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...

6/8/08

new

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

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.


~GoGo

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
Incapacitates,
and you are swimming
in the Fullness of your filled lungs,
Blow out everything inside you.

REAL LIFE
(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.

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

REAL LIFE
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.

REAL LIFE
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
watched.

REAL LIFE
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.

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

REAL LIFE
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.