Pages

This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine...

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

"Here Thom tells the story of how he once had a narcissistic friend he was compelled to elude."

We’ve built a pattern on google calendar. Hadj is now painting regularly. I got to tell someone “he’s a painter” yesterday, instead of “he’s a retired submariner” - which was interesting enough.  He's also been listening to The Bends on repeat.  Today, I am again, feeling batshit.   Hadj swears I'm just as sweet as can be, but I feel rudderless, cranky, and confusing.  I was downstairs in his studio earlier, trying to explain one of my instant mood swings.   I hit upon an idea and tears came to my eyes and I got choked up.  The chorus to Just came on and I squeaked out the sentence, "I don't get things, like that paintbrush, I get concepts."

Hadj, you see, has needed a new paintbrush for a couple days and he's been trying to work out how to justify the overwhelming $4 expense. He was just thinking it was time to chuck it, and go to McLendon’s Ace Hardware, when we spotted a brand new paintbrush laying in the vacant parking space next to us. It was just the size he needed, there on the ground where he could find it.

When I said, "I don't get things, like that paint brush" I meant that a pair of new running shoes has not just appeared on the curb yet.  I was drawing my kvetching to a conclusion and feeling wilted when the words came out joyously from the thrift store mega-speakers and I felt lighter.  I finished, "I get concepts."
You do it to yourself, you do / And that's what really hurts / Is that you do it to yourself / Just you and no-one else / You do it to yourself

Every day moments, maybe the sunset was beautiful after a gray day, are my small saviors. They lead me back to the larger saviors like alignment, uplift, grace.  They do it one step at a time, fast and slow.  I've finally begun reading The Artist's Way (still on the intro). I feel like pages of words could spill out of me right now. I could drown in what feels like confession, but what is really my verbal painting of human interconnection. The routes we take to cover up the fact that we're all one is infinitely amusing. We're all made of the same stardust. We fight like we don't share the same molecular make up.

I have few reasons to complain right now, really. While it's true that I have no income myself, and Hadj's stipend is meager, we have a lot. And I have Caller ID which I am temporarily using to avoid the polite, but unfortunate, student loan bill collectors. We live in a nice home. We have four huggable animals to love and squeeze. My man took the afternoon off to rub my creaky back and encourage multiple orgasms. We have vegetables, cheese, pickles, dark chocolate, laughter...

And yet I am veiled. I feel all, serious. It's time for me to be welcoming of solitude, darker spaces, and wider. I'm happy to be doing it. It seems like anytime I'm not writing right now, I'm thinking about writing or reading. Taking the time to drag my ass to the seat and log time is still a struggle, but here I am, writing. Radiohead is talking about being strong enough, strength, and belonging and I get messages and it goes on.

I just need to clear myself," I said to Hadj. I drew my hands across my forehead to indicate my third eye. "I feel it blocked up; my throat and third eye. It's giving me a headache.

No comments: