learning to beam

My friend posted this the other day: "There are some people in my life that I will never stop loving and sometimes that hurts like hell."  I told him that the only thing I would add to that to make it true for me was this:  “And I’m okay with that.”  It’s a pain I will take.  Because no investment of love is without loss.  

I was at a writing program this past spring and there (my life &) my writing was critiqued by several people who had come to respect and who had learned to love me.  One of the critiques of (my life &) my writing that I found most difficult to swallow had to do with the fact that it seems as though I lack depth because I rarely take a thought, idea, piece, sentence, etc. to the next level.  It seemed from the outside that I refused to be bothered to dig deeper.  Not that the thought was shallow to begin with, but rather I was too comfortable where I started and didn't chose to do the work to get somewhere further. Like I would give up on myself. I’ll never forget this because the observation came so sincerely from someone who I fully respect as a writer, a musician, and a friend. I had known of him before I knew him; I was a fan of his music and my heart had once burned with infatuation for this lyrical poet with a mandolin.  In those seven weeks, I learned to respect and to love the real him.  I was blessed to have been a part of the surroundings and a part of the atmosphere that created his quiet experience. He was unusually silent; I was usually guarded.  But when we spoke to each other, we were brilliant. The night he shared this with me, the fact he felt I was holding back, the moon was bright in a clear, black sky. We were gathered with a few friends around an outdoor campfire pit built into the exterior of a chimney.  We had pulled rickety chairs and rocking chairs from the meeting hall Timahia and circled what we were all staring into: a bed of mesmerizing, dynamic embers, the orange light and warmth of which undulated like the beautiful Lake Sebago that was almost in reach.

He said, he watches me refuse to commit to the greatness of my potential. I stall before I start. I was taken aback and insulted by this.  But now, I know exactly what he meant, because now I watch myself do it too. I may not have overcome that, but what I have learned is this: sometimes, most the times in fact, in the end, the result is worth the struggle. A great conversation or thought or essay or poem is worth all the frustrating attempts at meaning that go into its creation. And that struggle is just part of what we have to do to get there.    

I miss Chris and I miss Steph and I miss having people who love me observe my behaviors and gently critique my life through my writing.  Because I need that in my life. 

I forced this tangent of writing out of myself (out of my heart, not my mind). Because, as I was about to post only the first paragraph (re: no investment of love..), I recognized in myself exactly what Chris was trying to show me. That post would have only hinted cryptically at a complex and defining aspect of who I am today. And if I want to truly acknowledge that significance in my life, I must be willing to explore that complexity in my thought, through my writing, and with my communications with the world.

And I know that is exactly why this blog has been such a disaster. 

Because I’m not saying anything.

Because I am afraid to.

But I’ve got to find ways to overcome my fears. 

just a dream to have something to post

We were having a great time, rekindling our friendships, flirtations included this time.  Maybe my sister was there?  Unrecognizable location.  Kind of like a woodsy video game scene. Sheets hanging to divide rooms, dark, brown and neutral tones, sepia-like lighting all over.  He invited me to stay over, though I don’t think he knew his brother was there, and I don’t think he meant for me to lie in his bed.  Things were going really well, a true relationship starting again, but in the end, he told me that right now only seemed nice because he had taken the blue pill.  And he didn’t take it often because he didn’t like to take the blue pill.  What he meant was that we could only be friends when/if he took the blue pill.  I got the sense it was an anti-depressant. Again I felt totally shafted.  Again.  But it was more of an explanation than I can remember receiving.  Previously, what he mentioned was that he wasn’t in a good place in his life to make friends or have relationships.  

first loves never die

I spent the night with him.  For the first time ever.  Even though I was over the idea of him.  And, when finally--it just didn’t feel like anything important.  It didn't feel like anything.  With no future, and no past; it just was, we just were. Together.  Beside each other.  

Or maybe, the fact that it felt so meaningless confirms that I have in fact moved on and that I was in fact held back by the idea of, but perhaps no longer am.  It confirmed progress, I think.  

intention

I wanted to write more.  Drafts, thoughts, dreams, random things.  But of course, I also wanted an audience for that.  I was hoping for an audience, a following, some sort of community.  And I’m frustrated by the fact that I have not been able to cause that to happen.  Which is really perfectly symbolic of my entire life.  I cannot get people to like me for who I am and I refuse to change.  

cortege

The funeral cortege is a symbol of this very concept.  It is a series of relations—first-degree relatives, extended family, dear friends, neighbors, and community members—all of which are present to mourn the loss and to support the family in their time of need.  This cortege is led by the deceased themselves and those who bear him or her to the location of final rest symbolizing the route they have come and now must continue to travel alone.  It serves to reveal the path and teach the way—literally—that must be taken to reach this geographical location.  The path of the cortege also represents life as a journey and extends the metaphor into death, representing the passage of the spirit from this realm to what lies beyond. 

The funeral cortege is a tangible symbol of progress—the progression of a life to death, the journey of the bereaved through their grief.  

last night, for the life of me, I could not remember the name of my favorite cemetery in Florence.  I didn’t even guess the cardinal direction from the Arno correctly.  And to think, just a few years ago, like Fellini’s dark dreamers in la Voca della Luna, I practically lived there…San Miniato al Monte.

It was no where in my immediate memory.  Not the name anyway, just the climb, the colors, the stones, the breeze, the view.  I am deeply grateful for the journals I kept while I was there.  Especially my handheld moleskin filled with Italian vocabulary and directions and memories and notes about the nouns (people, places, and things) that I never wanted to forget.  But, like scattering ashes, in time, we forget. 

This spring, I met the writer Wendy Waters.  She talked to us about writing.  Not so much about how to do it, but why we do it.  How to get started and the value of doing so.  Write everything.  My journal group leader in the same program reminded us all that there are times that you cannot go back to.  Sometimes they are exactly the ones you want to go back to.  So by writing them, you can go back.  You immortalize your life against your dying memory.  I want to get back into my life, I want to get back into my writing.  It takes ritual to make ceremony.  

not like me

Reflection on Saturday/Sunday Oct 25-26:  1:30AM-3 AM

He’s giggling.  Again.  He’s always giggling.  It’s sort of annoying and high pitched, but it’s the way he laughs when he’s nervous or stoned.  I think he was both.  He walks both of us into his room, flips on the light. “Urgh! TOO BRIGHT!”  He walks over to switch on a small red lamp and turns off the TOO BRIGHT overhead light. Looking at the bed, he sees his kitten, “AW! Kitty!”  I plop onto the foot of his bed while I pet the kitten that his housemate found on the side of a busy road a few weeks ago.  A searches noisily for a match and lights some patchouli incense then joins me on the bed.  Z takes off his shoes and sits on the hard floor.  He played with the kitten there on the ground using his hand and apartment keys as toys before joining us on the bed.  The incense continue to burn and A insists on playing music that is evidently only irritating to me.  The boys are ecstatic to listen to all the songs they always dreamed about listening to totally stoned.  Z sings along and he’s laying next to me on the bed, all crumpled up, folded in half because it’s the only way we can all fit on the bed together.  His chest is vibrating with his voice and I can feel him next to me.  His wrist lays loosely on the mattress next to mine.  I see a ring on his index finger and wonder what its significance is.  We are all still fascinated by the kitten who is taking turns pouncing on each of us.   Each of the boys announce a profound sense of déjà vu and I am again left out of their hallucinations.  Once in awhile my tired head rest on Z’s shoulder.  A is still talking though I desperately wish him to hush.  I just want to enjoy my company in silence while we each breathe in the incense and contemplate our own lives and the careless placement of our own hands too close to each other’s.  Z finally responds to the tempting proximity of my hand to his; he begins lighting tickling my fingers with his and I follow his lead.  I think about how it must feel different to him because he’s stoned.  I’m just bored. 

The scene reminds me of bits and pieces of a relationship I participated in several falls ago.  The similarities are as follows: the boy was a friend of a friend, we listened to music late at night, he had an artistic flare with long brown hair, we held hands and he fell quickly, sometimes he was stoned and sometimes it caused problems. 

And I just read on his profile that 6 minutes ago he ‘just wants to be close to you’ and that he ‘has a tendency to fall instantly in love with anyone who shows him the least bit of affection.’  Brilliant.