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the whole range is the only freedom.
trying to manage our thoughts and emotions
is like trying to grab water, oil
completely and painfully futile,
bless us.
and stopping doesn’t come from
more will power,
strength,
focus,
insight.
actually, i have no idea
what happens
even now.
i just know that finally
fucking
getting pissed
without feeling so so wrong and apologetic squished on top of it
is a fucking relief.
i can actually be pissed off for once in my life.
the whole range is the only freedom.
I want to sneak out, slip away, go where nobody knows me. Take the Love Sign. Feel lonely sometimes. Not talk so much. Rest. Hold the sign. Find out what’s waiting for me. Learn a song. Learn another one. Teach one. Doodle. Journal. Take photos. Rest. See whales. Fall in love. Fall out of love. Pine. Cry. Rest. Get some sleep. Wonder about not sleeping. See wide open fields. Stop to pee. Find out what’s there for me.
Right now, I don’t care as much.
And just now, I’d forgotten that I took those pieces of art down. That I had agonized in the gut about it. That I felt emotion and warmth when I did it. Once they were down, they were down, safely tucked away in the drawer and unthought of until I saw the post from a few days ago, agonizing, bumping my toe.
He didn’t walk back in.
Relief.
Today Judy said that Scott is like relief. I agreed and liked how she put that.
Was really nice to have Jesse and Jeff here today. Clarity. Friendship. Brighter smoke. Room to move things. Closets emptied. Others still full and I don’t care as much today. Right now. Right now, I don’t care as much.
Grief happens when it does. Uncreated. As the joy, so they say, is uncaused, so the grief. So the guitar whose back faces me, leaning on the chair, stirring up nervousness in my gut about playing new music and being embarrassed to try. I’ve kept it to myself all this time. I’m afraid to stretch and grow.
But he kept saying, add a little air to your balloon.
Whatever. It does or it doesn’t. Uncaused. This music, stellar. This heart, empty. In the freedom way. In the empty way. In the breeze can blow right through way, in the way of the painting of the sunset over the pacific that sits on my shelf. What do I do with my art?
Maybe I do take the fairy lights. Yes, maybe I’m going. I’m going. Maybe I’m going.
It isn’t any of us, but it’s the way it goes. The only way it can go. Rest. Eat what you feel. Don’t worry. You have more than enough. Don’t you?
Sometimes thinking. Sometimes crying. Sometimes restful. All that coming through leads to the chill times, so it seems. Quiet. Don’t try to describe it or tell why about it. It’s over now. And so is this.
I am the utterance of my own name.
From The Thunder: Perfect Mind, Gnostic Gospel, Naghammadi Library (2nd - 4th c.)
Observe. Do not forget who I am.
For I am the first, and the last.
I am the honored one, and the scorned.
I am the whore and the holy one.
I am the wife and the virgin.
I am the mother, the daughter,
and every part of both.
I am the barren one who has born many sons.
I am she whose wedding is great
and I have not accepted a husband.
I am the midwife and the childless one,
the easing of my own labor.
I am the bride and the bridegroom
and my husband is my father.
I am the mother of my father,
the sister of my husband;
my husband is my child.
My offspring are my own birth,
the source of my power.
What happens to me is their wish.
I am the incomprehensible silence
and the memory that will not be forgotten.
I am the voice whose sound is everywhere
and the speech that appears in many forms.
I am the utterance of my own name.
my art of love
turns I wasn’t expecting
I stumble and hit my toe again
he leaves me
he walks back in
my art comes down off the wall
and goes up again
somewhere else,
relieved
my lonely, lonely foot
Blazing
itching
mosquito
tooth worse than it was before i went to the dentist, affecting my ability to enjoy eating.
w
t
f
?
worried and thinking that i’m losing face
sometimes seeing through
sometimes not
sometimes just feeling feeling feeling like a what?
too busy?
feels like i blame my hormones but it’s not.
i don’t know what it is.
i feel sick.
i hate mike
and sometimes i hate how i feel toward him
toward myself.
a few days ago i made that gratitoodle
and wrote that i’m grateful for mike and
for not having hateful feelings toward mike.
and that is where the equanimity arises.
hating him
not hating him
both arising
this fucking itching foot.
i was outside for hours tonight, swarmed with mosquitoes, but none bit me.
now, in my pajamas, in my soon-to-be-former home,
extremely itchy bites all over my foot.
my lonely lonely foot.
