Echo

It takes time to forget someone so you can find them again.
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You were thinking about Olivia, weren’t you?
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And your skin is so right…underneath the black night…
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Missile Silo.

History.

hail!

Everything is just perfect right now. Got the full moon today through tomorrow, I’m in a little apartment overlooking the ocean as it storms every night, and it feels like a portal has opened up around me. This book is exactly what I need at this exact moment. I got to the part yesterday where the main character finds the Orange Girl at the cafe and sits down at her table, and she reaches for his hand, and it’s just this moment. And I started laughing because I had written the night before I started the book about sitting down with strangers, holding their hand and their life unfolds.

I don’t know if these synchronicities actually mean anything outside of being fun and giving me a general feeling that I’m moving in the right direction, on the right track. They’re like a voice telling me I’m getting warmer, as I search to find that hidden key.

Wouldn’t it have been infinitely worse if we’d first been able to see each other every day for six months and then never met again?

This line made me feel sad and guilty.

The beach from where I’m staying. This obstacle course must be climbed every day, rain or shine!

Last night featured an even more violent storm, which attacked the windows, making them cave on their frames. There was zero visibility, and for a while there, it felt like the building might be blown away. I tried not to let it bother me, figuring that this structure had been here for a while and banking on the fact that if it’s stayed intact for this long, it will stay intact yet. I was free writing, and all of a sudden, one line came out of nowhere and landed on the page. It’s appearance was as jarring as stepping in wet, sucking mud (which, incidentally, I did today.). The line was so out of place and strange, that I pulled on it like a loose string, and a whole world opened up. I wrote for 6 hours, just taking down the words, thoughts and lives of these people like a medium at a seance, until I could barely keep my head up. There were times when I was writing and thinking, this may be my most unbelievable writing night to date. Doubt began to creep in, if this was real, if this was any good, if I could carry this out. The story, as usual with me, is out of time, out of place. All I could do was just take down what the characters wanted to say, what they needed said. Even as I crawled into bed, they kept talking to me, showing their lives to me, and even though a part of me was terrified that I would lose this opening by sleeping. I usually write at night, but by morning, in the light of day, I’ll reject what I’ve written. A part of me had to tell myself to trust it. Trust that this is real and what is happening. Trust it long enough for it to fully emerge.

I felt like I was giving birth last night, like it was something that was happening despite whatever my thoughts were on it, and I could either fight it or go with it and help it come out. I remember once, when I read about the 5th house and how it ruled either romance, children or ultimate creative output, how sometimes, you had to choose one of the three to funnel that energy. Maybe for a woman, you can either literally have a child, or you can give birth to something that spiritually, metaphysically, is as deeply a part of you as a child. Maybe in lycan country, like lichen, I have reproduced asexually. Or maybe, I just won’t know who the father is until this thing has fully emerged. It quite possibly could be twins. It doesn’t appear to be black. And yes, what a weird thing to be talking about.

There’s been a lifelong personal debate between me and people who know me. “Are you romantic?”

I never know how to answer that. On one hand, I think the answer is an obvious yes. The fact my life for as long as I’ve been conscious has revolved around the notion of a soulmate, an Other, someone my entrance into this plane of perception separated me from and whom I almost singlemindedly search for. But then I think that could also be symbolism I’ve used in my personal search for god and/or meaning. I don’t believe my Other is the end all be all. I believe he is my partner in a greater search. I see the positive potential in people, I see the positive potential in life. I want us to strive for more, for higher. My relationship with the world around me is one of idealism and romanticism, in the framework of what is realistic (read: possible) for a given plane. I believe I have the power of transformation, if the world would guide me and teach me how to use my abilities. But in spirit, in soul, in mind, I’m the ultimate romantic.

In a conventional sense, what defines being romantic? I’m emotionally secretive and awkward with romantic gestures, even though my well of emotions runs very deep. I hide things even when I can tell in moments when it would serve me to be open, I still feel a need to hide. I rarely have the guts to actually make a full-blown romantic gesture. It’s not from lack of desire, it’s from lack of comfort, a feeling of exposure. But I’m drawn to those who are more easily able to express a romantic nature, who can draw me out. I express my deep feelings through consideration, being helpful, protectiveness, a psychic safeguarding of the hopes and dreams of those I love, their well-being. People I care about matter to me. But despite this, a history of complaints from people about not knowing where they stand. Maybe they just have to ask. Maybe I don’t even know myself. How do you know when you’ve found your Other? I assume you just know. I assume, that maybe you don’t know right away, maybe for the longest time you just know that you DON’T know for sure that they’re not him, until one day, you suddenly know. Until then, I can’t make any promises. I don’t think the question is if I, by nature, am romantic. It’s been the lack of expression. But am I capable? I think if the world is open to the form in which it comes in, my heart and its capacity to love will prove to be undeniable.

All this was in my head last night as my fingers flew along the keyboard and my mind rode the waves. I realized, as I watched the words spill out, I could possibly once and for all answer that question. Often a work reveals more about the writer than anything else. I want this to show what it is I can’t seem to outwardly express through my person. I want it to end the question. I want people to read this story, and know exactly what love means to me, and to what depths and lengths I believe in this world. I’ve made an art out of mirroring for other people to help them appreciate themselves, their potential. Now it’s time. I need these words, these people, this world inside, to be a truthful, powerful mirror of me.