Soaking
Between faith, interest and observations, she felt lost in the clearest way, soaked in her delirious mixture of grief and serenity, contemplating her own presence. But now she is crying; tear drops fall down on native tissues in foreign lands. Solid still with beams of sunlight and fresh air, she is hurting; here alone and aching. If this is to realize how it is, was and going to be, take it… I aimed to lull soothing words of "take it all in and let it be, to stay not to stray."
There was no one to ask and she didn’t want to ask me, but I could see it in her eyes… the urgency to spill it out like binge vomit "do you know how rotten this has felt?" I knew.
There was less to be said after that, she only focused a gaze in the dimmed sky from that fifth floor window, not opened but leaving a buzz of freezing air leak in. It could not be about the magic of finding oneself and being alone, making meaning out of fake reunion. We have been finding each other for quit sometime; it feels a pool of stagnant baby poo by now. But it was in that room in the real feverish sweat and untidy bed that the truth of rotting shit has come to be marked; like that knot Nan had her hand on at the lower back massaging a cranky series of self earned bruises. The rotting shit was now floating in the thick air of the room; it was seen circling with a distracted magnet up close and distant.
What happened? Before all the searching to communicate with her inner self, before witnessing her own dreams, fears, insecurities and loves as pieces trying hard all on their own to fall into place, what happened? Before few drinks and light drunk became sever hangovers and car accidents. Before and after the weight of every struggle, meaningful beautiful fights became blues and nightmares; when OCDs leaned away from the fun of rearrangement and slowly to dinners disrupted for floors and dishes to be cleaned. When the land of women was an origin, when maternal culture was not noticed but lived, that was before what happened marked a definite line. When fears weren’t phobias and kisses on cheeks and closed hugs were met with smiles and not stiffness; that is when what happened started to happen. After prayers were no longer cradle rocky with smiles, but serious with anger demands; it was happening. Before genuine legitimate fear of loss and death was met with elusive tension and hysterical denial coated with warm hand touches, silly fights, pretentious acceptance and scared to death reassurances, there was a reality; fucked up reality which was true enough, it didn’t matter how screwed by meter it was. There was life; there were dreams and fear of bees not of utter loss. What happened is: now time is very important; it's very worthy and sacred. Choices must be made, steps calculated, anger controlled, fights chosen wisely; for what if there is not enough time to make it right again?!
Miles and continent apart from home, what is she doing anywhere? That was a more fulfilling question to the long night that stretched along reminding her of her fragility and lack of desire for life to fight that fever and go out for some last night in town fun. What is keeping her back home, and actually what would take her away. Why cuddle the memories and reminiscences, why constantly poke herself to the un-forgiven loss. Still even more persistently why leave, as the pieces allegedly were falling into place, the wants and eagerness for life were crawling somewhere deep inside.
Now what? With what was and what happened and what hurts, now what? What chase and for which resolution. Finding herself one more time, clinging to friends and family, building careers and evading the making of a relationship, a family of her own. Making peace to life to spare herself the hate, avoiding battlefields in the name of greater good. Uniting her own voices hiding under a desire for communication while truly sparing herself a life full enough to remind her of what's never coming back. Making up theories of resolutions and amendments but without any action to them; sparing herself a reality so present; it would threaten the one had before.
Then what, anything must be said, felt, done, fought for or against. It's still freezing cold in here but she is not going crazy just yet. Its closing in, nonetheless her claustro-phobia is not granting her an attack to release her of her lazy head down anguish. Does she still want to hide behind her longing to be left alone, is not she going to face the fact that she is sad and lifeless. Getting back to flashes of how she laughed, got fired up for the smallest of what she thought was a belief to stand up for, she is burning up. Again and again flashes of wanting trips, tomorrows and passions, moved her faintly away from the shit knot; facing it and maybe a little stretching its dimensions to make sure this is what she is not wanting.
With all the reference points she drew for herself she searched for a long lost dot to go back to and drag some washed away dreams to follow; but if all this soaking wet didn’t reach through to her, that silly random dream she had during a lousy nap for some reason did the trick; that dream of her car with all tires flat to the ground- though she had times before, only the next day she would usually just bump those tires with air- did something to her stupid source of emotional block inside. The way she has been watching classical movies maybe and trying to feel and not analyze, taking confusion in instead of anatomy probably helped; the quotes of the here and now, and a poem by a friend finding his own way shock her up a little.
Now she is sitting down in a bar, foreign lands and wooden chairs, four old hogs and beautiful waiter, next to a multimedia "super something" video game and her giggles are doing her something. The animal rights protest she marched with a little outside and local heavy drinks. The soccer game on flat screen and potential script for an un-thought about play -probably never to be made for it has been directed so many times- are doing it, doing her at the moment more precisely.
If she is here now, tomorrow flying in clawed air hewing her home, next month some other continent and next week making long term career commitments, months later other babies will be calling her aunties, and more nights of wonderments if she is ever going to want love in order to lament the lack of it; her unveiling bruises slapped her really hard on the face, butt, belly and thighs. I could hear her saying to the pieces inside to get together for the dream, for that force she has been waiting for to pop up on the rise with tides from the inside yet which is not gonna. It is going to be made now, now it is going to be tailored: parts deliberately and parts sewed un-noticeably, smiles are not going to be chased but found anew, wants will burn inside because they have to, now that she is here, that she is sad, grieving and hurt, now that all the ache will keep company for awhile, drift her off the fun in life sometimes, but it's here for now and so is she and so is her soul, so is her future, so are her days and times to be cherished, they stay too, they pull the forces and call the dice as well.
