Low Tide

Tonight is a solar eclipse. I get so scared when the Universe is trying to reveal something to me.

We feel so certain that we are in control; we hate the idea that The Way We Know can and will (and maybe should, maybe should not) be completely thrown out the window. I don't know what to think. I don't know where to put myself.

Logically, I doubt that I exist. I know for certain that the things of which I am constituted, the primary basic elements are measures of nothingness, static charges. Maybe someday, maybe even in our lifetime, we'll have a better understanding of these impulses which make us up, but until the Large Hardon Collider is functioning at full power we just don't know too much about our particles. My best guess at this point is that I am not real. Neither are you, but I don't want to be presumptuous. I want to know who you're thinking about when we have sex. Whoever he is, you like him a lot. How can I be more like him? In what quanifiable ways can I make myself more perfect for you?

I feel like a monster. Or if not an actual monster, something close to one. Something really ordinary and real, but which frightens everything around it. Scares myself. I can do certain calculations in my head and on paper (and here, too, I'm working out the math, right now) but until I have a chance to ask you, to check my answers against yours I can't be sure.

I had an inkling, late last night and when I woke up this morning, that I was onto something. I am listening to a bunch of new songs, over and over again, finding their ways to me through various methods of divination (my soul sister La JohnJoseph sending me an immaculately funky mix CD).

(I wish La JJ and I were still a DJ team. We never took requests but we kept the kids dancing. When we play records people cry, laugh, fall in love, fight. When we play records people meet each other and themselves).

(We play a lot of Shampoo).

I get caught in this feeling in which I'll feel something and then immediately feel guilty about it. LIke I'm not entitled to feel: bad, angry, jealous, lonely. Whatever. Who has time to chastize themselves for this? I want to be less freaky, I want to be less freaked-out. I want to get better at this. I don't want everything to be so fucking special and high-stakes. I want to know that we can, actually, play with fire, without burning the house down.

I want to be stronger.

I want to have something left to give back to you. Over, and over.

On losing yourself. On giving up. On moving (on). On being in love and learning how another person thinks.

Here's an inspiring idea and thought. An inspiring image / video. Maybe my favorite songwriter, Khaela Maricich, performing last month in NYC:

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I totally agree. We don't exist. We are a dream...

Your post was frighteningly reflective of my own mood-especially the part about "what do you think of when we're having sex."

Stupid solar eclipse.