Others

(in response to Transmutation, a poem by Gael Turnbull)

I find others challenging, sometimes baffling, but ultimately I'm excited by their input. Well, mostly. Unless they disagree with me, or have their own mind.

Of course I'm joking, but even within the joke, it's an interesting point to arrive at. I've read a few books about the games people play, emotional literacy in general, and with all that back up, in the heat of an exchange with someone, I'm still stumped. I'm frozen. I know I could be saying something else, something different to help the situation along, but emotions get in the way. Those pesky emotions.If it weren't for emotions and others, I'd be fine.Another joke.I'd be lost. It would be a cold and lonely place, I'm sure of it. So do I delve further into the world of the self help book, or do I simply live. One day, one discussion at a time. I could. I have that choice.

I envisage myself in static ways,

choosing which angles to observe

and acknowledging only particular elements of my form and presence,

in no way can I connect these dotted images,

I'm missing the fleeting transitional glimpses that unite the whole being.

I can't see myself like others can.

We relied on our parents and childhood supporters to communicate the image of ourselves.

Children can't hide, it is easy for them to be seen and told what has been seen.

If the others were plenty one would obtain a balanced collective gathering of information and could feel secure with a proximity of a truth to accept.

I didn't have this experience, which is why my images are self reliant and static.

I would like to trust that collective community of others and their judgements as fair as they can be.

To find a niche

to have an approximation of an identity in relation to others.

Others. The others. Is that a Virginia Woolf novel? Or is that “The Hours” I’m confusing it with. Whose afraid? The portrait of the artist. Jumble of words, of others’ words. Others, infiltrate with tentacled words, suctioning onto my mind. Do they really? So often they run off me, barely absorbed if at all. How much do I choose to take in of others? Once poisoned, twice shy. A vessel, a fearful vessel, tired of continual wretching of childhood, I keep myself empty, unpolluted, unfilled. You might give me something I want, but at what cost. A porous vessel, your poison seeps inwards, a swell of contamination. The rise and fall of poisonous gas. World War I mask covers my mouth. Muffled. But alive. The burning of the inhaled wafts, the wretch and gob of accumulation. Accumulation. A threshold word that takes me into my living room – there too, muffled, alive, but breathing through a mask of accumulated belongings. Belongings – a lie. These are not belongings. They do not belong to me not I to them. It is habit. They have scooched up next to me on the empty bus, pressing tight their suckers. No space to move, to breathe. Let go. Let go. Always feeling I need to let them go. Or they need to let me go. But let go of the tension, relax, breathe. See clearly, breathe into the mist and create a space. Breathe with warmth and generosity. Take in what they have to give, and release. Give back. Give them life. Give them freedom. To roam, in the world outside my living room. Belongings – so full of longings. Longings longing to be set free. To exist, to co-exist. Not banished others. Not feared contamination. Just other. Different than was wanted, expected. Surely I can be more open-minded that that? Open-hearted. Open-lunged. Breathe freely, breathe deeply. Let go.