Everything I do here feels like the last one. That's how I enjoy all of them. That's how the anger is kept on watch. The parties, the trips, the singing, the movie-watching, the cooking, the eating, the cleaning, the lovemaking, and the fucking, I should extend that philosophy to all moments, no exceptions. But the more I stay, I feel like staying a little more. I forget everything that assured me to leave; I begin to doubt all the proof so concretely piled up heavy in my head. But the heart... That's when he comes to help, stirring the muddy waters of my emotions, exhuming the almost faded, untrusted memories, and replaying the same chords on different octaves. I feel lost and blank, in limbo; neither in the cacoon nor outside, but caught up halfway out, on its own sticky walls. Death is tough. Especially the kind where you are both the dying and the mourner. That feels like the most humanely painful thing for a self. It's a fresh hell for an empath: a volcanic ...
When I saw the Chernobyl-sized mess I'd made, it shocked me. But 'my' shock wasn't the only impact. He was already involved. He was burning in the painful, forced leaking of the truth with me. The understanding of why I did what I did wasn't lying on the floor, bold, italicized, and underlined. It took an excavation deep into my psyche, and the exhuming could not be done peacefully, mindfully, because I had to attend to the external casualty. I made the humane mistake. He offered me the godly forgiveness. I couldn't ask for anything more. So, I wrapped myself in a warm heavy blanket of guilt and sat at his feet. I became quiet, outward and inward. I stopped conversing with the world; my mind stopped conversing with me. Unwrapped, out by the doorstep, laid my passions, my desires, my voice, my authenticity, my dignity, all exposed to the elements, to burn, to soak, to blow away, and to finally get buried.
Begins the last few days in this fairy house in the misty, magical, redwood mountains. The redwood tattoo couldn't be more meaningful, couldn't be more inked deep in my mind. Out of all the places I could have gotten a tattoo, I got it carved into my Achilles heel. I've written so much about what I was looking for in California. But boy! did she have other plans! Here I am, after all that, sitting on this living room floor, dying. This life I dreamed of, I've created with my own hands and lived, decided to leave behind, like most of my paintings. Sitting in the epicenter of this storm that has been brewing for years, sitting still while the world breaks apart a piece at a time, swirls up in the wind, and dances around me; until I join them and spiral my way out of all this. The pain(t) melts and drips down; the canvas getting empty, again, once again.
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