Friday, April 30, 2010

The Smaller Cookies

I saw myself again in their little bodies. They were like mini gingerbread men, with thin little crumbling arms and a round head. They were made like me, all the same ingredients. A touch of earth, a bit of blood and water, a heaping of stardust. They spoke like me, did what I do. I watched them and found it disgusting.

“How can you little cookies act like this!”

I wanted to reason with them.

“Don’t you get it? We’re doing this for you…we want you to be happy, to feel safe in a world that tumbles forward. Get out of your own little body and contribute!”

Less than a second would pass and their eyes would glaze over. I watched them, like dolls without will and power, happy to sit in a room of crumpled tissues and bits of torn paper. I was disgusted. The carpet had blue stains, the walls were pockmarked and had the sticky remnants of tape and dirty fingers. I wanted to reason with them:

“Don’t you get it? This place is nice and clean, so different from what you have known. It’s time to take care of these gifts. It’s time to cherish what you have, to keep it clean, to appreciate what is here.”

But my words drifted away, falling on ears that could not hear, on little cookies that just could not move in another way. They stared off, then fought over a piece of string. I watched, shaking my head. They could not follow the most simple tasks, it was like telling a dog to write a letter. It was like watching a beautiful jewel disappear down a toilet. I saw the cookie cutter. They were just smaller versions of the same dough.

I work on different tasks now, but I keep forgetting what I have. I complain. I cannot see the gifts and I cover our space with invisible black paint. Every few days I spit on the altar.

Though I have breasts and a few more memories, I am that small cookie, fighting over a bead and a piece of string. I cannot be reasoned with, for awakening is beyond reason. I watch them, a body removed, eyes that fully comprehend their silliness, their selfish motivations. It is all beyond reason.

They have no discipline, no ability to maintain their attention, no way to change their habits. They lose themselves in balloons and old tissue boxes. I watch little copies of myself. Just as selfish and blind. Just as completely unaware of the moment, of everything that is being offered and given.

I cannot maintain myself long enough to see the gift, to take it and care for it, without complaint and argument. If only I could reason through it. If only I could tell myself to sweep away the petty things, to move forward with enthusiasm and trust and an inward gaze. If only I could remember. If I could just look around and Do. I want to grow up, focus, and use my attention to move with the spirit of a girl. Like a pixie, finally aware of her power, shaking off the dust of sleep.

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