Metaphysical Mulch

What difference will it make, this cup of tea I pour out for you, the last hug before you leave, two thumbs hovering over a screen that seem to want to write to tell you about the emptiness, maybe, or the worry that keeps distorting my vision. I’ve been concerned, you see. Maybe forever. The dark-themed rectangle in my hand informs me of a burning world. I think about the few dollars I still have left in an American bank account. Can I get those out of there before the empire collapses?

What difference will it make, this doomsday prep; what’s a few bucks in an inflation infested supermarket aisle where the same rotation of generic popsongs attempt to persuade an optimistic buyer’s mind to pay 4,99 for one tiny jar of peanut butter. I don’t buy it. There’s many things I simply don’t buy anymore. I’ve been thinking about shoplifting lately, in my forties. I think about Aquinas on the Equinox, and arrive at the conclusion that I am ethically not opposed to taking from a system that steals from us first, and fundamentally; our time, our labor, our attention, our creativity, our spirituality, our sexuality, our sovereignty, our sanity, our freedom. If only I had a less fragile nervous system, I could be into doing crime… That’s not an incriminating statement, that’s simply a sign of the times. Oh, carry on… no need to be concerned about me, but, a wide-angled lens of general concern surely seems appropriate.

My world has been off-kilter since 2016. Or 2001. Or 1998. Or 1985. So, I shouldn’t act surprised. Nothing new under this sun. I just wish some things would get old and retire. Like fascism. Like genocide. Like mind-control. Like utterly pathological men parading around their illegitimate power with offensively outdated aesthetics. Like our sheepish compliance.

What’s my love worth? In gold? In deflated dollar bills? Where’s my mind at? What will I get paid for my attention? And does it pay the rent? What’s beauty worth, my love? What’s true? Truth. The principle requirements for us to truly trust in something. What’s the ancient tale told by my bleeding womb on the new moon in Virgo after making love? This embodied BED PEACE. I pour a bucket with red stained water outside of my window because a Greek witch told me to give my blood back to Mother Earth. “Ask for guidance from the soil.” Someone calls from the bed: “Isn’t that the pavement out there?” I shrug my shoulders, “ah, what difference does it make?” I burn some Palo Santo with an old lighter I found in the laundry room of our communal house. My rituals lack luster, but I can’t afford to stop believing in something.

My body has been in medically undiagnosable pain for months. Shape shifting and uncomfortable. I wonder if it’s just me, or if this pain belongs to all of us. I stare at a wall that reflects the light of the sun shimmering through the leaves. Away from the screen everything looks so normal, simple, serene. Yes, that’s lucky. My worst days make me smile at strangers harder, because I know how bad it feels, and I suspect it’s not just me. When I can muster the generosity, I wave at children passing by. Who shall inherit this Earth. What will we leave behind?

This writing doesn’t make a difference. Except maybe, it feels like opening a tiny window in the room of my mind, to let a breeze blow through. Perhaps that’s what writing is. And if you are reading this right now, instead of all the other possible word portals you could have clicked on, I want to wave at you and say: Hey! Generously. I want to infuse you with a tiny spark that simply says: I love you. And thank you. For trying, against the odds, to care about something fiercely enough to hang in there with us all. Here’s to yet another season of the human experience. Kindle the tiniest spark, pass it to the person next to you. Through some walls if need be. Burn down the dungeons of alienation.

Communal bed-ins, collective screens-out.