This thing, this thing. It gets hard to keep it in, this thing. Changing, twisting, exploding separating into dust collecting at the bottom of my throat. Too much for me to contain any longer. I write to get it out, get it the hell out of my system, outside my universes, so that I can rest in my dream space tonight.
You know how it feels to be called on? Sometimes you don’t want to answer the call. Sometimes being a conduit is a bitch.
It rolls around in my head, this thing. Makes me crazy sometimes when I find myself at the bottom of the lake screaming, dancing with this thing. Drowning? Please. This here spirit is going ain’t swallowing water, ain’t giving these feelings of failure and disease the satisfaction of thinking that they matter other to remind me of my eminence. This thing comes and swallows my face whole. I know why they come. Like the tide the thing vibrates and beats back my breast at the shore and pull me sweetly in the undercurrent. Immersed I stop breathing. The thing reminds me about why I matter and why I matter and why I matter… I am a disease, and mad contagious. All things are discovered inside of me, as the thing cuts and separates me and draws blood and tastes me. Me and the thing dine on each other; our innards line the other’s stomach softly digesting. She's heavy in my tummy. It is in these frustrating and innerving moments that I remember what it is to be alive, fuck meaning. To have limbs, to be healthy, to be ME. Then that’s when the thing backs up and arms akimbo and says, okay now, well, let’s do it. I laugh knowing that whatever loves me in my smallest of moments, loves me in my bigger ones and that every single moment the thing waits for me to decide how to be loved. I suck in all of the water and then spit it out, laughing. Laughing cuz I know I matter and that the thing, the saucy playmate that she is, wants to dance me into a frenzy when I least feel like it.
Imagine a gaggle of the neediest people you know, all in one room, each dependent upon you to satisfy their often insatiable needs. That’s what being a conduit feels like. Every voice strident, every need immediate, every gesture lighting up the senses like kerosene dancing along the edges of the nostrils. When I say, I must go to sleep and rejuvenate they respond with a hearty, “Fuck you.”
Nothing can contain me any longer. This thing is happy that I finally figured it out. I know this. This night I surrender to the wind, rain, sleet and snow. Surrender to the only thing I have ever known and wanted but was terrified to give into. The thing watches me unfurl as I surrender to the ache that chills my soul. I give myself over to the brilliance inside of me, that thing.
As of this day, I am no longer afraid of death. I welcome its presence. There is nothing to fear any more. I give myself over. No more ego, no more personality. No more pains in the night because I forgot to love myself when you said, no, not you, Steven, unless of course you do this…and that.... Not the way you are. No more lying to myself because I was scared to love, scared to be alone in this world without the image of perfection as told to me by somebody’s else’s god. I am not afraid anymore. I am I am I am no longer shivering in your warm/cold hands life/death/samething. Confessing this black thing, this class thing this fag thing this human thing this money thing this pain thing pain thing pain thing pain thing, no more no more no more no more. No more fighting thoughts that pick at me like a sore that just won’t heal… no more. Me and the thing sit down and rap about the world and why I am here and what I want to do and the multitude of ways to proceed.
So instead of feeling like I gotta do every damn thing, be everything, try and satisfy every single call, I am learning to respectfully decline. Call back the fuck later.
Spirit guides, strains of things that become apparent in my dreamtime. I am no longer kneeling at the altar scared that you aren’t listening. No more eating the body of Christ. No more a thing that I cannot love. No more. Free. The space has always been wider than what I could imagine so I balled up self. Too scared to imagine a life draped over my own hangers in a closet designed to keep things in and out. No more lying to myself about my pain. No more lying about the space that astounds me, ravishes me, moves me to eat galaxies and spit out planets. I am more than anything I have ever dreamed of and this keeps me forgetting how it all matters. Shame. It matters. Pain. It matters, all of it. But I keep forgetting. I keep forgetting.
Wednesday, December 08, 2004 @ 10:26 PM