On One Hand

January 28, 2005

Butterscotch on Pink

Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 1:50 am

Tonight I was walking home, stoned, and I saw myself how I really am. The shield of ego and self-blindness was lifted and saw myself, as if from above, yet I was more in me than I ever have been. I was seeing myself how other people see me and yet not caring how other people see me. Tracing over the sidwalk, hard step from thin leg over firm pat over hard step, brown on shadowy gray. My face was different from how I imagine it, different even from the way I see it in the mirror when I look. It was more rounded, more blunt, more pale than the two-dimensional polished surface shows, more pysical with moving collagen and blood. The eyes were bigger, softer. More alkaline. My voice was deeper, more smooth, less sexy but more real, more mellow, more itself. Smooth like an unpolished table, smooth like a painted wall. Spoken from a different part of my throat. Spoken with less pressure and more flow. The energy was a dry, reclined, optimistic pale one, a static field that holds its charge. The spirit was itself, knew itself, real and basic and brown, like tea but tea in the air, like the smell of it. There was a musty scent, a deep, masculine, unshiny pureness. Unpolished. Wise. The color and texture of wood. Smart, not genious but insightful. I was how I knew me, and knew me well.

I saw my mother the way she is. Her thin, pursed lips, her strands of red-blonde hair dangling in ones, then twos through her sugary hands. Circle on circle over circle-circle. Round-cornered square. She was herself, butterscotch on pink, pale line on shadowed dot. Looking down at out and to the right, reading, thinking, focused deeply but focused not on her. Distracted, thinking on the out, at a point, at a magazine.

I saw me again. Speaking from the chest, instead of the place I speak through most of the time, speaking through the depths, more inside, closer to the Earth, closer to my lungs. Speaking below the lump. Speaking like the texture of wood and bark, like dry, electrec air, like roots in soil. Pulling the energy in, around, giving when I give but not forcing it. Less sexy, less Hollywood Magazine TV America, less ideal, but I liked me better this way. Loving a lot, but not as much as Christ. Giving a lot, but not a Mother Teresa. Thinking a lot, but not an Einstein or an Aristotle. Not a Socrates. Not trying to be the first. Not trying to be anything. Loving a lot. Real, genuine, me.

I saw my father. A person in his basic shapes, like a Picasso. Blunted triangle over inverted, rounded triangle. Soft, but sharp, smooth, brown on a darker hue, real. Like me. Opaque, translucent, smooth. Passionate, reserved, angry, insecure, pulled back like hair and real.

I saw my sister. Oval on oval. Purple, brown. Pulled down and to the side. Like clear obsidian – no – black. Pulled in and to the out, dark-eyed, neutral, solid. Earthy. Real. Stone.

People were people, warm, concentrated, thinking on what they were and thinking on the out. Thinking on the curtains, on the dark sky, thinking on the magazine, thinking on the television, thinking on the dry air, thinking on the dry whiskey in the dry glass. People were people. I was me.

I hope I keep this, that I always remember to speak from the lungs. Thinking less like cold water and more like thick dry air. Speaking with the texture of wood. I hope I remember this, the dry air, the lungs, the wood.



  1. You have such a beautiful thought process. I wish I could have a little sidecar in your mind and ride along through your day to day life. I guess that’s sort of what this is.

    Comment by Anonymous — January 29, 2005 @ 4:56 am | Reply

  2. I can’t write

    I love to listen to writers and their works. Because I cannot write I enjoy the listening to others and their wonderful thoughts. You paint a vivid image with your writing that I never could.

    Comment by matraxis — January 29, 2005 @ 7:43 pm | Reply

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