Letting go \ the colors \ weirdos \ bells and lights \ bearing with slow moments\ bead sex \ The Apartment \ tipping point \
This is a poem dedicated to my brand new understanding of love as letting go
Loving, while letting go
Picture an open hand. the hand is outstretched, open, open, open toward the sky
And then, A butterfly comes and sits on it
A gorgeous pink orange yellow fluffly butterfly is now resting on this hand of mine
and then, justlike that
Just as suddenly as it came,
it flies away
It flies away
And i have two options
To try to grasp it, trap it as it tries to leave, or run after it, keep looking up at the sky waiting for it to come back
Or let it go
And if i let it go,
i stil love the butterfly but i dont try to catch it with a net
I dont to to grab it as it begins to leave
I dont have a net
I dont have a bow and arrow
Love isnt about hunting anything
You cant catch anybody
They gotta be magnetized to your open hand and choose to come and sit
You dont need to convince nobody
Tbat youre cool enough or pretty enough or good enough
They gotta choose to come sit.
It doesnt matter if its for a minute
Or two weeks
Or two years
It doesnt really matter,
Someone wise told me,
Everybody leaves in the end ( including you)
In the most positive possible way
It’s all passing fancies
Enjoy the glitter
Enjoy it while it lasts
I stay exactly as i am, doing my thing, with my palm wide open
And new butterflies will come to sit
One will sit and then go
And then more will come
And knowing this involves a deep deep trust
That even if right this second my hand is empty if i keep doing it another one will come
The sun will rise again
You gotta trust the ssun
Opening your hand again after a butterfly leaves
involves first walking through a dark hallway of fear
Where you might think
What if there r no more butterflies?
You might think,
That room i was just in was the only room here
There are no more rooms down this hallway.
And it was nice in that room, it was warm
But you know you cant stay
You know that room is blocked off
And closing the door begind you and keeping on walking means feeling that scary feeling
And staying with it
Until you reach excitement. but before that:
You have to walk down this corridor filled with WHAT IF thoughts and sweeping generalizations.
“what if i dont find anybody else?”
“im nobodys type”
“Everybody whos hot is already taken”
“Everyone in tel aviv is in relationships”
“Everyone on tinder is ugly”
And you come to the conclusion
Why dont i keep something going on the back burner
Why dont i crawl back to that room?
It’s cozy in that room.
Yeah, it’s a guy who sees lots of other girls
But its comfortable
its my ex who told me he doesnt want to be with me
, but we had great sex
but it’s a guy who texts me intensely then dissapears
But he’s so interesting
but it’s a man who lives on another continent
But we have such a strong connection
Theres nothing better on the go
“ i cant find anybody else”
So why not? Theres nothing to lose
I can see this guy in this room while i also look around in the corridor
And then the new conclusion came to me like coins falling from the sky
There’s everyrhing to lose
You cant do something on the backburner and expect to find something else, too
It’s about energy engagement
If youre chatting to someone daily
Or thinking about someone daily
Theyre on your mind
Like a picture of a war partner in your wallet
Youre not letting them go
Your hand is clenched
The butterfly is trapped inside
Youre not available to meet someone else
Youre hung up
Youre engaged, honey.
Your resources are absorbed and the universe cant throw something new at you
Or if it does, you wont be able to see it
You cant be at two places at once
If you want a new thing to come along, you gotta get out of that room and shut the door behind you, not looking back.
And letting go involves crying, more crying
Not calling that person youre letting go
Not calling that person youre letting go more
Not calling that person youre letting go even more
Maybe a week of crying
Maybe six months of crying
ThenNot calling that person youre letting go to let them know youve let them go
Then some final crying
And finally its like your’e standing at sea with pink sand in your hands
You open them up, the dust spreads, flies, and guess what
The pink sand becomes part of the air around you
You dont need a pile of pink sand in your hands to know that pink sand exists
It exists! You know it!
And love exists
And you still love pink sand
Even though you let it go
And i still love all the people i ever loved
No matter whether im with them or not
No matter whether ill ever see them again
Thats ok that’s their choice
Or my choice
But doesnt mean i dont love them
It just means that in the reality of daily life i dont communicate with them
It doesnt eem so dramatic or drastic anymore
I dont feel rejected or abandoned by anyone anymore
Becasue i keep with me all the people i ever loved
No matter how it ended
Theyre with me like different functions of a swiss army knife
A collection of pokemon cards
Like a gang of ghosts that keeps me company and gives me hugs in lonely nights
I just summon them like spirits
With some people ive loved ill never talk again
With some i communicate once a year
With other people i love i talk on a daily or weekly basis, these are called “close friends”
And really what im trying to say is that i love everybody
In different intensities, depending how closely we resonate.
I love myfriends
I love my dead grandmother
I even love really mean people that i dont know
Who shout at me on the bus
Even people whove hurt me and i dont speak to anymore
I love them
I dont want to engage with some poeple
Some people’s energy is very harsh and i step away from them
But i love them
That feeling, love, is inside me and i project it outward
I love you all witches
Everyone’s a beautiful witch
With their own special witch craft to give the world and the whole point of being here is figuring out what that witchcraft is and releasing it into the world - like pink sand
I fucking love all the witches
And the ones radiating the same energy frequency as me will stick to me
And i understood about love that it’s so open,
That it starts in my heart , it beats it beats it beats it carries blood and then it spills to the outside of my body, from a feeling of generosity. Love starts small inside and it expands.
as self love grows,
people feel it
It expands outwards
love pours out more and more in huge and infinite quantities: love that has no opposite: into paintings i paint, dances i dance, plants i water, people I smile at. Love is energy, love exists everywhere and inside everything, if our eyes are open to see it. I am love, you are love, a tree is love, a cat is love, even in places with no cats and no trees there is love. Beyond the daily dramas that we get trapped in (which don't really exist), everything is totally fine, there is fresh air and quiet. No hate, no worries, just love and everything interconnects like a big big hug.
And once you let go things WILL magnizie to you by god you go out in the world, it can be the digital world or the real world, they function in the same way, and you do your thing, and you search for what you deserve and suddenly people will say
Hi, youre awesome, i want to be your friend
And this will happen more and more
The air is sweet and filled with smarties, these smarties are nuggets of life
I can feel them floating artound the room, touching my skin
Variations of love
And magical people
You can fill your pockets with smiles from these loving people
As you love yourself and do yoru thing and keep your palm open you will keep magnitizing magical people to you,
You dont need to try hard
Just let the butterflies come close and cover you and envelop you with the manifestation,the reflection of your own love
The purple calls me from the depths of the ocean. We’re ready for you,
The blue’s there too, grounded to the earth
I dive down
An orange in one hand
An apple in the other.
The purple is rough
It rattles at the touch
Like a vibrator
Yellow you’re a bit of a fucker
You left me long ago
I wanted you i needed you
Ive worn you as a charm around my neck
I brushed my teeth with pale gray for so long but i needed YELLOW
Others had glowing mouths mine was numb
Green i fall into you like a hole
feels good to feel you
I want to eat you
Pink fizzes on my tongue
It tastes like spoonfuls of chocolate pudding
One after the other.
I eat it like stars
You dont need to say much about the red, you dont need to mention the red
You dont even need very much red
But we all know the red runs the show
It holds everything together, it’s the answer.
Once, it disappeared, and i jus couldnt paint.
There wouldnt be much without the red.
And white’s the napkin you place the cake on,
you can fly around it, in and out of it.
It helps you breathe. Zen.
Weirdos all over the city are walking around with white paper bags with presents especially for me- the kind of presents you give to a beautiful fuckable four-year-old- weird men are walking the city not knowing when theyll next see me, always ready with these paper bags to finally see me and ask, ‘i hope it’s ok i got you a present?’ they hand them to me and i dont know what to do with these objects that i always accept, that are my precise taste, marbled colored pencils, flowery socks, with the fact that these men may have been walking around for a month with this little white paper bag rattling in their bag in the slight hope they Might see me, that they might be able to unburden themselves of their love for me, into me, white paper bags full of semen and lust and socks and pencils.
The palm tree leaves are each a different colour like a xylophone and they move with the breeze mellifluously like god’s windchimes.
Bells n’ lights
Suddenly - dots everywhere
Flickering lights on the hills
Winking at me
Young musical notes
(the mountain is made of dots.)
“Imagine if solid is AIR for another lifeform- we keep looking and can’t find ‘em cos their air is our solid so we jus can see ‘em.”
what if all of matter is made of little dots?
“Like atoms?” he laughed.
Everything has a beat- a thread of curiosity and creativity between all of matter- a big blanket.
Bearing with slow momentsits a little painful and my feet get itchy- think it's a special skill- how do you twiddle your thumbs and stay stay stay with the moment rather than drift away body or mind?I am in a board room far away from the board room a spectator of the board roomA big gulp of 'normal coffee' - i dont understand lawyer lingo- his fingers are very longand they have these dreamy marbled foldersa symbol of impeccable organisation i wish i could emulate. The lady smiles shyly at me across the table. she hasnt said a word apart from "fifteen" "thirteen" and "five", the ages of her grandchildren. A sweet, sweet slow smileholding the space while the others bickerme and her silent, rediating this slow impatience, me with my notebook, she with the smilekicking the dust around.i knew there was a thread i knew there was a threadi knew itbeads of squares, beads. our hands.
Threading beads on a long string and then one bead touches the next and they make a TCHUCK! Sound. They are touching. That’s what it feels like in sex when the penis is all the way in, and you feel his hips on yours and he is fully inside you-
You fit together really comfortably well:
This is the closest to oneness, to unity of any kind.
Exhilarating movement towards one another,
a higher kind of understanding,
The moment, if any; this is The.
Then it lasts for as long as you can bear and then you become two again and the impossibility of that previous moment becomes apparent. Did it happen? Now you are complete separate entities once more, flying about in space - one of you might wonder why it happened, with proactive disgust, confusion, love, hate: the umbrella of feelings-
opens up almost by surprise, POP!, just like that, right in the middle of the bed, each segment a separate color, BLUE! PINK! YELLOW! GREEN! RED!
It lays there, leaning- a flower-
most likely one of you shuffles from under to over the sheets, awkwardly closes it, clicks on the strap and stands it up in the corner of the room neatly back in its place of certainty, folding the other away like an old t-shirt, like a bad dream.
It’s exhilaratingly hard being two beads touching.
A crooked smile hangs on the living room wall, a mantlepiece above the plant, the sofa,
There’s a ticking clock but it always shows 4:20.
There’s a hand on his shoulder, she caresses him as he drinks his evening tea: two drops of milk. He says, “I love you” and she makes spaghetti: very long strings like a washing line, and they hang the stories of their complicated day on it with pegs. Some are happy stories, some are ridiculous and unbelievable, others are energetic and exciting. She laughs as he accentuates the best parts.
There’s an inexplicable drip in the bathroom. When we open the door, the floor is just a little bit wet, but the taps are dry. It’s a mystery him and i can’t quite work out.
He is over the wall, probably masterbating, but maybe watching a sad movie, or a show on netflix, what is he doing? Since when do i care about what’s happening on the other side of the wall? Will he come out of his room? Is he thinking about me and what I’m doing?
What am i doing? I look down and I’m in bed and I’m staring at facebook, as if he’s an ugly old lover, I can’t stand him, he’s so boring and has nothing interesting to say. My personal life has boiled down to bed with facebook, as if nothing exists outside of this pathetic paradigm.
In the laundry room there’s a slow and faint hum. It’s reassuring, it’s consistent, the only consistent thing in my life right now: for the next hour: this hum, hum, spinning.
Outside the window: sun, outside the sun: I see Chaya passing by, I see Gera, and a lot of other people, definitely with names, but i don’t know what they are.
In the kitchen: a pile of bottles, a museum of good and bad moments alike. When we drank this, we were arguing furiously, this one, when Ori left the apartment and slammed the door, and threw football posters on your face, This one, when we had sex the first time, in your bed, and i left awful blood stains all over your sheets. Is it not weird that we aren’t talking now, but you left the stains? I passed by the other day and saw them. It’s like you got my name tattooed on yourself- how can you not stand me but live with my blood adorning your head as you sleep? The faint and metallic smell penetrating your dreams? I cant even live with my own blood: aren’t you disgusted?
This bottle- the first time we spent time,
This one- we watched a good film and my feet were touching your leg.
Each bottle a memory, each a pile of tears floating in the ocean of our pointless drama.
I leave through the back door, I sleep in strange beds, I climb back in and look at the sad place we created: a plant pot you were given at a wedding* and the plant that’s always there, “Look, it’s already dry.” Neither of us is ready for the responsibility of plants, or living things, especially not ourselves. The fridge is empty apart from: soy sauce, serracha, half a lemon (gone off) a pot of yoghurt, or cheese, i can't remember, but it’s definitely too old to eat. Our lives revolve around moments outside of this apartment, cigarettes stuck down our throats, tongues stuck down our throats.
(*who receives gifts at others’ weddings?)
Right at the tipping point
Just when things start leaning on each other a little bit too much
The marble falls off the table
Put an umbrella in your jaw and shut your teeth tight-