#anyway sometimes i am viscerally reminded this exists and am fine about it

[theclaravoyant]

the way tk wakes up from the coma and reminds carlos to breathe

[cougarforcenty]

questions to fall...

a/n: how’s everybody’s noah situation? mine simply continues to spiral further + further. which is fine… it’s fine. more fic is the obvious solution. feedback is lovely.

summary: noah + close female friend are in love with one another but can’t deal with or confront that reality. the questions that are referenced in this fic can be found here.

word count: 3575

warnings: none

You glance at your phone for the umpteenth time. You realize you’re distracted right away and fix your eyes back onto the blank screen of your laptop.

But nothing is coming to you, your mind is ostensibly empty. Not a fragment of a thought of a morsel of a beginning of anything is being sparked.

You’ve got no ammo, no juice. You’re creatively and inspirationally depleted.

You mutter an obscenity under your breath as you cover your face with one hand and push the laptop away with the other.

You hear your front door open and don’t even look up in that direction because you already know who it is.

“Why must you let yourself in if you know I’m here?” You complain, still glaring at the laptop.

You’re in a real mood. You knew it before but you’re certain of it now as his presence descends upon your apartment. You always love to see him but often he’s a reminder more and more of things you haven’t come to terms with.

“You gave me a key so I would use it, did you not?” Noah asks rhetorically, kicking off his shoes and placing a takeout bag on the coffee table. He plops down on the sofa next to you.

You make a face at him.

“You’re a ball of sunshine tonight, huh?” he questions, studying you for a moment before his eyes flick over to the laptop screen.

You lower the screen on instinct, averting it from his eyes. He always does that and you’re always ready. He’s read your work. Hell, he’s SEEN your work but you’re so skittish about letting anyone read any of your scripts before they’re completely done and properly polished.

It’s pure instinct even with a blank page.

“Well, you can’t be cranky for too long because I brought you green curry and seaweed salad,” Noah explains as he reaches down and unbags the cartons of fragrant food.

It all smells delicious but you’re still preoccupied with how irritated you are that none of your prior ideas seem remotely good enough to attempt for your next script.

“I’m not hungry.”

Noah leans back as he pops a dumpling into his mouth. He eyes you silently while chewing.

“What?”

The word just slips out as this is the first time since he arrived that you’re actually looking at him. No matter how much time you spend together and how many years you’ve known him, sometimes his eyes on you still catch you off guard. It always surprises you when that happens, even still.

“What’s wrong?” he questions gently.

“Nothing.”

“Tell the truth.”

You sigh and lean your head back and squeeze your eyes shut for a second.

“I have no ideas, I’m tapped out.”

“I highly doubt that,” Noah counters, plucking another dumping from the carton with the chopsticks. He balances the carton on his lap as he extends the dumpling toward you, his other hand acting as a barrier underneath the hanging food.

You look at it and back at him.

“Open your mouth,” he instructs smoothly.

You relent.

“I’ve never once known you to have any shortage of ideas. Your mind is like the most expansive landscape that exists,” Noah responded. He reaches toward your coffee table to swap out cartons and starts devouring pad thai.

“All the ideas I had before seem dumb or derivative now.”

You set your laptop down and open up a pair of chopsticks and start picking out the carrots in the carton he’s holding.

“That doesn’t matter,” Noah assures you. “Your approach to the story is what makes it stylistically your own. Which also prevents it from being dumb.”

“One idea I was contemplating seems so trivial and ridiculous once I revisited it.”

“What is it?”

You watch him chew and don’t respond.

“You don’t want to tell me,” he continues with a small chuckle.

You’ve picked all you wanted out of his pad thai and settle for the seaweed salad he brought you.

“You know how writers are: neurotic and sensitive.”

You’re chewing when you notice his attention no longer predominately on his food.

“Is that mine?” Noah questions, casually gesturing to the oversized gray sweatshirt you’re wrapped in, your hands barely peeking out of the sleeves enough for you to hold the chopsticks properly.

His assessing eyes halt at where the bottom of the sweatshirt falls over your bare thighs.

“Yeah,” you shrug. “You don’t need to have clothing you refuse to properly wear anyways.”

“You know I like to be ventilated.”

On the tail of that response, you silently realize it is hard to reconcile things like this; him feeding you or you wearing his clothing. It was so seamlessly and easily apart of the intricate makeup of your dynamic.

When you really stop and think about it for too long you realize why people assume you two are together. You couldn’t actually blame how your circle of friends would roll their eyes when someone new had to clarify whether or not you two were a couple.

It hadn’t always been this way, you two juggling this blatant and palpable type of intimacy.

You had run in the same circles for some time and would have considered the other an acquaintance like many actors and photographers and models and writers and musicians who all know the same people, but about 18 months ago you two were at a party and randomly bonded over shared perspectives and quickly became damn near inseparable.

“Hey,” Noah interrupts your thoughts. “Where’d you go?”

“Hmm, nowhere.”

“You went to the idea,” Noah responds. “Tell me.”

You squint your eyes at him suspiciously.

“Believe me, it will help.”

You sigh.

“In the past couple of years, there’s this research that has been getting a lot of attention regarding how people fall in love and if it’s possible that a formulaic method actually exists that breeds a high likelihood of that specific outcome,” you explain as Noah listens intently.

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it… the series of questions?” He inquires.

“Right. There’s a number of questions, at varying levels that both people answer and then they’re supposed to stare into each other’s eyes for four minutes,” you continue on. “Then poof, they’re in love or whatever.”

“You don’t believe that’s an effective way?” Noah questioned, clearly getting a read of your dismissiveness toward the general framework of the concept.

“Are you serious?” You can’t help but laugh. “No, it’s ridiculous. I was literally going to expound on all the flaws within that premise and the dysfunction that would likely result in these makeshift couples because of it.”

“But think about it, the very basis of it is transparency and understanding. There’s a level of disclosure that takes place. This makes people feel close and connected, it builds trust.”

“That happens in all relationships though, not just romantic ones.”

“At the core of it, everyone just wants to be understood and feel seen, the process of the questions helps to aid that at rapid speed. The prolonged eye contact takes away the verbal thoughtfulness of answering questions and deals with pure energy.”

“Of course your hopeless romantic ass would believe this works,” you lament rolling your eyes.

“And I am not at all surprised that your cynicism prevents you from seeing how it does.”

“I’m not a cynic,” you defend. “I’m a pragmatist. I see how messy and flawed and dysfunctional people are, we’re complicated beings. I think it takes more than some silly questions to truly cross the love plane.”

“Sometimes it’s not complicated at all. Sometimes it’s actually the simplest things that make people fall in love.”

There’s something visceral about the way he says it that makes you pause. Or maybe it’s the intention in his voice or the thoughtful expression on his face.

“Give me your phone,” you respond.

He retrieves it from his pant pocket without hesitation and hands it to you.

“I need to draft that as your next tweet, Aristotle,” you tease him as he snatches the phone back.

“You should have been a comedian.”

“I’m much too serious for that,” you respond good-naturedly.

It strikes you that this may be the first time you and he have discussed love in such frank terms. In a way that isn’t rooted in a conversation about one of his exes or yours. But as the immense blistering esoteric entity that it so often can be.

You suddenly recall the one time a mutual friend of yours had made a joke about Noah being in love with you, it was the first time you’d heard that but not the last.

You questioned why he would even think that. He said it was clear by the way Noah looks at you.

It’s not as if you haven’t noticed it, it’s just that he looked at everyone with a certain type of open affection and endearment.

“So let’s try it,” Noah says suddenly.

So completely in your own head, you have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Try what?”

“The love experiment,” he responds.

You laugh.

“What’s the matter? You seem pretty certain it’s illogical and won’t actually work,” Noah pointed out innocently. “What’s the harm then?”

“You’re being serious?”

Something about just the prospect of even attempting this with him gives you butterflies, despite your intrinsic doubts.

“Yup,” Noah responds as he starts pulling up the questions on his phone.

“Alright well, I need coping aides,” you lament as you place the food on the coffee table and get up to head to the kitchen.

You think you can feel his eyes on the back of your legs and ass as you walk away but you can’t be sure.

You return to the couch with a bottle of red wine and two wine glasses.

Tucking your legs underneath his massive billowing sweatshirt, you cradle your glass, hand him his and silently steel yourself for whatever this bit of bonding will reveal.

“I bet we’ve already discussed a number of these in roundabout ways in casual conversation,” you point out as you sip your wine.

“It’s a possibility,” Noah says. “Ready?”

You nod your head.

“Number one: if you could have dinner with anyone, dead or alive, who would it be?”

“You go first, I have to think,” you say.

“Easy,” Noah responds. “Osho.”

“What if he was in the midst of one of his self-dictated vows of silence? You’d be fucked.”

“It would be quite an experience either way. You?”

“Can I have two answers? One alive, one dead.”

“Sure.”

“Oprah.”

“Naturally,” Noah remarks as he sips his wine.

“Then anyone who was wrongfully convicted and executed on death row.”

He doesn’t respond for a moment, just absorbs your answer and nods.

“Wow.”

You pluck the phone from his hands and read the next question.

“Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?”

“Oh definitely, an accident.”

You’re taken aback by his response, it almost sends a chill down your spine.

“What do you mean, what kind of accident?”  

“Bungee jumping, scuba diving, scaling the side of a building, jumping out of a plane, something like that,” Noah says unemphatically.

Your anxiety is rising just hearing him talk about it so cavalierly.

“That daredevil shit isn’t worth your life, Noah. You need to just let that be.”

“Ah, things happen. I can go outside and get hit by a bus as well. That doesn’t mean I stay inside.”

Your hand covers your face momentarily as you shake your head.

“You stress me out.”

“I’ll try not to die anytime soon.”

“Don’t even joke like that,” you exclaim, your hand coming up to hit his shoulder.

“Answer,” he laughs at your reaction.

“I do not have a hunch,” you respond after a pause. “I don’t like to think about it.”

“Because it scares you?” Noah questions softly, his eyes piercing.

“Oh, we’re doing follow up questions as well?” You lament sarcastically.

“Yes.”

“Sure it scares me. Human beings have a hard time conceptualizing things we don’t have a true understanding of or reference for. But I also know that something will transpire similarly to being born that is incredibly beautiful and shifting. The part I don’t like to think about is the pain and fear leading up to the moment it finally happens. That’s what feels agonizing to contemplate. So how isn’t something I like to consider.”

The answer kind of emotionally winds you after you’re done supplying it.

Noah nods and then reaches his hand out and gently rubs your shoulder and touches the side of your face in wordless comfort. You hand the phone to him.

“If you could wake up tomorrow having gained one quality or ability, what would it be?”

“Easy,” you exclaim. “I’d want to have the ability to speak and understand every language that exists.”

“Pfft, lofty,” Noah teases. “I’d just want to feel well rested every time I wake up, no matter what amount of sleep I’d actually gotten.”

“Hmm, that’s a good one.”

You take the phone back.

“Oh, this is a perfect one. For you specifically,” you lament as you began to read. “What roles do love and affection play in your life?”

He chuckles.

“Why for me specifically?”

“Because everyone loves you and you’re mighty affectionate,” you explain simply.

At that moment, as if on its own silent accord and in complete conjunction with the question, you notice that one of your bare legs is draped over his lap, with his hand grasping your ankle.

You honestly don’t even recall how it happened. The ease with which you two slipped into tactile intimacy was sometimes jarring and unintentional. Yet it happened so naturally that you wouldn’t even register it until the moment had passed.

So in truth, you couldn’t be shocked that 90% of your friends thought, at the very minimum, you two had slept together.  Even though you absolutely haven’t.

There was one night were you two crossed a line but it was a year ago and you’d rationalized it away.

You were both drunk and sometimes random things just happen.

A bunch of you had been at a party in the Palisades, celebrating the book release of a mutual friend. You noticed he had disappeared and when you went to retrieve him, you found him in a massive closet staring at his phone. You weren’t sure he even heard you when you said his name until he wordlessly grabbed your wrist and pressed you against the nearest shelf.

It was a blissful five minutes of mind-melting kissing and touching. He pretty much undid whatever pretenses you may have had within the space of that moment, to the point where you would have thrown caution to the wind completely.

But a tiny part of you wondered what caused it, what was the catalyst and if it was really even about YOU and him, to begin with, or whatever was on his phone.

So you stopped him and when he tried to bring it up the next day, you called it a mistake and shut him down.

In your mind, it’s just safer that way. There’s less messiness if you two keep your relationship platonic. If you get jealous, you don’t have a right to; you have to keep it to yourself.

There isn’t a danger of losing him completely if you two have a wretched breakup.

You need him too much to even chance that.

You also have a “no getting involved with any actors” rule. You’ve had it the moment you became a screenwriter. The talent and you don’t mix that way, or at least shouldn’t. Their roles were much more overt and public, yours more private. You felt secure within that logic.

“Everyone doesn’t love me,” Noah says, breaking through your thoughts as he downs his wine. “I’m quite obnoxious to some.”

“Hmm, the masses love you though,” you lament. “You’re a likable figure.”

“Well, thanks,” he says with that playful candor he so effortlessly displays on a whim.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“They play significant roles, without love and being able to express that love via affection, human beings, and the world by extension would feel quite dreary and rather fleeting.

“I agree.”

“You can’t take my answer.”

“I’d say they have significant roles in my life, but perhaps manifest differently. I think I’m maybe more verbal with my affection with certain people.”

“Really?”

“You seem doubtful.”

“Well, you do have a way with words. That’s obvious. But I wouldn’t say you’re overly generous with your verbal proclamations of affection.”

“Maybe not the way you are,” you counter.

“That sounds like a dig,” he observes, squeezing your ankle.

“Read the next question,” you say, changing the subject and handing him the phone. You finish off your wine and pour another glass.

“Tell your partner what you think about them, be very honest this time, saying things that you might not say to someone you’ve just met.”

“You go,” you insist. He’s not one to withhold compliments but you’re curious what he’ll say.

“What I think about you? Hmm,” he paused, silently studying you. Again, you feel warm under his gaze. Or maybe it’s the wine, it’s hard to tell and easier to blame it on the alcohol.

“Yes.”

“I think you’re probably the most complicated person I’ve ever known. You’re very caring and wildly smart. You’re so smart sometimes I wonder how you’re able to hold and effortlessly decipher through all the intellect you possess.”

“Aw, that’s very kind.”

He smiles lazily at you. There’s something about the way he assesses you openly that lets you know he isn’t done.

“You’re so fucking sexy.”

“Noah!” You feel your stomach clench.

“What?” he asked innocently. “The question specified complete honesty. I’m being serious. I don’t think you even realize how disarmingly sexy you are and it comes naturally. You don’t even do it on purpose which only magnifies it.”

You’re at a loss for words. You sip your wine quietly and avoid his gaze.

“I do declare,” he kidded with a laugh. “Have I left you speechless for the first time in my life?”

“Well I’m not gonna top that answer,” you admit. Acting as if you’re contemplating your own response rather than reeling from his. “You are immeasurably kind. Your kindness isn’t borne out of any ulterior motive. You are selfless in your kindness. You are the most gentle soul. You are also deeply thoughtful and talented.”

Noah smiles softly. He absentmindedly runs his hand from your ankle up to the back of your knee. You know he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but you feel every inch of his hand’s attention.

“Thanks,” he whispers. His gaze catches yours in a manner you aren’t prepared for.

“Stop it,” you insist, downing more wine. “This isn’t the staring part.”

He laughs.

“Do I get writing partner credit if you go with this idea?”

“No, this is simply an experiment.”

“Mhm.”

You grab the phone and read the next question.

“When is the last time you cried in front of another person? By yourself?”

“Oh geez, in front of another person? Probably like a week ago? By myself? Yesterday while watching a video on Instagram.”

“You cry very easily,” you admit. You’ve seen him cry a handful of times since you two became close.

“I do,” he admitted. “You?”

“Uh, last month probably when, I uh, when I went back home I had a bit of an intervention with my brother, about his uh… his addiction and I broke down.”

“Baby, I didn’t know,” Noah responds after a moment of silence. “You never told me that.”

You’d gotten on him about using that term of endearment with you in the past. You would remind him that you weren’t his girlfriend. But it sometimes would still slip out and after a while, you’d stop correcting him because you secretly enjoyed it.

“It’s fine. I don’t talk about it.”

He just nods his head gently, knows not to pry.

He silently takes the phone and sees you’ve finished the questions.

“Four minutes of eye contact?” he questions gently.

“That’s a lot,” you breathe as you set your wine glass down.

“You trying to opt out?”

“No, set the timer.”

He does and you settle in, telling yourself that you can get through it. Four minutes won’t last forever.

His gaze is comforting and warm the first minute. You will yourself to maintain it as you feel the air shift between you two.

He’s wordlessly communicating to you and you can’t avert the intention or the messaging; you can’t thwart the moment.

You feel emotions start to bubble up within you by the second minute's end.

“Fuck,” you murmur, trying to hold on as you feel yourself slipping deeper into whatever is transpiring.

Noah’s hand is on your thigh, against the edge of where the oversized sweatshirt has bunched up.

You don’t know what to say, you can’t manage words even if you wanted to.

His hand is on your neck and his face is suddenly so much closer.

“Tell me to stop,” he mutters.

But this is likely what can be referred to as a cosmic inevitability, and because of that, there is no recourse.

A moment later his lips capture yours and you have a fleeting thought of how you could ever think you’d successfully avoid such wonder.

[austennerdita2533]

Hi, Ashlee! I didn’t want to mess up our messaging system (and I’m going to get back to you soon, I promise!), but I have questions and I think you’re the right person to ask. Plus, I *think* you won’t mind if I start a discussion on Neruda’s work, haha. I’m going through Cien Sonetos de Amor and I’m a intrigued with the repetitive use of some words, especially “clavel” (not sure what’s the word in english for that lol). Any thoughts on the meaning of it? I’m curious about your opinion!

Hello Luiza. :) First, take your time getting back to me. Our messages to each other are long since we have so many different things to chat about, and it took me an abominable amount of time to get back to you last time so you’re totes fine. Second, I AM SO EXCITED you came to talk to me about Pablo Neruda!!!! It gives me a justifiable excuse to pull out and peruse this poetry anthology of his again: 

^^This book is one of my most prized possessions. No joke. It’s his entire collection of poetry in both English and Spanish. If there was a fire set to my bookshelves, and someone told me I could save merely a handful of titles,  (theoretically speaking only, because if this happened I would bawl my eyes out for years and years; probably forever lol), this collection would be one of the first things I’d grab.^^

Not only is Neruda one of my favorite poets of all time, but I often revisit his work whenever I’m in need of inspiration for my own writing or want to remind myself how figurative language and imagery - in either language - can be wielded in beautifully creative, unconventional ways. Just ahhh! His words fill me with an equal amount of warm and fuzzies and writer’s envy. The way he strings phrases and meaning together never fails to astound me. I mean–wow! Consider me an unapologetic Pablo Neruda fangirl. 😂

His100 Love Sonnets, in particular, are among those which I flip through over and over again, partly because I’m a romantic sap who aches to read about love in whatever form, and partly because his portrayal of it is so evocative and poignant that I shiver any time his words leap up at me from the page. 

As for your question, I believe “clavel” translates most closely into “carnation” in English? (That’s what I found through a Google search, anyway.) So that’d be a fragrant, double-cloved flower which is usually pink, but can come in other color combinations, too. I think a more archaic meaning of the word “carnation” has something to do with the color of flesh as well. Which makes me think of Sonnet XXVII in “Morning,” specifically, since he describes nakedness pretty heavily in it. More than that, the color pink/light red radiates from that poem and can be linked to both meanings of the word, imo. He describes a naked hand which is “transparent” with “apple paths”; he talks about naked wheat, which can be light-toned and/or burnt with color; he adds vibrancy to the bed of a nail in these lines: “naked you are as small as one of your nails,/ curved, subtle, rose until day is born”–and all of these bring to my mind the imagery/meanings of a carnation, if not the word itself. I love how - through his descriptions - he often alludes to certain words like that, too, without using them overtly, because when you look closely, you can see how he saturates his stanzas with them figuratively instead. It gives them more substantial weight and gravitas, you know? Carrying them from stanza to stanza and sometimes even from poem to poem. 

(Does the translation “carnation” make sense in the context of where the word “clavel” appears for you, since you’re reading in Portuguese? I hope I’ve hit upon the right-ish one.)

You are so right that Neruda weaves certain words or images repetitively throughout these sonnets, though! It’s one of my favorite things he does, actually, because not only is it purposeful but it’s done in a way that progresses from section-to-section, from “Morning” to “Midday” to “Evening” to “Night.” To be more specific, flower and earthen/nature words feature prominently in his love sonnets and what’s fun for me is recognizing how he flourishes them differently in each subsequent section in an effort to demonstrate the stages or cycles/maturation of love. 

For example, throughout “Morning,” Neruda overloads your senses with pomp, vivacity, pungent aromas, and thirsty sensations in order to highlight the “spiky passions” (III) “where sweet aromas rose and trembled” (IV) “hunting for you, for your hot heart” (XI) that often take place at the beginning of a new love - also known as the “morning.” It is the kind of love that is raw and visceral, pervasive, “fiery with its long red rays” (XVI) because it’s brand spanking new and has no roots as of yet. So almost everything he describes is budded and sweetly fragrant. The sensations feel fresh in this section; they taste pure and powerful, overwhelming ever part of you. 

Then, in “Midday,” he hits you with love’s growth and maturation where everything is still green yet will be “fed [to] the roots” (XXXIX) so that “little by little [love] turned into fruit” [VLVII]. There’s a lot of water and ripening imagery in this section, sodden with feeling, so as to show the ways in which love continues to change or continues to twine like roots which will “cast two shadows that flow together” (XLVIII). This is where and when and how love sinks into a heart. Twisting and curling into knots that cultivate in a way that’s meant to make it more and more difficult to snip them away.

Once you arrive in “Evening” after this, therefore, Neruda adds a profound sense of tangledness and “eyes squeezed shut in love that doesn’t help” (LV) because he wants you to feel how - at this point - love is embedded in you like poison. Living inside you in a way that “can no longer [be protested]” (LIX). In addition to that, he makes sure to mention some darker emotions like sorrow, troubles, stubbornness, etc. which attach themselves well to the fading of the day and to the expiration of a love that’s comprised only of “honeyed contentment” (LV). I think it’s meant to show how love is not always happy or delightful, that it can feel like a “craw full of teeth” (LIX) sometimes, but how that’s okay because those feelings are part of love’s fire. They belong to the heart’s wasteland as much as the sweet and savory stuff, too. 

Finally, in “Night,” I think his sonnets arrive in a place that’s equal parts reverie, reflection, and ethereal revelation. There’s this restless, intangible quality to the way Neruda describes love in this section, whereby he combines imagery of nature in a way that neither entombs aged sentiment in the life it’s already lived, nor bleeds it dry once the fruit’s been consumed in death. Love is “stubbornly transient” (XCVII), “waiting, raining on the dust, eager to erase even absence”(XCI). It’s eternal and beyond the corporeal at this point. Something that cannot be given up because it’s passing in silence “through an eternity of buried mouths” (XCV). It exists beyond the bonds of time, seeps back into the earth when it’s empty only to rise again and again and again. Effectively living multiple lives. Suggesting it never ends. 

It’s fascinating to me to see the variety of ways Neruda manipulates, or puts into startling context, words like “blood,” “fruit,” “earth,” “kiss” etc. and how he embeds the theme “love is a flower” no matter the stage - Morning, Midday, Evening, or Night - you find it in. In short, I LOVE IT SO STINKING MUCH.

Do you have any favorites, btw? It’s always hard for me to choose specific sonnets because I always fangirl over perfectly phrased lines, but as a whole, I love love love Sonnet XI ad Sonnet XXVII from “Mornings” and Sonnet XC from “Night.” The last one in particular gives me MAJOR Klaroline feels any time I read it, especially now with how they ended in canon. *cries* 

I’ve been dying to find a way/excuse to use this one in a fic:

I thought I was dying, I felt the cold up close

and knew that from all my life I left only you behind:

my earthly day and night were your mouth,

your skin the republic my kisses founded.

In that instant the books stopped,

and friendship, treasures restlessly amassed,

the transparent house that you and I built:

everything dropped away, except your eyes.

Because while life harasses us, love is

only a wave taller than the other waves:

but oh, when death comes knocking at the gate,

there is only your glance against so much emptiness,

only your light against extinction,

only your love to shut out the shadows.

ME:

Anyway, sorry for my longgg and effusive analytical spewing which I could continue for goodness knows how long, but I couldn’t help myself because I mean–PABLO. NERUDA. IS. AN. INSPIRATION. Sometimes I want to curl myself into the complex splendor of his words and never crawl back out, you know?? I read his stuff and I experience this rampant instantaneous fluttering that morphs into a squealed, “Omg, why can’t you write like this?”

What are your thoughts about Neruda in general? Or about his Love Sonnets specifically? I’m so curious to hear what you think of his writing even if you disagree with me, my analysis, or my estimation of him, completely. Like I said before–totally unapologetic fangirl here haha. xx

[maesynmusing]

It’s amazing the first time you really examine your fears around your mortality and the fragility and preciousness of life. I was bitten by a dog 2 weeks ago. Walking down a rural road in Koh Phangon. I was on my way to leave the island when this happened, and had no knowledge of rabies or any protocols for handling its potential in a developing country. (Apparently I should have gone and followed the dog, found the owner, and taken the dog to a vet to get tested). Ironically, at the time I was having a heated conversation with a man I had been with romantically for a while, discussing my upset feelings about a whole slew of deceptions he had been perpetuating in the field between us. It had been clear we were not aligned for some time, but our stubborn loyal natures kept hanging on trying to fix things. The heart wants what it wants, even when the expiration point is long past overdue and red flags and logic abound. He was on the phone when it happened, and his lack of concern for my wellbeing was somewhat stunning. He just stayed cold and detached. His response to me getting bitten by a dog was to remark “the dog bit you because you weren’t being nice to me.” And of course, my metaphorical interpretation was the opposite: “this is the universe telling me that this man just keeps behaving like a dog, and he will just keep on biting me if I keep giving my heart to him. This is a sign i seriously need to let go. Now.” We were both right. And neither metaphor mattered. The deeper concern for me was why he couldn’t drop out of our argument enough to be humanely worried for my health or wellbeing upon hearing that a dog had just bitten me, in the middle of Thailand. …and the fact that… i had just been bitten by a freaking dog… (If there ever were a way to tell that someone probably doesn’t really, actually have the capacity to deeply, genuinely care about you, that’s probably a solid one…) I was in shock at the startling jolt of the bite, and once I realized what had happened and turned around, the dog had run off. I had to go catch my ferry off the island, so I kept walking. I was not so keen to get the rabies shot, having heard of horror stories about its side effects. I researched. I asked around. I posted a query on the local facebook page describing the incident and the location. I got an email from a woman who had been bitten in front of the exact same house, (by likely the same dog), a week prior. She had gone and talked to the owner, and the owner said the dog had been given its rabies shot 3 months before. It liked to bite people who walked past its house. The girl had therefore decided not to get the vaccine either. She sent me a picture of the dog. I was 82.4% sure it was the same dog. We verified mutual locations. I felt comforted. And still 17.6% unsure if it was the same dog.

On top of that, the consensus I kept getting from all my research online was that there hadn’t been a case of rabies reported on Koh Phangon in 20 years.  (Everything on the internet is always fact…right…?) I did find one website that said even if you are bitten by a dog with rabies, there is only a 15% likelihood of contracting it. And that the likelihood occurs more if you are bitten in the upper body, or near the head. I was bitten on the leg. Rabies has a 100% fatality rate apparently, once it sets in, so this was kind of a big decision. Lots of people were pressuring me to just get the shots and not play russian roulette with my life. Hmm. I took my data, checked in with myself, and chose not to get the shots. The wound had barely broken the skin, so I just cleaned it, dealt with the bruises, and moved on. It has been interesting to note, however, the power of fear, paranoia, and anxiety, to invade the mind and poison it despite rational thought. And it is also interesting to note how very passionately we cling to our precious human lives in the face of even the smallest threat that they might be taken away. Much of my adult life i’ve had a subtle on-again-off-again relationship with this painful sense that sometimes I just kind of want to escape this weird world… don’t feel I fit in or belong here on this planet. I never ever ever wanted to end my life, but on days when i just felt so frustrated at my sense that i was wasting my life, (or not accomplishing anything helpful) … there would be lingering sighing thoughts of “someday this will all be over,” or “sometimes i just wish i didn’t exist” (As if eternal conciousness could simply unexist itself) But boy, does it put it all into perspective when there is even the tiniest possibility that your precious human life might be in danger. Suddenly your existence is the single most valuable gift there is. Fast forward 2 weeks past the bite. I’m feeling great. I’ve forgotten all about it. I move into a new cottage on a new island, and the moment i walk in, there is the strong chemical smell. It sends me into sneezing fits. Allergic reaction to the smell?

A headache pops up out of no where. And stays for 3 days. Not just any little annoying headache. A truly paralyzing, brain numbing, can’t-do-anything-except-lay-in-bed-and-press-on-your-forehead kind of headache. I never get headaches. Ever. It was all very strange. I can’t sleep. I am up all night blowing my nose, in throbbing brain pain. I am feeling dizzy. I am feeling achy. There are shivers running up and down my body. Suddenly I bolt upright in bed and research “signs of rabies infection,” and the first thing I see is “headache, dizziness, flu-like symptoms” I pretty much lose my shit. I panic. I call my parents. I try to go to the hospital at 11:00 at night, but it’s raining and there are no cabs. I am suddenly so aware that i am alone in a foreign country, and i am scared. And my life is so, so, so fucking precious to me. Meanwhile my brain feels like it is swollen inside of my skull and my thoughts are woozy. I call my parents and my best friend back in the states, we decide I should go to bed and see how I feel in the morning. Meanwhile, i have also read that another sign of an impending infection is that there will be an itching sensation near the place of the bite. Of course, I lay awake all night, imagining itches all over my legs, and pretty effectively losing my shit. I pray. I breathe deeply. I eventually pass out. In the morning, my head feels better. But I still feel off. At this point, the paranoia is probably worse than the symptoms.

I go to the hospital.

The doctor looks at the wound. She assesses the data and agrees with me when I explain that i didn’t get the shot immediately because i read that they have rarely seen rabies in 20 years. She says she thinks I am fine. She suggests I could go to the larger hospital to speak to an actual brain doctor about my headache, just in case it was caused by my head bonking motorscooter accident a month ago. Being a thorough, self-protective mamabear to my inner child and body temple, of course I go. The second doctor says my brain is fine, then suggests I get the vaccine anyway, just preventatively, for “the next dog who bites me.” Then he also casually mentions that at this point, two weeks after the bite, it’s probably too late for the vaccine to do me any good, even if I was infected. (which i’m probably not) And oh yes, ps, rabies can activate in your body anywhere up to a year or two after being bitten,… and there is no way to test for it. And once symptoms hit, you die within a week. Wowsers. Holy shit. That’s a double dose of reality. I watch as irrational waves of paranoia and anxiety sweep over me. I watch them rise. I watch them fall. Deep in my core I don’t believe I have it. I know I don’t. But that tiny little fractional nugget of doubt – that little sucker is a pesky mosquito! I watch myself become so so so passionately aware of how much i have yet to do in this world. How many missions I am working on that i have yet to accomplish.

How freaking precious this gift of life is.

And how on earth could i have ever taken it for granted, or wished for it to not exist? Even with all the suffering on this crazy planet? I watch this strange sensation of deep paranoia rise up and I breathe into it, replacing it with trust, faith, and the knowing that my life is perfectly planned, and that i am not done here yet. In these times of fear, and war, and rumors of war, where so much hopelessness can arise, and so many people can feel overwhelmed or scared, or want to escape this conflicted world … it was fascinating to experience such a visceral tangible experience of how utterly fragile and valuable every moment is. Like it or not, i was shaken wide awake by this scare, and feel like i don’t want to waste another minute being afraid of life. Or not taking the chances i need to take. Or not facing my fears. Or not taking the actions I need to take to be the best version of myself I can be, to contribute to this world while I am still here. I feel like for the next year or two, I will live with the blessing and the curse of being very very aware of every itch on my leg. And every headache. And every flu symptom. (Itches are usually invisible nuisances, barely on the radar, but now each one on my leg feels like a tingly explosional reminder of mortality’s fragility). I will be very very aware that each day could be my last.
 Which is always true. For all of us. All the time.

So I’m trying to take this scare as a gift. To ground me into gratitude for each day. To motivate me to accomplish my missions. To forgive those who have hurt me, and move on from situations that don’t being me joy. To breathe deeply. To do my daily meditation. To do my chi gong. To ground even deeper into the invisible realm, (because we are all headed there anyway, and it is always Alive within us). Annnnd I just found out that this is the year of the Dog! I am going to choose to see this coincidence as some kind of beautiful initiation into a part of my highest potential that pushes through fear, trusts intuition, and releases painful circumstances. May we all live this precious freaking life with every freaking ounce of heart and determination we’ve got. And run away from dogs on the street in Thailand. That too.

Dog Biting & Fear Fighting It's amazing the first time you really examine your fears around your mortality and the fragility and preciousness of life.