Purple

Sadness is coloured purple. The purple is soft like velvet and silvery, and it hangs heavy there. I find it with my eyes, find there the weight of it, the feel of it, the way it breathes. I see it in his blue eyes, they stare, and I am there. Reflect me yet again, I am reborn in pain within those staring eyes. And I am gone when they close and look away, to stare, for he turns inward to his own mind and sees yet another version of me, the one which ticks mechanical, which speaks a color over my parts and makes and unmakes me. I am segregated within myself within his mind behind his eyes. I am apart, yet whole in outline, only in outline, and the rest of me pools into colored segments which only make sense to him.

I sense purple within my own mind’s eyes, when I close my eyes and think of him on the off chance. I see his purple shirt which he wore today, and I see the way all the times I have seen him before coalesce into the single being I imagine him to be. I see the way purple colours the scene, the whole scene, separate and apart a thing then coloured, separate and apart a thing we see. The purple rather is my mind’s interpretation of a sense which makes none, and is feather-light, and oft and almost imaginary.

He asks me questions and don’t ask me what was said, or what he asked, or my answer for I don’t remember. In fact I forgot even as he said it. I forgot before he said it. I forgot timeless ages ago. I never know, and when he asks and I answer I see I make no sense and neither does he, for we speak the same language but hear different meanings, and I am forever stuck in translation, in inability. He asks and I try, but my mind merely scatters in a million directions all desperate to run away, and when I latch on to something solid he bats it away, from me, and I am scattered once again.

It is like a cage, this room, but not for my body, or my sense of freedom, or my mind. It is like a cage for my fear. Let it run itself out inside here, let it exhaust itself chasing its own tail and howling at the moon; the invisible, elusive, ephemeral moon, lazy and unchanged, illusion, disillusion, personified. It is like a place for my fear to exist in the here-time, and I am lost within the storm of What-Is-But-Never-Manifests, until it fills this cage with it’s trembling carriage and oscillates wildly inside my mind. My mind separates, and I am purple, and I am the storm, and I am, I become them, the separate parts of me. And I am all I was, there, at that point I’m time. And he directs me, behind his eyes, directs and pigeon holes me, neat little boxes in which parts of me reach out between slammed lids. And I am purple no more, once again I am me and we are me and he and I am free. I breathe.

I feel the purple calm as we draw to a close, the purple dissipates into ether and then dream, the silence fills with reality, the space it once was fills with noise and emotions more real than the ones which are. And I fall back to myself, back to the one I want to be, a nice kind generous me, which offers comfort that I would have myself but is never for me. And then I leave and I am safe again.

In Control

I cannot be with anyone.

Inside I feel such pain. I don’t know why nor where it comes from, but it manifests in this strange urge to eschew company. I haven’t spent much time around anyone in months. The days stretch long and open, I wake when I wish, sleep when its needed, eat for pleasure not routine. My life revolves around three solid things, my healing, distractions, and love.

This love is novel. I remain unfamiliar with this type of love.  It is unique in that it is singular to me.  I am the only recipient.  I am the only source.  I am in control of its generation.  I bask in the flow.  And this is my joy and regret.

I feel joy I have learned this,  it is almost a new skill.  It is almost a new dawn in my life. But I also miss being loved by another.  I miss it.

This missing drives me to peruse online profiles but this habit has become a source of pain for me.  I peruse and it gets stronger and stronger in my chest,  a feeling of unease so great it feels like a stone covers my heart center…

And I am alone again.

I close the application  and I am able to breathe through the pain.  I have learned not to fight it.  Pain exists. And it has just as much a right to exist as anything.  It even has a purpose.  But it doesn’t feel nice to cry and not know why. To poke around inside my head, berate my psyche, interrogate the evasive me,  this is futile for I feel I have gotten somewhere …

… and I turn around the next day to discover I have only gone in circles.  I am enough for myself and that is it.  I only have myself and that is it.

And I am both content and ill content with that.

I would love to have dates,  so I say this.  Then it becomes untrue. This wretched thing come up,  overcomes me it,  and I find I am fighting fear more frightening that any first date.  Why.  Why can I not move on and get on with it.  It feels like my life is on hold waiting for itself to begin.  It feels like love,  the concept of it sung in song and tale,  seeps away into the cracks between memories.

Soon it will be gone I think.  Loving her was so distinct but now it fades.  And I am left alone.

I am reminded of last loves.  The strong ones,  the ones worth the bitter ends they became.

She remains a hollow in my memory,  a holy thing,  a fragile love. And so much anger builds behind it,  for I am forced to think of the good times with the bad.  After all she did not treat me with courtesy.  I didn’t know it then but I know it now.  I treat myself now as she should have done and wish I had known better.  If I had known how to treat myself then she would have known how to treat me.

And the anger fades.  I take responsibility back and it fades and I am grateful for the lesson learned.  And I miss her a bit more with the knowledge.

I cannot be with anyone yet,  because the pain is still too great even now.  She does hold that place,  it’s been a year.  But I cannot let go so another could claim it.  I cannot let go.  I am afraid to let go.  I fear unlearning the love I hold now.  I fear unloving myself when I lose the love of her.  I fear being alone with a lonely me instead of one eschewing company.  It is almost better to pine than it is to be loved.

Here I at least have control of my heart.

 

 

Because: Illustration

I let myself sleep in with a dream lover.

 

This morning I woke up with a thousand worries and nothing to actually do but dwell on them. Or, shall I say, I was meant to wake up thusly. And I did wake up, facts the same. However, on the edges of sleep and waking, just before when I was to open my eyes, I was dreaming. And the dream was not going pleasantly.

 

There was much disarray and fighting being done, the character who was me made some mistakes, and when I realized I had control I bade her apologize. Or rather I apologized, now taking up the role which I already lived there, giving care and love back, turning negative into learning and positivity. I’ve been doing that a lot lately in my waking state so it was easy to do in my dreams now.

 

I did apologize and received an armful in return. A naked and desirable and dominating armful, with a pretty sinful mouth and wicked fingers. And the dream followed that line of thought to it’s very satisfying conclusion.

 

Why am I telling you of such personal intimacy? Because: Illustration.

 

Because how we feel affect what we bring to ourselves, so says the Law of Attraction, to which I subscribe. I have been worried of late. Worry bordering on they way one wiggles a loose tooth with their tongue despite the twinge that brings. I’ve had two things on my mind. Money and love. Heavy subject for any one mind but for me I find usually love wins out as more pressing.

 

If you read my blog you might have found the last few posts dripping with ennui and pathetic pining; even I am tired of feeling heartbroken, but we write what we know. And I have known worry; since all the other good things in my life swiftly coalesced into awesomeness so straight went my attention the the lingering negatives. Number one being my recent ex; the heart ache more poignant due to her making contact a few weeks ago. And number two:  Money. Money has been a pressing issue, or rather the lack and lateness of it. I’ve been expecting several checks. My worry has been keeping me from them.

 

Abruptly I find all my attention focuses solely on this imaginary lover, this dream lover. It isn’t that she is perfect, she is not, it is that I crossed a bridge in that dream. In a dream where my worldly worries and learned fears remain far from mind, I felt no need to hold back. I gave her trust, which I hardly do when awake; trust is one of my issues. And I did wake feeling a little cured of that. The dream was enough that when I did wake I felt, it feels, as if I truly woke in a lovers arms. As if I truly spent the morning there. My brain literally stuttered when my mind wanted to worry the negatives while I sat the toilet after rising deliciously late from my bed. And the worries which had been hounding me seemed not so great. Their import lay far behind me. So too, in fact did the missing of my ex, and I spent the morning happy instead of worried. Completely happy. No effort to be that way, no forced and gritted teeth willing myself happy. Just natural happiness.

 

Immediately I get a call. The check has been delayed but here’s some money to tide you over til it arrives. For the holidays. Shall we drop it off for you?  What’s your address?

 

Talk about hand delivery. And instant manifestation. Instant gratification even!

 

Amazing. It is truly and simply amazing what can happen when you get out of your own way.  This is what can happen when light and love divine does get let in. I remember speaking to myself as I lingered on the edges of sleep. I was scolding myself, in a caring way. I told myself to accept the money coming my way. I hadn’t yet. I hadn’t believed it was mine. I had been awaiting belief until it was in my hands.  And then I did so deliberately; I let myself accept the money. And then I worried not. And then it came.

 

Ask. Accept. Believe. Allow. Receive.

 

… Or something to that effect.

 

Law of attraction in action. Deliberate creation.

 

Thank you Universe for your infinite kindness. Thank you for being there for me even when all my doubt is in play. Thank you for always always giving me what I want, whatever I want. Thank you for … being. Your existence is precious to me; I see us as one and the same. As I thank you I thank myself.  As I care for myself I care for you. As I bless you I bless myself. I am grateful.

 

I bless myself with light and love. I bless myself with pure source energy.

 

Why?

 

Because: Illustration

Good

I feel eviscerated.

I must caution you against reading this if you are feeling emotionally fragile. If you are you might want to leave it unread. My pain wafts off these pages. I am undone here. I am laid bare. I am naked in my vulnerability and I promise you will feel with me by the end. And I must write this; I have no choice.

I feel tortured. I feel I stayed a while in hell. I did so willingly, assured there was some point to it, but in the end if the conversation had not taken place, perhaps I would be better. I know I would still be the same. Now I am different, changed, born anew, stronger. I weathered it, I faced the doubts another’s counteractive view tried to impress upon me, like brainwashing, like waterboarding, waves of her emotions, her pain, her need impressed upon me. I nearly sunk with the weight of it. And I knew, going in, she would be doing this to me, she would be dragging me down into her undertow, into her water depths of despair, into her hell. And I sought to heal, and understand, and pour my own fire on the blaze.

I regret it now. I don’t often regret much, but I do regret the anger and insanity I let loose upon her. Oh, I doubt I left visible wounds. I doubt I even left new ones. It’s possible I just reopened old ones with my truths but I regret doing so. Hurting her, was not satisfying when she is already so hurt. And the only way I forgive it, is to acknowledge she has hurt me, and it was in aid of healing for myself which let me pour the truths unfolded upon her already self pitying ears. I feel eviscerated, due to myself being reamed out during the duration of the conversation, scooped out of pain and anger and hate; all wrapped up in blame of her, for the hurts she dealt, and which I endured, and which I overcame, and which I removed myself from, and which she might do so again. I felt threatened. She wanted me back, in her life, in her existence, in her sphere. She wanted to impart how I was her love, and she was not the person I remember her as the (one who didn’t love me, and treated me so). And so I, not knowing where I was going, allowed it, until the pain drove my body into sleep, and my soul into healing, and I awoke feeling eviscerated.

I wondered, the whole while, if it were me? If I was the one in the wrong. If it was only that I change could the happily ever after come into being? I entertained the idea it was all my fault, and I need only change and be more loving and accepting, and she and I would heal and the hurt would stop. I tried to apply all my learned stuffs on spiritual matters and I only managed to open a door, and let her into my soul to torture it further. The interrogator in my den. She is a broken thing right now, hurting, dying, letting the pain she wrought upon herself and others eat at her soul. She is supposed to be happy, not thinking of me, living her life, loving it. Instead she is calling my friend crying that I refused answer her missive, and she is feeling such self pity she throws traps of guilt that cling like tar to my feet to capture me and draw me in.

And then she tried, oh she did, to tell me she loved me. I tried, I did, to believe it. I allowed her to torture me, with news about her, with her side of the story, with recollections grim and glossy, and I tried to see it this way. She loved me, and she was scared, and she still wanted me, and it did not compute. I am done. I am different. She has intruded upon a new me. I am not the thing she tossed around, like a cat with ball. I am not the toy she made me. I am stronger than that.

I refused to become hers again. I refused to entertain her notions of events, told in her version, colored her way, decrying my own lived recollections. I refused to give up my ideas, for they mold me, make me, become me, I live because of them. I refused to give up the beauty I have become in aid of a dark, twisted version that remains lost and left cautionary tale and recovered from. I am this beautiful spirit, and I do need to remain this. I refused allowance of the contrary.

But it was hard won. This woman, who loved me, who was me, who wanted me, is not worthy of me. And I am worth more than she, and what she gives, and what she offers, and what I need. I am worth more than the past, and worth more than the pain, and worth more than the lived torture. I refused. And with parting blows she let me be.

And I feel eviscerated. Like I were she, and she is death, and I am dying the arms of her soul. I feel, too much connection. I must need withdraw, but it hurts to. For I did love her. I did. I did. I just lost us both along the way.

There though, it is done. I wrote her thusly, speaking of my actual feelings, and my actual perception, and my actual reality. I spoke more of truths and less of lies and platitudes and couched phrases of softness. I told her I was done. And I meant it. I do not want her back. I do not want that pain again. I do not deserve to be tortured. I am done.

And I feel like death. Behind my eyes I feel tears which remain just whines of tiredness and ache. I feel like a battlefield gone cooling. I feel like a demon horde ravaged land. I feel finally finally free. And it does not feel good, as I expected it to. It’s just heavy with losses, on both sides, and disgusting with corpses, and pregnant with pain. It feels like healing is in order but grief is too momentary to allow just yet. It feels, like apocalypse.

Good.

Mockingbird

She is me. I saw myself in her eyes, the first time I looked. And she is not me. I felt her in my eyes, the first time she looked.  And for that second I thought of clouds, infinite and fluffy and all around us, in waves of white. I didn’t note the color of her hair or eyes or soul, but I saw her.

And I loved her.

And I loved me.

For as I fell for her I fell for myself. So deep in love, so scared to fall and hit the ground and never touch those clouds again. So scared to loose that simple feeling, where love was light, and my very soul and hers blended, and mixed, and we were one in that tiny space where it was just us and conversation and focus.

And she became the highlight of my day.

And she became the highlight of my mind.

And she became the highlight of my heart.

Until those clouds became my heart, and she settled there, nesting like a feathered thing, and replacing the beating mess of red pain I’d grown there.

And I felt the distance between us, like a bird on a limb, close or far, with little know how to fly. And my wings did not grow enough to sustain flight, for I was too young. And her wings did not grow to a span large enough to bear her weight. And I doubted it entered her mind she could fly.

But I waited, and cuddled her heart in my chest, and I waited, for the return of regard, and I waited to grow enough to fly, feeding on the wind and stars and darkness between the stars and the endless sunlight. And I grew some, but not enough, and I could not measure her wingspan but from my view it did not increase.

And despair settled over me, as well as love. For my heart reflects me, like a mirror, like a pool, like the mockery of the air carrying birdsong between the trees.

And if she is me, when I look into her soul and love it so very much, how can I not love myself? How can I not carry that feeling to the higher air and scream out the triumph of my joy? How can I not fly when all the world awaits to be seen?

For love is the very heart of me now, and love becomes me, and love enlightens my soul to infinite decay of what is gone and should not be and is not of the above.

My mockingbird, so close and so far.

I feel the love I bear thee.

And I rejoice, for when I fly, so will you know the sky. For I will bear your heart to the heavens with me, and we will see the light.

Lectured by myself: on the subject of can’t.

For the past ten minutes I have been lectured by myself.

Or rather it weren’t lecture but preaching or something to that effect. It, the other side of the argument, the other me voice, the devil’s advocate so to speak,  was discussing my accepted belief that I can’t, and demanding confirmation I had been defeated.

“So have you been defeated,” It demanded, all round words like a British dialect. “Have you been so conquered by doubt then? Have you settled like a conquered nation into the bosom of your self pity, like a wallowing in tears or mud and crying about crying and crying about the filth. Have you decided to surrender to a limitation you made, and accept yourself as all you can be under said limitation. Have you really decided that you can’t?

If so you might as well shuck off the mortal coil now, for all the good it will do you from here on out. Life lived under this belief of can’t is no life at all in both yours and mine opinion. Thus you have allowed yourself to die, and still walk around as if you aren’t. This is such silliness I would rather you toss yourself off a bridge rather than wallow in such a wretched display.

And yet, I would rather you not. You see I know you. I see how you live your life. You assume laziness or lack of will leads to this path of can’t but I know better. You walk around going through the motions all the while you remain a person in mourning, for yourself.

I know you. You remain a beautiful intelligent self. You endeavor to always see and change for beauty. For the better. For the love you give. What you love you try and become. What you want is not own things, materialistically, but to absorb them into your being like osmosis, because you know if you walk away without something of them to hold on to, the memory will slip away. You own to imprint, not cage.

You are not greedy or selfish or conniving. You worry the idea of misconduct between teeth and tongue and moral code.

You seek knowledge above all else because that is something you can keep, find beautiful, and instantly apply. Like manifestation. You are wholly wonderful, you see your self growth, watch your being change, you embrace all things about yourself even if it is stubbornly etched there in psyche for years, you exorcise it and transmute it and find it lovable. You believe in all beliefs and none.

You find yourself tickled by things you say and do and love. You reflect this in others and love them their self owned pieces of you. You hear your own negativity and indulge in fits of tantrum only to walk away forgetting it completely minutes, hours, days later. And you smile and congratulate yourself on your victories small and great. You even find pleasure in your machinations.

You are what you seek. You are glory incarnate. You are capable and able and talented and worthy. You see yourself through another’s eyes before your own. You forget it is not them seeing you, but you seeing you through the reflection. You second guess and attempt for better each time. You embrace your tears, flee your pain until you remember its better to accept, you ever and always love.

I know you. I am you. I see you. And can’t is not a word you want to apply. Can’t is the word you use to put up barriers so you forget there is more ahead. Can’t is the word you would replace, were you to hear it fall from another’s lips, you would want to chastise and uplift and advise, were it another. Can’t is the word you enchain yourself with. You mourn not your death but your freedom.

And I would say I can’t allow it but I refuse to use that word nor place it on you, even as you are me, even as we are, and this is a conversation with myself. I allow you the choice to use it henceforth. But I challenge the necessary of this action. Why need you say you can’t? Why need you an excuse to not be more? Why need you this limitation? How does telling yourself you can’t serve you?

Beloved I love you. I can’t imagine not. And yes I can. I can imagine not loving you, not loving me, because we have before. And walking the path of self hatred, of self fear, is not the path you know now. Self love is won. I choose to love you. You choose to love you.

This is the choice. Fear or Love.

You can.”

Trees talk to the stars.

As a kid, the November months were the best for me.

I loved the fall in temperature, the cut of freshness in the air, the leaves abandonment of the trees which made the outdoors smell of a sort of earthen nature calling to the Native American in me. It’s a wet feeling in the air, or a dry feeling, or a cold feeling. You must know what I mean. It’s November and it was my favorite time of year.

My mother dated Clarence for a while. He was a cowboy of sorts. Not the actual kind, like from Texas, but he did have a few horses, and a farm kinda thing, oh and a pig. It was in Virginia so I don’t really count it. And he had acres of land. Most of it was forest. Not like, Little Red Riding Hood forest or The Forbidden Forest kind of forest, but I counted it as forest. Instead, it had a lightness to it, a feeling of being alone, yet so filled with life unearthly. It was a sweet forest, a small forest, a hollow of trees winding roots together beneath the earth and foliage and fenced in boundaries. I ran around in it, at the age of 13 and it was my freedom. Otherwise I’d be stuck reading inside a room dark with wood paneling and listening to Country music blasting all the time.

I was only there in November, my mother only dated him as long as it took for her to be adored. When he got fed up with her temper tantrums and histronics (he wasn’t the sort to coddle), she labeled him the bad guy and moved us back in with Nana, who then blamed it on him being black, which wasn’t said aloud for fear of being politically incorrect but was rather like the prejudice was implied. Then again my mother had horrible taste and every man she dated was labeled wrong for something, so that was just how it was, and I really didn’t appreciate the racist additional, so I just ignored it. Which was my default for most everything anyway.

But I was happy there. I remember that. And Clarence was my favorite of my mom’s boyfriends. And I loved he didn’t coddle her. At the age of 13 even I was tired of her childishness at times. That he just huffed a disgusted laugh when she was raging in a childish way about disrespect, when he didn’t even in my opinion, and when she feigned a faint, he stepped over her dramatic splay, made me applaud on the inside. If she had just seen how good he was for her, perhaps my life would have been a lot different. I really liked him for a dad. He would have made a good one.

It was October I remember, just the first blush of it, and I learned to ride a horse, a stallion, even almost falling off I learned. And I learned to make a treehouse by myself. Clarence, I think tickled to have a stand in daughter, allowed me complete freedom. And I remember getting just the base built before I gave up and would just take my homework to that platform and stare up the trees and imagine more freedom than that.

I remember it felt, when I did that, like the trees were falling into the stars.

The nights when I went out, the sky was so bright above the sporadic canopy. I did mention the forest wasn’t really a forest, and so the trees did not obscure the sky at all. Instead it sorta highlighted it, like the trees were reaching out arms to the night lights above, and they were almost in a warped stretch, one you couldn’t with your eyes, but feel with a sense that wasn’t taste or touch or smell but something of all of those. And I could feel the forest felt like .. it was about to take off, into the sky, to be among the stars, except it never did. And it never would. And that was even better because the stars were in quiet communion through the expanse of time to the trees in my little sweet forest and I was mere witness.

One day, after I canceled on a friend of mine who wanted to come over but was a boy and I concluded might be interested romantically and I wasn’t cause he was a boy so I made up an excuse, one day I was out there and instead of sitting on that platform I walked the whole expanse of the forest between the fences that caged it, and finding a tree that felt right I put my back to it and looked up.

And along my spine, like fire surging I felt it. It was like there was a lightening rod, like the tree were a conduit, a shout, a string, that lead from the ground below up to the stars above, and translated the sounds of the earth to them, a tree translator. It was full of so much energy and wisdom and fire I was captured, more than a witness to a beautiful sight, but witness to prayer. From the earth through the trees to the stars.

Native Americans believe the trees sing to the stars and the stars sang back. They believe the trees are so old they remember us being made of starlight. I have Cherokee, Blackfoot, and Sioux ancestors. I am not a part of a tribe, or can I claim actual lineage, but the native american music (the drums, the piping, the chanting) has always elicited a feeling in my belly, of instinctive recognition, their stories a familiarity.

I remember my step sister and I would read a book of Native American myths as kids, and giggle over the explicitness in stories about trickster coyotes  having sex with women with vagina teeth and marvel at the creation tales which were so opposed to Christian origin we grew up being told was the only truth. We were not allowed to read it but we did anyway. I remember that being my favorite book, so dog eared it was, not because the stories were so randomly awkward, but because the feeling of the book in my hand held the feeling of November.

The sound of the words strung together were in English, yet still tasted like some Native American tongue, and was much like the feeling I heard when I watched the trees stretch up arms to the sky. I may not know much of myself yet, in this present state of ignorance, but I know there is genetic imprint of nature in my veins, and call it starlight, or more recent Native American genes, but I know more in my body than I do in my head sometimes. And I feel more on my skin than I see with my eyes.

And I dare you to stand with your back against a tree. Feel the energy along your spine. Let the tree channel you back to heaven; from earthen soil you were made in this body to the starlight from whence your soul came.

I dare you to listen to the trees talk to the stars. And I dare you to lie and say you don’t hear it.