Sunday, March 29, 2015

Pulled bits of a convo

I keep day dreaming about past versions of me as china dolls, I don't even know why they broke and a new doll came in to play, but they are cracked and taped and worn in some fashion. My brain and my body is a construct of my own making and yet I seem to have such little control over either. Is there a point where there is a sense of stability in the expectation of erratic to be? 

I route it back to my three paths.  There is the path you desire, there is the path that being walked and then there is the path that snakes underneath like a particularly rickety catwalk and that is the one with all the crazy spirals and dips and slides. When your brain turns into to the Mousetrap game and you eventually think, omg not sleeping for 3 days is awesome I get so much done and now I can get my cat sushi for a treat at 2am, I am sure there is some place open for fucks sake this is California motherfuckers oooh maybe there is a place in LA it is only an hour away and I could also go to the beach and stick my toes in the sand.

Now I want to go to the beach.

Maybe because I know that path exists, walked my version of it.  I periodically peer over my current path to see that other path and my shivers are a mix of terror and excitement. There is a part of me that thinks if I can make my rigging strong enough, find a stable enough anchor, I can walk the path for a bit.

When I climbed the wall with E and C, I realized I haven't shook that hard with adrenaline in years.  Not since I was racing to T's house with my heart beating in my head and my stomach twisted. It was nice to revisit that level without the death at the end. To have myself feel the relief after and a sense of success even though my successes were small.

I don't want the parts back necessarily that I broke, that were broken.  Finally, I think I've realized that.  I mourned the woman that was before my manic, when I was nice and polite and I didn't fuck up friendships 6 ways from Sunday. When my heart ruled my head and my pussy could only make suggestions when I was daydreaming but never got to speak aloud. 

I keep thinking of my past as a puzzle mess.  Those huge picture with in a picture within a picture and maybe there are actually like 3 or 5 or 15 different puzzles in the pile and writing is a way to sort and put parts of the self puzzle in it's nice little box, but once you get 3 or 4 pieces together you realize that maybe those pieces don't go and maybe they do nothing gets put away and you are just sitting in a pile of yourself that is not yourself because it is still in pieces on the floor.

A friend said  "I am who I decide to be moment by moment." and I am going to take all those puzzle pieces and I am going to grind them up and make them into Whim Dust.  When I want to write about what I remember, I will tap out a line, inhale and see what comes up in my head. Because she is right, who we were is influenced by who we are. I can only say who I see now and then play matchy match tomorrow with who I see then.

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