leal
“The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read.”
Dear Simone,
I go a bit mad when I don't make the time to write. To you. To myself. Pacing in the dark rooms whispering poems isn't as grounding.
I woke up at 4:23am and pulled the gauze from the windows to peer into the darkness. It's raining though I can not see it. I can feel the dampness in the room and hear the gentle patter on the roof.
Go lightly with all you feel.
Aldoux Huxeley said that.
I blacked out last night. He came over and I was curled like a spring petal in the center of the bed. I thought you had gone out, he said. I'm right here. I asked him to come over and by the time he made it from the other side of town, I had emptied myself of all form. I found my white-tasseled blanket at Mouna's—the one from the ceremony with the silver threads—and had pulled it over my head.
It's heavy and the weight gives me a sense of place.
I could see his outline in the doorway. Wide shoulders and that curly mop of hair that I love running my hands through. His stomach is upset. It seems we are all on edge, though he feels it's from the lentils and potatoes dish his mother made.
I put my hand on his belly and he breathed in my ear and I felt safe and warm until I blacked out. The moon woke me up. She's waning. The New Moon is when I menstruate. The dark phase.
How many relationships have died due to my discordant relationship with my body? I've felt manic and lackluster; I could barely look at him last night and was grateful for the shadows in the room. I turned off all the lights and he turned just one on when he arrived. We both prefer the dimness to the appearance of finer details. He always draws the drapes and turns off all the lights but one before we make love.
It forces us to feel rather than see.
In my dance class, sometimes Salima draws the curtains across the mirror so we cannot see ourselves. Last week, she made me wear a black felt hat she uses for her improv skits with children. I wore the hat for the duration of the class. Look into your eyes, she'd said. Chin up, don't look down- what are you looking for?
What am I looking for, Simone?
The curtains in the dance class are bright orange and tapioca. The room feels like the inside of a grapefruit with the drapes drawn. Without the mirror, I put my hands to my neck and felt the length of my cervical spine with my fingertips. It's how I know if I'm aligned accordingly.
You must feel. Feel it in your body. Breathe and feel; this is all you need.
A recipe for Barre au Sol and for life.
I hold my breath during difficult tasks when I am working.
I told Clara that I felt inadequate. I do. I don't know who's driving. I prefer the passenger seat, though my partner has no license. Clara and I both change lanes too quickly and forget where we are headed before we get to the destination.
When I was a kid, we went to the playground at English Bay with my sisters and cousins. These little yellow and red cars were set up for children on a basketball court overlooking the Pacific Ocean. We each got a car and used our feet to run and roll in between the pylons.
My uncle, who'd been watching with my mom and dad, looked at me and said she drives fast with no aim.
I'm the same person back then that I am now, Simone.
Fast with no aim.
My goal this year was refinement and I'm taking very small strides in this theme. I appreciate more and more how things take time. He takes his time. I would mirror his footsteps though he's so much bigger than me; if I were to keep up, I'd still be running.
Go lightly with all you feel.
The intensity of the sensation makes me move too fast. And the only direction is forward, Simone.
At Mouna's this weekend, I was melancholic for the blistering romance I experienced in the summer. It's odd to recollect who I was with him in that space many moons ago. It was October, the eve of Halloween, and our first full night together. Alone. We had our privacy in the tent at Taragalt, though there were many people and distractions to focus on when it became uncomfortable between us.
Things get awkward in romance. It's part of the experience.
At Mouna's, there was nowhere to hide; no people to turn to when we had nothing to say between us. Mornings, I woke early and sat outside on the terrace with the birds to write. He would wake and make us breakfast. Evenings, he'd pick a movie and I read my book. A series of short stories by an Argentinian author.
A 'we' was forged in this space.
Looking back, I see how tentative and unsure I was. Wearing a pink dress and sitting on the plush carpet, writing poems in my leather-bound journal.
There is a sweetness to beginnings you can never recapture. The naivete, the innocence, the unsureness of whether or not the other person is pleased by you. We received each other's company. Quietly, without question.
He made us smoothies with almond butter and bananas and oat milk. We'd share the drink standing in the wee kitchen under the white balloon lamps that dangled from the ceiling. Each of us took a small sip before passing the glass; watching each other discreetly.
I remember him watching me. Not saying much of anything.
Now I know his speechlessness was from a lack of understanding. His English was not as good as it is today.
I would talk with my hands punctuating the stillness. He would take it in with those dark eyes and long lashes. Sometimes he'd nod or shake his head. Mostly he listened. Our conversations were one-sided and I sometimes wonder if they still are.
I feel like I'm always speaking with myself, Simone.
Can anyone hear me?
I told Clara that I want to get a shirt made that says, 'Evolve or Die.'
I'm learning how to take aim, Simone. When I pull back to release, you will feel it; the whole world will shudder with the effort.
I am learning how to drive. It is hard and takes a lot of energy. Who has been in the seat up until now and why did they take me to this place in my life?
Perhaps I've been on autopilot all these years, following the tread of what's been laid out in front of me. Following.
Writing gives me a sense of identity. Its why I need to do this every day. It's why I need you. Otherwise, I cannot see who I want to become. I need a reflection. I need my writing to be the mirror.
You need to hold up the mirror, Simone.
I can't do this alone.
Photo source.
