The Loneliness
Written 5.30.24 ~
The Loneliness Is a shining sharp knife Masterfully crafted Exquisitely reflective A handle of hard wood, Or stone, Or bone, Smooth, perfectly sculpted to fit the hand Of the man That I am The lines creased in my hand's skin The lines veining the wood's bulk Hand-holding each other, one another Cock in hand Hand on colt Soothing each other As only I can She neighs and I grip her neck tighter A flight to light the fire A flame when liqueur meets spark A tongue to lick the lighter A mouth to drink the water A cup to drown the father A reason, as thick as reason A reminder, wild and loose An expanse, loud and dark A desert, lonely and brimming. Two eyes turn towards each other Locked in the center, knuckle to knuckle Pressing and still Screaming with anticipation Clothes split down the center A man Erect and Godly Rises Silhouetted, born of a shell The burning sunset scorching his edges I reach my small fingers to graze the scene The screen hard and unwilling, Mean. A porcupine skin cast in the dirt Stuffing my mouth with soot Eyes are stark and white Bulbs to illuminate the night The crickets, after dinner Wash the soot calm the glare Lay the sight at foot to bear ... At earth-level I feel much calmer My body moist, as dew lowers herself onto me Small business Of ants and others Left to continue, undivided My hair in the soil, more clean, less pretty A curious tongue to greet grass' tips Lips and teeth to munch and spit Grazing lazily As we all should be Slow moving bodies Black and White Heavy and Guided By God's clear light / Dawn's early light Feeding ourselves, fulfilling the prayers Of our ancestors, pushing their bodies Up from under- foot to mouth, grit grabs saliva I eat her and she secretes tears, digestive enzymes of salvation Thank GOD to be eaten Thank God to be together Thank the gods to be on Earth Thank you mom and dad for this bit of Thirst.
I’ve never been so alone in my life.
I devoted my home, my first home, my first solo home, my first me home, to the Loneliness, to my Stunning Solitude, to the quiet that I am, when I’m just me, to the silence, and the stillness, and the eroding, ugly-gaping, comfort-sucking Void. I built this ship, I hoisted this sail, I sit atop the mast, my raven’s nest, up on the roof, watching from the water, observing from a distance, my heart aching and yawning loudly, hungrily, pathetically. But I understand. A dog can only be a dog.
I’ve never been so alone in my life.
My life is rife with possibility. I’m creating again. I’m working again. My life is full again. I’m dancing again. I’m alive again.
And still I hear my heart moaning, whimpering, from the basement, where I had to lock her, leave her, so I could get some work done.
It tears at my other heart. I’m divided, and decided. I keep typing, I keep writing, I keep dancing, I keep devising, I keep cooking, I keep feeding, I keep cleaning, I keep believing.
(Just gotta get to July.)
I may need to ask my friends for permission, to make friends. That may be part of my return, to my homelands, to the northeast, to my community, to my family, to the Lake. I think I may need to ask them. And in doing so, really ask me, for permission from myself, to make friends. And I may need my friends to hold me, and hold me down, while I wail and resist. And throttle and grieve. And say “but I’ll never leave you!” “But you are my forever!” “I have Sworn myself to You!” And they will be there, to watch me with myself, to witness us wrestle and sweat and cry. And they will kneel around me, patient and rooted, kind and heart-supple. Watching, and waiting. Until finally, all the sweat’s been wrung, all the tears are fertilizing the rug, and I rise, a tall glass of Dry timber. A tree cut down, solid and strong, and ready for use. I’ll right this body, still this trunk, shed of limbs and bark, naked and stark. And ready her to form a mast. Of a vessel that can bridge, and go between. That can leave and return. That can circle and sink. And rise and be re-born.
I’ll hitch myself to this man that I am, hike up my skirt, gather my veil, hook my boots in the stirrups, and let this Pony gallup off into the sunset.
It’s scary to open myself to the West.
Chick said to me 13.5 years ago: “there is something for you in the west.”
I tattooed an ‘R’ and a ‘P’ on my body this week. Or rather, Arulu tattooed them on me. Or maybe, Arulu and Christos and Kevin did it all together. Rogue Pony is dwelling deeper in this body. She’s sliding in, sideways, slowly, settling in, getting cozy in her new dwelling. Letting her stink loose in the hole. I feel her less like an askew projector transparency, and more like the sheet slipping, easily, willingly, into place. Relief. Lines aligning with lines, the light transmitting Directly. She’s ready to take her seat, to find her bearings. To take up the reigns, and drive this bitch to Dixie. (I see the map, in my dream, a blue line to New Orleans…)
Rogue Pony is ready to Reside. She’s ready to takeover. And take up a new hobby. No more whimpering, heart-stammering, collapsing, folding, dying, Longing. She wants to step on stage and face the audience straight on. Seated, legs spread, reigns in hand, the wagon containing the whole mass of them. She looks at them directly, no turning. They’re confused, and slightly scared. ‘How did we get in here? Did we consent to going on this ride?’ Too late motherfuckers. You’re on my bus and I’m driving.
(10 days after writing this I’m given the feedback in rehearsal: “wherever you’re going, we’re going with you.”)
I’m learning about physical architectures to channel specific…states. Feelings. (“The architecture of rest,” said Kevin, my third eye resting on/being impaled by my magic stick-dick.) The architecture of sitting naked, in front of another single human, seated, still, arms, raised overhead, spine straight, fingers reaching, pleading, face turned upward, bleeding. Bleeding the tears that have been waiting. Patient as always. Ready as ever. Sitting, chest open, exposed, exposed, seen, seen, beheld, witnessed, received, channeled, drawn, being drawn. Sitting, naked, holding, this position, being drawn, by the one other human, sitting, directly, across, from me.
There is also this formation of this body, gunning, cranking the pull start, on this boat’s wicked little engine. Gunning it, repeatedly, revving, warming, heating, up.
I’m just beginning to learn, or map, the shapes that unleash the Somethings I wish to possess, and play with.
Somehow my bedtime has come and gone. My list endless, protracting beside me. Everything waits for me. And I don’t know how to shake it. Or be at peace with it.
Maybe I’ll look at pictures of myself again. Maybe I’ll revisit videos of my pole progress. Or the piece I’m making. Maybe I’ll leave the dishes to sit, a little longer, in my sink.
Because isn’t this important? If not essential? ‘This’ being what happens when I brush with the Void and words spill through?
“THIS IS IT. THIS IS ALL THERE IS. THIS IS THE REST OF OUR LIVES.”
—I impressed upon my crewmates aboard EMERGENCY, the ship that refused to sink, idling at the shoreline of the Beach of the Dead, in Zipolite.
The architecture of landing one fist into earth, the other, hitched to a ballon, a kite, a beloved Brett, cast out, lifting out, ascending up and out from the deck of the ship. The fists being pulled in tight, tightening, opposition. The same fists: one in Brinnon, Port Townsend, Chimacum; the other: aboard a ferry, a taxi, a plane, another plane, a car… This is…a story my body knows well.
I track these different body compositions, and lay them down onto their places of origin on the map. Zipolite, Mexico; Port Townsend, Washington; Plainfield, Massachusetts…
The Map. The Ship. The Crew. The Story.
A captain. My captain. Me.
