Alabaster

Thumbnail image reverently appropriated from The Fox and the Star by Coralie Bickford Smith

Good enough place to start out. I familiarized myself with everything, more or less, that could come up, more or less. By pushing myself into a state of challenge, I don’t get to feel like I am masterful. By pushing myself into a state of challenge, I don’t get to feel like I am masterful at all.

Sometimes I wonder whose side I’m on. Certainly don’t seem to be fully on the side of the one who wants to hold up my pride. Or do I just flatter myself? Is it really my pride again? It could be. Could easily be.

I’m trying to feel into the space that I should be in. I’m trying to get into the column of light that I want to be in. Into that swirling column of light, into that swirling column of light.

It’s not as interesting to succeed, if succeeding is an accomplishment of the little me.

I want to open it up, don’t want to stay where I am all sealed up. I don’t to stay where I am all buttoned up, I don’t to stay where I’m all sewn up. All closed up with a lot of shit inside me. I don’t want to be closed up with all that shit inside me. I’d rather opened up then, I’d rather be opened up for the world to see what’s in me.

There’s something I can’t abide, even more than injured pride, it’s to be a faker. There’s no pleasure in coming off like something strong, when I have these fissures and I know the quake is coming. There is no pleasure in pretending this is treasure, if it’s not, if it’s just fool’s gold, and if it’s fake.

There is no pleasure in reported treasure if it’s fake.

I don’t want to be a glass. I don’t want to be a bauble. I don’t want to be fool’s gold, I’d rather be nothing nothing. I don’t want to be fake glass, I don’t want to be a bauble. I’d rather be nothing than that.

So let’s wait til it gets real. And you can tell it by the way you feel. You know when it’s fake and there’s an imposter present.

You know when it’s plaster, not alabaster.

I have no idea if that makes sense. But I sure am tired of posing. I sure am tired of posturing. I sure am tired. The one thing I am is tired.

I’d can’t give up on this sweet sound, because I like the way it resounds. I can’t give up on this sweet sound, not convinced it’s over and I like the way it resounds.

I keep looking, I keep wondering where to go. I’m full of mishaps, I’m full of missteps, but I go. Tell me what can really happen? I know the shit can explode and expose me.

Yes all the landmines of my mind can explode and expose. All the stuff can go flying out, with a violence like an angry shout that surprises me, like an unexpected shout of my mouth. With a violence that raises your eyebrows, with a violence that makes you wonder if I’m all right, I wonder it too, and I have no answers for you.

I don’t know if I’m all right, who knows. But I know there’s a new light that grows big and strong inside me, an opening rose. Bringing on warm floes. Bringing on warm flows, like glass and fire. Like glass in the fire.

Can’t really make these moves as smooth as I wanted to. I know things are clumsy sometimes, God knows I know. I know it’s choppy and weird, God knows I know. Yes it’s choppy and weird, God knows I know.

I don’t to be so closed up anymore, even if it means I have to expose the truth. Expose the false in me. Expose those dirty streaks. Expose that rotted wiring. Expose that fallen structure. The beams that are dissolving and the things that are falling. The things that are collapsing.

The things that are collapsing. They can be seen. That’s all right with me. I don’t know why exactly, but it’s all right with me. It’s all right with me, because of the flowing stream that’s flooding all my shores and making me feel secure. The flooding me of my shore is making me feel secure, so, go ahead and wash away all the fake in me. Please wash away all the fake in me, I’d rather be ugly than false.

I’d rather be ugly than false. Especially when ugly is the truth I am touching in. When ugly is the thing I’m cleaning out, like a decayed tooth.

I don’t want to hide anymore what’s dead in me. I don’t want to hide the dysfunctions, and I don’t want to hide in particular, my ego and all of its machinations, broken machine that it is. It’s whirring and dying, sputtering and breaking up, breaking apart, breaking up.

Ok I’m tired of feeling stuck, ok I’m tired of being stuck.

I want to let it all come out, as a beautiful song or as a guttural shout, I don’t care. I don’t want to fake it anymore. It’s the only thing I want to say. That’s the only thing I have to say.