These are some of the random thoughts I have when I try to meditate…
You can’t unsay what you didn’t say.
I can hear the rain that flows outside my window. How much of me is made of water? I want to tell you a secret that no one can keep...lives are beautiful. It is all beauty.
Let’s come undone, unzip our tightly wound up bodies. When we really open up our skin, what will we find? Our soul is not inside us: we are inside our soul. The question is how big is it? How much room does it take? Can you measure it?
Is there an exact truth? Does it exist in the deep echoes of our voices?
Where is it? Who do I hear? Is it me or is it you? Or are we the same person?
Oh that’s the T.V. downstairs.
A Lipozene commercial is on, a weight loss drug that was created to make you beautiful. But I'm stunning without it. I bet you are too, in fact I know you are and you don't even need drugs they sell on infomercials.
The night makes us vulnerable, doesn’t it?
You don't need anything to make you whole, do you? What makes you real?
I'll tell you what makes me real. I am doggedly tired. I slept about three hours because I was stressed out about some stuff. But I zenned it out today, I breathed, I loved what was around me which was a good friend of mine and trees. Lots and lots of small green trees. The endless still sun.
I know, I know, zipidy do da, zipidy day! I know how you feel about this particular kind of positive junk...I know you think it is kind of not your style. Maybe you want reality. Maybe you want in your face random truth. Does your face even look like it’s made of something more strange than skin?
I can look at you while still remaining positive, while still thinking of roses. Look I’m not being positive because I can’t be negative. Many times I have felt the world is a big ball of shit. I kind of moved on from that, now I think the world is a big ball of love and I want to bounce on it. I want to throw it around. The world is small. It is in my hands.
Let’s play ball with it. I mean that. I want to play. I don’t play enough.
I definitely don’t dance enough. I laugh a lot though. I want to tell you that I think I may have laughed my way to sanity. Laughter is not just a medicine, it is a surgery, an operation of the soul. Or maybe it is the soul doing an operation on you. The Doctor Soul laughing. Laughter can stop time and there isn’t even such a thing as time. Laughter is so potent it can stop a thing that does not really exist. It can make you start to believe there is no time.
In a laughing session of hilarity there is only fun. Only a feeling so deeply moving it can make you cry salty tears of joy.
I want to laugh with you. I want us to laugh together at this thing we call life. I want to make this some kind of twisted comedy. I only say twisted because it is more correct to say it is a dramedy.
Irony. I love me some irony. I can taste it. It is not just in books. It is in your eyes.
You know what else is in your eyes? I am in your eyes when I look at you. You carry me in your eyes. We connect in that way. When you read my words you carry them in your eyes.
I think that is real beauty.
I’m here. There is nothing I need to do. I mean that the universe requires nothing of me.
If I want to love I can love. I’m probably going to enjoy this ride better if I decide to love. I love the beauty of me in your eyes.
It’s not just like looking in a mirror: it’s like being a mirror. We are each other’s mirrors.
It’s not about how I look though; it’s about how deeply I just am. I am.
This is getting wildly poetic. This is a different style for me on the Internet. I used to write poetry. That is how I started writing when I was a kid. But it was more like poetry was writing me, creating me, making me whole.
I had a lonely childhood. I mean I had friends and stuff but sometimes it was just me and the T.V. I learned what drag queens were on Geraldo before I learned about my period. I don’t know if that timeline is accurate actually, but you get my point? I knew how to make a baby but didn’t know about my own blood.
I crimped my hair and wore make-up when I was fourteen. I decided I could not leave the house without at least foundation on. I don’t know if it was a combination of Loreal and Cover Girl commercials that did it or it was looking at my mother’s flawless skin. I wanted perfect skin. The drag queens were so pretty.
I wanted to be perfect. I thought there was such a thing. I thought it was possible to be that.
I didn’t know it was more important to be a person than perfect.
I thought there were perfect people. It was the eighties I probably thought there was purple rain. Maybe I thought Prince would magically appear in my living room if I had perfect skin.
It’s funny because no guy has ever cared how perfect my skin was except one. I remember that one boyfriend I had, I was pretty damn thin and he also told me I could afford to lose some weight. Rat bastard. I found out later that he cheated on his wife.
Oh who cares? I still think people are beautiful and I’m beautiful.
Sometimes there is nothing to say and we want silence. Even in our own heads. That’s hard, especially when you are reading something about what’s going on in someone else’s head.
Let’s be quiet for a moment. Let’s not say anything for a whole minute…breathe…
So how was it?
Can you be perfectly quiet, inside? You don’t have to, you know, be perfect about that either.
Perfect skin, perfect weight, perfect silence…it’s all a sham. Can you be quiet in the midst of it all? Stop getting in your own way.
Don’t stop being you though.
Sometimes I’m ugly, the ugliest person in the room. That only happens when my truth is invisible. No make-up can make it look pretty.
I won’t change for you. I won’t be you. My face is my face. Look at it.
It is flawed and rightfully so. I earned these imperfections. I don’t have to earn love though.
I accept your dance. Accept my deaths.
I die every time I don’t speak my truth. A truth I don’t know. I am not yours. Ownership is in the imagination.
We walk, we walk with other people in our shoes. We dance, we dance without any music.
We spill our selves out on the floor like magic carpets that fly. We fly without any wings.
Was that too much for you, did you want something different? Something that you could fit in your newspaper notion of reality? Did you expect something sarcastic but you got something surreal. Did you want something cerebral and you just got some sand…some wet sand…between your toes…and nothing but the ocean to wash them with…
Image courtesy of Stuart Miles/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net
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