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In the depth of the ocean, one cannot feel the air.
In a tunnel - one has to walk tirelessly until they find the light. And in a dream, one can reach a million possibilities, but when they wake - those all fade off into the unknown. Life is a game of seesaw, an ebb and flow, a balancing act. A circus. A riot. A love story. We learn - so we can forget. We forget - so we rebirth. We rebirth - so we love. We love - so we lose. We lose - so we gain appreciation. The cycle continues, like the moon when she graces us every month. Like a woman's body when it shivers in preparation.
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They try to bury us But we rise They try to shut us up But we roar They try to burn us But we bath in fire Together. We are Witches Whores Women who run with the wolves No: We ARE the wolves And we HOWL Every month with the moon And we bleed As we are the keepers of life And we love the world Despite its unapologetic mindless soulless cruel delusional FUCKERY. *** I used to think of power as a nasty word. A nonsense word. A nihilistic word.
But I knew NOTHING. As time goes and moves and shifts and I go nearer and drearier to the grave, I find myself aching, arching, aiming to be in my power. To be polished, precise, sitting pretty and pleasing no one but my all powerful self. Done are the days of the undecided. The uber cautious. The unmistakably desperate-to-be-approved self of mine. Power is a pendulum and it swings to the beat of my heart. Power is a panting lioness doing what she has to protect her cubs. Power is a pony who feels it's a horse even though it is four feet tall. Power is sultry. Sensual. Salty. Sassy. Seductive. Sparing. Sneaky. Smoldering. So so so unbelievably HOT. But no, if you were wondering, power to me is NOT the big C corporate power. The cock power. The cunt power. That so-called 'power' that belongs only to the kings and queens who are detached from the world. They may call it power but I call is DENIAL. No, power isn't that. Not at all. Power is the ground you walk on when you are absolutely sure of your next step. You may not know where it will take you, but in your power - you KNOW you will take it. Power is the decisive, distinctive, delightful knowing inside of you that longs to be front and center. It doesn't harm. It doesn't cheat. It isn't mean. And no, contrary to popular belief, it isn't queen. Power is you in your truest, toughest, tenderest self. May you go in POWER.~ "Boredom is your imagination calling to you."
~Sherry Turkle I had a conversation recently, that turned into a discussion, that turned into a debate, that turned into an argument... and it was all about 'what IS boredom?' Ah, if only I had that quote at my disposal then... it would have left a truth bomb on the conversation (that turned into discussion that turned into debate that turned into argument). Sometimes words come out in my first language. My primal language. The language where I hide, which is also the language which I expose - Hebrew: אם יכולתי לומר
את כל מילות האהבה שבעל פי שבספרי שירה שבתורה בלי בהלה הייתי חונקת אותך כמו נחש מלטפת אותך כמו אם מנקה אותך כמו קופה מיואשת רק אם יכולתי לצאת מהבידוד שבתוך תוכי האמונה ש לי לא מגיע .אהבה של אגדות In my dreams, I chase happiness.
I hold one of those nets to catch butterflies with, and every inch of happiness that floats by... I snag it! I grasp it! I hold on to it for dear life! That elusive creature wants to roam free, but when she is caught in my net, I am in charge. I am the commander in chief. I own evert inch of her. When I awake, I wouldn't recognize happiness if I saw it. The only holding on I do is trying to hold onto the dream of chasing happiness just a tad longer. In the in between space is where I live. That is my most comforting of homes. That is where I can hold on to the chase while look forward to the stark reality that there is nothing to chase. Because anything that moves away from you is just the currant doing its thing. Happiness isn't 'elusive'. She's no 'floater.' She isn't something to catch. She is just her authentic self, whether you choose to spend time in her presence, or not. She is that twinkle in your eye when the little things happen and remind you that none of it matters. And all of it matters. And also - a whole lot of hapinness rests in between. I, woman.
I have body, mind, soul. I swim with mood every passing month. I sweat in heat. I wrinkle when I smile. I feel pain. I feel joy. I feel passion. So when the world's men tell me that my body is not my body. That I am a vessel and nothing more. That I better sit pretty and shut my mouth because I should be lucky to be allowed a seat. When they tell me that - I get stunned. I choke. I suffocate. And then I tear up. Tear apart. Open wide. And what comes out is decades long rage that is running in my body. In MY body. It fills me inside, like a child, knocking on my belly begging to come out. And then I roar. I protest. I yell. I give birth to all my despair. To all MY body's tenderness. And roughness. And achiness. And I shout out to the world that I will no longer sit pretty. I will no longer shut my mouth because I should be lucky to be allowed a seat. I yell for the world to get its heart out of its arrogant ass. To get a grip on reality. Not the made up one but the real one. The reality that you see in your mother. The reality that you see in your sister. In your daughter. In your wife. In your friend. In YOU. I, woman. I have body, mind, soul. And they're mine. Mine. They're all mine. Every day I wake up with the soft melody of my phone's alarm clock.
Then I turn it off just to turn it on while my eyes get adjusted to the new day, and browse through the daily news and listen to my current podcast episode or chapter in an audiobook while I turn on my electric toothbrush and then proceed to cut some celery and make juice in my juicer. I sip on my juice while I open my laptop and check my emails and browse through my calendar. I then turn my filtered shower head on, take a shower, blow dry my hair with my diffuser, and head out to walk where I proceed check the amount of steps I've made on my phones' Health app. I would spend some hours do some work on my laptop and take breaks escaping into social media or various youtubing or internet browsing. ALL WHILE CONNECTING TO GADGETS. Gadgets. Gadgets. Gadgets. And more gadgets. Our lives in these times are governed and constantly include some form of technological dependency. In most cases - the phone and the laptop. We are all addicts! Living in a gadget-infested world. Eager to connect and yet by connecting digitally we disconnect physically. Gadgets. Gadgets. Gadgets. We think they'll make our lives better, but we grow so dependent on them that we become their employees. Their everlasting help. Their elusive servants. Gadgets. Gadgets. Gadgets. ***
If I break one rule Before I die It would be To love The world Despite its fuckery. *** how can I say the words
or write them when even singing at the top of my lungs serenading 'till dawn isn't quite right a form of an expression when a heart is so tender and distrustful of Love. how can I tell you the words that define that inner bustling beat of everlasting yearning for touch in a world so sterile when my finger tips are numb and my insides are hollow how can I run to you my love if I have no feet and my breath is all swept away and my limbs are broken aching to be carried how can I love you my love when I have no more love to give how can I. |
AuthorIn April 2020, while experiencing her first ever global pandemic, Tamar Pelzig pledged to write something every day, even if it's only a word, so she welcomed to the world a daily blog to keep her creative writing wheels rolling. Categories
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Header Art: Daniel Landerman |