Tiny Earthquakes

The big gay house across the street is having a party. 

Smooth Operator travels through spring air and 

into my window as 

I lay in bed picturing a sleep that just wont come. 

Lately I picture other peoples lives like they’re
Francesca Lia Block novels. 

Filled with bohemian smells and textures 

and adventures.

While I sit in my tower 

and work my day job 

and every sense just ends up tasting or smelling or feeling like styrofoam. 

I think about parties in my past, 

sour sticky wine 

and crippling crushes on boys who were terrified by my desire. 

I think about how the party is over and it’s been traded for 

holy basil tea and meditation. 

Mostly I’m calm about this change 

but some nights I lay awake 

missing the jagermeister and arguments with strangers about the meaning of life, 

and watching the sun rise, 

and pulling my bass out of its case in a dirty bar to get up on stage and have at it. 

So much love.

So much love in this new life that I never knew before, 

because I didn’t know how to love others. 

Surely that would make me want to stay and be grateful 

but it’s these flash reverberations from the past that take me back. 

Like tiny earthquakes inside me 

exploding beads of longing that pervade to my fingertips. 

Tonight I get out of bed and sit on my deck smoking cigarettes watching that house. 

Tiny ears perking up trying to catch bits of conversation. 

Tiny moments stollen vicariously and sucked into my lungs with smoke. 

Tiny earthquakes in my chest splitting and rearranging me.

Here’s the truth,

I’m afraid of this me I am becoming.

I’m afraid of all the things I’ve said that I can do or be.

I’m afraid of pressure, of love, afraid to lose.

I’m afraid of failure. 

Sometimes I drift into times when I didn’t have to be anybody. 

Times when I cast wishes into whisky bottles and hoped for the best. 

Times when I felt like I had time. 

Growth and rebirth again and again as I shed my skin emerge anew.

Tiny earthquakes repeating ad infinitum.

The Man in the Picture:

I used to look at this photo of you on our fridge,
and then I would look at you.
I would slide my hand down your soft wide hip and say,
"Baby, why don't you look like that picture anymore?"
"I'm not sure", you'd say,
and walk upstairs to sit infront of your computer with a tub of cold spaghetti sauce and a spoon.
(A behavior so idiosyncratically yours.)

At night I'd crawl into bed stinking of whisky, and sorrow, and disappointment,
and you'd wrap your arms around me
                                    Envelope me.
                                    Warm.
                                    Soft.

You loved me in a time when I couldn't love myself - and yet,
unconditional was not my love for you.
Again I would turn to that photo of you on the fridge.
"You look so handsome, and cool, and fun. When was that again?"
"Some years ago. Before I met you"
I'd take another hit from the bottle and both you and the picture would start to get blurry.
And I wouldn't care much for either of you anymore.

I would obliterate - and you
would calm, protect, take care of me and my ego.
I would disrespect - and you
would forgive, relieve, dry my tears with your sleeve.

The day you left me I stomped and cried,
I held your shirt collar and felt emptiness pervade me.
A week later I sat shivering in bed,
feeling like I had no skin, no heart
                                     No courage.

And today when I see you I see the man in the picture,
blossomed by the light of no longer standing in my shadow.
I watch you from afar,
Because I love you too much to get close.

I love you too much to get close.


-J

Ode to a Woman's Sensitivity:

Today I woke up and thought about fragility. Wondered when it became unattractive for women to be delicate. I thought about the story of the princess and the pea. How she was so sensitive that she felt the pea under 20 mattresses, and THIS was what set her above the other girls. This was what the prince had been waiting for. I imagine that at that time that was beautiful. Today, its because of this fragility that I don’t feel beautiful or desirable. I am the princess and the pea. Ultra and hyper sensitive. Noticing the smallest detail and feeling it with intensity. I said to you once over a salad at a restaurant “Things effect me”. You laughed and made fun of me for months about that. Many moons later I said to you “Do you think even a small part of you is attracted to my sensitivity?"  …you didn’t even flinch.  “No Honey" You said, "That’s a part of you that never ceases to turn me off”

And so there it is. The question being…Do the men I give my heart to look at sensitivity with callous disdain? Or do all men? Is this once cherished part of the female psyche been re appropriated to be a negative trait? Or am I just finding the people that feel that way and latching on to them? and if the latter is so…why? What is it I find attractive about a man that doesn’t accept a huge part of me. 

I have and will continue to accept my sensitivity and put it to good use. I understand there are careless and self harmful ways to use my sensitivity and I will not let that be or define me. I will find strength in being delicate. I will find self love in being sensitive. I will be the princess writhing in her bed wondering how the bowling ball got under her when it is merely a pea and I will see the gifts that this hyper psychic intuition gives me. And then I will find a man that thinks it’s beautiful, too.