I don't know if this needs to be an email, or a blog, or whatever, all I know is that I need to write.
Dammit. I've been stifled for so long, Kristin was just writing about watching a movie from a cage it seemed, and I've been feeling like part of me has been buried alive, pounding on the lid of a coffin with my fists. I want to get a tattoo before I leave New Haven. I think we might have found someone to watch over Buddy. words words words
So as my material possessions dwindle, it's less things and more thoughts. Driving to Martha's Vineyard and back with Lesley and her family a long time ago. When someone felt stifled or hot or stale, one of them would go, "I need new air!" or "It's time for new air!" and they'd all roll down their windows, on cue, pause, and then dutifully roll them back up. It was like second nature to them.
I need new air. It's time for new air.
It's also time for busking and screaming, for bleeding, and for letting go. Everything, all at once.
The other thing I didn't want to forget about, that I knew I needed to write down, was breaking the guitars yesterday. I'm finding out that when I get fearful, scared, frustrated, or anything with a little ick to it, that I can get pretty angry. And I was all over the place yesterday at work, cranky, not handling anything, snapping at Tom, pissed, argumentative - you name it. Exhausted. Scared. Upset. So, cut to partway through the day, and he (Tom) goes up into the attic and comes down with these two acoustic guitars. They must have been used for stage props or something, some kind of project he didn't want to talk about, where they had been painted silver and then abandoned. Apparently, they had some bad juju and were all aching to be broken. It was funny, he was all childishly triumphant, one in each fist, coming down the ladder.
"Here," he said. "Smash these."
I looked at him in disbelief. He was serious. We went out to the garage, and the middle was all cleared out, as is usually the case with garages. And I just kind of stood there, holding a guitar like you shouldn't hold a guitar, pretty much like a bat. By the neck, slung over my shoulder, standing there. I felt all naked and like I needed to be alone with it, and for the first guitar, I was. I managed to verbalize some of this, and Tom seemed to understand, just closing the door and leaving me to it.
Now, the break - it was just for a shining little moment, like most things that get into my bones are - but that moment was so strangely intense. Immediate and in slow motion, all at once, I went stage-bravado style, both hands around the neck, up over my head, as hard as I could, all the way into the concrete. It was amazing. And in case you are wondering, acoustic guitars are pretty delicate. It splintered and shattered, and it only took me two or three tries to get it into bits all over the place.
It was crazy. All loud and dead silence and everywhere and this feeling of - almost infidelity, I wanted to say just then, like having sex with a married guy, or just someone other than who you are they are in the relationship with, whichever side you want to come from. And bad and good and satisfying and awful, all at once. Like some kind of murder, only it was beautiful murder, if that makes sense. And it worked.
Guitar #2 didn't fair as well, since the neck broke off from the body completely and I had to smash it with my feet (in flip flops). I pinched the bottom of one of my feet while I was stomping it to death, and almost wished I had bled a little bit, right there on the concrete with shattered wood and pain and heartache and fear all puddled together. But really, if I look at it from a certain angle, I think I did. I definitely did.
So, there's one thing, a thing of the beginning of a lot of things, off the list I thought I'd never get to, or have opportunity to do. Shit. If that wound up being that easy and that great, can you imagine what's coming? I almost can't contain myself.
Photos to follow. Eighteen days to go.
Bon courage,
Victoria