I laughed a little, my heart unseen;
It felt good to be hidden, even from birds now back in the sky.
A return to normalcy, sanitary and clean -
Where the day smiles at life, even without me having to try.
‘You cannot disturb this,’ I told myself.
‘This is peace I have found, without you…in spite of you!’
Peace, like a blanket to cloak oneself.
And peace…a salve for a shattered heart to cling.
No, you will not touch this veil
because I know what happens when you do;
my source of sadness comes to tell -
my heart still carries you.

I dislike explaining things, because I feel it takes away from the experience of art, but many people have asked me where I was - what I was thinking about when I wrote this. Even though I would prefer to lie, the truth is that I wrote this after a certain person touched a part of me that I did not think he had access to any more. I was later reminded by a dear friend, younger yet wiser, that a soul can’t hide forever …I keep thinking about those words, and laugh a little - all over again.

Fast forward to midnight
when I’m there with you
where everything’s quiet
and no one gets through
Fast forward to midnight
I don’t really care how
just make sure that you do it
and please do it now
Fast forward to midnight
because until you do
nothing is calming
and nothing will do
Fast forward to midnight
and please make it fast
I’m lost here without you
and don’t know if I’ll last

He spoke of room 101 and asked me if I had read the book in which it was mentioned. I answered yes, but then wondered if I really had…
Maybe I only thought I had because people talk about it so much, I couldn’t remember.
I wondered for a moment why I did that, why I said yes before I had really thought about whether or not I really had read this particular book. I had read many of this author’s other books, but had I read this one? I decided to utter something lame like, “it was so long ago I don’t really remember,” or, “I read so many books…” but this boys voice had captivated me and what he was saying made my mind wander into something entirely different.
He spoke of his country, somewhere I knew nothing about and would be terrified to visit, yet as he spoke I could see through the differences of our homelands to find the many similarities; some of which I was comfortable with and some that were beginning to make me nervous and others which did make me nervous.
“I think I should quit watching the news,” I said awkwardly when I realized that my defensive arguments for my country sounded weak.
I didn’t like the uneasy feeling I had in my stomach when he didn’t respond. I sat in silence wondering what I should say before he answered, “Just don’t end up in room 101, OK?”
But as my condition worsened I became increasingly uneasy and was rushed to the hospital the following day. I’ve never been an entirely stable person, so nothing about this was surprising; the same gray hospital, the same chemical smells, the same questionnaires.
What did you do before coming to the hospital today?
I started to write about how my entire life happened before coming to the hospital this day, therefore everything I had ever done…but then my husband gave me that look that said “please don’t pick today to make a statement,” so I erased that and wrote “watched TV.”
When I was finished with the forms and mindlessly stupid (and I mean really stupid) questions, I was taken to a room with a nurse and a policeman. The policeman took my belongings and put them in a sealed envelope that I then signed to ensure their safety. The nurse was there to inform me that my room number would be room 101.
I’m not sure what the chances of this are, but I doubt they are high. Very frightened, I begged her for any other room number but she told me that there was no way they could give me a different room and then snapped a Polaroid of me so they would be able to show me what a mess I was when I checked in and presumably how much better I would be when they let me go. Trying to keep my composure, I told her I needed a moment to myself, but she would not leave me alone. I backed out the door but she followed me…repeating my name in a strange bleating manner like a nursing lamb following its mother.
Not knowing what to do, I raced down the hall slamming doors while security guards chased me until I came to a lone quiet room. I do not know what the number was…109, or perhaps 111; its so unimportant as long as its not 101. A man lay there quietly looking at me with his quizzical face, so I felt it only polite to ask him through my tears if I could stand there for a moment.
“Sure, I don’t mind,” he answered calmly, smiling peacefully at me.
I liked him.
“Have you ever read 1984?” I asked.
“No,” he answered quickly.
“Are you positive?”
“Yes,” he chuckled, ”I’m pretty sure.”
“Good,” I smiled back. “Don’t.”

]]> http://www.lucidsoul.org/2007/02/27/room-101/feed/ http://www.lucidsoul.org/2007/02/26/gaia/ http://www.lucidsoul.org/2007/02/26/gaia/#comments Tue, 27 Feb 2007 06:10:21 +0000 Paula verse art http://www.lucidsoul.org/2007/02/26/gaia/ where i is imagined

Every moment is a rebirth,

Each fragment filled with wonder.

How can I help but be distracted?

When each diversion is a wealth of ardor

And every tangent returns me home.

Om Jai Guru Om

I have known you.
Your name has changed and your voice is new, but there is no one else it could be. Are you supposed to be a stranger now…is that what I’m expected to see? 
I wait in silence for you to say something, for fear that my lips will reveal what I try so hard to contain. A fool to pretend my voice lies in words, yet I know that if I release my hold for even a moment you would…

No.
I mustn’t think of it. Instead, my mind races to dispel you with questions, the answers to which I have already known. And when it’s breath, not voice, that satisfies I will learn once again that I have few defenses against the air. The touch of it glows deep within me, and in spite of myself I feel you.
Oh god I feel you.
Tell me it is real and I will not doubt. Show me again and again that nothing lies between the stars and the sky so I will quit looking. And when I stand in the rain, eyes closed as you shout out loud, I will welcome you once more. I will let the memory of you run down my face to seep between my lips and I will know…
You are not a dream.

This is a charcoal I did while in the hieghts of “bliss” so-to-speak. I gave it this title at the time, thinking I was so clever, but now I am not entirely sure what I was thinking. Sometime’s I catch glimpses of what I thought I meant, but that’s not the same as knowing. I drew it with the intent of giving it to someone that meant a great deal to me, but when it was finished I couldn’t. I’m not sure if I felt that it would get destroyed or be unappreciated, but I couldn’t send it to him. At that time it was sort of this “lust meets love” thing…an all consuming, fiery passion. That person is a simple memory now, and what once seemed to be all encompassing now feels as if something splattered against my windsheild for a moment…and I look at that and sense passion colliding with anger. Not at him, but at everything…impermanence… and I ask myself the same question I ask so many times; why?

I love this piece, and will probably never let it go. Perhaps it was meant to grow with me, as I foolishly attempt to comprehend love.

This is a question I dare not answer. If I said to you “I am that,” it would be untrue; “that” is over there, created as nothing more than imagery derived from habit and conditioning and then separated from me the moment the words take form and divulge a meaning of their own. They flood my mind, asking to be worn, yet if I accept… I must realize that I existed prior to wearing them so how could it be me?

Parent. Child. Student. Teacher. Diligently, I have stripped away the layers of myself, searching for one thing I can pin down…one thing that if removed “I” would no longer be, yet the longer I observe the less I am able to answer. That is, of course, unless you count some useless list of credentials presented in an attempt to compensate for my ignorance, in which case, I have a few. 

It seems that no matter how far I spiral inwards everything continues to point towards me but is not truly me. It is the center attempting to point at the center and it can’t be done. ”I” cannot be gotten to from the outside, and from within I cannot see. I will always be blind to myself because I am the one looking. I cannot tell you who or what I am…because I am, and the center can only be the center.

Who am I?
I only know by being, but how can I tell? ]]> http://www.lucidsoul.org/2006/10/12/me/feed/