The Art of Being Gotten

Tying into recent thoughts and posts, I've been more attuned lately to those around me, in my life or just passing by, the current relationships and connections I have as well as those of the past ... pondering who and what is to come. But not in the sense of fixation, more like a gentle observation, of my mind, without judging it (a hard thing to do), how it works, what it does ... and then looking at the minds of those around me, recognizing the familiar patterns, waves, noise.

This extended to mulling over society, its "norms" and its expectations ... how society has become a giant blob that takes on a hundred forms a day, whether reflecting in the people in our lives, our relationships, friendships, our own reflection in the mirror ... our jobs, our everyday mediums. How all of it ties into our minds and perceptions, the ways we look at others, the ways we don't look at ourselves and vice versa.

I've touched on the concept of "being gotten" before. About the sacredness of that feeling, when someone "gets" you. If you have someone like this in your life, all I will say is, cherish them ... get them right back ... and accept them just as they are.

However, one piece of the puzzle I have not slid into place until now, is how that concept also hinges on us getting ourselves. Knowing ourselves, truly. And accepting what we know. In the last several years, I've been always looking externally for my identity ... and harshly criticizing myself or those around me for not being "it." Is there someone or several someones out there who "get me?" Yes, I've met some already and will meet more.

I just had to get myself.

So, what does that look like? What picture does being gotten and getting myself paint?  I'm not quite sure, but my guess is ... it's something like this ...

She laid on the den floor, examining the nails in the wood, pressing her hot cheek against its coolness. She could almost feel the vibration of a deep voice, rumbling through the floorboards, quivering against her eardrum. 

She breathed in the ink and paper scent, wafting ever so slightly across the room. She felt like a piece of play dough, poked and prodded, forced into one form or another. Her body ached from the contortions. But now, as she lay there, her feverish skin melted back into a formless puddle — neutral, reborn.

Lie here, say that, get up, don't be melodramatic, calm down, let go, cheer up, try this, do more of that, don't be selfish, come here … no wait, stay there, think this, don't think that, did you know … he's this, she's that, I'm this … you're that, we are, I swear, be on time, be sensitive, understand … have patience, love is … pay attention to me, to yourself, pain, I'm sorry, smile with me, trust me … see me, love me, listen to me, forget you, forget … remember.

The whispers thrummed through the veins in the wood. So much noise … static. Everyone always pressing in on themselves, on eachother … pure intentions lost. A societal cluster, building on itself, conformation. Her body began to cool against the wood. She heard the door close in the other room … footfalls against the thin runner along the hallway. The loose board near the doorway creaked against his weight.

She felt a tear escape the corner of her eye and hit the wood beneath her. Her lips slightly parting as she looked down, toward the doorway. She saw a silhouette lean against the frame, crossing arms, examining her. Examining, judging, labeling … mind dominance, microscopes, here's a flaw, there's one, too … she sees them everywhere as well … maybe it's really her standing there, or a new him, maybe its the entire societal cluster, taking on one form, no one is innocent, guilty.

But she has begun to quiet the noise. She has found silence amidst the coolness … bringing sanity to a maddening place.

Will he pull her up, make her come to him … put her on a pedestal and then point out her flaws … will she reciprocate, constantly searching for identity.

Her body takes shape, its bruises gone. She feels him walk over, bringing the scent of vanilla and honey with him … and stands over her. She once flinched, flinched under the lens. But she doesn't this time. A different energy surrounds them.

She feels him crouch down, move a piece of her hair from her eyes. He leans in, kisses her temple, then unfolds onto the floor next to her. He presses his cheek into the wood and meets her guarded eyes. They're the same eyes … they're his eyes, they're hers … they're theirs. He makes no movement at first, but then reaches behind and pulls out something. Suddenly, she feels the warmth of fabric cloak her body. She scrunches her forehead, holding back a dam of emotion brought on by relief.

He says nothing … silence … everything is silent for the first time ever.

And then … he simply reaches out his hand — bursting her dam.

~C~