Mostly I'm not writing because mostly I'm going thru funk, then layers of joy, then more funk, then more joy.
When I'm in the funk, it's so full of bile that there is no way I'm writing about it. It's just plain hateful. Possessions of such negativity, such rage and self-pity and doom and pointlessness that I'm no longer me, just some stain of hell left in a skin bag. I'm mean and withholding to clients, I want to pitch myself off a bridge, I grip the kitties so much they squeal, I eat bad food.
When I'm in the joy, it's such a quiet, gentle thing that I barely move, knowing that one false ripple sets the hateful jello jiggling again. I sit in the barcalounger for hours, watching the clouds, Wallace purring so gently it's like heavy breathing with sound as he snuggles around my neck like a living feline scarf, Jacinta curled up in my arms purring like the tiny love trucker she is. Or I clean my apartment like a benevolent tsunami, tossing out bags and boxes of clutter, of detritus from a life that is no longer mine.
What stuns me so much about my living these days is the lack of loneliness. I've spent my entire life lonely, longing for a best friend, a soul mate, a teacher. Working so hard to find them. Then working so hard to get them to stay. Then working so hard to stay alive after they left. Then the cycle starting again. I've spent my life searching for someone to tell me what the hell is going on, to show me how to save myself, to just give me The Dang Recipe once and for all, for happiness, and enlightenment, and how to have a really good time and not pay for it on the flip side.
But now? Not searching for anyone, looking for answers from anyone, yearning for someone to be with. It's just gone. And it astounds me. I finally understand that no one has any answers. Get that there isn't anyone out there that "completes me". It's like I shed a really, really heavy coat, and now I'm just walking along a path, getting used to the feeling of so much weightlessness, like the law of gravity wasn't really a law but more like a choice.
It's not that it doesn't come up. It does. It comes around in cycles. And each time I try and return to the world of chat, of talk, of sharing, of stories, of relationship. And it goes boom like a sad little bomb. And I feel sick. And I fail at it miserably. Or not so miserably. More just awkward, weird, simply not one of them anymore, so obvious, so clear. I go silent again, things lift, go gentle and quiet and clear again, until it cycles back again.
But the real beauty is that Wallace is incandescently radiant with good health. No rashes. No snot. No lacerations. No funky eye or hindquarters or abscesses. Even his breath is tangy sweet. Jacinta is snuggly luscious, purring and purring, growling only when Baby W licks her head, then her ears, then her neck, and then bites her, or I grab her a little too quickly, a little too love-grippy.
And even as huge change goes on. Lost my room at the holistic center a few weeks back. Politics of the New Age in the new economy and how I'm simply not the hottest game in town. Nowhere to do sessions anymore. (Not that it matters as the phone doesn't ring anymore. Which in spite of the repercussions of cash is actually awesome. Oh how I love it that the phone never rings anymore.) I'll rent a room here or there at different places probably as the need arises for sessions, though, as folks are bound to call sooner or later, though I cancelled my ad in the local holistic rag. I consider clearing out my living room, doing sessions there, maybe a weekly class, get together, healing circle. But I haven't done it yet. Why fight change? Things dying? So much death in my living the past few years that I simply open my fist and let the sand fall away . . .
So that's it. Friday at 8:32pm. The neighbors are having a party. They laugh and howl and talk loudly. I was invited, they always invite me, but I don't go. I apparently don't do social anymore. Maybe I'm the scary loner chick with cats who is all fat and angry and stuff, or maybe I'm on to something. Maybe I'd do social if there were someone who wasn't utterly full of shit to talk to, but we're all so full of shit, myself included of course. And so I sit here with the kitties, writing, and later on I'll watch Slumdog Millionaire, eat some Quorn.
Blah blah, right? Blah, blah . . .