I did that stupid thing where I write two paragraphs and then I erase it. That is such a rare thing for me to do. But my womb aches so bad, I am having a hard time focusing on anything else. Plus they are playing such raucous old skool rock and roll here and it is polluting my mind. Its strange how one woman’s poison is another woman’s bliss…(Huh, RosyMoon?) But I don’t know what else to do with myself besides just keep trudging along on the page. I’m just trying to look around me and see. Really see. I mean I guess it’s debatable what it is to “really see”… Does it mean to merely study details intricately, intimately? Or does it mean to look so deeply into appearances that they dissolve into liquid light? Or… what does it mean to YOU to “really see”?
Sometimes I like to play that game where I let my eyes meet something particularly visually captivating and then when I notice my mind do it’s requisite duty of labeling and dividing, I do my best to rip the label off and let my eyes meet it with sheer wondrous being, as a child would. What a buzz kill it is to see the mystic sparkles on the surface of the ocean and then to flippantly write it off by saying, “oh, that’s just the sun reflecting on the water.” So adult and matter of fact, as if a person must be crazy to simply allow magic to exist. It’s the double edged sword of science and logic. Sure, it’s bloody fantastic to make so much friggin sense of the world we live in… AND according to Athena Grace LMNOP, the world is just as much a frivolous, illusory myth as it is a weighable, measurable, linear buzz kill. (Oh, shoot, there I go again, misrepresenting science, because I haven’t studied it enough to be blown away by the implicit mysticism of real, hairy chested, barking science. I realize that the physicists who pilgrimage to the ever fraying edges of the abyss are just as blown open with enchantment as any of the mystics and artistic sculptors of Heaven’s breath are. Probably if you journey into the heart of any method of interpretation of this strange, unbounded Alice in Wonderland world we live in (or worlds… who’s to say that each of us doesn’t live in an entirely unique rendition of reality, a whole independent, interdependent universe. Maybe the universe is but a blizzard of snowflake shaped universes all existing together yet separate yet together…) any interpretation of the world we live in… at the core must only express the One.)
But all this to say that I like to be blown away by simple things like all the wine glasses on the shelf. They are ultra clean and are stacked three rows deep. The bright, crisp light hitting them is creating this deep sea of paralyzed twinkles frozen in a timeless, spaceless place. I let my gaze rest and melt on them and they dissolve and liberate from the concept called “wine glasses”, becoming only an immediate experience of depth, light, shine. If I wasn’t ensnared in the world of labels, I might name the experience, “getting lost in a crystaline forest”, or “being blinded by the miracle of daytime starlight”. When my womb howls and moans and screams like it is right now, these enchanting frivolities must be enough. I guess I sort of like the intensity emanating from my womb. It certainly brings me present, like a good slap.
Oh lord! The pants-less boy just came in to Pizzaiolo with his Daddy. I mean, I understand him not wearing pants when it’s hot outside, but today it’s windy and cold! And come to think of it, I’ve NEVER (literally) seen him with pants on. He’s wearing a shirt and leg warmers. I guess he’s probably about eighteen months old. But I sure wonder… will he EVER wear pants? I mean if he never wears pants as a child, maybe he’ll come to think pants are unbearable, blasphemous even! It’s gotta be sa-weeet to feel the sunshine and the breeze on his little boy penis and bum. I bet he’ll be imprinted for life. Pants will only feel like a rainy parade. A perpetually soggy diaper. Pants-less Bobby. (Damon said his name was Bobby.) He’ll be a modern day superhero. The Adventures of Pants-less Bobby. Pants-less Bobby Scales the Great Wall. Pants-less Bobby Pillages Paris! Pants-less Bobby and the Mystery of the Jello Swimming Pool. Pants-less Bobby just walked by again and I was graced with a longer look at his entirety. I noticed he was wearing a pink fabric sunhat with a strap under his chin. I noticed that he’s one of those especially chubby babies. His shirt was perfectly covering his “unmentionables”. But it perfectly, unabashedly displayed his snow white, baby fat legs. They were total marshmallow Michelin baby-man legs. I imagine if I squeezed them, my fingers would completely disappear into his tender squish. Listen if you are left with anything from all this indulgent commentary, let it be this~ HE IS ADORABLE.
Another thing I’ve been wanting to share with you for a while is this fond and tender memory of Eric. When I was a nanny, I used to start work crack-early in the mornings sometimes. Mostly I rode my bike to work, as the family lived about two miles from my home. But once in a while, when he was feeling especially loving and generous, Eric would drive me to work. When he did this, I always felt SOOOO loved. So loved. SO LOVED. (It’s incredible how potent these simple, mundane offerings can be. I mean it’s like three years later, and even NOW, whenever I think about it, my heart blooms like an ostentatious rose!) On one of these extra special brisk mornings, we were cruising the lovely Rockridge streets in our old biodiesel Mercedes (named Kenny) as though we were riding through the tunnel of Love. I was chompin’ down on my breakfast of almond butter and jam sandwich on Ezekiel sesame sprouted wheat bread when something out the window leapt out and dazzled the pants off me! (Pants-Less Athena Rides the Tunnel of Love to Work) My mouth was full of thick sandwich slog so I enthusiastically hmmmmed the words. I said, “hmmmm hmmm hmm hmmmhmmm hmmm!”
Immediately, Eric replied, “You like the purple house?” My jaw dropped. (exposing amalgamous, sticky brown mash) He fuckin’ NAILED it. I felt SO known!!!!! This is what it is to love someone. All you have to do is grunt and snort and they understand you with wicked clarity. Love is getting lost in a crystalline forest. Love is being blinded by the miracle of daytime starlight. Love is forging ahead, writing my blog through raucous cramps, blaring Jimi Hendricks and a mind fighting relentlessly for its right to be afraid.
Athena Graceland 