The hot white sun beats down hiding nothing. Whats left when all these organs and thoughts, when all these ropes come untied?
Nothing is an egg. When I reside in the nothing and the needing nothing, then everything is so real I become it and it becomes me before I have a choice. This is how it happens: Once I walked the sidewalk in NE Portland, back home from the teahouse. A seagull flew overhead and cried a shrill cry. It was so loud I thought it was coming out of my chest. I leaned against a chainlink fence to keep me steady. The fence felt so good, like the only ground in the universe, I didn't feel like letting go. I didn't know why I would go home, or who would be going there, and not one place I felt allowed. Who is all this for? Is it all for nothing? If all that is left is nothing, why am I here? This frightens me. I will remain anyway, empty. This emptiness frightens my mother and it frightens my father. It frightens my sister and it frightens my lover. Actually, it does not frighten me at all. All my acquaintances, since I have not many friends, since I frighten them all away, all my acquaintances, look at me when I am empty and they see dark spots in a rippleless pond and then they stain me with them. I've let in a lot of stains lately. So,
cut me open.
I'm packing today. I sort cables into boxes. I detune my harp for the flight, the pressure is too high on airplanes, the strings might snap or tug too hard at the heartboard. People want to see me before I go. I do not want to see myself. So,
cut me open. Spread all my guts and twisted intestines beside my half-thumping eloping galloping heart that tries to leap off the table. Spread my sweaters and my rose quartz beads and my bells and all the quarters i've collected, all the teas and tinctures and vitamins I thought would fix me, all the paintbrushes and pages torn, spread all my things out all over the floor. What do I have? Nothing. What have I gained? Nothing. What have I improved? Depends. What have I learned? I know nothing. I still know nothing. I still am nothing. I still am everything. Everything is the same. Everything is still as full of magic as ever. And I am still as empty.
I must clear the air. I must clear more ground. I must clean my room. I must brush my hair. But I won't, I just pin it up again.
I hang my comforter out on the line. I feel and perform this half-assed. I put my brand new hardly touched keyboard back in its box with much difficulty. The styrofoam corners only fit one angle and they must all be held on straight while the keyboard slides into the box entirely level or there is no fit. I need five arms. I take out the compost. The pitchfork breaks immediately. The compost pile is healthy. I say a prayer that its richness will inspire my parents to sow the seeds they need to sow. I cover it back up with the tarp I tore from daddys jaw.
Do you know how I pack? I pack with coffee and alcohol. I try to eat celery sticks in between, and drink sips of water when I think it, saying a prayer and a blessing for my insanity. I listen to crazy drum and bass usually reserved for the most high times. Today it works, so I am okay with it. Funny, I try to empty and the only thing I want is poison. I want to want nothing. I'm still only nothing. I'm tired of something. I'm ready for nothing, so
cut me open. Lay me out in the secret-spilling sun. untie all these nasty cords. Let go every knotting, darning finger. Cut me open, I fear not what I'll see, I'll see the bottom looking back up at me. You can't cut nothing. I hold the bone needle, sharp as a gulls cry, and silk thread, soft as a blessing, here, with imaginary fingers I hold together out of thin air, because I am nothing and everything and I said so.