Taking no prisoners. Including herself.

What just happened was wonderful. It was sweet. It made me smile. It was Kate, at her best, at her worst, at her HER, being her beautiful shining self. I looked at her, watched her, allowed her to just fill up my whole sphere, and I got to just enjoy her. My friend.

I feel so blessed these days, all days, this day, at the friends and lives I get to watch evolve and shift and grow and itch and stretch. They stretch. They are living organisms and I get to watch them grow. They are what puts into perspectives the beatify and meaning of life. Life. There is an ultimate solace, in being with my friends, only because they take me out of myself, transport me, siphon me thin until I am liquid, essential and pure, I am watching with love. I am pure love, watching.

My last days will be filled with this love. I will be on a death bed, a love bed, a bed of roses and thorns, mildew and rot, with my body half to hell and my mind half to heaven, and I’ll be wearing, having nothing, but a smile. There will be sacrifice justified – I will have lived a full, very full, very long life, and I will look around and know that it was just. It was fair. The price I paid of love and sorrow and scorn and scars will be taken in exact value for the love I was given. And not given by god, per se, but given by the man in robes, the woman of the market, the storm of the savanna, the boy of my heart, the friend of the feast, the coffee shops, the mildew, the pain, the groping, the wine goblets, the shorn sheep, the blanket warm and comforting, comforter, comfort, and sometimes the rain, the cold, the wet clothes and cast out, isolated from my very soul. Sometimes there was despair. And there will be more despair to pay.

But some days – some days – I can imagine a time, a place, an end, a time when I’m at the end covered my body covered in cherry blossoms, I’m in japan, my final resting place, something has taken me there, I’ve been reborn, at an old age, at 80, my love has died, my children are grown, everything in my life sacrificed to time, and I have no one left except for those who knew me least, never knew of my childhood, of my san Francisco, of my glory, of my prime, of my confusion, of my storms, never knew of my wild dreams and fiery heart, all they knew was an old lady, an old woman, who perched herself at the edge of a very old cliff in the mountains of japan, and grew herself legs out of trees, and sprouted wings, in order for herself to fly. And all alone there were followers, questioners, doubters, believers, converters and storms. Lots of storms. Never an ending to the storms.

And when the first break of clouds formed over the mountain the volcano, the split open mouth of nature and of god, then went the halo of the woman into the sky, and she wore the sky, was and became the sky, shinier and shinier, until all was clean. And she’ll never have believed had she not lived it that she used to be a young woman, especially a young woman of this century, with buzzing neon and electricity and vibe – of music and sex and affairs and lost sensibilities, of sudden homes and forgotten tales, once here and now there, how did this happen? How did I die? She’ll ask herself, and she’ll already know the answer: time, time, time! Only time that evil friend could have taken her and whisked her back and forth between comfort and desolation, a mild and severe cavern of the most exquisite form.

§1262 · September 23, 2012 · Writing & Language · · [Print]

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