, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Dear Lillian,

sometimes there’s just some grieving to do; you may try to avoid it but it hounds you, you know. and until you feel what you need to feel, no matter how strong and prepared you might be, like Achilles, your heels get attacked by the hound of grief.  it bites at your ankles like a nest of ground bees, but its too painful to actually stop and swat. you have to run. you have to run like a mother fucker while they attack your very source of motion.  and if your feet fail you, you can start to crawl. walk on your hands if you can, drag yourself thru the mud, but don’t give up. dont let them get to your heart.

you have to keep on. and find your way to the black pearl.

and once you get thru that purgatory nest, trying to pull you into hell, you feel like you see a new world, like Plato escaping the cave, and the newness is like a golden and colorful heaven, like in Golconda.

i don’t always get to my Golconda, but when i do, i find myself.

when there’s nothing left to forget, and there’s nothing left to remember, and you find that all that’s left is

the silence of surrender.

you don’t need the vortex of others to lose yourself. there is no more losing here. i already played that black flag losing game, Lillian. there’s no green flag winning games, either.

all that’s left is the white flag of surrender and the gold flag.

the gold flag of golconda.

i will meet you there, Lillian, at that flag pole. you can play jazz piano and i will play marimba and then we will dance. not to forget. not to remember, but to surrender to who you are.