GoGo's Stranded Deviation

sketchbook: groggy brain muffled in thistle

2011-11-08T18:16:00.000-05:00

Groggy brain muffled in the thistle of the common cold. This year’s theme fogs up the wires, staves off the snot for the crash and burn course of laryngitis. I’m not there yet. It’s the weather report from folks around me. In the game of tag you’re it, I’ve been dodging this thing for weeks, watching my comrades go down one by one. My heads in a vice so I think I got tapped. I stagger back and forth in the day, consciously wondered if I should be in the public scene; today’s theme was thrift store shopping with a friend. Irony, I feel so zapped all the clutter fell away and I found 5 sweaters that really work for me. This would not have happened if I felt well. In my home now, the day settled into night moments ago, and I find my head went to bed before the rest of me did, except for this little piece of me that wants to spread the word about my groggity.

to be continued…

lo que sucede, la vida sucede.

2011-09-15T10:51:00.000-04:00

more foreclosures. more unemployed. trying to find the number of people on food stamps. we are limp against our own constitution that began 'all men are created equal' as long as they owned property and white. to me its an exciting time, where true equality can finally present itself. we americans are about to be given the opportunity to redefine everything and take equality out of the hands of the myopic and greedy. too bad those traits reside in every avenue of our populous. and we still desire their love.

ramble on two lovers i know

2011-09-10T12:22:00.003-04:00

Seasons change into autumnal gray smudged across the sky. Time spits sand in this hour glass and I temper patience against the backdrop of the wait-and-see game. I find myself etching my parents’ faces into my brain matter, never certain when the last time I can study their forms. We add my father’s heart problems to my mother’s cancer and this daughter is stunned by how human nature shakes in the uncertainty. I have no control over these days, I am simply a witness to my parents own journey. I feel no sense of injustice by G-d, though I find my words curl into prayers for more time for them, for us, for the grace of a good life. I am not ready to add their memory to the blue sky with my grandmother. Then I remind myself, we are not there yet, even if time has a way of fading the skin into wrinkles of memory aging the body. Chemo is a rough game on the body. It’s a shitty way to bargain for more time with life. It burns the body for the sake of salvation. My father’s heart is connected to my mother. I fear if his stress doesn’t decrease, he’ll not make it through these times, but how do you ask his heart to beat any different? I worry he will die of a broken heart if she dies and I am not ready for Romeo and Juliet to head out to their constellation in the sky.

I knew my parents in their 20s. I grew up in their youth. I came along 5 ½ years after they met each other. It’s weird to look at them this way. They definitely grew up while raising us kids – two lovers not only negotiating each other, but three kids who definitely demanded their time. That’s the nature of being parents. I remember their love. There is sacredness in love for me because of them. I’m not saying they were perfect. I’ll get into the other part of this story later. The two of them did have something between them that is so rare in this world. Love growing in two, shared together. They choose honesty and communication. Most people I know did not have parents who remained lovers their entire career as partners. Thirty-nine years of being lover and friends and still counting. There is a vulnerability there that forms a gem so rare, I dare say I am afraid when they go, I’ll know no one who has achieved such a grace. They taught me love is a verb with specific actions that quantify it. I have yet to find someone who understands this math. Too many people play mind games with love and wind up shitting on the concept all together, but I’ll get into that part of this story another time.

My parents were never the cliché of submissive wife and player husband fucking mistresses or shit talking to their friends about the other. They had periods of drought between passion rekindled, as if they were able to keep the embers hot buried under the ashy layers of living and knowing each other for so long. They never assumed they knew everything about each other or that love was safest in the stagnant routine. Or maybe this daughter on the outside idealizes their love. I am impressed though that even today, they tell me how much they love each other. They speak of sacrifice in marriage as a byproduct of gaining something greater. I’m impressed by them.

Today, I am thinking on my parents and their love sending prayer to that ancestral sky to guide them safely. This whole cancer thing is rough. I watch two lover and friends grow weary from the experience. They are my parents which compound the feelings in it all. I know I keep joy alive, keep living life like a celebration, and avoid making G-d accountable as if that ever worked. It’s weird though to feel like an adult and a child all at the same time. Family has a way of regressing the soul and I’d give anything to transport back to four-years-old being held strong in my father’s arm late one night, feeling absolutely held and safe while my mother enters the living room saying to my father, “Chuck, you can’t watch Jaws! What if she gets nightmares?” I dreamt that night of sharks playing like dolphins commanded to do so by my Mother.

Tear Drop Flesh Holding Love Beating

2011-08-12T10:10:00.000-04:00

I realized when my Mother calls, I hold my left breast. It’s automatic. My fingers slip into the caress of warm arm pit while palm rests on the curve of flesh right above my areola and I give a subtle squeeze. I realized it a few days ago while sitting outside lingering in the sunlight passing by when the phone rang and I answered and then began to instantly hold myself. Then yesterday I called her and did it again – fingers searching for harbor above my own heart beat while we chatted. Her left breast was removed due to “the cancer” as we have come to talk about it, joking about how she may have gotten “the cancer”, but she has never gotten “the diabetes”.

I smile at this automaton action of daughter holding her own breast. At first, I thought maybe me holding my left breast was me protecting myself. Those studies from researchers “fighting the cause” to stop this disease, tells us that it’s genetic and now I am at a higher risk when just in January I was a low risk. My statistics changed when hers did. My mother also points it out, encouraging her daughter to demand mammograms now from the doctor. She wants to protect me not from “the cancer” but from the chemo, radiation, and the body being abused for the sake of salvation, if not caught on time. Ironically, hers was caught on time, having had annual mammograms since 38 years old due to fibrous cells in her breast. From one year to the next she had nothing to then something and the doctors quickly biopsy the tiny mass. Defined malignant they scheduled the surgery and within four weeks from biopsy to surgery the mass exponentially grew. They had to remove the entire breast and lymph nodes since sentinel cells were found their too. Invasive is what they call it.

I do not live in the same town as my mother. I’m a bird who left the nest and flew away to find my own journey far from familial identity. I’ve spent my time manifesting my own destiny away from my small home town. It’s the same old story of little bird who couldn’t sing for being too different, so she went in search of a new flock that dug her tunes produced. Chirp chirp. As flight goes, no matter how far you go, until you Dorothy up and know the heart first grew in the backyard of your own history, you’re never really free to fly unfettered. The cancer has been removed and the chemo has scorched her body and daughter bird has been called to come home.

I won’t get into the details of this story home, that’s for later. For the sake of this part of the journey I will say that distance is hard when I want to be there for her. I wish I could make her shakes of wheatgrass to help the body through the bruising of treatment, rub lineament on the blistering soles of her feet; shop for beautiful silk kerchiefs to adorn her head (her preference). I wish she’d let me too, but as these stories go sometimes there are bruises that form in the umbilical chord passed from daughter to daughter to daughter until an ulcer grows and even though the chord has been cut, it leaves Momma and baby egg at an impasse to understand each others motivations, and my Mother and I still struggle to be safe in each others spaces – which brings me back to the epiphany of my story. Though this body of mine is my own story, when she calls I think I find myself holding my own breast as an act of holding her. She gave me my heart beat buried under the tear drop shaped flesh curving my precipice, our histories tethered in love beats. This is me holding her, to the best of my abilities when she calls, and I feel empowered in love for the unconscious action.

flipping the script

2011-08-08T00:46:00.001-04:00

Late night run to wear out the body, so the mind can snuggle into sleep.
Now I am too tired to write.
Lets do this in reverse tomorrow.

this place i know

2011-08-01T14:10:00.000-04:00

Monday afternoon. Friends hurry away to Festival. Random texts pop up with goodbye kisses and promises to think of me on the land. I like this. I wish I could be up North this week. I feel like I’ve taken the low road while a sliver in my community took the high road. We’ll see where we’re at in the end. Big smirk, I do appreciate Michigan. Festival. Pick a word depending on locale.

I am at my keyboard, sipping coffee and slipping on my day. This GoGo is stuttering to a start today. I find myself lingering in contemplation rolling over my eyes in waves. Blinking back understanding; sometimes gasping for clarity, only to remember to keep flowing, keep breathing. I prepared myself to be away this week, getting lost in wooded reveries and fairy wonder in this movable community that centers together once a year in a great powwow. I prepared to be listening to music on three stages, fluttering my wings in greetings, maybe valley ball, to prose spun with eager lips on the café stage. Instead I am landlocked into a week in Capitol Mit, wings still buzzing for some distraction on my page.

Bummed out. I adjust my shoulder blades. Festival would have been a nice diversion while trying to place words on my life these days. My mother has the big C, though she carries it like a horseshoe anchored around the nape of her neck, a dame ready to accept her dance card in life.This case of the Cancer is rather serious at the moment. A tempered dance between the ailing in treatment and the prognoses called life. If the Cancer don’t kill you, the treatment could. Everyone has an opinion of hope and glory. I remind myself this isn’t my story, but my Mother’s, and well this is where I have some trouble because she and I never were good at the choreography between mom and daughter.

I’d rather tap out my feelings on a random sprite ready to let me read her tattoos with my fingers, or sketch a lazy day in my hammock while music rolls over my skin then think about my Mother dying or rather living through the body wearing out. There I said it. I think my mother is a beautiful woman. Her story which bore into the cellular memory in my history deserves a place in the sun. Our bond a phenomenon too common and I often wished would be undone could easily be re-spun with festi fun. What a way to honor her, daughter liberating the sun through her lens. Next year, I’ll dance for her at Fest. This year my friends are taking her name to the land and me too. I am left refocusing my energy on what feels like an impossible task. I could have used the energy on the land. In case it’s not noticed, this me is being pouty today.

I need to go home. I need to prep my head to go there. The whole world will tell me how to do this. Ah, but this place I know, this place where my heart first grew isn’t really ready to journey home. I don’t believe she ever will want to. When the big C caws though, its best to know this daughter is being called home. Ready or not. I have to admit, there is little morbidity in this thought. If my mother gave me the grace of something, it’s accepting living regardless of the circumstance. I’m simply not fond of the circumference of daughter to mother. I’m not a very good one and yet I know I am the best daughter a mother could ever have. I wish I could be better. I wish I was heading up North, getting dusty on the line and letting the energy of women unfold. There I could find my story, understand her story, and get past this dreaded impasse where daughter wants to come home and walk with mother on her journey yet knows I usually feel swallowed up and spent. Grace tells me this is where the heart got caught up and knows it is time for her to go home and grow. Tomorrow though, today I just want to keep thinking of the land.

and now off to a meeting in this funk.

2011-07-18T18:56:00.000-04:00

The day harbors somewhere in the subconscious, I'm worn under heat, eyes smolder with heavy beads of swizzled funk foggy up the brain cells. Its too hot to care. My mind exits 20 minutes after rising, never really coming too in the shower, it decides to head down some road where the story goes and takes me there. Task one, go let out a friend's dog, play with him - this toothy big eared pup not grown into his own frame yet. I have walked the desert by the time I arrive at the pup's home. The pirate in me appreciates the islands of shade breaking the temperature to tolerable archipelago of cool treasures on the way. Dog goes out, I drink a gallon of water, wash my face in the sink trying to revive the dying brain cells. Give dog more water. Sit in shade while dog does his business. We both agreed it was too hot to romp around in the yard, I wait at the table until he flops his way onto the patio and plops next to me in our shade. We play lazy games of paws. He's directing my hand to his mouth. Its a game of I've got you're tongue mixed with I have your whole hand in my mouth. Then we just stop, its too hot. My friend calls to check up on pup and offers her shower and futon for me to nap after I explain how lethargic we both are. I'm hesitant, instead electing to read a couple of chapters while the dog naps, but then rain drops stain my eyelids like tears and I decide the circumstances were perfect to nap anyway. 2 hours later, I have vague memories of the first few minutes of my nap when napping feels the best. The body going into lift off with each deepening breath. Then pow I am at the end already with no dream just the internal me still trying to escape to somewhere. Air conditioning feels wonderful and yet I feel trapped all at the same time. I feel like I am in a refreshing box, crisp and cool against the skin yet a closed up box all the same, so I let the pup out one more time and head onto my day. The heat tags along. My brain, still not sure we want to count this an official day, lollygagging along next to me insists tomorrow it will come to and do what we need to do to move on. Its too hot to care today.

Golden Ratio

2011-07-08T11:04:00.000-04:00

All right you straggly followers, I am coming back to this page. Its time I began singing again anyway. There ain't nothing special about here, just a writer with words born from my world. It doesn't have bling or any resemblance to the full frontal of the American Dream, its simply one gyrl living life exactly as she is - which is the most beautiful thing I can do.

Thanks for the support and those random emails asking me where the hell I went.

:)

Love, gg

Five More Minutes

2011-04-17T11:44:00.000-04:00

She lingered in bed letting the blankets gobble up her conscious thoughts that tried to escape into the growing daylight. Fresh sprigs of memory punched holes through the darken cocoon warmly wrapped around the resisting, she didn’t want to remember she had to go to work or that she needed to call her Mother. Her body wanted to remain prostrate in the soft caresses of cotton sheltering her obligatory rise, postulating flight with wingless arms cutting the horizon in ribbons as she floated high. The canopy tickled her feet at first until she learned to flex her toes en pointe, dancing on the tips of branches bouncing her weightless body higher until she could breathe in the clouds and exhale the smoky rings allowing her to fly on her back. There was something about playing chicken with the unflinching ground spinning like a bullet’s head inches before impact only to thrust her arms upward as if she was really diving into the deep blue sky and felt the self splash into the currents of air. This seemed more possible than the mundane trajectory of her day – thimble fingers teaching others how to sow feathers on the shoulder blades. She clung to swaddling dreams, a renegade of reality, promising in five more minutes she might give something to the waking day.

Washington Phillips: What Are They Doing in Heaven Today?

2010-11-10T10:40:00.000-05:00

my shell molted and I am in new skin. heh.

2010-10-19T06:22:00.000-04:00

Playing in the GoGo Cafe: all poetry is renshi

2010-10-02T03:33:00.000-04:00

If just now
I hunted for love,
then my poetry would flare up brilliantly,
yet
its soul would die.
Jūkichi Yagi

I spent way too long tonight trying to find poems set free to roam on the internet by Shuntarō Tanikawa. Instead I came across this beautiful find. Kumamoto Renshi 2010

I think reading works influence my own words, and I am traveling in a game of renshi at all the times.

read this.

2010-09-30T22:56:00.000-04:00

Look Both Ways by Maya Stein

sketch: superheroes on a smoke break

2010-09-25T22:46:00.005-04:00

We take turns going out for smokes

inhaling our humanity

between the crazy
spilling out from the rafters.
Our job is to offer
salves to soothe the breaking mind
while we build a language to release
the knotted ropes strangling thoughts.
None of us profess
to be sane in a world that insists
it’s in love with anything mad,
that would be considered an oxymoron in this profession,
though there are certainly
many who should have given up their proverbial white coats
for the allegory of the straight jacket
instead of taking out their own madness on the world –
this would be considered a wolf in sheep’s clothing in this profession.
Our humanness gets lost in the job,
and every time we find ourselves projected into superhero,
our capes unfurling in the hot air blowing around us.
So many want us to save them
from the villains time can’t forget
or be a witness to their own antagonist
searching for a certificate that makes them unaccountable,
completely unaware in the end,
no matter how they insist,
this is a power only they can take on. So,
between the cracks in time when things look closer to fine,
we take turns going out for smokes,
exhaling our secret identity
completely aware
we do not intend to save the world,
but only help the world save itself.

Happy Autumnal Days!

2010-09-22T11:46:00.003-04:00

Happy Fall! Let’s skip and tumble through autumn’s days, play in the fading light and soak up our reflections in the gray sky puddles. Let us listen to the crackling leaves, before they descend into the worn ground, blowing in the chilling air and preparing for winter's icy layer - that fertile formula for spring's catharsis. Though the sky gets dark and the air scold's, I am excited to see the growing candle lights on porches hooking the crooked teeth of jack-o-lanterns and the welcoming glow in the cracks of windowsills from the warmer home. Autumn prepares us for those hibernating dreams of spring when we forget why it’s so damn cold. Heh. Happy Fall, everybody!

Just Breathe - Pearl Jam

2010-09-21T22:08:00.000-04:00

in my kitchen

2010-09-11T21:09:00.000-04:00

In my kitchen a pot begins to boil right about now, now being the moment when the trees begin to undress of its summer attire while the people begin to layer up on theirs. It is a not so special pot. It’s black and dented to an awkward oval shape; it was picked for that very reason, since no lid would have it for a home due to its bulbous predicament and being a person who uses what she has, it seemed appropriate to reallocate this odd-pot-out for the task of maintaining the witches brew. The witches brew isn’t something magical either. It is not a refined potion nor all powerful nor even omnipresent for that matter. It doesn’t help me to see into the future or curse a few malcontented thoughts that linger with an insult. It is not something passed down through the generations for me to proclaim novelty either. It simply is a boiling pot of water with a few herbs and spices to scent the air. Every year, the concoction changes to the mood – maybe a little more cinnamon, a little less nutmeg; a random bunch of spearmint left over from the autumnal lamb and sometimes I add a dollop of sandalwood oil. It serves two purposes mostly – to keep the drying air moist for the wintering months and to keep me breathing in deep while the daylight dies a little more each day.

under mid night’s canopy of stars

2010-08-18T05:37:00.007-04:00

I am missing the Chief and Driftwood. In that family by choice we all create as we grow beyond our inheritance, these two plus baby are a part of the chore of mine. I send promises to the constellations sailing between horizons that I will remedy my absence because in truth I want to be a part of the village raising E, even if I am the eclectic auntie who swoops in with gifts and pictures from her journey. I want to be available as listener when the time comes for all three of these special beings that have graced my life.

I am missing my love’s arms. Somehow, despite distance, distractions, and our separate history’s dictation we find ourselves entwined in each other’s fabrics. In all things, I hope only for growth of the soul, heart and mind for us. Whatever happens, may we continue to add to each other’s stories not harm them. I send prayers in the wind that distance shrinks and love keeps growing. She is my best friend and my soul wants to keep calling our love home.

I am missing my friend in Chicago. If I am her Jimmy the Cricket’s cheerleader, she is my inspiration to keep finding my beauty in the day-to-day of living and reminds me to keep speaking my art. I send smoke signals with each cigarette puff that we get to grow into old friends.

I am missing my little boo who turns 16 on Monday. He is a piece of my heart and I just want to keep being his friend forever. We’re planning a trip up North this fall where he gets to drive and I get to be the “cool” adult to hang on his road trip. I send whispers of “dear g-d, let him be a good driver” into this fading night ready to be dawn.

Tonight, I am simply missing the people I love.

Getting Excited for Fall

2010-08-17T20:49:00.000-04:00

This entry says it all:

Prickly fingers touching orange blossoms

Well, at least its a good place to start. I love autumn and the harvest this year is going to be awesome!

sketchbook: out of order

2010-07-22T02:05:00.001-04:00

I am waiting for last shift’s coworker to finish typing up the day, so mine can begin. Its already an hour and half into my time and I pick at my anxiety, this peeled edge of sticky thought, that doesn’t like it when my routine is disturbed. Work first, write next. I am sifting through pages and pages of poety searching for inspiration while I wait and come no closer to finding it amongst a sea of poems then I do getting my time on the other computer. The other computer, where my tardy coworker sits is where I process the paperwork for the next day. It could be done on this computer, but then I can only do half of the shift notes since said coworker isn’t done with his half. I send out a gusty wind of frustration at my bangs that have grown over my eyes, sigh outloud, while my coworker goes “I know, I know. I’m running behind.” Its kind of funny haha, or maybe its just not, here I am so thrown off by the simpliest change in my routine. I am rainman eager to count the box of toothpicks if it will give my brain some reprieve from this rediculous anxiety. Work first, write next. I thought I could waste my time wisely searching for well written prose on road trips, sea voyages, or some kind of journey of the soul traveling alone between horizons. Still my Asperger's flares and I cannot get past the fact that I have done no real work on the overnight. Work first, write next. Should I just do half the paperwork to relieve this itchy goody twoshoes stepping all over my mood? Or perhaps I will simply read more prose while my scurrying thoughts finally seccumb to the idea that tonight I write first, work next.

What did the ghost say to the bee?

2010-07-13T12:34:00.000-04:00

Morning begins with a letter stamped on the day - a friend 123 days new marrow fed and free from leukemia. Friend, also known as boss, can't make it to festival. Healing suckles time and life retires to the smaller rooms for some rest. The pink booth will miss her on the land, I think to this self as I become aware of this quiet legend orbiting my sphere, or rather I orbit around her. Boss, also known as round robin, had a way of collecting what she loved best - music set free to fly on stage and she enjoyed every minute at service to the song.

Boss interviewed me for the warehouse. This puddle wet kid just trying to get closer to music who had no clue how to pack a box, did not get the job. Instead Boss called me back to interview for the bookkeeping assistant job, gave me a second chance with numbers. As I count the years by and bye, that expedition into accounting leads me back to this day. Even New York started the day I stepped into that job with Bubble Bee Z, the new warehouse peep, sitting next to me in her kelt emailing me the answer "Boo Bee". I knew I'd be smiling for the rest of this job, working for boss while she listened to music.

Exiting out of the email, I sip my coffee and turn the page into the noisy hum of this apartment. Resting my words while I prepare to head out onto the streets - midwest mitten playing with snap shots of the Big A. Friend helped me to get to my today. Friend gave me a chance to spread my wings and fly with all these songs forming the world and though she won't be at festival, I will for her, round robin Boss.

Here's to the healing process.

sketchbook: joyn'n in

2010-06-27T10:08:00.000-04:00

poetry...the subtle wind chime of zephyr lost to the percussion between rain and earth. the shoreline soothing roaring waves of the big sea, while feet sing arpeggios to the sand; our laughter slips sail into breeze. poetry...the soul speaking, singing, breathing,
beating,
believing in her tongue.

& for you?
~gg

Moon Swings & Rants

2010-06-22T06:29:00.002-04:00

Charles Burkowski wasn’t the poet of the human condition but the alcoholic’s condition:

The world is too busy genuflecting to the HD television. We dream of lithium and gold while the gaping ozone begins to boil the blood of grandmother oozing from her gaping wounds bleeding the seas into its last rites. We begin to dream of the apocalypse saving us from ourselves. No one is inoculated. No Signet ring will be worn to differentiate the winners from the sinners. G-d no longer intends to discriminate. The fool believes they will be saved from our ancestor’s follies while this next generation keeps the traditions of beatnik ideals and yuppie wet dreams alive and well. Why are our poets too busy writing about self inflicted love and diagnosis inherited from our family’s bad choices, weak character breeding new generations of victims. Doesn’t anyone want to model transparency and ownership?

Baby doll, if you can’t survive a day with a few bad feelings, how do you think you’re going to survive this next revolution – which will not be televised because Mamma E. knows the first way to bring us to our knees is by stomping on the boob screens via our power source – the black gold that made it to shore. While we search for the tourniquet to choke the flow, grandmother knows we have passed the line of salvation. She waits for the next thunderbolt to strike our Babeling towers of hypocrisy. Are we really likening ourselves to G-d when we fucked it up so bad? I am not a poet caught up in the guise of Cassandra spewing the obvious at the deaf throngs; too busy masturbating to Niche’s mirror. I AM Simply a woman about to bleed herself and too tired of the rhetoric thrown at me day-to-day-to-day that begs me to say, to want to scream – how are we not accountable to each other, to our Mother Earth, to the third parties orbiting around our gravitational fields if only by default? Why is it everybody else’s fault but our own? Why is the American Dream the only thing sacred?

~Just cranky tonight. I like the images, if not the misdirection in frustrations.
Maybe I should also point out, I am one of those poets who write about self inflicted love. ;). ~gg

sketchbook: Capitol Mit Pride

2010-06-12T10:00:00.001-04:00

I walk into door, the beat already pushing soul to move differently, greeted with kind familiarity in hugs and hello. Friends flash by in carnival fanfare flowing in music and liquor. Strangers hug the corners of my current moving through this sea. Pride, hook ups, dates, friends, straight folk who saw a party but didnt know, lovers, dancers - this ocean of gaiety spinning with me. I came here to get wrapped up in the dance. I don't bring a pack of smokes with me. I just dance. Sometimes I go outside for fresh air. Me and the bouncer chat about sex, gyrls, and smoking. Rather, we talk about her gyrls and my not smoking. Someone at the bar turned 30, this beautiful fairy of a lass and she tells me "30 means letting go of people who you don't have time for". Really? I look around and see her x behind us. Ahhh. We are silly things trying to make sense of our emotional plains called people. I ask myself, what does 30 mean to me? My internal dialogue snaps back "I don't know, I'll report back at 40. I came here to dance."

The Next Step is to Dance

2010-06-11T07:26:00.001-04:00

Regarding my relationship to my addictions like smoking:

My words here feel stunted because I cannot face myself. The first person we lie to is our self when we choose to lie to the other. History repeats the unheard lesson - a liar who lies for you, will lie to you. Therefore, when I lie for myself, I am capable of lying to myself. I've seen a thousand stories that back this up. heh, Lying is a special tool, it can be used appropriately, but too few of us take the time to know when it actually is warranted and when its simply the easiest thing to do. In theory, as we learn to grow in our own emotions and build a dialogue to express them, lying falls to the wayside for honesty and here we can discern the tool and the defence mechanism*. I say in theory because this process is rare in my society. How many people lie to their bosses, lie for a fuck, lie about their addictions and the reasons for them, lie about how they might be responsible for their own and/or others misery (which is most often the case), lie to a partner, lie lie lie about something irrelevant for such a calculated tool.

The more we lie for others, for our self, the harder it is to actually see the truth under the epidermis of the psyche. The more we rely on lies to expedite our choices, the harder it actually is to see the authentic truth hidden behind them. I write this because I feel like I have been doing much self lying to avoid truths too hard to face. I don't like this at all. Especially since I don't buy that everyone lies, so why not do it. Blah blah blah. Rather then relying on the lie to get me through anything, I'd rather learn how to have an honest dialogue with this self. It is possible.

It is possible.

Just a thought, a challenge, a moment of letting the walls fall away. I am feeding myself bullSh!t and calling it caviar. This is my first step to facing my truth.

*I find the first thing folks do when discussing lying is to point out all the valid, if not extreme and unrealistic times when lying can be appropriate. So rather then get lost in the self debate about the whether the complete truth or a lie is more warranted, I will yield that lying is a tool that can be used in our social systems to negotiate our social systems. With that said, I would argue before anyone can truly report which time is a helpful tool, one must also acknowledge its unhealthy mechanisms. I don't buy into the idea that certain lies which are so prevelant in our society are valid. I say this because our society denounces emotions, particularly the uncomfortable ones like anxiety, shame, guilt, sadness, and grief WHICH isn't helping any of us, so just because society wants to go jump off the bridge doesn't mean it was a bright idea. I can tell my coworkers the truth about a moment without qualm or lies, and it is hearable yet candid. Once I learned the tools of conflict resolution - lying was the emotionally underdeveloped malnourished thing to do in the situation. When I stopped relying on it, it was no longer the healthiest choose in my grab bag of tools.

Found: one random thought

2010-06-06T17:51:00.000-04:00

My temple calls to me.
The rain baptises my skin,
fleshy form, my skeleton
the infrastructure
that holds these temple walls strong.
Can you not hear the chants?
Do you not see the light
and silhouette

life revisited: on fear think

2010-05-29T04:43:00.002-04:00

Part I:
Time Tells the Tale That the Hear and Now Never Could

Part II:
Residuals From Doing Shrooms in College

Part III:
The Short Story

sketchbook: quicky b4 I head out.

2010-05-06T12:41:00.000-04:00

Sweltering funk of the city rises with sunrise.
Steaming thoughts of aspirations slip off
the neck of my lover
and then quiet preparation for the day.
NYC, I love you babe, even if you got nothing on Detroit.

Just In Case: In Rambles & Rants

2010-05-03T07:38:00.003-04:00

I wanted to note my neighbor does have chickens and a rooster, though it is "illegal" to posses within the city limits. The rooster has made it into my dreams because apparently a rooster crowing alarm at dawn sends my dreaming brain begging for a interpretation. This rooster has also made it into my heart. Why? Certainly not for the annoyance of a neighborhood cock waking me up before I want to, but because there is comfort in having chickens around.

I think it goes back to growing up without much money and my parents had to rely on the garden and killing deer to feed our family one winter. Not all of us growing up bobbing around the poverty line want governmental assistance. I do believe we are just as rare though as a CEO who doesn't think he is entitled to government bail out (for f#$king up the job) or the upper beau monde who couldn't possibly imagine they ARE NOT entitled to everything their hearts' desire. I digress into a rant. Anywho, I grew up relying on myself first. Gardens are kept to feed us. Farmers are paid next to feed them. Hunting was a tool to feed the family too, not a fun sport so little Billie can get his pic with an 8 point buck. Only after the garden runs dry does one ask for food stamps*. These were things you never let society try and bullsh!t you out of knowing how to do. I dare say, there is something empowering about growing your own food before relying on governmental assistance. Still, I've been in the place and time when I was grateful for the protein, and I will do the same for my children in the event I bobble around that poverty line again some day. One never knows and believe you me, it can happen to anyone. With that said, this is why the chickens are awesomeness. I live in the Capitol of the Mit. We are a part of the rusted motor vehicle alleyway in America; the Mecca for most of the homeless in this bankrupted State; and the number of folks on Food Stamps here grows daily (which isn't necessarily correlated to homelessness). My neighbor has the right idea. You know, just in case.

*Not everyone has access to land nor a fair advantage to Urban Gardening, Guerrilla Gardening, or Community Gardening. I say this because I know my family was privileged to have a constant home to live in and even here I have an advantage that can breed entitlement.

sketchbook: Babel On...

2010-05-01T04:14:00.000-04:00

...the dream dreaming me
Reality bottle necked dicerning sometime around sunrise when the cock crowed the waking of the day. It was my understanding that we gave up the cock-a-doodle-doo for R@dio shack snoozes and left the farmer at the city gates, churning up fields across the way from the new sub division somewhere far away from here. I rose from my bed and fed this meager head of mine with Socartes and Quaker Outmeal because I wanted to know if we settled on what defined a table anyway. Lady GaGa played in the background telling me all about her games of telephone and bad romances. Massive exodus began by noon. Two camps stampeding out the door of my head trying to get the fuck out of the mundane. The uptight heirophants who believe right action leads to righteous living and the fallen angels who boast their wingspans even though they’ve long since been grounded by their spirits. I take a wasted ass angel to the side and say, “that’s not you flying, a$$ hole, it’s the vicodin”. I light up a cigarette and sing moral incontenence to the morally righteous cluck of my tongue. I decide to brush off the angel and the devil who wants to weigh down these sholders. I don’t care about their glory story. Both are just trying to rack up the numbers for a new toaster, I tell myself, and I set to redefine everything. I am struck by the internal clock of that damn rooster living in the inner city with me. He’s so precise, I find I can’t get away from his time bombs laid throughout the day. Someone really should set him on vibrate, maybe one beep and stop with the a-doodle-doo all together.

朝の私を目覚めさせなさい

2010-04-24T19:20:00.001-04:00

朝、日光の私を目覚めさせなさいか。窓を渡って達し、私のまつげで吹くか。私を5つのより多くの分のあなたの暖かさでカールすることを許可しなさいか。

Wake me up in the morning, sunlight?

Reach across the windowsill and blow on my eyelashes?
Let me curl up in your warmth for 5 more minutes?

sketchbook: untangling thoughts

2010-04-14T11:12:00.000-04:00

I sweep through the day or rather the day sweeps through me as time flows faster then my thoughts these days. Busy piles up in the corners, as I try and untangle this wind chime that fell on the ground. It clinks and clanks in resistance to me unbinding the strings as though all they wanted was just to be wrapped around each other. I uncoil the same sentiment lifting chime after chime apart. Clink. Clink. Clink. I remind my projection that the bamboo still holds all those strings together, so they can be more then knots. Untangled, they sing.

sketchbook: interlude

2010-04-09T12:39:00.000-04:00

groggy

Loitering conversations

Chitter chatter

White noise making

Sentences while I

String together my first thoughts.

The landscape for the day:

Dry clouds pushing dark

Then sunlight flushing

golden dismal

into G-d rays

crowning the colors

of this stormy spring

day growing warmer.

Mood

Apparently better then others. Stress the peak of pitch in everyone’s voices except my own. Cooperatively living! I suckle my coffee cup while I gaze the room, grazing on the momentary landscape of peace. I could so get over stimulated here. Thank goodyness I grew up in a household of five people trying to negotiate each other and our moods. Selective hearing – a fine tuned attribute – keeps my mood a flowing story between the late groggy rise and my attempt to write today. I feel patient.

Reminder: Taking a Few at the Moment

2010-04-04T11:15:00.000-04:00

Take A Minute – K’naan

And any man who knows a thing knows
He knows not a damn, damn thing at all
And every time I felt the hurt
And I felt the givin' gettin' me up off the wall

I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze

How did Mandela get the will to surpass the everyday
When injustice had him caged and trapped in every way?
How did Gandhi ever withstand the hunger strikes and all?
Didn't do it to gain power or money if I recall

It's to give, I guess, I'll pass it on
Mother thinks it'll lift the stress of Babylon
Mother knows, my mother she suffered blows
I don't know how we survived such violent episodes

I was so worried and hurt to see you bleed
But as soon as you came out the hospital you gave me sweets
Yeah, they try to take you from me
But you still only gave 'em some prayers and sympathy

Dear mama, you helped me write this
By showing me to give is priceless
And any man who knows a thing knows
He knows not a damn, damn thing at all
And every time I felt the hurt
And I felt the givin' gettin' me up off the wall

I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze

All I can say is the worst is over now
We can serve the hard times, divorce, it's over now
They try to keep us out but they doors is open now
My nigga, Akon is gettin' awards and covers now

This is K'naan and still reppin' the S
Comin' out of Mogadishu and still draped in the mess

And no matter how we strong, homie
It ain't easy comin' out of where we from, homie
And that's the reason why, I could never play for me
Tell 'em the truth is what my dead homies told me

Ooh yeah, I take inspiration from the most heinous of situations
Creating medication out my own tribulations

Dear Africa, you helped me write this
By showing me to give is priceless
And any man who knows a thing knows
He knows not a damn, damn thing at all
And every time I felt the hurt
And I felt the givin' gettin' me up off the wall

I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride

I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze
Nothing is perfect man, that's what the world is
All I know is I'm enjoying today

You know 'cause it isn't every day that you get to give

And any man who knows a thing knows
He knows not a damn, damn thing at all
And every time I felt the hurt
And I felt the givin' gettin' me up off the wall

I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze

I got nothin' to complain about
You know where I'm from
You know where I'ma last, so
You know I was flyin' high

I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I'm just gonna take a minute and let it breeze

[ K'naan Lyrics are found on www.songlyrics.com ]

tittle

2010-04-02T12:17:00.000-04:00

I begin where I left off. One day in front of the other. Step by step I walk through my house, cleaning corners of the dust that lingers there. I wash the curtains in the bathroom. I take out the garbage. My heart reminds my head; sometimes we find symmetry playing opposites you and I. So the mind focuses on the task while the heart sits on the couch, curled into a fetal ball, shedding loss in sweaty layers like a breaking fever. She sometimes skips and smiles and sings because she, the heart, carries the intuition. While stepping outside to take a drag off my cigarette, head turns to heart and says, come outside, take a break with me, I’ll hold you in the sunlight. Heart digs the sentiment and we step outside.

Day blushes warm under the bright sun.

2010-04-01T16:53:00.001-04:00

The only thing raining today is me.

Short spurts of down pours,

cascading across my landscape like Noah's flood

and then suddenly as soon as the storm

cracks a thunderous beginning, it ends.

Residuals stain the cheeks like dry river beds.

I could follow the water to its origin,

up the stream through the airy sky at

the base of the iceberg where it all began.

I don't want to though. I simply know

I am the only thing raining today.

sketchbook: slipping into skin

2010-03-22T10:52:00.000-04:00

We step into ourselves,

slipping skin above the thigh,

wrapping the fibers of our muscles

into the sleeve of our arms;

we clasp the bellybutton

and adjust our breast into a comfortable form.

sketchbook: spring equinox

2010-03-20T21:39:00.001-04:00

Huddling under hoody. I wade gingerly in the cold chill to the day. Hehe. Spring, she casts a white glow illuminating everything. The shadows hide behind broomstick propped in the corner. Balance swaggers between conversations loitering on porch steps.

Small Town Home Town

2010-03-19T13:07:00.003-04:00

I drove through the dark of night once to return there. Car barreling into the dusty parking lot, I came for the soul reason to see women like me in the dance hall of the American Legion. I grew up under those sh!ngles, wrapped my thighs around the impo+en+ barrel of the stripped out tank perched by the road. I hugged the adrenaline pumping memory, watching women grind hips together right where my brother and I once twirled hand in hand to my Dad’s band playing on a Friday night. In summers it was corn on the cob caught in the corner of cheeks and Sundays were reserved for brunch with Grandma after church. And for one night, it was ordering a drink and slipping my hands around the hips of don't ask don't tell women dancing under the American Flag of the American Legion.

2010-03-13T23:12:00.000-05:00

A roommate of mine had this list on her wall and I have found myself using it as my guide in this life. Notice it does not say don't do, but what one should do...I like.

The Ten Commandments:

1.Treat the Earth and all that dwell therein with respect
2. Remain close to the Great Spirit
3. Show great respect for your fellow beings

4. Work together for the benefit of all kind

5. Give assistance and kindness wherever needed

6. Do what you know to be right

7. Look after the well-being of Mind and Body

8. Dedicate a share of your efforts to the greater Good

9. Be truthful and honest at all times

10. Take full responsibility for your actions

sketchbook: awakening

2010-03-06T14:11:00.000-05:00

Eyes closed, sunlight’s breath lingers across the eye lashes and warms these listening ears receiving the moving landscape's reception. A stuttering start etched caverns in the icy canvas, not breaking, transforming ice into vibrations awakening the air with molecules singing. A hum drips in the ear of water flowing. Mother Nature never carries unnecessary baggage.

2010-03-03T20:48:00.000-05:00

Enjoying a fortified hello from my gyrlfriend. :)

sketchbook: winter commute

2010-02-16T12:15:00.001-05:00

I trudge through snow with my ducklings on. The wind giggles against the flap of my hat. Rosey cheeks blush a pretty pink grinning with the wind’s sentiment. Sunshine in the tundra breaks through the chasm of clouds hunkering above us for days now. I admit it makes it easier, that snow glow winter light. Winter in Capitol Mit, a commuter nonetheless, I’m taking a hike every time I go outside. Mr. So-So & Grad Students What Not, don’t shovel; add onto that piles of snow plowed from the road, by the time I take a right to the Bodego, I’ve climbed a few crest or two of snow heaps. It’s actually quiet exciting. Patches of ice rinks cross the path & I’m sliding through my day. I try not to protest against winter and remember to play.

I trudge through snow

with

my ducklings on.

The wind giggles against

the flap of my hat.

Rosey cheeks

blush a pretty pink

grinning with the wind’s sentiment.

Sunshine in the tundra breaks

through the chasm of clouds

hunkering for days now. I admit

it makes it easier,

that snow glow winter light.

Winter in Capitol Mit,

a commuter nonetheless,

I’m taking a hike every time

I go outside.

Mr. So-So & Grad Students What Not,

don’t shovel;

add onto that piles of

snow plowed from the road,

by the time

I take a right to the Bodego,

I’ve climbed a few crest or two of snow heaps.

It’s actually quiet exciting.

Patches of ice rinks

cross the path

& I’m sliding through my day.

I try not to protest winter

and remember to play.

sleepy drained brain

2010-02-15T04:59:00.001-05:00

Late night blurs the thoughts and I struggle with the needle to thread these words together. The eye to eye depth lost the perception in this minute hole of opportunity. Misgauging the heft of this string, I snag the tip of thought, unraveling its intricate weave. I suck this tip against tongue hoping it will come, but am left with the threadless needle insisting it just needs to be put back in the treen.

My Ancestors Walk With Me

2010-02-12T14:23:00.001-05:00

Winter returns with her beautiful grace. It’s the interim between her and spring. The birds begin to sing the morning rise again and the geese have already returned. I like to watch the season roll in and out, particularly when they entwine like a lover in the nook of the arm. Winter is still as cold as ever, but hints of spring bring promises that soon winter will relinquish her breath for that warm exhaling relief of spring. And spring knows she needs winter to do her job. She doesn’t demand to be seen as better or prettier, she simply participates in this pearled string that Mother Nature has given us. Without winter, spring cannot bloom; without spring summer cannot grow; without summer autumn cannot compost the nutrients for winter to blanket with crystalline water for Spring to feed the seeds all over again.

I mark the seasons like my grandmother did or at least, what I remember of her. How powerful was her grace that though I lost my grandmother at 6years old, I still try and bring a part of her into my understanding. I mark the seasons and learn from them for my grandmother.

I am not a Buddha Sitting on a Lotus Flower

2010-02-11T05:46:00.000-05:00

I am not a Buddha sitting on a lotus flower swimming in the quiet reverie of Dharma. I stumble sometimes with my own disillusionments. There are days when I doubt the compass of the sun while I trip over my own direction. Here I am flawed and imperfect. I’ll never be queen ballerina but I dance anyway. My breasts are real and swell and shrink with the salt water tides. I thrive for spontaneity while avoiding impulsivity because there is a difference. I do not rise from my bed for the same reason every day. Sometimes I make up the reasons as I go. Coffee is a great fall back when I know no other reason to wake up. I believe though there are a thousand ways to love, how I love is as selective as who I love. Though I participate in universal love, it takes practice and the ability to step outside the plumped up feathers of self-identity. I am the fool who tries to practice. I sometimes fear Western culture is the genocide of our minds. I am pragmatic with reason and passionate with emotion, but I try to not let my heart justify manipulation nor allow the mind stagnation. I like being in the middle of the road on age – because I am closer to the person I thought I'd be in college. It is true, 30 is the new twenty. There is room here to breathe. My friends are as vast as my interest. I know that even at my “age” what I know hasn’t been learned by everyone yet. Age is irrelevant to experience and not all experiences are weighted the same on this learning curve. I admit I’m behind. I’d rather take on a mountain then take on a mistress/adultery. I’d prefer lots of sex over the convent of living. I’d like to wait with healthy sensuality then leap at everything my heart desires because sometimes it wants old habits disguised in a love. I practice masturbation as catharsis. I sometimes spend way too long arguing with the hierophant in my head. I read sutras but sometimes don’t understand them. I remembered ‘Dukkha’ means suffering solely because the phenotics of the word reminds me of poop.

wicked tired

2010-02-10T06:04:00.000-05:00

working the midnight shift and wicked tired with a capitol Yawn. creative juices have been limited to the paintbrush ap on my computer. i believe it is official. i am brain dead. time of death, 6:03 am.

para vivir

2010-02-09T11:51:00.000-05:00

We pander the thoughts of ourselves, offering up some resemblance of what dances in our heads. We stagger and glide, sledding down the slopes of understanding. We trudge and skip up those same hills and mountains. We all have voices bantering away in our heads as our hearts plunk at the chords of our own providence. We are the story tellers who bare the exposure of our days in the retelling of significance. I wouldn’t say I am indentured to this craft, but it does strum in every cell of me, and I wake up every morning, if only to show up and be present for it.

sketchbook: calling directions

2010-02-05T17:10:00.000-05:00

Here I go, carrying this self forward, step by step, subtle jaunt dancing, stomping, fumbling and floating asunder. Here I am. Little ole me, strumming the chords of life, living, being…We certainly learn as we apply, don’t we? Aaah, I breathe in all the strength of me, settling hip into the flowing currents and speak truth to the sky, here I am! I call to my weather vane; she bounces on her pointy stick and twirls like a pinwheel, we float side by side. Here I am. I hold this asunder with patience while the current drifts us by.

Here I go,

carrying this self forward,

step by step,

subtle jaunt dancing,

stomping,

fumbling and floating asunder.

Here I am.

Little ole me

strumming the chords of life,

living,

being…

We certainly learn as we apply,

don’t we?

Aaah,

I breathe in all the strength of me,

settling hip into

the flowing currents

speak truth to the sky,

here I am!

I call to my weather vane;

she bounces on her pointy stick

and twirls like a pinwheel,

we float side by side.

Here I am.

I hold this asunder

with patience

while the current drifts us by.

Interview with a Mit Smoker

2010-02-03T12:10:00.000-05:00

GoGo:

So you’ve been smoking for a while now?

Internal Dialogue:

Yep, since the Spring of my 18^th year when my heartstruck offered me one. I had dreams about smoking before this. The temptation. The inhaling. Probably because I spent my whole life with a smoker…got the itch way before I ever had one. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t my Mother’s fault. I took the first hit. I knew better. I also knew I wanted a taboo to rebel against my current understanding of things and how I did love my heartstruck. So, yeah, I’ve been smoking for a minute or two. It wasn’t much at first and I was able to quit in the summers.

GoGo:

How many times have you tried to quit?

Internal Dialogue:

What do those packets say, ‘Never stop quitting’. So, I’m gonna say once. I tried once and haven’t stopped trying.

GoGo:

Sounds like you want to quit smoking?

Internal Dialogue:

Sure.

GoGo:

What are the precipitating reasons for quitting?

Internal Dialogue:

Ah, now that’s a question. To be honest, if honesty is ever anything I never gave you, that is certainly a complicated answer. I could say because smoking is smelly, because people don’t like me smoking, because its unhealthy….yadda yadda yadda. But the truth is, there is a part of me that doesn’t buy into that. Its smelly? Have you ever smelled a silent fart of a vegetarian?! If smelly was a good enough reason alone to quit something we’d all have to eat fartless foods. And as for people who don’t like me smoking, well I’ve found in my life time there is always something somebody else doesn’t like about me. My g-d, how I remember my childhood when that group of kids beat me because I protected that nerdy kid from getting his glasses broke. Told me I was a faggot lover and proceeded to try and shame me for speaking outside the crowd’s way. It’s hard to react to people not liking something about me after that.

Unhealthy? Yes. Exactly the reason. I want to quit so I can breathe. I want to climb a mountain. I want to do it on my 70^th birth year too, so I need to repair so I can get there. It’s a silly dream, I know, but I figure it will give me the rush I need to handle the next 30 years after. I have a date with a time capsule on my hundredth birthday, buried near the library of my home town. It wasn’t buried by me. It was buried when I was born by random people at that time. I was born in 1976, so its just coincidence there is a capsule waiting to be open. I figure I got a good chance to open it since the competition will probably have died off and I’ve always been so damn curious what’s in that box!

GoGo:

What do you think about the new Mit law where you cannot smoke in any public space outside or in?

Internal Dialogue:

Well to be honest I’m not going to participate in civil disobedience on this one. I should! I believe full heartedly in civil disobedience when laws are oppressive in nature. Don’t get me wrong, I think all public spaces should be smoke free. As a smoker, I need to remember those dreams I had before I started smoking. I knew how to inhale long before I ever did. 2^nd hand smoke kills.

GoGo:

If you agree with the law, why do you question it then?

Internal Dialogue:

Its simple, take out smoking and add homo, black, poor, white, Chicano, rich, dogs, beautiful people, ugly or fat…whatever. Pick something close to your heart and imagine a world that dictates it cannot be there AT ALL because they don’t agree with it. I shutter at laws that confine and bind in such absolute terms. You see, Oppression is such a precarious thing, it doesn’t give a flying fuck who it oppresses, just that its tools are re-instilled to do so.

GoGo:

So what is your solution?

Internal Dialogue:

For what?

GoGo:

How do we stop smokers from killing themselves?

Internal Dialogue:

We don’t.

GoGo:

Why won’t you participate in civil disobedience then?

Internal Dialogue:

I have bigger things to resist in this nation. I don’t want it to get lost in the diatribes of smoking. I do have to say though, its going to be nice to not be reminded of cigarettes every time I go outside. Still it sucks to be reminded that it’s so easy for our society to create laws to suppress rather then laws to transcend the people. Ah, but this isn’t an interview on that. It’s about smoking and I’ve done that. Excuse me; I want to go smoke while I still can.

Playing in the GoGo Café

2010-01-28T05:22:00.004-05:00

quote of the day:
"“We need to decide that we will not go to war, whatever reason is conjured up by the politicians or the media, because war in our time is always indiscriminate, a war against innocents, a war against children”"
~Howard Zinn

in house poets:
Little Fish by Maya Stein
American Sentence in Bed by Rethabile Masilo
Siren Short Tall, Long Tall & Middle Tall by the Walking Man

on the walls:
Todd Hiddo

Cheers Bob Noorda

2010-01-27T06:19:00.000-05:00

So it is and so it shall be.

Drop by Drop: I Miss you, Mouse.

2010-01-26T13:48:00.002-05:00

Scrubbed my face, drinking the coffee, and trying to put words down for this late rise. I’ve wanted a “Time Out” day to linger among the dirty laundry and dishes. To be quiet with myself and listen to the blood drops between chamber beats. While wrapping the wet hair in the towel, I realized that grief still lingers there and this sudden sense of gratefulness came over me. I’ve always lived by the precept that grief is a reflection of how much we care and to let ourselves feel it through, honors those who left. Yadda yadda yadda.

My friend Mouse was an important person to me. We haven’t seen each other since high school. In High School, we were alphabetically connected in advisory class. We shared our lives on periphery of existence making each other laugh before heading out into our separate spheres. About a year ago, we connected on the fb and continued our relationship. Adding wit and insight to the random status updates. Mouse had a tendency to repost my prose and poetry and I love him for this.

I suspected he was heading into his downward spiral. His post had a labile nature and we all understood he was spending time with a 1/5^th of grief. I wasn’t on myface when he suddenly broke and decided to head out. Thoughts still linger with what I could have done if I had been reading his posts. My license stipulates assistance when I suspect harm against self or others. There is comfort in legal obligation when in the personal realm it’s hard to know when to step in. I know if I had been present, I would have stepped in. This is the hard part of grief because as his friend, I wanted the opportunity to step in and “ap him” to a hospital for 72 hour observation – to allow professionals to work with him on different options. So he could dry out and have a clear head for the choice, if he still wanted to kill himself.

What’s done is done. This plot hook in my narrative has no place to go. Mouse killed himself. Others did try to step in to no avail. I wonder when I will pick up this thread in my story that feels unresolved. I am angry at him too without judgment and appreciate anger in the grief process. I do know this has influenced me working harder with the clients I have regarding S/I.

And then there is the choice in the matter. I believe death is a choice for some and would never try and take it away. Mouse made that choice, despite others trying to support him through different options. So, I put down the little hook in my head that wants to linger in the “what ifs”. I accept then that I am left with the sadness, confusion, anger, and hope that I feel in this bag called grief.

My days are good right now. Life has never felt so simple, pure and whole. My love, my friends, my family, and even my coworkers bring laughter and support everyday. My photography keeps me sane. Writing has slowed due to life’s technical obligations and my time is filled with getting the logistics done. I knew January and February would be busy months taking away from this area. I am a self-entertaining unit and this is bringing me joy. So, I let the sadness linger in my heartbeats. I let myself feel the loss of my friend. He really was important to me. It’s in this importance that grief becomes sacred. I am not sure how long it will linger. As long as it needs to, I suppose. I am not one to hold onto it as a reflection of care, simply a person who allows this self to feel it until like most things; it is ready to pack its bags and go.

I take time to support his friends that were closer and are having a harder time. I believe when people leave this earth, they leave like a rain drop in water, causing ripples connecting together those left behind. The closer one is to the epicenter, the bigger the waves. So, I hold their hands and simply listen to them. He was most definitely missed by many. Suicide is a harsh one to deal with too. The inheritance from such a death can even linger through the generations. Ah, but that is a conversation for another time. I’ll leave that one for the poetry.

For now, I miss you Mouse.

Hopscotch for Jesus

2010-01-22T06:28:00.004-05:00

(Fiction, Prose, Idea!)
~~~~
G-d went and changed his gender to suit better understanding and I call zer the Universe these days.

When Christians pray for my soul in the up coming rapture, I hold their hands and pray. I ask for their forgiveness since they are sinners. You see, I am convinced G-d/Universe put me here to provide forgiveness to all those sheparded souls who never stopped to think where the devil is residing these days. He's at the pulpit asking the masses to segregate once again a people for their differences, and then I tell them, they will never have a Christian State 100% gauranteed until everyone can marry who they love.

I know its crazy. Arrogant really. But its true. Those poor bastards really are screwing the fabric of their existence.

Once a fellow coworker - white, male, republican - asked me if I would stand in front of G-d and tell him he was wrong regarding homosexuality? My response, "I believe G-d will thank me for standing up to the devil spreading lies at the pulpit. I think you're wrong." Horrified he was, but he asked me, "And if I'm right, would you ask for forgiveness?" My answer, "No. Then G-d would be wrong, so really its an impossible scenario." He put me on his church prayer list. I told him it would be a great reminder to see my name and remember G-d tried to teach him the way, if only he'd listen. My coworker got a new job.

Yeah, I am pretty sure I am a redneck homo playing hopscotch for Jesus.

burning the sage

2010-01-19T14:27:00.000-05:00

Strapping on the day, my mind muddled by the residue of a sleepy wake, I want to go back to bed. We all have our own stories to live and how we write those narratives matter. Me, I want to know I lived strong with integrity searching for how to love in nobility for all involved. Spice me with humor and a good time & this GoGo knows it will be all right.

The older I get, the less power my walls have over the truth of the matter. Grief is just a real an experience as happiness and euphoria. Without one, the other can only live in a shallow ego space. Without balance, we inevitable tip the scales toward all the things we want to avoid. All our parts work together, body, mind, feelings and soul – this fleshy machine asking us to keep the joints oiled so we can keep moving towards Oz.

I miss Mouse today. I’ve seen his story in such repetitious sadness. I find this self listening to the sirens that warn us against the currents crashing against the rocks. It didn’t have to happen. But it did and now all I can do is honor the grief. It’s pointless to point out what added to his misery. I know I am listening. But here I go again, trying to arch understanding around the schematics in growing older, wiser, and stronger.

Ah, but I’ve run out of time for these words on the page.

quick note

2010-01-15T12:37:00.000-05:00

Rushing through the day, preparing for a retreat. I am excited to begin this year by debriefing last years actions and forming new decisions for the new one, even if it is for the activist space I have helped build. I remind myself, though late in this new year, I need to do this in my own life, separate from the public spheres.

2010 greeted me while in the arms of my love. Grateful am I to the universe for the experience. ;)

Then I came home to a message that a friend from high school killed himself. He left an fb suicide note to add to the grief. Grateful am I to the universe that where he left off a sea of forgotten hope renewed in faces coming together to grieve. I am still processing this in my self. Still trying to wade through the sea of feelings.

Done with the lingering eye on this page from women who do not have good intentions for me. If I am invisible for your own needs, I hope the universe provides invisibility in return. Do not come back here anymore.

Happy Solstice, everybody!

2009-12-20T21:00:00.000-05:00

I Miss My Side Kick Piles

2009-12-16T10:11:00.001-05:00

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!

~GoGo

What's born from me

2009-12-14T12:07:00.000-05:00

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.

sketchbook: A Catcher in the Rye

2009-12-13T20:16:00.000-05:00

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.

sketchbook: Hibernation Free Thought

2009-12-12T13:22:00.001-05:00

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.

Sincerely,

Mother Nature

Tandem

2009-12-10T21:28:00.000-05:00

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.

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

2009-12-09T15:16:00.000-05:00

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.

Hold.

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,

assured,

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.

randomized cohorts: we begin at the end.

2009-12-06T12:37:00.002-05:00

~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.

Delicious, believable, relaxing.

2009-12-04T23:08:00.000-05:00

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.

Goodnight

2009-12-01T22:08:00.000-05:00

sleep well.

~gg

Sunday Scribbles: Games

2009-11-29T15:36:00.000-05:00

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

2009-11-29T14:58:00.001-05:00

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.

2009-11-27T23:27:00.000-05:00

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.

Thankmindfullness

2009-11-26T15:38:00.000-05:00

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

2009-11-26T15:37:00.000-05:00

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

Real Life

2009-11-22T10:44:00.000-05:00

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

Real Life

~~~

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

2009-11-22T08:26:00.001-05:00

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

fine tuning

2009-11-18T12:19:00.001-05:00

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.

2009-11-15T23:11:00.000-05:00

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

i unpack my books first

2009-11-08T13:08:00.001-05:00

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

2009-11-08T12:04:00.000-05:00

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.

Unfimiliarity under familiar terms

2009-11-01T20:38:00.000-05:00

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.

sketchbook: Capitalism's Got the Grunge

2009-10-24T19:56:00.000-04:00

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.

Cavalier

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?

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

2009-10-22T04:41:00.003-04:00

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.

Recalibration

2009-10-18T12:24:00.002-04:00

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.

Sinus Pressure & Pressured Time: Chill out Grasshopper!

2009-10-17T06:06:00.000-04:00

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?

Excerpt: Pieces From the 1st draft.

2009-09-30T13:26:00.000-04:00

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.

sketchbook: obscura on crinkled pages

2009-09-27T13:16:00.002-04:00

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.

Someday
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.

Communicable Waltz

2009-09-25T12:40:00.000-04:00

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.

The Eastside

2009-09-20T23:30:00.000-04:00

still my favorite view from my porch steps.

How to give love

2009-09-20T19:15:00.001-04:00

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.

tangential

2009-09-14T22:36:00.003-04:00

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.

un momento, por favor

2009-09-06T12:35:00.002-04:00

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. :)

abecedarian

2009-09-02T17:15:00.002-04:00

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.

Gordian's Knot

2009-08-29T07:34:00.000-04:00

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.

Sia - Day Too Soon (Acoustic)

2009-08-26T15:36:00.001-04:00

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.

Boring post

2009-08-25T13:09:00.000-04:00

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.

FUZAKERUNA-YO!

2009-08-24T06:38:00.000-04:00

enough said.

Pop Machine: Lost the Original in Free Thought

2009-08-22T04:57:00.001-04:00

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.

Sketchbook: Sundry Steps on a Marrow’d Path

2009-08-21T06:14:00.000-04:00

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.

the land: MWMF

2009-08-11T15:09:00.003-04:00

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.

Thoughts from the land

2009-08-10T19:59:00.001-04:00

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...

Blending

2009-08-02T10:33:00.003-04:00

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).

sketchbook: skyboats & lineament

2009-07-19T16:10:00.007-04:00

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.

PMS
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.

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