“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 surround 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.

 

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. 

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