SOC Writing _ 1.3.21

Autumn

And the lines have been drawn – I drew them with my finger like Jesus in the sand – cast the first stone if you are without sin – and so they all went away - I go away too when it comes to casting judgement – the seat – that hot seat of inferring what is right and who is wrong – so in my make up as the oldest – always taking my cues from the adults – not so influenced by my siblings – how do things really work? What is the nature of how things go? The ten thousand things that arise together and yet are separate and something – I never knew where I began and you ended – did not have a good sense of boundaries - but life is teaching me that at my ripe age – not a cage but a golden orb thrown at me by my inner wild child to catch - to wake up and be seen – really seen for all of me by others – by myself – mirror them back at you – how do people respond to you? Are you open? That is a loaded question, for none of us are for everyone and yet there is this pressure to be liked and easy for all – that is fucken bullshit – the mediocre ball of spinning crap that seems I am still in thrall to – still measure myself by the outside way of things when really the juice of me, my own olive tree, is trying to fruit madly and find a home for my delicious harvest – a bounty of slippery treats for those who like slippery treats – most, many won’t – and I don’t try to convince them of my merits but move gaily along to the song I’ve just composed on the piano for you in the candle light – you might want to taste me deeper, might want to jump on my back and demand I take you somewhere and I, following my deep desire will happily oblige - taking my time to feel into where and what and how long and all the granular adjustments until I find the moment of ‘ah’ and ease and perfectly pitched harmony between us.