in my end is my beginning

August 6, 2012

Bond. Bonded. Bondage. Tie me up, tie me down. Make me. G’head. Make me. You can’t cause I won’t.

It’s been spinning round and round in my head and no good ever comes of it. Thinking. Don’t believe the hype.

Were it that I could think without words, that I could think with pictures and song. Were it that I could think with touch and taste and smell freedom and remain… silent.

But.

No. No? Apparently not. Writing chose me and so, ahh, I submit. Surrender. Refuse to resist. Receive. Release. Revise. Remit.

Ahh.

I love this too much. Too much to love. Love it all, even when I know I don’t know what I’m writing about. Because. I’ve given up. This idea of knowing. Of owning. Of controlling. Of it being so.

I lie. But I like the way I lie. It’s aspirational. I’ve given up nothing. I’ve acquired a new faith. That I can search for meaning while saying it can never be known. Because meaning is personal and me, I am grandiose.

I dream of staircases, sweeping circular things, and long gowns flowing behind me as I ascend and descend and drag my dress behind me. Which is all kindsa funny when I think how the other day I told Mr. Folkes, No, I never wear dresses. I’m not that kinda girl.

Why not, he wanted to know.

Cause I can’t sit like this, I said, pointing to my left leg, which was tucked up on the chair in half lotus position. Cause I can’t sit on the stoop like what the fuck. Cause that makes me feel vulnerable, exposed. Because I feel like I am cheating, wearing one piece of clothes. I want to put together an outfit. Even though it’s all black anyway; me and my catsuits like to pretend we’re reinventing the wheel. Because dresses hide my figure. Unless they’re lycra. And then, I don’t know, that seems trampier than these capri pants and low cut tops with hot pink bras popping out against caramel colored cleavage.

Are you an exhibitionist, oblivious, a narcissist—Mr. Ex asked.

I am all that, and then some, I answered wishing I could italicize the last three words. Because I am not a word. Not a single word. Though I might be a combination plate. I might be two from Column A today, three from Column B. Until tomorrow when the order changes. Because…

Word is bond. Word is bondage. Word is a prison from which there is no escape. Word is the Matrix. Word is Left Brain Madness. Word is the illusion that the symbol is the Truth. Word is us believing that the Word is the Absolute. Holiest of Holies, and if not that then the next level. Word is the Soul. But it’s not. It’s just a chess game played without a board.

Or not. I am not sure how much I care. I think it’s simply pleasure and pain. It’s the feeling of feeling, it is my addiction to energy. It is the channeling of this energy into this art. It is this art that I use to lick my wounds instead of this sandpaper tongue.

Yes. Yes. This is where it began. Healing. Words are healing, just as they are poisonous gas. Words are whores, they are whatever you want them to be. Do you know what you want? Better yet, do you know what you need.

Day Thirty: What has been most positive for you during this challenge? What are you looking forward to with this new insight about your writing and motivation?

Most positive is, there is no end. In the end is my beginning, like Mary Queen of Scots. Revolution is the completion of a cycle and the overturning of authority in favor of a new day, one that has a morning, noon, and night. We go around again, again and again. But it’s not a circle, it’s a spiral, touching down unexpectedly.

Most positive is, commitment. Discovery. Breaking the bond of the Word in order to be free. Using the Word to destroy the Word. Ohmagosh Ohmagosh my heart just soared.

Most positive is, I’ll be back again and again. Most positive is this feeling that I am doing what is to be done without the anxiety of art. The anxiety of creation, that fear of fear. That fear that something isn’t the thing, doubt over faith. Most positive is, faith over doubt. Most positive is those words God told me last year.

You are a shepherd of words.

And I had this vision of an angry sheep. Have you ever seen an angry sheep before? Me neither. It appeared as a cartoon. Sheep had fangs and shit and he was raging, I’ma get youuu, sucka!

So words are sheep and sheep are chill. Words do whatever you want them to do. But more important is what you need.

What am I looking forward to? I’m not looking forward. And I’m trying not to look back. I never think about the future. It’s too spooky a thing to have visions of what will come next. I’d rather enjoy this, right now, because this is all we have.

3 Responses to “in my end is my beginning”

  1. My mental image will forever be altered. Kinda like this.

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