THE PAST IS DEAD
I had so much to say, and now there is not much to say at all.
A quietness is the need of the moment.
I used to walk so quickly, everywhere, for any reason, for no reason.
And now it is SLOW. So… slow.
I think it’s learned.
The days of racing around, sweating, killing myself for a buck every night. It had become a habit that spilled over into everything. The pace of stress, of urgency.
A state of panic was normal.
But we can also trace that back to a sad childhood. A university education can teach you skills, but it can’t teach you that you deserve to use them.
Those days are another life. This life is different.
It’s a Friday night and I could be the one to go out. I used to envy those who had the luxury. I’m not going to but I feel so lucky.
This is my own kitchen table, by the window with the view of the hills, the neighbors’ yards and rooftops, a tall pine tree, fog rolling in over the evening. I can watch the sky go dark.
A flat of nectarines in front of me. A half-glass of wine.
Fish, rice, cauliflower – not much in the fridge right now but it’s enough for dinner.
I don’t need as much of everything as I used to. Too much, was routine. I don’t need to devour everything. I can just exist with it.
This didn’t happen overnight. It took two and a half years to begin to settle in.
Nothing is particularly urgent anymore, unless I want it to be. Emergency is no longer routine.
Emergency is no longer a lifestyle.
It’s so much more enjoyable. But mostly I am surprised by it.
I didn’t know it could be this way.
I never knew how anyone could be so calm.
I am grateful to be bored.
There was a time in my life I actually embraced being alone. Content with it, full and complete. Other times I’ve feared being alone. Or it’s just made me feel, in one word, miserable.
Now I just feel neutral. And that doesn’t have to mean anything.
Writing about loneliness can scare people, although I’m not exactly sure why it should.
There was a time when I wrote more “poetically” on here. I suppose it was nicer, prettier, or better quality in some way but I don’t know. It’s a different time now. An uncomfortable one, but this is interesting. I have no idea what will happen.
Something broke in me. For a time. Now I am just here. Quietly. I was subjected to the myth of the perfectly polished woman. Tortured with its image and all its presumptions.
Someone fell in love with that myth. Someone dear. But there were no people there. There was no truth. Only gods.
The real woman is pissed off by all that now. She is sad. She is a spontaneous puddle of tears. She is feeling forsaken. She is seeking the generosity of spirit that this myth wouldn’t allow her.
Inside is the only place to go – for that piece, at least. The trouble is, this myth is actually everywhere.
There is no point in pretending. There is no academic-background point of view that will do anything. There is no game to play to elevate the mind over the feeling. We have enough of that crap around.
Shit is normal. But to eat shit is not.
When true cruelty is encountered – and it does exist in degrees, from unlikely alcoves at times – closure can never come from its source.
The flip side of the most romantic type of personality, is sometimes that it is the least realistic. Romance has always been a good thing – not something to be so cautious about. But there is true romance, and then there is romance riddled with agenda.
This morning I had the defiant thought, I’ll forget all this by dressing like crap and take no hair cuts for a while. I’ve done it before. When I didn’t have any money. I got through. And it was good. It was amusing to reject what is expected of us. Right now what I don’t have is time, and patience to entertain any level of psychological garbage. As if this disengagement from elements of the myth could weed it all the way out.
I am heartbroken. It resonates. But I am surviving it. And learning to have fun.
It’s an open road again. I can’t see the whole thing. Only the entrance.
I have seen a much smaller light before now, and followed it out.
Anything could happen.