Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Life Mapping: “The Art of Cartography”- A secret I will keep... for the most part.

I love the theory of maps. Mapping a thing and a direction is, quite ironic and comically, something I am horrible at. I literally get lost in a parking lot. So it’s fitting that one of my novels (shaping up faster than I’d ever imagined) is called “The Art of Cartography."

When lost, you can either check your compass, look up at the sun and moon and go in search of water and food while finding your way north. many do, you can throw the map, and start acting like you know where you are. We are all the representations of the former. I'll speak for myself, I seek the destination of truth and have surrendered to the scary embarrassment of being lost, but I am committed to the journey. I trust it. I trust myself. 

It is not even “writing" to me. Now, it has become more of an extension of my thoughts as if a part of me is left breathing on paper. We don’t exist without the other. I write funny mass-palatable stuff, or provocative and love filled pieces for The Huffington Post or this blog. I’ve yet to share any of my “core creative writing” style.  If you read about my marriage ending, it will seem crazy that I feel this stuff is almost too personal. Laugh, I can barely write it. It’s funny. Lulu? Hold any information or personal aspects of life sacred? Really?


And so there are snippets only. A piece of me, breathing in the ether, for no other purpose than it feels right (in moderation.) An integral virtue of life I’m still trying to learn. My true hope is that I’ll look back at this post and cringe at how sophomoric the writing was because I hope to improve every single time. I believe it. So, here goes nothing....

AOC6. "Budding to Bow."
“Being" is a harsh and lonely attribute of a person. It has valleys deeper and darker than the surface appears. The width and expanse of limitless possibility are so very lost by the need to make things "make sense" on a level for mass consumption.

Even these words that fall out of my rapidly typing fingers to phone while I smoke a cigarette on a porch in the dark, aren't ever going to be digested as the simplicity of thought. This is not even formed or contemplated. It is a pounding line of words, dumped.

No man, woman, scientist or layperson will ever look and repel immodestly because of the pretense THEY perceive me to have. I have no pretense! How could I? Look at my life. I'm truly just streaming exactly what comes in the instant of an instant without care to rules, expectations or recipients.

That is being. The moments between the seen moments. “Being" is effortless; all of it. Does a tree grieve its leaves lost? Does sand stress for its place in a hierarchy of the granular scope? I'm alone and forsaken in my mere presence without needing boundaries and permission. So too is all that is violent and serene of nature. How is this so difficult to grasp? What is the risk or threat?

AOC1: “The Bottom- A latent Discovery.”
It was in that moment, in that crushing poetry of relation that I felt it. I knew that which was holding me to the anger was a farce. I was in self-denial sketched out in omission of a story solely to avoid reconciliation of what actually happened. It was too much to bear. There are always three sides to every story, his, mine and the truth.

Truth being the sacred commitment I’ve made to myself in all that has collapsed around me. I could cling to it, safe but scary because it’s non-negotiable. It was my haven in solitude. My only true friend left.

A struggle against final death, the final lie was in the last flopping, twitchy phase, so few of us witness. The last flicker and fight from that version of me that lived with and was held hostage by lies.  Those lies, big and small, served their rightful purpose of self-preservation. They allowed me to control the doors and windows of entrance to my deepest soul.

There is no way but through now. There are no masks between us, what he wrote in those emails unshackle themselves from the deep, immersion of my subconscious. Frantically the words swim to surface for oxygen, to live, not die. Inflated and feverish to declare love, they emerge all at once. Inversely, from the collective gasp that ripples in echoes, reborn, I loose my breath and begin to speak.

--------- So there is this:


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