MARCH 22

June 10, 2012

MARCH 22 |

It’s been awhile since my skin felt itchy. There’s this thing prickling beneath. I haven’t felt reckless and angry and hungry for a long time. Years. I thought I was transitioning into this domestic-career zone and leaving my wildness behind and hiding it: stashing it in Greece, in the elliptical, in my memories and voice.
I can be cruel.
That yearning, that dissatisfaction, that judgment and all the pacing tigers are back today. Usually there’s a wind and it tells me to go. I see mountains in Vermont and smell woodsmoke. I feel the sun warming my long swim in the Aegean. I almost am choking on the dust of temple steps and sanctuaries. I feel my body fit and pure, hot and happy and dirty with the work of care taking for 800 animals. I see dark cool vistas in the middle of nowhere: of Romania and I feel the tentative probing of souls I will never know or remember, but with whom I’ve shared a cross-cultural bond just in the moment we helped each other out.
My soul is hungry for adventure and not knowing. I smell the acrid pungency of sweating students in the Hall at vipassana. I hear Goenkaji’s tone and tremor.
I am feeling so wild it’s damn hard to take the foolishness around me seriously. My hero heart is breaking, splitting wide open. I will learn archery and fighting and survival and kill when I have to. Artists and soldiers belong together: but only the best of each. I want to be in an army again. I want to range again. I want fields of flowers and I want every wind friend of mine to blow through me with their songs.
I want a friend. I want a love. I want someone to scream at me and shake me: I want someone to bleed all over me and beg me and consume me. Who feels safe when we are touching. Who will shut the fuck up and stare into my eyes because they have to. It’s Antigone. I want sacrifice and usefulness : I want to change the world.
I don’t want to live just because I’m alive.
I want to love and work and die. I want to keep promises and never lie again.
I want to love myself. That’s a luxury for a hero though: in the moment you’re tuned for, made for: you are love. But a hero can never be content. Can never love themselves until their sacrifice. If they did, there would be no way they could do what they must.
If growing up means I have to sever this forever, I will. Then again, maybe I’ll jump Sappho’s cliff instead.
No one knows me but my centuries. I suppose it’s the same for us all.

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