Saturday, January 30, 2010

permission permission permission

Gonna make a pennant.A banner.Hell,a flag --that says PERMISSION.

Permission.What a word.

A yielding.Of yourself,to yourself.To nothing.And then,to everything.

On the phone this morning,she says:"rest,today",I said :"how??tell me what to do,give me an itinerary,a definition,how do you do this rest thing?"She said it's taking care of yourself.Eat.Shower.Spend time with a friend,don't leave the house,eat cookies.Do nothing.

I try.It doesn't work.I said I just feel like I need permission...

Permission is what you ask for when you can't give something to yourself.Something you feel you're not allowed to have.Something as simple as quiet,as rest.And some things as great,too,as acknowledgment of who you are and what you do,what's inherent in you and the value of that.

I know some people--many people--who seem entitled,who appropriate,who try on others,steal what works and throw away what doesn't,who amalgamate--and I am envious.The envy lives in the place that tells me to own something,that I could have this walk and this flash and this show too,if only I would take on an identity that fits.But I am left with a hollow feeling,a "goddamn phonies" feeling (RIP J.D.) ,and this seems less appealing even than having no identity at all.

This is where permission comes in.What is appropriate to appropriate is my own self.What I do or can do is not who I am,but who I am is the spark of what I do.To give myself permission to be a natural born ANYTHING AT ALL--because I was naturally born with all kinds of special.Of perfect for me.Of purpose in life,I was brought into life with sparks that lit occurrences,like a poem at 11 years old,like where did that come from?

You're afraid to say you've honed it,afraid to say you've crafted,because you may just be told you're not that good.

So be it.Instead,acknowledge.Instead,value.Instead love as though you never had a doubt in your mind that you were created,all flesh and heart and artery to pump it,and that inherent too is the art and the desire and the commune-ication that pumps your soul.A soul that throbs not only for meaning in the world,but to express the coursing heated relentless inner life.And the irony is that what we emanate is the inner,that the sleeve is just an article,that the tattoo of appropriation is ink--and that the paint on my permission flag is written in my own blood and tears and song on the inside,that the wall it is to be written on is my spirit house,and all I have to do is look there,inside, to paint it.Myself.And yield .To the truth.Which is not a photograph,but a mirror.

1 comment:

  1. You're brilliant... brilliant. So happy to see you bloggin - finally! Give us some light!
    Still need permission? xox