It was meant to be, right I mean, everything happens for a reason, we choose our parents and our reality, the ball of cotton gets knocked off the table by kittykat and unwinds and unwinds and unwinds the long story of all of us, each individual, stories up our arms, symbolic reference to everything and everywhere, if god meant baby to die, baby dies, who's to doubt or deny, our footprints were made long before we learnt how to walk, all walks having been walked, all thoughts having been thought, this age is of xerox, repetition, reproduction, yes, there is originality as each person has their particular psychological take on baking a cake, dressing a bird, writing a book, tattooing a leg.
There is a strong cyclic force and it goes round and round and round and we may be seduced into thinking that it's a sphere but I tell you sister and brother, this ain't no circle but a beautiful arduous spiral where we go round and round and round always with a little edge, always a little different, always similar enough to recognize ourselves, our movement, the pattern. And jesus we may moan when we eclipse on the the dissolute that we are back here again, again, again damn it, didn't we learn anything, but I swear by the teeth in my mouth that it ain't the same it is a transliterated shift, it's a subtle trans-migration of the body and the mind.
So it is like this that I find myself in a foreign land, learning the trade of the needle.
It's official. I've quit one of my most difficult and horrendous jobs. I did learn so much from the experience- directly, indirectly- reflectively. I mostly had a miserable time and during my next to last shift I spent much of it in the bathroom sobbing to my dead mummy. Nevermind the fact that I was so inexperienced in understanding, determining and acting upon life threatening situations. That would have been enough. But to exasperate the stress level by tenfold, I was working in a very difficult environment, with people who had issues bigger than the Eiffel tower.
Taking a place in any other household is always difficult. There are customs and attitudes and idiosyncrasies that are always particular to each grouping of people, klan and peculiar to our own. It is said that birds of a feather flock together but I wonder rather, that flocking together binds birds together.
a small home, immaculately kept, terse conversations, closed rooms, no kitchen table kitchen table the place to sit, congregate, break bread, share. People here eat alone, sit and sleep alone. Silence, rather than an introspective zone to lay back and collect, engulfs itself into a mausoleum of sorrow and solemnity. A narrow word rises up from the smoldering melting metal of barbed wire and it is austerity. Here, we work by detail, always hidden under the shadow of bigger than, wonder, imagination. Put this there. Do this that. Shhhh! And, "in this house, we don't share anything!'
It's a tragedy really, not sharing. Sharing is the biggest thing- from food to shelter to love to knowledge.
Barren community space, solitary living amongst others, no hello no how are you doing no what are you thinking about- just detail: put this there do this that shhhh!
Nonetheless, the defacto line of nobody shares anything in this house- we have nothing to do with each other is in fact, cataclysmically untrue. A caretaker who has living in her house for a decade, her employer, a paraplegic man, indeed has a relationship. That's what we humans do. We have relationships. And the longer we spend together, and the less interference from the outside, the more inclined we grow to each other.
An agitation grew for me from a difference in predilection. How difficult it is to all get along! I was thrown into a system of dogma and stoicism that I have adverse reaction to. Those that know me will be quick to say that I am no chatter upper and that I am definitively serious and introspective but that my senses do guide me. I am open to surprise and humble mistaken whoopsies. I have ideals and beliefs and am optimistically wired. I am a compatriot (bread breaker!) to the underdog. I am an underdog.
But you know, dogma just gets to me right to the bone in a most unpleasant sort of way. Dogma can guide us and give us resource or recourse. It is not a replacement for truth. Dogma can take a hold of an entire life and perhaps thats what it's for; to fill the void of skirting; running away from the reaching out, asking questions, looking in the mirror. Dogma is always right. it's the individual who pulls the trigger.
in the back country I used to walk . or sometimes I would take my bicycle-if it was increment weather with the snow and ice or if I was tired or just lazy ass I would take the public transit and we would be squished together like an international soup tasting a little like srilanka in one seat and greek in another and maybe a little algerian standing up
here in the frontier land I need the machine and I have three beasts but this gloria is my favourite she makes me warm and comfortable and safe- sometime I will know the ways of the people and learn how to hunt and fish- I have my own rifle from my daddy and will use it on birds and squirrel- here there are not so many people- here it is the land- the rivers and cliffs and the bear and the mountain goat- here it is the grouse and quail and osprey- here is me and gloria.
