (or completely) lost (and then found) this tender flame and the breath that Sustains.  God I nominate myself for asking the Rhetorical Question of the Fucking Year.  Can one inhabit such precious innocence without first facing it’s loss?  It sure helps in my case…. Rubbing up against all these rough edges of Life, until I am smooth as FUCK.  

And then WHAT???

Haha ya got me.  And then… I’m smooth as fuck.  And hopefully my smoothness will be of value to you somehow… or not… maybe I was better when I was jagged and I refracted the light with a savage flash, reminiscent of Her merciful eye.  I guess I shant try to run anywhere.  

Actually, THIS is exactly where I want to be.  On my belly on my bed in the afternoon sun ALONE listening to Adey Bell and roaming about the space that ONLY I AM capable of encountering, and fitting it into strings of beaded brilliance that if we are lucky will catch The First Light and strike a bonfire orchestra of Remembrance…  Isn’t it amazing what words and mOMents and bodies can do?  That innocent flashing refraction of the infinite… disguised in hum-drum-mundane costumes.    

I’m smooth and clever as fuck, but I still don’t want to unpack all the feelings around searching for new parents for my daughter who ONLY BELONGS WITH ME.  God, please look through my eyes.  With your outrageous and simple LOVE.  From here, all is well and makes as much sense as it needs to.  

But please God…. help me get across this ferocious river.  Seriously.                 

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