I've always been afraid of being messy...

Last weekend at LOBA, @karlapalomino__ asked us to blindfold ourselves. She guided us over to a big bowl of compost. Fruit brines, coffee grounds, vegetable choppings…all kinds of smells and textures.

We were instructed to dig in.

Compost ourselves.

And so we touched. Smooshed. Rubbed it all over.

And as the lemons and limes slid onto my skin, and the coffee smell filled my nostrils

I remembered.

I fucking love this.

I love everything about it. The smell. The touch. The strange grossness of not knowing what I’m picking up, and the entanglement with merging with it anyway. The nakedness. The dirt underneath me. The rocks pricking my toes. The moans. The groans. The giggles.

I love
All of it.

And then we completed, and gathered for discussion, and I felt this compulsive and habitual need to tidy. To pick off the pieces. To dust off the dirt. To shower to get clean.

And I feel this often. This two-faced Jessie.

The one that can roll with it. The one that gets down into it. That’s ready for all of it.

And then the one that is “good” and “pretty” and “pure” and “clean” and doesn’t mess up.

And the compulsive nature of the second one, was deeply felt. Like no - THAT was ME in the dirt. Who is this neat freak?

—

For years I have pretended that I am clean.
In very literal ways like only cleaning my house when guests are coming…
And in very metaphorical ways like performing that I’m innocent and sweet.

And then underneath the show
Is this repressed (and therefore explosive) desire for Eros. For S ex. For Mess. For Smells. For Noise. For Dirt. For Chaos.

And those desires came out sideways.
Roping in lovers who were in relationships, and pretending I did nothing wrong.
Letting my house get completely disgusting to rebel against my critical mind telling me to be more clean.

In denial of my real desire. Covering her right up.

I still feel her,
The pretend goodie-goodie coming in, trying to wish away my dirty desires.
But day by day,
I come back in contact with the deliciousness of the senses.
The pull of the primal connection to dirt to wet to smell to taste to grit.

I come back to the full expression of the mess, which in its truth, is just
LIFE.