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Monday, Jun. 24, 2002 / 9:12 p.m. ~Wordy Ruminations On the Nature of Being and Purpose, Deities and Higher Powers, and Last Night~ Now I'm thinking of gods and goddesses, each with a different purpose. There is one of war, one of the ocean, one who lords over them all, yet they are all supreme, they are all 'higher powers'. It is not at all absurd to clarify which one you might believe in amongst them all. Maybe there is one of your own design, she is the goddess of wayward souls, existing in the belief that we are all wayward whilst here.... I want to put into words the description of the difference in flavor between a dried and reconstituted shiitake mushroom and a fresh shiitake mushroom, but I don't know that I am able. The dried and reconstituted is too strong. Any semblance of flavor is far too pronounced, turning into a shout instead of a whisper. It regains its shape, after engorging with warm water, it's wet and full, it's woody, it tastes like a piece of a tree. It tastes like what you'd imagine it is, a fungus. But fresh is subtley. Fresh is slight and foreign, constantly wondering, how to say it, how to describe it, what is that flavor? So pronounced, yet it's not at all. It is distinct, but so light, it melts in my mouth. It's rich, it absorbs. Two different animals. A long and wonderful reply to my survey, long, long answers, thinking answers, pondering, just as long as will fit without going over answers.....answers making me think answers. So I go back and read my own, remember thinking I'd run out of room, as I did in the description field. I was asking, "Do you distinguish between plans/hopes/dreams?", and maybe there was more, quite possibly, no notice of room of which to run out. But I remember wanting things as a child. I remember thinking it was all out there for me. And having a mother who dreamed along with me, one who always made me feel I was special, that amazing and wonderful things would happen for me, to me, about me, around me and right in front of me. It was all there, a big beautiful world and all I had to do was reach out and it was all mine. I could do it all. And it all disappeared. The directions were lost. It doesn't ever feel there anymore, and I've tried to dream and plan, but I've found that never works. Cynicism has set in, set up house, put fresh sheets on the bed, crawled in and stayed. Hard to break it, get rid of it, kick it out. I do remember though, all of it, or so it feels like. Every moment, in a flood, if I want. From "red light/green light" and Barbie and Midge, to playing "store", and arranging tiny furniture and tiny people in tiny dolls' houses, losing things along the way, growing and changing, puberty, sex, desire, longing, more longing, needing, running and avoiding. And scrambling. And more avoiding, and repressing. And then simply surviving, doing only what needed doing, and now that's all it is. It seldom veers from that path. So yes, it's on my mind a lot too. Where was I headed again? What happened? Can I get it back? Is there a plan? Which do I believe in? Is there a bearded man in a long caftan and Birkenstocks? Does Jesus walk among us? What would Jesus do? Who is Buddha? Who do I believe? What do I believe? Do I believe anything? Think. Look beyond it. See it for what it is. Fascinating to see who gets it, who doesn't. The questions. It's all the same. No, it's not. Sure, I believe in Astrology, not the paper, not the horoscopses, etc., and etc., but you ALL know your Sun Signs. You know. Don't mistake a daily horoscope for Astrology. How many people are so insulated, so stuck inside, when I think I am the one inside a cocoon? Open. Open yourself. Open yourself to what's beyond you. I want to stand before the cenote in Chichen Itza, I want to be there at sundown, after the tourists have fled, as "She"'s "roadie" and I discussed, the power of that place, the power of places there and south of there. Be near those who'd lived so close to the Earth and appeased their gods, who built temples to them, and carved their stories, and sought a higher consciousness, and committed acts of violence in ritual. Always violence in rituals. And are priests any different? Religion is such an abomination, but worship and praise and appeasement, atonement, all of it finding a way. He spoke softly of Belize and points south. Of traveling through jungles and meeting the people and visiting the ruins and temples. And lifted his shirt to show the Mayan calendar on his middle, and isn't it their calendar which is to predict the end of time, the end of us as we know ourselves? Right now, I wish I had him near me, to hear his voice grow softer and know I have to lean in to hear, look into those huge black eyes, and listen to his own stories and his own rationalizations, reasonings, why and how and feel comfort, and some faith in what he knows, because he does know. But I am here. Sated from Ramen noodles prepared with dried and reconstituted shiitake mushrooms and corn, Kool Aid and vitamins to keep me nourished. Full and warm. "Roman Holiday" in the next room, yet here in front of pixels and moving images which move so fast I can barely detect it, typing, typing, and reading, and thinking about questions and answers, and why we're here and what are plans and what is destiny and is there really such a thing, and why is the 'which one' question such a puzzle, such a debate, as if there isn't even the book which influenced the Gay Cuban, which made him love women more than his own gender, When God Was a Woman, and when I took it to work to read and the Site Manager was a man, a man with a Bible under his arm on his way in and out and he stopped me, asked what I was reading and I held it out for him to see...... And he nodded, fixed me with his eyes and I knew he felt he knew I was going straight to hell. One day I'll finish reading it, and I'll remember the name of every woman god, every goddess written, documented, every one named before men tried to destroy the evidence, and might I find evidence therein, and might I find something to believe in, as the next question warrants.....how has your faith in what you believe to be that higher power affected your plans, your wishes, hopes, dreams, your destiny? I want to answer it all again, I want to ruminate, marinate, I want to come up with something different each time. I'm Buddhist. I'm Hare Krishna. I'm Atheist and I resent that question, I'm Christian and how dare you ask me if I'm gay, I'm gay and it changed my life when I was 10, when I came out my life turned upside down because my parents kicked me out and I lived on the street and turned tricks so I could afford to get a Big Mac and a new pair of shoes from the Thrift Store, I got pregnant when I was 15 and I gave birth in the bathroom at school, it wasn't what I thought it would be so I left it there, in the dumpster outside the gymnasium............ I want more than comfort music. I want comfort. Life couldn't feel more stagnant and murky. Dark, opaque, impossible to see through nor past. I never wrote about yesterday. I loved "Ice Age". LOVED it. The animation was incredible, amazing, stupendous, fantabulous, spendiferous, and more. I am quite the animation fan, so yes, I noticed. Every nuance, so well done. The voices were good. The story was not outlandish, nor unusual, simply an adventure, a goal, a mission, an expository beginning, an introduction of characters, some with ulterior motives, some conflicted with dubious histories, some oblivious, some good and genuine, innocent. A good story, simple, funny, very very funny. I laughed a lot. I laughed a lot in general. With Mark I laugh. I laugh at me. Mostly. I am self-aware. He makes me laugh. He feeds off me, I off him, it's a comedy routine, and neither is the 'straight man'. Sitting for hours at my favorite French Cafe, in the perfect booth, with its own table in the corner on which to lean, in addition to the regular table. Can it be described? A table, then a corner piece. Two high backs, at an angle, a corner table holding them together. Permanent menus, it does not change, there is no need. But I find something I've not had, a salmon filet sandwich on something called Ciabatta bread, with a roasted red pepper mayonnaise, and soft onions, and other things I've not bothered to note because experiencing it whole is more pleasing than dissecting. Sometimes it's better not to know every little detail. And Pinot Grigiot, and I may not spell it correctly, but I love the flavor, and cappucino and carrot cake, the first piece sliced from a fresh cake, and the frosting is butter cream, so rich, so buttery, so perfect I have to stop eating, over and over. One bite. Mmmmmmm..... sigh. Relax. Talk, talk, talk, all 12 signs of the Zodiac, all broken down and analyzed, enough to realize the Sun Signs are too general. More bites, more coffee, water, more talk, engaging the server this time, and she's an Aquarius, but I've guessed Aries, and I want to fix her up with Mark, she's not too young, and her skin is so dark, is she Indian?, and she's smart, Mark, she's in College, almost out, she's not too young, she's so mature....... And the plate came with a Summery serving of grapes, watermelon, an orange slice twisted just so, and field greens with a balsamic vinaigrette, almost a reduction it's so thick, so perfect. I ate everything edible within my sight, even Mark's grapes, and the enormous strawberry accompanying my cake..... C'est parfait, oui? "Amelie", pour le quatrieme fois! Et c'etait magnifique! I grew cranky with menstruation. Hurting, all senses heightened, not only empathic, but irritable with all of humanity. The usher's voice is too loud as he goes on about the history of the theatre, so he ushers, so he knows, her smell is of scented pads, they smell horrible, I know that smell, I smell it throughout, in wafts, in waves, and I tell him as soon as it's over, I'd have rather smelled her menstrual blood, mixed with my own, than that horrid masking cheap whore's perfume odor. The air conditioning had disappeared between "Ice Age" and "Amelie". A sweat formed on his forehead. He in two shirts, as always, me in my long sleeve Bela Lugosi in "Dracula" shirt with the bats down the arms. I shifted with the pain in my back. The old chairs for once too much. A head partially obscuring my view. I know the text, but the subtitles are hard to see. I listen to the language instead, the tones of the voices, the French idioms instead. And when it's over, and I'm trying not to feel the sadness I'm left with, knowing that life is not beautiful like that, it's not a fairy tale romance, there is such intense beauty, of course, but it's a movie and I feel me sinking, but I won't feel it, and he wants to kiss me. Doesn't try, but suggests it, as we did that one time I've wished we hadn't. And we won't. Not again, we will not. "Are you insane?!" comes to mind. Spills out, after two movies, salmon cooked perfectly all juicy inside roasted red pepper mayonnaise wine cappucino carrot cake.....bleeding....crampy and pain.... no. NO! Not us. Not with you. That is not who we are and how could you suggest it? It's not that night. That night had reasons that are not any longer. Those reasons are long gone and that is a time that passed, this is now and this is tenuous, but fine so far. Gingerly. Carefully. Fragile. This is not something to be stomped upon. This is something beyond what that was, and you are trying to do what? It left me strange. Erecting walls at lightning speed. You can see them arise like in some science fiction film, picture rows of steel, a patterned wall, going up in layers, and it makes that zzzhhhhooooit electric sound as it reaches the top, you know. I don't want to behave that way. I want to be me. I want someone around whom I can be me. Only me. At the end of a perfect day, or one quite nice, I don't want to be putting up a front, or erecting steel state of the art walls, all technofied. No, no, no. Like my Photography mentor in Senior year, high school, offering the massage whilst at his house, and hadn't I dragged Pat along so I'd not be alone, always having a guard, always guarded, me, alone or with friend for guard, always, and he placed his hands on my breasts. My teacher. My mentor. Stop. Stopped. Broken. Ever after, it was there. The line crossed. You know where we stand. Leave it where it stands. It's standing, don't try to knock it over, it's good. Cost of the War in Iraq
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