Friday, September 21, 2007
My muse (perhaps plural?) has gone to sleep. She's exhausted from my demanding, not so subtle hints at explorations of the cerebral, subconscious mind. Without her I feel less than, I feel exposed and ill equipped to share anything of value, of substance, of entertainment. Nevertheless, I write. Doug Sahm and the Sir Douglas Quintet echoes in my ear, just one computer based tab dividing us, singing a sentimental "I'm glad for your sake" (please find it and listen). This background music, however, is so much more. It's one song on a play list of 39 so far that I will soon whittle down to a more replicating friendly 25, on a medley I'm making for my ex. The music is not intended to substitute my own voice, using far superior artists to express my deepest thoughts in poetry that eludes me, but rather to soothe his heart in a time of hopefully fleeting depression.
Maybe four, hmm five Saturdays past, my doorbell rang at midnight, just after my two high heel clad feet reached comfortable ground via sherpa slippers. Who could it be now? (yes, think Men @ Work), I don't typically invite guests over past my pumpkin's prime, hence was reluctant to answer an anxious, double pressed bell. I reduced the noise to a drunken passers by attempt at a silly game of ding dong ditch. Nevertheless, curiosity struck this feline and made her stick her head beyond bars that guard, only to witness a hooded figure, a truly unforgettable silhouette, slowly disappear west-bound down the street. Silenced by the foreigner I saw, who currently resides by a lake much greater than Merced, I waited, tongue tied and frozen. He turned one breath shy of my apartment retreat, and sauntered towards me, head shrouded and shoe gazing. A purely cinematic moment, I wished he wouldn't speak, but tell me, via retinal scanning in words unspoken, why he came to see me . . . and, cue music. Unfortunately, dialogue happened. Nothing novel, no dirty relationship excavations unearthed, but hardship, regret and missing, revealed. I share this because one year ago I would have crumbled, been defeated and enlisted myself in a session or four of electro-shock therapy. But this time, his eyes didn't sear, they were kind and open and sad. And for the first time, I was not. Looking at him with a discerning and compassionate gaze, I let him go, for good, as I thought he'd done to me so many months prior. I care about him sincerely, I wish for him the best, most fulfilling days, because he granted me the same - painting my days with unknown musical beauty, vivid personal histories, insightful films, adventure and delightfully deliberate love. His visit was medicine, a slap in the face, and a spike to my heart's flat line. Coupled with my horoscope, I am more able to make sense of why people come into our lives, and leave, at such undercover yet influential times.
"Spread your wings and fly little hummingbird! Try new things and remain open to different ways of expressing yourself (cough, blog). At the same time you're hurling yourself out there, try to keep a cap on how scattered you allow your vision or behavior to be. Focused risks work best."
Get your double team psychic dream on with Michelle Tea and Jessica Lanyadoo in The San Francisco Bay Guardian every Wednesday or write to theses celestial women at firstname.lastname@example.org
artwork courtesy of yours truly