On Being (Sleep Deprived) Light 

Long before I’d had even a glimmer of understanding of the enormity of everything that is still not, but never wasn’t, so therefore is (And to think Jean-Luc once accused me of pedantry!) there was for me, light. That which illuminated. That which is the antithesis of cumbersome/heavy. Light.

Irrespective of the place in which I am for this time, which is in shadow, and maybe I, as has often been the case in life, have it all wrong, but I think it’s now my turn. To lilluminate. To be what isn’t heavy. So from my place in shadow, I’ll be the light. Shining into places that appear scary, but really are not. Making it easier to traverse the road (less traveled) ahead. Being a cosmic cheerleader for those who need it, encouraging them to leave behind the heavy, the cumbersome, the past. 

Written from my bed again, in a night of sleep that has come in drips, and drops, after an evening of fighting everything inside me that feels overwhelmed by a call to trust in some sort of greater plan, and to trust in general. Fighting to transmute thoughts and feelings and energy which doesn’t serve me. Fighting to overcome the sadness of not being where I want to be, where I thought I’d be, tonight, tomorrow, next week. Fighting to believe loneliness won’t be forever. For whatever it means, I’ll be the light. 

There’s some sort of irony in typing this right now, into my phone, in a room with only just now the slightest hint of sunlight peeking through the blinds, without my glasses as I’d planned to sleep tonight, not write,  as with so much else in my life, just feeling my way through, and hoping I get at least most of it right. But also a little bit saying fuck it, if there are tiny mistakes, at least I wrote the thing, instead of just letting it sit untouched in the back of my mind. 

“How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, … how old my heart.”

There are so many things I need to be doing right now, today, this weekend. Sitting on my ass writing is not among them. But THEY(them?), or the words, or something, keep telling me to write.  And to cry.  Whatever it is that calls to me, or feeds me words, and takes my breath away with emotions I didn’t expect washing over me in a random moment, and tears, has fucked timing, because I really do have a lot to do. So here I sit.

And now the bastards abandon me with their direction to write still burning in me, nothing but my scattered, cloudy thoughts to keep me company, and a song playing over and over because it says without saying, everything that I ache to hear but never imagined I’d ever be hearing, and in the moments I am able to focus on it, I find my balance again.

There have been 3333 thoughts flipping through my head this week, most of them today.  I know there are words that I (too) give in disguise, if at all, but mostly I say not at all,  and in the holding back of these, the others also get sometimes paused. Not that these words are reliant on, or related to, those words. Except its all related in some way that I never end up knowing until long after the fact, which actually makes me happy because “…the less I seek my source for some definitive, the closer I am to fine…”

But meanwhile, words unsaid are currently playing the role of some sort of dialogue condom; catching all the rest of the words I’m meant to say, too. Or maybe its not even that, maybe the words don’t even get that far, maybe I have verbal blue balls. Or both, dependent on the day. I can’t begin to explain male ejaculation, and lack thereof, as my analogy of choice in this moment, but I’ve decided to just roll with myself, in all my glorious weird/possibly disgusting-ness.

Discovery or memory that Art; paintings, drawings, sketches, can make me cry, like music does. Like ballet does. I’d either forgotten that until this week past while at the Guggenheim, or I never knew. Not all art, to be sure. Some of it leaves me cold, and some of it I’m convinced a toddler could create the equal of. But the pieces I feel, and to be surrounded by works of masters, even those whose work I personally think is shit, made me cry.

And then there was Miss Saigon. To risk a Bogart-esque “gin joint” moment, …of all the shows in all the theaters currently playing in NYC, my sister chose that one to be the one we saw… Was given fair warning by her that she’d cried the first time she saw it, and fair warning too that Unicorn tears had been shed, so mine weren’t unexpected. What was unexpected was how 2 parts of the story line resonated so deeply with me. And a couple of the songs…. I was a goner.

Perhaps equal to that emotion, was the emotion of watching those living a life of which I used to dream, come to fruition. Not because I wanted ever to be rich/famous. I mean, I’ll take rich because money makes life easier, if you’re not an asshole about it, but, never was my desire for life on a stage of whatever kind, about that.

So as I sat there, hearing a song of a sun and moon, of lives so different from one another, and unexpected love, and thinking of my little girl dreams of dancing ballet, of singing, and acting, or combining them, and how I was told so many times by those who are supposed to encourage dreams, I wasn’t “enough” (good enough, realistic enough, skinny enough) or was too much (mostly too much boobs and ass, but also, too much smart for “that” sort of life) and how I let my dreams get wiped away, I got sad.  The sadness lasted only for a moment before the beauty took me away, but it was unexpected, and healing. A healing I didn’t know that I needed, which has been a recurring theme lately.

This writing and I are not friends right now. The words don’t come, and the emotions are exhausting, and I know enough now to know that I am not crazy, but it’s a little crazy making when, in spite of arms thrown wide open, and absolute surrender to what is so much bigger than I ever imagined, so much bigger than me, I am unable to exhale. And I really, really, thought it was time, to exhale.

 

You Were Written Into The Song Of My Soul

Maybe laying here in my bed, typing this into my phone, the words bubbling once again below the surface will find their way to light, in a way they were reluctant to do when it was the couch, and the laptop, and me.

There’s a whirlwind now, circling around me. Everything is changing, inside, and out, and its brilliant, and beautiful, and I’m peacefully overwhelmed. Because I wrote maybe I need to shed skin again, and God, Universe, The Flying Spaghetti Monster, whatever,  responded with “get naked, baby!” So naked I am, in the whirlwind, at peace, overwhelmed, but not. No need to be in control of any of it, but also in control of it all because; manifestation.

And it never looks like I think it will but always looks like what I wish I’d dreamed it to be, now that I let go of what it is, or will be, and just let go. With tears of unknown origin once again finding their way to me, this time I’m not on my knees, or even surprised. This time I’m grateful. Each tear that clings to a lash, reluctant to fall, or makes its way out amongst a rush of it’s peers, is a spontaneous ritual of purification. Is a signifier simultaneously of a closure, and a further opening.

Absent all fear, the step forward, upward, sideways, whatever it’s meant to be, leaves behind another footprint in memory’s past. And I have no more answers to questions than I had when I finally chose myself that day 7 months ago, except so much now makes sense.

Whether it is a matter of heightened awareness or a quantitative rise in frequency/frequency of occurrences, synchronicities abound. And what I need when I need it, words or actions or phone calls or songs or love, reach for me, take hold of me, assure me here is where I’m meant to be. Here where I have the most incredible people in my life. And where magic(k) is everywhere.

I’m still just half a hippy, (the half that will always be well groomed, and never wear patchouli) but in my halfness I am (holy) fully in a place of knowing love more deeply, more intimately, than in any time (in this lifetime) before now.  Love generally love specifically love globally. Starting with me, for me, for both halves (still really both wholes) of me, and with love for all, even those I maybe don’t like, or for whom my first thought isn’t loving, there is love.

Where once I thought a mirror was held before me I’ve come to understand there is no mirror held but is simply a mirror. My mirror into which I reflect back as it’s mirror.  Ideas about, and descriptors of,  history lessons, and titles, none of that matters. Tomorrow, or next week or 2 months from now, it just is. (Everything of light, and bright, and cool)

This is all about me,  but it can never be just for me. While naked 11 (which is not the same naked as skin shedding naked) may appear to be some days a default setting, the absolute truth hovers more around (veiled? robed?) 8 or whatever number below 10 best expresses authenticity & transparency with some (tiny amount of) reserve, except when expressed as frequency (Hz) which makes the number at least 500.  And isn’t about appearance, and only meaningful to those (one) who hear(s) what it/I say(s).

7 months in the past and 15 days into the future are significant, but right here, and now, is where I work to stay.

—–

Fell asleep at 3:00AM, phone in hand, typing. I guess this is the place at which the words stop.

To Elizabeth Gilbert and her Rayya Elias

My Dearest Elizabeth & Rayya,

When I first read the story of your love, of your relationship, I judged you. Not because you’re both women, to that I pay no mind. But because Elizabeth was married. Because she hurt at least one other person, to be with another person. Vows, and promises, and all that we’re supposed to hold sacred. I actually thought you were given a pass BECAUSE you’re both women. I thought if Elizabeth had declared her love for another man, she’d have been labeled a cheating whore, at best. But because it was another woman she fell (or realized she was) in love with, a woman with terminal cancer no less, passes were given.

But not by me. I judged. Because I am after all, perfect. Especially where love is concerned. In particular at that point in my life, where I was very much in the depths of being a hot fucking mess, clutching the pieces of my (repeatedly) shattered heart, because my (abusive, cheating) then husband, had a side piece. Again. But there I was busy being all perfect, and judgey, about you, your love, and your relationship. You, meanwhile, were busy living your lives, and sharing love. Clearly I had the upper hand in things.

Maybe I should have prefaced the formal announcement of my judginess with words about how you, Elizabeth, were a hero of sorts to me. When I read “Eat, Pray, Love” (the first of a thousand times) all I could think was “woah, I want to be as cool, and courageous, as her.” Beside the fact that you were writing as a profession, and funny, interesting, easy to read, but with real depth, writing, and traveling while doing the writing, you were also eating ALL the yumminess in Italy. Then being all one with Shiva, and Shakti or Ganesh or whomever, in India (OK, it took a minute for you to get there… I know! But you got there!) Then you went to Bali, and for hells sake, its Bali!! But also, love happened then. Oh how I wanted to be you! Also too, JULIA FUCKING ROBERTS played you in the movie based on your life, and book!! Amazing!

I don’t remember how long after EPL, came your book “Committed.” Such a different tone, but I marveled at the depth of it. All of the research you did, not just in books, but experientially, and conversationally, whatever it took to help you get to your personal truth, to walk through your biggest fears, and to deal with the curve ball life had thrown you, was amazing. Again, while writing, while traveling, while loving, and being loved.

Some of what you’d found in your research really dug deep in me, taught me history and traditions I’d never heard of. Also, it got me thinking about my personal truths around relationships. I’m a weirdo who digs learning, and thinking, and introspection. Your books brought me all those things because you’re cool! And then you got married to your Bali love. YAY!! Could I just BE you already?

By this point my then marriage had absolutely fallen apart, to put it mildly. Not that I was getting divorced. Oh hell no. My marriage was a horse that I was bound, and determined to beat to DEATH. Then give it CPR to bring it back. Then beat it to death, again.  More than ever, I wanted to be you. Eating, and Praying, and Loving, and traveling, and writing.

September 2016 when you posted about no longer apologizing for your feelings, a month after I’d found out about my then husband’s (newest) side piece, and having either not come forward yet about the abuse in my marriage, or having done so only to a couple of people, when I read about you, and Rayya, and your divorcing to be with  her, I was disappointed in you young lady! I was angry. I felt betrayed. How dare my heroine fall from the pedestal upon which she’d never chosen to sit. The pedestal where I’d placed her, and love, and commitment.

I a little bit broke up with you then.  Not the way I broke up with Shonda Rhimes when she killed off McDreamy, and I refused then, and now, to watch her shows. I still buy your books. But a little bit, we stopped being a thing then, you and I. I’m sure you felt it. I’m sure you being a public figure with a huge following, in a new love, with a woman with terminal cancer, and very full life in general, felt my disapproval from where I live in central Jersey.

I don’t know when it happened exactly, and I definitely don’t know how, or what might have been the events leading to it, but, sometime in October, I, to quote you Elizabeth, got tired of my own bullshit. Or at least started to. It didn’t have to do with the 2 of you. I’m not really sure what it had to do with. Maybe I got bored of spinning around on the nail in my foot. I’ve figured out that I have to stop trying to figure out what it was that caused the shift for me, but, a shift there was. I started to let go of my pain, and to remember to love myself again. And that I was (am) worth loving.

But it was in early November when the change really happened. When I opened myself, to myself, remembered who I am, what I believe, what I feel, and let go of a lot of crap that had been weighing me down for more years than I care to admit. Through a series of events, and choices, and some REALLY unexpected gorgeousness, my thoughts were, at least in part, turned to love. And when I say love, I mean, LOVE. Big, huge, glorious, take your breath away while breathing life into you, LOVE. Self love. Love for others. Friendship love. Global love. Just, love. Which brought me back around to the 2 of you, and your LOVE, and your relationship. And how I’d been Judgey McJudgerson about it, and was wrong for having been.

In moving away from the bat shit crazy woman I’d become in the last few years of my marriage, and closer to the me I’ve always really been, I remembered that, beside the fact that how you live your life is none of my business, love is what is most important. YES, there was at least one person who was no doubt hurt as a result of your having realized your love, your IN LOVE, for Rayya, but had you chosen to stay with him, instead of allowing your love for her be known, you wouldn’t have loved her any less. You wouldn’t have been living as your “authentic self” which is a buzz phrase I hate, but suited to this moment. It likely would have affected him in negative ways, too. 

Also, sometimes love comes from very unexpected places, with timing and circumstances you’d never have dreamed possible. When that love becomes in love, as yours did, I can just imagine how overwhelmingly beautiful that feels. How right, real, and meant to be. How impossible to deny. Especially when you know time is short. 

I don’t think there was a right or wrong choice in your situation, because to each his or her own, but I think you, Elizabeth, made a choice that was brave as fuck.  You knew there would be people like me, who judged you. Some people who judged you were probably publicly mean, and terrible to you about it. (As opposed to me just silently shunning you, from a distance.) Because you live your life in the public eye, and because you wrote the book on your love, and marriage, well, I can’t even imagine what might have been the mental process for you. The emotional process. 

In leaving your marriage you likely left what was comfort, and security, and love, for a love larger than all of that. And to have whatever time you are able to, with Rayya, out loud, in public because your life sort of demands it, and unapologetically, because your love just IS.

When I read 2 days ago of the ceremony you had to celebrate your love, and understanding that you probably don’t know how much time Rayya has left here, the words “does sometimes love come too late” crossed my mind. I immediately answered my own question with, shut up Michelle, because it’s never too late for love. 

Then I got sad for a minute, knowing  your time is relatively short. But that’s sort of silly because you may not have as much time together here as you would like to have, but you have an IN LOVE that many people don’t EVER have. An IN LOVE that I hope to be lucky enough to myself know in this lifetime. And really, that’s the antithesis of sad. 

I’m sure you, Elizabeth, want to know, are BURNING to know, that we’re back to being a thing now. I mean, I know you’re all in love with Rayya, and we’ve never actually met, and I don’t mean it “that way” anyway. But you are a heroine of mine, again. A really human, really “normal”, really just taking life as it comes, and working on your stuff so you can make your way through it as best possible, heroine. You’re brave, and honest, and courageous. I can only hope that I am as gracious, and graceful, and just damn funny, as you, if the really difficult stuff comes my way again. 

I thank you for all the valuable lessons you’ve taught to me, all you’ve helped me to learn, how you’ve helped me to take a deeper look at myself, a deeper look at love, simply by being you, and living your truth. Thank you for reminding me that love is love is love, and helping to reopen my heart to it, no matter what it looks like. No matter if the timing is “off”, and the situation not what would be called ideal. 

To you, and your brilliant Rayya, I’m sorry I judged. I send my love, my light, and my hopes that you get as much time as possible, and then some, together, to share your in love, in this time, and place.

And to Rayya, I can’t begin to know what you in particular are feeling right now. But I’m so happy for you that you have this love to hold you when you need it most. May angels, or whatever comforts you most, wrap themselves around you, now and always. 

All my Love,

Michelle from  8A off the turnpike

 


As a very important PS to anyone who may read this: Please don’t read into what I’ve written. IF you think this is about you, directed toward you, referencing you, unless you’re Elizabeth, Rayya, my ex-husband, (who I’m loathe to mention because my past is really behind me, and its just a history lesson now,  but is indeed part of the history of me) or me, its none of those. Although I did sort of quote a (beloved) someone, if you read this, you’ll know that one thing is you.  And also the other thing you played a part in. But other than that, this isn’t about anyone else’s lives. 

Please don’t think I mean its OK to bang random people if you’re married or in a committed relationship. Random sex isn’t IN LOVE. I mean, if you want to do that, its not my life, just don’t think that I’m all “woo hoo” about it. (As if my opinion matters.) Please also don’t think I feel that one should be keeping their eyes open for greener pastures. Or other pastures. But sometimes pastures make their way to you, or you’ll accidentally come across one.  Also, if one finds new love, but chooses to stay with known love, that is their business, their right, their life. Same same with choosing new love.

To anyone who doesn’t know who Elizabeth and Rayya are, and want to, links below to Elizabeth’s Facebook page.

And also, to quote Ed Sheeran

“…People fall in love in mysterious ways. Maybe its all part of a plan…”

Angel

Come find me. 

I am here, 

where I kiss the sun, 

and burn with the moon. 

Where I hear your feelings, 

and dream your thoughts. 

Waiting, 

but never just, waiting. 

—————–

This isn’t a bloggy blog post, and it’s not poetry unless you want it to be. This started as an Instagram thingy, turned tweet, in an almost mocking way. (Mocking myself, to be clear. Not my writing. My romantic, sappy, emo artsy fartsy creative feeler-ness)

 It ends up I like it in spite of it being the kind of writing I often hate. It’s ended up a love song to both halves of me, which are actually both wholes of me, but that just sounds weird. And also I wanted it somewhere I could find it, in case it needs to say more someday. 

This is not about sitting around waiting for my missing love. I did that, in a manner of speaking, waited to be seen, to matter, and watched years slip by. Highly overrated. And also, my love is not missing. For whatever that means in the moments after this one.  

And tomorrow is another step forward. Tomorrow is the continuation of beginning, again.  Tomorrow is actually 10 steps forward. So if you feel shaking, it’s just my chakras being cleared. And if you hear music, it’s just my soul remembering it’s song. 

The title of this? Fuck if I know why. They just told me to call it angel. So I did. 

…I Want to Tell You Everything, the Words I Never Got to Say the First Time Around…

Last night I cried.

After a day of fun, watching little boys, and little girls, and puppies, running around, swimming, playing, being silly.  A day of marveling at my cousin’s gorgeous little boy, not yet 3, throwing himself with fearless abandon into the pool, in spite of the fact that he doesn’t actually know how to swim. His giggles, and smile, breaking through the water as he’d find his way to the surface, into his daddy’s waiting arms. And of rocking my Babes to sleep, just he and I in a quiet corner of the garden, listening to (beloved) music, as is our way, and what he asks me for in his just over a year old vocabulary *ooh ooh usic* that melts my heart, every time he sees my phone.

A day when adults too were having fun. Which may have been more courtesy of adult beverages than the freedom of childhood, but, fun is fun. With plans to come home, have a “UFC and chill” night; I got a message about terror attacks in London, turned on the news for a bit to see what new horror was happening, and then I came home, and cried.

The no bullshit truth of life in 2017 is that any given moment, of any given day, there can be something truly tragic happening, somewhere in the world, to cry about. That’s not negativity, or pessimism, or perspective. that’s the truth. It’s probably been this way since the beginning of time. Humans have likely been assholes to other humans, whether as a group, or individuals, since forever started. But now, with all of our “modern” technology  which is so fantastic, and important in so many ways, its likely much easier.  Automatic weapons, and bombs, and nukes, long range missiles, and cars, fucking cars… are much more effective weapons than literal sticks, and stones. I certainly don’t always, or even often, cry, for groups of people killed by terrorists, or psychopaths, which really are one in the same. But when its the U.K., and again, so soon, …

Anyone who know me, knows I’m some sort of weirdo who has always, for as long as I can reach into memory, had a “thing” for the UK. Drawn to it, had an affinity for “things” of it, in an  inexplicable way. My weirdo vibe has become exponentially stronger as the years have passed. I see photos of some parts of it, and my heart races, and I get emotional. For reasons that I don’t understand, as crazy as it is, my heart is in the U.K. My beliefs tell me that I am not *just* bonkers. That I am having past life memories, or am feeling the energy of concurrent lives, in universes parallel, where my soul is occupying a body, living there. No matter the reasons why, what I do know is that I feel it more deeply when these sorts of tragedies occur in the U.K. And last night, I cried.

I woke this morning, having watched only the first 30 seconds of the UFC main card, (which thankfully I recorded!) on my couch. TV on, lights on, puppy crowding me with his massive 12lbs of body weight that seem like 1200 when he sleeps near me. Fully clothed. Terrible. I guess my body just said ‘fug it – good night’, in spite of what was an early hour for me.

Today I’ve spent a lot of time, once again, thinking, and feeling, and trying to figure ANYTHING out. Which I should know better than to do but, ‘HI, My name is Michelle, and I’m an over-thinker/feeler!’ I started to spin myself out about the state of the world, the state of my life, the state of my living room! I worried for all the little boys, and girls at the party yesterday, my cousin’s gorgeous baby boy, and my Babes, about what kind of world we are leaving for them. Or if there will be a world at all to be left to them, with assholes being assholes with alarming frequency.

In my spinning, I dwelt for a bit (radical understatement) on my not too distant future, things that may or may not happen, where I’m going, what I’m doing, or not doing, and choices I’ve recently made that will affect my tomorrows. Also, what can I possibly do to affect things not remotely within my sphere of responsibility, that aren’t mine to clean up, control, decide, fix, or even fuck up if that’s the choices made. AND, will the UK ban Americans from traveling, and moving there, because our President is such a ridiculous ass??!!!! (Half jest.)

And SPIIIIINNNN!!! Like a shroomy, patchouli scented, underarm hair having, long flowy skirt wearing, hippie chick at a Dead concert, I spun. And spun. And spun.

Much too long after I started, I realized I was spinning the fuck out, then did my best impersonation possible of Cher in Moonstruck. I (figuratively) slapped the crap out of myself, while (mentally) shouting “snap out of it!”

I’d like to say the snapping out of it was instantaneous, but, as any over thinker can attest to, stopping a super-spin ain’t easy. (My use of the word ain’t, which I ABHORE, is to emphasize how not easy is the super spin, to stop!) But the spinning did indeed stop.

After I got my feet back under me, I pulled a card, petted my puppy, exorcised with peppermint essential oil, the demon ants appearing here and there around my house, let the sunshine wash over me for a bit, spoke to a friend, watched the #OneLoveManchester concert, refocused my energy to within myself to ensure that my needs, my life, is what is my priority, and I remembered. Who I am. How I am. What I feel. What I believe. What MY path is. And that the best thing I can do for myself, for those I love, and the world, is to be my best self, and breath and exhale. To send out love, and gratitude, and beauty, especially in the moments when anything but those things would be easier to send.  I can’t control anything outside myself, but I can control my reactions to it; to get all spirituality 101 up in here.

Now its Sunday night, and nothing has changed since last night, or this morning, except me. There’s some great stuff happening this week, and even greater stuff happening later this month.  I’m going to Arizona in September, (manifesting) and should probably swing over to LA while I’m in the area. Going back to AZ in October. Want to fit a UK (don’t fuck this up for me, DONALD, or terrorist assholes) and Italy trip in, as well. Summer will be here soon, and I’m going to hit the shore as soon as I can, for ocean, and music, and beauty. I have tickets to see some of my favorite bands at The Stone Pony, in July. My best friend, and sister of my soul, just called me as I was typing that last sentence, and we actually got to talk for half an hour, which is amazing. While stuff that will elicit tears is still happening all over the world, maybe if enough of us stop our personal spinning, and remember love, we can change that, even if just to a small degree.

To the U.K., and everywhere else in the world tonight that is hurting, which is kind of everywhere else, “…I wish you all the love in the world, but most of all, I wish it from myself…”

Clairvoyant Skies

“…We are standing on the edge of a choice, And waiting for a voice, Is it destiny that pushes us this far?…”

(Don’t know what lead me here, to listen to this song, this morning, with rainy skies outside my window. This is one of the first bands I worked with in Arizona. And Ive realized I could draw a line that starts with this band, {or really, Conrad, their then manager} that would circle back to this moment in time, and encompass {almost} every person I love most, and experience that has brought me the most happiness in life.)

So with Michael’s Clairvoyant Skies floating above, and all around me, I think. About the memories I hold, the moments I’ve shared, the secrets I keep, the reasons why, of so many things.

And I feel.  Love, and loss, loneliness, and connection. Titanium strength, wrapped in a velvet of gentle. The brightness of  throwing my arms wide open, and the darkness of fear.  Clarity, and confusion.

This year that feels as if it just started a week ago, is unfathomably half way over. And this month is one of changes. It’s beginnings, and endings, and a little bit in between too. But it’s forward motion or die on the vine, and I won’t be dying anytime soon, even if life once again, possibly, doesn’t look like what I’d thought it would.

Pausing in my writing, to listen to the birds outside my window singing their morning song, and to read, and I find these words by Brene Brown, amongst a larger grouping, but these call to me. These are where I am. Where I have been for months.

“…I’m not screwing around. It’s time. …
…Time is growing short. There are unexplored adventures ahead of you. … Courage and daring are coursing through you. You were made to live and love with your whole heart. It’s time to show up and be seen.”

Nothing big, nothing important, happens in the blink of an eye, and I get that. But I also get that I’m ready to dance in the light on figurative tabletops,  and sing in the sunshine on literal mountain tops, or while standing on cool sand, with waves breaking upon the shore. Because I’ve spent enough time not doing those things. Not doing those things was where I needed to be, but don’t, anymore.

Maybe it’s time to shed skin again?? To go deep outside myself. Maybe I won’t find answers to my questions, maybe I will. But not if they go unasked. Unheard by whatever needs to know them.

There’s a quote floating in my head about destiny being decisions not circumstances, or something like that. And being still in Clairvoyant Skies, and the unexpected confluence of so many things in my life, that started with my decision to answer a phone call not meant for me, I agree.

This morning in June, with its rain gently falling, finds a cool breeze coming through my window, and a puppy laying near to me, because to not touch me in the morning is always more than he can stand.  Which is sweet, and cute, but I’m ready for more than “puppy love” mornings.

Now meetings have been had, moves will soon be made, and constant has been the stream of beautiful music this week, that strangely, not however surprisingly, led me here.  Back to where so much found it’s start. To where I begin, again.

“Who cares if one more light goes out? In a sky of a million stars… I Do”

Whatever this will end up as, it has been playing in the back of my mind starting Thursday a week ago, since hearing of the passing of Chris Cornell. More specifically, since hearing, seeing, FEELING the reactions of hearts I love, aching for this particular loss. And the aching of my own heart too. “He was one of us.” Words spoken to me, that resonate so deeply. One of us, has been too many of “us” for me on a personal level, and I understand completely (not at all) why.

I’m not entirely sure about what I’m writing. I’m not writing about suicide, death, depression, or loss. Except, that’s a lie, because I am a little bit somewhat writing about all of those things.

The words in my heart are about how fucking short life can be, and how I don’t want to let any more moments, or love, pass me by, and how I won’t just take opportunities, but will make them, because pause buttons were pushed, one that led to me losing myself, and forgetting almost everything I knew, and I stopped being alive for years. And one which ended up being pushed because it was the “right” thing to do, (never fully pushed?) the path as it was meant to happen, the unfolding to lead to a (something) deeper understanding, and learning, and now pause is over (?), (my) arms are thrown open, are there to catch, to be caught by… (re-interpretation/appropriation)

And they (words in my heart) are also about how love is, I think, the most important thing. But how it isn’t in and of itself, enough to save the life of one who chooses to not live. Which doesn’t inherently mean chooses physical death. Also, this isn’t, and is, about how it (love), and life as a whole, don’t look at all like I thought they would.

Love, which I used to think would come wrapped neatly in glittery purple ribbons,  and be punctuated by things forevery, and accompanied by grand gestures, but turns out to be without regard for the construct of time, and sloppy, messy, complex, (in its simplicity,  familiarity, comfort, and warmth), while wrapped in glittery purple ribbons, and accompanied by (beautiful, thoughtful, loving) simple gestures (that mean everything in the moments they are needed, especially when given without being asked for). And is able to navigate that which at first glance appears to be unnavigable, if that is the choice made.

Life, that I have always been told must follow a linear path, but instead is laced with switchbacks, and hairpin turns, stops, and starts, and is washed out by tide’s coming in, and then revealed in a new form, by tide’s receding.

(I sit, and stare, and think, and dream, and sing, and float to there, wherever that may be… , as I seek the words I want to write. And were you sitting next to me, you would see the beginnings, and middles, of so many writings… to be gotten back to, when they are ready. If they are ever ready. Maybe it is less {in this moment} that I want to write, and more that I want to speak, or sit in {silent} conversation.)

“One of us” as I interpret it globally,  is one of the artsy fartsy type. Us sedately hyper, hyper-communicative, introverts, who lay it all on the line, and play it close to the vest. Who pour ourselves in brilliant neon, onto the canvas best suited to our chosen medium, except sometimes we’re muted pastel. Or black. Or white. Or invisible ink. One of us, the (un) lucky ones, who create, or burn inside out, for the lack of it. One of us who feel, and feel, and FEEL. Even when we say we don’t. If we create, we FEEL! Us; those who seemingly have a choice to go inside, get down and dirty with the everything we feel, or to not. So then we drink, a lot. Or do drugs, a lot. Or find a “zipless fuck”  and a hundred more after it. To numb. To escape. To hide.

Sometimes too, we go inside, while creating, and drinking, and doing drugs, and finding a zipless fuck, and thinking we’ve got answers, have a handle on things, Or we go inside while creating, without drinking, drugs, or zipless fucks, and do have answers, and a handle on things, and then… what we thought we knew as certainty, isn’t, and we remember that even concrete crumbles, and steel melts. In some instances, that’s a terrible thing, and in others, its exactly the way its supposed to be, perhaps even intentional, and beautiful.

But Chris Cornell though… his departure is one (of many) that sends me deep into a variation of my life long deep think of “why.” Not why did he commit suicide. This why isn’t that why. This why is about why we “rise”, or “fall.” Which is not a statement of judgement, or about better than, worse than, higher or lower on any scale. It is just words to depict going one way, or another.

As I have spent hours thinking about this writing, about Chris Cornell, about the ones who create, and depression, and suicide, or pseudo-cide (addiction) (which is not to be confused with pseudocide, a death, faked) I think of my own journey into the very deep dark place from which I at times didn’t see an escape, and at other times didn’t give a fuck about escaping from, alive. (I did not try to commit suicide, just to be clear!!) I think about the fact that from the outside, Chris Cornell had so much more to fight his way out of the dark for, than I.

This is not melodrama, and this is not victim mentality, this is; write that shit down on a piece of paper in 2 columns, and see what it looks like, from the outside. He had a wife who loves him, kids who love him, THE career he always wanted, friends who love him, fans who adore him, fame and fortune, IMMENSE talent, access to every imaginable resource because, money,  and blah blah blah stuff. I have my daughters, and friends who love me. And family who do too, of course. I have had so much more than so many on this planet, and I KNOW it, but on paper, reviewing the 2 columns, I would have picked Chris Cornell as the one to come out ahead. Alive.

Never, ever will I be able to understand, explain why or how I got to such a deep, dark depth, nor will I be able to understand, or explain, why or how, I am not there anymore, and why Chris Cornell hung himself to stop the hurting. And I could speak of karma, or of God, or luck, or being blessed, faith, lack thereof, dogma, or timing. I could speak of inner strength, tenacity, nature, nurture, biology, chemistry, or a million other things, that would all be supposition. Why did I choose what I chose, and why did he choose, what he chose. And this isn’t really about Chris Cornell, and this isn’t really about me. This is about anyone who has been where he was, and where I was.

Over, and over, and over, as I write this, I see 3 faces, and hear 3 voices, and think of these 3 souls I have been privileged to (some more than others) know. Each of these souls are ridiculously talented, intelligent, crazy, grounded, creative feelers, who have attained levels of success in their chosen mediums that most of us creative feelers can only (maybe) imagine. And each of them has been through some hell. Eerily similar hell, to each other, and me. Although 2 of them have been public about their hell, and by public I mean PUBLIC about their hell, I will speak of them anonymously because who they are, and their hell, isn’t important.

My thoughts about each of these ridiculously talented, creative feelers (henceforth to be known as RTCF), isn’t about their success. I know enough about how the world of artistic endeavors works to know that whatever the fuck luck is, (or is it blessings? – omnipotent omniscient Oprah deity “you get rich and famous, and you get rich and famous”) there is some element of that involved. The mystery for me is the why of each of them choosing to rise, instead of to fall. Which is not to say that they (2 of them much moreso than the 3rd) followed always, only a straight, and narrow path.

I can say I was a somewhat more than casual observer to the period of “don’t think I’ll make it to age 30 so, fuck it” of one of them. (Disclaimer: I didn’t know this was the thinking, until many years later.) But always in the midst of the crazy fun, there was a level of restraint involved. If “method to the madness” has ever been applied, it was then, and there, with that person. If “spiraling in control” can be a thing, I know the master of it. Bravest soul I’ve ever known, this one, thankfully no longer spiraling.

Another of them started to fall at a very young age, chose to reverse the fall, then got knocked the fuck down. Memories of conversation of almost 20 years ago;  a head-down, shoulders slumped, hands in pockets, heart-achingly difficult conversation, about the knock down, an ending of a something, and the why of the ending, like it was yesterday. And that conversation could have been followed by a not just a fall, but a plunge. Rise doesn’t begin to describe this story’s (not yet finished) end.

The third (beloved) soul, that I know of, has never even begun to fall. Not in the sense that I mean here. On the face of it though, would have been “taking candy from a baby” easy for this to be another spiral in control, if not fall. Rise, once again, does not begin to describe… Poised now to reach even higher heights.

Sadly, exponentially more are the faces of those who fell, than those who rose. I see them flashing through my mind, and I am grieved by the knowing that I am forgetting some (probably many) of them no longer here, taken either by suicide, or pseudo-cide become fatal. There are those too who simply slipped away, so lost in their pseudo-cide, they couldn’t be with those of us not following that road.

And I’m left with, WHY? And thank you to whatever it is that requires thanking, which sees me sitting here writing this, with my artsy fartsy, creative FEELINGNESS hanging the fuck out. All. The. Time. Instead of being still in the darkness. Or on the other side of it where the only pain is for those left behind.

1700+ words, and I still don’t know for sure what this is about. I know that since I started thinking about this, children were killed in Manchester, England, while they were at a pop concert. And wars are being waged in other countries by those shouting with bombs that their beliefs are what matter most. And a couple more artsy fartsy legends have passed way. 2 men were killed, and another severely injured, defending teenage girls from a “man” bullying them for their religious beliefs. Today an artsy fartsy guy, younger than me, died. Something about alcoholism, but, I think that wasn’t the exact cause of death.

Life is short. Love is love is love. Is messy.  Is complex in its simplicity. And I have no answers. But I’m here. I remember who I am, and this, who I am now, is who I always was. This was always my path. And choices made from places of fear, are never the right choice. And, irrespective of my beliefs about the hereafter, I care if another light goes out. More though than that, I care about the light that is still here, in so much pain, that it thinks it should be, not.

If you’ve read the above, and think you see yourself in it, this is not about you, except the you this is, in part, about. This is mostly about me, but not about just me, and not about me at all. And/Or Chris Cornell.


Linkin Park – “One More Light”

Should’ve stayed, were there signs, I ignored?
Can I help you, not to hurt, anymore?
We saw brilliance, when the world, was asleep
There are things that we can have, but can’t keep
If they say
Who cares if one more light goes out?
In a sky of a million stars
It flickers, flickers
Who cares when someone’s time runs out?
If a moment is all we are
We’re quicker, quicker
Who cares if one more light goes out?
Well I do

The reminders, pull the floor from your feet
In the kitchen, one more chair than you need, oh
And you’re angry, and you should be, it’s not fair
Just ’cause you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it, isn’t there

If they say
Who cares if one more light goes out?
In a sky of a million stars
It flickers, flickers
Who cares when someone’s time runs out?
If a moment is all we are
We’re quicker, quicker
Who cares if one more light goes out?
Well I do

Who cares if one more light goes out?
In a sky of a million stars
It flickers, flickers
Who cares when someone’s time runs out?
If a moment is all we are
We’re quicker, quicker
Who cares if one more light goes out?
Well I do
Well I do

Mt. Michelle – revisited

I came across all of my old blogs from when Myspace used to be “a thing” and I’d write all the time. This blog, circa 2004, was inspired by a PM sent to me via the motorcycle forum to which I used to belong. In case that doesn’t make sense in 2017, the motorcycle forum was a message board. A place where like-minded individuals would gather, virtually, to discuss their common interests. In this case, it was motorcycles, (duh) and the riding of them. Or in my case, passengering on them. But, REALLY passengering. At 120 miles per hour sometimes, leaning so deep into curves, our knees almost touched the ground, and for hundreds of miles at a time.

From Myspace:

Me:  He sees my photos, he reads the words I write, (not here, elsewhere) has limited one to one email interaction with me, and based on these things he says I’m like nitroglycerine…. I’m not sure why he started to write to me, but here is how he thinks men view me. (asterisks are mine, reference at end of writing)

————————————————-

“yes, it’s clear that your volatile* personality is a draw…your ability to change looks from mother to rock groupie chick** to biker to manager……. you are like nitroglycerin. “taking” you would make a man feel very powerful. king of the world. look at this fine specimen of a woman that I have slain / subdued / seduced / caused to fall head over heels in love with me / fucked her brains out. however… mishandle the nitro… and THAT’S YOUR AZZZZZ! this scares many men off, because it’s too much responsibility. all they are in it for is to meet a cutie, have sex with her, go out to eat and the movies, maybe fall in love and have a family. they really aren’t prepared to deal with a forceful personality. other guys will see it as a diamond in the rough. a needle in a haystack. something different for a change from the easily duped and quickly swooning volunteers…”

————————————————–

Me:  So apparently I’m Mt. Michelle, waiting, much like Everest, for the brave souls willing to attempt to conquer me?  And what happens when “they” perceive they have conquered me? What if they have the idea that getting me in bed is something that won’t happen until they pledge undying love to me but I decide to allow it to happen before then? Do they think they’ve conquered me, and then I’m not a challenge? And what if “they” are one of the few that get to experience what I think are the best parts of me? The affectionate, romantic, nurturing, tender woman I am. The woman who will in fact cry for their hurt more quickly than she will her own. And who sometimes doesn’t want to be strong, but rather wants to lean on someone for a moment. Are they let down because Mt. Everest isn’t supposed to be touchy/feely, romantic, or emotional?

This is all very timely and interesting. I know it’s only one man’s (unsolicited) opinion. And a man who does not in fact know me. I see elements of truth in what he’s said though. So it leaves me to wonder, if I’m perceived as this challenge, but then instead of playing those silly dating games of making a guy chase me, I am just who I am, is “their” idea of me destroyed and I then cease to be appealing? A friend of mine once said about herself “hard to get doesn’t exist in my vocabulary. If I’m in it, I’m in it.” And I feel the same way.

Which brings me back to the thought of destroying the illusion of Mt. Michelle waiting to be conquered. I suppose the ones worth my time will realize that whether I wait 3 days or 3 months to have sex with them, it’s not indicative of me having been conquered. And they will also know that number of phone calls or email isn’t indicative of anything other than I friggen communicate with everyone, all the time! And if I seem excited to see them it’s ’cause I enjoy their company, not because I’m whipped. And that if I want to help them out, it’s not ’cause I’m madly in love, it’s ’cause that’s what I do. And that while I’m not complex in a drama queen way, that “conquering” me isn’t based on what they might think it is!

Overall I guess this is much better than being viewed as an easy target though. But for my part I guess I have to try and figure out who’s just in it ’cause they think it would be neat-o to say they stood at base camp at Everest, vs those who plan on actually trying to reach the peak. Mostly I wish that I could ask the guys I’ve let close to me in a boy/girl sense if what is written above was their perception of me as well. I don’t know if anyone would be that candid with me though.


*His use of the word volatile is perplexing to me. I can only extrapolate from the rest of the content of his email that its because I so passionately state my case when I feel strongly about something.

** This made me laugh! Groupie! HA! I’m the antithesis of a groupie. I’m the chick who has intentionally NOT slept with rock stars because they are rock stars! Its all about the music for me! Its just a bonus if the music is made by a super hot guy(s). PLUS, dress like a groupie what? Yeah, my tits and ass are always hanging out at shows and I can barely stand because I’m wearing my come fuck me shoes and my feet hurt! As evidenced by the photos I’ve posted here!!


My take on this, today, 5/16/2017

I’ve lived about 100 lifetimes since I wrote the above blog. There have been a lot of deaths, a lot of births, there was travel a plenty, music (always music) 3 long distance moves, love, and marriage, (a thing I hadn’t counted on happening) and within that marriage, the effects of sex addiction (his), and domestic violence. The writer of the nitroglycerine thing also “predicted” the demise of my marriage, before I got married, because my ex is 14 years younger than me. Nitro dude said ex would want to find someone younger, once I got “old.” Oh the irony that my age had nothing to do with the demise of our marriage.

But about the blog, and nitroglycerine, my thoughts are; I am not Mt. Michelle. Nor am I nitroglycerine. (Although I can be explosive! Which I have worked very diligently to change, and which doesn’t mean only anger, just emotion.) If anything can be learned from the marriage formerly known as mine, it is that the only blast created by the mishandling of me, was an almost irrevocable (it seemed at the time) implosion. That’s not to say that would always be the case, there was a systemic, and subtle, breaking down of the me over years. I dig that this was a plot twist no one saw coming, least of all me, but, I didn’t explode.

I don’t think anything *bad* was meant by what was said to me, about me. But I think it shined a not so flattering light on men, with words on what their perspective is (might be) of me. At least from my view of what I think men “should” be like. I don’t think it was being said that I should make myself small for men to not be scared of me, but, maybe it was. Me, and my forceful personality!

What I know now, that I didn’t know then, is that it doesn’t matter to me how I’m seen by most, or even many, men. But I am not to be conquered, or owned, slain, or subdued. In my experience, (see above referenced former marriage) the one(s) who see me as that, are those who are viewing me through the lens of their own insecurities. I’ll go with the diamond thing, if we leave out the rough. Perfect, I am not (Yoda, I am channeling!) but I don’t need to be shaped, and polished, to the eye that is deserving of beholding me. Unless of course, I wish to shape, and polish, me, for myself.

Most importantly what I now know is that the one who will get me, deserves me, is one who doesn’t need to subdue me as means to make himself to feel stronger. Almost conversely, he gains strength from supporting me as I rise, and grow stronger in myself. There are so many things I have learned about myself because of the introspection, the years of being single, while being married, and being alone so much, and part of that is exactly what I am looking for in a man, and none of that includes someone who feels like conquering me is a cool thing. Lucky to have my attention? Yeah, that I’ll vibe with, because I don’t give my attention easily. But that will only be the case for someone whose attention I hold too, who also doesn’t give it easily.

I’m writing around this again because the last several months of my life have been a lot about deep introspection. As I re-read many of my old blogs, I realized how much I lost myself during the years of my former marriage. Its kind of cool to revisit this time, when I used to think any of what was said in the original email mattered. I’ve still got my insecurities, but really, I’m just me. I AM the needle in a haystack, and its one crazy lucky dude who gets that. And me.

Also, to the friend who sent me the email originally, I wish I remembered why you sent it to me, but, in this moment, I mostly want to say thank you for it. It was an unintentional holding of a mirror to myself, to see how I felt about all of it. About me. I’ve come to the conclusion that it was a ballsy move of you to send the email back in the day! I could write so much more about how I feel, and what I think, about all of this, but, meh. The important part was me going inside, taking another deep look at me, so, thanks for that!

The Day After, the day after…

If any one thing I have ever written in my life has been an effort in writing my way through a specific something, this is it. The residue of too many moments familiar to this one, which aren’t at all the same, except my heart doesn’t really want to hear that right now, are a little bit wearing me down.

But this isn’t then, and nothing bad has happened, its just a something difficult, and not in the least more difficult because of the residue. So I’ll write my way through to the other side of my daughter having left to start her new life, chasing her dreams, in L.A. I couldn’t possibly be any more happy for her, any more proud of her, but also, I miss her so much already. Too many times I’ve had to say “goodbye” even though it was never, and still isn’t, forever or bad, its just – the residue.

Its not that I didn’t expect this, because I’ve always been this way when something painful, or difficult, has happened. There is the day it happens, which I work through, only allowing myself to feel a little bit of whatever is happening, or has happened. On that first day, I take care of business, I make lists, or phone calls, and give hugs. I just roll the fuck with it, saying a little prayer along the way, that I’ll be what I need to be, for anyone else who might in that moment need me.

Then comes the day after “it” happens. That’s the day where a something similar to shock takes over, and “surreal” is the word for that day, and I just float through, in some, contrary to my nature, mostly emotionless trance. Maybe a tear here, and there, but mostly not.

And then there’s the day after, the day after. The day the something similar to shock has worn off, and I feel every single thing I didn’t feel the yesterday or the day before. And tiny streams of tears, become rivers, turn into oceans. Where sadness the day before might have been teensy ripples which hardly register, on the day after, the day after, it is waves that make my knees buckle, and I let it knock me down, because sometimes its OK to fall, I think. Today is the day after, the day after, and my knees have buckled a few times.

Its days like today, when being single, alone, feels also like lonely. So naturally, with perfect timing, the ex-husband calls, and I’m a little bit “Dear Universe, fuck off!” because I’m feeling like a big baby, with a cold been hanging on for a week, and Ari moving, and now this too. The apologies are too late, and I don’t believe them anyway because “I’m sorry” had become like a reflex for him years ago. Then I start to cry when he asks if I’m sick, and says something I can no longer recall that is meant to be caring, because I’m worn the fuck out, but (in a not mean way) his is not the voice I want to hear expressing caring.

I feel unkind when I tell him my tears aren’t for him, or our marriage having ended, because they aren’t at all. I’m just tired, and emotional, and I only called back because he said he wanted to ask me a question about alimony payments. Then he asks me about the boyfriend he thinks I have, and when I tell him I don’t have a boyfriend, tells me he’s happy to hear that, and he doesn’t mean it cruelly, but its so remarkably stupid because he didn’t want me when he had me, and he has his girlfriend, and he knows I’m over him. And he says I can call him anytime I want to, and I want to pound my head against the wall because WHY. I say again the tears weren’t for him, or our marriage, and that I have to go, and hang up.

And now the puppy, who has slept almost non-stop for 2 days straight, which I suppose is his way of (not dealing) with his missing his best buddy, as if he knows I’m writing of this, goes to sit at the bottom of the tiny set of stairs leading from the dining room to the living room, where he would sit when he’d hear her car as she’d  park it, looking at the front door waiting for her to walk through, so he could attack her with kisses, and love, and rummage through her purse or bag of life, which never had anything for him, but he did every day, anyway. And the tears that had slowed down for a few minutes overflow again because its too quiet, and the door won’t be opening.

Because I have recently seen what it looks like from the outside when a someone is constantly saying “poor me” and I realize how much I never want to sound like that, and I feel I could stumble into that territory (in my view of myself) if I’m not careful, and because I have also recently seen what it looks like when a someone, no matter how much not fun is swirling around them, always says they are doing great, and that everything is all good, and that is exactly the example I need to follow for my highest good, its time to turn the day after, the day after, around, and remember there is no tragedy here, at all. No mean people came and took my baby away from me. She’s soon to be “living it up, in tinsel town” making her dreams come true, and that’s a beautiful thing. That is who I raised both of my girls to be, and I wouldn’t want her to give that up, just to live near to me.

I can’t not add to this how incredibly lucky I am to have been so loved, and supported, over the last few days. Friends who were there back in the day, who held my hand (or got me drunk, or both) after each goodbye, who knew the residue would get to me, have been here for me this time around too. To each of you,  thank you, and I love you.

And to the extra terrestrial Unicorn who held my hand, in spite of the (physical) distance between us, with words, and music, and photos, and thoughtfulness, in the hours leading up to,  and after the “sailing”  thank you is (as usual) not even sort of enough to express my gratitude for the caring. You’re the kindest, coolest, and most awesome ET Unicorn ever, and I love you, too. 

———

Now it’s the morning after the day of which I wrote above, and it’s officially time to start living this new version of my reality.  It’s a little (or a lot) more quiet than the version before it, but it’s no less beautiful. I fell asleep writing the last words above, and dreamed for the 2nd night in a row of gorgeous snowy white owls, flying all around me. Watching over me. Maybe they were sent, or maybe I called them to me. Either way, they were lovely, and soothing, and appreciated.