Let me break it down for you. There’s a little thing I like to call the womp womp. The words first came outta my mouth when I was in QiGong class doing a qi sensing exercise. You build a bunch of qi — or what passes on the first day of class for what you think might be qi — between two hands, your own or yours and a partner’s. Then you feel the energy. The teacher asked what it felt like, and I squeezed it a little like a big beachball, and it went womp womp. So I said, “Womp womp.”
I next clearly encountered the womp womp when I had a meet and greet with Salvia. Many interesting sensations went down — more rightly, came up — but the quality of space is what I’m talkin about. Space went all inflated and pushing into itself like a gentle bounce in a bouncehouse, just all on its own, and it went womp womp.
My friend from school, Passiflora, posted this week about an experience which she described as womp womp. Whaaaaaaat! I love womp womp!
I came home from Dyad City tonight and all was right with the world, inside and out, home and abroad. Strolling down the hall, I noticed that my neighbor had changed his “word of the day” tag on his door. No longer “Time,” which it had been for what seemed an eternity, it now reads: “Womps!” This is the only word of the day thus far to merit punctuation. I thought to myself, Home Sweet Home.
I remarked to Amy about all this, and she was perplexed by the womp womp. Describe it, she said.
You take two magnets, right? And you point em at ends that repel each other, and veeeeeeeeeery softly you move them together. And then there’s the place where they just begin to repel, and you move them gently so they just kinda bounce in that field, so they want to repel each other but there’s the subtlest irresistable pull to stay in that back and forth. That’s womp womp.
Also, don’t trust the future. The future can change in a day, several times over, and what you’ve always told yourself you wanted will be sent packing, and sheer Beauty will come knocking on your door out of the blue. It’s the now. That moment where now becomes now — stay with the womp womp.
Some of you lovely few who read this thing may remember a brief mention of an internal figure I called Rosetta (way down deep in Vegetarian Lovers). You may also remember her from such late-night blogs as Nobody Else. The evening we got to know each other real well was a bit long of a story for right now, but she was very clear about herself. “I am the transitional me.” She’s nearly much more a place, or a structure, or an attitude, or a sensibility, than a proper She. Transitional is the place where it’s not about what face you’re wearing, it’s the very facility to wear various faces. It’s the womp womp.
Incidentally, “transitional” was a key word in Dyad City tonight. Belen reflects to me “transitional,” which gives me some womp womp on its own, the rightness of that word. It — “transitional” — comes up out of me when I’m doing the reflective piece to him, too.
[How’s Belen? Antonyms weren’t useful in the name search after all, but do get honorable mention. Antonyms for “chip” are “Whole, adornment, decoration, embellishment, ornament, bridge, connection, fix, mend.”]
What got me having these thoughts was a memory of a dream. Looking it up, it turns out to have been from nearly a year ago today! From November 25, 2008. A transitional time. And a total fucking womp womp of a dream. It’s so good — and no dreams from the last two nights here in 2009 — that I’m going to leave you with it. Repasted, although you may remember it from such cubicle-blogs as “What a dreamboat!”
I’m in a city, which is Portland — there’s a river, and quadrants of the city, and trees and lights — but which is also Carnival. It’s night, and I’m near the river. I’m with friends, but I also know that I have friends spread out all over the place. On some sort of raised bridge-like platform I’m making out with an insanely gorgeous young Italian guy. Wonderful! At some point I pull away and it’s my turn at the ATM, I’m like Wait, lemme just withdraw this cash, and he’s happy to oblige. More making out. His girlfriend shows up to drag him away and she is not pleased, but he and I are exuberant and laughing. I make the “call me” signal, which is hilarious because it’s obvious that we won’t see each other again…obvious that I’m dreaming? Can a dream boy know he’s a dream? Rachel is there in some kind of party dress, and she’s telling me “He thinks you’re a hottie.” Well, duh.
It’s time for me to go elsewhere — I got company, but not sure who. We move away from the crowded party banks, where it’s nighttime strung with white lights everywhere, to somewhere less crowded. It’s still night, and it’s a crossroads street corner. A voice comes on the loud speaker about “flying like little birds,” and in our boisterous mood we start doing those ballerina jumps — where you kick out and make a little arc as you jump — and making fun, “like little birdies.” I notice some other people across the street doing the same, and we approach each other. Now it’s day, and the ground is dusty and warm, and the trees are young and slender and leafy at the tips. It’s some dude in a loincloth, kinda half-native looking: he’s heavy and tall but his head is hugely, disproportionately big. He’s telling me all sortsa shit, in a serious/conversational way, but it’s too far away from sleep now to remember. The last bit was something about how I won’t be an Indian, and about (or: unless?) I wear two (-color?) cloths for my land. Did I mention his head is ginormous? He walks away into the trees.