sorry bunny

sorry bunny

Saturday, December 31, 2011

on being alone.. (allwords to be readaloud)

This wind this grey, ache. This mood this moon, the space shaking, my luminescence dropping down into my belly, a quarter full. Makes me feel like the money-tree leaves I thought looked like ghost-seeds of a soul. Shivering from the wind inside. I'm not entirely sure how to deal with this feeling. Of the ever-present thread bare spinning, of a world always external to my own. It feels like I am a single strand watching and waiting as a whole fabric moves past me, I the dust, left to be alone, just like clumps of thread lint, flakes of skin, and whatever else you leave on the floor. Things that don't stick. I want to do so many things, it seems that are just different from other people. I wish I had the kind of best friend that shared my goals. But all my best friends are so independently creative. It feels like I'll always be alone. And I'll have to learn all the things that seem to be paired, un-paired, only paired with my own anti-matter. I've learned to dance alone, to think alone, to create my own world I live and dream in, to make my own sense, my own voice that can fill an entire sky, my own eye-sight that can see to any distance & through any skin.

This day feels rare. This day dropped. I have so much power. I am the manipulative secretive controlling version of my mother. My mother lathers on authority in rich white heavy cream. I suck and seduce you with supreme authority on the level of a parasite, of bacteria, on the level of crystalline structures, on the level of mirrors, and fawn babies, of seeds, of wombs, of jaw half-dropped never fully allowing breath to come in. She, to me, Grendel's mother, and I, Grendel.
I search for birthdays and cards, and wrappings, and people, for lovers who do not want to cuddle me or know me, for mistakes to be made. Deep inside, an old woman, crowing to herself, singing lullabies, falling asleep to her own voice that shutters loosely as she drifts into faery dreams, waking to her own sun, eating the food she has made, and bathing in the dust that comes from when the corners of her body get knocked off. Off in the distance, of her extremely large and expansive head, the audio from the reverb of the words, "This is Nur Greene Talking. This is Nur Greene Talking. This is talking. This is Nur Nur Nur Greene Talking. This is talking this is this is This IS THIS IS... Nur Nur Greene Greene Talking-Talking talking talking talking-talking..." I think she romanticized the sound of her own voice just a bit too much. Must remove herself from herself, and resume some external viewing. The sheet is now laid over her face. She has no face. She has no name. She is covered, and what parts are uncovered float above her in dis-repair. Her guts, her eye balls, her nose, her childhood memories, the odd feeling that she might have been sexually abused but she can't remember and maybe just wants an excuse for being fucked up, but it could just be the magazine and the lingering longing for Father.

Her claws that bite (bitter) and jaws that snatch, tight tense too put together, put together on top of themselves so that one covers the other. So it is the uncovered bottom jaw that was covering what was covered, that hovers, alone disconnected.

She feels sick at the look of it. She is sick. Ill. Her stomach ebbs, and out pours green gook, stomach acid, bile, vile stuff. It falls on the white-white-white sheet that covers the body that usually covers what hovers, now uncovered. It makes a stain. It has no place. But it is not sent away. It just sits.

And grits its teeth, and bears it. Because that is what you do. You smile, and you hold your mouth shut. You are a good girl. You don't show your teeth. Grind, yes, grit, yes. Now, you curtsy. She always wore dresses. She is so embarrassed of her past.
This is the mind of-
This is the mind of-
This is the mind of-
The happiest girl who never knows why she feels so goddamned sad all the time.

"Is it too much to ask God? Just because I can endure more?"

She, on the morning after her best friend's 21st Birthday knelt before the sunshine, coming in, and saw it grey-blue-white and silky, and felt some sort of allegiance to God, and prayed, abundantly to be honored multiple times by their communion.But this communion, still. Yet. She feels alone.
As if God in all of God's entirety and fullness is not good enough. So who is? Who could be... Presented with such love, a universe full of it, and still she denies God, as being worthy for communion, seeking more physical touch than touch can be. And lengthening her cord, a distance away. Too close to her goal maybe? Want more of a challenge?

But so she will walk another half or three-quarters of a year. To arrive at a spot where she can let go of her dreams of meeting someone greater than God, and allow the earth, to scoop her up. She has no time now for that.

"I'm sorry," she feels guilty.
"I'm tired of fighting," she feels scared.
"I don't want to have sex," she lets go of her bodily urges.
"I just want to be alone," she submits.

Why some get to work together and some go to work alone. She does not know. But the things I want seem to eb alone things, that no one else can understand. The urge to be everywhere at once. The ideas that seems so real but so so far-off into outer-space. The gravity of the air. The wind, singing. You can hear just such a multitude of voices, in fact, the entire history of our terrestrial lives being echoed in single wisp of wind.
And especially when passing through a small slit, can you hear your own voice holding out its fingers as if to say, "Just hold onto me and we can both fly away." So partnered, with herself, she is, and was, and now what? But, again, her voice, so sweet and loving to her ears... But so ghostly ominous. She her I turn our face to the sun. And welcome a different newness that burns, regardless of the depth of what is already known. This depth, called memory, For some reason, I think it is valid, to be forgotten.

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