MISTRESS

MISTRESS

June 2006

By Scott Murphy and Jeff Ludlum

Two parts compassion, three parts frustration, one part horror and a dash of pure insanity
though sometimes pure agave azul does the trick.
You say there's a remedy and I say it's incurable, caught in the cappilaries of your soul
when I awaken from the stupor, the fever still a simmer in my veins, the sheer terror makes me shudder.
And I realize the safety in the stupor, the terror in my waking seeks the calm of a nightmare, the sedentary peace of a horrible dream
There are days that string together when I feel like I used to, before, when the world seemed my oyster, my playyard,
Would I high score Pac Man today, will I get 3 hits in the game, will I ever get laid?
I think back to how "the troubles" of the day have shifted, always being terribly trivial and simple and solvable, AFTER the fact. Shouldn't this be the same?

But these are no longer the daily trivial, they are internalized wars, earthquakes in my bones, and injustice of the most heinous nature that leaves no visible scars, but
then, who really gives a shit what I think, how I feel? Millions have faced the same, I'm no different. This is my cross to bear, and complaining doesn't make it anymore comfortable.


This is my cross, indeed. The burden of being made this way, designed with so many flaws, so many questions, and so much beauty that the world cannot contain
crippled in the next moment by the thought: six billion souls face the same things I do, why is it so fucking difficult for ME?!!
Mind, body, soul, spirit- the collective conscious holds comfort for me when I swim in its deep pool. Today, I stand stagnant by its edge.
I shiver as if dripping wet and hypothermic after climbing, coughing and spitting, onto the shore of an artic sea.
The shores of the eqautor, so warm, so central to my balance, so full of blue clarity, so salty sweet, and so damn distant
When the distractions subside, and they always do, I'm left to figure things out for myself, climbing the mountain as we must all ultimately do, alone.
Its perils are its own reward, its peak its own discovery about me, and you.
And when I have The Lama's view, I'm quite comfortable. Strong and sure, nameless and knowing, trascending my beaten body, weathered mind, and pockmarked persona,
Trusting
That it is all as it should be. And I'll be ok.

I'll climb, swim, walk dusty trails, search forever only to discover I am looking only for myself,
What poses the greatest challenge is that there are many me's.
Or one- Central, core, hidden by the layers, conjured behind the pockmarked personas- one,
When I meet her I know, and I'm glad. Then the next moment, she's gone.
Illusive indeed, but her voice never leaves, her aroma never from my sheets
nor the ache in my heart as I lie in the dark wondering when she'll return again.
Its not simply the knowing, its the unknowing and the reknowing with every new thing discovered
That quiets my raging soul when I feel alone, betrayed, deserted.
She'll return, this I know staring into a starless, haunting, tragic, restless, wishful night
and when I smell her, feel her warmth, hear the calm in her whisper, I'll know again that I am alone, that I can carry on, carry the cross, carry the day, to another.