“hero”

some (most) put up a fantastic show of hiding their humanity-
shame being the ultimate plague upon our species.
I-
constantly feel as though I’m but
one freudian slip
away from exploding,
in likeness to that of a child
first perceiving the cruel injustices existing in this
wretched masquerade.
the same child who longs to be a hero
has within her a deep-seated desire to
catch these perpetrators in the act,
reveal what lies behind the masks
and rid this planet of these everyday villains
keeping us imprisoned in this illusion,
this far-stretching fallacy of
“let’s pretend.”

But would the truth alone be enough to save the world?
-I wonder, as I cling in desperation to these ideologies of
compassion, forgiveness, sincerity-
does it show in my eyes?
the eternal battle of light and dark
richocheting around my ribcage- 
-And eternally, I wonder: How does one go about
saving the world
when such a struggle exists in
saving oneself. 

My eyes are heavy with exhaustion, melatonin pooling into cracks of gray matter.  There is so much to know; the unbearable weight of infinity puts my mind under an enormous strain. I am a tree and the moment that I stop growing I will perish. 

The sun is shining but the sky is sprinkling and the smell of wet pavement envelops you as you walk along the sidewalk. It’s an uncomfortably humid May afternoon, wildflowers abound along the littered streets, and your head is throbbing with a sense of unease, as if at any moment a catastrophe of profound magnitude were to occur. You can almost feel the Earth shaking below your feet, can almost hear the screams of every passerby as a gargantuan flaming asteroid ignites the sky, blazing toward impact  on what you never imagined would be your last day alive.

It’s a manifestation of Heaven on Earth this hot day in July. Here we are, surrounded amidst rows upon rows of blueberry bushes that stretch to the horizon. “Blueberry fields forever.” I’m wearing a handmade tyedyed sleeveless sundress and a straw hat. My hair is long and my skin is tan and the cicadas provide the ideal fanfare for our breezy and blissful summer afternoon.

Summer has past and we’ve now reached December. We’re in New York, surrounded by lights, the falling snow making the atmosphere seem magical. During the day we ride a carriage around Central Park, holding our freezing hands together for warmth. When the evening rolls around, we put on our rented designer apparel and dine out at one of the most luxurious restaurants in the city, purchasing a bottle of the most expensive wine for later. It’s a clear night and the stars are out as we head back to our penthouse hotel room. Still in my evening gown, I sit on the piano bench and delicately tap out the first few notes of a classical piece. We stay up until the early hours of the next morning in the jacuzzi, drinking wine and listening to Frank Sinatra.

Now it’s the Spring and we’re in Paris, walking through a cobblestone alley surrounded by bakeries and cafes. I’m here studying art, and the cherry blossom trees in full bloom make the scene a painting in of itself. We tune up our French speaking abilities and write letters to our dear ones at home on crisp tan parchment with black ink. 

 
….Hay, a girl’s gotta dream, right?

Well obviously.

Rock Bottom is a place I go to visit occasionally. Whether by choice or not, the path I chug along eventually leads back to that same old wall which I hit with a full on impact. The pitfalls of R.B. are a very dark place to be, it’s true.  All of that time alone can really scare the hell out of a person, for one thing.  It’s in these lapses of impoverishment that your true character is put to the test. For starters, you’ll be devoid of company in Rock Bottom- all of your friends are on the Other Side, waiting to celebrate with you when you make it to the top again. In Rock Bottom, the weaknesses you cover up in the daylight make their full appearance, devoid of all masks and illusions.  Here, you’ll come face to face with your worst nightmares, the fears about yourself you’ve buried in the far recesses of your mind. Haunting imagery and hard, gruesome details form the physical consistency of your reality- change spread out hopelessly on the coffee-stained table, drugs inhaled from a tin can, your body covered with last week’s dirty laundry.  And pain, pain is something you’ll be quite familiar with here in the vicinity of Rock Bottom.  

But you will survive. And the thing is, you can learn a lot down here. Your own personal monsters make the best sorts of teachers. Heck, maybe you can even get on their good side if you give them the chance to make themselves understood. And when you’ve got Nothing- boy, does it make you appreciate Everything. They like testing you down here- That’s the whole fun in their games- seeing just how much you can take, pushing your resilience to the limit.

And you grow to depend on yourself a great deal more. See, Rock Bottom shows you the magnitude of your own strength. So when you scale that wall back up, you’ll rebound higher than you ever were before. When you’ve built up an immunity to the pain of being utterly and truly alone- and have accepted yourself in the darkest of hours-

Nothing, or No one, can hurt you anymore. 

So I keep coming back.

Let’s fill our days with “possibly“‘s and “sometimes”es and “whatif?”s. We’ll leave our options open, leave our sentences unfinished. Imperfection is beautiful and we’ll embrace it fully. Ambiguity will dictate our lives. We’ll live in every color. We’ll sever the atomic ties of our minds and we will explode this concrete reality with billowing clouds of abstract smoke.  

Being a starving artist always seemed like such a grand idea. 

As a kid, while other girls dreamed of being princesses and superstars and real life versions of bratz dolls, I withheld a secret longing for a one room garden level apartment tucked away in a brick building in the heart of a bustling little village.

Okay, well maybe my vision wasn’t that specific. But whatever you heart truly desires, the universe conspires to manifest. So here I am, sitting on a mattress on the floor in the apartment of my dreams.  Long sought-after solitude has allowed me the means to explore the inner reaches of my consciousness, bringing dormant passions to the surface. 

 The shelf that lines the wall above my mattress is lined with all of my books, instilling within me a deep sense of comfort with the knowledge that the reaches of loneliness will never engulf me in my solitude, so long as worlds up worlds of words are within my reach.

The contents of my fridge are as follows: month old chinese food, a opened can of stale beer, not-fresh-anymore produce and a little bit of soy milk. Incense burns to keep away the smell of my neighbors’ dirty cigarette smoke.

Picturesque, no?

I have around $6.00 to my name currently. In change. Anxiety fills my chest as I contemplate how the hell I am ever going to pay next months’ rent, let alone eat.  The pile of dirty laundry proliferates- I can’t afford to use the coin operated washing machine.

But what is the alternative? Return to my house in the suburbs under the authoritarian rule of my father? No way dude. The emotional and mental toll placed on me while residing in that house is far more taxing then that of having to skip a few meals and wear the same pair of jeans as yesterday…(and the day before that…and that..)

However, fear not, for there is hope- I just got a full time job working at the local McDonalds.

Ha. Hahahahaha. Ha… Ha.

There is no escaping the irony, as I practice meditation and scribble song lyrics on the walls in black marker. 

The Golden Arches are typically regarded as a symbol of capitalism, consumerism, corporate greed, and all of those lovelylovely C-words I am so very fond of.  Hahaha.

But…it’s fucking money, you know? Unfortunately that’s the way our economy works. 

It just sucks that in order to retain a sense of autonomy in this society, I still got to pay it to the man.

It’s all about the way you look at it, though, really. I’m trying to view it as an opportunity to learn- and perhaps strengthen my sense of compassion. 

 I’m sure all of this will provide a nice contrast somewhere down the road, when the times aren’t as rough.

But for now? Guess I’ll have to look for the God in the Golden Arches.

And yes, that is a metaphor.

Tuesday morning- the haziness of waking washes away all illusions. Gentle sunlight streams dimly through the garden window and my cotton flannel shirt is damp, smelling faintly of sweet sweat after a deep, rejuvenating sleep. I pour all of my affections into the soft warmth of a pillow and let the truth infiltrate my vulnerable  psyche. It’s simple and profound, a light that cleanses the hidden shadowy cobwebs of fear we hide in dark corners. So much shame, guilt, embarrassment- it all exists so unnecessarily- with the flick of a switch, that of unconditional acceptance- it could all disappear. The morning gently whispers into my ear, “it’s all okay.” The knots in my stomach loosen up, and I know that even when unrecognized, love exists and it exists within the silent spaces between us all.

“Measuring tape”

Each day is a centimeter,
each mark a measure of the passing 
time:
 Time being the only distance that separates us.

Black lines encircle my throat. 
These obfuscating inches distort memories into fuzzy dreams, 
each second a mark of another breath heaved without you.

If only I could push a button and retract a self-induced asphyxiation.