The personal is political and the political is universal

The Personal

I have wrestled thoughts that jump me in the middle of the night and quiet out-of-control imaginations so that I may at least enjoy sleep. But sometimes, desire haunts me as if it were a live entity, demanding from me resolution or answers, action or climaxes…and I vent to my pen, scribbling emotions, so that I may later make sense of…

The Universal

Like love and knowing. And what is it that makes us aware of someone else’s very breath, their every nuance, the way they smile or laugh, the faint wrinkles around their eyes, the way the bangles on their hands sing as they walk past, not really inviting, but definitely teasing and/or mind-seducing you, causing you to write words dripping in adjectives forgetting about commas and full stops, because you don’t want it to stop.

And then there are others who drop rose petals so that our feet never touch the ground, and yet they remain invisible to us. Their love goes unnoticed. Why don’t we fall for that? Is it that love is made too easy, too much within reach, too accessible. No fight, no gain, and no gain means no embrace, no sweet whisperings, no wet sheets, can’t get any sleep tonight moments. Except the tears for the beloved, they leave on pillow cases, illuminated in morning’s light.

The Personal

There are times when that Love/Beloved status changes, and when do I find a common ground without settling for what’s available, rather that waiting for my desire to be requited. While I wait, I am learning to love me, my nuances and my quirks, my stupid grin, my low guttural wolf sound I make when I’m thinking. My need for solitude for freedom, my moods, my grumpiness, my flowing locks, that gets in the way….ooops another story.

How can I expect someone to really love me, if I haven’t first loved myself completely. Love the goodness, the God within me, so that someone may see that hint, or hue, hear that divine sound, spark, or however people see love and attraction. I must first be my own lover, my own companion and embrace me as a whole, as loving, as love.

RUN-ON-THOUGHTS IN POETRY-PROSE…and

Eyes are always on me, no matter where I turn, what I do, whom I see. I feel like that

Zora Neale Hurtson novel “Their Eyes Were Watching God” living life in flashbacks; memories racing in circles like a silly child’s carnival carousel, or like guilty drippings of affairs masking truths with lies. Staring into a mirror’s past reflection, and what do I see now, besides an empty shell where an inflated ego dwelled. Locked door, preventing visitors, and un-rolling masking- tape over windows, over heart, so that no one can even glimpse me. Wait this isn’t about me…I think…I digress.

Masking tape over windows blocking the light from entering, so that the darkness masks everything, including the shadows that walks before our steps. Hmmm if given the option, how many of us would turn the hands of the clock back, erasing mistakes made. But that would be the power of premonition, and I wonder how many lives would be saved then? Maybe those are the gifts of Gods, or God-women boasting about special Shaman powers, and if we dress that up, localize them, call them seer-women, obeah men or whatever you wish, we slowly realize that no spirit-wish can change destiny. Maybe destiny is pre-determined before birth, and being a believer in re-incarnation, I believe in karma and soul’s choice to choose the trappings of incarnation…more digression, but necessary in my mind’s chaos.

So these God-women or shamans, and I digress intentionally, court nature and chant the wind into believing that God is to the north, south, east, west, top, bottom and center of our being. They dream spirit-animals that help us understand our nature. So God is never to the sky but available with every breath and sight of our existence. There is no heaven and hell to be fearful of. No damnation, despite what pulpits shout on early Sunday morning as they embrace the weight of prayers dressed in chiffon and stockings, high heels clutching suits and polished shoes, holding the hands of children. And their smiles make us envy the singing and clapping of the congregation, and when I was a child I believed they were all happy after service ended…but I was only a child.

“Their Eyes Were Watching God” ever wondered what God looked like, it is said that ‘He’ made us in his own image and likeness, then that would mean that ‘He’ is like a mirror reflecting us all. Digressions run the gamut of thought in this piece of sharing. I no longer can identify where my musings end and my digressions begin.

However I do remember looking out at crowds, seeing eyes staring, dead, and I thought that zombies didn’t exist in this country. Dead eyes, lost of hope and dreams walking lifeless, going through the motions of living, cursing life and God and existence and birth and what do those eyes look at, if not at the God within us all. Namaste…my hands together in front me, I bow, hoping to connect their gaze, it never meets mine and I move on, without finding answers.

Each man is now becoming an island, connecting across the matrix of fan clubs and profile pages, sometimes never really meeting the essence of who we really are. Lies cloning identities of whom we think we should be. And who’s the God within us? Who’s the God we’re supposed to be watching, if it’s not you.

Throwing stones to the horizon

I've put my past behind me. Folded my memories and forced them into that draw, deep at the back of my heart. Ten years of friendship and love sliced by a gaze, seasoned by my tears and mixed in this uncomfortable bowl of disbelief. But I refuse to eat the hatred; it leaves a bitter taste that never seems to leave.

Some say it is better to have love and lost. But what if loosing is all you seem to do, then what's the sense of rendering yourself vulnerable to new possibilities. I know the word possibilities presents many variations of life and situations, but I can't help it if mine all seem to go in a certain direction, dotting the horizon as the sun places a tired day to bed.

And yes i've read 'The Secret" and practice positive thinking, but perhaps this is my fate, preparing me to strengthen my faith, so that I may one day stand firm like bamboo, with the resilience to weather life's tantrums.

Easily broken, my heart pumps tears through my veins, and still old lovers stab at my delicate mask, perhaps waiting to see me break, as they snuggle close to new love, disrespecting all that we have shared. But this is life, I suppose. The tears that run through my veins will eventually evaporate through the sweat of my pores as I toil and toil building myself for me again.

So this is the stone I throw to the horizon, finally putting this old love to sleep. The note attached says. "I wish you all the best, may the blessings be."

River