- from "A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left" by Andrew Bird (album: the Mysterious Production of Eggs).
It's late. I know. It's not too late, though. I tried hard. I held out as long as I could, hoping my feelings would change. And they did. Or my understanding of them did. Present. *The* Present. Meaning, every present moment, and its changes. I really should have died you know. Not being dramatic. True. The car in the ditch, the wrong side of the road, 10 years ago. My father, my mother, who knows who else has gone. Death is there, every moment, like a Nervous Tic. But instead, tonight, I was in the arms of a very, very good friend, watching Andrew Bird, whistling and tipping around each other and his music every moment. I am so open to every moment now. The gross ones disgust me, predictably. Then I realize their potential and move on. I feel like most of my old video tapes are --- nervous tics. Not worthy of much more than observation. Mostly good for the familiarity, then time to turn them off. Time to turn my real self back on.
I don't know where my family is in this. bell hooks, in all about love (her first installment in the series I've been reading, which ends in men and women's treatments of love, individually) says that our families contain mixed messages about love. Mixed in that we believe abuse and love can go together. They cannot, she insists, go together. When I find someone who is prone, who is a natural, at giving me straight up love, I have such a hard time believing it. It makes me cry, but laugh, too. I know I will see this through.
For a second post in a row, thanks J.