...
I have this thing with voices. You know that already. It horrifies me that the best voices are not attached to the best people, the best spirits, the best hearts. When I was young I could tell everything spiritually and not have to be face-to-face to get it. I did it on the phone. I did it in letters. I did it with anyone on whom I cast my attention.
But I did not know what to do with that, what that meant, what that had to teach me about my life.
I did not know how to stop what I wanted and what I did not from mucking it up.
Now I have a much clearer idea of all that and so a fuzzier idea of what there is to know from my attention to others. Now that unerring knowing of my youth errs... is no longer pitch perfect... no. Wait. It still is. It's just covered up with the clanging of my heart in new ways. It's just the transition from sleep to awake keeps turning up the volume against aligning with the truth.
When I listen to Michael I hear a rare sincerity. I hear a man clashing with his intention, like I always did when I was young. Like boyfriends. Like the throngs of men trying to get me in bed. It makes me not want to bother with him. Yet I keep returning to take his genuine communication over the disingenuous blather of someone with more melodious tones because his incandescent sincerity keeps blanking out his tsunamic ire, here, where I know and cannot say.
I keep thinking I'm going to hear the dispositive thing, the phrase, a phrase, that lets me know the key and use it... an email with the precise words... or just the blazing of the insight communicating... the thing that sets him free.
always and any time....
