Wednesday, December 16, 2009

I Miss My Side Kick Piles

I need to be dressed and at the bus stop in an hour, but I feel compelled to linger with my coffee and face the page.  I don’t have time to let my thoughts pull out the poetry for my prose.  I’ll leave it for the bus ride with music in my ear, I’ll let myself swim in word play.  I am remembering grad school and how much writing on a public page helped me to get through it all.  I think I miss the overwhelming structure of busy-ness.  And I miss how words became my reprieve from my side kick of piles.

I’ve struggled with my blog persona since I’ve been out of school again. It was easier to have one subject taking up my life then to express anything about the other parts. Why? Simply, I am a private person and I like that.  I’m trying to give myself permission though to share my life and the people I love. Like Driftwood and The Chief, Stonetree and Seafarer, and so many more.  I have some great stories about these beautiful women and sometimes I want the world to see how great they are.  Sometimes I just want to share my life.  I’m not a poet either. Prose writer, yes! I never professed to be a poet, it was from the mouths of others that the title was invented.  I’ve let it linger with me, mulled it over my tongue, and realize I love my poets, but I do not want to be one.  I feel more secure in the story and the story gives me space to step outside myself.  A friend of mine would probably harp at this moment about how I am way off.  But like all things labeled, its best if I decide which labels to own and not.

And that’s about all the time I have to babble on the page. Its time to smoke one last cigarette before dressing and running to the bus.

Happy Wednesday!


Monday, December 14, 2009

What's born from me

Morning swallowed my resistance and opened this self to possibility.  If ever there was a time for a good story to be told, this is the now!

I'm done with self baked poetry defining the archetype of I. I know me, my love, how I love, and what has meaning for me.  Its time to grow up and go outside this form.

Sunday, December 13, 2009

sketchbook: A Catcher in the Rye

My inflection gives my emotions away, I hear my words punctuated like an automaton voice recording, the feeling has dissipated behind them. I am exposed by my voice, unless at work where I am conscious to sound supportive and attentive, unless sometimes strict, and I never deviate from the role. Life holds no boundaries though. Before I can process the mood, my vocal chords will flux or go taught like branches against the seasons depending on the moment. I am helpless to an attentive listener. The keyword attentive, I suppose. And then I realize there is no need to worry, no one really is listening.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

sketchbook: Hibernation Free Thought

Lingering too long with warm blankets cuddling against the morning light, I rise and swagger into my day, weary eyed and dazed.  I don’t remember much. Thoughts are gauzy puffs under my eyes until the coffee pours. Hibernation. 

I love this time of year.  Hell, I’m listening.  It’s bloody cold. Frigid in fact, and I realize I live where winter happens!  Funny how that happened. Lived all my life on this Mit. Every year the same old thing. Winds so frozen, the body winces like a punched gut.  Without a car…Mother Nature insisting we chill the fuck out…Hibernate!!!! J

It’s the perfect doctor’s note:

To Whom It May Concern:

GoGo needs to wear layers of snuggly warmth and a nice cuddly hat. She can only leave the house to work or play in the snow! All other times she must be watching movies, cooking, or drinking warm brews of various distinctions. Tis the bitterly cold season and she must hibernate. 

Mother Nature

Thursday, December 10, 2009


I love the free fall.
Jumping into infinity and letting the air fold around me.

I love the experience of those who too love the free fall.

Excuse me, if I find a fool in the woman who negates a parachute is involved.

That gravity has her way, whether she admits it or not.

That height and speed says something for the jump.

And my guilty pleasure, is watching the arrogant jump as though their own wings will carry them and watch them go SPLAT!

But not on my flight. I'll pass to the next round, my dear.

You simply are too much paperwork.

There is not enough room for you, your ego, and this self.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Beyond the ego lives spirit, beyond the spirit lives self.

A Prayer
Beyond the self,

beyond this simple form,
my thoughts send whispers
of the searching soul.

Breathe in air,
what has she carried to me?
This me,
searching in everything
outside me,
feels lost in the noise
of all those hearts beating
for the same thing.


Nope. The lot of us
is simply not getting it.
This fabric breathes
a falsetto
of the beauty, grace, and form.  
The logic
bruised and misguided.
Yet, there live the
parcels and pieces
of true beauties form, she is
a stutter-less grace,
and I know her.

Exhale the stagnate norms,
neonates of understanding,
I let go of everything
known of this self.

with the next subtle breath in
I ask with humility –
the humble part of me

who simply

wants to touch providence –
help me to release everything I know?

I came here to grow.

The Gardener Grows, The Gardener Knows When to transplat.
I am solid ground,

a continent of rich soil
to plant your roots in.

But do not abuse the opportunity,
for that is when you stick
the self in a potted form,
cramped and stale. 
Loss comes with reversal's norms.    

Sunday, December 6, 2009

randomized cohorts: we begin at the end.

~Sometimes it feels like society is just another groupie for the gonzo experience. Remember Hunter S. Thompson's side kick raped a woman and he sat in the sidelines writing about it.

~Never appreciate/trust the poet who only writes about love. Two dimentional and ego bare.  For g-d sakes, even Aphrodite had a hobby.

~I love this holiday, the music, the lights! And when there's snow its like living in Rockefeller's snow globe.

~Can we move on to climbing mountains now?

~The snow teaches me to let it fall. Eventually it melts and spring arrives.

Friday, December 4, 2009

Delicious, believable, relaxing.

Played Apples to Apples tonight. Liked this game, because my green cards were 'delicious, believable, and relaxing'. Not the sum of me, but a nice start.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Sunday Scribbles: Games

III. God Save the Queen
The queen can move in all different directions and her role is to protect the one step man? He is powerless to the role he plays in the weaving fabric of a scheme, but not our queen. She can slip through checkered knots, backwards and forwards, diagonal across the board. She can even be lost but the game still won! That to me is impressive. A pawn will yield itself to promotion for the queen, but not the king. Ah, how beautiful is she, so excuse me if I adore and hope that G-d saves the Queen. 11/29/09 Sunday Scribblings Prompt

Older pieces about Chess, I cannot help but post for review.
II. Sketchbook: Sundry Steps on a Marrow’d Path

I fumble with rooks in my palm. Flipping each between my fingers like a panhandler with a quarter,I slip my tips into their bare underbelly one at a time. Becoming their marrow, I tap my thimbles against the desk. The queen remembers her fear of exposure while sifting through the first spring of hope. Everything we did was done again down to the words said. I ask myself if there is solace in knowing it was all just a Xeroxed copy of us. Illuminescent eyes while sucking the honey dripping. Sigh. Plucking each rook off the fingers one at a time, sucking in my breath, I command them each to take two steps forward. I call out my horsemen next to ride this night sky and bring me back the king. 8/21/09
I. Sketch: off beat while exposing the queen
Self-confidence tempered by doubt, my mind inflamed with wanting to check my balances. I find myself wanting to control again as though somehow I can circumvent the risk of vulnerability by playing life like a chess game. I want to see all possible moves, all possible defenses so as not to cause offense to this fragile sense of exposure. Who am I kidding, if there is one lesson unlearned that could just be learned already, it would be that you…I mean I must let go of the idea of control…at least the type of control I am looking for. And though doubt nestles the thoughts, a faint off beat in this cadence of assurance, I honestly think I wouldn’t, possibly couldn’t, change what I am feeling, wanting, and hoping for...



New place,
new space,
new trees, new porch (bigger),
new windows,
new steps from bed to bathroom.

I haven’t counted them yet, too busy holding on to the old rooms; the new count reminds me of what I’ve done before I even have begun.

I look back at the last few years living on my own without roommates. Not allowing the Uhaul moving someone else in and just living with me. When I first moved in, I was so far out of my comfort zone; I wondered what I had done. I never fathomed I could do it, live and be self sustained completely on my own. Not sure why because when I look back on my life, I have always been just that. Not sure why since most of my college living was in my own single. (One room, of course I'll keep it for myself!).  I grew to enjoy the quiet, grew to know my steps in the dark, enjoyed my naked form flowing around the corners, and bringing only the things and people I wanted in my home. My soul needs space to breathe away from stimulus of others. I need solitude! And solitude was exactly what I was looking to find. In my own apartment, I was able to turn alone and lonely into quiet reverence for me. I discovered the quiet mind. I embraced solitude.

Now, here I am finalizing my goodbye to my own apartment and moving in with people again. The same old fear think is back, what have I done? I’ve done all of this before, but here I breathe gingerly breeching my new comfort zone of preferring to be alone. I’ve added up the parts of me and summed up the formula, knowing its time to take solitude back to the co-operative living. I left it to avoid being swayed by that fear of alone, I come back again to test what I have known, that my instincts are mine and who I am, I own.

My internal dialogue bounces like a coil to see me stretching my comfort zone AGAIN with something I have done before. My cancerian form dictates my home is a sensitive subject, even though I have slept in traveled places, lived in various homes, huddled on a stolen train in the middle of the night, home base is where I work out my understandings.

My work places me in other people’s stories. The fear of being alone is such a common story, most make decisions solely on this criteria then any other. I never want to make a decision or guide myself for a fear. It’s a beguiling fear too, insidiously convinces us that something is better then being with one self. Most breed it in their relationships, going from one to another or staying while constantly complaining. Harp its love when even they can see inevitably the delusion will play out.

Now, here I am on the opposite side of spectrum, hesitant to give up my alone. The beautiful thing about my new place is I made sure I had ample space amongst others. Two rooms, not just one. This beautiful half kitchen that will be my studio and a bedroom that will hold this lover’s bed. Mmmm.

All I need to do now is get things organized. I’ve stripped down to the bare necessities. In the studio are my desk, art supplies, cameras, stereo and book shelves. Here I tack up all my favorite authors and photographers and poets against the cabinets; letting the eastern light kiss them for me. In the bedroom I have my bed, dresser, book shelves, and guitar.  Though I do need to buy a new chair, smaller then my old one to hold my bag when I come home. Everything else waits in storage or has been given away.

I moved for both necessity and convenience. It’s time for the student to begin to learn again, though I never really stopped. My being is calling me to focus on the craft again. I need the pious living of simplicity: Two rooms and me. I need the busy chatter below to comfort the analytical side as well, “Is this too much alone?” I need the comfort of someone pushing me to go out and play. I need to see solitude play out in a crowded space. My cancerian self understands this.

I admit though, I prefer to live with just one other, my love. I’d rather negotiate space like this then a crowded place I live, but we will get there. For now, the teacher becomes the student once again and begins her lessons trying to let this life unfurl in all of its beauty. Tomorrow I count my new steps from bed to bathroom in the darkness of night. I slip off my shirt and write at my beautiful desk and let the light from the two walls of windows warm my skin.

Friday, November 27, 2009

Wants to spin like a Sufi, 

hands receiving sky and earth, 

my skirt twirling open like a flower breathing, 

I just want to go unfurling. 

Thursday, November 26, 2009


Thankmindfullness.  I am grateful for my love.  Grateful for my family. Grateful for my friends. I am grateful for this journey and how I carry my pack. Grateful I get to share it. There ain't no heaven and hell but what we create here, humbly i walk with the universe. I'll keep listening, ever tuning my ears to hear the story. 

So thank you universe! I am so very very lucky.


sketch: snapshot

Found this free thought session while saving something else. The title of the file intreiged me.  Apparently, I never completed the thought before the deadline to post.  I like the repetition. I like where it lead me.  

Sunday Scribblings: For Richer or Poorer

For richer or poorer I am with me, my internal dialogue harks at me when I meditate on this weeks prompt.  I can’t help but to apply these lines to the wedding vows institutionalized in my culture.  Two people coming together and promising to bear the whips and scorns of time, and happiness’s interludes together.  I’m not sure if it’s because I am queer and by its virtue was born into a standard where these words aren’t supposed to come from my lips for another’s ears, unless I concede to lie on my wedding day.  If I promise this to a man, then I can say them, but if I promised them to a man I would be lying.  I cannot change this.  I don’t know how.

For richer or poorer I am with, my internal dialogue

Sunday Scribblings: For Richer or Poorer

For richer or poorer I am with me, my internal dialogue caresses my thoughts with these words.

For richer or poorer I walk my path arm in arm with this self, sharing all my experiences – those good times and bad, in poverty and richness, with the flaws in being human and the growth from facing them.

My mind can’t help but to apply those words to the institutionalized wedding vows of my culture.  They are words to cascade from one’s lips to another’s ear, promising to bare the whips and scorns of time and happiness’s interludes together. Side by side, two ones promise to share the highs and lows of life’s experiences.  My heart always feels heavy when I read those words and in response my mind promises them to this self.

I’m not sure if its because I am queer and in my society I have been told that I cannot speak these lines to another that quakes me to reassure that I’ll

Sunday Scribblings: For Richer or Poorer

For richer or poorer, my internal dialogue squawks at me with a sneer while it twists the words in my head. 

For richer or poorer I am with me, it shouts to the corner of the brain trying to push back the weight in the words.

I can’t help but to apply these lines to the wedding vows institutionalized in my culture.  Two people coming together and promising to bear the whips and scorns of time, and happiness’s interludes together.  I’m not sure if it’s because I am queer and by its virtue was born into a standard where these words aren’t supposed to come from my lips for another’s ears, unless I concede to lie on my wedding day.  If I promise this to a man, then I can say them, but if I promised them to a man I would be lying.  I cannot change this.  I don’t know how.

For richer or poorer

For richer or poorer, you can’t stop us from loving one another. You can scribble rules on page, deny us visibility on legality’s page, refuse us taxes, disaffirm our right to sit by our lover’s hospital bed when sick or dying

By nature of denying me the option of legally committing to my lover, to love I must act with civil disobedience. 

The day held the warm arch of the summer sun as we watched two friends promise to commit their lives together.  It’s the standard story, two ones

They are words to cascade from one’s lips to another’s ear, promising to bare the whips and scorns of time and happiness’s interludes together. Side by side, two ones promise to share the highs and lows of life’s experiences. 

and then embark on that journey where two ones promise to share their lives together. 

 share words of committment.  Two friends, two lovers, embracing 

January 1, 2009~ g.g. roku

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Real Life

Reposting a prompt piece from Sunday Scribbles series. Today I need this kind of moxy.

Now get ready to breathe in
simultaneously through nose and mouth
Head titled back, back arched
Let the air fill the lungs,
Deepening the fullness weighting
down your hips
grounding you to the ground.
And as the breath completely
and you are swimming
in the Fullness of your filled lungs,
Blow out everything inside you.

(all caps, please note)
Is the embodiment of all we experience.
It is the sundry steps of our journey
and the alabaster stones that sharpens our
hands to hold our egos.

Is the blended colors
between happiness
And not,
the spot
on the spectrum
marking where we are at
At any given time.

Is Every moment we choose to do what
At any given moment,
Like the earth rotating around itself
Rotating around the sun,
Spinning around the galaxy
Swirling with the best of the dust
In our own universes!
Life is as real as the context
In which we breathe it in.

Are the stones of comfort
That hold us up in our daily
Lives, the bread of nurture
That we are lucky to find.
The pitter patter of awakened
love, from self and others.
AND the self love permeating
Out for others to hold ‘cause self
Love is nothing if it’s only something

Is the hard times that blisters our souls
And the good times that heal them.
It is the tear that is shed as well as the
Laughter we share,
And we are lucky if we are aware enough to
Appreciate both as life unfolding.

Is the friendships we hold,
all those relationships
We mold by accidental bumps
On all our roads.

Encompasses the beauty of all that
Entails us,
That ties us to living like Gideon’s knot.
Whether we choose to own it
or not,
It is every thing between our first breath
And last.

REAL LIFE ~ is the life we live.
April 8, 2006

I'll never walk my path otherwise

With courage you will dare to take risks, have the strength to be compassionate, and the wisdom to be humble. Courage is the foundation of integrity. ~Keshavan Nair

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

fine tuning

CB Handler 
A stampede of chatter,
Cluttered white noise, we ricochet
Off each others journeys, guideposts
If we can fine tune listening, feeling
And understanding.
Closed off, closed root
and bitter has never sat well with me.
I’m trying to learn openness and
Self care simultaneously.

We all have tricks of this trade
called living.
Negotiating the map and person.
Cowboys, rock stars and chess players,
we wear our robes to protect us against
the elements rolling in with the weather.
Suppose mine is teacher in exchange for lesson.
There never was a player in me.

You teach me & I’ll be the lesson.
I teach you & you’ll be the lesson.

Listening, feeling, and understanding,
I tune my antennas, I won’t stop
till all that white noise fades into the picture
and I can see my road clearly. My trick,
my trade, my map and person knows
there never was a player in me.

Changing the Rules
While I fined tuned the defense
I didn't mean to offend.
Asking we simply not pretend
that reality doesn't exist.
Sure, we could go about
it for hours, the subjectivity,
maybe, if there wasn't this strategic plan,
contra-indicated all over your board,
I'd believe you when you pretended not
to understand what I am asking for.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

I don't want to play by your rules, lets make them up together. Lets concede there is the other and honor this.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

i unpack my books first

Messy Room by Shel Silverstein

Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,

And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!

I unpack my books first. I crack open the oversized boxes and they release a plume of perspiration seducing the brow. I inhale the liquored musk, releasing them from their cardboard prison. This projection of liberation lingering in the air sends me into the swirl of relief; I organize and stack them on the shelves. My books were the first things packed; their puzzle perfect spines slipped easiest into a box and gave this traveler a sense of order where the mind felt messy. Now, they are the first to greet the new shell still soft, pink and raw. Fiction, Philosophy, Poetry, Psychology, and reference. Photography and Biography. Spirituality & Pornography lingers somewhere in between it all. I stack them in order of easiest reference for my mind. Harry Potter, never read but all first editions found in the basement of a thrift store while traveling, have their own shelf. I dreamt I would find them and when I did I knew to buy them, but I haven’t dreamt the dream to read them, so they wait. What an odd shelf of understanding then, my Harry Potter collection.

Poetry tambien! Reigns high, it grows from its own shelf into another. I am remembering my childhood and how I flipped through my Shel Silverstein over and over again. How I was instantly won over by the banter of the soul in words. Rumi came later to point out this relationship with the beloved and I knew I’d always be a sucker for poetic prose.

I imagine the day when all things are in their place & I can toss a random book on the bed to read. I miss my dance of clutter as I begin to unpack my life; I want to step over the pile of clothes left on the floor rather then all these boxes. It takes effort to get there, I suppose, so I unpack my books first.

absinthe: part I

She stood staring silently at a single star burning lonely in the sky. The whole world’s afraid of the dark, she thought, but if we turn off all the lights, we’d see a million suns at midnight guiding us.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Unfimiliarity under familiar terms

Stretched body prostrate on my bed, my scent curls against my cheek nestling pillow. The room is new though I still sleep head West, toes East. Creaking floorboards, the night watchman of space, crack the unconscious with a new metronome. My neighbors, no longer separated into compartments, are now my roommates and suddenly I am ultra conscious that my space has dwindled under this late night ticking toward the sunrise. What is mine fits into two rooms or lies dormant in a cardboard portmanteau with my name marked on the sides, collecting dust in their sarcophagus until the day they are resurrected. My first night and I cannot sleep, so I burry my noise harder into the scent of me.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

sketchbook: Capitalism's Got the Grunge

October Waltz

Breezy sway against the wind, howling laughter in my ear, autumn dances with me. My throat hugs the scarf as I breathe deep this crisp rainy evening. I saunter in the October Moon, letting fresh thoughts skip and play in my head.

The President Announced another Emergency

Day after day, the hum of reconstruction slips off the tongue of politicians, postulating prosperity if we just cut more fat from the budget first. They become as desperate as the food lines getting longer while impotent homes grow in rows. A man walked onto the bus today, spitting curses from the mouth, he yells out “Who on this bus is on unemployment?” Hand after hand raise greeted with a hoop and holler of frustration’s pride, he answers back, “I thought so.”

I am employed. I have insurance. I have a home.

I pretend I am inoculated from this infection breaking down the leukocytes of capitalism. The American Dream’s gotten the grunge as it hacks up and coughs the sh!t all over us. Econogreen, the promised vaccination, hasn’t gotten to the masses yet.


I am not infallible like my cavalier veneer suggests. Like a bruised fruit, I sometimes blush at a harsh tongue smacking against the cheek with judgment. Criticism of my lines robust in shape crushes against my ego and makes this runner run. Arbitrarily applied rules projected against my skin burns worse then a sunburst against this milky hide. The inflictor may not know this, quick is this shell to gleam with stoic regime, I scurry under my shield of impenetrability. A skill? An attribute?

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Midnight Shift: Tired, Bored...oh look its the paint brush ap.

Um, I’m moving. I have to pack…boxes and stuff.
I have to decide what to purge and what to keep.
I have to coordinate moving said boxes and stuff to the next residence.

I just want a big hug.

A really really big hug.

Sunday, October 18, 2009


Time beat a second past the hour,
the addendum to this story,
it struck the soul in triplets.
Born in the off beat,
don't get lost in the counter melody,
my guardian angel explained.
The metronome kept beating
against the tolls of the masses
and it wasn’t until this chilly autumn’s dawn
providence did notice it had forgotten to reset my clock
and made the adjustment.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Sinus Pressure & Pressured Time: Chill out Grasshopper!

A cold dipped into my chest leaving me pretty worn these last few days. I’m trying to move to a new locale by the end of the month and find myself on hold until further notice. It came on while I wrapped up my last trip to NYC. My love took care of me until I had to fly out and the flight made things worse. Now, I’m working a late night, guts feel bruised and worn from the coughing. The good news is I do not have H1N1, just the standard virus knocking around the sinus passages.

I’ve focused on rest instead of stressing out on all things I have to do. I managed to clean my hall closet today, got out the random boxes I kept for moving occasions, and discovered a box of old loose leaf journal entries. Top page was me writing about a cold in 2005 when I had to stop pushing myself and let myself rest. Heh. Looks like I finally listened to my needs. I cannot remember who, perhaps my x-lover at that time, regardless in the entry someone called me out for being “mean to myself”. Apparently I push myself too hard. Or rather pushed.

I find it interesting that history collects in my corners. I have layers and a past now. I can look back and sketch arches of change and self-discovery. I do like that I have done the work that goes into evolving. I find my integrity has remained solid and most assuredly my character holds steadfast in a day and age when drama is confused for authentic experiences.

Scratch that last paragraph. This cold and working a midnight shift makes my brain quite foggy. I am not sure what I am talking about at the moment. I dare say I am cranky tonight too. Though I have spent the last couple of days resting through this cold, restlessness is beginning to seep in and I want to get back to progress towards the move, towards my goals for the year. Hell, I just want a good old fashion road trip to look forward to.

I believe that this moment in time calls for patience. The move, the current mood, the evolution of my relationships, and my past creeping into my tomorrows…all these things need silent meditation and patience. I can tell because I am beginning to feel this sense of frustration that comes with wanting to tell G-d to go f-ck a canary. This is not a good sign! I am starting to get frustrated at my circumstances. Bitter fruits reside in my taste buds. So, its best to focus on the tasks that need completing and let the thoughts stay mellow in the mean time. Change has a tendency to come with uncertainty before things get sweet again. I cannot see what is coming around the corner in my world. I don’t like this blind alley feeling permeating the upcoming move and seasons. At the same time, I’ll let grace deal with the unknown for the time being until I can trust things again.  Something tells me that this change is occuring at a cellular level.  Ah, what is this?  What breeches my door and asks me to keep the faith just a little longer?

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Excerpt: Pieces From the 1st draft.

Skipping through time like train tracks, marking my way backwards, I come across a memory. A depot of thought, a crossroad three paces ahead, I arrived not knowing I'd leave on a completely different track. The moment I stepped off that train my foot touched serendipity and the epiphany would come later, on the back of retelling the moment, but at that moment, I was clueless to it all...

I can't even fathom what I told him about my travels. I suspect I explained I was a student, heading back to the hometown to help out with my little brother. I probably bantered about writing, as my focus was creative writing classes that semester. Even in that moment, there would be guises layered to distract the seer from ever really seeing me, the truth safely tucked into suppression, my ego proudly grinning the illusions slipping off my magical tongue. He'd never know that I was a changeling switching my skin right before his eyes. First, I slip into neutral, becoming the solid form in the moving canvass. This was the only time my two worlds sloughed off my body and I was completely free. School, my landscape of muddled self and my family life, the noose snug around my nape, did not exist. He'd never know that it was this moment I felt completely safe and though I was supposed to be marking my own checklist to my future, I really just wanted to figure out what the hell was going on.

By the time I stepped off the train in my home town after saluting Ant* with a hug, I felt I knew something of this man while I was safely tucked away in the rhetoric of lies. Can't help but to notice that I was lying in both my worlds about the other. Can't help but see that Ant* played a huge rule in saving me one last time from my worlds crashing around me and swallowing me hole. More importantly, he saved me from myself...
(untitled autobiographical 9/23/09)
Know the final product will be completely different.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

sketchbook: obscura on crinkled pages

Shoulda Coulda Woulda
Smile coils on my face, this day almost done; I am ready to keep looking forward while listening to that internal dialogue smirking at the things I still need to learn. Life, that rag bastard of collected history, constantly surprising me, has sent me wandering once again in my cocky wonder-lust for understanding. Sigh. I thought by now I’d have a grasp on what this life is SUPPOSED to be. I am starting to realize its best to watch out for those very words – SUPPOSED TO BE.

Stalker Nightmare (written 4/3/07)
It’s too late. I don’t want to know. She stares me down, ushering me with her hand in a frantic wave to come closer. I don’t, so she steps closer pressing her hand against my shoulder pushing her face close to my ear. I step backwards a little as she whispers her secret against her fingers pursed hugging my arm now and it’s too late. I am an innocent bystander to her need to share her secret love for me. Of course, she expects me to respond, have advice, comfort…I have none, except to keep me out of this loop. I am okay with simply not playing telephone. My heart feels bored by these inane human conditions of secrets and lies. It is not unique and is overplayed. In a world learning to forgive itself of its irreverent behavior in the name of impulsive exoneration, I find myself yearning for that rare seed, a heart that can beat & still know integrity. It’s not that I haven’t been there; ready to forego thought for the high. I’ve done it more then I should remember. Somewhere though, I learned to draw a line with self-love and action, replacing addiction for self-love. I sowed myself a new skin that heals old scars, and I forgave myself. Once forgiveness happens, everything changes! Suddenly, I hunger for a new kind of love I have never experienced before and that old impulse now yearn for the sweetest rarest bud of all, authenticity with love. It’s too late. She hates me now, with fevered conviction. I didn’t acquiesce to the same sentiment and just as powerful her love was for me, so is her hate. And now she plans to woo me regardless. To show me I am hers. It’s getting worse. I like her even less. Love impossibility. Though I admit once, I would have skipped out on reality and accepted this and pretended it was love.

I peel back layers of writing. I write and then I forget what I write until I come back to it with fresh eyes. Horrible things aren’t so bad anymore and I realized it was just the sentiment behind it that sucked! Someday, I think to certain pieces, I will share you. Never, I curse at certain pieces, will you see the light of day. And then, because I do heart the underdog, I let them live anyway. I hope that after I have forgotten them and come back to review them, they might get their chance yet.

Friday, September 25, 2009

Communicable Waltz

The sky holds blue today after a constant flow of grey holding in the humidity of these two seasons dancing. Summer sways hand to hand with Autumn, their love affair burns a lovely shade of happy today, their mingling perfumes the air with a soft musk, intoxicating everything! Faces around me shine, unaware that the sunny day has something to do with it, this self included in this communicable infection of joy.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

The Eastside

still my favorite view from my porch steps.

How to give love

I wake up to my day with love in my ear and
stretch into my presence with coffee blessing taste buds.
My smile brings smiles to others faces and my
heart beats with respect and integrity before impulsive response.
And as I breathe slow breaths daily, I
give myself the space to slow down my thoughts, reminding myself
you must be treated exactly how I want to be treated.
'Love to self first' is my mantra & receving love the counter beat.

Monday, September 14, 2009


Thoughts shoot like sling shots in my direction. Revelations turning into resolutions, decisions to be made. I cannot rely on supposed to or understanding. Dialogue gets lost in the vernacular of the soul anyway. Feelings gravitate towards old corners where I fell to my knees while screaming as loud as I could to stop! Sigh & chuckle, memory. That was when I died. Even in my last breath, I fought to have my voice. Resurrection at the hand of determination, I bet Jesus would’ve applauded my moxy. I resuscitated my words a distance away, subconscious’ plan seeded years kinda knew this was how I’d survive. At some point I turned the running into running feet circling a jogger’s path and thought I was done escaping something. There are days when I think checking out is easier then staying present. Quick deaths over slow ones. But then it is the soul here speaking up. My soul. I don’t know why it always seems to be in contradiction with something. Familial heritage I suppose. My soul knows. My soul understands. My soul isn’t playing with impulsive rules anyway. My soul has always whispered truth in times of lies and contradictions. I am beginning to listen and not fight to slip into the molds of reinvented histories. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. I take out the debate in the vernacular and begin to realize what is
m ssing.

Sunday, September 6, 2009

un momento, por favor

The leaves turn to their rusty colors quick this season. Fall slid her foot in the door before she has even left her calling card.

~Working on a thought and decided to search for loose threads to pick up and sow into the hem I'm making. Heh. I remembered once, somewhere I wrote about Autumn's grace and came acrossed these. I suppose I'm sharing again with the reader because I miss them.  Also, here is something to chew on until I get this hem finished. :)

Wednesday, September 2, 2009


Learning the alphabet of this living, I've become my own teacher, scribbling my rhyme.  Life is not rudimentary, but its beauty lives in the elementary transactions of cause and effect.  Slipping letters together, forming the talisman that helps me to fly. This is my craft. A childless witch, I birth this journey on my broomstick circling the night sky. When you see the halo around the moon, know that is the necklace holding my alphabet.

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Gordian's Knot

In my past life, I was a witch who did not disown my craft, so that my daughter would know integrity.

In my past life, I was a witch who disowned my craft, so that my daughter would have a mother.

Both my daughters suffered.

In this life, I laugh with a cackle and not take anything too seriously so that my daughter will know how to laugh despite suffering. 

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Sia - Day Too Soon (Acoustic)

I ran away, I ran away from good...
I finally got to see SIA perform live at Mich Fest. Never expected to see her there and she was brilliant, complete with rolled rrrr's and coupled l's meant for the ear of a lover. hehehe. I love her albums and dare say I loved her live even more. She's an odd duck too which makes me love her more.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Boring post

I always find it hard to work on structured pieces for submission. This week's attempt, a prose piece themed derogatory. Hence my last post. We will see what happens.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Pop Machine: Lost the Original in Free Thought

The pop machine is buried in the basement at my job. Needing an alternative to hot coffee, I decide its time for some cool and refreshing caffeine to burn the throat just the way I like it and head down. There are two pop machines actually, three if you want to count the water machine poorly lit in the corner like a mocking joke. I do not count it. The spider web collecting dust hugging the side of the water machine and the wall encroaching on the coin slot leads me to believe others do not count it as well. Something else to note about the pop machine, I mean machines, is that they often hold onto the money without dispensing the soda-crack of choice. At any given point, usually on the weekends when I work, a plethora of sticky notes with scribbles of people’s names, work locations and amount are tacked to the machines. I personally like to read them to see who fed the machine more then once for their crack. The record amount was $5 (pop cost $1.25) in 2007 and hasn’t been breeched since, at least not on my watch. I don’t think the person was an idiot for trying four times to get their fix, though logic would suggest this. Sometimes the machines start to work again and it’s been known they will pay out like a slot machine, showering the lucky recipient with bottles and bottles of pop. But this is a rare occurrence. Most times you might just get two pops for the price of one or add your name to the list of folks who were going for the jack pot.  Thank goodness someone at some point filed a grievance about these perfunctory machines of error with the union and HR has to reimburse us. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have something to read while I get my soda. Of course, I always wonder why HR didn't just replace these machines instead of paying someone to spend work hours to fill envelops with a one dollar bill and a quarter and walk to each office reimbursing us.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Sketchbook: Sundry Steps on a Marrow’d Path

I fumble with rooks in my palm. Flipping each between my fingers like a panhandler with a quarter,I slip my tips into their bare underbelly one at a time. Becoming their marrow, I tap my thimbles against the desk. The queen remembers her fear of exposure while sifting through the first spring of hope. Everything we did was done again down to the words said. I ask myself if there is solace in knowing it was all just a Xeroxed copy of us. Illuminescent eyes while sucking the honey dripping. Sigh. Plucking each rook off the fingers one at a time, sucking in my breath, I command them each to take two steps forward. I call out my horsemen next to ride this night sky and bring me back the king.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

the land: MWMF

Serendipity keeps me coming back, colliding against the soul cleansing the blood of the dust bunnies collected over the year. Don’t get me wrong, even the land is the sum of the energy we call towards our selves as misery can buy a ticket too. My own ticket transpires my herstory from young dum kid to young somewhat insightful woman, marking the chapters through the arch of change that experience has a way of creating. All I know is that serendipity greets me every time I come. My crossroads seem to begin and end here. I don’t mean to babble on as though it’s a magical space and place like a mystic promising enlightenment over walked on coals. All I know is that I have been in love with the land for 8 years now and am beginning to think I always will.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Thoughts from the land

A throng of us sat around in the campfire circle babbling on like a brook that has over run its bank sharing parts of our lives in gushing layers.

to be continued...

Sunday, August 2, 2009


The rain, a steady trickle, washes out the heat that could have come today. I am waiting to get ready for a wedding. My role, the date. I try to blend in the backdrop, the odd gal out. Living life like a carnaval, I didn't notice I was the patron. I thought like my grandfather I was the carnie worker. See the callouses on my palms? The worn grey in the lining of my clothes? A panhandler of charm, it is my role to prove to you my acceptance. But I don't want to today. My heritage betrays me and today I want you to charm me.

(Reviewing all the unpublished prose. Guess this one is okay to go public).

Sunday, July 19, 2009

sketchbook: skyboats & lineament

in response to performing as a prop in a drag queen show
Shaping the edges, wrapping up the fanfare for this carnival ride. Admission $5. Gyrl, gyrl for sale. Let the party begin.

I never knew
I never knew I wanted love tied in a knot and slipped on the finger until she asked me. I never knew how comfortable familiar love can be when I’ve spent a lifetime staying with the casual. Sweet simple whispers across the nape of the neck stretch the memory. I pray they will cross the caveat and keep the lovers from crossing that impasse. Perhaps I’m just a drifter with tired wings hitching a ride on borrowed time. The thought squishes the beating rhythm and I quilter off. A thousand opportunities given to walk away, love stays. I won’t pretend my bag isn’t packed, collecting dust in the back of the closet. I never knew how much I want to pull it out and unpack, airing out the wind breaker, hanging up the coat; I never knew how much I want to stay.

Scratch the aching, mend the itch
Worries swell up in red dots at the collar, he loosen his tie, that noose hanging the hangman downside up. Eyes curl with fear. Fear permeates the air with perspiration. Something going terribly wrong, I don’t think his life plan is working. Panic fills the viewer and now we all twitch against our own itches, trying to mend all those things that went wrong a long long time ago.

Stepping over the scratching claws in my head, that divine right to be hurt. Thunderheads row across the blue, I want these skyboats to take me away today. Searching for the point on a map where a safe bosom resides I can lay down my head and pray, someplace sacred where I can stay.

Somewhere between the alter and offerings a lineament stained thought sticks to the pulpit - a truth curled at the edges.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

'Yesterday was my birthday & I hung one more year on the line...

I should be depressed, my life's a mess, but I'm having a good time'. ~Paul Simmon.

My life is neither a mess nor am I depressed. I just love that song!

Came across this post when I was turning 30.

Pic from yesterday's Birthday celebration. Gifts from The Chief & Driftwood for the 33rd. heh. I love my life.

Monday, July 13, 2009

without the crow, who will be the cantor

I believe

.................... r

I keep promising the story.

Very happy for the Chief and Driftwood as they are about to have their first little one. I have watched their relationship grow. I understand what love is by how they expressed it to each other. I have a thousand wonderful stories as to why these two should be celebrated for their relationship and their new one coming. I hope to soon to share some here.

Saturday, July 11, 2009


When I was a child, sometime before adolescents, I was selling spices for a school fundraiser. At least, that was the page I remember. I took my catalogue to the neighbors, came across Old Mr. Mann. A widow three doors down from my family. We called him Mrs. Tucker's lover because he would fix up broken parts of her home and car and she was a widower herself. Reality suggests he was simply a kind soul looking for something to do and the drama was the need of the neighborhood to have something to talk about.

I hated selling things, though I have always been good at the sale. There is something about convicing you to buy my pitch, that makes the Cancerian side cringe. I digress. What happened that day wasn't about the sale. Wasn't even about that stupid catalogue or the heart shaped necklace with flecks of fake diamonds that arched the shape. Hehe. Ah, the childhood dreams. This scribble is about Old Mr. Mann.

I came acrossed his door. Convinced him inside. Tried to sell him salts and spice, but I don't think he had the money or could read. Wrinkled veneer, he smiled at me with these innoscent eyes behind big rimmed glasses, and changed the subject. Started to talk about my neighborhood - this corner pocket in the city. Took me to his backyard and pointed out the geography. See, my corner once was farm land. He showed me the slight slope in my backyard where this row of unexplained stones still reside that separated my yard from the garden and what my family called 'the back forty' (a small patch of land where two apple trees still reside). He showed me the shape of the farmland that once resided there. Gave me education about what once was and let me understand my own heritage.

I never made the sale. Honestly, he is the only person I remember from that year...and my heart shaped necklace.

I wish there was an Old Mr. Mann these days to describe my geography. Tell me why the stones that shape the hill are there. Ah, but even without understanding, I know there is old geography here.

Monday, July 6, 2009

Introspection's There: Where Am I?

I don't have insights or understanding for this revolution. I'd like to. Understanding comes with grief, the kind that can lighten the load, but brings absense so apparent, looking directly at the thought buggers the mind. I really don't want to feel.

I am epiphany gyrl. I understand and transcend. I don't. Too tired to go through this again.

So, I revert back to superstition, shy the mind away from reason and understanding, and make a birthday wish. 9 more days till I can blow out the candles. yay!!!!

Sunday, July 5, 2009

Night Sky

Periwinkle skin
Ochre halo crowned your light
Twilight your attire

Jason Mraz -I'm Yours (live)

My gyrlfriend wanted me to listen to this tonight. :).

Its nice being in love. We have something special and I am grateful to the universe for it.


Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Chapter 32

I am the beloved.
I was always the beloved.

Monday, June 29, 2009

Cancer Rising

another revolution around the sun.

Friday, June 12, 2009


what is faith? A consequence of trust? Or the dialogue that lingers somewhere outside the self reaching in, soliciting reassurance that no matter what, this is a good ride. hmmm. Long day on the bus. Errands to do, things to pick up and put down. Warm day breathing sunshine. I can't helped but to feel my chi is taking me somewhere today. Perhaps where I need to be. I just want to play today. Take in the day exactly as is and enjoy the course. & I can't help feeling like faith hitched along on the ride. be continued.


Sunday, June 7, 2009


The hem of my thoughts curl up, revealing fleshy appetite seeking deliverance. I slide finger against the thought of you. I dream of summer’s humid heat, car rides, and hand jobs.

Saturday, June 6, 2009

sketchbook: Hauntings

Another late night tacked onto the paycheck, I outlast the moonset. There’s gristle stuck to my mood. It resides deep in the enameled crevasses of my thought. I try to pick it out but only manage to lodge it further. Inevitably the inevitable wants invited in and I can’t help but succumb to the ghost that lingers in my head tonight. Old bones tucked in the closet worn to dust; I almost forgot the physiognomy of my skeleton. Time has done what it promised. Withered bones become a heap of white powder. I thought I could simply sweep it up and be done. I didn’t count on old bone dust disturbed, plumes the air. I find myself ingesting hollow words whispered to me so long ago. Scratchy whiskers rise from the dead and bless my cheek with curses. I am that helpless child all over again trying to breech the caveat between me and the old need to be loved.

Six Words

constant in a sea of change

Friday, June 5, 2009


"You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself, any direction you choose." - Dr. Seuss

Thursday, June 4, 2009

Midnight Shift Procrastination

Sadly, I just want more time to make this better. :)

My Life in Pictures
DIRECTIONS:- Go to Google image search.- Type in your answer to each question.- Choose a picture from the first page.- Use this website to make your collage.- Save the image for use in this note.- Post.

1. What is your name?
2. What is your favorite food?
3. What is your hometown?
4. What is your favorite color?
5. What is your favorite movie?
6. What is your favorite drink?
7. What is your dream vacation?
8. What is your favorite dessert?
9. What is one word to describe yourself?
10. How are you feeling right now?
11. What do you love most in the world?
12. What do you want to be when you grow up

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

i'm cute

This is a shot of my soul. That's my smile. Those are my eyes grinning.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Monday, June 1, 2009

fifteen minute drifting

I look at the clock, 4:25 am. Another week of overnights, I step outside for the fresh air. Birds wake in the charcoal silhouette of distant canopy against the fading black of sky. Busy chirping distracts the quiet while I try to collect my thoughts. I’m searching for a 15 minute epiphany.

Time stretches forever, pacing its own metronome, I can’t figure out the rhythm. Sigh. Life never really plays out in iambic pentameter. My internal dialogue always hides in wry wit when there isn’t much else to say. I miss the triplets coupled anchoring my world – those moments of clarity that kiss my forehead and point me in some direction. I do what I have always done and try to find the beat in my own words.

This listener trips over her own voice ‘cause she can’t find the pace in life. I’m a clumsy mess these days, awkward and gangly. I’ve always used my two feet, moved them one in front of the other, negotiating my way with that reprieve of dialogue between the universe and this small self – words bridging the ethereal veil planting me solid in my own life. This has been my anchor, my grace. I can’t find the connection.

The night turns periwinkle as I spin in my 15 minute break. Time’s running out for understanding. Can’t force insight. I let myself off the hook for the moment. I’m not ready to succumb to feeling lost or defeated. What I do know is I have so many questions and I feel like that child in me who connected Santa Claus with G-d. Realized all those adults were making sh!t up for so long, too many truths became lies uncovered.

“What is true here?!” I blunt out in my own head. Little gyrl meets internal dialogue I become my own 1 act play. My adult yearns to give the answers but missing all the logic. I don’t have my own answers, no pretty words to wrap up understanding, and I can see this self complicating the plot once again. And the universe is keeping its counter melody under wraps.

Adult, child, and internal dialogue fuss in the growing light. Its time to go inside and keep working.

Sunday, May 31, 2009

neighborhood strole

wind hammocks the leaves, sun's warm breath.

Spending a Sunday off. Quiet communion with a lazy day, I step in the shade, still like a cool breath tickling the nape...

I wander through the seasons mixing, churning up the change growing. Makes me smile as we walk through spring to summer. This earthball hearth warming. But for now hints of everything. Hehehe. I'm game.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

sketchbook: flipping the ugly

This Time
Recalibrate chi!
Tolerant arms fade to weak
I need to be held.

Seasons Mocked
(the same old grasshopper's story)
Promised blossoms grow
Sweet scent suckles the lovers –
The New tomorrow

Love ripens, fruit grows –
epicurean sunshine
Lovers turn the page

Layers shed away
Bleeding roots exposed
Moirai’d tolerance

Augured graupel –
a base falsetto blights &
Mocks the distant sun.

Turn your eyes away
There is nothing to see here
Gyrl, you're not special.

Arbitrators deem
gleemed this page unlikeable
Gyrl, you're not special.

The gyrl not special
Heard this rhetoric before –
Epitaphs written.

Crossed Ts Dotted Is
Writing the script to goodbye
Gyrl, you’re not special.

My advice
When ugly presents
Wants to rub its funk on you
Spit & flip it off.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

on karma

if karma can do
let it offer empathy
toward all those touched

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

loitering with rain clouds

I start my day with the traces of my neighbor packed in boxes settled on the ground outside. She's heading east on the Mit, hanging in A2 for a while. So, we drink our coffee cheers-ing the past two years of porch time and circles, local music and fried brownies. Distance not far, we know we'll see each other soon enough, no goodbyes but see you later as we hug our experiences and start our days.

The day pearls under humid clouds, my thoughts trail to the storm suckled under wind as I head inside to get the next batch of laundry, another shelf dusted. I list my day, things I want to get done, no moving for me today. I decide I'd rather be outside loitering with the rain clouds growing, so I head to the coffee shop.

There is nothing like an Italian almond to lighten the mood, I text my gyrlfriend who sends me smushes and love to make me feel better. I myface and chat with other interlopers at the coffee shop and head to the bookstore. I can buy postage there to send out my rent payment. A friend's gyrlfriend takes my cents while she introduces us finally. I thank her for putting my panties in her mailbox that were left in her gyrlfriend's car. Um, no its not like that! She and I joke about the panties purchased for my own gyrlfriend left in the bag in her gyrlfriend's car and then she tells me I ring good in the ears of our circles. I smile and head outside into the storm enclosing the horizon, I feel held by the rising humidity in the air.

I head to the activist space to use the computer. I want to write my mother as our last interaction crowds my own horizon. Its been days now of suckled thought, hurting like a punched gut. I've been waiting for the sting to dissipate only to watch it grow into this thunderstorm brewing not ready to break. Its not the gay thing hurting me. I can handle a momma whose dealing with gay fear. Fear is like a virus, it infects everything. The best cure is nurturing the immune system, building antibodies to push the infection out. Nurture my Mother in her fear, hell yeah. My hurt with my Mother feels more insidious then that. This isn't the first time my mother told me to go be invisible. Invisible. Not worthy to be there. Callously dismissed and for my mother as a punishment for hurting her. ME Gay = hurt Momma. The problem is, I've done nothing wrong. There is nothing I can apologize for. I wouldn't want to anyway. Ah, but I find myself writing a post to procrastinate the subject, so I decide to head outside and hang with the storm clouds...


Sunday, May 3, 2009

Don't Come Home

My mother calls me up last night and tells me I cannot come home with my girlfriend. She says that my brother will be hurt and embarrassed if people find out I am gay. When I try to reassure her that everything will be okay, she ups the ante and tells me I cannot return to my hometown for 5 more years and if I do, both my parents will disown me.


Mind you my parents have come along way. Here, here and here are good examples. But damn, if this doesn’t feel like a setback. And I feel hurt. Hurt and angry. :(.

Monday, April 13, 2009

giddy up.

It’s 5am. I am exhausted by an intense week of working overnight shifts only to wrap them up with an overnight, 8 hours off and then 16 hours through to morning. Morning hasn’t come yet. My skin feels like its dripping with fryer oil, my heads a little woozy, and my stomach is so bloated from the holiday food I ate about 5 hours ago that I want to run home today just to feel better. I’m not, that’s a stupid idea. The moment shift change happens, I am catching the first coworker ride out of here, heading directly to my shower and then to bed.

I was hoping that on each overnight shift I would write something decent to post here, but by this point I just feel über nasty. I can’t stop yawning either – jaw cracking yawns too. Tomorrow, um I mean later today I sleep. I sleep until I can’t sleep anymore. I sleep until my eyeballs – which currently are blinking out sleep buggers at an exuberant rate, red, scratchy, and tearful – decide on their own volition that they cannot possibly stay closed any longer. Okay, to be honest, I sleep until my bladder says its time to pee which is always about an hour and half after I fall asleep following an over night shift. I have no idea why this happens; I can pee before I go to sleep, but something about working through the night and then sleeping during the day makes my body rebel via bladder. I have never slept 8hours straight. It’s always been sleep one hour and a half, pee, and then back to sleep.

Anyway, I digress. What was I saying? Tired, body feels greasy and grouse, sleepy tired body…why do I have to pee. Oh yeah, that’s right. I have 3 hours remaining on this shift and I am hoping time will grace me with a little giddy up here. I want to go home.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Sunday Scribblings: Scary

I remember the 30 pieces of silver, 30 dimes in my case, placed on the altar on the Ash Wednesday prior to Easter. A contribution of remembrance for Judah’s betrayal, we all add our piece to the pot. I remember white dresses and clip on bow ties, the Easter service where we praise Jesus’ sacrifice and resurrection – the brevity of death overshadowed by his miraculous rebirth – then an exodus to our homes where we ate Easter dinner with our families. Our bellies already full of gelatinous candy, teeth gritty from the sugar.

It was the first family holiday I stopped coming to. My relationship to G-d having taken an impasse, there was something hypocritical about going home to participate in a bogus act of faith. The most innocuous act of rebellion I could muster against my family and G-d, relief of not forcing myself through another church service outweighed the arguments that would ensue my absence. The most innocuous holiday and I still cannot participate.

Its 4am Easter Sunday and I prepare a holiday feast at my job for the clients. It’s not in my job description, but somehow I have found myself the go-to-gyrl for special dinner feasts. Notes stick to my mail box, ‘GoGo, can you make your yam dish’ or ‘No one knows how to stuff a Turkey, would you be so kind?’ I enjoy this role, I won’t lie. It’s probably the only way I know how to participate in holidays anymore by preparing food to celebrate.

I feel encapsulated by solitude on Easter and solitude has always come easier to me then the discomfort of participation. Even as I remember the Easter Sundays of my childhood – the joy that came with finding the Easter bunnies surprise or getting to read the scriptures for the congregation – I feel relief that I have no service I am obliged to attend tomorrow. I do not have to sit through the family feast.

My thoughts linger on a passage that Paul Auster once wrote about his father in The Invention of Solitude. A man who seemed to only skim the surface of life, Auster described his father solitary experience as…

“Solitary. But not in the sense of being alone. Not solitary in the way Thoreau was, for example, exiling himself in order to find out where he was; not solitary in the way Jonah was, praying for deliverance in the belly of the whale. Solitary in the sense of retreat. In the sense of not having to see himself, of not having to see himself being seen by anyone else” The Invention of Solitude ~ Paul Auster.

I listen to friends discuss that discomfort of “going home” and scratching their collars as they sit through that family obligation of Church then dinner and I find myself feeling like those isolated hermits who never really participated in the life they lived. This avoidance of discomfort scares me a little. It’s so easy for me just not to be there. And what was once an empowering act of self-identity quivers at the periphery of my understanding. A dim shadow of doubt forms and when I try to place my gaze directly at what gives me pause, it disappears all together. I choose solitude over discomfort and lately that’s becoming a chilling experience.

Friday, April 10, 2009


Traveling. Preparing the packing list. Anticipation pounds the ears. Days to wait. I don’t want to wait. I push doing laundry to make the last days before doable. Nothing like the need for clean clothes to pass the time. I wait and wait. I know time will go faster once I get there. I extend my time to avoid the inevitable. The second leg of the round trip ticket. I wonder what it would look like to not return.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

i'm gonna trigger you & i'm okay with that

How do we get from here to there, shedding fear and opening ourselves to the risk of just trying it? How does time break down the caveat of distance? How do I get to come home to you?
I was walking the corridor of the mind and tripped over a thought. Cut my toe on a shard of memory that escaped the dustpan and broom. Damn. So, I plucked it out and threw it away for sure this time.
My mother used to read us stories from these bible story books. They were these glossy blue covered set of moral redirections for the youth with large print and illustrations that captured the devastation of deviating from the path. Some stories were from the bible and some were modern day morals about not listening to your parents, stealing, and stuff like that. My favorite one to mull over was the story about boys smoking. I remember the picture of these boys dressed in jackets and ball caps coughing on cigarettes while the smoke wrapped around them in demon form. It terrified me. I’d rub my fingers across the illustration, etch the smoky grey devil in my mind’s eye while my heart raced and breath squeezed tight in my chest. My mother smoked. I swore to g-d and jesus I’d never cross that path. I’d never let the evil cigarette get me. Sometimes I think about that story while puffing a drag from my smoke. Not sure how I crossed that line, well I do actually, it was for a gyrl, but I don’t know when fear of smoking turned simply into shame. I can live with shame. And sometimes, while the smoke wraps around me in the air currents, I almost feel comfort in knowing that maybe the devil is holding me.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Sucking Out the Hue

I’m burning the late night hours at work, turning time into money, turning paperwork into more paperwork. Eyes layered thick with sleep, the mind won’t turn off; I go outside to smoke a cigarette, that dirty bastard habit marking me an addict of something. Residuals of worn hours wear the mind thin and I cannot wait to sleep, turning this mood off. A harsh history takes its opportunity to sit on my shoulder and whisper “remember me” through stained memories. I chuckle and brush them off like dandruff on the collar trusting this weary late night betrays me. I remind myself a useful mantra – never ask the meaning in life when the mood turns blue.

I inhale my habit, exhale another 14 minutes watching fading night turn lighter. I know I can’t snub out this sadness with the last smoke, but I try anyway. What saves me is the assurance there is cacophony to the melancholy. Having told someone seven hours before that depression is a lying bastard never to be believed, I hold strong to that truth. No I am not depressed, just weary and vulnerable to all those sad stories thrown at me. I know what I am feeling and what is feeling me – those poo poo poor me sentiments will not become sedimentary. But I give myself permission to have them anyway because sometimes we need to imagine our funeral to appreciate the life worth living. Even now, feeling blue, I cannot help but suck out all the hue and I smile.

Monday, April 6, 2009

its taken me this long, but i finally want to bang my head against a wall

Late work night breeds into early morning lulls. My mind wants to be sleepy, but can’t stop ruminating on funky thoughts about things I cannot control. If I could, I’d run right now and wouldn’t stop running until my legs collapsed, lungs breathless and mind comfortably worn blank. I know dramatic.

I think all those things I cannot control are beginning to wear on me. Patience, a virtue I certainly struggle with, has run thin. For example, my mother. I love her very much and am grateful for the life she gave me. With that said, my mother has wanted me to be married and pregnant since I came out of her. When I was 18-years-old, after hours of my mom badgering me because I was going away to college, I finally promised my mother at the age of 25-years-old that I would get married and have children. At dawn of my 25th birthday, my mother called me wanting me to pay up on the agreement, saying “But you promised!” By that point I had enough of a language to tell her I was too young to make such promises.

At 30-years-old, while in my hometown visiting my mother, she insisted on a conversation where she informed me I was getting old and I had 10 years at best before menopause robbed me of child birth. She then whittled it down 5 more years because of family genetics. I remember I finally informed her that I was not going to have children and she would have to grieve the idea, thereby excluding her from any thoughts of children I might have.

Because of my mum’s desperate need for me to be married and with child, I have avoided sharing any aspects of my relationships…until recently, which was a stupid idea, I have to say. I have been privy to fall in love someone I want to build a life with. Swallow hard. That is hard enough to figure out without adding my mother’s wants and needs to the pot. It’s gotten to the point where I want my parents to meet her. Except that has once again opened the dam of my Mother’s intentions for me. Since I mentioned that I want to visit with my gyrlfriend, my mother has insisted we get married or we cannot stay in her house. She has called me daily with “gay states” where I can get married.


I cannot control her. I cannot reason with her about…oh I don’t know, my needs and desires in life, or hell, the pragmatic idea that one should take things slow in relationships before jumping into martyrdom and kids. My mother hasn’t even met my significant yet and she wants us married. Is that fucked up to anyone else?!!! In fact, I think that is the rub for me in all of this. It really is the end result – marriage & grandkids. There is no me, no making sure that my g/f is good for me, its all about her! I just want the g/f to meet the parental units, hopefully live with me and we’ll go from there.

I know this is dirty baggage in the open air. I know I cannot change her no matter what I say or do; all I can do is take care of me. And all I want to do is run.

um, on the plus side of life, I just received an email asking me if I want to perform some prose for an art gallery show opening in July! ;)

Friday, March 27, 2009

sketch: between

I smile at myself. Fading light, amber shades of yellow cut the sky...

I linger in the backyard of a friend's house. She's off to purchase some e-chord string for another friend who is performing tonight, which led me to the backyard. I decided to catch the sunset before a impromptu palm reading. That trade I carry, snuggled in my history. eyes curl towards the sun. spring!

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Time and Place

There is a time and a place for everything.

There have been times in my life where I have not accepted my place. Not owning or taking on crap that didn't belong to me.

There have been times in my life where my place has been a safe haven for others and myself.

I have spent too much time trying to understand my place in this world.

"My Place?"
"What time?"

Its time to find a place with my lover.

Its time to place where I met that guy before.

Its time to stop this now.


At the university to listen to Ariel Levy speak. Decided to scribble a free thought. Time and place came to mind.

As for Ariel Levy, I'm a hesitant listener, but am interested in what she might be dishing out. If bitter and fear and judgment stems from her words, I am out of there, even if my friends think I am a flake. Sigh. Life's too short to come at anything with b,f,j.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Taken in September 2007, New York New York.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Playing in the GoGo Cafe

Quote of the Day:
It's hard to hold the hand of anyone
Who is reaching for the sky just to surrender.
Leonard Cohen
The Stranger

On the Walls:
Dana Stratou

Playing Now: