bhaavsaandrata
Still Point
Metaphors are food for the soul. I am so hungry for beauty. I like to stroll to the river and watch it rush westward. I am searching for a well: something deep and empty. I wake up early to write by the song of the crickets. It’s a Dark Moon and the sky is made of ashes: all burns, even the tight spaces between the rocks. Reach out and grab it, you say. Stick your hands in the soot and rub it on your cheeks. Even embers contain energy; passion cannot be destoryed.
I send him the same message over and over until the two blue check marks appear.
Good Morning Babe.
It is the same sequence each time, and I am sick of it! The repetition is dulling.
I slip from my spot on the branch where I wait for the sun's warm rays to twirl the leaves and bid the worms adieu. They are everywhere, wriggling in the sand, and the bluebirds do not eat them. I don’t know what they peck for breakfast.
Breakfast is consistent. Watered-down oats. Slices of papaya, apple, watermelon. Walnuts and almonds. Pancake and sprouts. I choose the pancake slices and retreat to my room to spoon tahini and honey onto the folds. I roll the pancakes and cut them into bite-sized slices to pop in my mouth one by one.
I am losing the language of spontaneity, instinctual promises sung by my body.
I threw up twice last week; my nervous system is overloaded. I swallowed the vomit and kept pushing through the daily itinerary. The event brought up memories of my youth—those deplorable days of not understanding who and what I am. I got better at noticing the subtle shifts in sensation and, eventually, could set myself up by the toilet with the water running and my hair tied back in preparation. I was caught off guard by these two recent episodes. I am out of practice. The last time I puked was in Morocco. It was late winter before I moved to France for three months. I was heartbroken, and so so cold. The apartment I chose was all white—floors, art, furniture, and appliances. One heater in the living room was meant to warm the whole space. The bedroom was frigid in the evening and early morning hours. I’d burrow under the wooly blankets and cry and cry and cry. I was an ice cube that could not melt. It was June before the rivers ran again, and the mantras I chanted were a song instead of a whisper.
Recording time: I am a woman of the hour.
I discard everything that is not what it was a moment ago! When the well runs dry, do you wait for the water to reappear, or do you dig a new hole? How long will you wait? What will you nourish your thirst with in the meantime?
I am reading into the smallest details, which tells me I am in my head too much. My body is my greatest tool for deciphering the demands of my soul. Every cell in my body responds to the resonance around me. The repetition is whittling me down to a wooden stump. I am that grand tree that was torn down to erect a statue. It is mechanical, this process of breathing life into something long dead. The script! The leaders are following a scheduled performance, and the words are not theirs. They articulate from the bottom of a dry well, and the echo reverberates in the room. It is cold there, also. The flowers strung from the ceiling are plastic. The incense that burns brightens one wee corner of the room, and everyone is sick! There is much wheezing and sneezing. Wads of Kleenex are tossed into plastic bins lined under the windows where the birds bang their beaks incessantly! The whomp-whomp-whomp of their mouth whacking the windows is the only thing ALIVE in this superficial space!
Why didn’t Shakespeare say, ‘she’s dead?’
I heal through the energy coming through me. I embrace the birds as a mother draws a babe to her breast - it doesn’t matter if the child is mine! It is a babe of the blue earth! Yet, we are running out of water. We are dry. Calloused. Capricious. Cantankerous. I do have my own gifts. I buried them in an effort to fit in. To survive. My treasures glitter, roll, and rumble! My well will always be filled with cold, clear water. I walk in the rain as a reminder of how natural it is to get dirty. It is a blessing to be clean, and we must work for it.
I told a girl about the thunderstorm, and she did not believe me. I didn’t hear it. Are you sure it happened? I was soaked down to my underwear. My blue dress was dusted with mud. My hair hung in stringy strands, and my mascara ran down my face. Yes, perhaps I made it up, I said. She smiled and went on scooping beans onto her pita. If you believe in the evolution of consciousness, you will not believe this. Too much occurs, yet there is never enough to keep me engaged. I am overstimulated and underwhelmed! I am festering in boredom yet abundant with ideas! The paradox is so ripe and wonderful the cucumber will drop at any moment.
The feminine will not be destroyed: consciousness is a thrust, not a must!
I demand that people make time for me. It is not enough to be juggled along with the mess of eternity. If I am allowed one request, it is this: I do not want to be held up in time. I want to break the borders and enter infinity. I want to stand alone like a signature carved into stone. Banged out against the hardest parts of the earth. People may stare and question: what does it say? What can it mean? And that is the whole purpose of this process, is it not? I will be that still point in the sand. The anchor in the mud. The empty well with the ringing echo that calls, water - water - water! And eventually, someone will arrive with a ladle to pour down my throat. We are all simply passing the bucket onto the next soul who was shucked from the shells and deposited amidst the glittery mess of the stardust.
Residue from my past lives: I've evolved to the point of preferring the pain, choosing the madness, and accepting my grief!
My heart may be broken and my hope burst, yet my sheer excitement for being alive cannot be snatched away from me! Never! Not at all! I have such a fervor and penchant for tasting new things - people - places - products. Is it capitalism, is it greed, is it restlessness? You call it what you want. I call it the call to live and a desire to love beyond the little container someone placed me in.
I came without wrapping paper, and I will depart as a simple note, the clatter of coins tossed down the well.
Photo source.
