what i thought i thought i knew

"Archaeology"

I wasn't ok. I had made the decision to not go on the dig in Alaska. I went to sweat lodge. I wasn't able to keep up in class. I felt unsettled. I couldn't sleep in my room. My room with my trowel right by my door. My trowel. A piece of metal in a spear-like shape attached to a wooden handle. A tool. Stabbing me in the back of my mind every time I thought about what I used to think I knew about archaeology. What I think I used to know about Native culture in the Pacific Northwest. What I used to think I knew. It was controlling my mind. I had to regain control. I had to make it not bad. I had to get the evil out. Getting the evil out. Getting the evil out. The White Canvas said to me: Paint me! I no longer want to be a virgin. Make me into who I am to be! You know. I know you know. I trust you.
I felt a surge of sexual energy as I made that first mark with my trowel. Standing back, I see the black paint on the White Canvas. The White Canvas. She says: More. I scrape my trowel, spreading the paint. The Black Paint. Getting the evil out. Getting the evil out. The White Canvas screams to me: Not enough! I am not satisfied! Give me more. Give me my purpose. I am too flat!, the White Canvas says.

I let loose. I no longer paint. I feel the pain and my arm feels the pain and I get the evil out. Getting the evil out. Fire builds up. I don't see the White Canvas anymore. I don't see. I don't remember anymore until I am done. I feel the rain. It is raining. It starts to rain. The rain paints my painting. It pushes away my trowel, repels the paint from the surface of the Canvas. The sound, the rain, getting the evil out. Getting the evil out.

My chest. I smell the sweetgrass. I come back. I smile. I set down the trowel. It sits lifeless next to me, defeated. It's just a tool again. I look at the Canvas. Not done, it says. Weak after an orgasm taking hold of it's body. It needs the final kiss. My affection. My love to know it wasn't for naught. I gingerly take my finger and make my presence known. I step back. I do not take it all in. The Canvas doesn't want me to see it at it's weakness, it's imperfect state. I don't see that. I see pieces of pure beauty. I don't take it all in because I can't take it all in. It's almost too much for me to handle. I put it aside. I feel free. I love. I go about my day. I awake the next morning like a kid on Christmas. I run outside to see my gift. I can't speak. It is perfect. Perfectly imperfect.

And this is the last step. Acknowledging the Happening. The Canvas is ready to move on. Share. Be loved.