A Secant Query

Between Pool and Patience

Wherein I tend a space...

Between Pool and Patience

A neighbor receives car honks, banging, any urban clatter as undivided and furious attention (that is, their body does).

Asking For a Friend

Do you ever sit with your body?

Giving my body distance and giving my body slack finds me a lot of homeostasis I otherwise lose to colonizers who treat my childhood nervous systems as their soapbox. My body is a mysterious presence I am still learning to see, still cultivating adoration alongside (I am very much the Moon).

Note my thick jungle of reception; pain comes in through here. Explicable, received as diffused attention. Celebration does not putrify into hateful signal. Love with slack, ambiguity pregnant with faith in abundance.

Spiteful living putrifies love, projecting spite.

Every Dog a Door

I grow up with big, housebound rescue dogs who fight when fed in the same room. As a child, every morning and night, I bring dogs my size and weight to separate rooms. Close each door. Feed them. Slip out while they eat. To be let out, the dog bangs on their door.

I don't ask my mom to have one dog. I do what the situation asks; I do not return when told to leave.

Last I saw, her friend's dog had pups (a dream dog from her late childhood). For dreams at the edge of becoming like hers, life is short. My mom juggles dreams, not content to hold just one.

I Won't Be Asking

What I eat can feel like a personal attack to others eating sensibilities, eating shames, eating disorders, eating habits.

I can count the meals I share with people where someone believing their curiosity harmless has not found the meal itself to be capital time for me to evaluate the eating arrangements I have carved carefully over decades with my person.

A gentle "can I make you something" lands as though my plate is an uneven floor in need of napkins.

For them, this is a convenient time (every meal hits like family dinner). I, compromised, am way too attached. My body handles this much cleaner than I do.

Cool, impartial, tagging me out, my body responds: This is hardly the time; be a dear, and ask when there's less food. A perfect robotic response. Thanks, body.

Here For a Moment

My body loves passing the autonomy. We are two entities, my attention all my body needs. Alone, my body fractures into multiple nervous systems, breaks feedback into digestable parts, cleans up signal.

I disambiguate for my body - my body could never dream of inhabiting the between.

Recursive sin, where recognizing one has sinned leaves one with no sin, is the insistance recognizing they've sinned means they have sinned. It's a mathematical (proverbial) shame spiral.

Shame severs access to nervous systems of unconditional self-love. Nervous systems of shameless messiahs in fellowship or buddhas vibrating in silence or loyal dogs in service. Shame imports deservedness and worth (disrupting connection).

To shed no sin leaves libraries of sense without access to my body. As common denominator, autonomy passed to which sense invites this moment to serve the rest of time.

Actual Happenings