Pieces Of Pieces Of Pieces Of Me

 I’m supposed to write…letters to my parts from my adult self with one hand. And vice versa with the other.

Quick Beni Hana Parts Inventory:

- the part that always wants to leave

- the part that’s always judging. You. Me. Everyone.

- the part that’s always angry.

- the part that’s romantic

- the part that wants things to be perfect (likes counting, when things are organized, etc.)

- the teenage boy

- the anorexic girl

- lots of younger ones; I don't have much trouble connecting to my child-self for better or worse.

...I'm sure there's more, but I haven't really gone to the meeting place inside me in a while, although I do vaguely recall it.

There's a long table in a tent. Think warm tones, billowing silk scarf-like texture for the tent. The light is warm, bordering on red. There's an old-fashioned projector at one end of the tent. And that's used for meetings...like if they want to discuss a decision - something like that.

There's a resort that I'm supposed to send parts to when it's "time for them to go to bed". It's how I imagine Greece looks. Bright blue skies, stark white everywhere. Visually tidy. Rooms with everything the parts need when they need comfort.

There's probably a play or a dance piece in there somewhere.

What if everything were how I wanted it to be?

Desire is still a hard thing to define. To touch. It surprises me sometimes.

Are men more in touch with what they desire all the time - because of their androgens? Is this another thing dependent on the waxing and waning of my uterine lining?

I suppose I'm thinking in terms of the environment around me matching what I wish it would look like within extant parameters. Well, okay.

The walls in my bedroom would be white with one of those beaded cake-like light fixtures from Home Depot hung instead of the exposed light-bulbs (S broke it somehow; I'm not clear on the details). Probably cellular blinds instead of what we have going right now and an exposed pine rod for the tapestry (?) that I wove with my mom in my childhood wound around. The television and table would both be gone. The bed would be rotated and two night stands. 

...point being. Things would fit, be beautiful, and make sense.