Posted on Jul 2nd, 2009
by
Siona
You.
I'd like to get to know you, the creature sitting on the other side of the screen reading these words that were drummed out in haste by some obviously-earlier version of me.
I'd like to know what you're thinking now, and where you'll be going after your online respite is over, and what you're looking forward to. I'd like to know what you're concerned about and what regrets you've suffered in your life. I'd like to know what you need most, and what you want, and what it is you're here to give. I'd like to know where you're sitting as you read this, and what's scattered around you, and I'd like to know what connects you--what shared thread there is--with all the other 'yous' of this entry, past and present and future.
And yes, I suppose it doesn't matter; I'm not sure any human being can fully know another. Still, we can try, and still I suppose there's some delight to be had in this, that the quest for understanding can never be totally complete.
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Posted on Jun 30th, 2009
by
Siona
This is hard for me to admit, but I so rarely feel safe. I used to think I did, and then tasted, once, and fleetingly, what it was really like to feel utterly secure and at home and relaxed.
I remember nearly crying at how foreign the sensation was, how alien and strange, and at how foolish I’d been to blithely preach my imagined belief in the basic trustworthiness of the world. I realized my regular state is more akin to a child, just given to hold the most delicately ethereal bubble, worried that a forceful breath or unskilled jolt would burst it. This is what the world feels like to me–so beautiful, and so transient, and so gently and briefly entrusted to us, or rather to our briefly-lived experiences. And even though the lack of safety I feel is not some deep insecurity, even though it’s more a breathless anticipatory tension about a certain inevitable loss, it’s still hard.
There are moments, though. I feel safe when I’m held; I have an almost troublesome need for physical human contact, and an equally troublesome inability to relax into embrace. I feel safe when I’m writing; I have an inescapable need to put into words the beauty I see around me, and a parallel worry about my attempts to share being rejected or just misunderstood. I feel safe when I’m present, but this, sometimes, is the hardest thing in this world to be.
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Posted on Jun 16th, 2009
by
Siona
Do I? This was, I'm realizing, a presumptuous question. I'm not sure I find meaning; sometimes I feel more as though I create it, and some days, I feel, I'm better at doing this than others.
And this, I'm realizing, is a presumptuous answer. Create meaning! It's true, though--I weave it from the warp of the world and the woof of experience using the shuttle of language and words, just as you do, and just as human beings have always done.
Of course, though, my own little patch of fabric is worthless on its own. What I love is sometimes stepping back to see how it fits in the tapestry of the whole. Where do I find meaning...
... here, I suppose.
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Posted on Jun 12th, 2009
by
Siona
The moment. I somehow seem to forget this too easily.
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Posted on May 25th, 2009
by
Siona
My body.
I've always wanted to learn to sing; I have such admiration for those who are able to use their ribs and lungs and breath and tongue and lips and ears as some beautiful, powerful, delicate, perfect, and utterly unique instrument. My speaking voice is unobjectionable, but my poor sense of rhythm and harmony and still-present shyness
keep foiling me. One summer I will sign up for lessons. For now I will listen.
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Posted on May 22nd, 2009
by
Siona
I like to ask questions more than I do being asked, I think.
I'd go with "What are you paying attention to?"
Or "What is alive in you?"
Or "How could you make this moment more wonderful?"
Or, best of all, perhaps, "What question would you like to be asked today?"
Something like that.
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