Not Just Another Pretty Face: Disjointment. Detachment.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Disjointment. Detachment.

Lone flower, pix taken along the hike to Chilling Falls, January 2010

In isolation, standing on my remote tiny island somewhere in the Pacific, I look out to the cyan ocean with pretty waves, flecked in caps of frothy white. Hazily, I'm aware of the flurry of people, voices, modern mechanical sounds like the stupid, grating, incessant ringing of the telephone, but I seem to have stumbled upon the warm protective white-sanded void to which to retreat to when things threaten to be overwhelming.

I hate making choices, having too many is terribly draining and like a pendulum, a swing bar, I am frozen into indecision, unable to come to come to a consensus within myself. Endless possibilities, I wonder, should they be invigorating or immobilizing.

I am daunted, stuck in the worry of being the last to finish the race or not finishing at all due to my own wishy-washiness and fear of commitment. Is the journey about finishing or fulfillment? Even as I ponder this and search for the answers, the expectations and judgement of more decisive people, make me mad. Lividly so. Moodiness, terseness and one worded replies, rather than an explosion of torrid emotions, as I retreat into the protective void where it is me, and me alone where there is no need for the chore of Making Choices.

Sometimes I feel blessed are those who have no choice. This phrase is often uttered with negative connotations accompanied by a slump of the shoulders and a defeatist attitude. But what is so bad about having no choice? Making the best of your no choice, seeing the possibilities that your no choice option (is that a contradiction in itself?) would offer to you? Life could be simpler, you know. But even as I write this, I know, it's oversimplying matters, because even as you adhere to your no choice, it would lead you to more choices?

In this island of neither here nor there, my words seem to float in a place of zero gravity. The words that my mouth speaks are heard but are not listened to. Pegnant pauses dissipate to empty nothingness. Perhaps vast spaces of silences are better than thoughtless replies uttered to fill the silences and cruel sacrastic remarks that pains me more than shown. The words and remarks that swirl in the void does not fill it in any way. Barren and stark, it remains.

So yes, everyone has their own boat to row and rock and yes, many are blessed with more smarts, earn more, are more spiritually in touch, am more decisive and less emotional than me. Semblance of morals and a weath of useless trivia which is the best that I am useful for, but I suppose, upon reflection, is knowledge all the same. Who is to say, one is more useful than the other? And the path has to be big enough for me too.

So me, that's who I am, I repeat a thousand times over, like a prayer, until I am hoarse in my all alone quiet haven.

Pink Martini served in chilled champagne flutes garnished with a mini umbrella, that's all there is here. No tricky choices to make. No chance for anyone to tell you that you have made the "wrong" or "foolish" choice. Because there is only One.

I lay back, take a long sip and the cool liquid soothes my ulcered mouth and parched throat. The surprising warmth of the cool, sweet nectar spreads in me and touches my very core.