Love/Hate/Love/Hate/Love/Hate/Love . . .Ummm, Where Was I?
I know most of you guys think I hate my cubicleland job. But I don't. I don't hate it. I'm deeply grateful for it. It torches my netherparts, and my mind, and that dang human heart of mine. But I'm glad for the burning. Burn muthaf*cka, burn, I say.
The beauty is that it is so awful, so unpleasant, so devoid of kindred, so very very smelly and beige that I could never be seduced to stay, to envision that it is indeed a warm, safe hole to snuggle in for a bit. Although sometimes, when the manager is kind to me, or the flowers I bring in to my cubicle stirs feelings of Yes in me, or I find a particularly deep yes of workflow, for a moment I feel that I might be able to stay and be of use, and be okay with it. Then my manager comes in and busts a harsh move on my groove, catching me reading a personal email on state time and giving me the Steely Eye of Boss-hood, cracking that emotional whip, even though I've walked in on him or all managers doing personal email and playing solitaire or chatting for a half hour about the new flooring they just put in. Or I pick up the phone and a client begins screaming how they are coming into the office so that they can scream at me in my earthly face, because I am an as*hole, and have been disrespectful to them for not giving them money.
I wonder sometimes if what is burning isn't something I'll need later on. Brothers Jed and David and Frank and Sister Bernadette holla: let it burn! But I also get that their burning was something that simply grabbed hold of their lives and began smoking things one facet at a time. For me it seems like I am slowly being eaten by a swamp. Should I save myself? Or should I let the bog take me under?
I'm so dang mum in my living that no one around me even really knows what's going on. Maybe they think I've gone a bit nuts and incommunicado, or maybe they just think I'm mean, but no one really gets what I'm doing.
Most of you don't get what I'm doing either. I have a collection of emails from folks who insist I go on mood drugs posthaste. Who feel so deeply deeply sorry that I am in such a bad way. Or suggest that I promptly relocate my head from my ass to somewhere more pleasant for other people as they feel it is very unpleasant to watch a human pile drive themselves into their own waste byproducts.
Do you guys get that I'm losing everything here? Do you understand that I am not fighting it's passing? Do you understand that I am betting it all? That I am placing it all on the fact that I'm not real and that something else lies beneath this seething briar patch of emotion and memory and desire and only-needs-to-be-fixed-to-be-happy? The objective is no longer the incessant Trying, to be nice, or be liked, or to succeed, or to win. It's to see what lies underneath the nice, the desire to be liked or successful or a winner. What happens when all the I Wanna is gone? What is left when all of the trying ceases and I simply look at who is left?
At 12 noon today: It's lunchtime from cubicleland. I can't go to the park anymore because a guy, looks kinda homeless as he's really unwashed and drinks tallboys, who really wants to talk to me, keeps staring at me, walking past me and smiling and making chitchat, for weeks now, has rendered my peaceful sun drenched splay impossible. I move over to the backyard of a law office. Maybe they'll toss me out. Maybe not. In the meantime, the tree I spread my towel out under is tall and full of dry leaves that shower down on me as I eat my tomato, pickel, strawberries, rye cracker with butter.
The sex energy is still running and I wonder at it's source. Am I ovulating? Is the mind kicking off more steam? Is connection tendrilling it's way into my consciousness? Who knows . . .
The leaves land on my belly, cheek, in my hair. I feel the pulse of Life, of Yes, thrum through my body. Watch the thoughts move to fantasy, take me away from the tree and the leaves and the sunlight. I come back, leave again. What's better? What's worse? Does it matter? Brother Jed, I wish you could tell me where on the map I am. I'm wandering around eating crazy berries, fending off the wolves. Yes, inward, not outward. But the inward I can access is a seething pit.
Then it's time to go back to cubicleland. To the employees who spend their breaks in the beige breakroom, watching tv, chatting about their opinions and thoughts and feelings.
My sister keeps trying to make contact with me. Drops off bags and bags of designer clothes, the tags still on them, from the wealthy women she works for. I think about her again and again over the week, feel myself getting pulled back into the family drama. I love her. I love them. But the mere idea of going back into their fiction makes me want to rip my heart out and offer it up for the crows. But my sister. She doesn't understand what I'm doing. But she sort of does. And she loves me. And I know I need to find a way to let her more gently off the hook. I want to say: you really really don't want to stay connected to me, where I'm going you won't understand, and it will make you upset. But she is tenacious, and I owe her more tangible kindness, at least until she begins to let go on her own.
I feel The Hoon around me constantly. He left his body over six months ago. But he is still everywhere. I talk to Wallace about him. Try to engage Jacinta in conversation about him. But they both ignore me mostly. Except when they climb on top of me and collapse into deep snuggles of surrender and what else can I do but shut up and surrender back?