I remember when it became too much to write down. It was the overwhelming fear and lustful imaginations that ran through me. I didn't want to say it or see it become real in the world so I didn't write it down. It wasn't about food but it was about the dance of emotions and the moments where hypersexual images ran across my mind only for me to see. I was driving in my car thinking again about the way I let people slide in and out of my thoughts and wham, suddenly I was in full fantasy. Well what has that to do with food? What does thought have to do with being? How many things of an emotional nature have I imagined that I would NOT like to come true? I might have once not bothered myself for those thoughts and certainly I am not scrutinized by anyone else about the contents of my deepest fantasies of the moments. Funny isn't it. I have a lot of exploring to do or not to do depending on what I think life is for. But On that note, on the note about thinking about things you would not like to have happen. At the election place after I voted,I met Slick, Chevar, a friend of wordsmithy from the old MOON CAFE days , walking in to vote as I was driving away. He kind of looks like OBama. He read me a poem called "Martyr" which had a part that talked about being like a dragon guarding even future memories for his love and he to share. He breathed life into the idea that prognosticating a future is a magical act of mind. I felt warmed by the imagination that I could fight against these wraith like wolves tapping on the piano strings of my future heart with their hungry love crunching jaws. Such an abyss of Saturnine worry has knawed worry beads into the knot of my stomch and now each thing that shocks is adrenaline rushing. Now so much shocks my core. I am full of moments of shock, pieces of paper, writings lying around, business cards, drips of thought like stalactites slab me from the floor and I don't know where to stand or walk to avoid psychic holes. It is almost so intense and unreal that it is laughable. What once signified fear now comes from a laugh. What once meant there was a possible break in my sanity now indicates there is a permanent break in my physical wholeness.
What have I been eating? I had soy sausages and pancakes this morning and a cup of joe, and oj. I remember feeling distant and quiet. I woke up this morning and Jack and I ran an arthritis foundation run down with the Crespo family. I was feeling like screaming and holding on in the deepest way. A need and a worry so large that it could eat days bit hard inside me. I knew no one could really fill it. Jackson kept asking me all day. WE were tossing a baseball in the gorgeous sunny blue yellow of the day and he said are you sad? Meg thinks I am just depressed andmentioned medication and its wonders but then she mentioned that she cried all last week so I guess that is classified under "whatever." I ate no lunch I think. I had a banana after the run and water, and a banana at breakfast. I drank a soy chocolate while jack and I played chess outside maggie moos, but it got cold. I felt good only moody. Then I drank some sips of pure apple juice and a cup of Easy goes it tea or something like that. I was going to get the St. John's Wart tea, La Flor de San Jaun se llama en Mexico. But after taking the light rail and the Metro and walking into the Whole foods and all its complicated smells and soapy food money glitz I picked this other stuff unproven by me to stop suicidal thoughts, true, but I am not as lonely as I was then. True then I had no suicidal thoughts. Now I just got up and took a suggestion from the sanest voice I know. Lets get some ice cream he says. I guess I haven't eaten very much today. It is hard to explain how that just feels better. I am trying to decide about having the stones out of my belly. I have gut rocks, and laproscopic surgery is sorta on my mind these days; that and the cycles of love and loss and self-destruction, and seeking growth even in the worst of times. I really just felt today while I sat up on the statue with my son, my head inside my hoodie, playing at a stillness which I badly needed; I threw my head up to the yellow greenness and blue sky and felt warm tears again, wishing so much that I I have anyone to blame for my sorrow but myself, but I really couldn't point any fingers, or anything. I just haven't been able to get it right in my head. I thought I could heal myself. I banged rocks on the reservoir into a pulp crying out in "African music" my son said. Screaming out the deepest feelings I could muster, still singing when I got home, felt narrow like a forgotten moment showing you the pictures. It was like asking someone to know your soul wholly or to be your only nourishment. So complicated, so impossible, no food really fits these days. Tea, a bit of soy, fresh juice, a nibble of bread. My emotions and my food are both so spiked in my perception that it is hard to see clearly. I am wondering about the feeling of a small tube sucking out three rocks, like three small fetuses in stillborn silence. I am trying to give myself a space for processing the whole horror of my wide open shakras that keep peaking in acidic screams. I am loving as much as I can. I am trying not to close down,, but something keeps bringing me to my knees, and I grow tired easily. I lay down on benches or lay back on the train or in my car and slip into this fatigue of a long carried worry about life, one that may once have had an answer, a left turn, or a smile I didn't show, or maybe a long walk or talk I never had. I keep dipping back into the space I thought was between us in some way that disintegrates in a way I can't understand. I can't complicate I cant weave the plica, I only reweave the shroud which is unwoven by daily simpleness. Help me see the truth about my darkness or I will... I seem to scream from my pores. Help me deal with this mortality I try to shout from my aching stomach I say from a mumbled love you. Help me not to eat flesh and sleep all day without sounding our depths I scream from a black cinnamon coffee cup in the busy morning when I am wishing the beat wasn't washing us in two separate currents daily. Help me to eat well of the fruit of existence I cry into the black chipping finger tips you so often kiss. The magic, the magic, the glass of red wine imagining the possiblities of a whole realms of healing secretly standing on faith and movement from all of we who care about true healing, the going when the getting was good, but going alone instead with your kisses in the pocket of my thoughts, along with all these other thoughts wondering when I will wake from the acid of this free fall into feeling.
