My dancing shoes are one size bigger (part2).
So, there is this punctate, eviscerating silence, and I press the End button on my phone.
Now I get to ruin my sister's birthday. Now I kinda hope she has been having sex, that at least she has had some human connection, something ephermeal and positive to hang her day on.
Maybe there's nothing for it. Perhaps none of it is possible. Everyone in my life right now seems to be having a terrible time of it: their own choices and connections, breaking up, falling apart. Motivations ruined, plans devastated and mourned. This shit is supposed to be part and parcel with winter. It's now spring. No matter what I said before, get over it! We're all about newness now, kids!
Cobra, Satan's Little Pixie, Mustardseed; my surrogate nonsexual hetro boyfriend; AI and Ms. Montieth; my mother and my father; they're all *going through* something. For that matter so am I. Beyond all the petty squabbles, false starts and meandering (which I can deal with, they're part of the package), my whole structure felt like it was collapsing a couple of weeks ago. Every iota of creative force within me was hollering for something to be done, and I could see potential like a multidimensional vibrating string, the building block of my universe, undone -- entropy could, conceivably, take everything away. Perhaps I'll stop dreaming. The idea's might run out.
This blog is the result. It's supposed to be an anchor. I'm doing something about it.
But fuck! After that beer in Kensington, Ms. Montieth and I walked away, down to another gathering. It's what the west-end Troops do, they gather. The whole legion of them. We are compulsively, endlessly milling about one another, terrified of missing something, not being gratified by one another's presence. I think me, a couple of others, are considered semi-tourists for not making it out half the time; but for me, it is impossible. I'm living in the east-end for one; and I yearn for aloneness. It's alone that I get shit done, imagine other people, places, things; the bricks. Constant chatter obfuscates me from myself. Others become objects.
Yet still, I feel I am always there.
Sundays are the best days to see them. Everyone's a little tired. A little run down, a lot worn out, the Crazy out of the system. All I can do is think about having to tell my sister.
My mother has asked me to relay the news. She couldn't track her down: not at home, and she's not answering her messages. "Oh, she's just with a friend this afternoon, up the street from where I am now," I told her, but I still don't know where she is. Edward hasn't called me back, and she hadn't returned to the Zone.
My father has sent Turtle an email, Mom tells me. Without my mother's knowledge. She doesn't know what's in it, but she knows that Dad told her about the immanent divorce. Turtle doesn't pick up her email at home, she does it at work. Mom doesn't want Turtle to read it, unprepared, in the middle of a room full of people. What a devastation that would be.
So I'm hugging and kissing the Troops. Dancing (again), because my friends are spinning, and catching up with the "Where have you been"'s, and professions of adoration. Drinking copious amounts of beer, and looking obsessively at my phone. Cobra calls, bemoaning sleep problems (which she has in spades), and informs me that she'll be on the scene in an hour and a half. "Save me a seat next to you." And I'm worrying. Fretting my phone in my jacket pocket, considering the fact that I'm probably not in the best place myself to inform Turtle of anything, having not slept in over two full days.
I do receive the call. Turtle gets me from home. She's safe and sound, and going to bed. One pip left in my power bar, and I have to have a rushed conversation that reduces her to tears. Her voice just breaks, softens, she starts to slur, and then we're in it. Grief. Sadness. Woe.
Satan's Little Pixie is, as always, a support. Her heart, and her humor, and her concern, not to mention her ability to map emotion and see it's parts, working or otherwise, gives you a sense of what you're dealing with. It's like she demonstrates a little gnome in her palm, and he speaks in a little voice: "perspective says, you shouldn't be afraid, you should be fixing the problem!". She's been doing it, just being there, in her cute little way, but when I look up from the silence after the call, coming out a that inner landscape, she's at a breaking point too. Something's gone down and I have no idea what it is.
We walk home. She to her house, and me towards Cobra's, who is my best friend and partner in crime. My confidant and often my solace. We work on it, we work it out, this lack of equilibrium, fucking endless repetitions on the central themes: honesty, integrity, self-possession and trust. Which I demonstrate my fault in maintaining on the trip home by failing to call and inform the big C on my departure from the lounge she was coming to meet me at. Oh, shit. She's mad. At me. I've failed. Again.
Perhaps there is nothing to be done.
Beer on Cobra's couch later, with chicken wings and spicy fries, watching Star Wars V and VI, help just as well as SLP's gnome for perspective, I suppose. Sleep also.
Most of the important people in my life are having a ruff go.
It's true that we're all going through something. Everyone is always going through something, all the time. We are constantly moving on, moving through, only visiting the places that our future makes past. It's the tyranny of the linear.
"Are you okay?" I asked my mother.
"I'm fine until someone asks me if I'm okay," she answered, breaking into tears.
It's the same for me.
Now I get to ruin my sister's birthday. Now I kinda hope she has been having sex, that at least she has had some human connection, something ephermeal and positive to hang her day on.
Maybe there's nothing for it. Perhaps none of it is possible. Everyone in my life right now seems to be having a terrible time of it: their own choices and connections, breaking up, falling apart. Motivations ruined, plans devastated and mourned. This shit is supposed to be part and parcel with winter. It's now spring. No matter what I said before, get over it! We're all about newness now, kids!
Cobra, Satan's Little Pixie, Mustardseed; my surrogate nonsexual hetro boyfriend; AI and Ms. Montieth; my mother and my father; they're all *going through* something. For that matter so am I. Beyond all the petty squabbles, false starts and meandering (which I can deal with, they're part of the package), my whole structure felt like it was collapsing a couple of weeks ago. Every iota of creative force within me was hollering for something to be done, and I could see potential like a multidimensional vibrating string, the building block of my universe, undone -- entropy could, conceivably, take everything away. Perhaps I'll stop dreaming. The idea's might run out.
This blog is the result. It's supposed to be an anchor. I'm doing something about it.
But fuck! After that beer in Kensington, Ms. Montieth and I walked away, down to another gathering. It's what the west-end Troops do, they gather. The whole legion of them. We are compulsively, endlessly milling about one another, terrified of missing something, not being gratified by one another's presence. I think me, a couple of others, are considered semi-tourists for not making it out half the time; but for me, it is impossible. I'm living in the east-end for one; and I yearn for aloneness. It's alone that I get shit done, imagine other people, places, things; the bricks. Constant chatter obfuscates me from myself. Others become objects.
Yet still, I feel I am always there.
Sundays are the best days to see them. Everyone's a little tired. A little run down, a lot worn out, the Crazy out of the system. All I can do is think about having to tell my sister.
My mother has asked me to relay the news. She couldn't track her down: not at home, and she's not answering her messages. "Oh, she's just with a friend this afternoon, up the street from where I am now," I told her, but I still don't know where she is. Edward hasn't called me back, and she hadn't returned to the Zone.
My father has sent Turtle an email, Mom tells me. Without my mother's knowledge. She doesn't know what's in it, but she knows that Dad told her about the immanent divorce. Turtle doesn't pick up her email at home, she does it at work. Mom doesn't want Turtle to read it, unprepared, in the middle of a room full of people. What a devastation that would be.
So I'm hugging and kissing the Troops. Dancing (again), because my friends are spinning, and catching up with the "Where have you been"'s, and professions of adoration. Drinking copious amounts of beer, and looking obsessively at my phone. Cobra calls, bemoaning sleep problems (which she has in spades), and informs me that she'll be on the scene in an hour and a half. "Save me a seat next to you." And I'm worrying. Fretting my phone in my jacket pocket, considering the fact that I'm probably not in the best place myself to inform Turtle of anything, having not slept in over two full days.
I do receive the call. Turtle gets me from home. She's safe and sound, and going to bed. One pip left in my power bar, and I have to have a rushed conversation that reduces her to tears. Her voice just breaks, softens, she starts to slur, and then we're in it. Grief. Sadness. Woe.
Satan's Little Pixie is, as always, a support. Her heart, and her humor, and her concern, not to mention her ability to map emotion and see it's parts, working or otherwise, gives you a sense of what you're dealing with. It's like she demonstrates a little gnome in her palm, and he speaks in a little voice: "perspective says, you shouldn't be afraid, you should be fixing the problem!". She's been doing it, just being there, in her cute little way, but when I look up from the silence after the call, coming out a that inner landscape, she's at a breaking point too. Something's gone down and I have no idea what it is.
We walk home. She to her house, and me towards Cobra's, who is my best friend and partner in crime. My confidant and often my solace. We work on it, we work it out, this lack of equilibrium, fucking endless repetitions on the central themes: honesty, integrity, self-possession and trust. Which I demonstrate my fault in maintaining on the trip home by failing to call and inform the big C on my departure from the lounge she was coming to meet me at. Oh, shit. She's mad. At me. I've failed. Again.
Perhaps there is nothing to be done.
Beer on Cobra's couch later, with chicken wings and spicy fries, watching Star Wars V and VI, help just as well as SLP's gnome for perspective, I suppose. Sleep also.
Most of the important people in my life are having a ruff go.
It's true that we're all going through something. Everyone is always going through something, all the time. We are constantly moving on, moving through, only visiting the places that our future makes past. It's the tyranny of the linear.
"Are you okay?" I asked my mother.
"I'm fine until someone asks me if I'm okay," she answered, breaking into tears.
It's the same for me.
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