I don't know if this post will actually "post." But here goes. Firsts are hard. And they are terrifying, but they are also absolutely wonderful. I'm extremely lucky that my life has become a progression of starling events. I get to become something of myself, to myself, for myself. Every day offers brightness to me. I see hope. I experience concern, passion, confusion every day. I meet a new client tomorrow. I feel nervousness, fear, compassion, and excitement. This is me living. The idea of a new day that offers me more than a television show, more than a glass of wine, or a hit, or a trick. Yes, more than what a relationship can (sometimes) offer me. I get all of these emotions to feel me up each day, fully and truthfully. I feel undeserving sometimes, to even sit and listen, to be amoungst the sagacious storytellers of A.A., to be just a rock along the path of their journey. In a month, I've learned more about PEOPLE, than I have in a long, long time. Maybe since my freshmen year of college, when I was bombarded with girls, girls, girls, girls, and girls. On Wednesday, I sat in an A.A. meeting, looking at these people. I wondered if I gather the life experience that floats around in this room, around every person, taking it and compressing it in my arms. Would it look like a dark, gloomy cloud, that's heavy as a boulder? They are so marvelously insightful and honest, so in rhythem with themselves and their urges and their disease. They know. They understand. They've achieved therapy's main aims: change and self-understanding (though the two are almost entirely interconnected). They heed the 12 steps like the 10 commandments, reciting and living right up alongside them. The steps are ingrained their thoughts, and in turn, their emotions and then actions and actual life changes(I quite believe in that beautiful CBT triangle). During the meeting (and during most groups), I'm dazzled by the honesty. I'm enraptured by the story-telling, and yet, at the same time, I feel a little left out of the community. I'm not an alcoholic, so I don't get to fully experience this culture; I'll never be embraced by AA or have a sponsor of my very own. I don't even have time to enjoy a quiet glass of wine. During happy-hour, I'm usually taking a nap. It was beautiful day. A day to take a walk with a friend. To an alcoholic, it's a day to drink. It's a little precious (and yet entirely dangerous) how the alcoholic romances the drink. They paint a slendid picture of a warm, sunny day, with a cool alcoholic drink in their hand, and that light, airy feeling of drunkenness that covers them up like a soft blanket. The question must be asked: why is that drink in this picture? Boredom? Escape? Ritual? Enhances the fun? Liquid courage? Socializing? Boosts confidence? When this "want" appears, the want for a beer, hit, pill, etc,...what need is being unmet? What character defect (in AA language) is making its appearance?

A nagging dissatisfaction afflicted her as it afflicted most young women of her education and class. She wanted love, and a good man, eventually children, but more, more. Not to grow old surrounded by housework. To be something, herself, not Guy's wife, but herself. Life made into a progression of startling events, so that each day there might be a party or a new friend, something to offer brightness and interest. There was Guy, drunk, his impotence becoming more fixed by the week. Bunny began to misread his prose, to softly criticize it, so that he seethed and snapped at her. She wasn't helping him, and she felt old, at twenty-five. There were girl with whom she had gone to school whose lives were dazzling in their excitement and fun. On the surface, in any event. What to do with these women? What is it that has made them so dissatisfied with themselves? Why do they marry either erratic neurotics like Guy, or young lawyers and doctors who send them off to Long Island all summer? Our of commercials, they walk on the beach, slim, tanned, lovely, their children playing in the sand, they swing their beach bags cutely, they die in front of your eyes as they guzzle their Pepsi.

Why, oh why, are we presented with this immovable life? Desperately normal, and filled with the most incredibly uninteresting phenomena. A leader of cheers, a beautiful girl, the belle of her high school. North Shore High, well-integrated, a good football team, an Arista, which Bunny made in her sophomore year. Political science was her chief interest. One day she fell down and scraped her knee. One day she had her period and her mother told her she was growing up. One day she read The Sound and the Fury and cried. She did a lot of things, every day. Said a lot of things, conversation, they call it. You put it into quote marks and demonstrate your ear. She was a very nice girl, a good human being, and she met Guy Lewis. Guy took her to galleries and showed her how the painters did it. This was later in her career, when she was going to Barnard, majoring in psych. She wore a silver friendship ring that her first lover had given her. Guy wasn't curious in the least about it, and they had their first argument. Bunny wanted him to be jealous, she waited to see flakes scale off him. But Guy was wasting inside, into his third novel now, and writing film criticism.

She wanted to help Guy, oh, not in any corny way, but be his Wife, be his Mate. She believed in his stories, his novels, and his criticism.

As I'm procrastinating on taking a Sucide Risk Training, I'm realizing how real everything is becoming. I'm going to be interning at a facility for women this week. I am entering a new, shaky relationship with a wonderful boy, who breaks me open once a week. I feel like getting raw with people. I feel homesick for the easy life. I miss my Mom. I even miss my sister, who perches herself quietly, right on the edge of coming close to us. She wants to be there, but not be us...not quite yet.

I'm really, actually creating a home now. I have friends now. Real friends, who've seen me through  some shit and will likely see much more. They are friends that I may get frustrated with, but I get over it and see and be with them regardless, because I'm necessary to them.  And it's hard for me to reach out to people, to extend my care to them. I have such a rough exterior, I preach finding strength in yourself, but that whole concept, although great, is not, in its heart, friendship. I should see my friends as sisters, as a imperative community of necessary people. They are not expendable, and somtimes I make that mistake, due to my stubborn no-obligation lifestyle. I know that I too often try to give advice, based on my experience and what little wisdom I may have in certain, miniscule areas, but I should be basing my advice on THEIR experience. It's not that revolutationary. It's truly meeting them where they are. Reaching across the expanse of our lives, and touching them.

Babe, this is a war.

Heated, colored stars catapult and cartwheel

In the smoking July sky.

I try to remember the veterans,

But you’re there,

Eyes, dreamy and skyward.

We are alive, did you know?--

Like a damn river, 

But with tides that flip and saunter,

rolling lazily onto the shores.

Someone says that it sounds like a war.

Missiles popping and hissing, all angry. 

and Babe, this is a war.

Like a grenade, you’re

holding my heart—

The hand ever-nearing the pin. 

something something something

I want to do something great. I want to bring people together for a common purpose, a masterful goal of uniting and thriving and working together and finding a "way." I know it's vague and far from simple, but I'm a fool. And fool-hardy. However, I'm also often afraid and selfish, but I've been working on getting myself out of myself. It's true, that when searching for something...vehemently searching and wondering and wandering, you get so wrapped up in the search, darting eyes, sweaty foreheads, and your (my) impatience and looking around at everyone else and "what're they doing?" "why'd they get that?" "where are they now?" the whole thing's lost.

I have to look inward, while also paying attention. I have to absorb and learn. Be a sponge to others, while also acknowledge that I'm a sponge. I'm just a sponge and everyone's sponges. How cool is that? What a concept. We are all just knocking around and bumping into each other in this expansive yet entirely tiny planet.

It's really neat that I've spent 25 years with myself now. Am I tired of me? No. Because there's always more to learn. More to understand further. We are so infinitely complex. How divine, the crazed, pulsing neuro-circuitry. Then, we MEET someone. And we want to know all about their wiring AND all about their physicality. We accept the darkness. We even learn to love the darkness. And that's true love. 

That's more than empty passivity, an "Oh. Wow. That sucks for you."

It's, "My God. You strong and incredible thing. LOOK at you. Just look at you. Look at you." 

It's loving them more because it's honest. They're real. They know hurt and tears and want you to know their hurt and tears. They are reaching out for you to understand them more. Testing the depth of love. What can she/he endure? Will he/she love me despite my alcoholic parents? I need for he/she to know before we go further, because I cannot endure it otherwise.

muffin and coffee

I had a terrifying moment yesterday. I had lost myself. Does anyone else have these few, lost seconds, that send your mind reeling and searching for something, someone, someplace to connect to? And then hideously realizing that what you've been doing, who you are with, what you have is not at all you? It is not truth? You've been acting for so long that you don't know who you are anymore. If I'd looked at my reflection, there would have been no recognition. No connection to the physical or material world would due.

And this experience begs the question...how do I find this true self? Where does it reside? The heart, the blood, the mind, in the church, in sexual pleasure, in the connected, transient moments. Is the soul, my true self, everywhere? Is it always with me, following like a shadow or protective guardian angel? Or is the soul fleeting, appearing and disappearing when needed?

So, I'm going to spend this week reconnecting with myself. And acknowledging those false moments, when I may painfully force a laugh or a smile. I have to confront the facade of the self that I've constructed through the eyes of others. Maybe in this, I'll find who I really am and become who I'm truly meant to be.

Evening II

They lay on his coat on the moss and she felt the sticks and roots which she had not felt before as he was crashing over her. The grass by her cheek and the same as her cheek and the same as the air and all of it was part of the universe and his hand by her chin air and all of it was part of the universe and his hand by her chin and his face curved on her neck was part of it too.
Maybe I will after all.
What?
Have your baby.
He pulled her closer. I'd love that, he said. They could say anything now.
Might not be so simple, she said.
No.
With you married to someone else.
It would be ours, he said. That's how bad I am, I would like it.
But you would stay with her.
He didn't answer. She still had the conviction of his hands on her and did not yet feel the misery which she knew was coming. Misery was just outside the circle around them, waiting in the darkness. They held each other and his weight was more real than his going away.

There were things she'd not asked him and things she'd not said and she did not wonder what she knew or what she had learned but merely felt what had happened and felt what it meant. She did not need to explain it, she simply had it. He was asleep in her arms and the stars which had been spilling and spilling had stopped and were motionless and she knew that what they'd had was not enough but believe it would have it be.

Then the white ceiling opened like an eye and she saw what the ceiling might have seen, how she'd never put words to it.

All her life she'd listened to talk, life was full of talk. People said things, true and interesting and ridiculous things. Her father used to say they talked to much. There was much to say, she had said her share. How else was one to know a thing except by naming it? But words now fell so far from where life was. Words fell on a distant shore. It turned out there were other tracks on which life registered where things weren't acknowledged with words or given attention to or commented on. It might have been said, These two had a story. One might have said she'd found in him a great thing, that she'd found more than herself which was everything and found more than life. And even saying that she would not bring back what was gone. She did not know if it had been the same for him. She would never know. She only knew for herself. Nowhere did it show. Without being shared, what they knew had faded into a kind of mirage. It became One of Those Things. She could not let what passed between them matter too much afterwards so that when the memory tried to assert itself it had been pushed down by reason and habit and time, eventually becoming no more than a scruffy hidden sear on a scruffy hillside. She had worked to rub it out. That this had been forgotten once and would be forgotten again suddenly seemed worse to her than her own life ending.