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. 

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“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

Song For Johnny

Non-specific words force their way from my fingers, in a desperate attempt to escape (my heart?) where they have lived since before I knew them. Without understanding of why at all, and without desire to be so crass as to say what it is they actually might mean. Insistent fucking words once woven together like braided ribbon, wrapped tight around a mystery, untangled with the passing of days. Weeks. Months.


This isn’t a song, and there’s no one named Johnny, and this started out as something like automatic writing, in February, and its now the ass-end of April, and at some point most of the draft as it originally existed,  was somehow automatically “unwritten”…   Whatever it is, or was (not?) asks now to come out…

Johnny’s song is; missing what you’ve never had, so you can’t possibly miss it, except you do. It’s (a) dream(s) that bend space, and time, to reach across ages, and reunite souls; sort of.

Johnny’s song is, in moments, that which makes you (not sad) cry for the intensity of the everything that rushes past you, around you, through you, like the coldest winter’s air. Except it’s everything that couldn’t possibly ever be cold… It elicits tears of release, and confusion, of wondering why,  and what are you supposed to do with the everything that was supposed to be not really anything, or not at all. It is the grey of every question you’ve ever had, washed away by the sublime peace of knowing that the questions don’t matter because sometimes things just, are.

Johnny’s song is an “of course I love you”  because to think I don’t would be to imply that there is a way I could, not – when the crossing of stars, and connecting of planets, deemed it to be so. Without understanding of what it is now, or attachment to what it ultimately may be, it is being first drawn in by timbre of an unknown voice, unexpectedly become familiar – love’s song.  It is strength, and confidence, and gentle vulnerability. Complex in its simplicity. Borne of all that is beauty, and light.  If time has a beginning, it was then that this song began, the score for a first meeting of (souls?)

I still don’t know what it’s meant exactly to say, this Song for Johnny.  Or why the night was without rest, as they fed me lines I summarily rejected, once figurative pen, half asleep, met paper. If they want it different then they shouldn’t have unwritten it the first time around. And maybe they is just me, who visits only in heightened states of (emotion.)  Or maybe it’s something more.

And while I will never tire of Johnny’s Song, it’s time to stop writing (this) and launch it into the ether so I stop looking over my shoulder at it. Maybe then my muse, with her ridiculous randomness, will have enough space to conjure something new.

Three

Seeking solace from the silence

A foreshadowing of days to come

And (painful) memory of days past.

It keeps coming around

This familiar (not) goodbye

That with it’s tears, helps me to rise.

In solitude I find my way

To the place where I remember

Trip, stumble, “fall – with grace.”

Even when there’s two, or one

Always there is three

A me, a you, a her, 

…infinity, and beyond.

So to see your dreams fulfilled

Which are separate from my own

Again I will say this familiar

(not) goodbye.

—————–

For my Lauren, and Ari. My biggest, and littlest angels. You are perfect. You are my heart, and that of which I am most proud. You are, forever, my everything.

Never forget, you can do, and be, anything you wish!

“…you are always here with me, in my heart, and in my dreams…”  (Credit to “The Bridge” Ron Taylor & Drew Smith)

March 2006

Like water in the precarious moments between simmer and boil over, tears long restrained threaten to breach imaginary walls created to hold them back – hide them, lest once started they won’t stop.

Maybe if a little more time had passed, like 30 or 40 years, grief, which this time is mine because it’s his, would be borne, with love for another as a needed source of strength, with grace -rather than simply muddled through.

Too many losses in too short a time, a mother of two sons and the truest of friends, the man who made music – still mostly a boy, and blonde haired blue eyed little girl whose smile lit up my heart, dance in memories of my despair mirrored in his eyes, as he is now the one who must whisper goodbye.

Wishing I’d more to offer than well-meaning clichés “in a better place” “free from pain” “at peace” which when passing through my lips instead of his, or their’s, sound no less hollow, no more comforting, and feel like nothing more than sadness come full circle, caught in the middle of uninvited visitors, irony, and pain.

“…So We Must Love While These Moments Are Still Called Today, Take Part In The Pain Of This Passion Play…”

Listening to:  Everything Indigo Girls (again) which started (this time) here “Galileo”

12 years ago, 2005, in the span of 5 months, my confidant, greatest supporter, in many ways my mentor, my teacher, my almost-mother-in-law become dearest friend, Roxy, 5 days before my trip to Denver to see her, lost her (2nd) battle with cancer; dear, sweet, YOUNG boy, sound engineer working with the band I was managing, Chris, just starting his career making music beautiful, was taken literally by fire; and my niece, Cristina angel completed whatever it was she’d decided to come here for, and crossed back over to where she was free from the medical mystery of a body she’d occupied for not quite 11 years, this time around. And what I thought was forever (and real, and passionate, and nurturing, and healing, and spiritual, and healthy, and everything beautiful) love, found me. I wonder sometimes, had it not been for all the death that preceded the finding of me by (love?) might I have made different choices. Maybe. But I made the choices I made, and really, who the fuck knows. And now here I am… exactly where I want to be, at my core, happier than I’ve ever been.

In 5 days, in a courtroom far away, a Judge will wave her magic wand, and the life, and marriage, formerly known as mine, will be legally, formally, officially, eternally, over. And it’s good. I have outgrown that marriage, and the person I was when in it, and the person to whom I was married. I never understood until a few months ago that people can outgrow each other, their relationships, their marriages. I got it in terms of friendships, but not beyond that. I get it now. From my own experiences, and those of some others who have, or are going through this. They don’t have to involve things such as domestic violence, and addiction, for one to outgrow the other. Or both to outgrow each other, and the situation.  Moving on, walking away, is not something bad. It is not a sign of failure, or of lack of integrity. In fact, it is likely the exact opposite of that in some cases. (Such as for someone I will be quoting later in this writing, who helped me to shift my perspective on this topic.)

In one month’s time, my littlest angel, Ari, will be ascending a level higher toward her dreams, starting out on the road-trip, that is really a (permanent) move to Los Angeles. So much everything cool, and good with that. But cool, and good, isn’t always synonymous with easy, and free of sadnesses of sorts.

In two months time, I’ll be moving, locally, somewhere. As (accidentally) as accustomed as I am to moving, for some reason I didn’t think I’d be doing so again, quite this soon. I have always been “lucky” or whatever it is that has my back in this life, so things always work out, but, this just feels a little heavy this time, which is throwing me a bit off balance.

—-

I’m over-thinking, and under-doing, and not breathing enough, but also, breathing sometimes too much. Maybe I need to get high? Or laid? Or swim in the ocean? Take a road trip. Spend more time in meditation? Allow myself to fit into a box, and be suited to a label? Live more in this world, and less in whatever the one is that so often calls to me? Drive until I get lost, and found again? I definitely need to sing again. And to dance more often, with absolute abandon, in a crowd of people doing the same, to share that energy.

——

From Elizabeth Gilbert – one of my favorite authors, and humans:

Yesterday, I asked my Fear, “How are you doing, my old friend? What’s going on with you?”

My Fear said, “I’m so tired. Trying to keep everyone and everything safe has completely exhausted me. I can’t do this anymore. Somebody else needs to be in charge now.”

And then I heard Love speak. She said, “Let me take it from here, babe.”

That’s when we all started breathing again.

Elizabeth Gilbert – Love this lady

——

I am now self-aware enough that I have been watching myself slip into where fear, or something similar to it, which is not shiny, or beautiful, has started to be a little bit in charge again. Not fear of a something, or a someone, or an event. Non-specific fear, that I’d thought was relegated to my past as a way of life, or even just an interlude. Not to say that I don’t know what some of the “triggers” are, but, triggers aren’t inherently the boss of me. And also, sometimes triggers only have the slightest hint of a fragrance past, which strikes the chord of a memory of a something that wasn’t pleasant, so making the decision to believe that the top notes, and finishing notes, and all in between, are exactly the same as the scent of experience past, is just, stupid.

So I look deep inside myself to see what’s going on, and I look to the planets, and stars, sun, and moon, to see what is maybe their part in all of this. I wrap my arms around myself when need be, remind my me that this healing is a process, and that my shade of crazy is actually quite beautiful, and that which sets me apart. Not above, or below, but apart. I (for once) reach out to others to talk to them about it, this (slightly) off balance moment I’m having.

The origins of fear –

Knowingly putting myself into situations which may result in me getting hurt in the end. But that’s a little bit what this human experience is about in total, so I kick my own ass, widen my view, and remember that I’d be bored, and filled with regret, if I didn’t take the risks of LIVING  vs the safety of existing.

Never afraid of change, but sometimes when a lot of it comes all at once, and when at least a part of it means (physically) letting go (again) (because it has seemed sometimes that universe has wanted to say to me that my super power in this life is letting go of anyone I love, but not because they die, but rather due to circumstances I’d never seen as remotely possible) I stumble, and momentarily clench my hands to grip more tightly, instead of releasing.

Feeling a lack of contentedness for my todays, because I’m very excited for my tomorrows. I got a little high, I think, on the fast pace at which things were changing, and moving (inside, and outside of me) for a while. Instead of appreciating the calm, and matching my energy to the rhythm, and in spite of knowing that a slow groove builds the foundation, so that when the crescendo comes, it is of mind-blowing proportions, I focused on the “high.”

That my wants will be perceived as neediness. That I’ll forget, again, that “no wo/man is an island” and won’t let myself be held, or nurtured, because that means vulnerable. And that vulnerable is scary as fuck for everyone who has any amount of living under their belt, and as far as I can tell, a lot scarier for those who have experienced years of betrayal, and betrayal by everyone in their life ever sworn by lineage or deed, to protect “you.”

That I will be seen (not by anyone in particular) to be “less than” because I don’t have a plan for 2 months from now, much less 10 years from now. Because all the good people, right people, best people, have a solid foundation, a firm plan, own a house, aren’t divorced, have a college degree, and a linear career path. They also don’t feel as if their life will be incomplete if they don’t travel to certain countries. And especially by 50 years of age, they have very firm roots planted somewhere, with someone, the end.

That what is before me, which is burning inside of me to know, and has been since before I knew it was, is held by unseen forces, and just carrot on a stick, with which I will later be smacked.

I want to write about shadows (in which I am not meant to live) because I am the girl who (metaphorically) sings from (metaphorical) sun drenched mountaintops, and dances on them too, not in the shadows. But also not in spotlights. Sun light. Glitter light. Neon light. Lava lamp light. Strobe light. Because I have a primordial need, and unquenchable thirst, for all that is light, and bright, but am not concerned with getting attention. Its not that shadow dims my light, or that (momentary shadow dwelling) is forced (because it is my choice). I’m just not very good at it. So now I’ve written about shadows… without saying anything at all.

These words that are my own, which had such another meaning to me, for me, when I wrote them 2 days ago.  My lovely Bloom says “Why are you doing that to yourself? You’re missing out on the joy of today!” And I know she’s right.  So I take a night off from the weight of all I’ve been carrying, am amused by the couragesness, or craziness, of those much too young for me to take seriously, and take more shots than I mean to. I have another conversation filled with laughter, childhood memories, and connections that defy space, time, and logic.   I allow vulnerability to have a moment or 2. And then hours of poetry in the form of lyrics, and harmonies, and melodies, fill my world. And I let love take over,  recall that vulnerability is absolutely precious, sacred, holy, rare, remember I’m not in shadow, I’m bathed in light, just not in the same way I’m used to, and again throw my arms wide open, and step forward without fear, into whatever might be, in every aspect of my life. 


Listening to: Still on Indigo Girls – Below quotes are from some of their songs. Brilliant, inspiring, intelligent, thought provoking, evocative, lyricists, they are.

“Of all my demon spirits, I need you the most”

“Working through the grammar of my fears”

“The hardest to learn was the least complicated”

“Now we all are chosen one’s”

“My place is of the sun, and this place is of the dark”

“The less I seek my source for some definitive, the closer I am to fine”

“And when you’re learning to face the path at your pace every choice is worth your while”

Hiraeth

In the realm of the mystic
The land of the magi,
We’re taught to believe
love …
Can never be wrong.
But In magistrate’s world
The dimension of now
If from edges we tip
And fallings (aloud)
Then he will say
What she will say
Oh darling, dumb girl
Whatever ya thinkin?
Of course it is,
Of course you are,
So hopelessly perilously selfishly
wrong…
So I’ll consort with the faeries
The witches and nymphs
Float through the cosmos
Dance in rarefied air
I’ll feel my way through
Letting love be (aloud)