We Can All Jump Into 2017 Like — Hey!
Jump! Jump!! Jump!!!
I tried to do that on the last day of 2016. I linked up with my friend of over a decade who asked me to join her and her grandson (okay, she had her daughter when she was crazy young, which makes her a crazy young and hot grandma) for a two-hour jaunt in a man-made city that features endless avenues of trampolines and other gadgets of heightened pleasure.
The ramped up seven-year-old disappeared into the traffic of small bodies diving into mushy confetti of cubes. My friend and I headed to the section where the adults could relieve the youthful vigor of allowing our bodies to be subjected to the dynamics of movement.
When I agreed to play at Sky Zone — I truly believed I was ready to release all inhibitions and sweat out the residue of a year that was shit from middle to end. No, celebrities dying didn’t fuck me up. I mean, of course I hate that Prince, David Bowie, Carrie Fisher, Natalie Cole, etc, no longer exist — but the freakiness of 2016 was totally assembled by the shambles of my misfortune.
I moved to a new city that didn’t embrace me with the same enthusiasm that welcomed me a decade ago. I put all my trust in the falsehood of trusting that if you trust enough — overdue dreams will be re-activated. I was shunned by the public of reward and regulated to slicing my skin with images of familiar faces enjoying the life that I thought I wanted — and now, I’m not so sure.
I was broken almost beyond repair and the last days of summer — spent in a roach infested hostel — as I sank into the comfortable bed of despair and desperation — filled me with the DNA of another person who let me down today.
I couldn’t jump.
I was dressed for the epic somersaults and the multiple squares waiting to cushion the blow of every muthafucking thing that kept me from riding the waves of contentment.
Instead of releasing the energy of ME from years ago — I was stuck in the present. I did my best to loosen up but every effort exposed the bleeding heart of a defeated woman who still pretends to be whole — even when the pieces of pain break away without warning.
We moved to the vast hole of the willowy dungeon. All I had to do was raise myself high enough to fall into the softness of protection. I stood there and watched them all dive in with rampant ecstasy.
When it was my turn — I fell in like a broken spirit with too many electrons to alight the gaze of onlookers who diagnosed me as soon as I made that awkward landing. Thankfully there is no time to ponder — and I got right back up and tried again.
I was still too scared to fall into the arms of a vat filled with nothing but tenderness.
The section with the hoops treated me better. The first try was whack but the second attempt was a slam-dunk! I needed that victory.
I was such a carefree child. I liked to roam around in my underwear as the air caressed the skin I was in. That changed when my skin was tampered in a very unholy way.
2017 is knocking at my door and when I answer — the only thing I have to offer is the promise to right the wrongs.
I will seek the help I need to emancipate all the garbage that kept me from reaching the highest level that my legs could muster. I am not that stiff loser — taking up space that should belong to the winners who know how to grasp the square and order it to dance to the vibes of their creation.
I am ready to fuck it and fuck with joy and be healed from the fucked up shit that has fucked me over for way too long.
I am basically jumping into 2017 like hey!
Are you with me?