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ROUGH CUTS FROM THE MAINE STORY
I awoke this morning to his beauty. We explored this beauty together, then laid next to one another. When we lay next to one another it's a feeling like finally being at home after travelling for years. I immediately wondered if the dream I had about farting on him last night was real or imaginary. It had woken me up in the night. I asked him, he didn't recall me farting on him. I wanted to know what time it was, he reached for his phone to look. It was 7 am and I was ecstatic. It is rare for me to sleep this long. We laid around for awhile, familiar thoughts going through my head. Is this real? How did I get so lucky? Do I deserve this? It's early in the morning here, but it is late in the day somewhere else. When you are somewhere you want to be, it's easy to forget that a somewhere else exists, a place, a time, an ocean different from your own body of water.
I made coffee and we ate the leftover bars from the day before. We laughed at the labor of love and how sometimes when people try to express themselves they use a medium two sizes too big or small. I decide I want to take a sauna shower and I begin to ache for my guitar. All the while I think, he is so sweet, is he real? I love his laugh. I love his humor. I love how he brushes my hair aside. We decide on later day adventures to abandoned houses and a meeting with Esmeralda. We part ways, when he leaves I think, could it be possible someone finds my imperfections to be ok? I start the fire in the sauna. It does not take long today before the fire starts.
The seasons are changing, everything is beginning to thaw, beginning to grow. It was a morning of mourning. Sometimes personal space and freedom are needed in order to stop both of our skin from flaying. We said goodbye, then I went to meet Victoria in Camden for lunch. We sat eating ramen, wearing dark glasses, talking about the unknowable, each bite knowing that we were truly alone in our thoughts and feelings. The light couldn't crack through our shades, crack through our ambition to run away to the passion and desire that brought us back to solitude so often.
Yet here we were together, in our solitude. After lunch we went to buy the blonde wig and the black lace lingerie with pearls. It was all for Mr. Dubois you see, everything we do, every single entertainment, every pearl, all for his excitement. Or was it for our own? We approached Richard in his suit, asking for information and advice. He made a comment about Victoria, that he had seen her walk into the Strand Theater was completely taken aback by her purple streaked hair. His information was such, that everything you need is inside you as he stood with his accordian dangling around his neck. He asked us both out for coffee and a drink. I politely declined Monsieur Richard and drove off into the sunset.
I awoke to Poncho being high as a kite.
"Reveil" "Waking" Various modes by which the amorous subject finds upon waking that he is once again besieged by the anxieties of his passion." " I got lust, you got lost, I'm coming for you"
I awoke this morning in slight anxiety. Upon sharing a deep truth I always feel exposed, bare, stripped down. Will he still feel the same way about me today? Waking allows another truth to be told, for the currents to shift. I cannot control the direction of the river, I'm just along for the ride. He is deep in my heart, I realize that's the only truth I need to know. I laid in bed, letting myself sleep later than usual. It was cold in the cabin because that is how I like it.
I looked down at Poncho at the end of the futon thinking that he had moved during the night, at one point he had been snuggled up to me under the covers. I rose up, the thought of coffee and cut up fruit was exciting to me. I carried Poncho down the ladder, and as usual, he tried to jump out of my arms well before we were to the ground. It's difficult for me not to think he isn't a bit suicidal in these moments. I went about my morning chores lighting the treacherous propane stove, dumping my basin, making coffee that was half old, half new. I see Poncho in the morning light, he looks like a new man after his trip.
"It must be a camel"
There are two separate substances usually lumped together under the label of sap; these are xylem and phloem. Xylem transports water, minerals and hormones from the bottom to the top of the tree in a long string formation. Each year the xylem channels die off and new ones are produced. When you fell a tree and are faced with those wonderful rings you are seeing the old xylem channels, one ring for each year of life.
Poncho was talking really loud in his sleep last night and it woke me up. It took me awhile to find him, to nudge him, sometimes he is small. For that reason I laid in bed a little longer than normal, enjoying the warmth. I arose and descended down the wooden ladder. After dumping my basin I went outside to collect the tree sap from the night before. I poured myself a cup of this refreshing tree blood compliments the local trees. Sweet, but not overwhelming, exactly how I like it. I was out of coffee so I would have to go to Frat Ville.
I went to my car to start and warm it up. When I opened the back door to search for the ice scraper I could have sworn I saw a mouse run under the seat. Ever since I caught two mice in my car I have been having these hallucinations. The echoes of my mom's reaction to mice being in my car "That's how people die…" running through my head. After some rummaging around I did not find any mice. I arrived at Frat Ville to find only one other car there, surprising at this time of day. Usually it is bustling with people in their Carhartt bibs. I poured a light roast into my thermos spilling some half and half on the counter when I poured that. I wiped up my mess, paid for my coffee, and said goodbye to the boxer I had waved to earlier in the passenger side of the lone car in the parking lot. I went back to the cabin thinking I would meditate but ended up playing guitar which often feels like meditation to me anyway. The thought passed through my mind that I still feel the same way about him today, but it doesn't feel as overwhelming, just like it's a piece of me, and I'm really lucky.
I awoke in one of my favorite places to be. Was it Jim? Was it Lance? Was it Matt? I hope it wasn't Slim. I can never be sure, but all of these arms feel the same to me in the morning light. We slowly made our way downstairs, still really high on ecstacy, starting to realize we would have to come down in order to complete the days projects. We sat with one another drinking coffee, I had my regular morning meeting where I usually don't talk but listen to the days activities. We kissed each other goodbye.
I drove into Belfast feeling sad although not knowing why. It was a dreary day, and the kind of day where you easily identified the Stephen King influence in your immediate setting. I realized it was the comedown I was experiencing. A fear, that this feeling will leave. But it had already left. I laughed to myself, knowing that I would see them again. All of them. They were in my heart and not going anywhere.
The Art Life
I had vivid dreams last night but they disappeared when I woke up. I awoke being happy that I had nowhere to be that morning. The sun hadn't rose yet. My phone vibrated, a french friend had texted to say that he had thought of me passing a sushi place. I made fun of French people for how when they say, "let's go get sushi" they often say, "Let's go get sushis". A cute mistake. I laid in bed thinking for awhile. My mind was on the art life and what that meant to me. David Lynch says the art life to him meant painting, smoking cigarettes, and drinking coffee, all day. Maybe there were girls in your life at some point, but that was mostly it.
To me it means the freedom of this kind of morning or day. My coffee and cigarettes is time, which I am always searching for. I can drop in to different mediums, sit back and find inspiration, then pick back up. My process has always been scattered, I don't feel the need to stick with something if it isn't working.
The previous evening I had picked up one of my oldest journals. Entries in it go back to when I was 19 years old. At that time I had the idea that I would just be an artist, whatever that meant. I didn't go to college right after high school. I didn't fear missing out on a conventional life at that time, although I did go through a period in my life where fear did take a hold on me. I see entry after entry in my journal of people I tried to date and me writing again and again that these people were distracting me from writing, from finding my voice, my medium. I think a big part of that was most likely partying as well, which I also mention. I am thankful for being at a point in my life where I have identified in myself that I need to be productive every day working towards a project. Otherwise I experience anxiety and guilt. It's almost if you need experience to confirm what you already know inside of you.
Thoughts passing through my head, I was ready to be productive. I got out of bed and made my way downstairs for coffee and guitar. I made a breakthrough last week with a song I wrote, something that fit my voice better than some of the other songs I had written. I played and read, fell asleep again. The morning glow in the cabin creates a warm glow. Poncho stared at me from his bed, trying to keep his eyes open, while I meditated. I tried to realize nothingingness, and to also consider the idea of cherishing others over myself. I made some eggs from my beautiful man's chickens and gathered my belongings together to head into town. I had trouble keeping away from my guitar but I finally made it out the door. Onward to Belfast, onward to the art life.
This morning I awoke to Poncho standing over the edge by the ladder, looking down, like he was ready to jump. It was so early, I was not ready to awake. I asked him to come back to bed. He begrudgingly stomped over and flopped onto a pillow with a sigh of disapproval. Poncho shouldn't have been sleeping with me, but I couldn't resist. I have slept well lately. But I have been waking feeling anxious. This has not happened for awhile, although it does come and go. I am giving myself a reminder as I write this, that I can trust that I am going the way I am supposed to go. I am missing waking up to Matt, so much, that I thought, I would even take Slim right now. But maybe not Slim. That may be the romantic side of me taking over reality. The toughest thing for me to admit sometimes is that I need someone. I do want someone around, but not just someone, this person who means a lot to me.
And maybe this is the person that I could go forward with, in times that are not so great, times that are. But do they feel the same? Will they stick it out? So often one or the other gets scared and runs. That is the ultimate vulnerability for me, to feel like this, to know as I move forward I am not liking this person any less. In this case I am realizing it is true. The fear that I am stealing his time, that I am not enough, still haunts me though. It has made me feel uncomfortable, almost as uncomfortable as the thought of needing someone. As I write this though, I know I need to shift this attitude. Being vulnerable is tough, but as these words come out onto the page, I can see how beautiful it is. How lucky I am. I also know there is nothing I can do to control this, to control the life around me. At the end of the day I can only do my best and hope I can be good to this person who I love.
I was awake before I wanted to be this morning. It was a late night getting people to where they needed to go. The sun was so bright it was impossible to avoid. I awoke to a perky Poncho. He was excited and sleepy at the same time. I scrolled through some old pictures trying to find something suitable for Shauna. I haven't had a lot of pictures of myself since I started to wrangle with my ego. My documenting in the past few years was of essence and breaking up the narrative, not what I looked like in slutty clothing. The winds of change always shift the inspiration, which is nothing but exciting. As of late I have been wanting the characters in my head to become alive, and it seems I have found a partner in crime who wants to meet and hang out with them all.
I finally got out of bed and worked my way downstairs. It would be a slow morning. I decided I would get up for awhile, go to Lincolnville Center for a sandwich, then come back and write. On the way in to Lincolnville Center I heard a Kaytranada song- Got it Good. I could certainly relate with the sentiment of the song, he was paying tribute to a woman who stuck with him, who loved him for who he was, not for what material possessions he had. I recently met the first person who I truly saw a kindred soul in, someone who I feel it wouldn't matter where I was, what I had, that maybe he could just see me, and that was enough. It is the best I've ever had. There are many different kinds of love, but this is the one I have always searched for. I stopped fighting the river and this was around the bend. Submitting to life never felt so good. A beauty I could not have imagined appeared, one I didn't think existed.
Yet, the forces that pulled me here, to a place where I am the minority more than ever, where like minded people are few and far between, and I found a needle in a haystack. So now what, is my question. The teachers in my life have prepared me for this, I know I want to give, I want to support this beautiful growing soul, I want to be good to this person. I want to make this about giving what I can, not taking. I want to be patient, most of all I want to create. I want to keep creating no matter what. Always.
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