Wednesday, 27 January 2010

story in two lives of the little sister, continuation

the little sister...well, this is no character assassination, hey, just sincerity like you like...she was maddening. not deliberately. not retaliatory, no. stubborn little thang. she just impacted the general population this way over time. She often told the likes of you and me to kick rocks. she had the kind of empowered aura about her, not red tones but more like sunshine yellow and sky blue just reminding anyone and everyone she was fly, she was true. she never needed to act on much, cause when she said kick rocks, you kicked rocks, not in a way of flight always (though this may have been a motive for some, letting fear overcome their knowing mind that running was futile, all were connected and she was a touchstone to the universal not a divider)...

to say that not kicking rox in flight but rather in an honorable way of offering up some space between you and her because she asked for it really, in a blunt manner she made herself very clear in a way that your average could not come acrossand if you didn't go ahead and do so, she would have you know without a single word spoken but simply through nonverbal nondramatic means,coming at you like some vibrant fresh tag come up on the scene at sunrise after the nights worn disguise, with the sun shining awareness of our insides out, exposed truth painfully, but without lies. in this manner....trustful...rare. start kicking rocks and you was feeling the stinging like fire ants sneaking up your ankles, if you was one of the fear based. poor you. get out of that, will you? come to, come to! not for me, no, for you. your suffering excessively, you think your thinking progressively. crazy. backseated by fear. still in first gear. oh my, dear dear dear. for you my heart i tear. throw you a piece of love lesser know (and lesser still when torn and thrown). but i feel like bodhissatva when i see you, want to give you all i know, all i knew. want to get closer to you cause this distance so pains me, makes me wonder if we may be truly separate like our bodies lead us to believe. another reason why at death we mainly grieve, less full of dialectic, the celebration of freedom from body and spirit now released. witnessing the undeniable unarrested steady mobbing of yourself,throbbing of your very being, through the gateway of your heart are you seeing. like the royalty could only have felt under siege in the French Revolution. like the reversal of what was assumed to be irreversible, the defuse of some fusion. like a betrayal. or some mysterious collusion of the life bearing elements sun and moon into antithesis: destructive like monsoon.

Yet you came back for more. Gravitated to her, this little sister who was bigger than all the world and who when spotlit or focused on, simply fed you into her expansiveness without no knowing, you just wandered thought to thought into more expansive macrovisions, neither really willing or able to come back down or around to the details they say mean so much. like the instance of human touch on your sweet spot. wow, your boyfriend whispers so turned on, your heavy breathing suddenly heavier, in your eyes a song, a passion play. like Toni Braxton meets Sade. Well, okay, the details are telling. but in little sisters presence they become, well, irrelevant!

Her suffering escalated past all moments of safety, our little sister. she was twisted and we missed her old blunt sanity. once she got so mad like bull, and ran at me! i showed her the red of my old medallion. she dimmed her energy but it was hard for her i could tell. she had lost controls of the sun inside. she might burn out if she tried. She would not even respond when her boyfriend now kissed her. The catatonia was clear. unremarkably, she could not be stirred into feeling. before it was all roof, and no fucking ceiling! my poor little sister, our poor little one, who made us aware of all else in the world we could do, have, fight for, lose. all we could lose, yes, by not always being ourselves, trapped in eddies of intellect and dissect of feeling, analysis of the past, and wasting our moment to moment sometimes future-dealing in our gambling, our plans, hoping for some safe landing that never shall we see. in the world of fire, earth, air, water, we too are simply daughters of natural suffering and rising, flying and falling, calling and calling to reach out of our solitude. offsetting imbalance with contemplative gratitude.

She wasnt even spooked by the typical Western trip the doctors laid, that medical empiricism that suggested she was quite mad for a deadwoman, and quite full of life for a madwoman. either sensation could head off the other, but none could quite catch her on a diagnostic plane. Only she could level with them. Which she did with the least feeling she could summon, which was easily laughter. She found more to laugh about with the MDs than she ever could with the shaman. shaman were pretty serious in their ritual-focus. These ones, these western ones with their setup of the common American scene devoid of most things sacred, full of artificial light of television and track fluourescents, and plants she could not connect with (cause they were plastic) even got off a few desperate smiles in seeing her blood on their sleeves.

so perfectly clean and neat, she had thought earlier in a semi-conscious pharmaceutically enhanced state, my blood shall find its way to their labcoats and bedsheets all bkeached. You just watch! then i will bring to you my word, my manifesto: nice fade out and in, no. she lost it. her manifesto. fuck! dying really does suck. you try and plan ahead for some really memorable, notable kinda quotable to part your dying lips, as they say in the novels. or, for women, of course the heaving of the tits. hmmmm...? these were near her final closing remarks to herself which only made her more interested in everything going on. she said a couple times 'so long' but nothing happened, she just lay there. it was boring as hell. boredom was all that was clear. ennui. static. for her as one might imagine, such state of mind and being was most horribly traumatic. the violence of it, the injustice of not being yourself after all your life becoming who you are. and leaving behind this river of tears of all who lost her too. missed her truth.

the doctors they had nothing to make of her, no more life, no more death, just a visitation it seemed. they looked in her eyes and she theirs, and together she brought them all into held hands, bowed heads...meditative prayers. It was a sacred time in room #54A. she was mutually aligned with what was coming, she understood the way. so no need to fight and cry and curse, no need for lamentations nor dramaticizations. she layed back in the adjustable bed like another vacation. when she shuddered, well....so did the whole nation. and the eastern world? touched, too.

no one could understand but all could feel the wave of her, that carried them into such a calm, at such a time; no peace mainly war, ravages of poverty, rivers of neglect. starvation. apocalyptic mass suicides, sect by sect. human weapons. families wrecked. the thickness of the air did dissipate a moment. the light pressure of her expanding out a felt sense snowballing into a unitive experience.

she just was. her energy radiating in waves and visions for some. like the blur of the desert horizon in this urban western product of science and industry. an unholy host of profit but not yet fully symptomatic of its own clear disorder. not consciously set out to throw lives in delibate disarray...yet could become conscious within the span of moments in a day. one individual at a time. breaking down. changing careers. practicing Zen. anything to calm the mind so suddenly conscious now and never too late. but still haunted by the residual of affiliate.

the premonition of the many, not the few, never came true. no, it never came true. more often the many had their understanding turned over, and then they overlooked it...tossed it over their shoulder. they flash on themselves, so to remain clean and fried. its the easier way, for comfort they strived. hey! dont get this twisted, though. gratitude was in the flow, you know you know you know and...you know something about her? she could not be forgotten so easily. a part of them had died, all of them, inside. culture had a certain stinging crush on her, for so many years denied...those fruitless years they tried to keep hold of her, before she died.

so many years of letting her life be more than just what she wanted or thought or expected it to be... so many tears letting go of whom she thought she was and others...so many fears she had to fight off her aura to break through, her spirit...how had her courage and heartfelt way of being become less than okay? even rejected? she had lots of time to ask these questions somewhere now embodied in Tanzania. fermentation of tea preoccupied her. felt good in her system all day and night. her spirit did not forget it all, not quite. she could tell sometimes she had been through a lot somehow before all of this. her life now was plain and simple. but her thoughts and feelings were far from that. but at morning, midday, and evening mantras, she often had felt sense of healing...smoothing and cooling some heart or soul friction...and her breath filled her up before entering the empty spaces now silent. she had these moments of relief from some perpetrated violence upon her, unknown? who she was, she knew, need no explanation. her people embraced her. such was the fashion.

breathe deeply into the the silence before continuation...