I don’t know what drew me here. Something mysterious. Maybe the
specter of death? That breathing presence behind me? It doesn’t
feel like anything that benign or cosmic. I think it’s the constant fear of being criticized. I can’t say “no hope, no fear” in my personal
relationships. I’m always afraid I’m
going to be accused of breaking some social rule. Like in high school. Some rule I didn’t agree to. Some rule I didn’t even know about.
A friend pokes me with her sword from time to
time, as if my amorphous mass of feelings and thoughts aren’t enough – or aren't inviolate. I’m always slightly horrified and guilty to
be awakened from my beautiful slumber – that crucible or slurry of dreams and
portents never far from my consciousness.
I wanted to write about this. And about missing my soulmate. Not him the person but him the presence –
my lover in the ethers. Where is he now,
and who is he now? Is he happy? Is he safe? I reach out with my timeless love and invincible care.
I leave a fingerprint just to mark my place, with an old sketch when I was creating affirmations to prod me into making art, like a frog being pushed by its fond parent to slide into the pond and kick. You don't know you can swim until you try. Now that my memoir is out in the world, I feel like that frog, slowly floating down while the fragments of lilies and minnows settle around me.
