The deepest relationships in my life have dug up the ugliest bones inside me. Sometimes it’s too much to bear at once and at least once, it almost sent me off to the showers, to be sporting analogistic about it; I use sports analogies quite a lot; they’re great for matching wits with life.
And at times, once that connection is gone the hurts go quiet, the heart goes quiet, all is silent like the night after a Midwestern thunderstorm. And so some of the hurts seem to rebury themselves and the temptation is go somewhere where they remain buried, to clamor for someone without a shovel or a rake or a hoe or even the gentlest hands to cultivate the compost of the soul and grow something magnificent, like a lilly crossed with a unnamed flower to create a new species for the garden. I am not much for compromise; I’m stubborn as a barn of bulls at times, I despise cowardice in myself and the thought of living a compromise in a relationship has I think kept me alone for a while. I had a life between life session where essentially one is hypnotized and can speak was their higher self about what they’re doing between incarnations. Mine had a lot to do with forgiveness among other things. I could see my Cosmic Steering Committee as I call them. The other issue is unburying those bones, except these bones inside still have flesh, like misdiagnosed zombies. Somewhere things got buried and that’s where I want to start my show again, to remind myself of the struggle, of entering this immense colorful mouth of soft teeth like a whale made of silly putty and old pianos, and that is the battle, the fatigue, the real jihad, to sauce up and face myself or oneself in totem, in complete view and see that not all things that are buried are rotten; no, some are waiting, unopened, and I call this looking for the black box of my soul. Search, scrounge, through any damn means possible to stay awake, deeply awake. Lately I have been skimming the surface and creating a silent little tundra for myself and it takes a moment or a crafty series of them to wake the yawn and enter. To be hungry, so starved for most of my life, and know that it is part mulch and part joyous release is the essence of living. I can be jealous, petty, almost inwardly tyrannical in my moods that may seem to last for days. When someone thinks I’m ‘mellow’ as a neighbor I just met the other day said, I honestly cringe; I get pissed; I am losing the battle. The fervor is sitting in the bottom of the pan like old Crisco and I need to reheat.
I am upset with myself for maintaining radio silence when I should engulf the entire FM spectrum, or in my case AM at this point until the music unfurls. I am shy, I mutter when I should shout and when that happens, a false life begins to create itself and it’s like mold. And even though my brain understands that, getting the visceral thrust to finally erupt is a real grappling with the angels, grabbing one of Michael’s horns and playing it out of any orifice available on my person.
Like after going to the gym after a week; all the muscles are sore and it feels good; that’s how it is writing; my heart has that ache of expansion. mouthfuls of rainbows with tattoos of dead generals on them. Every scoundrel has an idea of paradise; it’s the ones that think it’s the same for everyone you have to watch.