I am becoming completely out of touch with my creativity. Or RATHER, creativity is not touching me…
thinner then a blonded blade of winter grass..brittle.
At first I did not see what was happening to me.
Death by slow painless hemmorhage.
Death by theft in the middle of the night,
The Man with the Black Sack cast over his shoulder,
stealing out my back door,
my soul inside,
my body still breathing, but
missing something essential
tossed and turned bereft in my fitful dreams.
I’ve had a month of dreams of the Darkman..I close my eyes, go deep into the coolness of my pillow, and then they rise up
do battle… pillage, rape, and murder
declare themselves a nuisance to my nurture.
In the dawn, I am clumsy, accident prone, I have sustained three burns of late,
one from boiling water as my trailing sleeve caught on the kettle’s handle,
one direct from the burner..
and a couple of days back, get this..if this doesn’t trump all,
I actually lit myself on fire, my face to be exact.
Absentmindedly, lighting a cigarette, I leant
my hand against my forehead,and torched half an eyebrow away.
I knew something was on fire,it was the scent gave it away, not pain. I did not realize it was me..
I had to hit myself in the face to put myself out.
Jesus Christ.(jes’ vernacular…maybe)
Deadly to the soul. The body may be intact, but there’s something wanting..
As I first begin to sense that there is a war afoot, that the air raid sirens way off in the distance in the dark were not a false alarm or mere elevator musak,..
I looked to the external.
I looked to my relational world..
one of my OCD ex husbands who will not put the weapons down, my lover…
but all is simply a mirror of me.
I have stopped kicking ass.
I have stopped hissing, spitting, biting and generally laying claim to the life that which is mine..
The deep self is not to be found in identities surface or layered,
it is in laying the fuck claim to your own howl.
your own heart, carnal and in motion.
My environment is toxic. yes, I love my house..but houses are shells, cities and towns are shells when one is not awake to authenticity.
I am not here, quite simply. If I was my own houseplant I would have died by now from lack of water and sun.
Sometimes things are not stolen so much as we give them away. For free.
Next month I will be in new york with Lucifer, and if the days pass to that time, I will receive all the shakeup and soul food I can handle.
I will be a kitten , eyes wide as saucers at the sights and sounds, both of the city, and of us.
But in preparation, I am reclaiming me.
I feel like a glass butterfly, a monstrosity that..
I am breaking the glass.
This attrition by default, entirely of my own making will unravel.
But first, triage..and a trip to the corner store for afterburn ointment. Obviously I can’t have enough.
Musings, you can’t keep a cat down for long..