I get rid of everything. Which is strange. Because I have a deep abiding love for people and places and things in ways that might be tipped a bit too far at times. I feel a connection that goes so deep that I see and feel things outside me as part of me. I think it is because I have no boundaries. And up until today I thought this was a bad thing. Now I know, it is a thing to be revered. Because it means I can ride wavelengths that take me into other dimensions. I know the second and third quite well, but the first and fourth can be mind shattering.
And so it is that without boundaries I must take the greatest care. It’s not for me to establish them. It’s for me to find people and places and things that are pure love. I have this in my home, for the very first time in my life. I live in a place of love and it has soothed my ruffled feathers like nothing else. I have this with the people in my life. The more I release myself of those who have given up, the more I find myself surrounded by those who persevere. I have this of things, in that I have finally decided to stop acquiring anything besides books. It feels good to be free of the material world.
I had a revelation about the nature of attraction, of the reason for why it is that I feel this intense energy that seems, at times, extraordinary. I’ve been thinking about stardust. Thinking about Supernova. About black holes and exploding stars and I smile because Mr. Brown been knowing this…
Stars explode and from that comes dust, the chemistry of which we are made. Imagine that every last bit of atomic energy in our bodies was once a star glowing bright in another galaxy. Imagine that we are not born of one star but of countless stars that have bit the dust and from that dust comes this life that we live because energy cannot be created or destroyed.
I was on one of my endless strolls through Brooklyn, my walks without destination where I stop thinking and start breathing and taking it all in. And talking to God, chatting like I got the hook up and I’m looking at plants and brownstones and lampposts and everything that surrounds me when I suddenly realize, we are all connected. The iron in my blood, the iron in that grate. Did we come from the same star? Is this why I want to hug trees? Is this why I talk to dogs on the street and they give me a look of understanding like Yeaa sista, speak on it.
I feel energies and vibrations but I’d never accessed it on the atomic level because, well, who even know what that would look like, that every single particle of which I am made is always in motion. That I am not a solid mass but I appear as such. That I am forever interacting with every other atomic particle in the Universe. I’m thinking, is this why attraction cannot be explained? Is attraction molecular? Is attraction a biochemical memory of a distant past being lived over and over again in the endless cycle of death and rebirth? Is this why we become so inordinately attached to people and places and things? Are we feeling a knowledge we cannot comprehend? Is there a level of understanding that goes beyond the brain? Are we all one mind connected through channels no one has ever tried to explain?
And so it is that I have love. A deep and endless love for that which I feel. Even for that which is ugly and destructive because, okay, so I had this moment thinking of the Supernova. All creation comes from destruction? Can it really be? Perhaps there is no answer except this is what got me to thinking: Creation/Destruction, two sides of the same coin. What has no opposite. A question and a statement at the same time.
And so it is for me, anyway, that from destruction comes something beautiful. Freedom. To be free I’ve had to break down walls and break through chains and put the key in my hand and turn the lock the other way. And now that I am free I promise myself this. No more learning through destruction and fear and pain and sickness. No more sabotage and delusions and willful thinking. No more Sara Rosen. Thank you very much.
I was thinking yesterday that when the time comes, one must be reborn, renamed, for to name something is to recognize it, and I recognize myself as this. And I have my name for me and that’s a beautiful thing. Because it is mine alone. “Miss Rosen” sounds contrived to my ear. But I’m not mad at her. She is a part of me and she is my creation but no longer do I even identify with her. She is just one more piece of stuff that I have acquired.
See, I love stuff. But I cannot keep it. Or not very much. I acquire, mostly books. But other things as well. And things—just like people—come and go. I haven’t been one to hold on after I have let go. But I do keep an open heart. Which is why Mr. Brown keeps showing up. But I’m smiling because he’s going to be on another continent very soon and an ocean between us is beautiful. Last time I saw him I laughed. “You’re my muse. You inspire me. You’re leaving the country and I’m going to write a book about you so it’s like, you’re always here with me.” And he smiled, awkward and at ease. Like he could finally let himself feel it, but only because he was going away.
And him leaving, well, he’s been gone for a long time. Both of us have needed this. Together, we are… I don’t even care to define. And perhaps he is the only one, the only one who remains. And he is gone and that’s how it is. I tried to purge him. But that didn’t work. There’s something to him that defies me. Ahh yeaa, sounds like Mr. Brown.
Still, I purge. Happily. Funny I was never bulimic, but I always found that messy and preferred the willpower of anorexia light. Not eating releases all kindsa of vibrations in the body. And I see there’s something to this. I love to release myself of acquisitions, rather than be buried by stuff. And so it is that I’ve thrown nearly everything out. I have almost no markers of my life, my history has been so refined that almost nothing exists. There are maybe twenty photographs of my entire life in print. And the only people in them are me and my grandmother, the illustrious and ill-fated Rose Rosen. But I do have her photo album, the one no one wanted, the one that is a book and I’m looking at it realizing this is the first art book in my family.
But other than this, nothing. No letters saved, no mementos, no sentimentalities. Not even family jewels. I gave all of that away. All I have is who I am today, and most of that is something that has no past energies. But there is one thing I have kept, albeit I always edited the collection for as long as I’ve lived. Perhaps I was always equal parts artist, editor, and producer. I have a very small collection of my earliest drawings and I like to look at them to see who I was.
No happy faces. Though I am sure I painted those. But I didn’t keep them. I kept drawings like the one I did at two and a half years old titled, “A Dangerous Spider.” Some of my earliest memories are of recording life in visuals. I don’t remember seeing Star Wars; I remember coming home and drawing R2D2 and C3PO. I remember sitting at the kitchen table getting right to work. Not even four years old and there I was, recording my life as it was being lived that very day.
I’ve always been in the habit of showing up every day. For awhile I lost sight of what I was showing up for but writing has put me back on track to me. And I’m thinking of Day Eight: How old were you when you started writing? What did you write?
I have it in my heart that these drawings are my earliest stories. My petroglyphs and cave art and hieroglyphs because the written word is an aberration in our development as a people. We are pre-historic, pre-literate. Our natural state is to communicate with images so as to defy the way in which words are limited. I also believe that the Ethernet is the dawn of a post-literate society and we shall return to the oral tradition through the proliferation of video. Words will exist but printed words will fade away and does it matter in the long run? Eventually the sun will explode. Do You. Today.