Bittersweet

26/11/2013 § Leave a comment

The monk said to me, ‘It’s tradition, now go get your food with the other women after the men.’

Sister Cittapala said, ‘Girl, you’re too young to be here in the eyes of the law, but if you want to be here I want you to be here too. So we’re going sign this paper saying this woman here is your temporary guardian, if you’re both ok with that.’

The yoga teacher said I need to practise more often. That I’m not trying hard enough. It’s true. I keep cracking my stiff limbs back in on themselves instead of opening out. But if I do something regularly and try hard I might find out I’m no good… better to not try and never fail…right?

I can’t meditate. I especially can’t meditate with my palms up, I panic. I meditate with my palms downwards facing my body pressed into my knees instead of facing outwards everything… man that’s terrifying.

I have never been able to pray, my whole atheistic being baulks against it. Laughs, says what the hell are you doing, you are talking to a brick wall, you are talking to the wind, you are writing a dead letter to the ground and the ground can’t read English.

I can read English, have since I was three, have since I picked up my first book. I’ve read a lot of books but not as many as the ground has read bodies and footsteps and-

-breathes with us, matches our lung fills, sighs, says ‘here is my breath, take it, I’m breathing out so suck in quick, my lungs won’t last forever’. The ground reads the plants we put in it and the fruit we plant and pick. We pick too much, the ground feels like us. Taken, empty, hurt.

I kneel down sometimes, curl up, fold myself in half, push into the ground. It’s my form of prayer. Though I have no idea what I’m worshipping. I am terrified to expand and give; I think my body would rip apart. I don’t feel elastic, I feel solid, like wood, and wood doesn’t stretch. If I gave, what would I have left? So I absorb and shrink into my apparently complete individuality.

(Does wood stretch? Well willow makes baskets and it bends pretty well and I just made a bracelet out of nettle stems and damn that stuff is pretty tough. If I ever garrotte someone, I will use nettle twine I made myself)

I think I have to press myself whole because if there are holes in me they cannot be filled with other people, I am scared of being co-dependant so I push people away. I think I can only rely on myself, I think if I open up I will make myself vulnerable. It’s hard for me to see making myself vulnerable as a positive thing, it always seems to lead to regret.

There’s always grey misery lurking ready to take the stage, and of that I am fucking terrified. Grey misery, grey water-

-soapy grey washing up water washing pots at the monastery. I liked that job, I chose that job, it was healing to wash for 200 people. I am not a giver or a healer I am a taker, but I sometimes do my bit. Here I wanted my bit to be behind the scenes, hoping people wouldn’t notice, hoping I wouldn’t be accused of kindness or thanked because I’m far from the kindness of many people here. Don’t thank me for washing your pots, it is all I have done for you and it isn’t much. I should do more, I know. I am full of self hate for walking past homeless people and doing nothing.

I could talk when I washed the dishes, though I wasn’t allowed to, though I was always told off for being too loud. ‘This is a monastery girl! Not a shopping centre! And cover your elbows! Please, it helps the monks keep their minds pure…’ I quite like it, the thought of a monk being turned on by my elbows.

It shows he finds the human body sacred, beautiful, precious. It shows repressing your sex drive is a bad idea. I get turned on by men’s hands, and the veins in their lower arms. Do we need to shut ourselves in monasteries to find elbows beautiful? Do we need to repress our desires to find small parts sexy? I used to be an escort, read prostitute. Read unqualified therapist of men who are unhappy (unhappy like so many of us), but do not know why. Read liar, without choosing to be because society says it’s wrong, whilst we buy plastic and distance ourselves from the murder of animals.

Promise me, if you are a meat eater, that you would be willing to kill the animals you eat yourself. Promise me you’ll tell your children that the fish fingers they eat come from the fishys they read about in picture books. Please let us value the truth. If you are eating chicken but you baulk at the sight of one being humanely killed

-then don’t, fucking, eat it.

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Box

26/11/2013 § Leave a comment

I looked at the box
The box looked at me
We stayed like that for a while
Who knows how long
How silly I thought
The box can’t see
I walked away
The box watched me go
 
(Written aged 11)

Saving Grace

26/11/2013 § Leave a comment

I walked right past a man
and I knew, I knew his face
but I could not recall his name
or his job or his age
all I could recall was his
saving grace
 
I’ve never met a man or a woman in my life
who doesn’t have a saving grace
a saving grace
 
I fell into the arms of a man
I knew his charms
and I felt each of them work
but I didn’t shirk, I didn’t shirk
coz I don’t mind I do this all the time
I know that I’ll be fine
and you’re so right and kind
I don’t need to look for any
saving grace
 
you’re full of all the saving graces
you my dear are a saving grace

Papi Pacify

26/11/2013 § Leave a comment

Nails bitten till the nerves are exposed on each finger. I realise for the last day I’ve been finding pain a release. I grind food in my mouth to cut my tongue. I’ve got two blankets above me, sandwiching dildos and a wig from a webcam session. I didn’t expect it to be harder than escorting, but it’s stressful and my room is cold. The flaws we hate the most in others are the ones we see the potential to rise in ourselves, our hate is fear. I succeed in the ways which don’t matter but fail in the ones that count. I’ve found I’m self destructive like nearly everyone else. I think I’m addicted to uncomfortable situations, but you can’t grow as a person if you don’t do anything uncomfortable. It’s easier to hate someone than to put yourself in their shoes, and if I were her I might hate me too. I’m not homesick but I’m desperate to be home. I have the irrational belief that if I tidy my room well enough my life will be perfect. This is a quote from a Kurt Vonnegut book- “I’ll tell you what the human soul is, Mary,’ he whispered, his eyes closed. ‘Animals don’t have one. It’s the part of you that knows when your brain isn’t working right. I always knew, Mary. There wasn’t anything I could do about it, but I always knew.” When I ring my Gran I hear her dying on the phone. I feel her pain, she’s knows her brain isn’t working right. I’m cooking the dinner this Christmas, and I hope she’ll be alive for it.

 

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