satellites surround us
It's 3:33 am.
I can't sleep.
I keep staring out my bedroom window at the scattered night sky, at the random satellites spinning in controlled orbits around this planet, around me, around you, and I wonder why I'm here. Why?
I wrote a long story about the Underworld, about the point in every shamanic journey, the point three seconds late after take-off, the sorry point where you meet the worst parts of yourself, greet them with the trepidation of intimate knowledge, walk with them through the thickest tar fields you ever saw. I wrote it for you. Yes, you.
I've been holding my story in one hand, close to my secret heart, waiting for the correct moment to post and release. Oh man, I can't post it yet, because I still roam in deliberate bell darkness, still feel the slick and pull of rich coiled earth grabbing my ankles. I can't post it until I get my ticket punched, until the Great Conductor says "Hey Chick, it's the end of the line. Get off the damn train, will ya?" Please tell me it's the end, sir. Please. I want to post my story, want to know the sloe-eyed sleep of Rumplestiltskin, want to be older, straighter, someone who can tell you all the things that happened and how they add up to something good, something integral, something beyond the sum of my aching parts.
This morning I splayed my body lengthwise, prone, along an antiseptic beige stuffed bed. A tired camera loomed above me, above my aching back, took a memory square of the pain. A herniated disk, the doctor said. Ruptured disk. Pinched nerve. You're too tense. You're 40 years old. It will heal. Give it time. Take these pills. Let the calendar fall to the ground, let the days turn into a new moon, six weeks, twelve weeks, then you'll feel the hot blood of new birth.
I am a ruptured disk, a captured boomerang of pain, autumn brown and red and death black and blue and citrus, all the flavors of the moon, all the colors of a painting of Chagall, all the miles of a satellite above the ground. I am a fractured female human, an orange light ray, a piece of God's eruption, the end of some suspended trestle, the point of intellectual illumination, the same synchronous node as you, yes you, the same point in time and space that I need to be but don't know it. Please, God if you exist, show me your love, your health, your fractured happy moments. Please share your love with me, with us, with everyone, anyone, abandoned in pain.
4:03:44 AM 
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