March 19, 2009

The lovely precarious tower that I've been standing at the top of is about to crumble and what I see is that, instead of falling off of it, I am jumping just in time because I've overstayed my welcome.
The cooling rosy tea on the warmer will activate the lunar properties of my string of pearls to align my chakras and ensure an auspicious bleeding.
I know it will hurt this month.
I know because it already does.
And I'm OK with that. Because before when it didn't, I was all alone and knew it.
Now I'm alone but I keep thinking I'm not.
The memory is of walking down Shattuck at night after buying my own groceries, feeling my uterus floating in its spot and now the memory is of having little angels inside of me, the colors of sophisticated little girls. As if there was starry sky, but the sky was white and the stars were pink.
As if my blood just happened to be pouring out of me and not really red but something else. Though I guess it's only red when I see it and not when I feel it.
I am not scared of scabies anymore because the fever is breaking.
Now there is nothing to be afraid of because I remembered myself.
Like when a baby is scared because she doesn't see her mother, who is her only sense of self, and then when her mother is there, she feels safe again.
When I began smiling at the pictures of my awkward years, I felt like the mother to who I was then, even though it's the other way around.
Every morning waking up & forgetting my troubles has finally got to me and now it's hard to remember them even when I'm already awake.
It won't last long, but I love the promise I make to myself when I feel good about everything, which is that I look forward to watching it all fall apart again.

Though I'm pretty sure that all this started when I took the Turkish protection against the Evil Eye off my wall & packed it away. But I'm also pretty sure that the scabies is a manifestation of both my spiritual discomfort in my body & my unconscious/conscious desire never to touch anyone. I always get what I want, so I'm happy to have gotten all that and now want something else.
And when I try to see a seagull or a cockroach as anything other than a seagull or a cockroach, I am hating what is in so far as I think it should be different & we should not be who we are.
Because when I sing be my baby all alone to myself, I am the same Melanie Hayes who sang it on schoolbuses with other little girls. It's always been just liking the sound of my own voice.

I love to remember that there's nothing magical and this is perfect, because it's only ever true when it's true, and so never a memory.