W O R D S
This cursory and frightening and abundant sliver of life we occupy so ravenously, so rudely, so reticently, eludes us in its simplicity. Love and be loved. Be here now. Breathe in; breathe out. So simple. Too simple. So we suffer. And we suffer.
But the era of silence is ending, our consciousness collectively rising. Spiritual curiosities gathering dust on the not-quite-forgotten shelves of our childhoods have begun to shake and shiver, releasing hazy plumes of particulate into the void where our innocence used to dance. The resident insatiable longing in the deep gut, for so long frittering and fraying at the oppressive lining of reason and righteousness, tantalized by the slight sting of the sweet acidic burn of truth on her tongue, is almost through. Irritated, distracted, absentmindedly brushing forgotten promises and empty epithets from our shoulders, we begin to remember. Our anger fueling our power. Our personal pursuit of liberty. Of presence.
Healing is imminent; we know it beyond knowing because now we must either heal or die. Because we do die, we are dying; we watch ourselves die with mournful eyes and watch each other die with pity furrowing our foreheads and we walk a plank built for us by a patriarchy, a murderous system of subjugation, a fascist history of errors dramatized by the latest Hollywood sweethearts playing on repeat with a grim plot twist always hiding in the next wing.
A reckoning is in order.
Yes, march; yes, vote; yes, protest, scream, rage, fling pies into the faces of bigots, and bare your breasts to the sweetness of the sunlight. Yes, wake early to write, to bathe your delicious body in the luxurious silent hours of the dawn, to pleasure yourself; yes, burn your money and yes, pour your blood into the thirsty soil of your houseplants. Yes, starve yourself, take a knee, and light yourself on fire in an attempt to make the world care about injustice. Yes, run away, yes, stand your ground, yes, cry, and cry, and cry; yes, create with abandon, use your shit as fertilizer, raise your goats for their milk and their mischievousness and their meat; yes, follow that slight gut feeling to turn left, to turn right, to back away, to flee, to carry your key as a weapon in your clenched fist. Yes, smile at the cashier; yes, dig a hole in the earth and sleep in it; yes, drink the nectar of the sacred cactus; yes, lick the moon and YES, say NO. Yes, bite your lover’s skin as you tell him you love him, and kiss yourself in the mirror; yes, mow the lawn with a scissor and yes, pluck your hairs out one by one as the Jains do. Yes, storm the White House, yes, demand the truth, yes, provide the truth; yes, throw away your television, yes, open your throat to the sky and beat on your chest as you howl to this bizarre mystery in which we swim and yes, for fuck’s sake, fall in love with yourself.
It’s time for our fragility to be beckoned into the spotlight.
Come, my darling. I’m here for you.