From the mush of the cocoon

I’m listening.

I’m always listening. Sometimes when it seems like I’m watching, I’m actually listening, smelling too.

Have you noticed people often aren’t saying what they mean from their mouths- you’ll see their truths in other ways.

I’ve been lied to my whole life. We all have in some way or another. But why? Humans live on stories and stories are often a fabricated fiction, a more beautiful way of lying- the kind that sometimes ties to fantasy. Is fantasy a lie or is it a guide? Is it something we should be listening to as sermon or as background music playing while we find the channel to wash dishes to or sweep away the dust. Compiling, compiling. At what point have the stories compiled so high that one becomes unrecognizable? What does it mean to be recognizable? I’ve always felt love is recognition. I suppose this is where the concept of shining a light comes in. A concept I have always taken as seriously as prescription.

I am someone who when you’re bitten and it is seemingly a poisonous bite, with a slow creeping infection, I will try to draw out the venom. Some people don’t want this. Some people want the venom, a place to put to their bad feelings, a reason to justify their decisions- “I’m sick,” they’ll say. Dwindling themselves down to labels, as if forming a spoon out of wood, slowly, effortfully, with muscle and precision, and then filed, archived and added to the fiction. Congratulations, now you are a hand-carved spoon. Is this what you wanted?

So how do you remain true?

Maybe sickness is our body’s way of telling us it’s tired of pretending. The last time I was really sick, it was after I kissed a man I shouldn’t have. The kind who tells you they love you but then *you listen* to everything but their words, and in the dissonance, it is obvious they don’t- not in a true way - or more so, not in a way they can be true to you, truthful. Their ironed-sheets receiving the dedication and intention and care you desire. It was a quality I admired because it signaled the ability to care. But caring for sheets is easier- maybe because the sheets did not ask anything of him. Maybe because they did not wish to draw out the venom. The bacteria swatch was returned with ‘no pathogens found’ but I know what my ailment was; it was fantasy- it was fiction, it was deafness. It was suspended disbelief. My throat was swollen to remind myself that whatever I was telling myself was harming me.

Some people just want to be near you, relying on your gaze, your laugh, your attention, to ignore their own shadows. I am guilty of having practiced this too, mostly when I was younger. How sorry I am to myself for having sought worthiness and love outside of myself for as long as I did. My weaknesses are seen and embraced with heartfelt compassion and tenderness. I am sunbathing, and being offered to, constantly. The sun is proof of this. My venom has been withdrawn by sobering non-loves and I am free to reserve space for what is true.

And how do you know that is what you are offering? Because you listen too. And truth moves through the body more than it does through the mind. And you walked towards me without thinking because it was something you knew to do.

No more fiction.

No more fantasy.

Only in the instruments of the artists, not lovers.

Nothing is more romantic than the truth.

You are not a spoon.

And I prefer when artists are in search of their own truths too. You can see when they are like bloodhounds, out for the scent, they know something can and must be found.

I can feel myself getting sick again.

It is exhausting lying to myself and trying to make it true that I don’t love him anymore.

Georgia O’Keefe said, “To see takes time.”

True.