Monday, January 7, 2013
Stealing Time From Busy
I always wanted to steal time - to sneak into the fissures and crevices of it's passage before NOW was gone, and put a halt to it. As if somehow I could manage a suspension. An idling. A breath forever caught in the inhalation. Spaciousness without borders. No tick-tock-ing of the forever omnipresent but elusive clock. A still-life.
The hurry of childhood saddens me. How I raced at it with nothing but eagerness and zeal. How my own children can be so swept up in the promise of aging that tomorrow seems like more of a gift waiting to be granted than today appears to be a miracle. How we plan. How we dream.
Today, a 10 year old said to me, "Me? I'm a lonely sorrow".
He wasn't sad when he said it, merely alive and spontaneous and unguarded. The words did summersaults off his tongue and bounced around in the car until they fell like lead balloons into this mother's lap. She stole the line.
I like to think that we are not broken. That our wounds are the glue that keep us adhered to life. And maybe this is where Time stands still. When we listen. When we allow meaning to fly
or crumble
or sit
still . . .
Monday, September 3, 2012
This Garden
Because there is bamboo and mums
and the filtering of sun through trees.
Beacause he said "I love you more, Mom, and yes, it's possible."
Because god.
Then the shock that is a gentle awakening
too quickly turned to chaos
and the impossibly fine line
between play and rage -
only then
and because god
is tolerance.
I wanted to love like some Southern California sun -
so consistent and reliable the warmth, the offerings,
that the life-sustaining light itself
could be taken for granted.
I wanted to love like water.
A brook, a river -
an uncharted ocean
whose quiet calm
could not be imagined.
Still, the magnificent crimson mum
sharing a stem with her lifeless brother
and they, the mere possibility of a bulb
only one Winter gone.
This womb.
There are wild clovers thriving
amidst flowerless forget-me-nots -
their heads pulled off without method
by the eager fingers
of adolescent's zeal.
This garden.
I figured the succulents would take -
would spread and cover the cinderblock walls
that define our beds.
But they are weary -
their empty hands
seeking light
in this Northwestern house of shade.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Resistance
Anything but writing. And I mean anything. Shoot, I 'll crawl under the sub floor of someone else's house to look for potential leaks, even though there is no indication of one, before I will sit down and get my work done. This, in the book The War of Art by Steven Pressfield, is called "resistance." I have all flavors.
It started when I was 9 and I realized I was a writer. I wrote a poem in class and that was that. I was a writer. That it was a relatively deep poem for a nine year old is true. But of greater significance is that upon completing it, I knew - and I mean KNEW - that I had just discovered something - a part of myself - that was as important and air and water. I had found my voice.
What followed this "realization" was a series of distractions. I was to be the first female President of the United States. Next, a doctor. An attorney. A teacher. A writer again (heavily medicated with alcohol and consequentially, unable to do anything with the writing that I actually did), a bar-tender, a waitress (these last two only AFTER receiving a BA in English Literature and a MFA in Poetics), a sales rep., and finally, a Realtor. A gal who sells a lot of houses and writes just a little bit of poetry.
The book suggests that if we were all taking up our callings, and doing what we know in our hearts we were put on this planet to do - that one genius about us that is ours only - there's be no more war, addiction, mental health problems, etc. Sounds good. I, of course, want to chain smoke cigarettes while I am writing and since that feels like a recipe for an early death - I don't. Also, I don't write. This is the resistance Pressfield is talking about.
I wonder what all the people I love are not doing. And all the just so-so friends - what is it that they are not doing that they were born to do? And how, when we really like someone, finding out this gold morsel of what is under all the doing-ness and the busy-busy and the roles - how they are even more like-able, how suddenly they are fascinating.
I am going to put it out there - on Facebook. I am going to ask. What are you NOT doing that is your true calling, your forever dream, your heart's desire?
See what shakes loose.
Maybe it will give me something to write about. And, if not me, then maybe you.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Spirulina Licorice and The Dementia
My friend Nathalie told me tonight "the thing about your writing is that you say things that I think everyone wants to say but doesn't". Aside from this being a huge compliment as I have worried that my blogging is merely self-indulgent, I felt compelled to say "Then...FUCK YOU!" Not to Nathalie, of course, but to every other person I ever wanted to say "FUCK YOU" to, but didn't. And now, since I sort of feel like she gave me permission to say a few things that maybe other people wanted to say, I think F- YOU is very apropos. So there, I said it.
That she also mentioned, in passing, a person whom had actually used the phrase "he has THE dementia" simply made me happy. Not because someone has dementia - that is sad - but because someone called it "The Dementia". In doing so, he gave a secret squirrel insight more into himself perhaps than the person of subject. I imagine he has an old closet full of neatly folded doilies and handkerchiefs from 1939, and a trunk full of someone else's old photos. I imagine he opens the closet only on the first Sunday of the month, at precisely 7:12 PM. He wears vintage white gloves that have never been washed but still appear pressed. He is lonely.
My heart has been broken several times in my life. Some breaks were more like surface cracks that hurt in the instant but seemed to regenerate and even close after a modest kindness from time. Others occurred more like tremendous re-enactments of the Grand Canyon - an act so ineffable and deep cutting that neither time nor any forthcoming kindness could propose to offer solace. These are the ones that stop time. The swollen heart syndrome that destroys a day a month a year a life...in an instant...that seems to last forever. They are the great global tragedies, the abuses done to the innocent, the day someone tells you they no longer love you. "F you" doesn't do it here, words fall apart in your throat, muteness only speaks to the surface. If I had a color for every bottomless moan and wounded yelp that cannot be uttered, I'd paint a crimson umber blood orange sky that wrapped the entire universe in forgiveness. I'd sing so sweetly, so quietly, so right.
People want to be acknowledged where it hurts but not dragged into the mire. I am supposed to say something funny that wipes all the badness away. The Dementia helps with this. My own, and yours too. If I told you that my seven year old flipped me off the other day, you'd think I have some good fer nuthin' punk ass kid with a bad attitude and a whole helluva lot of trouble headed his way. These are not the facts. My son is funny and sweet and kind. He makes me laugh everyday, from the bottom of the barrel of my gut. He is precious and he cares about the hearts of others. And, he gave me the middle finger. The funny thing was, he didn't mean to . But it happened, at just the perfect time while he was saying just the perfect thing. Quite by chance, it was the middle finger that pointed at me, while he made some playful delivery and we both laughed until we cried. So inappropriate, so awesome. If, in the same breath, I mention that he also called a "mean kid at school" a "ball sack" you might think differently of him again. But I tell you, he is an angel. An angel who has a way with words way beyond his age.
Being married is a whole lot like a carnival. Caramel apples, merry-go-rounds, and the House of Horror. A crazy tooth-less carni super-imposed by a lovely plump lady in a polka-dotted dress. Sun shining "this is the best day of my life" while a midget is stealing your wallet.
That she also mentioned, in passing, a person whom had actually used the phrase "he has THE dementia" simply made me happy. Not because someone has dementia - that is sad - but because someone called it "The Dementia". In doing so, he gave a secret squirrel insight more into himself perhaps than the person of subject. I imagine he has an old closet full of neatly folded doilies and handkerchiefs from 1939, and a trunk full of someone else's old photos. I imagine he opens the closet only on the first Sunday of the month, at precisely 7:12 PM. He wears vintage white gloves that have never been washed but still appear pressed. He is lonely.
My heart has been broken several times in my life. Some breaks were more like surface cracks that hurt in the instant but seemed to regenerate and even close after a modest kindness from time. Others occurred more like tremendous re-enactments of the Grand Canyon - an act so ineffable and deep cutting that neither time nor any forthcoming kindness could propose to offer solace. These are the ones that stop time. The swollen heart syndrome that destroys a day a month a year a life...in an instant...that seems to last forever. They are the great global tragedies, the abuses done to the innocent, the day someone tells you they no longer love you. "F you" doesn't do it here, words fall apart in your throat, muteness only speaks to the surface. If I had a color for every bottomless moan and wounded yelp that cannot be uttered, I'd paint a crimson umber blood orange sky that wrapped the entire universe in forgiveness. I'd sing so sweetly, so quietly, so right.
People want to be acknowledged where it hurts but not dragged into the mire. I am supposed to say something funny that wipes all the badness away. The Dementia helps with this. My own, and yours too. If I told you that my seven year old flipped me off the other day, you'd think I have some good fer nuthin' punk ass kid with a bad attitude and a whole helluva lot of trouble headed his way. These are not the facts. My son is funny and sweet and kind. He makes me laugh everyday, from the bottom of the barrel of my gut. He is precious and he cares about the hearts of others. And, he gave me the middle finger. The funny thing was, he didn't mean to . But it happened, at just the perfect time while he was saying just the perfect thing. Quite by chance, it was the middle finger that pointed at me, while he made some playful delivery and we both laughed until we cried. So inappropriate, so awesome. If, in the same breath, I mention that he also called a "mean kid at school" a "ball sack" you might think differently of him again. But I tell you, he is an angel. An angel who has a way with words way beyond his age.
Being married is a whole lot like a carnival. Caramel apples, merry-go-rounds, and the House of Horror. A crazy tooth-less carni super-imposed by a lovely plump lady in a polka-dotted dress. Sun shining "this is the best day of my life" while a midget is stealing your wallet.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Time Out
It has been nearly 3 weeks since my last confession - I mean post - and I think that is a significant amount of days for the "time out" my previous blog warranted.
a new day.
i have a therapist.
this is new for me.
even newer that i would say it so LOUDLY.
It is fascinating to me, this seeming indulgence, that for 50 minutes straight, one day a week, I would speak either entirely about myself or, if about others, how they occur for me. Not to me, but FOR me. me me me me me. Now, I am whole-heartedly and sincerly interested in other people - people move me - they make living worth all the little whiles that are burdensome. They are my light - even in their darkest hours. It just didn't dawn on me, truly, that who I am and what I believe, feel, think, etc., might be of serious consideration to another. That sounds silly - almost ridiculous, i think, and I suppose this is some sort of pride in reverse. ( I am wholly aware of the inconsistency in capitalizing the "I".
I also get that I am paying my therapist to listen, which adds an entirely other but noteable element to the equation...meaning maybe there is an agenda to the supposed interest - but putting that aside for a moment - fascinating nonetheless.
I used to be afraid (though it was masked in disdain) of becoming the stereotype of a middle aged mom. It was not so much the suburban living, the minivan (yes, I had one), the soccer mom label, or even the white picket fence and golden retriever (though this image did at once haunt me) but rather the tiny things that would seal the deal and bury any sense of true self I once harbored, forever.
1. Having plastic, matching labelled bins which housed various re-usable decorations for each holiday.
2. Being invited to tupperware parties. ( It is true that I called my mom once almost crying when I was invited to my first Tupperware party - I thought it meant my life was over. It is also true that 4 years later I was asked to host a scrap-booking event at my home for a friend selling Creative Memories crap and I immediately put my house up for sale. It was, for this bohemian, rebellious poet who suddenly awoke to herself driving a minivan and living in a subdivision where everyone drove a minivan and had a matching house, the vertiable straw that broke the camel's back).
3. Not only buying every form of calendaring device and life-organizing tool to efficiently run a family, but actually using them with steadfast efficiency.
4. Having matching bed sets at all costs.
5. Pre-set, organized, planned out play dates.
6. The days running into each other like a series of Ground Hog days with no room or space or time left for the magic of spontaneity and passion and whim.
7. There are more.
The point, or maybe there isn't a point after all - just a moving sphere or blob or spatula - is that I have become (sort of) a person who does this shit because (sadly, somehow) it works. Sure, my bins don't match, and most of the crap inside them was given to me by people who felt my naked Christmas shrub/Hannukah bush was all together wanting. True too, that I make the calls or send the texts, albeit only moments before "pick-up", proposing a play date or two. (The dry-erase calendar posted at eye level for kids still shows signs of the manually filled in dates from back in September when I got it and.... I'm usually flying off the seat of my pants when it comes to attending school events (even though I programmed them into my smart phone weeks before) having forgotten almost every day of my life to actually look ahead and what is already on the schedule.)
What interests me about all of this right now is that I don't truly give a damn. I'm almost disappointed in myself for having taken the time to even write about it. AND, I still gotta get my ass of the computer and go pick up the kids, feed/love/coddle/admire them and then get them to gymnastics, sneak in a date with my guy, pick them up, feed 'em, read books, snuggle, turn off the lights, and "prepare" to do it all over again tomorrow.
So...for 50 minutes I was asked to recall some things. My childhood. The blazing sun, the freedom, the joy of no plans and no structure and simply radiant wild dirt-filled outdoor living. I remember it fondly and vaguely. Not so much as a series of events but as a feeling. Some eternal, parent-less summer in a safe neighborhood with no real rules. It is not so much that there were no parents, but they are noticeably absent from the memories, from the feelings that are evoked by the memories. Like maybe they were there, while this pack of wild children was running free all over the open hills between Tiburon and Corte Madera......but maybe they were organizing their bins or scheduling appointments, or crying into their Crystal Light.
I am one of those people who do not wish they had a different childhood. I feel lucky. I made lasting friendships and felt that the world belonged to me. I want that for my boys. A Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn kind of life that involved fishing poles and bare feet and all day adventures from one end of town to the other.
a new day.
i have a therapist.
this is new for me.
even newer that i would say it so LOUDLY.
It is fascinating to me, this seeming indulgence, that for 50 minutes straight, one day a week, I would speak either entirely about myself or, if about others, how they occur for me. Not to me, but FOR me. me me me me me. Now, I am whole-heartedly and sincerly interested in other people - people move me - they make living worth all the little whiles that are burdensome. They are my light - even in their darkest hours. It just didn't dawn on me, truly, that who I am and what I believe, feel, think, etc., might be of serious consideration to another. That sounds silly - almost ridiculous, i think, and I suppose this is some sort of pride in reverse. ( I am wholly aware of the inconsistency in capitalizing the "I".
I also get that I am paying my therapist to listen, which adds an entirely other but noteable element to the equation...meaning maybe there is an agenda to the supposed interest - but putting that aside for a moment - fascinating nonetheless.
I used to be afraid (though it was masked in disdain) of becoming the stereotype of a middle aged mom. It was not so much the suburban living, the minivan (yes, I had one), the soccer mom label, or even the white picket fence and golden retriever (though this image did at once haunt me) but rather the tiny things that would seal the deal and bury any sense of true self I once harbored, forever.
1. Having plastic, matching labelled bins which housed various re-usable decorations for each holiday.
2. Being invited to tupperware parties. ( It is true that I called my mom once almost crying when I was invited to my first Tupperware party - I thought it meant my life was over. It is also true that 4 years later I was asked to host a scrap-booking event at my home for a friend selling Creative Memories crap and I immediately put my house up for sale. It was, for this bohemian, rebellious poet who suddenly awoke to herself driving a minivan and living in a subdivision where everyone drove a minivan and had a matching house, the vertiable straw that broke the camel's back).
3. Not only buying every form of calendaring device and life-organizing tool to efficiently run a family, but actually using them with steadfast efficiency.
4. Having matching bed sets at all costs.
5. Pre-set, organized, planned out play dates.
6. The days running into each other like a series of Ground Hog days with no room or space or time left for the magic of spontaneity and passion and whim.
7. There are more.
The point, or maybe there isn't a point after all - just a moving sphere or blob or spatula - is that I have become (sort of) a person who does this shit because (sadly, somehow) it works. Sure, my bins don't match, and most of the crap inside them was given to me by people who felt my naked Christmas shrub/Hannukah bush was all together wanting. True too, that I make the calls or send the texts, albeit only moments before "pick-up", proposing a play date or two. (The dry-erase calendar posted at eye level for kids still shows signs of the manually filled in dates from back in September when I got it and.... I'm usually flying off the seat of my pants when it comes to attending school events (even though I programmed them into my smart phone weeks before) having forgotten almost every day of my life to actually look ahead and what is already on the schedule.)
What interests me about all of this right now is that I don't truly give a damn. I'm almost disappointed in myself for having taken the time to even write about it. AND, I still gotta get my ass of the computer and go pick up the kids, feed/love/coddle/admire them and then get them to gymnastics, sneak in a date with my guy, pick them up, feed 'em, read books, snuggle, turn off the lights, and "prepare" to do it all over again tomorrow.
So...for 50 minutes I was asked to recall some things. My childhood. The blazing sun, the freedom, the joy of no plans and no structure and simply radiant wild dirt-filled outdoor living. I remember it fondly and vaguely. Not so much as a series of events but as a feeling. Some eternal, parent-less summer in a safe neighborhood with no real rules. It is not so much that there were no parents, but they are noticeably absent from the memories, from the feelings that are evoked by the memories. Like maybe they were there, while this pack of wild children was running free all over the open hills between Tiburon and Corte Madera......but maybe they were organizing their bins or scheduling appointments, or crying into their Crystal Light.
I am one of those people who do not wish they had a different childhood. I feel lucky. I made lasting friendships and felt that the world belonged to me. I want that for my boys. A Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn kind of life that involved fishing poles and bare feet and all day adventures from one end of town to the other.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Ammends
I need to start by making an amends both to George W.Bush and to golden labs everywhere for suggesting that either were maybe one card short of a deck. I see now that it was mean and unnecessary - especially coming from a girl who is about as smart as a box of hair....on a good day. Even if I delete my previous blog, I get that any future running for the Republican party is over for me now once and for all - independent of what my somewhat "colored past" would have determined anyway. So, it's back to writing for me - and real estate. I just hope all the families out there with labs won't look elsewhere now that I've inadvertently slandered one of their family members.
I wrote that last night but then almost gave up blogging entirely - I was disappointed in myself for having, the day before, resorted to saying anything negative about a man I have never met. If I ever get the chance, I will apologize in person I suppose.
Enough.
This feels too indulgent - this blogging about nothing in particular. Self-centered at least, if not downright narcissistic. I fell like I should be heralding a great cause or describing Mount Tam after a very fortunate run, or minding the stars.
I am not sure where all of this leads, except deeper into the rabbit hole. The Mad Hatter just knocked on my door. What a beautiful time for tea.
I wrote that last night but then almost gave up blogging entirely - I was disappointed in myself for having, the day before, resorted to saying anything negative about a man I have never met. If I ever get the chance, I will apologize in person I suppose.
Enough.
This feels too indulgent - this blogging about nothing in particular. Self-centered at least, if not downright narcissistic. I fell like I should be heralding a great cause or describing Mount Tam after a very fortunate run, or minding the stars.
I am not sure where all of this leads, except deeper into the rabbit hole. The Mad Hatter just knocked on my door. What a beautiful time for tea.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Organic Spam
Yep - you guessed it! My latest search for a new name ( which is becoming more of a sarcastic joke at this point, since all the supposed genius names I come up with are TAKEN) left me out in the cold again. Even OrganicSpam.com was somebody else's idea before it was mine. So I guess this is what that "collective mind" is all about...the "we are one" I continue to be persuaded to believe in. The Buddhist booby prize...the Way.
When I was growing up, we went to church most Sundays. A congregational sort of hippy collective that read (somewhat metaphysically I think) from the Bible but which also hosted meditation classes and Tibetan bell playing on Tuesdays. I remember going to the bell session with my mom - she was a master at it - and writing an essay on why Jimmy Carter should be re-elected for president. I am pretty sure my main argument in his favor was "because he is nice". I felt this way about George W. Bush also - not that he should be re-elected but that he was probably just a "nice" guy who bit off more than he could chew. Maybe not the sharpest tool in the shed, but "nice" nonetheless. I just couldn't believe someone who could get their photograph taken reading a book to a children's class, holding the book upside down, could have the kind of calculating malice his adversaries suggesteded he was capable of. Also, I always thought of him more as a big (duh umm?) golden lab who thought hanging out with pitbulls would get him a better seat at the doggy park. Kinda like he was playing a game of pick-up baseball and he was way out of his league but didn't realize it until it was too late to quit without disappointing his dad.
I cannot imagine for a second why I am even suggesting to have an opinion about any of this. Sorry if I offend. Tough job, really, the Presidency...I couldn't do it.
I am not sure what class it was or even what grade, but I remember the teacher saying "Everything is political, even a bowl of fruit". I think it was an art class, maybe art history. The point I think the teacher was making was something along the lines of...if one had the resources to draw a bowl of fruit, or even to have a bowl of fruit to draw, one had means and having means, or not having means, was a matter of political persuasion. Does that make sense? It did when it was spoken - I'm just chopping it up with my wordiness.
I like poetry because it is quiet even when it is yelling. It makes one feel more than it allows for one to understand. At least, that is what it does for me. Like a good song it makes me ache - either for the sheer tragedy of it all or for the joy....and then there is that fine line where the two sensations mirror each other and I feel so damn happy to be sad.
I want to be a better. Just a better.
Mom, friend, wife, student, athlete, sister, daughter, niece, spatula....wind.
I want to wake up seizing the day when my head leaves the pillow and pass out praying to make a difference when I hit it at night. I want to live like I really am aware that this is all I got.
When I was growing up, we went to church most Sundays. A congregational sort of hippy collective that read (somewhat metaphysically I think) from the Bible but which also hosted meditation classes and Tibetan bell playing on Tuesdays. I remember going to the bell session with my mom - she was a master at it - and writing an essay on why Jimmy Carter should be re-elected for president. I am pretty sure my main argument in his favor was "because he is nice". I felt this way about George W. Bush also - not that he should be re-elected but that he was probably just a "nice" guy who bit off more than he could chew. Maybe not the sharpest tool in the shed, but "nice" nonetheless. I just couldn't believe someone who could get their photograph taken reading a book to a children's class, holding the book upside down, could have the kind of calculating malice his adversaries suggesteded he was capable of. Also, I always thought of him more as a big (duh umm?) golden lab who thought hanging out with pitbulls would get him a better seat at the doggy park. Kinda like he was playing a game of pick-up baseball and he was way out of his league but didn't realize it until it was too late to quit without disappointing his dad.
I cannot imagine for a second why I am even suggesting to have an opinion about any of this. Sorry if I offend. Tough job, really, the Presidency...I couldn't do it.
I am not sure what class it was or even what grade, but I remember the teacher saying "Everything is political, even a bowl of fruit". I think it was an art class, maybe art history. The point I think the teacher was making was something along the lines of...if one had the resources to draw a bowl of fruit, or even to have a bowl of fruit to draw, one had means and having means, or not having means, was a matter of political persuasion. Does that make sense? It did when it was spoken - I'm just chopping it up with my wordiness.
I like poetry because it is quiet even when it is yelling. It makes one feel more than it allows for one to understand. At least, that is what it does for me. Like a good song it makes me ache - either for the sheer tragedy of it all or for the joy....and then there is that fine line where the two sensations mirror each other and I feel so damn happy to be sad.
I want to be a better. Just a better.
Mom, friend, wife, student, athlete, sister, daughter, niece, spatula....wind.
I want to wake up seizing the day when my head leaves the pillow and pass out praying to make a difference when I hit it at night. I want to live like I really am aware that this is all I got.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Eating Poo
Puppy or not, you're just not supposed to do that. It is wrong. So is getting a puppy on a minutes notice just a week after finally deciding you are not going to get a pet of any kind. That you simply cannot take care of one more thing. That enough is enough.
Coco is 9 1/2 weeks old, cute and soft and full of sweet puppy eyes. She sits, she shakes, she chases her tail. She pees once in a while in the house, the moment she comes back inside from a long outdoor romp. I yell. I am not as patient as I would like to be. I am not as cool or calm or tolerant or full of unconditional love. Coco reminds me this - stares at me like "huh? WTF? What crawled up your behind?" as I holler "NO!" and grab the furry little love nugget, wanting to hurl her into the great unknown, but placing her somewhat gently outside instead.
In certain ways, my life has been a series of potty training and tolerating something. First it was my own unbridled passion for life, next my addictions, then my kids, then an old dog who never should have had to die, now Coco. The mortgages don't care what is happening, nor does the laundry, or the clients, or the boss. Only the heart cares. Mumbles something incoherent, whimpers a little, cries.
Feeling alone in something, at the same time that the crowd is nearly suffocating you doesn't help - but then, even that doesn't make the experience unique enough to warrant the unrequested aide one so desperately needs in the midst of such despair. So the puppy barks (!), leaps up at nothing in particular with a monomaniacal zeal, falls on her chin, wonders at the finality of a slammed door.
I am trying to choose between now and the future as if I could. Trying to calculate loss. Running years, like numbers on a calculator...counting moments that have passed that I somehow think I missed.
If love were perfect, it would sit when you needed quiet without having been asked. It would shake for no cookie at all. It would nuzzle into the broken crook of your heart and exhale warm glue into the fissures. It would not pee on floor. And if life were perfect you could wake up happy and stay that way, for an entire hour or a day or a week or maybe even a series of years that floated by slowly like a single spiderweb thread through a a windless summer afternoon. If men were perfect they would love all our little disasters and women, they would smile at the toothpaste tube and children, they would never feel the disappointment of a promise you never made and certainly never meant to break. But, there is pee on the floor and a blob of toothpaste on the mirror and a lot of tiny disasters everywhere and it is late and the children are exhausted just from being alive and.....the laundry thinks it is cute all crumbled in piles pretending to be done.
I gave the dog a bath tonight (she is called "the dog" when I am faining ignorance of how she ended up here in the first place) because earlier today she ate poo. At least, I am 99.9% sure it was poo. (I am holding on to that last .01% because I believe in miracles and unicorns and even rainbows in the midst of hurricanes of shit). So I gave her a bath and she was so tiny in the big tub; so tiny and scared and confused. And I was thinking, maybe we are all a little like this - cute and fluffy terrorists when we're running around letting our shit hang out - and then tiny and scared when the unknown comes calling. I don't know, I was just thinking that. Just for a minute.
Coco is 9 1/2 weeks old, cute and soft and full of sweet puppy eyes. She sits, she shakes, she chases her tail. She pees once in a while in the house, the moment she comes back inside from a long outdoor romp. I yell. I am not as patient as I would like to be. I am not as cool or calm or tolerant or full of unconditional love. Coco reminds me this - stares at me like "huh? WTF? What crawled up your behind?" as I holler "NO!" and grab the furry little love nugget, wanting to hurl her into the great unknown, but placing her somewhat gently outside instead.
In certain ways, my life has been a series of potty training and tolerating something. First it was my own unbridled passion for life, next my addictions, then my kids, then an old dog who never should have had to die, now Coco. The mortgages don't care what is happening, nor does the laundry, or the clients, or the boss. Only the heart cares. Mumbles something incoherent, whimpers a little, cries.
Feeling alone in something, at the same time that the crowd is nearly suffocating you doesn't help - but then, even that doesn't make the experience unique enough to warrant the unrequested aide one so desperately needs in the midst of such despair. So the puppy barks (!), leaps up at nothing in particular with a monomaniacal zeal, falls on her chin, wonders at the finality of a slammed door.
I am trying to choose between now and the future as if I could. Trying to calculate loss. Running years, like numbers on a calculator...counting moments that have passed that I somehow think I missed.
If love were perfect, it would sit when you needed quiet without having been asked. It would shake for no cookie at all. It would nuzzle into the broken crook of your heart and exhale warm glue into the fissures. It would not pee on floor. And if life were perfect you could wake up happy and stay that way, for an entire hour or a day or a week or maybe even a series of years that floated by slowly like a single spiderweb thread through a a windless summer afternoon. If men were perfect they would love all our little disasters and women, they would smile at the toothpaste tube and children, they would never feel the disappointment of a promise you never made and certainly never meant to break. But, there is pee on the floor and a blob of toothpaste on the mirror and a lot of tiny disasters everywhere and it is late and the children are exhausted just from being alive and.....the laundry thinks it is cute all crumbled in piles pretending to be done.
I gave the dog a bath tonight (she is called "the dog" when I am faining ignorance of how she ended up here in the first place) because earlier today she ate poo. At least, I am 99.9% sure it was poo. (I am holding on to that last .01% because I believe in miracles and unicorns and even rainbows in the midst of hurricanes of shit). So I gave her a bath and she was so tiny in the big tub; so tiny and scared and confused. And I was thinking, maybe we are all a little like this - cute and fluffy terrorists when we're running around letting our shit hang out - and then tiny and scared when the unknown comes calling. I don't know, I was just thinking that. Just for a minute.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Rebel Mom
okay...I admit...it is getting old - even for me - this searching around for a name for my pen other than "FingerPoet". This coming up duds over and over again - an ever futility-inspiring moment of realizing I missed the boat on domain names....likely years ago...when all the organized A types were buying the cool new tech saavy shit while the rest of us ( or maybe just me) were still sifting through the rack of the Salvation Army for a cool (dig it) polyester blend floral mumu we would pretend we had the umph to someday turn into a funkadellic pillow....or a shawl.
I digress.
I gave RebelMom a shot - TAKEN. Not that I actually want to conjure up visuals of a harley davidson vest wearing 40-something with mom jeans and a feather-strung roach clip in my hair. Plus, for this mom, it hits a little too close to home....like calling myself a rebel will somehow betray the last 15 years I've spent trying to undo that stigma. I imagine myself smoking Marlboro reds with chipped fingernail polish while making Pillsbury Plus sugar cookies out of the tube. Of course, after being denied access to the purchase, I perused the site for rebelmom and it (she) was nothing like I imagined myself to be, given the name. She's all manicured and beautiful and has her S%#t together - a pretty mom (likely of girls, which explains some things) and she has the real deal advertisements on her site to prove she is up to some reputable good.
Sigh.
Next, either off the seat of my pants, or through the ingenious methodolgy that only a mind itself can know, I searched "FatPeace". AVAILABLE! But c'mon, you know 37% of the people will think I meant "FatPiece" which makes me immediatly think of "piece of ass" and well, the truth is, I don't want anyone to think of a fat piece of ass when they think of me, or my writing. So, the drawing baord smacks me up side the head again and I have to hope that someone out there reading this will either convice me to choose what I got, or at least point me in a sound direction. (Then I have to deal with whether I am indeed a person even willing to follow sound direction). Uh,,,,Duff?
What kind of rebel am I anyway, really? I mean, when you get down to it? I wake up every morning, make the oatmeal or breakfast burrito or yogurt parfait (yes, there is a bowl or 3 of cereal in there somewhere). I pack the flipping lunches - REFUSING to cut the crust off - I attend the games. Do hoework, day dream about botox and manicures and more time. Certainly I'm not slamming martinis before getting in the car line or popping valiums on my way to the dry cleaners - and that wouldn't necessarily make me any more of a rebel than an ass, so...?
One of my partying friends was saying about New Years Eve to another friend who had said she was spending the night home with her kids "Oh, come on! What are you gonna do, stay home with a tomato enema and a Mormon video?" As if that were like the worst thing one could do on a night so worthy of hurrah as New Years Eve. All I could think was "a tomato enema and a religious video (?) - that's right up my alley!"
Sadly, I am only sort of joking.
I added adsense to my blog thinking it would be fun to make $000.13 a month off my writing but the only ad they approved me for was some nonesense abouta phone service for "entreprenuers". I am not sure whether to laugh or cry.
I digress.
I gave RebelMom a shot - TAKEN. Not that I actually want to conjure up visuals of a harley davidson vest wearing 40-something with mom jeans and a feather-strung roach clip in my hair. Plus, for this mom, it hits a little too close to home....like calling myself a rebel will somehow betray the last 15 years I've spent trying to undo that stigma. I imagine myself smoking Marlboro reds with chipped fingernail polish while making Pillsbury Plus sugar cookies out of the tube. Of course, after being denied access to the purchase, I perused the site for rebelmom and it (she) was nothing like I imagined myself to be, given the name. She's all manicured and beautiful and has her S%#t together - a pretty mom (likely of girls, which explains some things) and she has the real deal advertisements on her site to prove she is up to some reputable good.
Sigh.
Next, either off the seat of my pants, or through the ingenious methodolgy that only a mind itself can know, I searched "FatPeace". AVAILABLE! But c'mon, you know 37% of the people will think I meant "FatPiece" which makes me immediatly think of "piece of ass" and well, the truth is, I don't want anyone to think of a fat piece of ass when they think of me, or my writing. So, the drawing baord smacks me up side the head again and I have to hope that someone out there reading this will either convice me to choose what I got, or at least point me in a sound direction. (Then I have to deal with whether I am indeed a person even willing to follow sound direction). Uh,,,,Duff?
What kind of rebel am I anyway, really? I mean, when you get down to it? I wake up every morning, make the oatmeal or breakfast burrito or yogurt parfait (yes, there is a bowl or 3 of cereal in there somewhere). I pack the flipping lunches - REFUSING to cut the crust off - I attend the games. Do hoework, day dream about botox and manicures and more time. Certainly I'm not slamming martinis before getting in the car line or popping valiums on my way to the dry cleaners - and that wouldn't necessarily make me any more of a rebel than an ass, so...?
One of my partying friends was saying about New Years Eve to another friend who had said she was spending the night home with her kids "Oh, come on! What are you gonna do, stay home with a tomato enema and a Mormon video?" As if that were like the worst thing one could do on a night so worthy of hurrah as New Years Eve. All I could think was "a tomato enema and a religious video (?) - that's right up my alley!"
Sadly, I am only sort of joking.
I added adsense to my blog thinking it would be fun to make $000.13 a month off my writing but the only ad they approved me for was some nonesense abouta phone service for "entreprenuers". I am not sure whether to laugh or cry.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Monday, January 2, 2012
Chasing Happy
I was so bummed to find out that chasinghappy.com is taken and that when I put it in my web browser I come up with a very smart and articulate and funny blog now called "good enough to read". Definitely worth the stumble, but still the having showed up a day late and a dollar short, smarts like a missed interview for a dream job. I can never spell "definitely" correctly the first or second time.
I thought about "chasinggay.com" but it seems just a tad bit too controversial for this girl. I'm already known (at least to myself) for shooting from the hip so to speak when I talk...a sort of unedited blah blah blahing that runs out of my mouth before anyone has had time to drop and roll or at least take cover.
My friend Kerry Duff of, CEO of The House (ceoofthehouse.com) is encouraging me to shut up and start writing. She doesn't talk like that, of course. She just makes me dark chocolate covered peanut clusters in cutesie cupcake papers and hands me a metaphorical pen (polka-dotted bow and all). She does this all of course with 4 kids, a real estate career, a talent for taking photos and likely a place on the PTA and every other possible board out there that makes A+ parenting seem like a part time gig. WTF? I'm here picking up poo off my 7 year olds bedroom floor - left a wee bit too liquid from a puppy I mismanaged to import off the streets of Mexico....during the holidays and only 2 weeks after a major move from LA to San Francisco meant to "simplify my life". All of this makes me NEED chocolate covered peanut clusters and friends who make my projects seem small enough to actually complete. Thanks Mrs. Duff!!!
Since it is indeed already January 2nd, I suppose it is time for a new year's resolution or two.
So here goes:
1. to give up dieting
2. to do things I love, often
3. to wake up happy
I'd throw out a couple more but I want to win this year so that's it. Recap: I'm gonna nourish myself, enjoy life, and laugh. All funny people, please drop me a line.
Happy 2012.
I thought about "chasinggay.com" but it seems just a tad bit too controversial for this girl. I'm already known (at least to myself) for shooting from the hip so to speak when I talk...a sort of unedited blah blah blahing that runs out of my mouth before anyone has had time to drop and roll or at least take cover.
My friend Kerry Duff of, CEO of The House (ceoofthehouse.com) is encouraging me to shut up and start writing. She doesn't talk like that, of course. She just makes me dark chocolate covered peanut clusters in cutesie cupcake papers and hands me a metaphorical pen (polka-dotted bow and all). She does this all of course with 4 kids, a real estate career, a talent for taking photos and likely a place on the PTA and every other possible board out there that makes A+ parenting seem like a part time gig. WTF? I'm here picking up poo off my 7 year olds bedroom floor - left a wee bit too liquid from a puppy I mismanaged to import off the streets of Mexico....during the holidays and only 2 weeks after a major move from LA to San Francisco meant to "simplify my life". All of this makes me NEED chocolate covered peanut clusters and friends who make my projects seem small enough to actually complete. Thanks Mrs. Duff!!!
Since it is indeed already January 2nd, I suppose it is time for a new year's resolution or two.
So here goes:
1. to give up dieting
2. to do things I love, often
3. to wake up happy
I'd throw out a couple more but I want to win this year so that's it. Recap: I'm gonna nourish myself, enjoy life, and laugh. All funny people, please drop me a line.
Happy 2012.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Sunday Morning
I want Sunday to start with a little "s", as if that way, I could trick the following day into not noticing it's turn in line. When did I begin to worry about tomorrow? When did I buy into Monday being a poor broker of time, the bastard child of an incomplete two-night stand, some sort of uptight nanny? I digress. Remembering to center around the self, rather than run headlong into the tragedy of self-centeredness, I find myself ever talking a big game and slipping behind smoke and mirrors with an "I know I'm gonna get caught" grin and a craving for a cookie. Or 12.
Sometimes I think it would be better to think before I speak, but mostly I am either exhaling the impetus in my chest or putting it on lockdown, ears burning - metaphorical fuming galore. Once in a while, there is a memory....of not being willing to suffer....a calmness, that reminds me no thing matters but this, now, and breathing.
I'm either pulling a Ghandi or stirring up sh*t. Balanced between the two is the little me that's at last unaware of my size. I betray her though, in writing....desperate to give longing a voice...melancholy a microphone.......desire a dance partner.
Three hours into Sunday - sunday - sun day....here in Santa Monica in a canopy of fog...thinking about church and GOoD, how capitalization ruins everything, space.
If I've told one person about the insatiable whole of being, i've told a thousand. Trans-versing back and forth between Me and me and I and i and obviously, not yet having had a moment free.
Then there is you. YOU. How the silence between us is enough. How your quiet soothes me.
I never wanted to be in love. I wanted to be filled.
Who would've thought it was the emptying that mattered?
Sometimes I think it would be better to think before I speak, but mostly I am either exhaling the impetus in my chest or putting it on lockdown, ears burning - metaphorical fuming galore. Once in a while, there is a memory....of not being willing to suffer....a calmness, that reminds me no thing matters but this, now, and breathing.
I'm either pulling a Ghandi or stirring up sh*t. Balanced between the two is the little me that's at last unaware of my size. I betray her though, in writing....desperate to give longing a voice...melancholy a microphone.......desire a dance partner.
Three hours into Sunday - sunday - sun day....here in Santa Monica in a canopy of fog...thinking about church and GOoD, how capitalization ruins everything, space.
If I've told one person about the insatiable whole of being, i've told a thousand. Trans-versing back and forth between Me and me and I and i and obviously, not yet having had a moment free.
Then there is you. YOU. How the silence between us is enough. How your quiet soothes me.
I never wanted to be in love. I wanted to be filled.
Who would've thought it was the emptying that mattered?
Monday, June 13, 2011
hair cut
tonight i got a hair cut because i can neither smoke nor nonchalantly toss back a shot of wild turkey nor drive off a bridge. i have no desire to harm myself...i simply like change. alteration. riots.
there is something so quiet about being simple. and the silence grates on me. makes all my inner poetry a beggar. makes all my hunger mad.
i try to be quiet. not to stir up the metaphorical pot of wanting that bangs like a thousand fists upon my psyche - demanding i spill my own gunk over into your lane - and YOU - driving so fucking fast - across these freeways called los angeles moments - that you have no time - no space - no listening - for my need.
you see, the want became a need in only 44 words. imagine a life. despair.
so we give up the trying.
trade it in for some real authentic no bars held love. the good stuff. we suffer having enough (finally) like a series of jesus's in drag...i know gayle.... you will understand this. (and mostly because of the girls who broke the rule.) i'm not sure all wisdom is earned. some of it just is. like an allergy. like a curse. like a gift.
the line that is the finest is always the one one is walking. i am at odds, forever, with my mouth. she speaks. she chews. she catches breath.
because my hair is parted, there are lovers leaving each other for the last time. the way the bangs fall means the loneliest man in the world has just been given a promise. crazy glue and broken hearts and gob-stoppers and electric eels and dinosaurs and magic erasers and the wilderness and yellow work. people say thank you. they ask "how are you" and wait for an answer. married couples remember why they fell in love.
had i curls, on the day you came to cut - it could've been different. you may have been a poet and i pencil or maybe there'd be two children laughing or i'd roll you a cigarette instead of going to therapy. and maybe you would have pop tarts in your car and for that reason alone, for you, i would take a bullet or give you my parking space or maybe i would learn how to sing.
but today the hair was straight so i just said "thank you so much" and when you drove away, I said a prayer for the girls who broke the rule.
there is something so quiet about being simple. and the silence grates on me. makes all my inner poetry a beggar. makes all my hunger mad.
i try to be quiet. not to stir up the metaphorical pot of wanting that bangs like a thousand fists upon my psyche - demanding i spill my own gunk over into your lane - and YOU - driving so fucking fast - across these freeways called los angeles moments - that you have no time - no space - no listening - for my need.
you see, the want became a need in only 44 words. imagine a life. despair.
so we give up the trying.
trade it in for some real authentic no bars held love. the good stuff. we suffer having enough (finally) like a series of jesus's in drag...i know gayle.... you will understand this. (and mostly because of the girls who broke the rule.) i'm not sure all wisdom is earned. some of it just is. like an allergy. like a curse. like a gift.
the line that is the finest is always the one one is walking. i am at odds, forever, with my mouth. she speaks. she chews. she catches breath.
because my hair is parted, there are lovers leaving each other for the last time. the way the bangs fall means the loneliest man in the world has just been given a promise. crazy glue and broken hearts and gob-stoppers and electric eels and dinosaurs and magic erasers and the wilderness and yellow work. people say thank you. they ask "how are you" and wait for an answer. married couples remember why they fell in love.
had i curls, on the day you came to cut - it could've been different. you may have been a poet and i pencil or maybe there'd be two children laughing or i'd roll you a cigarette instead of going to therapy. and maybe you would have pop tarts in your car and for that reason alone, for you, i would take a bullet or give you my parking space or maybe i would learn how to sing.
but today the hair was straight so i just said "thank you so much" and when you drove away, I said a prayer for the girls who broke the rule.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
The Tamed Dragon
Taming the Dragon sounds so much more interesting that actually having tamed it.
Sounds like the fire is gone. All the magic - poof.
That's what it feels like inside the absence of a compulsion to write.
Easier was it when the finger, connected to the pen, spilled the not so metaphorical blood of the heart.
Now, there are highways between need and want. Long stretches of road that separate the flame from the campfire. How do you warm another person with matches soaked in minutiae?
Understanding the distinctions of that word, which is incidentely the name of this blog, adds very little to the overall effect one can have on the world, but it makes something interesting - just what that thing is, I'm not sure.
i was very disappointed to find out the e.e. cummins already had some sort of a monopoly or at least claim to the little "i". I thought I had really stumbled upon something when I began to use it. Expressing the tiny insignificance of my me - a reversed solvency of the soul. a bounced pay check.
there is certainly some disdain for CAPITALIZATION - not that the liberal whimper in me has something to defend - it's just so formal. So run of the mill. That it is expected and suggests a lack of attention to detail in its absence ruffles my feathers - makes obtuse my particulars.
Can one imagine no longer using the first person singular? For a minute of conversation? A day? A week. One would perhaps need to seek refuge from an awareness of self-centeredness through silence. Try it. Do you understand of what she speaks?
SO - the recovery business. Working in recovery. Drunks, meth addicts, heroine junkies, bingers. purgers, gamblers, coke-heads, pill poppers, inhalers, gamers, sex addicts, klepto-maniacs, cutters, my brothers, sisters, saints.
I i I i I i I i I i I i I i I i I i I i I i i i I i i i I i i i i i i I i I i i i i I I i I I I I I i i i i i i i i I I I i I i i i
A whole bunch of enormous and tiny me me me's running around inside a broken heart. Having been there makes the trouble almost endearing. I want to squeeze a heart of joy into the broken drum. Sooth a million sorrows with a whispering. Patch back up the brokenness with a nod.
The question now is do I break the silence with some detail?
What is the imaginary line that one might cross between sharing and spiritual extortion?
Where is the listening?
Puff lived by the sea. It is not a happy ending. Like so many fairy tales and children's stories, with awareness comes the realization of the great tragedy involved. Is this the point? To break the heart as early on as possible? That we might understand each other? That we might learn to defend the weak? That we might build a wall around ourselves? What? Why?
Puff
Bambi
Nemo
all of them.
Something huge is taken away by something bigger.
And we act as if.
I suppose this is where god comes in. God. god. GOoD.
One enormous amorphous unnameable sigh
holding up the umbrella
marshaling us home.
*Minutiae (pronounced /mɨˈnjuːʃɪ.iː/; sing. minutia, /mɨˈnjuːʃɪ.ə/; both also /mɨˈnjuːʃə/) are, in everyday English, minor or incidental.
In biometrics and forensic science, minutiae are major features of a fingerprint, using which comparisons of one print with another can be made.
Friday, September 17, 2010
minutiae: B Sic
minutiae: B Sic: "I want to start an AA meeting called B Sic which stands for Being Sober is Cool but I am not sure that it really is or whether any of that a..."
Thursday, September 16, 2010
B Sic
I want to start an AA meeting called B Sic
which stands for Being Sober is Cool
but I am not sure that it really is
or whether any of that actually matters at all.
It is possible to have your heart ripped out of your chest
beating pumping beautifully bloody
and alive
and then, through the immaculate beauty of sorrow,
have it handed back to you
in tact
effortlessly free
and re-covered.
Being rescued is lovely
all these little islands of despair
where the ship of some larger horror shows you your grace.
I thank god every day for showing up inside of you
and reminding me
that we are the same.
I have not seen my boys since 8:23 this morning -
when I watched them walk in a single-file line
into the school house.
I hit AA and recovery and belligerence and faith HARD today
squirreled it all up
inside a cupcake
with a friend
on a street
in LA.
All I am saying is that she is beautiful
those newly seeing eyes
all green and hazel and glorious.
We sat side by side and were thankful
to know each other
and be a friend.
which stands for Being Sober is Cool
but I am not sure that it really is
or whether any of that actually matters at all.
It is possible to have your heart ripped out of your chest
beating pumping beautifully bloody
and alive
and then, through the immaculate beauty of sorrow,
have it handed back to you
in tact
effortlessly free
and re-covered.
Being rescued is lovely
all these little islands of despair
where the ship of some larger horror shows you your grace.
I thank god every day for showing up inside of you
and reminding me
that we are the same.
I have not seen my boys since 8:23 this morning -
when I watched them walk in a single-file line
into the school house.
I hit AA and recovery and belligerence and faith HARD today
squirreled it all up
inside a cupcake
with a friend
on a street
in LA.
All I am saying is that she is beautiful
those newly seeing eyes
all green and hazel and glorious.
We sat side by side and were thankful
to know each other
and be a friend.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
i am in love.
there is no more meaningful way to say this.
he comes home with his sweater on inside-out
smelling like cigars
calling me chuchi.
i want to open the door and say
I ATE 5 DONUTS
but instead i open it
give a kiss far from the lips
giggle at the tag on the outside
and say nothing.
we carry the boys to their beds.
we yawn.
i met a man from cambodia today at Miss Donuts.
he liked my blond hair.
The Red Carpet he mentiond. America.
8 Years in America and he has his own business.
The American Dream.
But always working.
I want to go back to not capitalizing.
so i do.
thinking i will invite him to dinner sometime. to yom kippur or christmas or kwanza or tea.
my boys went crazy for him. this smile that went on and on for miles.
they asked to be his friend. yes. he said. yes. i am happy your to be a friend. what? huh? i am happy -
i understood every single sentence he spoke today. and even the ones that he did not utter.
there is nothing like los angeles.
i am telling you.
there is a miracle here - ever uncovering itself.
there is some kind of bizarre and honest hope.
there is no more meaningful way to say this.
he comes home with his sweater on inside-out
smelling like cigars
calling me chuchi.
i want to open the door and say
I ATE 5 DONUTS
but instead i open it
give a kiss far from the lips
giggle at the tag on the outside
and say nothing.
we carry the boys to their beds.
we yawn.
i met a man from cambodia today at Miss Donuts.
he liked my blond hair.
The Red Carpet he mentiond. America.
8 Years in America and he has his own business.
The American Dream.
But always working.
I want to go back to not capitalizing.
so i do.
thinking i will invite him to dinner sometime. to yom kippur or christmas or kwanza or tea.
my boys went crazy for him. this smile that went on and on for miles.
they asked to be his friend. yes. he said. yes. i am happy your to be a friend. what? huh? i am happy -
i understood every single sentence he spoke today. and even the ones that he did not utter.
there is nothing like los angeles.
i am telling you.
there is a miracle here - ever uncovering itself.
there is some kind of bizarre and honest hope.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
lost angels
and so i suppose we are.
living here amidst the lights and the traffic and the busy buzzing bumbles.
the quiet rage.
the sparrow.
i want to reach out through my windows and touch the walkers.
people huddled over their bags at the bus stop.
an old man with no cane on the sidewalk leaning east.
inside the heart of every person
is a riotous knowing.
a belonging to something unspeakably grand
yet still....unspeakable.
i do not look far for god -
brooding in gray eyes on sun-beaten faces
or hurried whistles chasing a bus
or you.
living here amidst the lights and the traffic and the busy buzzing bumbles.
the quiet rage.
the sparrow.
i want to reach out through my windows and touch the walkers.
people huddled over their bags at the bus stop.
an old man with no cane on the sidewalk leaning east.
inside the heart of every person
is a riotous knowing.
a belonging to something unspeakably grand
yet still....unspeakable.
i do not look far for god -
brooding in gray eyes on sun-beaten faces
or hurried whistles chasing a bus
or you.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
broken fingers
perhaps it is the fingers, more than the heart, which are broken. disenchanted or disengaged - who would know which(?) - they remain motionless in the midst of a spiritual riot. nothing to note. no typing to do.
long fingernails, born only of neglect, break further into the fluidity of connecting heart to screen. blood-pumping passion to the digit's tip. when my dog died I wanted to name everything "Finger". She wore her name like water wears oxygen and simply was. no meaning made of it from her. simple joy. love. i thought if i could place her in the title of things - a web-site, a blog, another dog - a squirrel....then maybe the legend of "Dedo", el perro, would live on beyond the loud and quiet places of my soul.
i throw too many words around that defy interpretation - soul, heart, love, spiritual - deciding at times whether to become a preacher or a natureopath - a surgeon or an envelope - a noun.
i will tell you from where all my broken promises come....the written word. you could not imagine the times i have given my solemn oath to write - every day - every week - every month - every every one can put in front of time - and every every i have also failed to do the same. liar. cheater. slug.
psych 101 sys fear of failure fear of success fear of blah blah blah blah blah
but i say fear of nothing more than. that's right, ".". period. lazy tired bored indulgent gluttonous weak. time steals nothing but what we offer up to it and it would seem so much easier to go with the flow of molecules around me than to fight back down and into the heart of the matters being avoided and dislodged.
i am no philosopher so i quit right there.
move to eat some mangos - correct a typo. chew.
i think it would be so interesting if the world were as full of good listeners as it is with good talkers.
musical earrings on golden ears. the flowering lotus inside the drum.
my mouth is a marathon runner. my ears, the 5k. occasionally a sprint.
even here i have babbled a thousand darlings
not foregoing fear
and i have forgotten to mention the earthquakes.
god bless one and all - this beautiful planet, our brothers and sisters,
one's self.
long fingernails, born only of neglect, break further into the fluidity of connecting heart to screen. blood-pumping passion to the digit's tip. when my dog died I wanted to name everything "Finger". She wore her name like water wears oxygen and simply was. no meaning made of it from her. simple joy. love. i thought if i could place her in the title of things - a web-site, a blog, another dog - a squirrel....then maybe the legend of "Dedo", el perro, would live on beyond the loud and quiet places of my soul.
i throw too many words around that defy interpretation - soul, heart, love, spiritual - deciding at times whether to become a preacher or a natureopath - a surgeon or an envelope - a noun.
i will tell you from where all my broken promises come....the written word. you could not imagine the times i have given my solemn oath to write - every day - every week - every month - every every one can put in front of time - and every every i have also failed to do the same. liar. cheater. slug.
psych 101 sys fear of failure fear of success fear of blah blah blah blah blah
but i say fear of nothing more than. that's right, ".". period. lazy tired bored indulgent gluttonous weak. time steals nothing but what we offer up to it and it would seem so much easier to go with the flow of molecules around me than to fight back down and into the heart of the matters being avoided and dislodged.
i am no philosopher so i quit right there.
move to eat some mangos - correct a typo. chew.
i think it would be so interesting if the world were as full of good listeners as it is with good talkers.
musical earrings on golden ears. the flowering lotus inside the drum.
my mouth is a marathon runner. my ears, the 5k. occasionally a sprint.
even here i have babbled a thousand darlings
not foregoing fear
and i have forgotten to mention the earthquakes.
god bless one and all - this beautiful planet, our brothers and sisters,
one's self.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
dim sum and pot-bellied day dreamers
christmas woke me up round. dusted off my lashes and poured me a cup of joe as strong as a woman. i snuggled into wrapping paper, ribbons and bows. only , there really are no ribbons or bows at my house. lots of tape. and extra folds in the edges. no clean lines here - a rumpled pile of a gift. a present.
having given back sugar, these days of holy divining are so less sweet.that is not a metaphor for anything i say. simple isms. stevia. rice.
brother cooked eggs and bacon and bread. reminds me of a heart attack. i am drinking water like it is wine, and still legal. inside my own little courthouse.
did i mention love? tumbling from the branches of our crooked little tree - busting a toe in the newest stocking and onto the floor with a crash! his eyes are the richest brown. the insides of dark chocolate. espresso micro suede umph. we made 2 more - because of those eyes - and now there are 6. crazy saucers of radical delight. heavenly tortes.
yesterday J said "wait! i am pulling buddha out of my pants" so I had to idle before backing out the car. I am sure you understand......... he is 4.........so........ of course he is pulling buddha out of his pants! sheesh.
when i think about 20 years ago i am filled with great joy and also a slipping. wooosh.
and what will tomorrow bring. poetry? peonies? poverty? promises? plethora? polyoople lop?
pangs.
i am hoping everyone has little slice today - and yesterday and now and next week and tomorrow and in an hour and backwards and upside down and inside out and even in the places where there is no light i am hoping there is an eensy weensy teeny weeny lil' slice-o-love.
having given back sugar, these days of holy divining are so less sweet.that is not a metaphor for anything i say. simple isms. stevia. rice.
brother cooked eggs and bacon and bread. reminds me of a heart attack. i am drinking water like it is wine, and still legal. inside my own little courthouse.
did i mention love? tumbling from the branches of our crooked little tree - busting a toe in the newest stocking and onto the floor with a crash! his eyes are the richest brown. the insides of dark chocolate. espresso micro suede umph. we made 2 more - because of those eyes - and now there are 6. crazy saucers of radical delight. heavenly tortes.
yesterday J said "wait! i am pulling buddha out of my pants" so I had to idle before backing out the car. I am sure you understand......... he is 4.........so........ of course he is pulling buddha out of his pants! sheesh.
when i think about 20 years ago i am filled with great joy and also a slipping. wooosh.
and what will tomorrow bring. poetry? peonies? poverty? promises? plethora? polyoople lop?
pangs.
i am hoping everyone has little slice today - and yesterday and now and next week and tomorrow and in an hour and backwards and upside down and inside out and even in the places where there is no light i am hoping there is an eensy weensy teeny weeny lil' slice-o-love.
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