Between Cute and Crush
Wherein, for me, love is...
Between Cute and Crush
a note on tone
Where fun is a frustrated-satisified sense of naming a joy, what's joyous, for me, was born into a hole - that hole shut, at door-speed. And I driven off to the next hole: food I don't consent to eating. The next: school no children like me. To incite my becoming in a glass womb of labor: child sexual assual. And so born; this babe, with body for any to want it; everyone's.
Crushing It
In the morning, I develop this crush on a color in dawn. Appearing where the mountains fall away and it's just the foreground sleeping trees, the light and me. I look away, like stepping from hot spring, return my gaze, look away; allowing the name of the color to refresh the surprise of its arrival into my life. I have a crush on a color.
This happens a lot; I get crushes on things that have no power over me (no "real" power). which is (a suprisingly) many things! You'd think, in our world, I wouldn't be able to have anything giving itself to me exhibiting no power over me, but this color is truly gone, in every sense of the word.
Not only does the color offer me nothing but wonder, it also stops at that. It's... kind. It's absolutely kind: gentle and curious, from one end of time to the other.
A lot of things exist alongside time before and after displacement (be the current "displacement" The Big Bang displacing perfect suspension, or water displacing gravity, or, these words, displacing dear reader).
Without Displacement
On things existing outside displacement, I have a deep, existential crush. That color (all dawn). A thought, or want. A feeling/sense. Are nothing - they're... they're absolutely nothing.
And it's perfect. Displacement never happened (for all a moment). And the moment ends - it's gorgeous! How can I not be hot for that! Wow-y! Terrifying. I can do nothing. I am powerless (and I am all displacement).
I won't reify εὕρηκα, but yeah: right through the window, I'm found. Whatever was going on is gone. I am so many people and all of them have no idea what color this is, save: "crush"-able.
How long can displacement's displacement last?
Wow, okay previous sentence, I guess I can give that ask a go (immediately passes the buck by employing ellipses, departs)...
First: a vent
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhsgshjs.... okay.
What I have just done is: sobbed all the tears. These turn to lightning the moment I realize all tears are thunder to the lightning of invoking... [tears] ...I tear through space, look down, it's the back of some photopossum. Just ...having a nice day. My crush is instant, ambient. Deep, I love her. Beautiful, neither night nor day, neither rock nor river, neither survival nor whimsy. A sustain -
It's my stop. I hop off, thank the possum (((((((that is my tears) it's a possom) so I guess the tears were of joy) in this context) my tears: "a possom!") me: "where?") the possom: below ). I find you, walk up, just standing there; Stand with you. Just stand here.
...
I lean my head off to the side, perhaps seeing something beyond you, just out of your periphery... I return to just standing here. I say:
Dawn's Soft Pink
It's no longer buff and slate, it's more charcoal-and-kyanite midmorning now. And you go, "Ah! You scared me!" And I go Well, I'm trying! (I put my hands on my hips, one leg gentle, the other curious.) I fear the misunderstanding of trying [to scare you] and clarify quickly, if late: "to talk to you."
And you go stoic, cool, "words are the edges of becoming - our most sacred thoughts every-" and i interrupt:
"Dearest end of the universe, how are you, today I spoke to someone and all they wanted to do was stay in the ethereal plane where everything is cozy and nothing is disharmonious," and you still. Turn to me. And ask me... how I see the practice of gardening expectation.
And I say "Like this," and I do wavy-hands, indicating some mesothereal all-if-it (where that makes sense) - sparkle fingers. I return to just standing there with you. Here with you. Exploring where standing's more than trying. Wondering how I might stand to respond to that question where I'm true to myself.
To Myself
I wonder if you mean creative practices other than just running around with you? Watching the photopossum find her way through the field of stars setting on rivers, help you up her soft mountain coat and get cozy between the pups' building-sized coats on her back?
We could ...acknowledge that. Would you like to practice acknowledgment with me? I'll start. Oh great metaphor of the cosmos, thank you for this wonderful opportunity to be your threshold. To cherish you and stay with you, to climb between the warm fur of this pup and her mother as experience finds their way through you into becoming.
You are kind, attentive and joyous - everything I look to be and fall from; not because I fail, but because I attempt to hold myself to something that is at once myself and a metaphor for such self.
You may forget the first star, but what I forget is what I ate for breakfast. Those, I find, you see no difference - I struggle to not to. I still see a river rock as more of a rock than a river, even as the foundation of my existence as much as my planet's is over two-thirds water.
I still see the air that goes into my lungs as something to expect.
I still see the rent at the end of the month as something to hide behind, impenetrible fear of losing ground, as ossified as calcium in the single-celled life from which mine is but leaf. This tree (if it is not insulting to call life a tree), this proteinous membrane, this mycorrhisal network of persistence in perception I take personally, as my home, finds home in water. And I acknowledge that.
And I just wanted to acknowledge that.
Thank you for witnessing me, as I witness you. Thank you for this lovely canvas of gravity on which all water paints. Thank you for the dawn that water marks at the edge of time (even if that's always miserably late to the start of my day). Thank you for seeing me.
Yours,
Quiet Fire
Does that love letter to my crush change me? Maybe I pass that to you (where that crush changed you, it changed me). That's displacement; we can't say we discovered it. But say we say it discovered us - that'll be our little secret. That way, when displacement looks back, we can be something it's still learning to love.
Some might call that silly, but somewhere in your body, I think you know, sometimes, what's foundational, can be silly. More than trying to: standing here.