Diurnal Urinal

Everyone reaches the point in their life were they say, "I can't live like this anymore." Maybe it happens everyday, wakes them up like a whiff of coffee percolating not far off. Let's say it happens only twice a year; connected to the poles of the earth, a biannual flip flop for solstice celebration. Or perhaps it happen only once in a lifetime---an earthquake that opens a chasm that can never be closed. Does it matter how many? Are they all different, or the same? Do they come from the same place? Does the child who's secret love has kissed yet another boy on the playground, and never him, feel the same as the alcoholic who crashes his car through the center divider? Is it the same pain, the same gaping inability to see God in that solitary moment. And I bet you're sitting there saying, "No, no, they're not the same; of course one is different, some are worse, some are better. Some get better, some get worse."

And I say,"Yes!"to all of that. But, all that begins in the moment after. Whether one changes their life, or lives through their life, or dies right then and there; that all comes after that prickly gnawing feeling in the middle of your abdomen. Like a tiny hedgehog took to hibernating beneath the ribs, and now that fuzzy, sharp little fellow is opening up right there, right inside. After that feeling comes the decision to change, or move, or do nothing. But in that one moment, I think we all feel the same. We're bound together by a common thought wave descending from our Mother Eve. She was the first to feel the pull. She took that bite because she couldn't live like that anymore. Her gut told her that everything she knew was a shell; she was just a doll, and she wanted so badly to be real. And so she bit down; she threw away her shell so that she could feel pain, so that she could love, and so she could experience that final moment where she would say, one last time, "I can't live like this anymore." One final scary moment separate from God before her spirit left her body; refined to too fine a material for a life like this.

We are all the same, and we are all different. We all go up, we must all come down. My moment will never change me in the exact same way the moment changes anyone else. We many never share the same joy, or wallow in the same depths of sorrow, but I am almost sure that each breaking point, for one infinitesimal moment, is exactly the same.

I don't know that any of that matters; but it made me feel squiggly inside today, none the less. 

stars daisies babies King Kong

I have a bad habit of feeling empty. I try and cram, cram, cram as much in as I can. I'm a junkie for knowledge, affection, style, the internet, and wishful thinking. But, as you know, the junkie never gets enough, hence the bottomless pit.

Oh, and I do very little doing. Not enough to stretch the mind, or the body.

Bad combo, that thinking and not doing. A breeding ground for fear. Fear from all the things that could be done. Fear of never being enough. Fear that eats dreams, like Kobayashi eats hotdogs.

I've let fear tell me my whole life that there are things about me that need to be hidden, sensitive bits that were hurt long ago. But they were beautiful bits, and now sometimes I think they've rusted in their hiding places. I call them out, and they come slowly. It takes a lot of work tug the nightmares of children from the bones of sleeping adults. I personally find that talking helps; I'd probably love to talk to you, if I already don't. I'd love to tell you how I feel about the decline in population of large cats, or food, or anything in your life. I'd like to talk to you about my crazy family, and my crazy life. I'd love to talk to you about God, and about what you think your potential in life is. I'd like to comfort you, and tell you you're good. A small word, that 'good', and often underwhelming; but I find sometimes, that it if said just so, just straightforward enough, it feels clean and strong, and warm. Like old bare wood. Sometimes when I'm around adults, which I don't get to do vey often :) I talk so much I get jittery. I get a buzz off words. In fact, I'm usually quite ashamed after this, like any tipsy party girl. I talked too much, too loud, too bold. Funny things slip out when you hurt inside, don't they? And then, something strange happened as of late. We moved, and I talked, and I walked, and I stripped things away. My possessions, my family, Vida's health, our safety, bits of B's and my relationship. And I just kept feeling, like I was losing feeling. I kept seeing myself as this cup, and I was emptying out; and the fear kept filling it in with nothing. Because when nothing is inside of you, it becomes something. And I jut kept praying that I would get filled up. I prayed that I would be filled with things that would make me a better me. That's all. It was like a crucible; sometimes we do have to burn it all down.This time it was so intense it was like nothing was holding me here; here on earth. I just waited, and felt ok with waiting. And I kept thinking this should feel scary, but it didn't. It just felt like a bubble; quiet, and muffled, full of space, and at the same time so taunt, so precarious. And then the bubble must have popped, because I'm back. And I feel it; I feel my life inside of me. So now I'll do, I'll do something for a while, and then I'll probably cycle back through some other interior passageway. I love to take adventures inside myself, it's like Magic School Bus up in this hizzy everyday. I highly encourage you try one sometime.

Peace,
O.