KNOWINGNESS
by 
Dr. Ni
|
Posted: Wednesday, May 21, 2008 Word Count: 1142 Summary: All I had was a bio and a photograph of a smile. And this is what my intuition told me ....... |
KNOWINGNESS
Copyright August 2007
Knowledge does not come from books, lectures or stories—that's called information. Knowledge comes from experience. We've been taught that knowledge is power, but knowledge is not power—knowingness is power.
-----Dr. Tony Minervino
It was his face that made me want to follow him. Not as one follows a guru—slavishly waiting for every word of new direction—no, it was that smile; so open, so yielding, a face built for, that had come to recognition that it was built for, giving. Dr. Tony Minervino knew as a child that we originated on other planets; it was the only explanation that made sense of our differences, and, unafraid, he declared so in sixth grade.
A life destined for radical change. When I read in the bio of this American's move to New Zealand, I knew instinctively something traumatic had happened, something that turned his life upside down and made him decamp for New Zealand, for a radically different kind of life. A trauma that unseated and unsettled him so thoroughly he risked loss, absolution, absorption of peace, difference, quiet, tranquility on the other side of the world. What shook him shook him so thoroughly his only chance of possible connection lay over there.
And now he smiles. That open, giving, Roman soldier extended palm I am hiding nothing from you, infectious, almost giddy smile. It is a smile so clear, so clean, constructed on honesty and deep knowledge of vulnerability.
In his past Dr. Tony has ached hard and knew, finally, escape was necessary, Auckland the only answer. He went far as he could, knew he had to.
And now he smiles. Like that. Invites us in to the wickedness he finds so delightful. Anything that healing, that clear, that powerful must be wickedness, right?
I suppose in another life I should have had my turn at the stake, flames licking first my feet, fighting the hardened crust of my heel and toes, for even in that day I knew shoes to be an abomination. The greater tragedy that I was so long without my power this time, without understanding of my power and how to use it. So lost for so long and no Robin Hood to save me. My first Robin Hood on a 78 recording, carefully stashed by me in a children's book accompanying said 78, a cauldron—though I did not think it so then—of comforting English voices, accents I did not understand as a child why I loved.
I always think of Robin Hood now as that handsome actor who played Joan of Arc's historical Sir Robin, the one to finally trust her, her madness, and teach her the art of war. Almost too late this time I became aware of my allure, of my power, of the men always there on the periphery, afraid to be masterful, seduce. Only the unworthy ones bold enough to insist, to take. That ending once I learned self-respect, courage, NO. Once I learned NO and said it, spirits knew I was ready for Shropshire. They had to see I was not completely murdered, that some spark of my pre-birth essence still alive and burning—quiet, fierce, relentless—and it was that enabled me to tell handsome Marcellino of the booty calls NO. No want to see me in the daylight? No. No want to date in the conventional fashion? No. No want to share meals, long walks, movies in the sunshine-filled public? Then no, you don't want a relationship with me.
Others I scared, or they were too lost in their own mists to see. Jim the first to truly wake me, to prod and poke me—with his rising temperature affection—into understanding the danger of my as yet untested sexual prowess. I had no knowledge, no deep understanding that I had "it"—at 400 pounds—until his door was closed to me, until he simply had to stop speaking. If only I were given one more slight chance to explain. They buried me so deep, Jim; they buried me so deep. The beatings, the rapes, and what hurt most: all of the intelligent, witty, winsome adults around who claimed to think me the best thing since sliced bread yet left me there. Saw hints of my suffering, knew something was not quite right, but left me there until I was twenty-one and took the only approved of escape route.
Thank God Occidental College insisted all undergrads must live on campus the first year, even 21-year-old junior transfers. Thank God counselor Mike risked everything to take me aside and say, "return home to your mother's house, you will die." Thank God Temple. Yes, for all of my curses, for all of my deep and fervent wishes, quiet, silent, waiting for the earth to simply part, a crevice widening at Broad and Cecil B. then spreading, becoming a yawning cavern large enough for the entire main campus and the main campus only, one survivor: Marge Pippet; for all the force and intent of that silent prayer, I say thank God Temple because of seven inquiries you were the only yes.
3,000 miles of escape route and now Philly permanent home with even my wisest California friend advising against return. I now wish for it too to sink into the sea, a quiet wish born of vengeance. This is what happens to those you leave in hell. This is what happens when you stand aside. This is the cost of doing nothing when you know damn well better.
I stand aside no longer. I know it is not too late for Jim, my neighbor who won my heart with kind, consistent, blameless and relentless labor. Preening every way he knew how, doing everything but leaping at me, but my blinders still on til too late, too late. His current pain, the agony he feels at perceived rejection when I was just too hemmed in by the past, by what I thought was knowledge to just grab him, to just reach for him when I saw that light in his eyes for no one but me. It is my blindness that binds him in purgatory now, and it is my responsibility to lead him out, to show him that taking my hand does not lead him to a new, more forceful rung of hell.
I don't have Dr. Tony Minervino's face yet. I aspire to it. I know it is my true frequency. I feel it more and more in my quiet moments now, especially when talking with Abel, the downstairs neighbor. He and I are spiritual kin.
And someday, someday Dr. Tony, knowingness will lead me back to that house in Shropshire, and I will no longer fear the spirits haunting the box pews at St. Michael's, and we gifted sainted powered women will know, will have learned not to ask the impossible of our men.
###
Copyright August 2007
Knowledge does not come from books, lectures or stories—that's called information. Knowledge comes from experience. We've been taught that knowledge is power, but knowledge is not power—knowingness is power.
-----Dr. Tony Minervino
It was his face that made me want to follow him. Not as one follows a guru—slavishly waiting for every word of new direction—no, it was that smile; so open, so yielding, a face built for, that had come to recognition that it was built for, giving. Dr. Tony Minervino knew as a child that we originated on other planets; it was the only explanation that made sense of our differences, and, unafraid, he declared so in sixth grade.
A life destined for radical change. When I read in the bio of this American's move to New Zealand, I knew instinctively something traumatic had happened, something that turned his life upside down and made him decamp for New Zealand, for a radically different kind of life. A trauma that unseated and unsettled him so thoroughly he risked loss, absolution, absorption of peace, difference, quiet, tranquility on the other side of the world. What shook him shook him so thoroughly his only chance of possible connection lay over there.
And now he smiles. That open, giving, Roman soldier extended palm I am hiding nothing from you, infectious, almost giddy smile. It is a smile so clear, so clean, constructed on honesty and deep knowledge of vulnerability.
In his past Dr. Tony has ached hard and knew, finally, escape was necessary, Auckland the only answer. He went far as he could, knew he had to.
And now he smiles. Like that. Invites us in to the wickedness he finds so delightful. Anything that healing, that clear, that powerful must be wickedness, right?
I suppose in another life I should have had my turn at the stake, flames licking first my feet, fighting the hardened crust of my heel and toes, for even in that day I knew shoes to be an abomination. The greater tragedy that I was so long without my power this time, without understanding of my power and how to use it. So lost for so long and no Robin Hood to save me. My first Robin Hood on a 78 recording, carefully stashed by me in a children's book accompanying said 78, a cauldron—though I did not think it so then—of comforting English voices, accents I did not understand as a child why I loved.
I always think of Robin Hood now as that handsome actor who played Joan of Arc's historical Sir Robin, the one to finally trust her, her madness, and teach her the art of war. Almost too late this time I became aware of my allure, of my power, of the men always there on the periphery, afraid to be masterful, seduce. Only the unworthy ones bold enough to insist, to take. That ending once I learned self-respect, courage, NO. Once I learned NO and said it, spirits knew I was ready for Shropshire. They had to see I was not completely murdered, that some spark of my pre-birth essence still alive and burning—quiet, fierce, relentless—and it was that enabled me to tell handsome Marcellino of the booty calls NO. No want to see me in the daylight? No. No want to date in the conventional fashion? No. No want to share meals, long walks, movies in the sunshine-filled public? Then no, you don't want a relationship with me.
Others I scared, or they were too lost in their own mists to see. Jim the first to truly wake me, to prod and poke me—with his rising temperature affection—into understanding the danger of my as yet untested sexual prowess. I had no knowledge, no deep understanding that I had "it"—at 400 pounds—until his door was closed to me, until he simply had to stop speaking. If only I were given one more slight chance to explain. They buried me so deep, Jim; they buried me so deep. The beatings, the rapes, and what hurt most: all of the intelligent, witty, winsome adults around who claimed to think me the best thing since sliced bread yet left me there. Saw hints of my suffering, knew something was not quite right, but left me there until I was twenty-one and took the only approved of escape route.
Thank God Occidental College insisted all undergrads must live on campus the first year, even 21-year-old junior transfers. Thank God counselor Mike risked everything to take me aside and say, "return home to your mother's house, you will die." Thank God Temple. Yes, for all of my curses, for all of my deep and fervent wishes, quiet, silent, waiting for the earth to simply part, a crevice widening at Broad and Cecil B. then spreading, becoming a yawning cavern large enough for the entire main campus and the main campus only, one survivor: Marge Pippet; for all the force and intent of that silent prayer, I say thank God Temple because of seven inquiries you were the only yes.
3,000 miles of escape route and now Philly permanent home with even my wisest California friend advising against return. I now wish for it too to sink into the sea, a quiet wish born of vengeance. This is what happens to those you leave in hell. This is what happens when you stand aside. This is the cost of doing nothing when you know damn well better.
I stand aside no longer. I know it is not too late for Jim, my neighbor who won my heart with kind, consistent, blameless and relentless labor. Preening every way he knew how, doing everything but leaping at me, but my blinders still on til too late, too late. His current pain, the agony he feels at perceived rejection when I was just too hemmed in by the past, by what I thought was knowledge to just grab him, to just reach for him when I saw that light in his eyes for no one but me. It is my blindness that binds him in purgatory now, and it is my responsibility to lead him out, to show him that taking my hand does not lead him to a new, more forceful rung of hell.
I don't have Dr. Tony Minervino's face yet. I aspire to it. I know it is my true frequency. I feel it more and more in my quiet moments now, especially when talking with Abel, the downstairs neighbor. He and I are spiritual kin.
And someday, someday Dr. Tony, knowingness will lead me back to that house in Shropshire, and I will no longer fear the spirits haunting the box pews at St. Michael's, and we gifted sainted powered women will know, will have learned not to ask the impossible of our men.
###