Without the ability to testify, we collect and collect and collect, almost just as much as I collect wine bottles in my "wine closet." Maybe that's why I got sick. See red nose for evidence:
It is red and makes me feel closer to death. There are so many people to lose in this world. It is as if they disappear into a world with two moons, or into the forest, or maybe, nowhere. (hold on...pouring a Greyhound in a sippy cup with a straw. IT'S GOOD FOR YOU WHEN YOU'RE SICK.)
When my father was killed, I was a 16-year-old righteous woman, wanting to see what the lower classes did, so I started my mornings at 5 am with a workout, went to a community college at 7 am (I know, it was like a satire of knowing), and started my work at a record store at 3 pm. Because this lower college experience is one I know nothing about as a member of the waxed upper echelon of society, I accidentally signed up for a motivational class meant for students with mental and physical disabilities. So I pretended my way through, ONLY ACTING THAT I HAD REAL PROBLEMS, and I remember for the whole four months one student in a wheelchair would never speak, even when addressed directly with a question or support. Another student who had a head shaped like a hairless football had been running through the fields of lettuce near our homes when a plane dropped pesticide on him and he was slowly dying, in pain and incredibly angry. Lastly, I dated an older man named Raul who lived in the southern California fields of Somis, and worked at the Pic-N-Save. When I went to meet his family in their trailer, in the shade of two one story tall pesticide tanks, I learned that they all had cancer and most were on their death beds. He lost his virginity under a full moon next to those tanks, the disease close to pleasure (seems fitting, I guess).
It was hard to keep up this working class disguise what with my french manicures and perfectly tweezed eyebrows, and eventually upon one afternoon lunch break of leaving my fake job at Tower Records, I drove past an accident where a mangled motorcycle lay on the road next to a Volvo, and all the fluids, blood and guts and car leak, were mingling in the road. Later that night I was called and told that this was my father, a well-known senator, who was taking his Ducati out for a ride in the wild wind on the way to an AA meeting (his own pretend working class attempt to expand his horizons). Basically, we were philanthropists. Or maybe we were scientists, researching the wretched.
Oh, how I digress when the moon is filling to the brim, and how I think about the opportunities for expression and silence. The reality is that my life is about My Time, so if someone comes down on me, my bodyguard, Boleslaw, will take care of it. But the truth is that on the full moon I try to see two moons, and I lay out my rocks and jewelry to be blessed under the light that shows what's really happening. Which is to say, what I could give a fuck about, and what I hold with me during my most sacred sleeps of two moons (besides the martini glasses): selenite stones. They charge other stones. In one hand is a selenite orb, and in the other, a wand, and behind my head, a sword. There is no undoing the importance of ritual, to be able to see what must barrel forward, and what will become silent. And to see glittery things when one is drinking...
I welcome my readers to take a special piece of jewelry or stone this full moon, dip in water, and put under the full moon. I might be missing somewhere, I might be a volatile, hostile, salty cunt, but I do it with a style and an abandon. For example, SURPRISE stirfry! What's in it? Everything!
Join me this full moon in blessing something before you pass out drunk face-down on a rug...I mean, before you kiss your loved ones before going to bed...and consider speaking to that real bitch of a moon what you need to say. She won't diss you for what you need to say. And consider saying nothing. I, for example, tape my mouth when it's time to, after I've worn out the words and begin getting eye rollings from the rich wasps at my whiskey (ahem, tea) hour. As if time actually exists--we all know the Uyghur people invented this to propel their circuses forward in storm and wind through the Han Chinese official policies! Obviously makes sense!
This is our time. Vent. Drink. Dance. Indulge. Be hated. Be loved. Get it, Honey. And remember to bless your mess with conviction. Cheers to that, Honey. Grab yourself a vodka and grapefruit and lounge in your kimono, feeling satisfied, but never, never proud--pride is tacky. And the moons you might see will tsk-tsk such pride. Approach them with shame, and turn away in reverence. Oh, we are all so lucky, Honey, to be rich and capable of using our My Time for such luxury.
No comments:
Post a Comment