the tell

while it's true that lately i've been channeling the words Feel Everything to remind myself to slow down and, in essence...uh, feel. every. thing. i've noticed how that takes a bit more reminding than i thought it would. the slowing down part, that is. I mean, i could just reach out and grab at stuff, as i used to do. have many random experiences by hurtling myself forward and then gathering up the feelings afterward to sort through and figure out, but instead i'm trying to come from another angle. float in stuff for awhile and let it move me, rather than me it.

one byproduct seems to be that i notice how many stories i make up about myself and others. some are just-cuz-i-can moments. For instance, the other night my friend, M, and i went to see a band play and as we were 2 rows from the front, i decided to study the people in front of me (it being crowded, i couldn't really turn around anyway). there was one woman in a leopard skin, one-shouldered dress with some bright-blondeness and spiked heels, which frankly just looked uncomfortable to wear to a rock show...but that's another thought-thread altogether. next to her was a teenager with a nest of curly hair that shook out little birds as his body spasmed back and forth (ok, not really on the birds part, but he was moving like i imagine a tree shakes in a hurricane). LaBlonde was standing stock still, staring intently at the stage, Bird'sNest rocked and pogo'd and bounced. here's the thing: the show hadn't started yet. Then it did. The opening band began and our-lady-of-heels' gaze never seemed to waver from the drummer, so i made up a Pamela Des Barres–scenario wherein she had once tempted him to her home and was now eager to do it again. in the meantime, nest o'curls standing next to her was losing his mutha-fuk'n mind: executing air-guitar moves, body-slamming, grabbing his friends(?) by the shoulders and shaking them. M and I made up that he was the nephew of the drummer (because they had the same hair), and therefore idolized the band beyond the valley of sanity. (Of course M also made up that LaBlonde was the drummer's aunt. He has a lot more innocent thoughts than me. but then i pointed out that if she was there doing a familial duty, she'd probably be sitting down at a table in the back and would also maybe not be wearing a leopard skin-print, one-shouldered dress and spiked heels.) Anyway, of course i never found out any truth around this situation, and of course that doesn't even matter. the fun was in the creation. But...

Stories. As much as i adore them, i am also starting to get how the ones i make up around and inside of my own life always nail me down. the ones that have to do with what i can and can't do. what will or won't happen. what i do and don't deserve. kind of an ongoing greek chorus of this and that. i'm realizing that it's not a matter of calling judgment on whether the stories are right or wrong (no such thing, really), but more just noticing that they exist, saying Hi and moving on. if i don't give them any power to rewrite my life, or put in a period when all i need is a comma, well then that's a story i can follow. I also employ them to cover me. I find i'll weave a tale together, then cover myself with it and hide out. I discovered in class last night that i'm bucking at the coverage, that i want to be seen, but often roll away from the moment when it gets too intense. in order to let people see me i want to drop my intricately woven cover and then stay where i am, no stories to distract, but instead an awesome blank page and maybe some invisible ink.