Alternate Universe

 

I would give anything to be sitting in bed in my flat in South Kensington. Instead, I am trapped in an Alternate Universe. I am here in my bed under the same quilt, but the room is too big and the dog curled up next to me is too fluffy. The window at the end of my bed looks out on a suburban street rather than rainy mews. I drink my coffee from the same mug, I cry the same tears, the same books are piled next to my bed, but this isn’t the right universe. This isn’t the place where I belong.

Here there are people to love and be loved by. A few here. A few there. Him. Her. Them. Bright points of light in a dark sky that have been glowing for years and years. Here in this alternate universe there are lovely people & beautiful places & great adventures & joyful songs, but my soul is cold. Here feels like floating in a cold space without quite enough air to fill my lungs.

In the Promised Land I am Casey MacKenzie in full color. After a lifetime without quite enough oxygen I stepped off the plane on the fifth of May and breathed deep. I was embraced into the warm hug of community. My soul warmed and was nurtured in ancient churches, pubs, council flats and late night vigils in the church parking lot. There are so many to love & be loved by & the bright points of light start to shine as lifelong bonds begin to form in the warm glow of of a rich community.

In this Promised Land there is heartbreak and tears. Homesickness, fatigue, pain and loss, but a walk by the river in the glow of Albert or Ben does wonders for a hurting heart. There will always be tears, but in London the tears punctuate profound joy, dreams achieved, and Sunday evenings in the balcony.

When I cross a bridge, any bridge, over the Thames my heart fills with a kind of joy I did not know existed. I feel so full of light & love & joy & endless possibility that I fear I will burst into a star or a sunbeam.

But that is gone now. Now, I look around this room which is too big and this dog which is too small and realize my coffee has gone cold and it feels like sad poetry.

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4 thoughts on “Alternate Universe

  1. Use the juxtaposition to create from. Nothing will ever be optimal or romantically fulfilling to the degree that a creative praxis is superseded, the praxis is *all*. Even in the midst of ruinous life conditions, the praxis is *all*. Use critical engagement of the local (as a foreigner in your own land) as a source. Toss whinging in the skip. Find the essence of culture and crush it into tiny fragments to use in a mosaic for the ceiling of your own house of worship of whatever you can see that is on no one else’s radar or smartphone or mind. Don’t follow this culture, lead along another pathway, restoring body health with change, and rooting praxis in daily exercises of the holistic self… etc. (and sub to my fuckin’ blog if you’re interested in exceeding the limits of sanctioned social media…)

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