Notes from a Field II

This Work

This work that I am doing, it feels like I am demons. In some ways I am: they are that nasty. But 'they' are not separate from me. 'They' are the thoughts, deep deep way way way down, that somewhere along the line my mind decided to tuck away for keeps--driving me forever forward, stripping away creativity, gratitude, truth-telling.

In a sense then, they are demons of my minds creation; they are definitely not angels, nor are they helpful. Thoughts--beliefs--I have barely managed to ever speak aloud: I am broken. I am meaningless. I am not worth living for.

Me? I think these things about Me? Erica? Creative and joyful and loving?

Yes. I don't like to admit it, but these beliefs live in the dark recesses of my mind that want control--I am broken; I am meaningless; I am not worth living for--they exist.

But they are FALSE.

And this work I am doing--standing in my authority, noticing, truth-telling, clear on purpose--it is hard work. But it is radical work.

Pulling it up by its roots. Throwing the demons away.

Why?

Because I am worth it. I am so worth it. Life is worth it, too.

Mastery

J: 'I was threatened.'

E: 'She was encouraged.'

A: 'Ah, those empowering words.'

For Wednesday - Crazy People

Going to college in Santa Cruz prepares you for your share of crazy people. In general, people who may or may not have a mental illness; who may or may not be homeless; who may or may not have issues with body odor, verbal control, or twitching. Not that Santa Cruz is a mecca of crazies, just that Santa Cruz is Weird--as Bookshop would have us keep it that way--and it's part of the atmosphere. The edge of craziness, if you like.

In London, I'm just not prepared for crazy. Craziness feels completely out of context here. It's prim, proper, cups of tea, orderly queues, and standard Tube behaviour. The vibe of London doesn't appear to allow for crazy people in the way that Santa Cruz welcomes them.

I think this is why I get so distraught riding the bus going to university. I have the expectation that London is not a crazy city. Therefore, there should be no crazy people on my bus. There's not supposed to be a man who sniggers jabbing statements at random people on the pavement when he alights at his stop. There's not supposed to be a woman who walks with her palms up, open to the energy, chanting under her breath in a post borough of London. The scuffy, ex-biker guy with an odor problem does not wear a gold band of diamonds on his ring finger. And the last he didn't even act crazy!

No, I'm just not prepared for crazy in London. But I think I need to work on that.

For Hours

Time suck in the world
of writing: the computer
is my companion.

Belle Star

'You could be my Ringo Starr.'

'And you could be my Kurt Cobain.'

Notes from a Field

I used to collect horse hair from the barbwire, and dream of running through the tall grass in a lace pink dress--rose pink. As I walked in my t-shirt and shorts, I would pull the grain from the stalks. Sometimes I would cut my finger. Sometimes the crickets were all I could hear. Sometimes I didn't think clouds could ever block the warmth of the sun.