23 June 2010
I am in a daunting and very real end place now. Again. Still. And depending on how long you have known me, here or in my every day goings-on and happenings, you will know I have not taken the necessary steps toward self love and healing that have been offered to me in the past, either by universe or by some one dear to me (or a complete and total stranger) trying to enlighten and move me in a forward position so as to not be stranded on the isle that is home only to sand and depression (and more hot sand without water even after walking stretches of island...the Isle of No Man's Land, the Isle of Hopelessness, the Isle of Will-He-or-Won't-He, where witch doctors collect heads for soups and being captured sounds as though it might be a positive thing compared to walking the island for days un-numbered).
So here is what I am sayin'. No one gets it easy, no one gets it right all of the time. Once the course has been run, the bills paid on time each month, the carpets shampooed with the rental shop vac, the groceries unpacked and put away, the pool cleaned and chlorinated, the kids off on the school run, the nails and toes polished and the bread taken out of the oven, there is the Dance.
It begins as the slow and steady pace of which two hearts beat and pulse toward one another, calling out for one another to rush to the end of the world to find one another (much like a rave in early days of Ibiza club scene) and to collapse, exhausted but not close to spent, upon one another. There is a side step or two in the months and maybe years that are to come, but they are slid under said carpet that is in need of shampoo treatment and left to grow and collect and blossom and finally, bloom. But the blooming takes the form of a very serious blight, and the garden stops its natural cycle of growth and replenishment and is stuck in a bottleneck of fear, denial, anger and, depending upon whose mood, excessive drinking and smoking of cigarettes. The Dance has stopped in its tracks, not able to create any new beats or to lay down a new place for a track to come out from, not able to see its own shadow in the dark and moody undergrowth of the carpet. It becomes a lazy little withering shoot and sends out its tentacles in all directions, latching desperately to anything in its path. There is water but no one drinks, there is fertilizer, but no one wants to go to the store to get it after dark. They left their night time driving glasses at the office. Or they got backed over in the garage that morning when was in rush to make it to the doctor, but the doctor never showed.
There are muffled sounds as though the Dance is alert at times, other times there are just sighs and low, low breaths being taken and spat out again. There is not solice in rest nor sleep nor eating nor sex nor films nor tea nor walks by the river nor walks in the snow nor walks on the ice...all there is is the solice of the ice cracking and crunching around the Dance, and a pause when the Dance finally recognizes the possiblity of slowing slipping under.
There is quiet and stillness and there is no one to distract the Dance here. Only cold water to cover its small scream as it sinks, side to side, pause to pause, to its bottom. One day to be discovered when uncovered by the romantics wanting to share in its Dance and in its Demise.