How To Say Goodbye

With a bow to How To With John Wilson and his quirky meanderings and a bow and a wow to Lucy Ellman for the fact of her facile fiery fragments, I offer you mine.

What dies? My energy and my love continue. Whomever I have helped are still helped. yelped. touched. wounded. wondered. wandered. 

From my diary in 2019: 

sound of machines in the hallway, cat on my right thigh, man in the woods, I did love him, my belly says. heart in my throat, cancer in my breast [not really, not really], at some point this body will break down and then my legacy already spilled into the world. the brutality of spring, buds pushing their way out of the naked branches who had their glorious unveiling in the winter. 

Reminder, don’t get massage after breakup because being touched makes me want to be touched. 

I am a performer. I feel the flow when my whole body is activated and I feel the touch of the gaze. even two people is better than one, except at a party because of what happens to my ears. the buzz of the crowd sets my neurons on edge. 

What dies is my point of view. How do I let go of what I see, how I understand things? I can barely express myself now. People who see me don't see me. I am not an influencer. So I quietly sit, outside when I can, and let the world settle into me.

my burial shroudA friend from the Zendo made me a burial shroud. I gave her scraps from my fabrics and my friends contributed from their collections, and she patched them into this gorgeous wrap. We sat in meditation for a few minutes and then I tried it on. I performed dying.

I tell myself it's like when I finally tear myself away from the beach by reminding myself it will still be there even when I'm not. I don't have to have the experience of waves. I don't have to do the dancing. 

Dance. I see you. Sing. I hear you. 

Live. 

I am still alive. This is not goodbye. I'm just rehearsing.

January 19, 2022