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| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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Will You Pull It Out?
And What Have You Done? It's official: I'm sick for the first time in about a year. I blame Mitch stress and stress over the pounds I've added in the last two months or so. (Actually, I've been trying to add a few pounds so as to get back my period--which I haven't had in about eight months, and which current thinking suggests is a state that leads to a loss of bone density that doesn't easily correct itself even after menstruation is resumed.) But anyway, it's been fun adding a few pounds. I've eaten my way through several jars of soynut butter--the new peanut butter in my life--and many, many bars of chocolate, as well as many delightful restaurant meals. I've also been quite lax about working out lately, only walking with Judi and running Cooper. (This lax workout state, incidentally, will end when the university gym re-opens on Jan. 3, so don't you worry, demons, I'll be stronger than ever soon enough...) A Mitch In Time... So the Mitch? Is history. I've been going back and forth over this, really, as Mitch is an incredibly interesting man. I mean, here's a guy who's done just about everything he's wanted to do so far. He's well-traveled and well-educated. He moves through the world with some confidence that I aspire to, and he's politically aware and active both. Yet, he's also battling demons that I have to walk away from. He's outrunning an incredibly abusive childhood, grew up with two alcoholic parents (his mother drank herself to death, for chrissakes), is struggling with the fallout from a divorce three years ago, and is now dealing with the ramifications of a motorcycle accident that left him with a myriad of physical disabilities. Had I entered into a friendship with him and not a quote-unquote relationship, things would have been just fine, but having been intimate with him and having seen a side of him that frightened me, I just can't return to the same kind of admiration and respect that I want to have for and in my friends. Still... I kept going back to Chris. I stuck with Max for years and years, all the while knowing that it just wasn't going to work out. I keep getting involved with men who are just not right for me. I struggle with this one. Even having walked away from Demon #35: Father, I still struggle against becoming involved over and over again with His demonic re-incarnations. Daddy, Daddy, You Bastard So I get involved with abusive men, with men who carry demons in their pockets like so much spare change. Given a childhood at the hands of Demon #35:Father, I seem to have acquired an almost infinite capacity to disregard my own safety and security when I enter into a relationship with such men. I ignore danger signals, the warning skull and crossbones, the flashing lights, the sirens. I derail my own instincts. I let sympathy guide my actions even when it means disregarding all the warnings. I put up with men who ignore my boundaries, who cross quickly over them, who jump the fences that I have erected in an attempt to safeguard myself. I become involved with men who don't really respect women, despite the fact that I call myself a feminist. I always ask, "Am I good enough for them?" I never ask, "Are they good enough for me?" And in part, I don't ask this because the answer is always No. No, they're not good enough for me. I have this underlying fear that no man will ever be good enough for me. And under the underlying fear is the fear that I don't deserve anything better. (Thanks, Demon #35: Father, for this belief, this lack of self-confidence, this lack of esteem.) I don't feel that I warrant respect. But that's all about to change. Shot Through The Heart One of my favorite little Buddhist tales is about a man who is brought in to a doctor. The man has been in a battle and has been pierced through the chest with an arrow. I don't recall how it is that the doctor comes to ask the man if he cares who shot the arrow, or why, or where it was made, or by whom. The choice is: Do you want to know more about the arrow, or do you want me to take it out? And, of course, no fool would answer that he'd want more information about the arrow. The man tells the doctor--and I'm paraphrasing here--to just take the fucking thing out. So, yeah, I know that Demon #35: Father shot the arrow. I even know some of why he did it, and where he got it from. I've spent the last thirty-three years as the walking wounded, collecting this seemingly pertinent information. But now? I'm done. I'm done asking how the arrow got there, or who made it, or who shot it. Now it's time for me to just pull the fucking thing out and see what happens. I'll probably bleed to death. But At Least I'll Be Grateful For It I am grateful to Paul, who told Judi after meeting me: "She's brilliant...and beautiful." I am grateful for Demon #35: Father and for every arrow he ever shot that pierced my heart. I'm grateful for figs, for soynut butter, for blood, for cats, for coffee, for apples, for Ozomatli, for Akira Kurosawa films, for Mitch, for Peter, for Max, for Judi, for Lynda Barry. I'm grateful for the man in the bookstore who answered my thanks with a friendly "No worries!" I'm grateful. I'm grateful for Sophistica, for the xbry, for The Boy. I'm grateful for a Blue Sky, for a good book, for cigarettes...I'm grateful. I'm grateful. I'm grateful.
More lies:
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