Thursday, January 20, 2011

mistakes on the side

I’m so free I can do what I want.  I’m so free I can’t stand it.  No one is there to tell me no: you can’t do that.  I pull my shades to just enough, a minute past midnight and I know I’m stuck in my time. 

Esalen Institute

1:48 AM 11.14.10
about Myrtle Beach

I see the dark blue walls in the distance of the restaurant, the wainscot whitening the room, the open trays on stands with nothing on them, hollowing to be filled with something more.  And I want to be filled with something more.  Then…in my memory…as I saw it.  I wanted to be filled with love.  My hair kept me company, my yellow shirt- Issey Miyake- crimpled like my dumpling heart and stupid fleeting fantasies and my still-young hands that I look at only because they’re in front of me.  Thunderous noises of strangers among strangers passing orders and receiving them, half or fully satisfied, the black night outside the ocean window and the knowing that you know no one there.  God knows of the fishes and lives that we ate and the yellow martinis delivered and how our hatches clamped and blinked in satisfaction- oh those softly moving jowls, they were even mine, how they thanked and threw at the same time.  I’d rather not be here.  I’d rather be there.  With him.  The invisible idiot.

I left the room around 11.  Mom and Nat were either asleep or in the dark.  I put on my brand new bikini- hours old- and headed for the hot tub.  It was confusing getting there and even after a week it was always confusing on which level to take off to get to the ocean. 

I make mistakes on the side.  And I made the mistake of missing him and missing him as I talked to a couple strangers in the hot tub, thinking about Esalen and our days and nights in the sulphur springs.  It was only weeks ago but I was holding onto them as only hours ago.  Fresh as pancakes seconds old, I was keeping these memories alive, keeping them as bubbles that will never pop.  I recall his last kind words to me: Don’t say goodbye.  It’s astounding to think I will never see him again.  It’s astounding that I could let myself feel so much for someone I didn’t really know.  My “problem” is that I’m a lover.  I’m looking for love and paying for death.  But a broken heart is easier than a broken life.  I recall the story of a woman at Esalen, we were soaking in the springs on the cliff: she took ayahuasca for 40 days and 40 nights with a shaman somewhere in another country.  She lost her soul, lost control of her body and will, even her dreams.  Her story was one of the most catastrophic I’ve heard, really.  She wanted to be invited to a suicide party as soon as possible.  She told us in the dark, in this intense moon conversation.  All I did was lose my heart – drug free – but this sad dolphin lost her whole self.  It took her years to recover.  In this strange way I will thank God for my broken heart, only a broken heart.

You have to have the appropriate competition.  Those who play better seem to have a finer time at life.  And if you get the chance to play with those well-played, your experience becomes more enriched.  So what I’m saying is choose your players in your life carefully.  Those you want to engage with, dance with, speak soul with, share; because that will be the extent of your life.  Those you surround with are your life.  Until your batteries fade, you are parked with those you know, and that’s it.


E. Kelly's Spiritual Journey on Be critical within:
"Everyone believes he or she is perfect and has to put up with many people who are not.  But if we ever really knew any person we would never envy them.  Love one another and behave.  Behave.  You all know how to behave.  Don't expect others to behave.  You behave."

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