5:42 p.m. - 07/31/03
to be continued.
Alix Olson is the altar at which my more quiet poems say their prayers. "Independence Meal" is like a sleepover with good friends. The glory of "Built Like That" - voice given to poems I'd read over and over again, sharp, loud, true - has come back with volume control, with the intensity of soft movements, with music integrated. And I remember now why the first thing that woke me up inside-illness, the first thing that made me want a future, was Nuyorican and the prospect of spoken-word. It's breathtaking the way that our lives grow into their right shape, looking so different and looking so the same. On the edge of illness now, all I want is to speak and coax out the buried speech of others. We'll find the volume control on our microphones, and I'll find the balance between treble and bass. Between dependence and isolation. Between self-discovery and consumption. Thrive.
In the meantime, music is the best way I know to put other voices into my day, voices that invariably say the type of things I need people to say. I listen and I go to therapy and speak my piece; each week the session's like a granny square and I'm looking at it from all angles, trying to piece together the pieces of perception into something I can call my reality. This morning I was so confused by the last few days or maybe weeks, I tried to draw a diagram of the tribulations. I wanted to connect the topics, show the shadows - "and here is how the memories creep in, reflection of what's going on now. Cross-reference this to last season and to my fears about next year, and while you're at it, color code similar cravings. Put paradoxes in order; state both sides but don't go exploring too far in either direction - you might end up not knowing where you are." This morning, I tried twice to draw diagrams, and realized, things are confused enough as they are. All these lines in my notebooks minimize, with their good intentions, everything I'm experiencing. "Try to make clear the confusion; let's tidy up the experience of mess." Sorry, can't do that just yet. One week ago, I couldn't even talk about what was going on; so why can't I be glad that this week I'm able to voice a jumble of topics and words that I know fit together into a six dimensional puzzle, crossing the boundaries of time, space, length, width, depth, and dimension? No one said I can't be glad to walk itno his office with my untidy experience. I'll introduce the two of them, and maybe he'll know how to follow her and not get lost. I just need to stop believing that I could forget something important, that I need to organize it all before I speak; that's old thinking. It doesn't serve me. And I have reason now to believe that what's important will hang around, will not stop bugging me, until I've dealt with it thoroughly from at least twelve different angles. So I pushed the diagrams away, reread some of what I've been writing, trusted it to stay in my head until the 1:00 appointment that went almost double-time. Whether or not it did, I don't know, but I was hardly struggling for lack of subject matter. Out with it, my mind pushed, as soon as he asked. "How are you?" "Not good."
His response? "Well, in case one of the things we need to do is make you cry, how about I get you some water?" Dumbfounded me sat alone on the couch, shaking my head. We're preparing for sobbing now. I asked him about it later, asked why he was so intent on bringing the tears back when he's seen that show so so so many times, and he said he knows it's a way to relieve stress and tension; he said it shows how safe a person feels.
Unfortunately, my experience supports that theory. I feel impossibly safe with him. And again today when it was over (and yes, I did cry, cry, cry) I found myself wishing I had something better than a hand to shake in gratitude. I thought, of course, of Rogers - of coming out of tough sessions with Dave and instantly finding a girl in the hallway, posed to the point she could have been waiting to hold you. I wanted that girl today, since I can't hug the doc. I wanted someone who could put their arms around me, knowing how hard I'd worked those almost two hours, knowing how strong I am, and how tired. But for now at least, the handshakes have to do.
chord
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