Sequel to Without Mature Trees

I have to stop reading e. e. cummings

Alright, I can’t lie anymore.

Not with my mouth. Not with my body. Not with my thoughts.

Ya. That’s right. I haven’t been 100% honest about who I love or what I’ve endured in my dreams.

I write all these dear future husband letters but they double as dear john letters.

Get it?

Here’s a fun fact: men who objectify women can’t tell the difference between body language that mirrors their thoughts and body language that originates in the minds of those they objectify.

This morning I was holding my umbrella suggestively. Yup, you guessed right. I was thinking sexual thoughts about my umbrella.

In the minds of those who were thinking about me, a projected version of me that I have zero control over was doing things to their body parts, well, projections of their parts.

Sounds pretty gross when I put it that way. Not sexy at all. I mean, everyone wants a fully active participant. Well, almost everyone. I don’t volunteer.

Did we all hear that? No thank you. A very definitive get out and go.

Here’s something that I hope will blow their minds. If you ‘know’ me through my avi and my fiction, you don’t know me.

What you know is a projection of me. A projection from your own subconscious. It’s a version of every woman you’ve ever loved or hated, been loved by and rejected by all rolled up into one outfit you dressed me in. The blank slate you projected over my true self.

For all intents and purposes, you’re fucking yourself. And you’ve even ruined the childish pleasure I once took in telling assholes to go fuck themselves. Because I know what that means to some now.

I’m not a baseball glove.

And, deep down somewhere in a recess you haven’t explored because it would inconveniently rip out the floor you spent so much money and time creating, you want it this way. I can’t say why. That’s your job to go down there. Not mine.

I don’t love you. But you knew that. You never wanted me to love you. You wanted some part of me to believe that I loved you so I would let you into my home when you knocked on the door.

Because for some of you, it’s more exciting when you believe at least a part of my mind is connecting to yours. But no thank you.

I’ve only been asked to leave through a window once in my whole life. And I told myself it would never happen again because it made me feel humiliated.

And hey, guess what else? When you come to me masked, wearing borrowed clothes, whether it’s because you don’t truly believe your clothes are shiny enough or it’s because you want to trick me, you invite others to do the same.

I have a son. He’s just a toddler most days and I don’t believe in corporal punishment. I believe in allowing his spirit to shine through. I believe in encouraging his voice. I’m trying very hard to help him grow into the man I know he can eventually be.

And, the fact that he’s precocious complicates things, because he sees the way you treat me and he believes this is the way that I deserve to be treated.

He’s tall for his age and he has a loud mean streak. His mean words echo. And sometimes the thing that scares me most is the fact that he has no feelings. When he’s with me, I feel nothing at all. Every parent has had times when we want to lock ourselves in our room and plug our headphones in and take a break from the screaming and the kicking on our door.

But this kid, this son of mine who isn’t my son at all, is like Patrick Swayze in Ghost. Henry the Eighth he is he is. It can be exhausting. Sometimes I think that’s the point. When I’m tired I don’t cook Brussels sprouts and I know that if I microwave peas, he’d just feed them to our cat.

But he has nobody else. I mean, I’m his mom now. His mom asked me to take care of him before she died. It was all very tragic and I don’t want his life to be tragic.

Before she died she told me that his brain is like a sponge, that he picks up on everything and he’s smart, he can pick up anything and teach himself.

She was right. It wasn’t just something a mom says about her kid.

He’s very good at learning through osmosis. I swear he’s already picked my brain and learned everything there is to know about social norms and acceptable behaviour that is in there.

So when this club of grown ass men take it upon themselves to slip into my life through my avi and my words and my unmet needs, he sees that.

He learns to treat me with no respect as I’m being objectified, and it sucks because I have no control over what other people do.

How am I supposed to walk away from something I don’t know is happening?

What am I supposed to visualize unless I know who is doing it? Should I just picture a bunch of sloped-foreheads with lizard tails coming out of the bottom of their skulls on stick figures or maybe on scarecrows or tin men?

And now I see it. Now I see them walking away.

But I’m a mom. I’m going to see where they’re headed. Because other unsuspecting humans who are about to become objectified need to know what black hole vortex they are about to be sucked into.

Isn’t that what everyone does? No?

Okay. But that’s not me. I didn’t come to this hell to learn lessons and keep them to myself like a toddler afraid to share, afraid he won’t get to keep anything for himself.

Every fucking line was written for you. That’s where you fit into this story.

I wanted you to know me. And in doing so, I inadvertently shared too much of myself with a bunch of toads.

But it was meant to be this way, I’m sure of it. I just don’t know why yet.

i didn’t know: 2015

720, 777

He says it’s impossible to bring me to him but he walks the streets I used to walk on nights like this and there he is.

I need to cry is what’s happening. My feeling of loneliness is stifling. It stifles my joy my creativity my sight my faith. I’m lost in it. It’s an entire place, loneliness. A very large place and when I’m there looking around me it feels more vast than any feeling I’ve felt otherwise. It feels bigger and more lasting than joy than wonder than trust than peace.

I don’t feel like I’m grieving anymore. Somehow this process of cleaning out my space has swept away the grief. It’s gone. But in its place?

Still sadness. Sad because I do not want to feel alone. And sad because the little girl in me – the one who used to be driven by that tiny little square of junkyard on Finch between Keele and Jane believing what they told her about the orphanage – that little girl, Clair, who only ever wanted to be loved and who only knew betrayal and disgust and impatience and annoyance and frustration and threats and violence. Clair wants there to be more love not only in the world but in her life. And she’s very afraid that if the love is not happening now it will never happen. Because, as the past says, shit in one hand and wish in the other and see which fills up first.

But the adult me responds, hey, who cares which fills first? So I have a handful of shit. I also have a free hand to hold wishes. And after squishing the shit between my fingers and becoming intimate with the feel of it, I can move onto my other hand and start wishing. The shit hand is filled. No vacancy. Time for wishes. Some of us call them miracles.

It makes me sad, even still, that some people will never believe anything beyond the very low vibration of cynicism. I wish sometimes that I felt nothing in that specific case. But I cannot stop my feelings. They aren’t easy to corral. Feelings are wild and free. So, I feel. It’s compassion. Yes, even for people who are stuck in fear. At one point I was stuck in fear. And there were a few people who did not give up on me. Those people helped me. Their belief in me visa vie never giving up and holding my hand helped me. And I’ll never ever forget that. Ever. Regardless of what anything was supposed to be, that was supposed to be. And I am grateful. I will be forever grateful. And I even posted my gratitude online. I think, without understanding at the time, I did it for a reason. For this now. Because for whatever reason, whatever these people who helped me are going through, they need to know that what they did played an integral part in my getting through. And no, I would not have found just anyone else. I tried, remember? Just anyone else in my life was not to be. I know this now.

The problem is simply that I’m tired of all these hard times. I’m tired of going through such suffering tests struggles opportunities by myself. Without a man who loves me back to cuddle up into at the end of the day. I feel again, after this most recent mess, like I deserve to be loved. I’ve cleared out the shame. It blew away on the wind. A nice cold wind that came in from the north and went straight into the magma core of the earth.

Shame stripped
still here, through again
only thing missing
is you
whoever you are

I suppose I can go on alone. I suppose I will be okay for another winter year decade whatever alone. I suppose I will be okay until.

having a cigarette in late August, 2015

You’ll find me in places where others pass through. Going anywhere? I’ll be sitting still in the middle of the highway. Cross legged. Dodging traffic. While one part of me knows this is the best thing, another part of me feels angry bitter resentful. That part hates stillness more than going backward. That part of me still sees stillness as going backward. Because anything that is motionless is backward. I’m a fucking bird. When the hell do birds stay still? Oh ya, when they ride the waves.

So, in truth, I’m not sitting still. I’m gliding. And it feels weird to hitch a ride. But why do I feel this is what’s happening? Because I feel separate from the flow. That’s a constricted pov. I am as much a part of the flow as anything else. I am as much Camus as Whitman and Cummings and Plato and Einstein and Sagan and water and wind and soil and sun.

So I sit. It’s more difficult when I’ve been going like mad (auto word which makes me think of Lady Macbeth, to whom I’ve been recently compared. Unfortunately. I don’t think I should think too much about it. Just because that character was washing out blood and her OCD represented guilt from doing something wrong. That was not the intention of that comparison. It’s only my own shit that kicks in – the knowledge of the play. Not

Brb. Getting murdered by flies.