Pema likes to talk about impermanence a lot, as though it weren’t a bad thing, you know, celebrate it as the central force of life; change, change, leaves fall breathe out love fades people die feel free the wheel of life says to rise up on my spokes but don’t bitch when we spin back down.
It’s all true, of course.
It’s the only thing you can really count on, you know, change. Things just, well, never stay the same so rid yourself of neurotic our love will last forever fantasies and just celebrate the moment as people come and go.
Like a bus station.
Two good friends in one week have relapsed, one on prescription (though not his prescription) painkillers and another on speed. As in, at eight o’clock he’s in an AA meeting and three hours later he’s got a needle in his arm.
I’d like a needle in my arm.
No, really, I would. I’m not just saying that.
I was the first person each man called, which might say something about my character. But I’m a little sick of character. I feel safe and comfortable with you, Ski says, I always have.
Well, screw that. The got-it-all-together character in this saga (that would be me) rarely leaves a mark on history. I want marks. Scars maybe. Motherfucking hickies.
Another friend has a new boyfriend.
At the gym I am surrounded by little boys walking around like they’re back in high school; cool, cold boys talking loud so that everyone can overhear their conversations; conversations so fucking inane I’m convinced I’ll never fall in love again.
That’s not what I meant to say.
I meant to say “I want to meet someone who isn’t covering up their insecurities with fashion and attitude; life’s short, time’s wasting, who the fuck are you, really?”
No, not that either. I mean, I don’t want to meet anyone. Really. Trust me.
I feel bereft. A week of “showing up”, “supporting”, taking you to meetings. Motherfucker. I’d like to put a needle in my arm and call you and say oops and then get all rescued and shit. I’d like to lose myself for a bit again, I would. Feel that lightning juice pump through my blood, yammer on at you like we’re motherfucking BEST FRIENDS and everything we say is BRILLIANT and HILARIOUS and then fuck all day in a windowless room, the world on hold till, well, later.
“Needless to say, after that we noticed very clearly what we did when we felt attacked, betrayed, or confused, when we found situations unbearable or unacceptable. We began to really notice what we did. Did we close down, or did we open up? Did we feel resentful and bitter, or did we soften? Did we become wiser or more stupid? As a result of our pain, did we know more about what it is to be human, or did we know less? Were we more critical of our world or more generous? Were we penetrated by the arrows, or did we turn them into flowers?”
Stupid. I got stupid and I’m stupid enough to want to stay here for a little while and burn all the safety and comfort into the ground. Rise up like a movie star phoenix from the ashes of caring and compassion, everything I touch lit up like a rollercoaster at night, everyone throwing their hands in the air and screaming, their hair on fire.