I want to tell you of my weekend: Of B.B. King's and Palila Vineyard. Of my very own bottle of "Joyful Pink" And my brain- brazen and blushing- but a little too bold for my own good. I want to tell you explicitly of how it feels to love from the ground up: To take off your shoes and dance in the grass, and- in the middle of the Beltane Pagan Festival- realize that, there must be a god, because something has to take ordinary days and turn them into incense and Victor Wooten techniques. Then, to laugh uncontrollably, still somehow able to enjoy the irony of where you are and how deeply you feel.
But that is nothing compared to Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
What I mean by that is, for the past few months, I've been overcome by something he said, once. So much so that it has a giant inspiration for my thoughts and words.
"Oh, heart, are you great enough for love?"
I think this is such a powerful, telling, question. It's in the adjective "great." And I don't think, as many may, that this is a rhetorical question: There is a definitive answer to what our hearts believe we're worth. I know I, and many of my counterparts, quantify each moment by others' opinions. We feed into this idea that "All we need is love" and ignore so many of our other accomplishments, or traits, in search of love that we can be "great enough" for.
So, in this space, because they aren't good writings but super cathartic, I want to share Part I-III from the "Oh, heart, are you great enough for love" collection.
There are bite marks on my bottom lip where my answers used to lie. Symmetrical reminders that I lost myself in confusion and two month old promises. Weeks change faces. That's fight or flight (survival of the fittest). You kill me (that's flight). In yesterday's tank we were Japanese fighting fish, both determined to make this fishbowl home. I would pack the world under my tiniest fin before taking the sarcasm from your eyes- but you stopped being funny three hours ago.
I don't know if time can measure drowning. Or if fish know how to drown. But it happens in a New York second--almost like it never did at all.
You think we can protect each other. Two chance encounters and a cute story have led you to believe you can get away with the craters on my bottom lip. Through kisses, I know you can feel them (fight).
So this is where I make my escape. But this fishbowl never escapes it's reflection, instead I'm fighting myself- pretending it's you.
In fairytales it's simple: the winning trifecta of desperate girl, strong man, and unbearable circumstances. Reality paints things a little differently. The girls aren't nearly as weak, the men not as strong and no circumstances are unbearable enough to make you cut off your heal to fit in a glass slipper. Or live within a suit of armor.
But the extremes make for better story lines. As artists, we live high and low, the in-between not space enough for the way we feel. So we create fantasies from our lesser realities, attracted to a life in excess. I don't want to live a bipolar existence.
Rather, give me our first meeting, our first kiss, the first time we cooked together. I will keep my heals and give you back your suit of armor, as long as you learn to let me in.
May 3. 2:15AM.
This is Me:
My name's Melissa. I'm the girl with her hands in her journal.