Yohannon (yohannon) wrote,
Yohannon
yohannon

The Cain Mutiny

I'm having one of those literary diarrhea kind of days, it would seem. I just cranked out another 2500 words for The Book, on top of at least that much for LJ entries and comments, and about 1000 for assorted letters. That puts me on track for 10K in one day.

That doesn't mean it's all GOOD writing... just that I'm getting it out, at least.

I forget how widely read this LJ is. I mean, I know people other than myself read it. I suspect that the knowledge that other people are imbibing of my crazed mutterings is some sort of ego biscuit, encouraging me to gush even more. It would explain why I'm pushing two years of actually keeping up with it, as opposed to almost every other attempt at "regular" journaling.

Yet, to keep it from turning into a constant strut and fret about the stage, I do a fairly good job of disassociating myself from that little fact. That way I can work out my issues honestly, without the self-censorship that comes from avoiding embarrassing my Mom (Waving... "Hi, Mom!"), or anyone else for that matter.

So the support I've been feeling as I fall to pieces in such an embarrassingly public fashion has been... wonderful. I admit it, it feels good. As always, it's not why I'm writing this, but some of the advice (or even the Warm Fuzzies... I like Warm Fuzzies) has been spot on.

penguin_goddess sent me a poem that she thought would help, along with words she insists were hastily written before she went to make lunch for some seriously disturbed youngsters:

You Are Not Broken
By Becky Birtha

          You are not broken, beautiful child.
          Nothing about you is wrong.
          Other people have made their mistakes
          on you.
          But you survived.

          You are whole.
          You will heal, you will be
          all you ever wanted.
          You no longer remain
          the victim of those years.

          Your body is yours.
          You can fill it with joy.
          Your thoughts are in your control.
          Your feelings are free as
          the sound of chiming bells.

          You are loved.
          you are lovable
          beautiful child.
          You always were.
          You are forgiven.

She said she was worried it might be perceived as "sappy". Of course, I often wonder about that -- why there are so many things derided as cliched or blatant tear-jerkers that seem to enjoy such a popular following. I suspect that it's a classic case of discomfort at certain truths. If you make fun of it, you can dismiss it from your thoughts, avoid stirring the spirit, and opening the soul.

It struck a chord for me, though I would contest the third line ("Other people have made their mistakes/on you.") as only telling a part of the story. One of the hardest things to bear is not what was done to me by "other people", but what was done to them. If you ever manage to catch it, check out "The Cell". It's a very disturbing movie that deals with the terrifying proposition that even the vilest serial murderer has within them that "beautiful child", subsumed under the destructive interference of countless echoes of mistakes from others. They pound over us, setting up a seductive nihilistic beat that dares us not to dance (like everyone else does... can't you be like everyone else?), induces you to sing off-key, the discordant chanting becoming your own voice to the echo, a special note to pass on down to the people around you.

I wonder what would happen if they could trace those echoes back in the same way they can trace genetics. They manage to find the common mother to us all, eons in the past... could they also find that first echo? Would that be the moment that Cain killed Able?

That's the mark that was placed upon him, to pass down to his children... and to me. To all of us.

I think of that singer at the BBW dance the week before last, how she was able to sing despite the amplified sounds of music in a different key and beat. Can we learn to do the same to fight the echoes? To find our own beat, our own key, and to hold to it no matter how the crowd mutters and condemns us as fools. To realizing that the most insidious lie we were ever told was that we first had to admit to being sick before getting better, when "health" was defined as that goose stepping in seqence roughshod over our own realities.

It's time to take a sharp left turn and fight our way to the open field, casting off our shackles and getting nekkid in the sun. Time to cavort a bit.

And time for lunch... I'm starving. More later if I haven't scared y'all off. Hell, even if I have, there'll be more.
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