Strange - Pondering Words

I was pondering words tonight, especially those that are not verbalized, not formulated, those kept under wraps, those not allowed to be voiced in the moment of genesis because, well, words can change things, dramatically at times...but then so can words not spoken. 


I forgot to mention an incident that happened to me yesterday. I believe I had told you about this performance artist, Atlas, living in New Orleans, a friend of Karen's (my friend who had cried during the sacred painting session at Integral Life Center), who contacted me a few weeks ago. We spoke once on the phone and from that one-time conversation it was obvious that casual is something this guy doesn't do. It felt as if he was seeking, even yearning, for some mental connection and that in all his genial outpourings and prolific creative endeavors, a loneliness was lurking, that a forced solitude permeated and hid behind every of his words. I was honest early on that I didn't have the time to be conducting meandering and musing conversations about the nature of our minds, the purpose of our souls, the crux of creativity, life overall, and the all that is cramped in between. Atlas didn't seem to get the message, however, and kept sending me quotes, talks, pictures, questions via whatsapp, until I left him a voice message that at the moment I wasn't able to follow up on all his links, videos, etc because my free time was tied up with someone I had recently met and started dating - I thought I'd be entirely honest -  He, unperturbed, continued sending me impressions, artwork, etc and relentlessly asking for my input. Last night, I received a voice message that turned out to be a recording about the weight a "how are you" carries. It was a talk Atlas had given about the throw away phrase 'how are you' and how deplorable and dangerous our neglecting to listen and holding space for the answer had become. He equated it to the existence and reason for substance abuse and other destructive means to numb one's existential fear that no one cares and no one listens and no one is truly interested in how someone's doing. I was in agreement with what Atlas posited and left a voice message to that effect. I shortly thereafter received a reply, in which he accused me of engaging in exactly what he warned against and wrote that I had not called him in weeks. I admit, I was baffled by it, and wondered whether I had become callous in my wiser years, because in my eyes, there was no correlation. I kept thinking: I don't know you. We spoke once and I didn't call and ask how you are and then proceeded to ignore the answer. We are not friends and I specifically stated in a previous message that I had no time to entertain this conversation because my attention was other words, I was focusing on you. As I listened to the voice in my head, it sounded too whiny and too self justifying, and so I let the message go unanswered. Then, tonight, I saw a line from Atlas: "No response?" Again, I felt uneasy and slightly guilty but couldn't bring myself to press the finger down on the voice message button to record my rebuttal and my explanation for why I don't feel that his talk and this one sided conversation intersect at all. 


Perception -  it seems to all be a matter of perception. I don't know if you believe in celestial retrograde and the supposed effect (mostly negative) it has on communication and striking deals, but Mercury retrograding is potentially lethal to effective communication. And it's been going on since Saturday, and according to Luz and Denis and others in the spiritual community, it mostly affects Geminis and Virgos. I told you how Elle never replied to my explaining the situation, and it leads me to believe that I grossly underestimated the resolution and potentially her feelings throughout. I knew that she would retreat, but to not say a single word and to delete her picture on whatsapp, that I didn't expect. Which leads me to you...


In the spirit of this email being about unspoken words, I am going to attempt to speak (write) the ones that so often get swallowed up (or down) or reformulated, rearranged and tamed, out of fear that their impact will be too strong, alienating, frightening.


I feel the need tonight to affirm that you, my dear Danny, have touched me and that the way I feel about you, I haven't felt in the presence of many. You have touched me forcefully and profoundly in the short amount of time I've known you. I feel so much when around you - intimated, illuminated, cradled and challenged, held and ravaged, loved and standing corrected. I see such Immense beauty in you, in how you view the world, how you interpret it, draw it, draw it in, how you reflect it, ponder it, dissect it, how you render it musically and pictorially. 

I stand in absolute awe. 

Know that you have a Fan in me. The more I am around you, the more you come to matter, the more I relish you in my daily life, the more I have to hold back from a growing greediness I feel in your presence. More is the dictum of the day. I sense the ravenous and the unbridled desire to experience all facets of you, of wanting you to myself, which you know I find dangerous and see the need to avoid, but in your case, I know that deep down, the "I'm Yours" remains poised on the tip of the tongue, temporarily relegated to the hinterland of the throat, waiting to be released, wanting to proclaim. It is fascinating to observe in oneself how beholding beauty so easily invites fear in. Fear of being too much, of revealing too much, of being too intense too soon, of showing face too soon. 

When things are simply the way they are. 

You could leave tomorrow and yet, all that I've just written would still stand and stand true. It doesn't change how I see and feel you and how eternally (from an eon's standpoint) grateful I am that our paths have crossed. No amount of pain and loss could ever match the privilege I feel of knowing the parts of you that you have offered to share. As you wish for me to bleed into the keys of the typewriter you gifted me, so I wish to bleed into the space where you and I first met. I have so much to learn from you. Age is so flimsy a teacher. A number does not bear the amount of wisdom and knowledge acquired. You have a gift that needs to see the light of the world, and I foresee that the world will indeed behold your vision and be drawn and respond to it. Your output is simply staggering. It bears such depth, such variety, such honesty, those eyes, they reveal so much. No wonder, family and friends are flocking to your renditions. Your canvases speak. I looked at your sketches yesterday and I was picturing captions and stories accompanying them - an artistic feuilleton of one's interiorscape. Know that I find you exquisite, mon Fauve, and that this is a fact, no matter what may come next. You have enlivened my days and my nights, my dreams, my reveries, my thoughts, my hopes, even my lovely demons as they are now facing all the light they couldn't see (a partially borrowed book title). I already love so many things about you and I am convinced that what I love is not based on infatuation. Yes, I am infatuated with your energy, with the way this energy is making you look so damn sexy and irresistible in my eyes and heart, but there is more to the facade, more than the naked, untrained, easily intrigued and misled eye perceives. I feel the need and the want and the urge to serenade and celebrate you in every manner I can possibly employ to make you feel and believe how uniquely and gloriously your being shines. If my role begins and ends with you seeing life in color again, then I must tell myself that this was not in vain. Even if my egoistic self wishes with all her heart to be yours and to claim you and to see the world with you, my best and real self knows that all is good the way it is unfolding, for I'm learning so much, and I am bathed in so much beauty. Your light is blinding, as I wrote the other day at Zen Mystery, beautifully blinding. I am humbled by it and I can feel its empowerment. Thank you so much for what you in turn have sensed and seen in me...for I often wonder. My mother used to repeat and accuse me of having a heart of stone, and I have carried this statement with me, always afraid that a mother's words can only bear truth. And so when I write of Atlas' response and Elle's silence, I am aware and afraid I may be saying or doing, or not saying or not doing enough to show you just how wonderful and important you are to me. As you spoke of your fear and the disgust of a past action of yours, so am I speaking my admiration and my sincerity even if the spoken word turns out to be too much too soon. I can't hold back the tide, nor would it be wise and fair to do so. 


I shall take my leave on this page as it is 3:00 am. I miss your arms around my body, my being.