The Light That Pours Out of Your Open Mouth

Finally, in a low whisper, he said, "I think I might be a terrible person." For a split second I believed him - I thought he was about to confess a crime, maybe a murder. Then I realized that we all think we might be terrible people.  But we only reveal this before asking someone to love us.  It is a kind of undressing. 


                                       - from The First Bad Man by Miranda July

I've been thinking a lot about forgiveness as of late. Of ourselves. Of each other. I've been hiding out a lot lately. I have also been hanging out with both people and contexts I'm not so used to yet.

I remember while living in Columbus, there would be nights that the entire house of six people I lived with would aim to go out to a show but, last minute, I would decide to stay behind. When I finally heard the last footstep go out of the door and the door be locked, I would pause in the sudden silence of a house that was always so loud. There would be the banter of my housemates as they walked away from the house, the muffled slamming of a car door outside, the start of an engine, then the car drifting off into the distance.  The far away noises would be replaced by the shifting and creaking of the house- all of the sounds I was rarely able to hear.  I would stand in my room and bask in them for a moment.  They were insect-like in their life and movement.

Then, with a spark of excitement in my stomach, I would grab my book and blanket, go into my closet, climb upon its lowest, most sturdy shelf, and read.

Sometimes I would feel insecure about doing this. Never enough to not do it, but I was always vaguely aware that I was "supposed to go out on the weekends". I never really wanted to.  I got enough "social scene" from the house and its members.  I loved doing people's make up or cutting their hair or picking out their outfits before they went out, but, I never wanted to go to the ball, so to speak.  Always a willing Cinderella enjoyably frozen in the moment just after her stepsisters left, and before the fairy godmother ever arrived.

In any case. I've been thinking about this, about these moments of solitude, because they doubled as these odd teeterings between being engaged socially and being in a space of total solitude and self reflection.  My mind has been thinking of these moments and likening them to longer periods of time: Specifically, the periods of time that exist between hurt or betrayal, and forgiveness.

Forgiveness, of course, is never a given, and forgiveness can never really happen without time.  I'm thinking a lot about what that time is filled with; how it unfolds.  What compels a person to forgive someone? What compels a person to forgive themselves?

Compel, of course, is not the right word.  I don't believe that one can be compelled to forgive.  One can have an inclination, I suppose, but  forgiveness is never a decision so much as it is a process. And that process happens in these moments, or collection of moments, that make up the period of time between hurt or betrayal and forgiveness.

What is involved in these periods of time is everything and nothing.  Being by yourself. Being with other people. The mundane. The sublime. The social. The solitary. But no matter what is going on around you, the plates of your feelings are shifting.  Things are changing, moving, solidifying into something you don't, entirely, have control over.

These periods of time are important.  And no matter where the final shift places you in relation to forgiveness

they are something of the act of love

and thus

are

necessary.



be well; be loved,

k.

(image: Franco Kappl via lecollecteur tumblr)

Pouring Water Upon Ice Cubes: The Elegence of Being

I am currently willingly stuck in the crevice between the wall and the mattress of my bed. My shirt has lifted up just a bit to expose my lower back, and I am enjoying the feeling of the wall's coolness against my skin.

The window in my bedroom is open about a foot, and the birds that tend to perform high wire feats upon the telephone and electrical lines outside of my window are busy chatting and investing their songs and chirps into the local dialog. The sun is out but hidden by some clouds at the moment. The air feels crisp and pepperminty on my feet, that are also sticking out from the crevice between the wall and the mattress of my bed, and that are closest to the window.

Things feel so good and right at present. Nourishment in the form of good food, good company, good conversation, good books, good films, good ideas, ...dare I say good news? Good news.

I've been having the time I need to be able to write. It's important to me. This writing that I'm working on. There's so much more of a process before one gets to writing or typing, as the case may be. I think only writers understand that.  I'm thinking back to when Alison Bechdel was here months ago, and now thinking of words that Jacqueline Woodson echoed when she was here, recently:  That writers are lovable maniacs to live with and be around.  That they need copious amounts of alone time. That one moment they will be out and about and cheering and chatting, and the next minute, they will have disappeared into the closest shadow to write something down, or to simply go think.

The balance of these things has been sorted out for now. Social with solitary. Wandering with directed. Uncertainty mixed with confidence.

For now, I'll just continue drinking down the last bit of this coffee from within the crevice of this bed and think about what's to come.

Then, as most writers must, I'll jimmy myself out of this crevice to run a brush through my hair and get myself to work on time.


Be well; be loved,


k.
(image via chromatic-porn Tumblr)