This post “worship” is a letter to a friend.
Dear community,
Thank you for letting me know you don’t consent to be deified. I’m sorry I deified you. That’s how I love by default: bahkti. I can love you in other ways, like you’re useful. Or I can try loving you like you’re just funny and beautiful without the sparkle of God.
I can try to let the love I feel for you bleed out. And then maybe new love would grow that had no aspect of deification.
I wonder about when you said I didn’t actually worship you– I projected myself onto you so I could worship myself. I’ve been rolling that over in my mouth for a while. Did I project myself onto you and worship myself? Do I pretend I’m other people? When I see your genius, am I projecting my own genius onto you?
energy
Definitely I have brought energy into a location, then pretended accidentally that the energy was someone else’s. Years ago I gave people credit for things they absolutely did not do. I had trouble seeing my own worth, so I would project my worth onto another person and adore them for it.
Like when I was in love with the corn star who rode tall bikes. I gave him a ton of credit for things he didn’t do. He told Ming, he was confused why I loved him so much. I saw the light of god shining out of the corn star. The light of god really was there. But he deserved no credit for me getting my first trike. He didn’t even help Ming put it together.
That’s why I consider you might be right about me, and if I made a mistake with worship. I have a history of related mistakes.
Among mistakes, misplaced worship may be better than backing into another car in a parking lot. If Ming had thrown away the baggie of eucalyptus leaf crumbles I left in the car. Or leaving my notebook in my therapist’s bathroom, so my therapist ran after me yesterday and breathlessly said, “I think you forgot your notebook! I’m sorry I startled you!”
Strange they always startle me. It might be their height. We were by the blue dumpster.
what worship is
Thank you for your beautiful height which is kinda like mine. I see your hands are not like mine. Your fingers are thinner, and the little hair on the back of your hands, pinky edge, is so nice.
When I call you sweetheart, I am adoring your heart. I can try not to call you sweetheart, but it’s also a verbal tic at this point when my own heart feels squoze with adoration. Like saying, “I love you,” when that’s the sentence stirring in my torso.
When I say I love you, I could try to say it from my head, cerebral. But the I love you comes from my torso which is so warm and where your hug lands. You held my torso before. You welcomed me before and cuddled on my back-torso. Or in the Ancestor Room, you got the blanket so your bony parts wouldn’t hurt me, so kind.
My torso swirls with many loves. Newly, I could try loving you from my feet. Also I could try loving you from my hips, which are so strong and have worked to keep me in motion. Imagine those big balls at the ends of my thigh bones! I feel so charmed by myself and grateful.
I could try loving you from my ass, which is also strong and so good at sitting as I write and make art, and helping me dance.
cultural needs
Thank you for dancing with me because keeping the energy in motion is my human need, and it’s different when other people are dancing too. That is my cultural need, more than the foods I need to cook, and the words in a language where my mom slipped out Spanish where she had to. The few words my mom needed to be in that language.
Thank you for taking the dark blue skirt for someone who’s also fat but taller than me. Beautiful long trans skirt. Feels right to hold many of Ellie’s things, then disperse them. Thank you for taking the trans bookshelf, another cultural need.
Your arms are different from mine. Your huge tattoo is different from the small stickpokes on the front and back of my heart. Not to mention your little feet, and your gorgeous hair. Your mind works in ways I didn’t even know a mind could work.
differences
Those differences, so wanted. So respected. Your nose is a different shape from my nose. Your teeth! Especially that little pointy one.
The excitement which wants to transmute into worship– I can nudge it toward my head and see if it could become a thought. Or I could try to dance the excitement back to Parent Earth where all my feelings came from.
I can shake my ass to disperse the impulse to worship you.
Thank you for giving me a new way to think about love and consent. Thank you for all the ways you say no and help me understand with your deep bravery what most people don’t have the guts to help me understand. You are beyond compare. I appreciate you.
Strawberry
ps
May I love you from my hard working hips?
May I love you from my powerful ass?
Is it that we’re not white, which helps us dance?
When the white people are soooooo uncomfortable it hurts them?
How did their social pain scale get so blown out?
Is our willingness to dance the schizoautism?
Would a slower pace help with my respect – veneration – adoration – worship – deification pipeline?
How can a pace be slowed?
Can I heal my relationship with time?
Is time the same thing as money? How about power? Because I have trouble with all those.
Is writing a stim?
Is a pun a threshold?
Can you see my drag?
Can you see through my drag?
What is at the center?
