Presently, at sea.
This frigid and prickly weather has left me aloof and lonely. I’ve been meditating on these tiny epiphanies that have been an extraordinary condition of this excessive empty space. Predicatably, looking for love in these desolate settings has never left me full. I am hungry for sisterhood, and walks in the snow. I am hungry for a fictional and supernatural care.
Rebecca Perry writes in her book “Beauty/Beauty”
“All cruel people describe themselves as paragons of frankness. They shout ‘We don’t love you any more!’ as the rest of us run into the sea. What else are you supposed to do on this earth but catch whatever comes to you, with all your fingers, until your fingers are broken?”
This description of survival in the face of an implicit cruelty describes the quiet battles “fought” over persecutors that corrupt us in tiny permanent ways. The use of “fought” should be taken lightly, Perry’s description deals with “fighting” in the most passive sense, running away (into the sea) equals a certain persistence. The expectation and practice of this persistence houses conditions for a brokenness, or rather it fractures a fundamental part of self.
This is how I feel, and what I mean. The people of my past have haunted me in stupidly profound ways. I am marked by their cruelty, and in trying to run away from them, I end up stranded at sea. Personally I am impressed by the sheer distance I have between me and the shore, but I don’t know if I can swim any longer.
Floating, Looking up: In the stillness. In the eerie quietness coming from the middle of the sea, I am able to practice gratitude. For every breath, for every second I can feel myself, alive. The term survival has harsh connatations. It implies a specifc dangerous danger, to fight against. In ways, that is true and untrue for my situation (depending on the day really). Definitely though, survival for me looks like and feels like friendship, family, and sleep. Even if I am in love with or talking to invisible people, I have a lot to live for.
