Heal (Exercise #1)
Pick a word that has strong significance to you or your characters. Start by copying the word and quickly, without stopping for any reason, continue writing until you reach the end of the page. Making sense is unimportant. Your goals are speed and endurance. If you get stuck, repeat whatever word you've just selected until something new spills out.
This exercise turned out a little more angst ridden and drmatic than I expected, but rather than edit that out and add humour and cynicism, I decided to leave it as is, to give you a raw look at what came of the exercise.
Heal the broken, the sliced, the thin cut that is just relaxing around the edges enough to for a little blood to escape. Heal the shock that comes with the initial slice, the fear that follows, the warmth after that. Heal the feeling of dizziness, the feeling that the world has turned sideways. Heal the place where you stick your hand out to brace your fall, the place where your elbow that crashes down. Heal your eyes falling back in your head, the vomit that spurts out of your mouth and lies stinking beneath your nose and soaks into your hair and your shirt. Heal the shaking, the convulsing. Heal the clarity at the end. The sense of understanding. Heal the feeling of your head splitting in two so you can make room for what you see, what you understand. Heal the feeling of being lost in the light that you see.
Heal my pacing. My obsessing. My frantic fear of nothing, my need to link it to something. Heal my anger at feeling this way, out of control, sad over nothing, or worse than nothing, a fucking TV program or some fucking thing someone says. Heal my frustration. Heal my inability to move beyond the stupidest things. Heal me.
And once I am healed, once you have healed me, I will testify to the world, share my story with the world who also needs your healing. I will tell them, careful not to tell them what they need, or how to seek healing. For how did I seek your healing? How did I find my way out of this? What did I do that you might heal me? I don’t even know yet, for I still suffer, and in my suffering, I know, I remember that your healings are not the same. My healing would not be the same as yours. That’s what I will say. “You too can be healed, I do not know how, or why, or what you must do. I do not know how to find that out. I do not know that hope is important. I do not know this knowledge, that healing is possible, that it might be waiting for you, is even helpful. I do not even know your healing is out there, or in here, or whatever. I only know that I am healed.”
And of course, I won’t know that. I won’t know, truly, that my healing is complete, will I? This is not a true healing. It is an in-between healing, a quasi-healing. I am healed of a feeling, and emotion. Which I do not want to be healed of. Which I want, which I crave, which I desire. I want to feel unsatisfied with my life as it is because I do not want to stay as I am. This pain, this fear, this self-torture moves me on. It moves me. I am moved by it.
Heal my severe wounds, the ones that cripple me, but leave me to suffer with the small ones. Leave me a struggle. Leave me my dissatisfaction, only temper it with satisfaction. Let me feel the contradiction in my bones. Let me feel both at once, tugging at each other. Let them both tug at my heart and my lungs and my mind and my penis.
Let me heal. Let me be your healer. Let me walk through the streets and be blessed with your sight, your vision. Let me see the wounds around me, the gapping sores that they are unable to cover, nurse, treat. And give me the knowledge to help them, the ability to walk over and give them the difficult surgery they need by touching their head, their chin, their lips. With these tingling hands, let me push out the wounds, the fear, or at least push it back so that it is only a lining for what goes in afterwards. Let me heal.
This exercise turned out a little more angst ridden and drmatic than I expected, but rather than edit that out and add humour and cynicism, I decided to leave it as is, to give you a raw look at what came of the exercise.
Heal the broken, the sliced, the thin cut that is just relaxing around the edges enough to for a little blood to escape. Heal the shock that comes with the initial slice, the fear that follows, the warmth after that. Heal the feeling of dizziness, the feeling that the world has turned sideways. Heal the place where you stick your hand out to brace your fall, the place where your elbow that crashes down. Heal your eyes falling back in your head, the vomit that spurts out of your mouth and lies stinking beneath your nose and soaks into your hair and your shirt. Heal the shaking, the convulsing. Heal the clarity at the end. The sense of understanding. Heal the feeling of your head splitting in two so you can make room for what you see, what you understand. Heal the feeling of being lost in the light that you see.
Heal my pacing. My obsessing. My frantic fear of nothing, my need to link it to something. Heal my anger at feeling this way, out of control, sad over nothing, or worse than nothing, a fucking TV program or some fucking thing someone says. Heal my frustration. Heal my inability to move beyond the stupidest things. Heal me.
And once I am healed, once you have healed me, I will testify to the world, share my story with the world who also needs your healing. I will tell them, careful not to tell them what they need, or how to seek healing. For how did I seek your healing? How did I find my way out of this? What did I do that you might heal me? I don’t even know yet, for I still suffer, and in my suffering, I know, I remember that your healings are not the same. My healing would not be the same as yours. That’s what I will say. “You too can be healed, I do not know how, or why, or what you must do. I do not know how to find that out. I do not know that hope is important. I do not know this knowledge, that healing is possible, that it might be waiting for you, is even helpful. I do not even know your healing is out there, or in here, or whatever. I only know that I am healed.”
And of course, I won’t know that. I won’t know, truly, that my healing is complete, will I? This is not a true healing. It is an in-between healing, a quasi-healing. I am healed of a feeling, and emotion. Which I do not want to be healed of. Which I want, which I crave, which I desire. I want to feel unsatisfied with my life as it is because I do not want to stay as I am. This pain, this fear, this self-torture moves me on. It moves me. I am moved by it.
Heal my severe wounds, the ones that cripple me, but leave me to suffer with the small ones. Leave me a struggle. Leave me my dissatisfaction, only temper it with satisfaction. Let me feel the contradiction in my bones. Let me feel both at once, tugging at each other. Let them both tug at my heart and my lungs and my mind and my penis.
Let me heal. Let me be your healer. Let me walk through the streets and be blessed with your sight, your vision. Let me see the wounds around me, the gapping sores that they are unable to cover, nurse, treat. And give me the knowledge to help them, the ability to walk over and give them the difficult surgery they need by touching their head, their chin, their lips. With these tingling hands, let me push out the wounds, the fear, or at least push it back so that it is only a lining for what goes in afterwards. Let me heal.
posted by deadwriter at 7:21 p.m.
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