Thursday, June 11, 2009
Brains Baked, Simmered, Fried And Flaked.
I am trying to figure out what is going on with me and why I am feeling that paralysis, that peculiar flatness and niggling anxiety which overcame me last summer so fiercely.
I am trying to figure out if any of this means anything or if it's all the dream of an unborn god or the illusion of a buddha or the slideshow of an alien race, this life on earth, this particular life of mine.
It's so hot. That I know. I go for a walk and am not cool again all day long, no matter what. I feel like a brute animal, pushing myself to walk in this heat, to go out into the garden and dig up weeds, pulling with the twisting motion that is sure to make my hand go numb all night long, which makes it numb right now. That is the only thing I feel capable of these days- these dumb animal tasks of walking and weeding and sweeping the floors of the dust and the dog hair, the fine, greasy black dirt that finds its way into my house every minute of every day.
Anything else feels like too much.
I think there is still poetry in me, but it's hiding, it's dug down deep and I don't have the energy to pull it out and up, I've spent it all on Johnson grass, on my knees in the dirt.
Even my new chickens don't delight me the way they should. Ah yes, the peep-peeps. There was another little one I was worried about. The sister (it looked to me) of Precious, who died. She was not doing well either, and I separated her from the others, gave her sugar water and put her in her own light-heated box. She cried so piteously and beat her little wings and took such amazingly strong hop-flights that I put her back with the others who were traumatized themselves by her cries, huddled up in a corner of their bigger cage.
She seems fine now, active and growing, perhaps scared into life by her perceived peril.
I do not know.
It took all my strength to call the dog groomer today but I did it. The dogs are nasty and dirty and their hair is falling off in dreads which I sweep up. I know they're hot.
Yesterday the assistant post-mistress came by with another woman to witness to me. I was just leaving the house, dressed in black and silver to go to lunch with my birthday boy and I did not invite them in. Her grandchildren were hanging out of the windows of the van and I waved to them. I've already told this sweet, sweet woman (and she is-oh, she really is) that I have my own very strong opinions about religion and yet, here she comes again as if she can, with the power of her belief and her Jehovah, show me how to get to heaven. I am so tired of these people who want me to come to Jesus. I wanted to say to her, "Miss Martha, how about this? You can come in with your Watch Tower, your Bible and we shall sit down and we shall talk about this. You go first."
And then, and then...oh what?
I'll pulverize her arguments with my logic, my disbelief, her very own Bible? I could, but then what? She would say what they all say, that it is a matter of faith.
A waste of time.
But better yet, I could walk over to her house and knock on her door and say, "Miss Martha, I would like to share with you the grace and glory of what I believe, which is that I have no belief, except in the spark of whatever it is, the oak tree, the water, the sun and the moon, the dirt and the holy womb."
Again. A waste of time.
I don't care what she believes. Why does she care what I believe? Why do these people think I need to know Jesus? As if I'd never heard of him before in my life and if they present him to me in the right way, I will fall down on my knees and beg forgiveness for my blindness, all of my sins, and the sins of Adam and Eve, oh yes, especially Eve because believe me, I have been tempted before and I have tempted before and that is the evil Eve in me and so yes, I must believe in our lord Jesus Christ in order to go to heaven when I die.
Does that make sense to you?
It's all such a tangle of myth and fear.
While I was walking this morning, I was thinking of how we have developed these clever brains, probably to help us hunt and gather successfully, to figure out how to get enough calories in our bodies to sustain us long enough to breed, to raise those babies up to be healthy enough so that they can hunt and gather and breed. And then when food became easier to procure with cultivation and the domestication of animals, figured out by these smart brains, the brains had to find other things to do. And so they did. The invented speech so they could communicate about something more than danger or contentment. They invented art and drew the stories of their hunts and wove the magic to make them work on the walls of caves. They told stories around their fires of heroic feats, of besting the enemy, of how their gods had protected them, and then religion was born, too. They had to invent counting to keep track of their cows, they had to invent writing to keep track of their stories and the rules they had decided their gods had given them to live by. They had to invent music because their bodies wanted to dance and they had to invent singing because their throats poured out praise for bountiful crops, poured out dirges for death and destruction.
And then wheels to get grain from one place to another and then roads so the wheels would work and markets so the people could come together and sell what they had to each other and they tamed and changed the dog to watch the flocks and to keep us company and here we are now- our iPods, our iPhones, our poodles, our airplanes, our guns, our religions, our rockets and bombs, our Watch Towers and our Bibles, Korans, Tibetian Books of The Dead, make-up and fashion, our cars and energy bars, and our computers where we still write out our stories and tell them to each other around this strange fire we call the internet.
So I'm thinking of all of this while I do the brute work of an animal, thinking, yes, this how it got so perverted, all of it. These clever brains that were developed to help us hunt because we had no claws or slashing teeth or legs that could outrun an enemy with four swift legs and now we don't need to do that and here we are.
Is it any wonder we feel that no matter what we have, what we do, where we go, there is something missing, something we should be doing and what is it?
Maybe it's just that. The moving of our bodies like animals a certain part of every day. I don't know.
I don't know shit today.
I keep thinking about my friend telling me last November that it was okay, I could be as crazy and sad as I needed to be but I don't want to be crazy or sad. I don't want to need to feel those things. I don't want to feel so crazy I can't do my hunting and gathering at the grocery store. I don't want to feel like I can't dress like a girl and go out to hear music and talk to friends.
I don't want that. I don't want that at all.
It's hot. I know that. I like to feel strong in my body. I know that. I like to push it in this heat until I can't push it any more and then I like to lay down and rest it.
Maybe that's all I need to do right now.
That, and obviously, to write about it. To try and pull a little of that poetry out of my soul.
Which is no more or less important than keeping chickens alive, pulling weeds from the garden.
Which is far more important to me than trying to push my beliefs on people who have their own.
No. Please. If I had a prayer it would go like this:
Bless me Mother, for I have not sinned. And if I have, it didn't mean much. And I have done your bidding and grown things And I have been amazed at the bounty around me. And sometimes I am sad. But bless me, Mother For I keep trying.
And then I go on and sweep the floor, sweep the floor, sweep the holy boards of my floor.