Drops jumping
On the pavement
Rushing down the gutter
Pattering on the roof
Washing away the grime
Washing away tears
From the inside
Watching it fall
I sip another
Cup of coffee
Pulling up my
Hand knit socks
With a stupid cat
On my feet
And a book
In my lap
Rain, rain
I wish we could
Get the sound
And the smell
Without having to
Get soaked
By you
But thank you
for watering
my flowers
Caterpillar. Chrysalis. Butterfly
Girl. Woman. Bitch. Crone.
Catalyst. Change. Catharsis
Or something.
I was having an incompetent feeling day for no reason in particular. I did my job well enough. Did some writing that largely sucked appropriately enough for the subject matter. All day, though, this mass of depressing stupid loser energy hung over me like my own personal Addams Family cloud.
At some point, though, don’t you think I should figure out what the fuck it is that I want? You read about living your dream, living your passion, but I haven’t ever really had one.
Well, that was an angry start. I started this a while ago and then left it orphaned because I didn’t feel like dealing with how negative I was feeling, but picked it back up again because I have been thinking about change transformation improvement alteration a lot lately.
As always, change requires some sort of catalyst. It might be something you see, or read. It could be a person or something you want. It could even be something that happens to someone you care about, or something that almost happens. A close call.
But I have never been much of a planned change person. Well. I guess my divorce was planned. Does that count? There was a catalyst, then my brain went into overdrive, and then there was a change.
I have been an emotional fraidy cat for my whole life. Oh, I’ll pick up and move at the drop of a hat. I’ll fuck someone I don’t know or ingest any substance someone offers me that promises to divert me. Go to Burning Man with a total stranger. Move to France with no money and no return ticket. Tell someone what I think in a non-work capacity? No fucking way. Or not very many people anyway.
Telling someone how I feel is far more frightening to me than putting my physical body and well being at risk. Crazy, yes? Crazy enough.
My trustingness thingie was broken long ago. It’s been under repair since 1979, but it’s gradually gotten better over the last few years. Forgiveness will do that.
Of course, there’s also the very frightening reality of change. It can be wonderful or disastrous.
I guess I will find out.
I guess we all do.
A while ago I decided that I needed to write a chapter of my ongoing story about fictional characters Mara and Samael bringing Cara into their bed and becoming a threesome. A story about them all sharing each other. The thing is, although I knew exactly how it would end, I was having a hard time writing a beginning. I outlined the story, but none of the real words would come out. I couldn’t figure out why I couldn’t write what I wanted to happen.
It didn’t bother me that much. I figured it was just because I am not a very proficient writer. Not a real writer. I’m not used to writing fiction. Obviously I was doing something wrong. It’s not like I know what I am doing. I am just making it all up as I go along.
The other day, a cousin wrote something in his blog that said “it’s easy when it’s true” and it was suddenly clear.
I couldn’t write about Samael sharing Mara because it isn’t true. Samael wouldn’t share her with anyone. She is his. He is hers. They belong to each other.
They might desire other people, but really? They are one.
People have an inner Truth, even if they don’t know what it is. So do stories, as it turns out. And telling the stories is easy when it’s true.
Or easier, anyway.
I suspect it’s never really easy.
Most things aren’t.
And figuring out what is True?
Well.
Maybe that’s not so easy, either.
