Saturday, March 26, 2011
Hate
Hurt turns to anger turns to hate. Hate is the worst, you can't downgrade it or gently slip into another state. It sticks.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
I hate San Francisco. I cringe when I sit next to a homeless person on the bus, or when I see someone sleeping on the ground. I watch at a distance, people's reactions when they pass the person on the bench. The person with ragged hair and unfit clothes, the person asking for bus money. Some people don't even respond. They look right past them, as if they don't even exist.
It's not that I hate homeless people, or that I am scared of them. It is that I am sad, and that sadness goes so deep it terrifies me. It is not that I am necessarily sad for them, or sad for me. I'm not mad at the people who ignore them, or sickened by the drugs.
It's that I see my sister. And I see a child. I know that once, they were a child, just like my sister was. She was born 8 years before me, but I've seen the pictures. If I spread them all out and look closely, I swear I can tell when it was that her expression changed from pure to pained.
The group of homeless people on the grass at the park. HOMELESS PEOPLE. That is what they are, just like black defines those BLACK PEOPLE. OLD describes that old person. Labels. But I see children inside. Little and pure and now utterly destroyed. Ravaged. Destroyed and robbed of what could have been. And I see that child starring through. Hurt, and longing for help.
I know that, while they are responsible in many ways for the choices that have brought them to a life on the street, I know that they would most likely have not made those choices if things had been different.
My sister would not have touched heroin, if she had been left alone in her sleep.
My sister would still have a face I recognized, a face like the ones in the pictures of her at age three on the swing, if my dad had played chase with her around the park, instead of killed her soul one night at a time, over and over again for years.
My sister would not be that person, shaking, unwashed hair, a look of death, evil, and disintegration spread across her face, if she had ever had a chance to heal.
I see behind the people. There are stories, so sad. I work with children every day as a nanny, and I know what they need is love, positivity, hugs, and support. So many children do not get this. They may not end up on the street, or navigate to drugs, but maybe they will find themselves in abusive relationships, not knowing why they stay.
Maybe they will find themselves so driven for power and achievement because they were never good enough for their parents.
It manifests in so many ways. And I wonder why so many people have children. Why so many people can't love their children. Why pure love is so hard. Why people can't see their children as individuals, as whole people entirely separate. Why people are so attached to their children, treat them like trophies, condition them to be like every one else.
And would I be the same? A few months ago, when my period was weeks late and I didn't know why, and I thought, "oh no...uh oh."
And I thought, would I be able to teach a child differently from what I have been taught?
Would I be able to undo all the things my family brought and filled me with...to show my child something new?
And is it EVER fair to bring another life into this world when you are not prepared to treat it wholly, perfectly, to love it, to support it, to be unbiased, to be unattached?
My mother got pregnant in her last year of college, and she went on to have three more children.
With a man that didn't love her. With a horrible, terrible man. Why did she do this? Get pregnant at 21? Get married at 20? It was what you did? She wanted a family.
You trace back my mother's family, and see the dysfunction, the sickness created over and over again.
You trace back my father's family, and the abuse, over and over and over again.
When does it stop.
It stops with me, I know this. But it is so hard to stop. You have to trace it back, examine it closely, and break yourself down into little pieces to be examined. What do I want to keep? And what do I need to separate from and discard? And what do I need to keep but shift and change to something that fits ME?
It is an ongoing process that requires commitment and help and ups and downs.
I know it is possible, to heal and to not repeat mistakes,
but when I feel that sinking sensation in my chest, the pressure.
When I see the homeless man and think of my sister,
When I feel desperate and helpless and inexplicably sad,
when I wish I could go back in time, and find that little girl, and hold her and shield her
and when I realize I can't,
that solid, terrifying, deep, aching sadness.
it eventually recedes and I am left with a sort of longing and sullness,
a feeling like sitting alone on a northern california isolated beach,
a gray foggy morning, drizzly and wet,
inside of me,
I wonder if it will always be like this.
It's not that I hate homeless people, or that I am scared of them. It is that I am sad, and that sadness goes so deep it terrifies me. It is not that I am necessarily sad for them, or sad for me. I'm not mad at the people who ignore them, or sickened by the drugs.
It's that I see my sister. And I see a child. I know that once, they were a child, just like my sister was. She was born 8 years before me, but I've seen the pictures. If I spread them all out and look closely, I swear I can tell when it was that her expression changed from pure to pained.
The group of homeless people on the grass at the park. HOMELESS PEOPLE. That is what they are, just like black defines those BLACK PEOPLE. OLD describes that old person. Labels. But I see children inside. Little and pure and now utterly destroyed. Ravaged. Destroyed and robbed of what could have been. And I see that child starring through. Hurt, and longing for help.
I know that, while they are responsible in many ways for the choices that have brought them to a life on the street, I know that they would most likely have not made those choices if things had been different.
My sister would not have touched heroin, if she had been left alone in her sleep.
My sister would still have a face I recognized, a face like the ones in the pictures of her at age three on the swing, if my dad had played chase with her around the park, instead of killed her soul one night at a time, over and over again for years.
My sister would not be that person, shaking, unwashed hair, a look of death, evil, and disintegration spread across her face, if she had ever had a chance to heal.
I see behind the people. There are stories, so sad. I work with children every day as a nanny, and I know what they need is love, positivity, hugs, and support. So many children do not get this. They may not end up on the street, or navigate to drugs, but maybe they will find themselves in abusive relationships, not knowing why they stay.
Maybe they will find themselves so driven for power and achievement because they were never good enough for their parents.
It manifests in so many ways. And I wonder why so many people have children. Why so many people can't love their children. Why pure love is so hard. Why people can't see their children as individuals, as whole people entirely separate. Why people are so attached to their children, treat them like trophies, condition them to be like every one else.
And would I be the same? A few months ago, when my period was weeks late and I didn't know why, and I thought, "oh no...uh oh."
And I thought, would I be able to teach a child differently from what I have been taught?
Would I be able to undo all the things my family brought and filled me with...to show my child something new?
And is it EVER fair to bring another life into this world when you are not prepared to treat it wholly, perfectly, to love it, to support it, to be unbiased, to be unattached?
My mother got pregnant in her last year of college, and she went on to have three more children.
With a man that didn't love her. With a horrible, terrible man. Why did she do this? Get pregnant at 21? Get married at 20? It was what you did? She wanted a family.
You trace back my mother's family, and see the dysfunction, the sickness created over and over again.
You trace back my father's family, and the abuse, over and over and over again.
When does it stop.
It stops with me, I know this. But it is so hard to stop. You have to trace it back, examine it closely, and break yourself down into little pieces to be examined. What do I want to keep? And what do I need to separate from and discard? And what do I need to keep but shift and change to something that fits ME?
It is an ongoing process that requires commitment and help and ups and downs.
I know it is possible, to heal and to not repeat mistakes,
but when I feel that sinking sensation in my chest, the pressure.
When I see the homeless man and think of my sister,
When I feel desperate and helpless and inexplicably sad,
when I wish I could go back in time, and find that little girl, and hold her and shield her
and when I realize I can't,
that solid, terrifying, deep, aching sadness.
it eventually recedes and I am left with a sort of longing and sullness,
a feeling like sitting alone on a northern california isolated beach,
a gray foggy morning, drizzly and wet,
inside of me,
I wonder if it will always be like this.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
And then, we weren't there anymore.
Our relationship
disintegrates in the space between you and I
It slowly fades
dissipating until it is no more
and we have forgotten that it ever was
It's layers unfold
up in the sky above
point A and point B
It was too difficult for you to get to me
for you to hold me
But I never knew until now
what this time and space has slowly shown
It has burnt us down to ashes
and you cannot rebuild the structure
and with its loss you lose everything it held
and slowly move on
in a dream like state
like it never happened at all.
The photo on the desk
You and me
Embracing
It sits there, steady, next to the card from our 2nd anniversary
I think of that night
but I don't feel anything anymore
all the feelings have been felt
used up and now there is only room for acceptance
the final blow has been dealt
I know we are standing here
over the grave of us
in a mix of mourning, disbelief, and a lingering holding on
But I look over at the desk
At the picture frame
In it we once were, but we aren't there anymore.
We are gone.
disintegrates in the space between you and I
It slowly fades
dissipating until it is no more
and we have forgotten that it ever was
It's layers unfold
up in the sky above
point A and point B
It was too difficult for you to get to me
for you to hold me
But I never knew until now
what this time and space has slowly shown
It has burnt us down to ashes
and you cannot rebuild the structure
and with its loss you lose everything it held
and slowly move on
in a dream like state
like it never happened at all.
The photo on the desk
You and me
Embracing
It sits there, steady, next to the card from our 2nd anniversary
I think of that night
but I don't feel anything anymore
all the feelings have been felt
used up and now there is only room for acceptance
the final blow has been dealt
I know we are standing here
over the grave of us
in a mix of mourning, disbelief, and a lingering holding on
But I look over at the desk
At the picture frame
In it we once were, but we aren't there anymore.
We are gone.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
dream
walking walking there was a river and the water wasn't blue
it was eerily idle sullen and still dripping dripping soft cold water down canyon walls soaking the green mixing in with the grey rocks lined with ferns all growing in spots that made you wonder at how much they held on to the steep wall lateral lateral looking to fall
But they don't
they don't come down to where you are now floating along slowly moving with the sound
of slow slapping waves writhing around searching for an outlet a place to go but that waters are flowing full mixing back in no way to reach out
lapping up against the rocks against the cold stone sides trapped in a dance that lasts forever in time
circular circular around and around
there are books pages floating surround
you reach for them but you can't read them
words blur in your eyes water soaks in and takes them away lingering remnants and now you move on
the water moves you forward
rushing rushing so slowly but yet its rushing
moving moving but so thick and so stuck
green brown you look down but you can't see can't feel the ground
cold embracing bringing you in mixing with your skin
now you see finally a break in the channel sand plants life free
swim desperately
drag yourself out, feel the water seeping up sinking into ground then recessing back with a seeping sucking sound.
Move into the dark into the green leaves leaves damp
walk for a distance and you are back at waters edge
but this time its different- its thick and its blue and its not concerned with you.
drawing drawing it takes you in. warm. engulfing. fluid. full.
let the hands lift you, up from beneath, eyes to the sky body left beneath mind flutters upwards to the canopy in the trees insects and birds and you just BREATHE.
Then suddenly quickly, without your consent, feel it pulling you dragging you under.
slow-motion. the water. thirsty thirsty. drink drink. you don't want it you don't need it but wait what happened?
Now you have it.
When did it grow dark?
where did the light go...you remember you thought..the books. the books. wander back stumble wet, hot. humid air. back to the beach.
hear the angry clashing of water against water, frustrated waves...rapids. rapids.
let go. walk in. you can't see but you don't care.
let go. let go. feel the flurry
it was eerily idle sullen and still dripping dripping soft cold water down canyon walls soaking the green mixing in with the grey rocks lined with ferns all growing in spots that made you wonder at how much they held on to the steep wall lateral lateral looking to fall
But they don't
they don't come down to where you are now floating along slowly moving with the sound
of slow slapping waves writhing around searching for an outlet a place to go but that waters are flowing full mixing back in no way to reach out
lapping up against the rocks against the cold stone sides trapped in a dance that lasts forever in time
circular circular around and around
there are books pages floating surround
you reach for them but you can't read them
words blur in your eyes water soaks in and takes them away lingering remnants and now you move on
the water moves you forward
rushing rushing so slowly but yet its rushing
moving moving but so thick and so stuck
green brown you look down but you can't see can't feel the ground
cold embracing bringing you in mixing with your skin
now you see finally a break in the channel sand plants life free
swim desperately
drag yourself out, feel the water seeping up sinking into ground then recessing back with a seeping sucking sound.
Move into the dark into the green leaves leaves damp
walk for a distance and you are back at waters edge
but this time its different- its thick and its blue and its not concerned with you.
drawing drawing it takes you in. warm. engulfing. fluid. full.
let the hands lift you, up from beneath, eyes to the sky body left beneath mind flutters upwards to the canopy in the trees insects and birds and you just BREATHE.
Then suddenly quickly, without your consent, feel it pulling you dragging you under.
slow-motion. the water. thirsty thirsty. drink drink. you don't want it you don't need it but wait what happened?
Now you have it.
When did it grow dark?
where did the light go...you remember you thought..the books. the books. wander back stumble wet, hot. humid air. back to the beach.
hear the angry clashing of water against water, frustrated waves...rapids. rapids.
let go. walk in. you can't see but you don't care.
let go. let go. feel the flurry
Thursday, March 10, 2011
You don't really know her
I bet she was excited,
the moment she found out.
I need to remember that.
I think she truly believed in forever
and that he would always stay
I need to remember this
I imagine she couldn't wait,
and thought he couldn't too,
a baby girl.
I bet she was happy when she was born.
Radiating, fufilled.
I need to remember that.
I can't know now,
what it feels like for her to look at her own daughter,
disintegrating, piece by piece, a slow death
when she once carried her in her womb.
I need to think of this.
But in thinking of it... an open space emerges, and welcomes in the filling of it with thick sadness...
and the space threatens to open up more, widen and engulf everything else there is to me.
So I close it up again, sew it shut tight.
But if you don't even open it, delve into and examine the darkness then how can you ever find the light?
I think she must be so broken inside
to see everything she created
and everything she raised
so completely destroyed
I wonder at who she is
and how I came from her,
and my other half, how did she fall in love and trust him?
I wonder,
and feel such sadness when the disconnection remains steady and ever growing.
Once, I was inside her.
And now I practice severing that connection,
repulsed by its reality.
I must remember, that once she loved me, read me books.
Said no TV. Eat your brocolli.
She taught me about the earth, the plants the wildflowers, the bees.
The birds in the sky, their names, their calls.
The dolphins, the whales, where they migrated on our tiny globe- it was placed on the piano next to the mouse cage.
She let me run free, climb in the trees.
I must remember this.
I must remember how to feel.
Open up and be real.
I must remember
I must heal.
the moment she found out.
I need to remember that.
I think she truly believed in forever
and that he would always stay
I need to remember this
I imagine she couldn't wait,
and thought he couldn't too,
a baby girl.
I bet she was happy when she was born.
Radiating, fufilled.
I need to remember that.
I can't know now,
what it feels like for her to look at her own daughter,
disintegrating, piece by piece, a slow death
when she once carried her in her womb.
I need to think of this.
But in thinking of it... an open space emerges, and welcomes in the filling of it with thick sadness...
and the space threatens to open up more, widen and engulf everything else there is to me.
So I close it up again, sew it shut tight.
But if you don't even open it, delve into and examine the darkness then how can you ever find the light?
I think she must be so broken inside
to see everything she created
and everything she raised
so completely destroyed
I wonder at who she is
and how I came from her,
and my other half, how did she fall in love and trust him?
I wonder,
and feel such sadness when the disconnection remains steady and ever growing.
Once, I was inside her.
And now I practice severing that connection,
repulsed by its reality.
I must remember, that once she loved me, read me books.
Said no TV. Eat your brocolli.
She taught me about the earth, the plants the wildflowers, the bees.
The birds in the sky, their names, their calls.
The dolphins, the whales, where they migrated on our tiny globe- it was placed on the piano next to the mouse cage.
She let me run free, climb in the trees.
I must remember this.
I must remember how to feel.
Open up and be real.
I must remember
I must heal.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Go and I will Follow
You go by, fast paced and full speed ahead
and I dont even question, I can't see ahead at all,
but I follow, increase my own pace and try to keep you in my vision.
100 miles per hour, but as long as I'm with you I convince myself I'm safe.
When did I stop believing?
In my own ability to go forward slow, set at my own rythym and alone?
I remember a time, filled with walks and songs, singing, I heard my own voice.
Blackberry bushes and wide open skies screaming blue.
Summers before I gave myself to you.
There was a breakage, a severing of life.
An attempt to merge into another person.
I wanted to, so much, but you wouldn't allow me to.
The motorcyle is feeling shaky now
The wind pushes so hard- trying to send a message and pry me off you.
But I cling to you as if I am clinging to my very existence, because I believe I am.
We speed ahead. It's dark and I know I'll never see light, only meet dead ends.
And somewhere inside, I know its this simple: You simply get OFF the ride.
But I push that thought away.
I prefer the lonely nights spent pretending that you care.
When really, you're not there.
You're feel speed ahead, headed toward a place where I don't exist.
Still, you go, and I follow, searching for the place you are, somewhere I'll never find.
and I dont even question, I can't see ahead at all,
but I follow, increase my own pace and try to keep you in my vision.
100 miles per hour, but as long as I'm with you I convince myself I'm safe.
When did I stop believing?
In my own ability to go forward slow, set at my own rythym and alone?
I remember a time, filled with walks and songs, singing, I heard my own voice.
Blackberry bushes and wide open skies screaming blue.
Summers before I gave myself to you.
There was a breakage, a severing of life.
An attempt to merge into another person.
I wanted to, so much, but you wouldn't allow me to.
The motorcyle is feeling shaky now
The wind pushes so hard- trying to send a message and pry me off you.
But I cling to you as if I am clinging to my very existence, because I believe I am.
We speed ahead. It's dark and I know I'll never see light, only meet dead ends.
And somewhere inside, I know its this simple: You simply get OFF the ride.
But I push that thought away.
I prefer the lonely nights spent pretending that you care.
When really, you're not there.
You're feel speed ahead, headed toward a place where I don't exist.
Still, you go, and I follow, searching for the place you are, somewhere I'll never find.
cats
i love my cats, all three of them, each such an individual little creature, so many feelings, habits, joys, dislikes.
they have it down. eat, sleep, lay in the sun, chase some innocent animals outside *maybe kill if mom doesn't intervene* nap, stretch, cuddle, clean.
they are absolute masters of existence. pure precious lives.
they have it down. eat, sleep, lay in the sun, chase some innocent animals outside *maybe kill if mom doesn't intervene* nap, stretch, cuddle, clean.
they are absolute masters of existence. pure precious lives.
My eyes hurt,
staring at the screen
and lately every smell reminds me of something...
today: mint, cleaning out the sink and using essential oils....obsessed with essential oils..the peppermint smell triggered such a vivid memory of candy canes and being little...when "santa" came to school...he came in and passed out candy canes to all of us, the mini ones....
and hanging them around the christmas tree...and candy canes so so so many candy canes...christmas, family, that old house....
Teriyaki sauce....most vivid memory of cooking with you in the kitchen in felton....you used the entire bottle...and i ate meat for the first time in 12 years....
out walking through the fields today...by the creek..wet earth and moving grasses and such a strong smell of spring...
and im trying to remember now..there were so many more today...but im so tired, and today feels as if its been two thousand hours...so remembering is hard.
staring at the screen
and lately every smell reminds me of something...
today: mint, cleaning out the sink and using essential oils....obsessed with essential oils..the peppermint smell triggered such a vivid memory of candy canes and being little...when "santa" came to school...he came in and passed out candy canes to all of us, the mini ones....
and hanging them around the christmas tree...and candy canes so so so many candy canes...christmas, family, that old house....
Teriyaki sauce....most vivid memory of cooking with you in the kitchen in felton....you used the entire bottle...and i ate meat for the first time in 12 years....
out walking through the fields today...by the creek..wet earth and moving grasses and such a strong smell of spring...
and im trying to remember now..there were so many more today...but im so tired, and today feels as if its been two thousand hours...so remembering is hard.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
This thing called school..
yah, about that.
I don't get it, I can't do it anymore. When/how did this happen? I used to be an A student. I'm smart. But I hate it now. After a four year break I am suddenly thrown back in the game and I don't want to play.
But I don't know how to get out again, and I don't like the alternative outside.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
I
Feel
Old
and
Over
It.
I don't get it, I can't do it anymore. When/how did this happen? I used to be an A student. I'm smart. But I hate it now. After a four year break I am suddenly thrown back in the game and I don't want to play.
But I don't know how to get out again, and I don't like the alternative outside.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
I
Feel
Old
and
Over
It.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
There was a crack
There was a crack in the wall,
a place to peek through
see into the crevices, and little rays of light showed through-
illuminating
There was a laugh
a giggle and a gentle remind
to come back to center
calm and focused
collected and thorough
none of those were ever you
you were an eager mover,
waiting only on a change in winds
to take flight, leaving to a new destination where no one knew you
and never would
because always you would leave before they could
sign of first light and you rise from the bed
dirty hotel room, stuffy, congested with too many moments, too many memories, bursting at the seams
You had to get out
hit the road
you didn't even say goodbye, or leave him with a note.
Desert, hot, these journey's are getting longer and longer
and its harder to fly now
what is this holding you down?
This cramping up inside?
An unfamiliar feeling, but you search down deeper, find your body knows, its ingrained
A burst of fear, adrenaline, panic and feeling lost
This isn't like you, to mess up.
It all is perfect, calculated and predicted.
Control, control, this is now all out of your control.
How do you get it back?
Do you let it go, rid yourself of the heaviness this new weight?
If you did, would you feel light again, or is that gone forever no matter what?
Factual, factual, you gotta stick to the facts
But the only thing you find familiar in this dry desert town
is the feeling of abandonment, seeping out of dirty forgotten mobile homes
and stranger's hollow eyes.
Hitch hiker's thumb and a ride in the cab of a truck, that won't let you get away
from this new unasked and yet to be accepted responsibility.
Grand Canyon ridges
Cliff ledges and dreams of flying off
and landing in the brown waters below.
Bathing in orange, and washing clean.
You don't want to bathe in red.
And you realize with a sinking feeling, this isnt the kind of thing you wash off.
You try to retrace to the moment where you knew in your head
that there was no leaving this time
no running away
This, finally, was going to force you to stay.
a place to peek through
see into the crevices, and little rays of light showed through-
illuminating
There was a laugh
a giggle and a gentle remind
to come back to center
calm and focused
collected and thorough
none of those were ever you
you were an eager mover,
waiting only on a change in winds
to take flight, leaving to a new destination where no one knew you
and never would
because always you would leave before they could
sign of first light and you rise from the bed
dirty hotel room, stuffy, congested with too many moments, too many memories, bursting at the seams
You had to get out
hit the road
you didn't even say goodbye, or leave him with a note.
Desert, hot, these journey's are getting longer and longer
and its harder to fly now
what is this holding you down?
This cramping up inside?
An unfamiliar feeling, but you search down deeper, find your body knows, its ingrained
A burst of fear, adrenaline, panic and feeling lost
This isn't like you, to mess up.
It all is perfect, calculated and predicted.
Control, control, this is now all out of your control.
How do you get it back?
Do you let it go, rid yourself of the heaviness this new weight?
If you did, would you feel light again, or is that gone forever no matter what?
Factual, factual, you gotta stick to the facts
But the only thing you find familiar in this dry desert town
is the feeling of abandonment, seeping out of dirty forgotten mobile homes
and stranger's hollow eyes.
Hitch hiker's thumb and a ride in the cab of a truck, that won't let you get away
from this new unasked and yet to be accepted responsibility.
Grand Canyon ridges
Cliff ledges and dreams of flying off
and landing in the brown waters below.
Bathing in orange, and washing clean.
You don't want to bathe in red.
And you realize with a sinking feeling, this isnt the kind of thing you wash off.
You try to retrace to the moment where you knew in your head
that there was no leaving this time
no running away
This, finally, was going to force you to stay.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Towels, socks & full-butted underwear
Lately I find myself buying lots of socks, fluffy towels, soft hand towels in warm hues, and kitchen towels. Also, full-butted underwear. I can't buy enough of these things. I'm stockpiling and I don't know why.
Actually, the previous is kinda a lie. I sorta think I know why. For some reason, these things make me feel safe and secure. And this feeling safe is also a lie.
Actually, the previous is kinda a lie. I sorta think I know why. For some reason, these things make me feel safe and secure. And this feeling safe is also a lie.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
You
I see you in my shower products, I'm not sure why.
The tub is filled half-way with water so hot it leaves my skin red and stripped.
Laying down in it, I stare up at the rack thingy hanging from the shower head.
There are five bottles of various shampoos, three face masks, two conditioners, and much more, all stacked on top of each other, no organized design.
All my herbal, natural, organic products- make me clean, pretty, relaxed, renewed- or at least that's what they are supposed to do.
And as I stare up at them, I only see you.
Two and a half years. That is not really all that long.
Should it go on longer? Or should it stop, it has been long enough?
Or will the decision make itself, just maybe not now, maybe 5 or 10 years along?
The tub is filled half-way with water so hot it leaves my skin red and stripped.
Laying down in it, I stare up at the rack thingy hanging from the shower head.
There are five bottles of various shampoos, three face masks, two conditioners, and much more, all stacked on top of each other, no organized design.
All my herbal, natural, organic products- make me clean, pretty, relaxed, renewed- or at least that's what they are supposed to do.
And as I stare up at them, I only see you.
Two and a half years. That is not really all that long.
Should it go on longer? Or should it stop, it has been long enough?
Or will the decision make itself, just maybe not now, maybe 5 or 10 years along?
Saturday, February 26, 2011
The House
The sky is clear, but it isn't blue, it's somehow a varying shade of gray mixed in with white that seems as if you could almost see through, to what might be above.
A November day that cannot make up its mind.
It's 5 past three in the afternoon as it comes into view.
The house.
White picket fence, a lush garden behind, tended to with love but allowed the freedom to expand.
The air feels cold
You peer inside
The porch and you can see into the kitchen.
Jam and homemade soup.
Rocking chairs, lace curtains, two dogs.
The barn to the side, a horse and chickens.
The door open, welcoming in the cold, unafraid.
The house is unafraid.
It's warmed from something I want to touch.
In it exists everything I lost, and everything I have never found.
If only I could walk inside.
The house
It exists in another realm, a separate level of reality that I can't set foot on.
And I want it.
It's a bright brilliant blue, a color that reminds you of babies and Morning Glories in full bloom.
A purple trim that seems joyous and at the same time subdued.
Something that is already stated so it doesn't steal the show.
The barn, red and old, small and filled with items that contain lifetimes, that can fix things, a place that can hold things, and the answers to everything.
I drive by slowly, taking it in as I do every day.
Wondering what would happen if I just walked in.
I took a picture one day, to hold on to and remember.
The house, it greets me in my dreams. In layers. I feel it in layers. I know it inside and out, but only when I sleep.
I want to wake in it, but I never do.
And I drive, slowly, wondering, believing in everything I think it holds.
And isn't that the first step?
A November day that cannot make up its mind.
It's 5 past three in the afternoon as it comes into view.
The house.
White picket fence, a lush garden behind, tended to with love but allowed the freedom to expand.
The air feels cold
You peer inside
The porch and you can see into the kitchen.
Jam and homemade soup.
Rocking chairs, lace curtains, two dogs.
The barn to the side, a horse and chickens.
The door open, welcoming in the cold, unafraid.
The house is unafraid.
It's warmed from something I want to touch.
In it exists everything I lost, and everything I have never found.
If only I could walk inside.
The house
It exists in another realm, a separate level of reality that I can't set foot on.
And I want it.
It's a bright brilliant blue, a color that reminds you of babies and Morning Glories in full bloom.
A purple trim that seems joyous and at the same time subdued.
Something that is already stated so it doesn't steal the show.
The barn, red and old, small and filled with items that contain lifetimes, that can fix things, a place that can hold things, and the answers to everything.
I drive by slowly, taking it in as I do every day.
Wondering what would happen if I just walked in.
I took a picture one day, to hold on to and remember.
The house, it greets me in my dreams. In layers. I feel it in layers. I know it inside and out, but only when I sleep.
I want to wake in it, but I never do.
And I drive, slowly, wondering, believing in everything I think it holds.
And isn't that the first step?
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
The hike to nowhere
A start point, you've never seen before
with no end point in mind
Left at first sight of slight light, creeping up and peering over the mountain ridges
No need for food sustenance comes in through your eyes
Wild and free
wandering
there is such illicit attraction in that idea
but break it open and let it be open and willing
Leave the car, the house, no goodbyes
No fear in letting it all go
Just feet below and a silent quiet head
Seeing green and life
and not caring about anything else
One foot in front of the other, just as you were born to do
Its all you'll ever need to get through
They just all lied to you
And the answer is this simple and true
Soft layers of earth, dirt you were born into
Envelop feet
Chill of air, blow of wind, glow of sun on back
Return you to a time when you were carefree
Just walk
walkwalkwalk
and don't look back, don't return
No stop, no destination
just dream, forest, stream and lake
Just the companionship of springtime flowers, light cleansing showers,
and the openness in front.
with no end point in mind
Left at first sight of slight light, creeping up and peering over the mountain ridges
No need for food sustenance comes in through your eyes
Wild and free
wandering
there is such illicit attraction in that idea
but break it open and let it be open and willing
Leave the car, the house, no goodbyes
No fear in letting it all go
Just feet below and a silent quiet head
Seeing green and life
and not caring about anything else
One foot in front of the other, just as you were born to do
Its all you'll ever need to get through
They just all lied to you
And the answer is this simple and true
Soft layers of earth, dirt you were born into
Envelop feet
Chill of air, blow of wind, glow of sun on back
Return you to a time when you were carefree
Just walk
walkwalkwalk
and don't look back, don't return
No stop, no destination
just dream, forest, stream and lake
Just the companionship of springtime flowers, light cleansing showers,
and the openness in front.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Long Distance
So here I sit,
from a stationary post,
there's no need for movement,
this disintegrates all on its own.
You're an idea,
ghosts revolving in my head
a play I create, characters molded from people I once knew,
with a bit of added fabrication
People we used to be.
And I sit, there is nothing I need to do
This play is already written, and being perfectly acted out
And I'm not doing a single thing to try and stop the show from going on
or to rewrite a happy ending.
I imagine you
You imagine me
I remember once we lived together
and once you noticed how I wore mismatched socks
and how the first time I rested in your arms it began to pour outside
and I watched it drip down the glass on your door
I imagine you and I remember sitting on stones
The middle of a creek
and it was cold and November
and rain fell down
splashing creating rings
that we became mesmerized by, letting our minds fall in to the places where they went
disappearing...
A ressurection
Its been attempted a few times
But nails driven in,
always leave their holes.
I wish you would ask
I wish you were more than just in my head
I hold you up and it all falls down soon after I see you
and this all feels so dead
when it once felt alive
There's a fence in a field
the field, its filled with new green grass shooting up trying to reach the source of light
but it never can
Yearning, and pillow cases stained with black where mascara runs
And a lack of understanding
No more creekside moments
No more rain tapping against window panes
No more opening the door and stepping out to let it in and see stars in the patches where clouds break apart
It's only soild tears, grey heavy skies, and the strange thought that I can discover the sun more easily on my own.
This is long distance, at it's close.
from a stationary post,
there's no need for movement,
this disintegrates all on its own.
You're an idea,
ghosts revolving in my head
a play I create, characters molded from people I once knew,
with a bit of added fabrication
People we used to be.
And I sit, there is nothing I need to do
This play is already written, and being perfectly acted out
And I'm not doing a single thing to try and stop the show from going on
or to rewrite a happy ending.
I imagine you
You imagine me
I remember once we lived together
and once you noticed how I wore mismatched socks
and how the first time I rested in your arms it began to pour outside
and I watched it drip down the glass on your door
I imagine you and I remember sitting on stones
The middle of a creek
and it was cold and November
and rain fell down
splashing creating rings
that we became mesmerized by, letting our minds fall in to the places where they went
disappearing...
A ressurection
Its been attempted a few times
But nails driven in,
always leave their holes.
I wish you would ask
I wish you were more than just in my head
I hold you up and it all falls down soon after I see you
and this all feels so dead
when it once felt alive
There's a fence in a field
the field, its filled with new green grass shooting up trying to reach the source of light
but it never can
Yearning, and pillow cases stained with black where mascara runs
And a lack of understanding
No more creekside moments
No more rain tapping against window panes
No more opening the door and stepping out to let it in and see stars in the patches where clouds break apart
It's only soild tears, grey heavy skies, and the strange thought that I can discover the sun more easily on my own.
This is long distance, at it's close.
Sick in bed
Sick in bed
immobility
But did you know its all just in your head
They say you can heal anything, its just in your head
Its a matter of subtle adjustments, slow constant restructure
Could instead of should
There's a shelf of self help books
but they are left mostly unread
when reading a book requires too much energy to muster
and setting it down is easier
what does that mean?
Cold, cold, cold
bath bath bath
throw up throw up throw up
Fish oil, turmeric and vitamins,
Organic, salad, yoga class
Can't sleep cant sleep cant sleep
Cant eat, cant eat, cant eat
Such a cycle of never being well.
And you wonder if you cast this all over yourself like a sick disciplinary spell
Then you have to administer concoction after concoction to fix yourself
but nothing you swallow, and nothing you read seems to have the same power
as that sick little spell
whispered over and over in your head
on repeat
gotta find the stop button, and press it down firm
gotta get a new track in time, and put it on play
new things, new spells, that heal and create
fix and mend.
immobility
But did you know its all just in your head
They say you can heal anything, its just in your head
Its a matter of subtle adjustments, slow constant restructure
Could instead of should
There's a shelf of self help books
but they are left mostly unread
when reading a book requires too much energy to muster
and setting it down is easier
what does that mean?
Cold, cold, cold
bath bath bath
throw up throw up throw up
Fish oil, turmeric and vitamins,
Organic, salad, yoga class
Can't sleep cant sleep cant sleep
Cant eat, cant eat, cant eat
Such a cycle of never being well.
And you wonder if you cast this all over yourself like a sick disciplinary spell
Then you have to administer concoction after concoction to fix yourself
but nothing you swallow, and nothing you read seems to have the same power
as that sick little spell
whispered over and over in your head
on repeat
gotta find the stop button, and press it down firm
gotta get a new track in time, and put it on play
new things, new spells, that heal and create
fix and mend.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Let's just see what comes...
She was 27, 15, 14, 13 and 2.
And now I can't remember. Is it 30, 31, 32, could it be 33?
And how long can this continue to go on?
That is the most amazing part of this all, the absolute continuancy.
And once she is gone, it will still continue on in so so many ways.
In the way my finger nails are small, round but with a slight squaring at the tips, just like hers.
In the way I catch my reflection on a tired, sullen day and I see her in it, for only a second before quickly changing my face.
In the way I see a man, standing there by the tree, and I can't ever imagine allowing myself to want to know him.
And the other man, older, greyer, sitting on the bench by the slide- in the way I see I monster when I don't even know who he is.
In the way I dance, the way I move and the way I scream.
The way tears come readily to my eyes when there is seemingly no reason to cry.
And it will continue on with the whys. The why why whys.
In sadness and wreckage and failed attempts to heal.
In patterns of predictions
In lies continuing to be taught
In accidents and hate
in other people, as if it determined by fate.
And I'll hear her in songs
Feel her in those fields of golden oats
the smell of existence rising from dirt turned to mud by early autumn rains
I wonder about you
Where you are and who you are
Who I am
and I guess at the connection
while attempting to sever it and save myself from this infection
But its in me I feel it
Black and thick, evil and ingrained
Like an additional murder victim,
forgotten and left to decay in this house
This yellow house
Filled with screams and roses
and shattered glass.
Filled with children too keen for their time
Destroyed by moments behind closed doors
and no dress placed on that little girl
no new stories told
could ever replace the everything that was lost
And now the sighing, the yoga, the salads, the journal
The defiance
And even the admittance
are petty attempts at covering
this consistent fall from grace
Bright stage, true audience that won't leave when the show gets bad
Sitting
Still
Could it fix?
And draw the curtain
an end to continuance.
And now I can't remember. Is it 30, 31, 32, could it be 33?
And how long can this continue to go on?
That is the most amazing part of this all, the absolute continuancy.
And once she is gone, it will still continue on in so so many ways.
In the way my finger nails are small, round but with a slight squaring at the tips, just like hers.
In the way I catch my reflection on a tired, sullen day and I see her in it, for only a second before quickly changing my face.
In the way I see a man, standing there by the tree, and I can't ever imagine allowing myself to want to know him.
And the other man, older, greyer, sitting on the bench by the slide- in the way I see I monster when I don't even know who he is.
In the way I dance, the way I move and the way I scream.
The way tears come readily to my eyes when there is seemingly no reason to cry.
And it will continue on with the whys. The why why whys.
In sadness and wreckage and failed attempts to heal.
In patterns of predictions
In lies continuing to be taught
In accidents and hate
in other people, as if it determined by fate.
And I'll hear her in songs
Feel her in those fields of golden oats
the smell of existence rising from dirt turned to mud by early autumn rains
I wonder about you
Where you are and who you are
Who I am
and I guess at the connection
while attempting to sever it and save myself from this infection
But its in me I feel it
Black and thick, evil and ingrained
Like an additional murder victim,
forgotten and left to decay in this house
This yellow house
Filled with screams and roses
and shattered glass.
Filled with children too keen for their time
Destroyed by moments behind closed doors
and no dress placed on that little girl
no new stories told
could ever replace the everything that was lost
And now the sighing, the yoga, the salads, the journal
The defiance
And even the admittance
are petty attempts at covering
this consistent fall from grace
Bright stage, true audience that won't leave when the show gets bad
Sitting
Still
Could it fix?
And draw the curtain
an end to continuance.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
The City
There's a bridge,
It's big and tall and redCity lights & neon signs
on at the diner and its 3am.
The waters black below
The sky lit up and glittering with specks of icy rain
Shadow of the tallest tree
hangs sullen and trapped
cast down to the park beneath
Where children laugh and play by day
and addicts reach their high at night.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Breathe
I have been here before, this bridge this river the frozen over lake.
Ice skates.
Skidding down. Cold and wet, bitter taste of dirty ice.
Slicing. Slicing, sharp blade engraving circles into hardened white and it all could break and you could fall away.
Become trapped inside and frozen into its being.
Circle, circle, until you're dizzy. You used to like the feeling.
Hurry, warm me up. I am bleeding.
Crimson turns the snow, its crunches under our feet.
I felt it in me then, so deep and heavy.
And we played pretend.
But all the time the ice was breaking
And it dangled down, came undone.
I thought I knew what I was feeling
but it slowly faded into something more unknown than death,
it was purely life.
It felt like absolutely everything
lingering, waiting to become its own, separate from the others.
Strings, strings coming out of me. I'm coming undone.
Cracking, do you hear it?
The ice, it can't bear this weight any more.
I can't bear it any more.
Spinning and gliding
the melody of blowing winds and ringing bells
they hang above your head
chiming and signaling the change of the season
but you understand less than you ever have just what this means
The ice is water
transformation is fixed
And under the old bridge, the river returns
But now you go with it, away from this place.
Ice skates.
Skidding down. Cold and wet, bitter taste of dirty ice.
Slicing. Slicing, sharp blade engraving circles into hardened white and it all could break and you could fall away.
Become trapped inside and frozen into its being.
Circle, circle, until you're dizzy. You used to like the feeling.
Hurry, warm me up. I am bleeding.
Crimson turns the snow, its crunches under our feet.
I felt it in me then, so deep and heavy.
And we played pretend.
But all the time the ice was breaking
And it dangled down, came undone.
I thought I knew what I was feeling
but it slowly faded into something more unknown than death,
it was purely life.
It felt like absolutely everything
lingering, waiting to become its own, separate from the others.
Strings, strings coming out of me. I'm coming undone.
Cracking, do you hear it?
The ice, it can't bear this weight any more.
I can't bear it any more.
Spinning and gliding
the melody of blowing winds and ringing bells
they hang above your head
chiming and signaling the change of the season
but you understand less than you ever have just what this means
The ice is water
transformation is fixed
And under the old bridge, the river returns
But now you go with it, away from this place.
Dear Bikram Yoga class, Fuck you.
Dear Bikram Yoga class,
I usually love you, adore you, hey, even crave you!
But today, I hated you. The dirty carpet, all I could think of during vapassana was how many drops of sweat have been dripped into its fibers, saturating and drenching them. Then I thought, how exactly do they clean this carpet at the end of the day. After 100's of people have dripped buckets of their sweat into the floor. Do they vacuum, put down baking soda? Carpet powder? Actually, I bet they do nothing.
I usually like your energy, my dear bikram yoga class, it feels communal, supportive and strangely fun. But today, you were a god damn competition. Who are these fuckers anyway? "Let's totally do six classes in one day!!!!" Miss 50 year old arrogant mid-life crisis woman, does it feel good to know you have the full support of all the other crazy bitches in here? Even though its blatantly obvious that you would probably suffer from a heart attack if you attempted to do 9 hours straight of Bikram. Actually, youd probably die of dehydration first.
I usually like who teaches you, bikram yoga class. But today I was not a fan. "Um do you think you could make it a while longer without drinking any water?" Um no, I don't. I'm thirsty. And do you realize that you are causing way more of a disturbance to the class by pointing out the fact that I am taking a drink of water than the actual act of me taking a sip silently in the corner!!!
And what about the ten lazy people in the back, parked on their asses drinking water for the ENTIRE class?
Why exactly is it that you are always a bitch to me when I come to your class?
Note to self: Look up instructors name and NEVER attend her stupid class again.
I usually can do all your poses with grace and simultaneous force but today I just couldn't. Slip. I kept slipping. Topple, I kept toppling.
Add in the fact that I was gagging on the putrid release of toxins from the bodies of 50 people around me, and a few other hideous factors, and yah, I hated you today Bikram.
But I'll be back and hopefully we will both present ourselves differently, and rediscover what we once had.
I usually love you, adore you, hey, even crave you!
But today, I hated you. The dirty carpet, all I could think of during vapassana was how many drops of sweat have been dripped into its fibers, saturating and drenching them. Then I thought, how exactly do they clean this carpet at the end of the day. After 100's of people have dripped buckets of their sweat into the floor. Do they vacuum, put down baking soda? Carpet powder? Actually, I bet they do nothing.
I usually like your energy, my dear bikram yoga class, it feels communal, supportive and strangely fun. But today, you were a god damn competition. Who are these fuckers anyway? "Let's totally do six classes in one day!!!!" Miss 50 year old arrogant mid-life crisis woman, does it feel good to know you have the full support of all the other crazy bitches in here? Even though its blatantly obvious that you would probably suffer from a heart attack if you attempted to do 9 hours straight of Bikram. Actually, youd probably die of dehydration first.
I usually like who teaches you, bikram yoga class. But today I was not a fan. "Um do you think you could make it a while longer without drinking any water?" Um no, I don't. I'm thirsty. And do you realize that you are causing way more of a disturbance to the class by pointing out the fact that I am taking a drink of water than the actual act of me taking a sip silently in the corner!!!
And what about the ten lazy people in the back, parked on their asses drinking water for the ENTIRE class?
Why exactly is it that you are always a bitch to me when I come to your class?
Note to self: Look up instructors name and NEVER attend her stupid class again.
I usually can do all your poses with grace and simultaneous force but today I just couldn't. Slip. I kept slipping. Topple, I kept toppling.
Add in the fact that I was gagging on the putrid release of toxins from the bodies of 50 people around me, and a few other hideous factors, and yah, I hated you today Bikram.
But I'll be back and hopefully we will both present ourselves differently, and rediscover what we once had.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Intuition
But what when it's blocked?
Intuition, intuition- listen to your intuition.
That feeling inside, let it guide.
A slow disintegration
That starts with the failure of your earliest missions
The realization that nothings what it seems
and that often you can't trust even your own vision
A late night exploration
The bathroom lit with candles and the faucet dripping
water rebounds off ancient porcelain,
the drip drop echos the cold stillness of an unheated house
the sits alone in the depths of winter snow
The flickering yellow mixed with the black creates a dark warm orange that glimmers on the mirror
And your reflection looks strangely unfamiliar
and it furthers itself then
the extraction of belief in the self
the severing of connection from the source
the doubt begins to sink in.
A line, a smooth thin line, is drawn
between you and what you once thought you were
and intuition mimics when you question yourself
and you question him
Once, I wanted to fade into everything you were
Once, intuition told me yes
But the yes faded into no's
as the distance furthered between candles,
unlit on an uneven layered birthday cake
I wonder when it was I lost you
and how to find you again
When yes means no, and no is yes, and I keep going on and on,
over it and over it again in my head
And no answer ever seems true
But doubt in my own intuition.
Intuition, intuition- listen to your intuition.
That feeling inside, let it guide.
A slow disintegration
That starts with the failure of your earliest missions
The realization that nothings what it seems
and that often you can't trust even your own vision
A late night exploration
The bathroom lit with candles and the faucet dripping
water rebounds off ancient porcelain,
the drip drop echos the cold stillness of an unheated house
the sits alone in the depths of winter snow
The flickering yellow mixed with the black creates a dark warm orange that glimmers on the mirror
And your reflection looks strangely unfamiliar
and it furthers itself then
the extraction of belief in the self
the severing of connection from the source
the doubt begins to sink in.
A line, a smooth thin line, is drawn
between you and what you once thought you were
and intuition mimics when you question yourself
and you question him
Once, I wanted to fade into everything you were
Once, intuition told me yes
But the yes faded into no's
as the distance furthered between candles,
unlit on an uneven layered birthday cake
I wonder when it was I lost you
and how to find you again
When yes means no, and no is yes, and I keep going on and on,
over it and over it again in my head
And no answer ever seems true
But doubt in my own intuition.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Dreams
I close my eyes,
A quest to fall asleep.
To travel to that darkened place where rest will finally greet.
I close my eyes,
and I see owls, white ghosts against the black backdrop of night.
I feel my chest, rise and fall, rise and fall.
I see ocean waves beating against resilent shores, an intricate dance of give and take.
I hear you calling my name, from the porch.
I see you standing and I feel the sun as I run run run to climb into your arms.
I remember swinging, an old willow tree, the giant quiet witness to all of my childhood memories.
I drove by a few years ago and she was gone.
It was all gone, but somewhere beneath the new paint, beneath the new barn, new fence, new car, I could see it in the framework, but it wasn't what it once was.
And everything changes, everything goes, everyone goes.
A moment of existence, once lived- it passes away forever.
But I remember it somewhere, inside my little head,
and at night it greets me,
calls to me, beckons me home, back to that ruined place as if I could somehow now fix it.
I never believed I could.
I slip from the hold of silent soft owls, their feathers white as snow,
away from that home I used to know
and into a river its currents carrying me away.
Pages and pages of paper, sprawled over with written words, ride along with me.
I struggle to hold on to the steep canyon ridges, but the water is determined to pull me along.
Then suddenly a switch, I'm dry and up high,
high on a cliff, its night and stars glitter above, able to show their true light against the absolute darkness
I walk up to the ledge. Teeter at the edge.
Owls fly near and close, I can see my old home below.
I let go.
But instead of falling, I go up up up, and into full flight, one with the night.
A quest to fall asleep.
To travel to that darkened place where rest will finally greet.
I close my eyes,
and I see owls, white ghosts against the black backdrop of night.
I feel my chest, rise and fall, rise and fall.
I see ocean waves beating against resilent shores, an intricate dance of give and take.
I hear you calling my name, from the porch.
I see you standing and I feel the sun as I run run run to climb into your arms.
I remember swinging, an old willow tree, the giant quiet witness to all of my childhood memories.
I drove by a few years ago and she was gone.
It was all gone, but somewhere beneath the new paint, beneath the new barn, new fence, new car, I could see it in the framework, but it wasn't what it once was.
And everything changes, everything goes, everyone goes.
A moment of existence, once lived- it passes away forever.
But I remember it somewhere, inside my little head,
and at night it greets me,
calls to me, beckons me home, back to that ruined place as if I could somehow now fix it.
I never believed I could.
I slip from the hold of silent soft owls, their feathers white as snow,
away from that home I used to know
and into a river its currents carrying me away.
Pages and pages of paper, sprawled over with written words, ride along with me.
I struggle to hold on to the steep canyon ridges, but the water is determined to pull me along.
Then suddenly a switch, I'm dry and up high,
high on a cliff, its night and stars glitter above, able to show their true light against the absolute darkness
I walk up to the ledge. Teeter at the edge.
Owls fly near and close, I can see my old home below.
I let go.
But instead of falling, I go up up up, and into full flight, one with the night.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Night, meet me on the couch.
To sit, still, the only motion the rising and falling of your chest as you breathe in, out, in and out.
To see the disappearance of daylight, the gradual procession, the layers of light, the stages that the falling sun sets.
To witness it, calm, quiet.
The race of the train over tracks, clickety-clack, clickety-clack.
The shuddering of old window panes.
The softness of the couch as it sinks to embrace your body.
The slight quiver of the tree as it loses its leaves in this cold winter weather.
The stroke of grey, painted over the white, the black and the blue colors race into your eyes.
They mix together to form infinity.
A gentle subsession, an aching progression, as day yields to night.
And a body so full with the wonderful wisdom
of what it means to be alive.
To see the disappearance of daylight, the gradual procession, the layers of light, the stages that the falling sun sets.
To witness it, calm, quiet.
The race of the train over tracks, clickety-clack, clickety-clack.
The shuddering of old window panes.
The softness of the couch as it sinks to embrace your body.
The slight quiver of the tree as it loses its leaves in this cold winter weather.
The stroke of grey, painted over the white, the black and the blue colors race into your eyes.
They mix together to form infinity.
A gentle subsession, an aching progression, as day yields to night.
And a body so full with the wonderful wisdom
of what it means to be alive.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
India
She lays down
Now surrounded by piles of leaves.
If she closes her eyes she can imagine India.
The smells of curry and the slight warm breeze, that challenges the heavy heat.
She can hear the rythmic music,
finds it strangely difficult to catch the beat.
She can see into the swampy forest,
where a tiger crouches low.
She can see into his eyes and she becomes aware of herself in their reflection.
She has dark skin, dark hair and dark eyes.
But she feels just the same,
as the girl she left behind-
Surrounded by the turn of seasons, the death of summer as Autumn brings the colors of red, yellow and orange,
the colors she wears now.
Now surrounded by piles of leaves.
If she closes her eyes she can imagine India.
The smells of curry and the slight warm breeze, that challenges the heavy heat.
She can hear the rythmic music,
finds it strangely difficult to catch the beat.
She can see into the swampy forest,
where a tiger crouches low.
She can see into his eyes and she becomes aware of herself in their reflection.
She has dark skin, dark hair and dark eyes.
But she feels just the same,
as the girl she left behind-
Surrounded by the turn of seasons, the death of summer as Autumn brings the colors of red, yellow and orange,
the colors she wears now.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Cement, Strippers, Fast food and Cars
People are born
And grow up to work CONSUME and die
THERE ARE STARS ABOVE EVERY NIGHT!
....and nobody looks up.
Up above themselves and above this all.
Above this city of waste and strange contraditctions. Cement, strippers, fast food and cars.
What an incredibly sad WASTE. And it is such a trap- locking you in, and nobody wants to cut off their own leg to escape.
But how can you not?
SEE? We are all wasting away.
Something worse than death-
and the destruction of the gifts of love and life and heaven.
Twisting it into something so detrimental,
our own creation of hell.
Filled with cement, strippers, fast food and cars.
And grow up to work CONSUME and die
THERE ARE STARS ABOVE EVERY NIGHT!
....and nobody looks up.
Up above themselves and above this all.
Above this city of waste and strange contraditctions. Cement, strippers, fast food and cars.
What an incredibly sad WASTE. And it is such a trap- locking you in, and nobody wants to cut off their own leg to escape.
But how can you not?
SEE? We are all wasting away.
Something worse than death-
and the destruction of the gifts of love and life and heaven.
Twisting it into something so detrimental,
our own creation of hell.
Filled with cement, strippers, fast food and cars.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
Coconuts
I remember the way the air felt, engulfing you and mixing into your skin. Damp, warm, moist.
I remember the smell- a mix of city air, salty ocean and sweaty skin. A faint floral aroma floating on the breeze.
I remember the insomnia, tossing and turning, drenching the sheets. No air conditioning, just heat heat heat.
I remember the rain, how it came in torrents and flooded the baseball field, and how I would put on my bikini and run downstains and slip and slide, slip and slide.
I remember the look of 3am, glaring red digits across the screen of the clock. Up off the bed, trying to be quiet, not wanting to wake the house. How could they sleep?
Socks, tennis shoes-slip on feet.
Music to move to the beat.
The road, the black pavement littered with specks of silver, glimmering glittering under old orange street lights.
Start out slowly, walking, then RUN. Hit the dumpsters and RUN.
I would run run run, until I forgot my mind and felt only my body, moving, feet pounding into the ground. Going going going. Charging forward to that sacred spot. And then, the stop, the view. I remember the view, that amazing vision. Stars, blackness above, blackness on the horizon, and shining lights. Skyscrapers, palm trees, coconuts lingering above.
Did you know, 101 people die each year from a coconut hitting them on top of the head?
It felt like forever there- infinity, like I didn't exist, like I blended into the palm tree, the city, the ocean below.
Breathing, coming back to life. Moving, going back to movement. Slowly, slowly, walking back home.
5am. Time for bed. 12pm At the grocery store. Coconuts. Buy a coconut. Take it home. Call him, come open this for me.
Him- Why would you buy this at the store? They are everywhere here.
Drive to the North Shore-him, coconuts, so many coconuts.
Sand, water, waves, surf.
Back to the window, 3am.
That young girl, looking out.
That city, starring back.
It wanted me, I wanted it. I gave myself, but couldn't give it all.
That piece I gave? It's still there, I don't believe I'll ever get it back. It calls to me, that city that place. Come back come back. But how can you return to a place that no longer exists?
I remember the smell- a mix of city air, salty ocean and sweaty skin. A faint floral aroma floating on the breeze.
I remember the insomnia, tossing and turning, drenching the sheets. No air conditioning, just heat heat heat.
I remember the rain, how it came in torrents and flooded the baseball field, and how I would put on my bikini and run downstains and slip and slide, slip and slide.
I remember the look of 3am, glaring red digits across the screen of the clock. Up off the bed, trying to be quiet, not wanting to wake the house. How could they sleep?
Socks, tennis shoes-slip on feet.
Music to move to the beat.
The road, the black pavement littered with specks of silver, glimmering glittering under old orange street lights.
Start out slowly, walking, then RUN. Hit the dumpsters and RUN.
I would run run run, until I forgot my mind and felt only my body, moving, feet pounding into the ground. Going going going. Charging forward to that sacred spot. And then, the stop, the view. I remember the view, that amazing vision. Stars, blackness above, blackness on the horizon, and shining lights. Skyscrapers, palm trees, coconuts lingering above.
Did you know, 101 people die each year from a coconut hitting them on top of the head?
It felt like forever there- infinity, like I didn't exist, like I blended into the palm tree, the city, the ocean below.
Breathing, coming back to life. Moving, going back to movement. Slowly, slowly, walking back home.
5am. Time for bed. 12pm At the grocery store. Coconuts. Buy a coconut. Take it home. Call him, come open this for me.
Him- Why would you buy this at the store? They are everywhere here.
Drive to the North Shore-him, coconuts, so many coconuts.
Sand, water, waves, surf.
Back to the window, 3am.
That young girl, looking out.
That city, starring back.
It wanted me, I wanted it. I gave myself, but couldn't give it all.
That piece I gave? It's still there, I don't believe I'll ever get it back. It calls to me, that city that place. Come back come back. But how can you return to a place that no longer exists?
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