I wish someone had told me that more than chlorine-free diapers and fresh jungle air, my daughter needed my confidence that she would withstand any poison to seep beneath her skin. I wish I had understood any shaggy old carpet was still a place to begin crawling -
that self-preservation is one part innate instinct, two parts experience.
You cannot force inspiration, you cannot force passion, you cannot force the creatrix, the power, the love, the real.
you can only open the door.
I wish someone had told me, there is no difference between a heroin addict and one addicted to sex, booze, cigarettes, refined sugar, the love of a man. What are you jonesing for, really? If I told you "you already have it" would you feel disappointed, too? Don't feel guilty - or do. Anyways, God doesn't give brownie points to the pious, no favours for the devout.
In wafts the scent of familiar vice, insanity looping its tail. Cowardice is to shy away from the thoughts that smell like fear (or to take them under your wing); to cower, to close; a quarantined airport - the familiar turns rancid, poisons and betrays - the virus fills the air, covers the walls, swims in the water, nothing saved.
And strength? To open, to remain open; to love. To allow the influx of new winds, tradewinds - and here, the familiar comforts softening the hard edges of the strange. Fear in the gut is tempered with self knowledge, and
There is no difference between a money drunk and a user of coke, good will, sadness or sage, art, ethos, or the church - they all lead to the same place. None come with a map; each has its own detours, street signs, mirages.
After infection, after rotted teeth, after blinded sight, blasted ears, cracked identity and bruised knees, only the heart will find its way.
The rooms of my house are made of gold and covered in cloth tapestry. The floors are bare, no Persian carpets or mohair, only hard, smooth wood. Furniture is sparse-- the treasures are many: little pearls, demurely shining things, sometimes caked and crusted in the dirt I find them.
At midnight, the cocks crow and up the stairs I go sometimes flying, sometimes crawling, higher and deeper in (yet somehow there's always a window that opens to the ocean)
I turn a corner, the window to sea at my left, to my right, a soft landing, a cat cubby, the afternoon sun striking its center and there I rest-- it was made for me--
I drench my skin in hot, liquid gold light. I feel I could nap but dare not sleep for there are more stairs to climb, more rooms to open up, more treasures to find.