Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Fragile Things

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My body is becoming more sensitive to the environment of my mind, or specifically, my heart and soul.

Emotions which swirl and would overtake me that can normally be quelled by a good workout, or a satisfying fuck, or a long walk with the dog, or a bucket of brown bottles, are no longer so easily controlled. I would not say that I am losing control of the emotions, that is not so; what I would say instead is that I am losing control of the valve that allows me to prevent them spilling into the arena that is my face and body language and social interaction. The arena that is my public life.

This presents some interesting problems. My work is affected, in some ways more so because of how I deal with coworkers than how I actually perform the work. The manner in which my marriage is being addressed is crucial to my ability to control what comes trickling or gushing out of the aforementioned valve and is therefore at great risk of a flat spin earthward resulting, no doubt, in a terrifying crash and the resultant splattering of every piece of the Life I'm hoping to hold together when that business is concluded. Indeed I feel at times (like this one) my very sanity is at stake, when I'm typing out thoughts on the keyboard and I don't notice when I say my vary sanity is at steak until it's nearly too late.

I am losing cohesion.

I sincerely hope this is part of a rebuilding process, the kind bodybuilders talk about when they discuss resting phases and building phases and plateaus. I like this analogy because I've done more than my fair share of heavy emotional lifting all these years past, and I used to think and feel like I was emotionally stronger as a result. Now I feel like my emotional body is failing me, as if I were bent to deadlift a heavy bar with a stack of 45 pound plates on each side, which I'd done successfully for weeks before but now, when I bend and lift, I feel a plink in my back, and my forearms can't hold the bar, and the blood drains from my face, which has somehow become covered in a cold sweat. I sincerely hope that what my body, my heart and soul, are telling me is that I what I need is rest, and better emotional nutrition, and spiritual rehydration. But of this I am not sure.

Not that it matters; I have little choice, and so that is what I'll do.

Maybe this goes back to what Screwtape says: that as humans, we inhabit both the physical and spiritual worlds, and the boundary between those, within me anyway, is thinning. Maybe I'll end like those characters in The Celestine Prophecy, evaporating into the air as I transcend physical being... hah, not likely. And not that I'd want that, anyway. I like it here, for the moment, and this vehicle is an ample lodging with plenty of reasons to enjoy existing and indulging and twisting around in the celestial mud with others of my species a little while longer.

I want to live. I just want to do it with full awareness, and I feel like I'm losing that. And this I mourn.

* * * * *

Today I found this: http://journal.neilgaiman.com/2012/06/man-who-forgot-ray-bradbury.html and listened to it on Spotify. It's worth putting into text that I want to be Neil Gaiman when I grow up, or like him: the sad introspections that lead to happiness, the pure and uncovered thought and emotion that weave into beautiful words and concepts as they explore each other. The beautiful Muse by my side (yes, I am still that human. All those moving parts are still doing their jobs fantastically, sometimes to my disdain.) I even want to be recognized for all the sad happiness and beautifully woven thoughts, and I know this makes me vain. And I don't care. The problem is I am still too afraid to Become.

But I'm working on this.


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