I’m going to tell you a story. Another one.
They said, having explained exactly what was involved, “Volunteers?”
One hand shot up.
Eyebrows were raised. Notes on clipboards were checked. They said, “Are you sure?”
As usual it was a matter of over estimating ability while underestimating the task.
“Yes, sure.” I don’t even think you looked up. You definitely hadn’t been concentrating.
“And you’ve understood the finer points.”
“Oh, totally.” Thoughts wandering onto something else.
“You’ll forget completely.”
Yawn.
“And you’ll believe totally that you’re alone.”
Yeah, yeah.
“And you won’t remember us at all.”
“Got it.”
But you didn’t believe that was possible.
A tube, a hurtle downward, a red haze, a place contained within a pulse, another tube, the access to your breathing, this place, this place and you had forgotten and you believed totally that you were alone and you had to breathe through that – as if you must put your mouth to a tunnel of faeces and suck. I have to depend on this? Already I knew it would kill me, the toxic gas of it, the unresolved, unprocessed shame that was my only source of life. I remember the recoil, but or else you would die and so you put yourself to it. You breathed in.
When I think of that girl who wasn’t anything yet, a bunch of cells that had formed around a spirit, or rather a fleshy vehicle into which you hurtled all gung-ho and what problem?, the devastation of that moment, the complete forgetting, I know it started there.
I got a Mohawk this week, my hair cut into a middle-aged White woman warrior and a friend asked me what’s the significance? Everything I do is survival. Every move a rescue. I am saying Look at me now. I am unafraid. I am being unafraid for you, while you are afraid all the time.
More power and the greatest of guidance to you onwards and forever EllaBella! xx
Love the post and the mohawk!