Equally complicated: the idea of agnosia, or unknowing, which is what one ideally finds, or undergoes, or achieves, within this Divine Darkness. Again: this agnosia is not a form of ignorance, but rather a kind of undoing. (As if one knew then forgot? But what did one know?) –Maggie Nelson, Bluets
Lately, I’ve been playing with the idea of unknowing.
Irrevocable, wavered, and unconscious.
Loss of, obviously. Lost the hinges. Frail.
An excuse to get back to the meaning.
A refusal. An elongated kiss from inner ankle to wrist.
An orgasm that changes beliefs and character.
Like a wish on a lingering laundry line and the permanence.
Ah, the permanence-fusing-together.
Like magnets and carnations.
The best kind of love mimics lust, a dab of trust, and conversation.
The best kind of love stays.
It feels like a tea stain.
Walt Disney animator: Brian Kesinger is an absolute an utter genius for this tea-stained art above.
Tyler Knott Gregson shows off as a photographer, and has quite his way with words.
Today I am overwhelmed. I have agnosia. There is little left to believe in. This is ok.
I am undone.
“Actually, I’m unable to wait can I speak to your manager?”
I’m such a broad sometimes.
This is the reason my credit card company has miraculously ‘forgotten’ to send my new credit card out and I was without petty cash for two weeks. Lovely. I’m busy, I don’t have 87 breaks I can take from my life to care for trivial things. Woe do I miss the times I could collect stickers, work on my acrylic painting, clip coupons, send thank you cards, not flake on lunches. You know, listen to the voices in my head. The voices—they say interesting things. You get where this is going.
I attribute waiting with being passed on, passed by, not chosen, missing the boat, something slightly short of hopeless. So since childhood I haven’t liked waiting. Patience is for the birdies who don’t have anything better to do than wait in line, wait to be replaced, wait on someone else to cook up a recipe for something else Lalanii should spaz out about.
And then, I met someone who surprises me regularly. Surprises force you to have patience.
I took up high intensity interval training. Patience begets results.
I gave up sweets, carbs, and took up stock in something I haven’t in a while:
I’ve been trusting myself and my judgments for a good six months now. Those voices, remember (there’s quite a few in there)—I’ve quieted. I’ve started to believe in my track record. Slowing down.
I still broke a glass bowl with my lunch in it today—but it wasn’t because I was rushing. It was because I was distracted. I was looking at how beautiful it was this morning. A cerulean sky kissing a lavender cloud and two off-white birds fighting over a piece of bread until the babier bird of the two decided to give up. The mean bird walked away seemingly pissed and dismissed of the situation. Baby birdie then pecked the bread, leaving a lot of it on the floor possibly for mean bird. Mean bird swooped down and they then finished the last piece together. If I’m not shocked–or shocked—did the birdies just share?? Did I forget I was holding anything and crash goes my Pyrex bowl? Score.
All worth it. Still serene. There are a few things that have tested my ‘wait limit’ but I was able to have numerous things go wrong this week and still complete the finishing whoo hoos on my final manuscript, fill out paperwork, order thesis bindery, cater to a sick editor/friend, and have patience enough to accept that a few things might not go my way this week.
But they may go my way in another week.
My threshold for waiting it out… extended.
I have a certain zingy feeling now that I have more patience. Having so has made me stronger, happier, and given me more faith, first in myself and then those around me. Before I get too ‘churchy’ I must say—when I do happen to lose my patience now, it returns quicker than it used to. I also found something I like to believe is true:
“Our willingness to wait reveals the value we place on the object we’re waiting for”
The birdies have all gone and the magical moment passes and I’m back to waiting. Writing. Reading. Editing.
And waiting is ok, and if something passes me because I’ve been busy–waiting… there’s a good chance it’s not anything I’m meant to have. I’m valuing the person I am now. I like her better because of her patience. And in case you haven’t heard it’s a virtue.
Excuse me while I go get my masters degree real quick.
Pictures from FLOWmarket. You genius people you.
“Where Is This Love? I Can’t See It, I Can’t Touch It. I Can’t Feel It. I Can Hear It. I Can Hear Some Words, But I Can’t Do Anything With Your Easy Words.”
She asks about why come she can’t see the love? Touch it, feel it. Then she repeats that she can hear it—but that hearing it is easy. Those words are easy.
Tell me some hard words, if any words.
Make me speechless. Heart swerving, then plunging. The hurdle, twitch.
I want to do the splits on it. Somersault into a soaring enormous and ask him what took him so long?
I want to see it, feel it, touch it. I don’t want to hear it or hear about it anymore.
I want it sinking in my pores, I want to breathe it, be it.
I don’t want it to be easy, I want it to be uphill so I know what sleeping in is like.
I want it to hit me like an implosion. Locking my legs around it. Like plumdrops.
I want it to be so awfully good it goes stale if not immediate. Mean and fighting like rocket ship tears.
I don’t want fear. I want to speak it into resistance, make it persistent and lengthy.
I want it to stay like a pose, pastel roses on my pillow. I want to be warm.
To write it into me until my joints are sore. sworn. sure.
Until the hugs take longer seconds, until stares are in sync with a later perpetuum.
Until I bloom and he shivers. When I wanderlust, he’s with me.
Until I can do nothing but call off my streetlights, blink, kiss.
Honeydew and Orchids
He said “I want the opposite of everything with you because you only remember the bad”
I gave him a sad face and said if you keep saying things like that I’ll stay sad.
So these are your orchids. And then he asks me if I’ve ever seen orchids. Because these orchids, he said—eyebrows up—are talking orchids. Crawling up stucco—designer orchids on glowing wallsides, heaploads.
Let me tell you what they’re saying, he leans close. They admire the way you laugh, and the way you love your Dad. Acquired tastes. They love, your neuroses–spun together–next to the space heater.
Well this. I tell him. Is honeydew. It is sweet, unless spoiled. It doesn’t need water or sunlight, it needs to be savored. It has a window of time, and this honeydew. She has a line. Like the lining in your collar, or your lack of consideration.
And it can’t be suckled into the ouch patch, you know the part you can’t get back,
A line that,
Cross it if drawn
Balance if it waves
Careful in anomaly, (no
matter how little we have.)
He said oxygen, you need oxygen.
I said, not just yet. I want “Come here.” . “Right now.” . “I’m. in. this.”
He said, I haven’t promised you anything. Which is otherwise clandestine, which is microscopically kaleidoscopic, which is bullshit if I never heard it, otherwise known as art deco blue. I wanted Tinkerbell’s castle, I would’ve given up sadness for a clue where.
And I’d have grown him more than fruit and flowers. He as in you, you as in admirer.
But I guess I have to love you from afar. And I guess I have to love you where you’ve fallen,
which means move on.
Which is a line. A line once drawn—
if crossed is gone. Which is how I know it,
that does not offer you honeydew or glowing orchids anymore.
And so I leaned over to the flowers, and whispered to their spines:
“You have specifically been placed in a box marked ‘why for?’”
And the world, which is how I now know it, has aligned.
—Happy Valentine’s Day to all those I secretly admire, love Lalanii
“It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty even when it’s not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”
It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.”
—Oriah Mountain Dreamer, The Invitation
I think he’s drunk dialing me in his sleep,
from a foreign country,
and the background noise is fluffy,
but still I made out how much he loves me.
Grabbing my pinky,
swinging it around,
calling me a clown fish,
telling me to drown here.
On his way.
Go on ahead without him.
He’ll catch up.
Meanwhile, the petunias are blooming together across the overhead projector.
I cannot teach class today I’m dying of reciprocation asphyxiation.
did I want,
someone to play better poker,
wake up playfully humming the peach rose petals out,
did I need,
someone to call my bluff,
blow bubbles in the figments, the harp in my heart, the magic.
Cartoons are on,
acrylics over canvas
and little pink splishes of wine we had until we were silly enough.
He was lights on, then off,
black gate pulling across the entryway,
shaking head ‘no, we’re closed,’
when I can see everything I need in the front window.
The day we hung up
I wanted to walk him alongside that wine glass
two-thirds of the way finished,
but the door evaporated as it closed gently behind him.
They say not to cry over the spilt,
but I’m not sure there’s anything better to cry over.
And the song of the week, you have to hear: “Moving in You, Moving in Me”
The stick figure girl is from my stop motion animations, if I figure out how to upload them as little movies, I might share.
Every five minutes the thing nearest me changed into a mistake and disappeared. —Tao Lin
I’m in, if, of, and. I miss him like writing with my left hand. Tea cup got up and said “damn, that’s bad.” The what you’ve got til’ it’s gone. Watching me sleep. Zumba drop out. Clothes don’t fold themselves. Walls don’t happen to paint themselves fireplace red. Over my head. Send to journals. Write it. Revise it. Read it.
Scratch it out. Insomniacs anonymous. He winked at me! And then I am there. I love it when a man winks. Then I have blacked. Then I am where? He said welcome to my world and held my hand while we were going under. I don’t swim like a fishie. How come they don’t tell you the things you want are gonna hurt this much? I’m poppin’ Motrins on a roller coaster.