03 September 2012

nip slip (welcome back saha)

staying on friends' couches and in friends' beds for a month proved rewarding (HA! and for them, too, i bet...) the last two weeks i found myself by the brooklyn park on a tall 4-poster bed with a white cat on white sheets, white sky...the whole week was a blank canvas. the books i read and the conversations we had were, for me, equivalent to the turning point in a film. the big realization. the low (and as such, high) point, acknowledged. how much do we know about our friends? what do we purport to know about them, because of our own insecurities? we only know as far as our insecurities will let us. conversely, how much do we let other people get to know us? how much do we want to be known? we could be friends, or partners, or wives for 40 years and never really know each other. we are adults in that sandbox, talking at and through each other. i see it. we all know we die alone, and so we do almost everything within our power to distract ourselves from that fact. we consume, and we consume ourselves with worry, pre-emptive regret, anxiety, hate, stress. we eat, we drink, we smoke, we sex, we ruin, we self-implode, we self-destruct. we have no distance, none. we do everything we can do to not sit with some discomfort for any amount of time....don't we? some of us? so anyway, that gets tiring. there is a mouse on a treadmill in my head, and he has gone nowhere, for a really long time. i will not burn patchouli or stop shaving my pits, nor will i substitute meditation for dance, but i will put it all up in the air, for grabs, for the taking. it's not on me, it's me but it's not on me, do you know what i mean? let something else move you, if you move nowhere, you know? like when you are 3/4 of the way submerged in a sunday swell, and the waves around you have broken, and some are about to break in front of you, and you are squatting on the sandy bottom to get your shoulders completely under the water, too, and you lift your feet up, and the ocean sort of massages you around, pushes you up and around like a soft planet in space, in no discernible pattern like a bouy...you give it up. you give it up.
you do not enjoy the beach thinking that you can change the swell...no way jose! you dive face first into the approaching wave with your eyes closed, you charge forward cutting through an element, you are salty like, and you emerge, bandeau has been blown off by the force of the atlantic foam and your tits are out - - SHIT! what an obscene scene!! you are, however, overwhelmed by the end of this month with thoughts of the places you thought you'd never go while everyone else has already been and then some, and as always you are wrong...you are so delusional and so wrong. for this you are so grateful, because everything about you carries the amazing capacity to bend, to try and again try, to morph, to shape; we are our own davids, we are. at this point, now, there is nothing better than the slap of the sea against your smooth body and the brilliance of the sun and air-on-the-'olas, those sheltered islands, oh those sheltered islands! you are at the place where the sea meets the sand and there is nothing better...anyway, nip slip. welcome back, sahara marina. i love you, bestia salerosa, i love you deeply.

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