Rewiring the System


Posted in Joy,Uncategorized by rewiringangel on December 31, 2008

Stranger than life:

‘Stranger than Fiction’ is a movie I have been thinking about lately.  Today especially, it strikes a chord as I work to be ready for the Last Great Love of My Life.

The movie is a story of a real persons living story psychically arriving for the writer, Emma Thompson, as she is moving her fingers in her office.  The moving fingers, it turns out are copying an actual life.  It is the day-to-day details of a person living down the road.  The writer has no way of knowing it is a ribbon of reality that unwinds into her typing.

The very intimate detail of brushing teeth as the character does this in those amazingly compulsive counting strokes on every tooth is a startling aspect of mobius duplication of each one of our pointless stuck actions and reactions.  There are days when I do the rudimentary brushing when I feel I am not doing as good a job as the character in that film.  The story lingers in the rear end of my viewfinder as I gaze into my actions.

Queen Latifa plays an assistant to the writer, (I could watch Queen Latifa just standing still and find that thrilling). She is a powerhouse of truth as are all the other major actors, flickering on the screen together, bring their star power in such a cooperative effort that they have created art. It is a caveat of information informing my current living; despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage. Who is typing my details?

What do we have in common?

At the end of a year full of change and growth I am in this interesting mix of men, asking myself, what type of man I am attracted to, attracting and why?  I like a man with a large head probably mirroring the first great love of my life.  He will make me comfortable if he is three or more inches taller but over four inches really turns me on.  Why do I want this?  Am I unable to change the snake brain die cut cookie cutter pattern to fill both love and lust?

The first man, (E.K.), after our long teen snuggling, turned out, at the threshold of serious life building, to be interested in all my girlfriends as well as bringing them home to my apartment when he was sure that I was not going to be home. Imagine how you would feel, finding long blond straight hairs in my unmade bed? I have poodle like reddish crown of curls.  Did he want to be found out and generate my leaving?  Would that be a punishment or his desired glad refreshment?   I am an extremely naive woman who had to find hairs to wake me up to what was going on.  Seems in hindsight that during those early years of my life, I need to be wacked to wake to what was going on.

We met at a bus stop.  I was on my way home from an evening of folk music at the Coffee house, which was the seed out of which grew the Philadelphia Folk Festival.

Did he notice me at the coffee shop and walk slinking behind until I stopped to wait for the bus?  I will never know that but he did ride with me all the way to West Oaklane to my front door, then turn around and travel home.  He rode the bus all the long way back to Fishtown, where his family had a small corner grocery store. It was the colorful architecture on E’s street is immortalized on film in the first Rocky movie.  The bricks and porches tug at my ingénue heart e-string

I went on to marry a man, I met in a laundry mat, who was born in the same week though a different year who loved me with the appearance of total delight but who ended up behaving the same cheating way. I have been taken in and twice burned or bitten by accepting what attracted me at face value, stupid me.  I do not want this certain ‘type’ so I am wary in the relationship jungle.

How can I change myself so I invite a man into my velvet warm heart who will adore me totally? Echo of different physical types is in the wings.  I have affection for a kind of leadership quality, a take care of things energy. What I need to be careful about is the controlling flip side of can do.  The controlling that stifles my thoughts and feeling and ends up creating a walking zombie

Walking depression describes my ‘stuckness’ throughout my entire life.   At times, I exude confidence but this is a sham.  I am as stuck and as deep in the fog and fading as gray can be.  I seem to appear to have some confidence.  The confidence is a skill I taught myself in an effort to build relationships to try to disperse the translucent dimness.  Transient gray cloud does morn for my inner creativeness.

Gray is the New Black.

Meta Feuds are famous; I want to share my stories. I as we all want an intimate friend to share in the past and work on creating new stories and songs. Dream like pillow talk hovers just there almost ready to flutter into my life, my rooms and my heart.  Is there any interest? Can a man and a woman, together, start skipping away from the crawling gray accumulation of dusty thoughts long enough to listen, really listen to the songs and stories?  Do I have the capacity to tell you about being born in that sun filled room all those years ago? Not the ‘born again’ implications here but actual stories of the events as they did unfold in my birth and your birth, call them first memories.  Is there the ability for rewriting this script as an individual for this struggling conglomerate of cells and sinews to spoon soon?

The death of a part of my inner self is healthy and resurrected.  I did heal enough to stand on my own now. I have my life in order.  Life living life.

There he is, I point with my heart finger and his sensor picks up the invitation.

Learn to fall.  He says, learn to fall.  I have crawled then stood up and fell over then gradually I learned to fall.  Now I am playful, turn, and run away so that you can fall with me and we can fall again and enjoy the falling.

A terror of intimacy was my being so very frightened of being hurt, I could not give all because another cannot cope with my all.  I am the expert lover who has my heart ready to share space.


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