I realised that my cat, Boo, is not a kitten any longer, he is almost 9. I realised that I have lived here, in this small flat, that is simple, one room with a bathroom and a tub i wash my dishes in, for almost 5 years. A scene from little woman, but I am alone. Sort of.
It is one of those days that everything tail spun in my mind. Tears fell and I wondered where the last 10 years of my life have gone. What have I been doing.
It seems silly, simple, a boring summary of a small glitch in the myriad of ways that my own mind negotiates the new and confounding shifts within myself. Dramatic, small, reaching out, overly emotional, get over it, work harder to suppress her, no one is interested. Until she bubbles unexpectedly up and demands a voice, a rage, a cry, a warning. Today I am hearing her, feeling her, knowing her intimately, taking notes of knowing some knowledge buried within.
It isn’t that I have been idle in my life for 10 years, many things have been ‘achieved’, pushed through, striven for. It is the shock of the underlying narrative that has kept me company for all those years, massaging me, grooming me, it is the constant evasion of trauma through consistent traumatic thought, the same trauma driven lens, different landscapes, different ways of feeding it all….dressed up in ‘spirituality’, saving humanity, for the good of all, physical, mental, emotional, ethereal…. It is the attachments to that inner narrative and the grief of failing to hear and trust and believe in myself, to allow the inner compass of self direction, with no hands on the reins controlling it. ‘It’ knows where to go…… whats the fuss.
All of the dress up a duplicity of externalisation, compelling to the reader, hock line and sinker, another reason to avoid the pain of separation and humour the duplicity, keeping the separation, like a smug little child. Narrative. Untangling attachment.
It is the awareness of not being in my body and present to my life, to the inner movement of my own energy in the boundaries of my skin. The awareness of filling spaces that were not mine to fill. Of entangling myself around people, places; like a big old fig tree folding everything it encounters into its strong and stable embrace. All inclusive.
Within – water, fire retardant, flood preventative, but oh so very all encompassing under the earth with its phenomenal root system. Disrupting patterns, disturbing stable constructs, uprooting foundations. Standing strong and sure in its place and its right to exist.
Fucking shocking.
Until it is no longer tolerated, the strength a nuisance, its tenacity simply a destructive sojourn of express existence. Get rid of her. The goodness forgotten when no longer needed.
The silent creator of change, so strong in the space that it holds, with an absence of belief, expectation, cruelty, unkindness, simply playing its part within the fabric of love.
A quite insistence of its being.
Once helpful, protective, watching over the roof tops, shading and strong and kind, home to vitality and life, supportive in the stability and evolution of the environment. It is cut down, it falls down, and the landscape alters in ways that could not be foreseen. It is shunned, grumbled about and cut out. Oh it is smiled at, patted.….. but shunned…. that kind of energy not welcome here, but oh thanks, thanks a bunch, pat pat, sorry. Fuck off.
It fades out, forgotten with the left over feeling of having a little swarm of midges bustling around and begging movement. A sharp nasty bite from march fly. Seemingly small encounters in the bigger picture of symbiotic growth and movement. But oh so very significant. Indeed poignant.
Anger bustles underneath, pushes its way forward and dissolves through tears with no where to go, words push through lips with a silent audience where no one is present to hear but the ears that speak them. Or are they?
It feels like an orchestra with a crescendo that never actually happens.
Nothing laid on the table, like a silent Alice in Wonderland re-run it plays hysterically within while the Cheshire Cat sits atop the washing machine offering whimsical narrative that makes no sense at all and the white rabbit simply is no where to be seen… in this scene. Alice chasing … something?! No longer Alice at all, actually.
At the empty table, everyone eats silently, praying that it comes to an end, is this the finale? is it finally over? Eyes have a peek, just a little look, it hurts nothing, nothing, from behind hands covering eyes.
There sits a deep fatigue, a falling apart, like an old Toyota Ute that just keeps going and going, while pieces fall away, stuck back together with gaffer tape, windows that wont do up and mold drawing little pathways over the floor and doors. It seeps into the frameworks, the engine, and it shudders when the key is turned but roars down the road like it is brand new. Until it registers how deeply seated that fatigue really is and is sold to someone… somewhere, gotten ‘rid’ of for a price, an exchange. Taken apart for parts… bits and pieces of it still useful, but only if it suits the the wizard. Just for fun.
Not really sure of its direction, the map keeps disappearing, there are road blocks on an map that just.is.not.there.
The madness is a contender at the academy awards, up against the Wizard of Oz. Dear sweet, solid, dependable Dorothy thrust into involuntary delight as her landscape crumbles around her and she plants her red shoes in a new and trusted hysteria of sorts.
Except it isn’t Dorothy and there are boots… not red shoes. The magic is a fairy tale of impossibilities becoming possible, of excitement and simultaneous delusion. It becomes all the dark and light, enfolded in, like firefly’s dancing in the forest, and when caught, eventually the light goes out, within a tombstone of glass, seeing where it needs to be, but unable to move, eventually so worn from banging against the glass, its light just fades out, it.fades.out. Once needed to light the way….captured…enthralled….disposed of.…..the great cycle of life….that does.not.actually.exist.
Very quite, very still within, with the world seemingly spinning and moving, madness, sanity, judgement, opinions, right and wrong, I can hear her, silently calling, asking for my trust and belief, asking me to stop seeking and handing over trust and belief outside, that she is my greatest adviser, my greatest friend, she knows, she feels the ruse, feels the shake of nervous system, senses the impending impaling of a road well walked, she bites, screams, twists and turns, cries, rages in her fear of it being done the same way, the same old way. So very familiar, comfortable…..
I tell her through tears, anger, frustration, triggers, as I take her hand, that I trust her and she is my greatest adviser and best friend. I see, I say, I hear you I finally tell her, I love you.
I will listen to you and we can trust each other.
The Cheshire cat fades, the wizard becomes so small as to turn into a midge and fly off, the white rabbit has truly gone to lure someone else to chase, the terrain doesn’t need a map, the firefly is in my heart.
I, myself and I, are to eat dinner at our table, laden, where everything has been laid out, where all are welcome, acknowledged and heard. It is a table of inner unifying and love.
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