Onward.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Buried Shoebox Love
What is there to a Saturday night in my misty world? For starters, I sit cross legged to keep my toes warm because I don't know how to turn on my apartment's rusted, moderately dangerous looking heater. When I realize the spiders have begun to spin long strands of my hair into their webs, hours are spent defensively scrubbing the darkest corners of my living space (which I strongly suspect may be the most action those baseboards have seen in years). After a good amount of harassed brooding, I realize it's time to concoct an exit plan... as colorful and far-fetched as my mind can possibly make it. Even when my energy levels are at their most threadbare, it's my restless ambition that always seems to hoist me up and into the tangled, unknown fray. That's what brought me out here in the first place, right?
Onward.
Onward.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Thank God you see me the way you do, strange as you are to me.
October begins, and I start to wander. One night finds me in such a tunnel, I finally work up the courage to dial the number of a spiritual healer I found via search engine some time ago. That's right, a spiritual healer. I found her somewhere in between my research on chakras, homeopathy, and a fascination with nimble wrists weighed down by piles of beads and foreign, tattooed inscriptions. After a brief, breathy conversation on the phone, we agreed to meet upstairs at my favorite yoga studio downtown.
Some people you meet and immediately feel a communion with, and Petra is one of them. She is all motherly smiles, jade jewelry, and precious insight. After unloading what felt like a semi-truck of problems onto her, we decided to balance my chakras. It's a difficult practice to describe, other than to say she cupped my face like a child's, breezed her feather-like fingertips from my inner arms outward, and meditated her thumbs in circular patterns across my skittish upper stomach. After the whole blessed exercise was over, in which I was steeped in a chaotically imaginative series of dreams, me and my nest of hair rolled over and up. She told me that my resistant chakras were located in my root (connection and comfort with the earth/your surroundings), my naval (power over one's choices), throat (ability to communicate), and least surprisingly, in my heart (security, validation, love). After feeling rather hopeless upon receipt of this information, she grins at me and said, "It's not too late to feel good again. For such a young person, you are full of depth, and this will be your greatest gift to yourself and others. Its important to nurture yourself."
Walking outside was like being born. The shift I feel is subtle and subterranean; a feeling I can only describe as tectonic. Restlessness begins to open inside of me like a flower, and I catch my reflection in a mirror, and I can see my face like I haven't in... months? Years? My irises are bolted with brown, absolutely ablaze with an awakening.
Suddenly, I can sense the normal smells of weed and saltwater lacing themselves into the breeze that drifts down State street, and a lackadaisical mentality reflected in the faces of those who amble down the sidewalks. It's a constant rotation of tourist families by day and buttoned up men by night gravitate downtown for beers and a sense of unhurriedness. My feet carry me to Rusty's, a greasy sort of pizza parlor where 13 year old boys flock in territorial droves, their blonde curls askew beneath sun-bleached caps and skateboards buried in the crook of their freckled elbows. They like it here because they can leer at the female cashier when she leans forward to collect change, and because they can use the word "fuck" without retribution. I let myself order a pizza, and after months of organic nosh, it bursts open in my mouth like a sun. I suspect that the amount of water I drank has emptied some rural pond, and when my stomach makes noises, I take pleasure in feeling and place a hand on it lovingly.
When I can see others clearly, it is easier to see myself. A sweet man who sells me a sham set recognizes me with a smile and asks me if I work in the area. I tell him I do, and cry when I leave the shop because someone has noticed me.
Some people you meet and immediately feel a communion with, and Petra is one of them. She is all motherly smiles, jade jewelry, and precious insight. After unloading what felt like a semi-truck of problems onto her, we decided to balance my chakras. It's a difficult practice to describe, other than to say she cupped my face like a child's, breezed her feather-like fingertips from my inner arms outward, and meditated her thumbs in circular patterns across my skittish upper stomach. After the whole blessed exercise was over, in which I was steeped in a chaotically imaginative series of dreams, me and my nest of hair rolled over and up. She told me that my resistant chakras were located in my root (connection and comfort with the earth/your surroundings), my naval (power over one's choices), throat (ability to communicate), and least surprisingly, in my heart (security, validation, love). After feeling rather hopeless upon receipt of this information, she grins at me and said, "It's not too late to feel good again. For such a young person, you are full of depth, and this will be your greatest gift to yourself and others. Its important to nurture yourself."
Walking outside was like being born. The shift I feel is subtle and subterranean; a feeling I can only describe as tectonic. Restlessness begins to open inside of me like a flower, and I catch my reflection in a mirror, and I can see my face like I haven't in... months? Years? My irises are bolted with brown, absolutely ablaze with an awakening.
Suddenly, I can sense the normal smells of weed and saltwater lacing themselves into the breeze that drifts down State street, and a lackadaisical mentality reflected in the faces of those who amble down the sidewalks. It's a constant rotation of tourist families by day and buttoned up men by night gravitate downtown for beers and a sense of unhurriedness. My feet carry me to Rusty's, a greasy sort of pizza parlor where 13 year old boys flock in territorial droves, their blonde curls askew beneath sun-bleached caps and skateboards buried in the crook of their freckled elbows. They like it here because they can leer at the female cashier when she leans forward to collect change, and because they can use the word "fuck" without retribution. I let myself order a pizza, and after months of organic nosh, it bursts open in my mouth like a sun. I suspect that the amount of water I drank has emptied some rural pond, and when my stomach makes noises, I take pleasure in feeling and place a hand on it lovingly.
When I can see others clearly, it is easier to see myself. A sweet man who sells me a sham set recognizes me with a smile and asks me if I work in the area. I tell him I do, and cry when I leave the shop because someone has noticed me.
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