his beautiful soul

I finally shut off my husband’s cell phone, after paying for it for a long time rather than shut it off, and I was able to save his message and a message he left a friend right before he died suddenly where he says he is leaving a client’s wake, and he continues, “…good thing we’re not the body, huh, prabhu?” with a mock nervous laugh.

I could hear the smirk in it, but he also meant exactly what he said. I hadn’t listened to it in months because it always made me cry (just like the sad sack music/joie de vie Maya Deren vid collages I make of him and the 50 images apple said were deleted forever, which popped back up in my icloud when I bought an imac pro last week for my home office I madly decided to create)… so I cry (but underneath it all makes me relieved the message I can keep was so directly about what fills most of my contemplation and preoccupations and meanderings and ruminations with).

I miss his discussions on the material nature of life versus the consciousness of energy and/or spirit. I miss our death talks and our life dreams. I miss not feeling guilty all the time, I’m terrified of returning to the limbo of shock and feeling frozen or dead inside, yet I’m terrified of feeling happy and free.

Each emotion (especially as a woman, all water, all mirage, all cloud and fog and crashing sea, formless, gormless, anchorless and floating helplessly and fine with it – there’s the rub – fine with it) each emotion is muteable but they all carry fidelity, noble ideas, connexion in the original sense. If one let’s go of all the feelings does one let go of love and memory and the meaning crystallizing lives interwoven?

Be 20 years old and meet your destiny, follow it, give yourself over to the Keatsian impulse of Negative Capability in flesh and feeling not just poetry, do as nature dictates, and then, one day, everything but your form is extinguished, everything you knew, even the old fist shaped organ is transmuted, and the pulse and the smile and the eye rolls and the murmurs and the wisdom has vanished. The hands to hold in the dark, the spark, the dream you could laugh with, the mystery you held for awhile in an open palm. But… but… but… the only way is a bit of zen and a bit stocism and a bit of mysticism … these are all useless words … the only way is the way … we are the way … all we can do is not just exist in the moment but fucking experience and appreciate the moment … and open ourselves to something betwixt the veil and the sea inside. Energy expands if we expand, because yes, if we constrict and narrow and deaden whilst still conscious we are in the hell of our own making, the hell of our own inaction, the hell of dullness and incuriousness, … and when energy transfigures we are ready to roll.

 

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