Matter

It's time to get moving. There's no time to waste. I wish someone had told me that when I was young. 

I did know that, though. I just felt helpless to do anything about this seeming paralysis...of the mind and therefore, an inability to move my body by putting one foot in front of the other...a moment at a time. 

Imagine what I could have been...today. 

I don't look for platitudes now. They can't provide any sort of comfort. There's no fooling me. Trust me, sometimes, I look to be fooled. Have you tried that? It's an impossible feat. How can you lie to yourself when you already know the truth?

Among the trees, I lay here. You should hear the bustling of the leaves when the wind picks up. I swear it sounds like they're conspiring to bring us all down. But then I remove my heavy minded cap and realize, they're just talking. When will I listen?

I was a fool again, hanging on to someone's every word. I put too much gravitas around his mouth. He was only ever talking and talking, saying nothing. Just empty words. I know their kind and recognize the sounds they make.

What do I do with all of this...feeling? I hear, "Keep writing. And, paint already!" I love and detest that place no one can touch. Maybe I'm not relating in the right way to this inner quiet place. It's a safe place filled with all the real stuff. Why wouldn't I find solace in that?

If I relate in the right way, there's nothing to fear. If I relate in my usual way, I'm just sad. I hate the lack of permamence about anything and everything. But moreso than this, how we never seem to transmute these experiences into...matter.

If my cup is filled with all that is transient now, what will be left of me at my moment of death? What will have materialized by then? Will there be anything of me? Guidalberto Bormolini explained it so well. I felt he was speaking with me directly. I know what he speaks of. It's a language spoken in a particular note that finds my heart's cord so easily, effortlessly. I hear it as truth.

Where he finds beauty and peace, I currently anticipate in fear. There's something in my being I need to overcome or accept or perhaps, transform. It's lonely here...on this planet among the living and the dead. I see things about people and this place and it just saddens me. 

I'm sad for my mother and father. I'm sad for my brothers. For aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews. The horror of the situation lies in an impossibility to connect with people on this level. We won't have these conversations...ever, except in the most earthly and superficial way. 

I want to catch that glimpse in the eye...in the eye of the other, that tells me we understand eachother. I don't see it. Which means, there's nothing to build on, to cultivate, to bring to life. It only ever be a seed...and this reality, this horror, sits heavy on my heart. 

The Reading

Wishful thinking would be that you have a sudden realization to change directions quickly on the road and get back to me.

This is so silly, I know. And I'm older...so, for that reason, this stings. It stings not seeing you. There's nothing I can do about it. Nothing. I can't pick up the phone. I can't send you a note. Well, I can. But, I don't. Because it would be wrong. 

I should get off this road. Let that bus pick me up and take me back to the only road I've ever known. I can still make magic there. I don't need you. 

We've carved out our own paths. At a certain point, these paths crossed. That's all it has to be. No more and no less. I just hate and love the way you quit. That would be the truth - you changed your mind and quit this scene. Who could blame you? 

You quit for your love. Which means, I was just something that intrigued you while you looked out the window. You'll never penetrate that glass. We both know that. I know you tried in your own way. But, not hard enough. Not hard enough for...me.

I hate how another chapter closes. I only hope I have time to look back and see it was all for the best.

Round And Round It Goes

In one hundred years, there will all be new faces. Talk about the world starting with a clean slate every century, like clock work. What a relief. Because I don't know about you, except for a 'few' humans, we can be lame and obnoxious.

I detest lame and obnoxious because that's deemed normal these days. Average. I don't know how the universe tolerates us. Maybe for the large part, we go unnoticed because of our smallness. 

We say a lot and yet, say nothing. If anything, we demonstrate our faults and weaknesses...all those things we'll never rise above or overcome not because we can't but because we've decided not to. 

I can't stand some in their role. How the young compliment the young. How it's groundhog day to those who know you, who've served you time and time again...and still, you're a nobody in their eyes...unworthy of a proper hello. Please. They're going to get old and ugly, too. They just don't know it yet. And then, blink, there they are! Now I know why I stop frequenting some places in the neighbourhood. They lack real depth.

J.J. Muggs

I remember that night when we all sat together at the corner of Albany Avenue and Bloor St., eating dinner together. I can't recall what I ate but I know who was at the table.

It's now a cannabis shop. Before that, a cafe. We didn't have cell phones back then to memorialize a gathering. And we didn't think of taking cameras with us to record something so natural and daily...and uneventful. It's a snapshot in time...only in my mind.

We were young and free, filled with hope.

Now, it's nothing but nostalgia for a comfort long gone. A comfort I've come to realize in hindsight.

Where are you now? Still in the city watching the river? 

Across the street used to be a Second Cup. After that, PiCo. That has since gone out of business, too. But, for me, it will always be the Second Cup where you and I had a tea outside and I shared with you my dreams of Cobain, during a summer night.

Next door was where we'd build magick out of ourselves. But that grew weird, eventually.

I'll never forget those days or nights when we listened to grunge bands and gobbled up books about Metaphysics and Astral projection. 

And then in the blink of an eye, we grew up. 

I don't like who we are now. Just like the hippies who became family men. Or rather, business men. And the women, power hungry to become like men. Why would you want to climb that ladder?! Forge your own paths!

I hope I morph into someone I used to be proud of very soon. Oh wait a minute - I did! I am! Proud...

Thank goodness for my husband. After some heartache and heartbreak, I closed the door to you and the past. I never thought that there could ever be anyone in this world who gets me the way my husband does. 

We forged our own path and not completely in a traditional sense. Which, makes me smile. We still manage to do things our own way. Though, at times, I still struggle against my father's influence. May I grow up soon - in ways that matter. And not too fast - in ways that take me away from the beauty of this life!

And it is done.

The Lovers II

When I heard you say those words, I knew then I was in real trouble. If only I could put into words this feeling of disappointment on the one hand, and pure excitement on the other, you'd see how I'm experiencing both a blessing and a burden, simultaneously. 

I want that taste so badly. Before I'm old, tethered and fully gray.

We talk about saving like it's some kind of cliche. It isn't. It isn't. It just isn't. Too bad for me. No one's coming for me. You won't. You can't. And...well, you're just another man among men. I'm not just another woman among women. You have to understand that. I have to make you see. 

I think I may have...

Which saddens me to the core. These silly games we play to test the waters because being vulnerable is too high a price to pay.

You said that I just have to change something. The words rolled off your tongue like nothing. But, you're all fools. You think Happiness is King. That's the ultimate lie. The ultimate deception. Show me the grass is greener on the other side and still I won't budge...even though I might want to. Don't you get it? I push you away because you're wanted and I can't have that. 

I'm aware our time is winding down. I test you to see...to see something in you I believe is there. And then I remember again...you're just a man among many men.

What am I supposed to do with this? What can I do? But write and weave stories together with my dreams. I tune out the sound of voices in the cafe as I lose myself in the heart of my cappuccino.

When I look up and out, it's through that window again. The window in the bathroom made of stone. This castle is too big. And my personality too small to be noticed should something befall me. 

You're so grand. You could swallow me whole in no time.

Despite my quietness and inner stirrings, I have a power worth more than all the gold in the world. No one told me about this power. I stumbled upon it on the way down to the abyss many years ago.

I reach for it during times like these. As I take off my clothes and enter the tub. It's a ritual filled with magic and beauty. 

I take my mental wand and whisper words in the air...

I take my emotional wand and apply rose and pomegranate oil on my chest.

I position my body in the water out of respect to the gods, who can grant me my wish.

I do it with reverence, baby. I've been waiting for you through oceans of time. What took you so long? But then again, who are you? What are you? How dare you?

You created ripples in the water that is my life when I wasn't looking, when I had resigned myself to the ways of this life. I hate you for that. I really do.

I tried so hard to prevent this tsunami. You have to know I tried. And when the earth has shifted and the waters have settled, what will remain? Tell me. 

Will I be alone for another eternity with this dream? Or will you take me out of here?

The Lovers

I feel at a loss for words. Yet, they're right here, just layered and tangled up. How do I disentangle these invisible strings that are becoming ever more real?

I feel nourished in a way by a potentiality that itself cannot be entertained or fed in any way in reality.

That's okay, baby. In my alternate universe, I can do whatever I please.

You'll say all the things here you can't say over there. You'll touch me in all the ways here you can't over there. You'll treat me the way I've always dreamed to be treated here in all the ways I'm not over there.

Oh man, these feelings. Maybe I've given too many fucks to the wrong things, as Mark Manson would say. Maybe I haven't given the right fucks to the right things...

You know you're in a bad place when even here, I can't say what I want or need to say without falling apart into a thousand pieces. Who has the time to gather up all those pieces? God knows, if I don't collect myself, no one will. No one can.

I sense you here. How? Is it my imagination? Am I just a stupid little school girl? Who am I? What am I sensing? The unseen? Those words that go unsaid? What am I resisting? A potential outcome? Any outcome is painful. Any way this goes...is troubling.

But here, right here...is sweet suffering. The sweetness of it is what makes the suffering somewhat merciful. I'm not a dishonest woman here. I'm loyal and caring and loving. And no one gets hurt. 

Except me.

Elizabeth & Antonio

My landscape is changing again. 

I feel a tug towards my culture. Then when I get there, I remember why I turned away from it. 

What a strange feeling to experience over and over again. I sense the open air of the old world, the sacrifice and yet, profound joy to be able to put one foot in front of the other, despite the poverty. Even that couldn't quell the spirit of joy in the darkness.

I hear the women singing...in their malingering voices. They sound like screams in the night. And then I listen more closely...it's really a mish mash of all life's offerings and takings with a touch of thanks, nonetheless.

I'm the one who feels and understands. Yet, I am not one of them. 

When I hear the history, my heart wells up. It's a sorrowful kind of beauty and happiness that a part of me never ever allows to be more or less than that. I ask myself how sorrow can be happiness. I can't escape the feeling of loneliness in my mind's eye. I can't see beyond this sensation. It's only ever sadness...deep in the bones, sadness. Is this my sadness or is it theirs? Passed on from one generation to the next?

They looked happy, though. Maybe, it's the wrong word to be using here. They didn't have time to ask whether they were content. Today, we call it a luxury to be able to ask the question. I don't think that's true. They had a strength we haven't cultivated. Our luxury is a curse now. We don't allow ourselves to feel anything less than joy. We medicate and drown our sorrows. What a disservice we do to ourselves. The profound joy we get to feel is only ever equal to the profound sorrow we get to experience, too.

I miss a man I've never met. I miss a woman I've never met. There's no point crying over a past that never was. But, they were here. They lived and breathed. They did the best they could. I mean, if I could 'remember' them without having known them, imagine what honour it is to be remembered by those who participated in our lives?

I don't want them to be forgotten. In two hundred years, who will remember me? Recall me? The thought kills me. The finiteness of it all...on this plane, which has been reduced to things and more things.