Wednesday, August 10, 2011
"You'll disappear like a June bug in July, I'll be thankful for my time."
At night, I prop my feet against the banister on my porch and let the rain drip down my toes. The cool droplets collect on my feet before meandering down my calves, falling into the space behind my knee, and then down my thighs. Like fingers trailing the contours of my legs, the rain is a sensual presence within my own.
And the June bugs! Dark, full of rich ambers and browns that have an iridescent quality in my streamed porch lights' shine. They fill my ears with little nothings. In the clicks and chirps, I have full conversations with myself like my mom used to when she thought I was asleep and NPR played on the radio. Like a lively friend provoking a deep conversation, the June bugs are a filling presence within my own.
This summer, I have stepped into learning on my own. I moved to a new city where most don't live for half the year, and where people have their own lives and work and have their own friends; the occasional dinner party felt like an oasis in the desert of social abandonment; and real life took precedent over play, most days.
It's scary when I realize how temporary people are. As it is, I tend to build superficial relationships with folks to keep from getting too hurt when they leave (we all leave, sometimes). But when I let people in, and they leave, it feels like a severed chord; a missing finger; and something to be mourned as a loss. The Flaming Lips, though, have a lyric:
"And instead of saying all of your goodbyes - let them know You realize that life goes fast It's hard to make the good things last You realize the sun doesn't go down It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round"
I find that comforting. If not completely upfront about that with every person I meet, I try to remind myself as best possible of that when I start letting someone in.
But the better question is how do you let yourself in? How do you be friends with yourself? Depend on yourself for support, comfort, security, and love? These are those age-old questions that get wrapped in with growing up; the questions we have to answer (or strive to answer) through life and experience; and the answers come more intuitively than given.
For me, I feel my presence as supportive when I lie in bed and grab my pillow to hold onto tight at night. I feel comfort when I laugh and scream at something that just passed through my head, or for tone deafness in the shower. I feel myself keeping me safe when I make decisions about what to buy, where to be at night, and what creeps to avoid. I feel my love everyday when I nourish my body; when I cook myself biscuits; when I smile at something I've said or seen and appreciate it as perceptively independent from my own existence.
I used to have so many best friends, but now I think all I want is one: me. And you know as well as I do that's not an abandonment of people I love and care for as so much a found connection that will never tear, and that I will never loose -- that's special.
** HAVE SUSHI WITH PEOPLE YOU HAVEN'T SEEN IN 5-6 YEARS AND END UP SPENDING THE ENTIRE NIGHT TOGETHER.
** GO TO THE CLUB SOBER AND DANCE WITH YOUR SHIRT OFF.
** LAUGH UNTIL 6 AM AT THE SAME JOKE WITH NEW PEOPLE YOU'VE HARDLY HUNG OUT WITH.
** RESPOND TO 2:30AM TEXT MESSAGES WHEN YOU'RE STILL ASLEEP.
** LAUGH OUT OF NERVOUSNESS IN FRONT OF LESBIANS OUTSIDE OF A BAR.
** SASS THE WAL-GREENS EMPLOYEES OVER MANGO ICED TEA.