11.24.2007
Expressionism and how
It's that moment when all the pieces we randomly threw in the air begin to fall and make something beautiful. Marcel Duchamp couldn't do this better. Only this is life. This is my life and your life and the lives of all the people we worship for loving us as we are. We are the canvas of hope. Of future. Of all the tomorrows we thirst for. There is nothing better than living today and being ok with whatever tomorrow brings.
11.15.2007
Fronts and cold.
The wind is blowing up something cold and delicious tonight. Standing and facing it makes me feel alive. I want it in a mason jar to drink until I'm full. This is out of reach. Kind of like the deepest deep. Insignificant because it's so vast. Becoming something unimaginable. The music of leaves running on the pavement. Holy moments, a sacred breathing body. The growth of that which can only be good. Hope surging.
Watching this play out before my eyes.
Watching this play out before my eyes.
11.07.2007
Sometimes...
Nothing comes out right sometimes.
That's why we keep on trying.
Rainbow highs, and your smiles. That was the weekend for me. I am left with emptiness that aches. I could swallow the ocean and still be dry with this thirst. This is good. I know that this is good. In meager drops I am fed the feast of a lifetime.
This was not what I wanted to say. I wanted to say things about Christmas, and how I am confused about it. I have spent the past couple of years trying to come to terms with how I felt about religion and god, and I realize that I don't know anything. I wanted to say something about my son, and how beautiful he is. I wanted to say that he gets embarrassed when I kiss him in public. I wanted to say that I want another chance at being a mom, but that I don't, all at the same time. I wanted to say something along those lines.
But it wouldn't come out right. I think sometimes that's just how it is.
That's why we keep on trying.
Rainbow highs, and your smiles. That was the weekend for me. I am left with emptiness that aches. I could swallow the ocean and still be dry with this thirst. This is good. I know that this is good. In meager drops I am fed the feast of a lifetime.
This was not what I wanted to say. I wanted to say things about Christmas, and how I am confused about it. I have spent the past couple of years trying to come to terms with how I felt about religion and god, and I realize that I don't know anything. I wanted to say something about my son, and how beautiful he is. I wanted to say that he gets embarrassed when I kiss him in public. I wanted to say that I want another chance at being a mom, but that I don't, all at the same time. I wanted to say something along those lines.
But it wouldn't come out right. I think sometimes that's just how it is.
11.05.2007
My Beautiful Boobs
Have I ever appreciated my boobs as much as I have in the last week? With the exception of the 9 months I spent being pregnant (and the corresponding WOW I HAVE BOOBS NOW!!!), and the additional year I devoted to being my son's personal dairy farm, I would have to say no. And even then. No. Not until this week have I ever thought about how beautiful my boobs are...
Why am I talking about my boobs?
Well the fact of the matter is there is something growing in them that shouldn't be there. A cyst. I hope a cyst. Possibly... probably... a tumor. And when you go in for an emergency exam because you're worried and they start throwing the word cancer around like it's a volleyball it begins to work on you. No matter how much you tell yourself, it's not me, I don't DON'T have cancer, still the thought works its way in. A worm that eats your brain alive at night when you lie in bed alone.
Only 2% of women under 35 are diagnosed with breast cancer every year. That's great. I love that number. I want to see more statistics like that please. But still the nagging thought that works on me is that 2% means it does happen. What if...
No no no no no no.
If I tell everyone else not to be worried about it. If I brush it off. If I can laugh at the fact that I'll end up with lumpy boobs... if I can do that then it will all be ok. When the time comes to worry then I'll worry.
Still. These are mine. They are a symbol, across the planet, of feminine beauty. They are mine. But they are wrong now. I can feel and see they are wrong. Oddly, even with a bra and shirt on I feel less beautiful just knowing that underneath they are no longer perfect. If I took that shirt off, you'd know.
Pride. Is this a misplaced pride in something I never created. Is this suddenly caring about something only because there is potential for it to be taken away. The child who doesn't care about the toy until someone else comes along and wants it. Did I take them for granted all this time? Their essential perfection. The proportion of beautiful curves. The pale soft skin that makes them so different from every other part of my anatomy.
This is mine. And I'm young. I want them to stay like this forever. I look at my grandmother and wonder were hers once like this? Will mine be like that someday? I know the answer. Hush. Don't treat me like a child. I know the answer.
I know. I know. I know. That I will be ok. I am ok with whatever happens. I am certain it is nothing of major concern. The doctor will wave his magic wand and remove the thing and there will only be a small scar. No one will ever know. A decade will pass before this will be a real concern. But they schedule tests. They poke and prod. They say hmmm and point to something on the scan and the intern nods. They talk excitedly in the hall. They say unusual. They consult the scan with other doctors. I sit and see them from around the corner pointing to me, heads together, talking low. They say nothing.
I try not to cry while I tell him in a flippant tone about the whole thing. And then close my eyes and admit I am vulnerable and worried. "You can't mess up beauty," he says. Has he always seen the most valuable things in me? And how did I go for so much of my life not seeing them in me. In others? My heart is slippery and up in my throat, flopping like a dying fish. Trashing. Attempting to oxygenate this revolting body. I love him more for that moment than for possibly anything else. And there are plenty of reasons to love. My beating heart makes me happy. I believe him. I believe him. You can't mess up beauty.
Why am I talking about my boobs?
Well the fact of the matter is there is something growing in them that shouldn't be there. A cyst. I hope a cyst. Possibly... probably... a tumor. And when you go in for an emergency exam because you're worried and they start throwing the word cancer around like it's a volleyball it begins to work on you. No matter how much you tell yourself, it's not me, I don't DON'T have cancer, still the thought works its way in. A worm that eats your brain alive at night when you lie in bed alone.
Only 2% of women under 35 are diagnosed with breast cancer every year. That's great. I love that number. I want to see more statistics like that please. But still the nagging thought that works on me is that 2% means it does happen. What if...
No no no no no no.
If I tell everyone else not to be worried about it. If I brush it off. If I can laugh at the fact that I'll end up with lumpy boobs... if I can do that then it will all be ok. When the time comes to worry then I'll worry.
Still. These are mine. They are a symbol, across the planet, of feminine beauty. They are mine. But they are wrong now. I can feel and see they are wrong. Oddly, even with a bra and shirt on I feel less beautiful just knowing that underneath they are no longer perfect. If I took that shirt off, you'd know.
Pride. Is this a misplaced pride in something I never created. Is this suddenly caring about something only because there is potential for it to be taken away. The child who doesn't care about the toy until someone else comes along and wants it. Did I take them for granted all this time? Their essential perfection. The proportion of beautiful curves. The pale soft skin that makes them so different from every other part of my anatomy.
This is mine. And I'm young. I want them to stay like this forever. I look at my grandmother and wonder were hers once like this? Will mine be like that someday? I know the answer. Hush. Don't treat me like a child. I know the answer.
I know. I know. I know. That I will be ok. I am ok with whatever happens. I am certain it is nothing of major concern. The doctor will wave his magic wand and remove the thing and there will only be a small scar. No one will ever know. A decade will pass before this will be a real concern. But they schedule tests. They poke and prod. They say hmmm and point to something on the scan and the intern nods. They talk excitedly in the hall. They say unusual. They consult the scan with other doctors. I sit and see them from around the corner pointing to me, heads together, talking low. They say nothing.
I try not to cry while I tell him in a flippant tone about the whole thing. And then close my eyes and admit I am vulnerable and worried. "You can't mess up beauty," he says. Has he always seen the most valuable things in me? And how did I go for so much of my life not seeing them in me. In others? My heart is slippery and up in my throat, flopping like a dying fish. Trashing. Attempting to oxygenate this revolting body. I love him more for that moment than for possibly anything else. And there are plenty of reasons to love. My beating heart makes me happy. I believe him. I believe him. You can't mess up beauty.
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