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Jett Superior laid this on you on || December 4, 2011 || 12:27 pm

Doyle,
It is eleven-thirty on a Sunday morning and I am sitting on the most comfortable plaid couch my ass has ever had the pleasure of attaching itself to; this couch is perpendicular to a bank of industrial windows in an old sharecropper’s house. (contextual photo here)  The house is surrounded by shotgun shacks all around and I was supposed to have my ass attached to a couch in one of those, but fate intervened so now I have an eighteen-foot corrugated ceiling where my ideas can waft up to and bob around, teasing me and waiting for me to play.

But one of the shacks would have served just as well. Ideas lurk in the corners of those. The ceilings hold dreams waiting to be plucked.

It’s raining. My traveling companions (picked up willy-nilly along the way) are all still tucked in rooms, presumably rain-soothed, hopefully warm and delighted. That’s my wish for them, anyway. The rain started easy this morning and so did I, washing some dishes, making some coffee, thinking my thinks. While I’ve been sitting here taking in words, percolating my own, the rain has ramped up the show a good bit but hasn’t exactly decided that it wants to stick with that plan of action; it keeps waxing and waning, a comforting striptease of intensity that is yanking at my middle where all the words and all the emotions settle themselves so as to let me function in the day to day.

Last night I had one dream: In it  I was a picture in a frame and I burned up. The frame itself was left pristine;  florid and beautiful, it was open and ready for a new picture of me. The fire was sudden and startling and at first I grieved because I didn’t realize for a few seconds what that empty frame floating in front of me truly meant. Then it dawned on me, though, that this space –this beautiful golden delineation of matter– was just an invitation to Other, which is something people pine for the whole of their lives.

So now: “Pick what goes in that frame, girl. And you don’t even have to pick especially carefully. Fire will come and take it away if it’s the not-right (not-right isn’t the same as wrong, see?) option  and you can pick again. Fire is your friend. Fire laughs and licks and pirouettes in a jagged-fluid line. Smile into the fire.”

I spent probably the first thirty-two years of my life pretending I wasn’t this broken thing. Then I sat perplexed at the notion that something about me just wasn’t right and I probably better fix some shit. My life reverberated with ‘huh’ –not a question, a statement: “Huh.”– for a year or two and then I resolved to get my hands dirty with the clearing away of messy and misappropriated insides.

Scut work. Sweating and swiping the backs of your filthy hands across your dripping forehead work. Finally, finally the breaking done, the clearing-away, the standing and the surveying, the terror and excitement of bare ground and the notion of what goes there now. Finally those things, Seanie. Finally.

Regrowing yourself is overwhelming in a way I’d have never imagined. See also: I am a complete fucking badass.

It’s all culminating now. I think I have all the seeds loose and ready in my hands. It’s just a matter of configuration now, of deciding if there are rows and how I want them laid out or if I fling them to the wind and laugh and wait for the return. Probably, as is my nature, it will be some of both. I’m broken clean down and ready to see what comes of it. You know. You know.

Send me that Wiki link that I lost. I was drunk and howling that night and I need to read that shit again. I have different eyes now. In exchange, here’s a present for you.

I hope your Sunday morning coming down is as peaceful and as loaded as mine.

Your loving friend,
Jett

5 worked it out »

  1. Sarah Piazza 12.4.2011

    What’s not to like about this?

     
  2. schmutzie 12.4.2011

    The fire strips us clean, baby.

     
  3. EarnestGirl 12.7.2011

    Dear Jett,

    I lost my years-old yoga mat & with it the meditation beads I was very fond of, each a wooden rose on a simple string that helped orient myself if not in, then toward that calm, empty space in the center of the frame. I have never learned the knack of meditation, but those beads helped me breathe. When I went back to look for them, the sweet faced thing across the counter at the yoga place said they had found neither. I said “maybe someone needed them more.” She answered “I’ve heard things go away when we have no more need of them.”

    I love the idea of reverberating with the ‘huh’. And do believe that the inside of the frame will doubtless immolate many times over, and that space, and then the new version who fills up the space will be just as flawed and just as beautiful as she needs to be.

    xo,
    Earnestina

     
  4. mspicket 12.8.2011

    Love letters natch. To: was one.
    Missyoulovethispicketyo.

     
  5. dufmanno 12.12.2011

    I’ll tell you this for certain – each and every new thing I read from the deep cavernous twisty turns of your grey matter gives me a most important finding. It’s like the warm feeling of heavy wool socks on a cast iron stove.
    Rocket Inferior sends his regards and would like to trade up from the orange vest to the blue one.

     

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