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(significance)
The particular quality of my mind that marks me most, to myself, is its ability to pull the feeling of significance from anything. Anything-- a leaf, a sunrise, a person, an action --feels as if it is somehow very important, as if the meaning of lifetimes is encapsulated inside of it.
That's not how I meant to start.
Everything has meaning to me, and when I'm tired, it gets away from me. Everything rises up, huge and shining, and overwhelms my discriminatory faculties. That's why I livejournal, to acknowledge th significance of things in a useful way.
I meant to laundry-list this post: yesterday I got my beautiful other baby rat, really a baby, from Petaluma. He's black with little white toes and a tiny white triangle on his nose. He's lively and skittish. He and Rain don't fight. His name may be honeypie, but again, it may be muffin. He's sleek and shiny. I love him. Rain tolerates him. I went to the rat show and visited with the girlies' dad and with April and with Lizzy and with other rat folk, and I went to Khali's pizza there which is the best pizza place anywhere and so I have a whole Khali's pizza in my fridge. I opened a bottle of wine just now to drink with it. Bob drove me to the show and hung out, and we had a talk in the car of some significance on the way home, it felt scary, like breathing from a tube underwater. When I got home we hung out some more and then I got something in my eye and it's terribly bloodshot and I took my contacts out and I don't want to put them back in, so I'm not going to Illuminares. This will be the one year I could have gone, and I won't. It's not my event, I suppose.
Instead I'm here by myself in my home. I'm gonna sleep in my bed alone for the first time since I moved here, and maybe the last. I've done a bit of socialising with baby rat and with Rain, and I'm drinking white wine from a juice glass and wanting, kinda, to talk with CrazyChris who seems to know me pretty well and who, also, I haven't caught up with in a long time.
I feel slightly off-balance, which isn't surprising, given. Tomorrow I go dancing. I may help Kynnin move-- he called me, for the first time since two years ago, because I had offered him help moving, and so that may happen. It's strange timing. I may also go for lunch with Graham, and I may pick out one of my girlie's half-sisters to fill the big cage. My eyes feel peeled-- too much contact-wearing, too little sleep. Sleep will be welcome.
I feel strange. I think I've come to understand, finally, why they call it a broken heart-- because it breaks. You know how one day you have a glittering smooth sculpture, or a window that lets sunlight through and collects dust, or a delicate teacup with flowers painted on it, and the next you just have a pile of sharp stuff that doesn't occupy the volume well, and certainly doesn't hold water or keep the cold out? That's what happened. Kynnin broke my heart. I didn't realise I had had one because for so long there was just love there, love for people. Now my heart is beginning to grow back, I think. This isn't really supposed to make sense to you, but perhaps if you close your eyes and run very quickly over the surface you can feel a little of what I mean.
My eyes hurt. They're still very bloodshot. I have to stop myself from playing Sometimes on repeat again and again. The song feels significant. I remember the first night, when it was on repeat, and Jan and Kynnin and were there together. I wonder what that meant? It seems like it was the beginning of something which has not yet ended.
I've never belonged to the night. The night out there is fantastic, in the fantasy sense, and it's some sort of a wild foreign thing to me. There is enough of the weird and fantasric in my own head that it's daylight which anchors me, sun beating down and the smell of earth and practical details. I'll stay in here and sleep, therefore, and ready myself for the two solid weeks of work that culminate in Shambhala.
My skinned knees are healing. I need to go running tomorrow morning. I feel alone inside myself now, but not lonely. I really liked the play that CrazyChris and Tim produced. I know where I'm going to live in September. I have so much laundry to do that it's stupid. My girlie-rats love me, and my boys will grow to. I will bring them to bed when I wake up. I listened to the tape of me reading a book that mom took to send to my great-grandma when I was like 2. There is so much love in it. The world holds a lot of love for me. The only things it makes sense to count are blessings. I have no trials of significance.
You see? Every thing significant, and yet not significant to each other. Where are the patterns?
The particular quality of my mind that marks me most, to myself, is its ability to pull the feeling of significance from anything. Anything-- a leaf, a sunrise, a person, an action --feels as if it is somehow very important, as if the meaning of lifetimes is encapsulated inside of it.
That's not how I meant to start.
Everything has meaning to me, and when I'm tired, it gets away from me. Everything rises up, huge and shining, and overwhelms my discriminatory faculties. That's why I livejournal, to acknowledge th significance of things in a useful way.
I meant to laundry-list this post: yesterday I got my beautiful other baby rat, really a baby, from Petaluma. He's black with little white toes and a tiny white triangle on his nose. He's lively and skittish. He and Rain don't fight. His name may be honeypie, but again, it may be muffin. He's sleek and shiny. I love him. Rain tolerates him. I went to the rat show and visited with the girlies' dad and with April and with Lizzy and with other rat folk, and I went to Khali's pizza there which is the best pizza place anywhere and so I have a whole Khali's pizza in my fridge. I opened a bottle of wine just now to drink with it. Bob drove me to the show and hung out, and we had a talk in the car of some significance on the way home, it felt scary, like breathing from a tube underwater. When I got home we hung out some more and then I got something in my eye and it's terribly bloodshot and I took my contacts out and I don't want to put them back in, so I'm not going to Illuminares. This will be the one year I could have gone, and I won't. It's not my event, I suppose.
Instead I'm here by myself in my home. I'm gonna sleep in my bed alone for the first time since I moved here, and maybe the last. I've done a bit of socialising with baby rat and with Rain, and I'm drinking white wine from a juice glass and wanting, kinda, to talk with CrazyChris who seems to know me pretty well and who, also, I haven't caught up with in a long time.
I feel slightly off-balance, which isn't surprising, given. Tomorrow I go dancing. I may help Kynnin move-- he called me, for the first time since two years ago, because I had offered him help moving, and so that may happen. It's strange timing. I may also go for lunch with Graham, and I may pick out one of my girlie's half-sisters to fill the big cage. My eyes feel peeled-- too much contact-wearing, too little sleep. Sleep will be welcome.
I feel strange. I think I've come to understand, finally, why they call it a broken heart-- because it breaks. You know how one day you have a glittering smooth sculpture, or a window that lets sunlight through and collects dust, or a delicate teacup with flowers painted on it, and the next you just have a pile of sharp stuff that doesn't occupy the volume well, and certainly doesn't hold water or keep the cold out? That's what happened. Kynnin broke my heart. I didn't realise I had had one because for so long there was just love there, love for people. Now my heart is beginning to grow back, I think. This isn't really supposed to make sense to you, but perhaps if you close your eyes and run very quickly over the surface you can feel a little of what I mean.
My eyes hurt. They're still very bloodshot. I have to stop myself from playing Sometimes on repeat again and again. The song feels significant. I remember the first night, when it was on repeat, and Jan and Kynnin and were there together. I wonder what that meant? It seems like it was the beginning of something which has not yet ended.
I've never belonged to the night. The night out there is fantastic, in the fantasy sense, and it's some sort of a wild foreign thing to me. There is enough of the weird and fantasric in my own head that it's daylight which anchors me, sun beating down and the smell of earth and practical details. I'll stay in here and sleep, therefore, and ready myself for the two solid weeks of work that culminate in Shambhala.
My skinned knees are healing. I need to go running tomorrow morning. I feel alone inside myself now, but not lonely. I really liked the play that CrazyChris and Tim produced. I know where I'm going to live in September. I have so much laundry to do that it's stupid. My girlie-rats love me, and my boys will grow to. I will bring them to bed when I wake up. I listened to the tape of me reading a book that mom took to send to my great-grandma when I was like 2. There is so much love in it. The world holds a lot of love for me. The only things it makes sense to count are blessings. I have no trials of significance.
You see? Every thing significant, and yet not significant to each other. Where are the patterns?
