Asana, Body Image, character study, Death, depression, Dharma, eccentric, Existentialism, Expansion, Fear, Health Issues, Laramie, Mental Health, Mindfulness, mountains, poverty, privilage, PTSD, Self Growth, Self Love, Self Reflection, Sex, Suicide, Universiality

the uncut hair of graves

I keep the phone squished between my shoulder and ear driving to Corona Village to pick up fajitas I had ordered before my dear friend called.  She is dead now.  She hung herself.  I wish I could say I don’t picture her body there hanging, owl tattoo on her right shoulder.  Hair blonde, maybe more brown, jutty cut she had surely given herself to frame her beautiful thinned out almond crystal eyes.  We talk about so many things on the phone.  She hears my voice for who I really am. She sees me for me.

We talk about how she will move to South Carolina soon and I watch the brightly colored tiles that decorate the walls of the restaurant nd wish she were back in Wyoming.  Phone sill squished, I drive home to eat my meal.  To talk to my friend.  To heal my soul.  I dip a chip into guacamole and taste the tiny individual pieces of salt visible on the triangles and she tells me when she admired me for talking about performing oral sex in our English capstone class.  Tells me I used the phrase “sucking dick” and that had liberated her.  I remember that self that wouldn’t wear a belt or a bra and talk frankly of sex in class because I wanted so bad to accept my body and to accept sex and to be a part of something that carries so much power.

My mind flashes back to a care package she had left at my house and I watch as a drop of runny salsa hits the floor and puddles out while I remember what was in the box.  Corsets, bras, whips, and other kinky shit she felt safe enough to give me.  I look at the spot of salsa and smile about how she thought I was something more than I think I am.  In her eyes, to her short choppy hair, I was a sex vixen.  I crouch down and wipe up the blood like salsa with a napkin and shove it back in the takeout bag.

Pushing carrots, celery, and mushrooms around in the foam container soaked in grease and dark red sauce made of chilies and cumin she tells me about how she had to cancel her Facebook account for slugging too much wine in the evenings and writing provocative shit.  That wasn’t her or mine assessments but her graduate program that had broken her down like I had been broken down in my own program.  I drop a tiny spoonful of sour cream onto beans and put them into my mouth while tears start to fall down.  She gets me.  She sees my spark and I see hers and we want to drink wine and perform oral sex on whomever or wherever we feel like.

I’ve wrapped my tortillas in foil and slopped the food from foam into plastic containers.  Organize. Compartmentalize. Anything to give myself the illusion of control.  We get ready to end the phone call and I tell her to keep pushing forward, to give her writing to the world, and I tell her I’ve saved all of her writing.  Even her e-mails.  Nothing can happen more beautiful than death for the awareness of life it gives to all who suffer its consequences.

Hey jenn,
Im getting that piece to you sunday night hell or high water.  I found this article about throwing around words to look learned n after our talky talky bout the mfa boys club n tim like people i thought u might like it too:
Im usin my phone so pardon all the grammar bad ju ju

J. P. Corley

Christmas, depression, Dharma, eccentric, Existentialism, Expansion, Fear, Laramie, Mental Health, Mindfulness, poverty, privilage, PTSD, Self Growth, Self Love, Self Reflection, Universiality, Yoga

holidays and hard candy

Holidays are like black licorice.  Some find them nostalgic and live from under the tree themselves a gift to the holiday season ready with cards, vintage ornaments, cookies, hot chocolate, all traditions and rituals practiced with such mindfulness and care like orchestrating an entire Nutcracker pageant, dancing the delicate ballet of life.  I cannot stay bitter at a time when I see this passion and see this play unfold in faces stained red from candy canes and fingers sticky from exploring a magical world criss crossed with strands of light.  The magic is reversed for others and Christmas cookies become too sweet lingering in the mouth whose teeth are biting at the lip of poverty wondering how to make it through the next 30 days.  Life morphing into a horrible cliché, a made for tv movie.  Main character standing washing dollar store plastic dishes staring out the window of subsidized housing painfully aware of peeling paint and hair and dirt stuck to the window sill.  Contemplating the bottle of wine under the bed that was bought in shame after registering for a holiday basket, kids screaming, mind screaming, body hurting, lights too bright, feeling raw and jumping at the sudden touch of the holidays.  Nothing is ever as simple as black or white and because we all are in one another in some way we are both of these people–Tiny Tim and Santa.  Stereotypes founded in some semblance of truth because what is underneath is the same:  love, pain, fear, joy, togetherness, isolation.  These we share.  These are our gifts.  All of us holding onto the ghosts of the past, the fuzzy reality of now, and the anxiety of the future.  Money doesn’t cure this basic human condition.  The underbelly of the holidays makes some hyperaware of their inability to give or receive and others such joy to create rituals that heal, both wrapping up the past and looking toward the future keeping in the now through the practice of sacred patterns.  And because I can only write in juxtaposition and think in binaries doesn’t preclude any of us from feeling the bittersweet energy of the most emotion filled time of the year.  And so, on this new day of a new year, completely symbolic, I will appreciate the past and trust the future while breathing love in and out in this very moment.