I was having daydreams about sending my mom flowers for Mother’s Day. For getting her address and writing some letter of explanation about why I can’t talk to her. My oldest son doesn’t talk to me and I don’t talk to her. There is a whole black hole of unprocess-able emotional energy there. Just a swirling mass of confusion and pain with knots tied all willy nilly to my present, for no reason that is obvious, except for preventing any kind of future that would contain joy and lightness of being. Because the confusion about how to get loved by her has woven strands through every fiber. Confusion. The abandonment of my father, who did seem to love me just as a matter of fact with absolutely no requirement from my being, has only drawn the well deeper. These are the lessons of my life, my shadow, my God, my Judge and my reckoning.
It all happened so quick, my life. I was on a conveyor belt towards tomorrow before I understood what tomorrow was. The unmet needs, the confusion about how to get mother to love me. It collapsed a piece of my psyche. It deranged a portion of my soul. It twisted a life trajectory into believing holding pain in silence was noble, suppressing myself the only way to survive. Because I was only ever ridiculed for needing. Don’t need. Don’t want. Don’t ask. I was adamantly discouraged from expressing. Quit shining. Stop trying to be something. Get over your independent observations. Do it this way, not the way that feels right.
And now I am myself in private. I have done everything I can to remove my self from societal whims which is just more of the same, a critic at every turn, the illusion of fulfillment that will never come. They will bend you to their will for their needs and never bat an eye. At least my mother prepared me well for the state of the world as it is. Don’t trust authority. Don’t believe going with the crowd will make you happy. Keep your secrets close to the hilt cause they will stab you with them before you could possibly see it coming.
Society is a dysfunctional monstrosity some people still try to pretend is righteous, or stable, or necessary.
Societal norms are like worms, burrowing through the soil of our psyche, breaking down the stuff of life before we’re even dead. Plant fodder that walks around boasting about how much this or that we are. We are just a matrix for bacteria to hang it’s shingles, an infrastructure of viral potential, an enclosure for water to bath it all in.
A conglomeration of cells endlessly multiplying. Sparks of electrical cacophony creating light shows with no fusion, no direction, no orgasm. Just there barely filtered, barely acknowledged as we march head first to the dirt. The soil our only true cosmos.
I asked God, Hey, God, what is death? God said, “absence of thought”.
Hey, God, what is a thought? God laughs… “what isn’t?”
I have to course correct my needs from that of a child, desiring reflection and permission, seeking guidance and example in how to gather satiety and comfort to that of an adult, that which offers reflection and permission, that which encourages and nurtures, that which trusts it’s own instincts first and offers them to the community without demand for payment or penance.
My mom once told me that she had gone to a psychic when us kids were young. I was just barely a toddler. I grew up hearing these predictions. She never told the whole story, always kept so much back. Why say anything at all then? I think that psychic said I’d be a singer. All humans are singers. We shake the world we live in from the trembling within us. But I wish I could sing loud and lovely now, so I could find the perfect song to share for accentuating these thoughts. The perfect tune to soothe the hearts still grieving imperfection as if it is not paving the path to better.