Sunday, December 06, 2009
open mic - listen!
So, last Monday night my sister and I decided to head on over to Three Friends Coffeehouse for the Show and Tell Gallery Open Mic night. Not only did we both perform, but the evening was also podcast. You can listen to the whole night by going to the Show and Tell Gallery website, or, if you are curious what my sister and I did, you can listen to us here. My reading begins at about 11:24, then Kiana comes in at about 17:20, and we sing a song together beginning at about 24:44 of part two. So, we made public mistakes and it didn't kill us. Yay! Also, a big thanks to Laura Veirs, Frente, and Anya Marina, whose songs Kiana played.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
waking
Yesterday I woke from a dream in which I wrote and publicly declared my vows. Today I awoke from a dream of betrayal, gripped with fear and with the ache of a broken heart. I admit I'm rather curious about tomorrow.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
love and fear
The other night I was listening to a song and misheard the lyrics, but in doing so, struck upon a line I may have to use in a poem.
More importantly, it got me thinking about this thing called love. It seems that many people don't have the slightest idea of what love is... clarity on this issue seems about as rare as a truly blue colored flower. And, to be sure, I don't pretend I have it all figured out. My life is a testament to the fact of my trying and failing and sometimes succeeding, and, while I do tend to learn from my mistakes and am willing to assimilate new information, I certainly don't have any answers.
What I've observed, however, is compulsive pairing. It seems the phenomenon is two-fold. To begin with, it seems that many people are absolutely terrified of being alone. So much so that they hardly seem to know what to do with themselves if they do not have a partner. It's how they identify themselves. It's what they do with their time. It's where all their interests seem to lie...
Related to this, is what also appears to be a deep and abiding fear of desire. I think this bears further explanation. Most people have likes and dislikes and are pretty comfortable saying, hey, I really like this thing, but often it seems to exist on a very surface level. When one digs deeper into one's desires, sometimes what one turns up is not always what one expects or wants to talk about in polite company. Acknowledging one's deepest desires takes courage and strength, especially if one hopes to not pervert and distort one's desires. True honesty is difficult, even if you are only dealing with the self.
Bodily desires open up a whole bunch of anxieties. Lots of shoulds and shouldn'ts and shame and, of course, lots of fear. What I have observed seems to indicate that the response for many to this kind of fear is this compulsive coupling, which then gets slapped with the label "love" and everybody just sort of accepts it. But (and here's the line I aim to use in a poem) love is more than just a fear of desire.
If one cannot accept and integrate the various aspects of the self, including those desires, if one cannot reach past fear, work through it, and be at peace with the experience, I'm not sure one can find love either. To love one's self is challenging. It requires work and sacrifice. It requires removing the veneers and the blind spots we put in place to comfort us from the truth of ourselves, which is often more unruly than we'd like to admit. It requires that one develops, as Gurdjieff put it, a controlling "I" so that there is, in the self, some consistency, some measure of reliability. One has to have a self in order to share it with another.
And what is love, truly, if not union, communion, partnership among equals? What gift can one give one's lover more fine and true than the gift of one's highest and greatest self, a surrender of that self, a flame ignited within that is so fierce and pure that the beloved cannot help but ignite his own fire within to offer up? When two are not completing the other, but whole in and of themselves and coming together to burn even more brightly together, is that not love? Is that not beyond fear? It most certainly is not compulsive.
This is the love I aim to cultivate in myself. This is the love I aim to share. This is the work I am undertaking and I can't imagine settling for anything less.
More importantly, it got me thinking about this thing called love. It seems that many people don't have the slightest idea of what love is... clarity on this issue seems about as rare as a truly blue colored flower. And, to be sure, I don't pretend I have it all figured out. My life is a testament to the fact of my trying and failing and sometimes succeeding, and, while I do tend to learn from my mistakes and am willing to assimilate new information, I certainly don't have any answers.
What I've observed, however, is compulsive pairing. It seems the phenomenon is two-fold. To begin with, it seems that many people are absolutely terrified of being alone. So much so that they hardly seem to know what to do with themselves if they do not have a partner. It's how they identify themselves. It's what they do with their time. It's where all their interests seem to lie...
Related to this, is what also appears to be a deep and abiding fear of desire. I think this bears further explanation. Most people have likes and dislikes and are pretty comfortable saying, hey, I really like this thing, but often it seems to exist on a very surface level. When one digs deeper into one's desires, sometimes what one turns up is not always what one expects or wants to talk about in polite company. Acknowledging one's deepest desires takes courage and strength, especially if one hopes to not pervert and distort one's desires. True honesty is difficult, even if you are only dealing with the self.
Bodily desires open up a whole bunch of anxieties. Lots of shoulds and shouldn'ts and shame and, of course, lots of fear. What I have observed seems to indicate that the response for many to this kind of fear is this compulsive coupling, which then gets slapped with the label "love" and everybody just sort of accepts it. But (and here's the line I aim to use in a poem) love is more than just a fear of desire.
If one cannot accept and integrate the various aspects of the self, including those desires, if one cannot reach past fear, work through it, and be at peace with the experience, I'm not sure one can find love either. To love one's self is challenging. It requires work and sacrifice. It requires removing the veneers and the blind spots we put in place to comfort us from the truth of ourselves, which is often more unruly than we'd like to admit. It requires that one develops, as Gurdjieff put it, a controlling "I" so that there is, in the self, some consistency, some measure of reliability. One has to have a self in order to share it with another.
And what is love, truly, if not union, communion, partnership among equals? What gift can one give one's lover more fine and true than the gift of one's highest and greatest self, a surrender of that self, a flame ignited within that is so fierce and pure that the beloved cannot help but ignite his own fire within to offer up? When two are not completing the other, but whole in and of themselves and coming together to burn even more brightly together, is that not love? Is that not beyond fear? It most certainly is not compulsive.
This is the love I aim to cultivate in myself. This is the love I aim to share. This is the work I am undertaking and I can't imagine settling for anything less.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
how little I know
An excerpt from How Little I Know by R. Buckminster Fuller
It is understood
That if you know that I know
How to say it "correctly"
The exact meaning of which
I have not yet learned)
Then I am entitled to say it
All incorrectly
Which once in a rare while
Will make you laugh.
And I love you so much
Whenever you laugh.
But I haven't learned yet
What love may be
But I love to love
And love being loved
And that is a whole lot
Of unlearnedness.
I haven't learned yet
What laughter is
But a mother told me
How surprised was she
When an undergraduate first
Belly laughed in her
Alma mater
Dormitory.
It is understood
That if you know that I know
How to say it "correctly"
The exact meaning of which
I have not yet learned)
Then I am entitled to say it
All incorrectly
Which once in a rare while
Will make you laugh.
And I love you so much
Whenever you laugh.
But I haven't learned yet
What love may be
But I love to love
And love being loved
And that is a whole lot
Of unlearnedness.
I haven't learned yet
What laughter is
But a mother told me
How surprised was she
When an undergraduate first
Belly laughed in her
Alma mater
Dormitory.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Encontre un hombre exquisito
El dulce sabor de una mujer exquisita
Una mujer exquisita no es aquella que más hombres tiene a sus pies,
sino aquella que tiene uno solo que la hace realmente feliz.
Una mujer hermosa no es la más joven, ni la más flaca, ni la que
tiene el cutis más terso o el cabello más llamativo, es aquella
que con tan solo una sonrisa y un buen consejo puede alegrarte la vida.
Una mujer valiosa no es aquella que tiene más títulos, ni más
cargos académicos es aquella que sacrifica su sueño por hacer felices a los demás.
Una mujer exquisita no es la más ardiente, sino la que vibra al
hacer al amor solamente con el hombre que ama.
Una mujer interesante no es aquella que se siente halagada por ser
admirada por su belleza y elegancia, es aquella mujer firme de carácter
que puede decir NO.
Y un hombre, un hombre exquisito es aquel que valora una mujer así…”
Gabriel García Márquez
Una mujer exquisita no es aquella que más hombres tiene a sus pies,
sino aquella que tiene uno solo que la hace realmente feliz.
Una mujer hermosa no es la más joven, ni la más flaca, ni la que
tiene el cutis más terso o el cabello más llamativo, es aquella
que con tan solo una sonrisa y un buen consejo puede alegrarte la vida.
Una mujer valiosa no es aquella que tiene más títulos, ni más
cargos académicos es aquella que sacrifica su sueño por hacer felices a los demás.
Una mujer exquisita no es la más ardiente, sino la que vibra al
hacer al amor solamente con el hombre que ama.
Una mujer interesante no es aquella que se siente halagada por ser
admirada por su belleza y elegancia, es aquella mujer firme de carácter
que puede decir NO.
Y un hombre, un hombre exquisito es aquel que valora una mujer así…”
Gabriel García Márquez
Thursday, October 22, 2009
you're lucky
I dreamed I met my rapist. We stood together in a dimly lit room. I took his face in my hand, squeezed his jaw, and said, "you're lucky."
"Why am I lucky?" he asked me.
"You're lucky I didn't kill you."
I woke up to a series of muscle spasms releasing tension in my pelvic floor.
"Why am I lucky?" he asked me.
"You're lucky I didn't kill you."
I woke up to a series of muscle spasms releasing tension in my pelvic floor.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
strange zoo
It may have become apparent recently that I have been cataloging some of my dream imagery here. I've decided to just go with it. Welcome to the inside of my head.
Several nights ago I dreamed I was in an outdoor zoo, well, perhaps part zoo and part wildlife preserve. I was standing near a water feature and the nesting grounds of a strange hybrid bird: part bird of prey, part carrion eater. Imagine a crow with deep chocolate feathers flickering with variations of iridescent gold. Then imagine that bird with an additional crown of feathers that arches up, over the top of the head, and hangs long toward the back of the neck. These feathers are more spiny, with smallish feathery tufts at the end, so that it looks more like a sort of headdress, only it grows in this fashion. Actually, it seems like nature might have found a use for this type of bird by now, killing fresh when it's available, and dining on carrion when food sources are scarce. Resourceful.
I walked further through the water feature to a section with a glass wall, so that one could see both above and below the waterline. Here I encountered an octopus, but it was much more transparent and jellyfish-like than an ordinary octopus. Its long tentacles were clasped around a large stack of papers. Looking more closely it appeared that a teacher had dropped a stack of syllabi into or near the water and the octopus was cradling or devouring it intensely. Looking closer still, I observed another hybrid creature wrapped around the octopus's tentacles. This creature appeared to be part crab, part sea urchin. It was purplish red and bore rounded white protruding bumps, like spines that had been ground down. It's legs wrapped around two tentacles. From my vantage point the octopus almost appeared as some kind of sea maiden with a cockle shell or flower in her hair, though, presumably, this sea creature was gnawing at the octopus.
As I watched a large cat ventured into the scene: another hybrid creature, part leopard, part mountain lion. Its spots were faint and its teeth were large. It dipped its massive head into the water and came back up with the octopus, syllabi and all, in its great mouth. The cat stood there shaking the whole collection like a much smaller cat might do to a catnip pillow. At this point the scenery changes in the way scenery changes in dreams, with perfectly absurd logic that is perfectly acceptable and in the context of the dream. The out-of-doors seamlessly turns indoors and soon I am watching this scene unfold as though it's within a large enclosure and I am standing behind a pane of glass.
In the distance I see a rather large giraffe. I say rather large because, while giraffes are large to begin with, this particular giraffe was comparatively much larger. There was nothing at all delicate about its muscular neck. The giraffe approached and swooped its knobby head down, scooping the great cat up, octopus and all, and shaking it, too, back and forth. Two zookeepers appeared and shook their hands in distress, mouthing words to each other I couldn't entirely make out. There was evidently some concern about a hip injury in the large cat, but all I could think about was how much more awesome this entire scene would be if it were taking place on the back of an elephant. As no elephant seemed destined to appear, I stepped away from the glass and exited through the nearest door.
Outside again, I was approached by a young man.
"What's the word for... or what do you call it when there are two Christs?" he asked me.
"Deuce Ex Machina," I replied, but when he looked only confused, I said, "Ah... never mind" and continued to walk away.
Several nights ago I dreamed I was in an outdoor zoo, well, perhaps part zoo and part wildlife preserve. I was standing near a water feature and the nesting grounds of a strange hybrid bird: part bird of prey, part carrion eater. Imagine a crow with deep chocolate feathers flickering with variations of iridescent gold. Then imagine that bird with an additional crown of feathers that arches up, over the top of the head, and hangs long toward the back of the neck. These feathers are more spiny, with smallish feathery tufts at the end, so that it looks more like a sort of headdress, only it grows in this fashion. Actually, it seems like nature might have found a use for this type of bird by now, killing fresh when it's available, and dining on carrion when food sources are scarce. Resourceful.
I walked further through the water feature to a section with a glass wall, so that one could see both above and below the waterline. Here I encountered an octopus, but it was much more transparent and jellyfish-like than an ordinary octopus. Its long tentacles were clasped around a large stack of papers. Looking more closely it appeared that a teacher had dropped a stack of syllabi into or near the water and the octopus was cradling or devouring it intensely. Looking closer still, I observed another hybrid creature wrapped around the octopus's tentacles. This creature appeared to be part crab, part sea urchin. It was purplish red and bore rounded white protruding bumps, like spines that had been ground down. It's legs wrapped around two tentacles. From my vantage point the octopus almost appeared as some kind of sea maiden with a cockle shell or flower in her hair, though, presumably, this sea creature was gnawing at the octopus.
As I watched a large cat ventured into the scene: another hybrid creature, part leopard, part mountain lion. Its spots were faint and its teeth were large. It dipped its massive head into the water and came back up with the octopus, syllabi and all, in its great mouth. The cat stood there shaking the whole collection like a much smaller cat might do to a catnip pillow. At this point the scenery changes in the way scenery changes in dreams, with perfectly absurd logic that is perfectly acceptable and in the context of the dream. The out-of-doors seamlessly turns indoors and soon I am watching this scene unfold as though it's within a large enclosure and I am standing behind a pane of glass.
In the distance I see a rather large giraffe. I say rather large because, while giraffes are large to begin with, this particular giraffe was comparatively much larger. There was nothing at all delicate about its muscular neck. The giraffe approached and swooped its knobby head down, scooping the great cat up, octopus and all, and shaking it, too, back and forth. Two zookeepers appeared and shook their hands in distress, mouthing words to each other I couldn't entirely make out. There was evidently some concern about a hip injury in the large cat, but all I could think about was how much more awesome this entire scene would be if it were taking place on the back of an elephant. As no elephant seemed destined to appear, I stepped away from the glass and exited through the nearest door.
Outside again, I was approached by a young man.
"What's the word for... or what do you call it when there are two Christs?" he asked me.
"Deuce Ex Machina," I replied, but when he looked only confused, I said, "Ah... never mind" and continued to walk away.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
more dreams
The other night I dreamed of a cat, not mine exactly, but a cat, or rather several cats, but one in particular that, when I reached for it, turned into a bird but with bat wings and then lifted out of my reach.
Last night I dreamed I was being strangled by a man I did not know, a man for whom this was not a temporary rush, but one who clearly intended to see me dead. In my effort to escape him, I climbed a deep shelf against the long wall of double paned windows in this large and rather sound-proof room. I kicked him and he bent my arm back, snapping my wrist. I screamed and screamed but hardly a sound came out, as though my sounds were being vacuumed right out.
A smaller set of windows near the ceiling appeared to have once had cranks that would open them, though the handles had been removed. I pinched the end with my good hand until it barely began to open. I screamed again, imploring the row of girls sitting on the other side of the glass to help me. They sat motionless, expressionless, flipping through magazines as though waiting in a doctor's office, twirling their hair and staring at (through?) the activity occurring behind the glass before them as though it were the climax of a television drama.
Last night I dreamed I was being strangled by a man I did not know, a man for whom this was not a temporary rush, but one who clearly intended to see me dead. In my effort to escape him, I climbed a deep shelf against the long wall of double paned windows in this large and rather sound-proof room. I kicked him and he bent my arm back, snapping my wrist. I screamed and screamed but hardly a sound came out, as though my sounds were being vacuumed right out.
A smaller set of windows near the ceiling appeared to have once had cranks that would open them, though the handles had been removed. I pinched the end with my good hand until it barely began to open. I screamed again, imploring the row of girls sitting on the other side of the glass to help me. They sat motionless, expressionless, flipping through magazines as though waiting in a doctor's office, twirling their hair and staring at (through?) the activity occurring behind the glass before them as though it were the climax of a television drama.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
crazy lady
Dear Crazy Lady on the #15 this morning:
I'm sure you meant well when you saw me at the bus stop and accused me of being a hooker you saw downtown last night ("I didn't call you a hooker, I said you were trying to get a date.") and I know it confused you when I said I didn't know what you were talking about. I'm sure you meant well when you subsequently broadcast to the entire bus your dismay that I would "lie" to you and that I wasn't interested in "looking out" for myself. I'm sure you meant well, but really, even if I had been the hooker you thought you saw (and I have to wonder, did she simply have red hair or do I really have a doppelganger hooking downtown-- in which case the phrase "I work downtown" is probably a phrase I'd best avoid) do you think your broadcast was at all helpful? Please, kindly shut the fuck up and go back to playing with your mesmerizing bad eighties quattro of horrid eyeshadow.
Thankyouverymuch,
~me
I'm sure you meant well when you saw me at the bus stop and accused me of being a hooker you saw downtown last night ("I didn't call you a hooker, I said you were trying to get a date.") and I know it confused you when I said I didn't know what you were talking about. I'm sure you meant well when you subsequently broadcast to the entire bus your dismay that I would "lie" to you and that I wasn't interested in "looking out" for myself. I'm sure you meant well, but really, even if I had been the hooker you thought you saw (and I have to wonder, did she simply have red hair or do I really have a doppelganger hooking downtown-- in which case the phrase "I work downtown" is probably a phrase I'd best avoid) do you think your broadcast was at all helpful? Please, kindly shut the fuck up and go back to playing with your mesmerizing bad eighties quattro of horrid eyeshadow.
Thankyouverymuch,
~me
Thursday, October 08, 2009
dreaming
Yesterday I awoke from a dream in which I was being photographed by a painter. We were in the vast expanse of his warehouse during a costume sale and the space was filled with the scurry of bodies rummaging through racks and racks of clothing. The painter adjusted a light and directed me toward a sheet-covered table. "Lie down and act like a mother," he said.
This morning I lay in bed remembering the beach of my dreaming. The sun was high and I stood by a low table painting long fanned strips of paper with R. A woman approached me, a stranger, and she and I began to discuss how children deal with death and loss better than adults. We discussed a particular tragedy involving an entire kindergarten class, in which nearly all of the schoolchildren had been killed, and how the few remaining children had dealt with the situation better than their parents.
R continued to paint, working off his hangover brought on by the previous night's drinking. As the hangover wore away, R's mood improved, his face brightened, and he smiled at me. He took me by the hand and led me away from the table. We laughed and I climbed upon him, piggy-back riding across the sand as he ran in zig-zags until I fell off. R took my face in his hands and we kissed slowly and deliberately under the bright sun. "Does Sarah ever make you cry?" he asked me.
This morning I lay in bed remembering the beach of my dreaming. The sun was high and I stood by a low table painting long fanned strips of paper with R. A woman approached me, a stranger, and she and I began to discuss how children deal with death and loss better than adults. We discussed a particular tragedy involving an entire kindergarten class, in which nearly all of the schoolchildren had been killed, and how the few remaining children had dealt with the situation better than their parents.
R continued to paint, working off his hangover brought on by the previous night's drinking. As the hangover wore away, R's mood improved, his face brightened, and he smiled at me. He took me by the hand and led me away from the table. We laughed and I climbed upon him, piggy-back riding across the sand as he ran in zig-zags until I fell off. R took my face in his hands and we kissed slowly and deliberately under the bright sun. "Does Sarah ever make you cry?" he asked me.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Monday, October 05, 2009
randy
Last night on the bus I met a fellow named Randy. He had, perhaps, six teeth in his head, grey hair and a beard, and an oddly cheerful disposition. He'd been chatting up a man across the aisle when I sat down. That man got off on the next stop and Randy turned his attention toward me.
I got the sense that he was cheerful precisely because he needed to talk. I wasn't doing anything else, except looking up at the large white moon and thinking sad thoughts about sad things that I won't get into here, so I drew up a smile and let Randy engage me.
He said, "Can a person admit they've made a mistake?"
I said, "yes."
"I'm a man who made a mistake."
"What mistake was that?" I asked.
"I left my first wife. I don't know why I did it. I didn't have a good reason." Randy looked out the bus window across from him as he said this. "You know, they say the grass is always greener on the other side, but it's not. It's the same color, made of the same material, but it isn't any better. Fact is, I was happier on the side I left."
"Well, at least you recognize that," I said. "Too often, it seems, people don't appreciate what they have until they've lost it. And once you've lost something, you know it becomes really important to appreciate what you have."
"Yeah. Later, when I broke up with my second wife, I told my boys that I wanted to get back with their mother. And they said 'No, Dad. She cried for eighteen months over you. We're not going to let you put her through that again."
"It sounds like you raised some good boys," I told him.
Randy's face lit up, a huge gap-toothed grin spreading wide. "I have a whole lot of respect for my boys," he said, "My daughter too. I don't get to say that very often." He seemed to turn inward for a moment. "I'm the only one of my family out here," he told me. "I talk to my dad on the phone. He's 76. And I still talk to my first wife. I call her and she just yaketta yaketta yaketta and I'll listen all day to her."
Randy smiled, but he looked sad. At least as sad as I felt, probably more so.
"I'm the only one here and I don't have any friends to talk to... so you know what I do?" he asked me.
"What do you do?"
"I go out to Montgomery Park, you know, near Forest Park, and I talk to the trees." He paused. "They listen and I cry." He traced his fingers down the length of his cheek. "They've listened to a lot of me."
My stop was up next. I pulled the cord and stood up. "It was nice to meet you Randy," I said, extending my hand. He took mine and shook it. The bus lurched to a halt.
"Thanks. You too. You know, you didn't have to talk to me."
"No," I told him, "I didn't. But it was nice." And then I waved to him and stepped off the bus and into the rest of my night.
I got the sense that he was cheerful precisely because he needed to talk. I wasn't doing anything else, except looking up at the large white moon and thinking sad thoughts about sad things that I won't get into here, so I drew up a smile and let Randy engage me.
He said, "Can a person admit they've made a mistake?"
I said, "yes."
"I'm a man who made a mistake."
"What mistake was that?" I asked.
"I left my first wife. I don't know why I did it. I didn't have a good reason." Randy looked out the bus window across from him as he said this. "You know, they say the grass is always greener on the other side, but it's not. It's the same color, made of the same material, but it isn't any better. Fact is, I was happier on the side I left."
"Well, at least you recognize that," I said. "Too often, it seems, people don't appreciate what they have until they've lost it. And once you've lost something, you know it becomes really important to appreciate what you have."
"Yeah. Later, when I broke up with my second wife, I told my boys that I wanted to get back with their mother. And they said 'No, Dad. She cried for eighteen months over you. We're not going to let you put her through that again."
"It sounds like you raised some good boys," I told him.
Randy's face lit up, a huge gap-toothed grin spreading wide. "I have a whole lot of respect for my boys," he said, "My daughter too. I don't get to say that very often." He seemed to turn inward for a moment. "I'm the only one of my family out here," he told me. "I talk to my dad on the phone. He's 76. And I still talk to my first wife. I call her and she just yaketta yaketta yaketta and I'll listen all day to her."
Randy smiled, but he looked sad. At least as sad as I felt, probably more so.
"I'm the only one here and I don't have any friends to talk to... so you know what I do?" he asked me.
"What do you do?"
"I go out to Montgomery Park, you know, near Forest Park, and I talk to the trees." He paused. "They listen and I cry." He traced his fingers down the length of his cheek. "They've listened to a lot of me."
My stop was up next. I pulled the cord and stood up. "It was nice to meet you Randy," I said, extending my hand. He took mine and shook it. The bus lurched to a halt.
"Thanks. You too. You know, you didn't have to talk to me."
"No," I told him, "I didn't. But it was nice." And then I waved to him and stepped off the bus and into the rest of my night.
Monday, September 28, 2009
a promise
For once, I have clarity and no lingering doubts. This has never happened before. And so I can say with certainty, for once, that I will wait as long as it takes. I am not lacking in ways to otherwise direct my energies. I have projects. I have plans to put into action. I have plenty of work to do. And while the work is underway, I will wait. I must sound foolish, but my love is my promise to you, my friend. You know who you are, and know this too: this heart beats for you and I alone.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
message received
Twice now, very recently, I have come across the following quote. The first time it was read aloud in my yoga class. The next I chanced upon it while looking for something completely unrelated. I don't know that the universe is sending me messages, but it resonated with me all the same. It is from the book "The Scottish Himalayan Expedition" by William H. Murray:
Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation) there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. I learned a deep respect for one of Goethe's couplets:
Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it.
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it!
Apparently the couplets attributed to Goethe represent a very loose translation of Faust lines 214-30 made by John Anster in 1835. Considering how deeply Faust resonated with me, this only serves to please me more.
Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation) there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. I learned a deep respect for one of Goethe's couplets:
Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it.
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it!
Apparently the couplets attributed to Goethe represent a very loose translation of Faust lines 214-30 made by John Anster in 1835. Considering how deeply Faust resonated with me, this only serves to please me more.
quivira
I'm the first to admit that I'm a novice when it comes to wine. In the wine world, I have little to offer in the way of professional criticism, but among my friends, I seem to be the person to call when one is staring down an aisle of wines and trying to pick something reasonably priced and tasty. With that in mind, I've decided I'd start sharing a bit of the wine I enjoy, beginning with a bottle R and I shared for a belated birthday celebration.
I recently discovered Garrison's Fine Wines and thought we might want to pick up a bottle for after our lovely dinner at Nostrana. I know that R likes big wines, jammy zins, but most of the wines in the shop were not ones I was familiar with and the few I did know were out of my price range. While once spoiled into developing two palates (one solely concentrated on taste and texture and one concentrated on what I can afford) I no longer can afford the luxury of really spendy bottles of wine. That said, I can still recognize something delicious and seem adept at picking good wines blind.
My methodology is simple. I look for wines with interesting and attractive labels. My logic is that a vintner must care enough about his wine to bother designing an attractive label. But, as the old adage goes, one can't judge a book by its cover, so I also look for a wine from earlier than the current vintage. If I'm particularly focused, I may even call up the memory of some rather good wine years for a particular region. When it comes to region, I tend to choose either regions that have satisfied my wine tastes in the past, or regions I know nothing about.
I can no longer set aside bottled with screw tops, as there are many decent wines that bear no resemblance to Boon's Strawberry Hill, which was what I used to associated screw top wines with and so carefully avoided. That said, I still avoid flat bottomed wines. I'll admit, some of this is my aesthetic preference. I like a wine bottom with that cradles my fingers. Plus, I can't think of a flat bottomed wine I've had that wasn't disappointing or downright bad.
So, on to the wine from Friday night: Quivira Dry Creek Valley Zin
This 2006 wine was more than I like to spend, but still reasonably priced at $20. The fact is, I've had $80 bottles of wine that were no better than a $12 or $15 bottle and most wines between $15 and $35 are pretty good. It had a dark, rich color, too dark to see through when held regularly, but held up to the light and swirled it was a marvelous crimson gem. It also had good legs and held up quite well in the nose (I just love that phrase). It was full of dark berries, but not too fruit forward. It finished with a little earthy, peppery quality and felt good in the mouth. It is not the kind of wine that slakes one's thirst, but rather a wine to let linger on the tongue and swallow slowly. Water is for thirst slaking.
Plus, it has an awesome little wild boar in red ink on the label, which, frankly, is what got my attention to begin with. I'd certainly drink it again.
I recently discovered Garrison's Fine Wines and thought we might want to pick up a bottle for after our lovely dinner at Nostrana. I know that R likes big wines, jammy zins, but most of the wines in the shop were not ones I was familiar with and the few I did know were out of my price range. While once spoiled into developing two palates (one solely concentrated on taste and texture and one concentrated on what I can afford) I no longer can afford the luxury of really spendy bottles of wine. That said, I can still recognize something delicious and seem adept at picking good wines blind.
My methodology is simple. I look for wines with interesting and attractive labels. My logic is that a vintner must care enough about his wine to bother designing an attractive label. But, as the old adage goes, one can't judge a book by its cover, so I also look for a wine from earlier than the current vintage. If I'm particularly focused, I may even call up the memory of some rather good wine years for a particular region. When it comes to region, I tend to choose either regions that have satisfied my wine tastes in the past, or regions I know nothing about.
I can no longer set aside bottled with screw tops, as there are many decent wines that bear no resemblance to Boon's Strawberry Hill, which was what I used to associated screw top wines with and so carefully avoided. That said, I still avoid flat bottomed wines. I'll admit, some of this is my aesthetic preference. I like a wine bottom with that cradles my fingers. Plus, I can't think of a flat bottomed wine I've had that wasn't disappointing or downright bad.
So, on to the wine from Friday night: Quivira Dry Creek Valley Zin
This 2006 wine was more than I like to spend, but still reasonably priced at $20. The fact is, I've had $80 bottles of wine that were no better than a $12 or $15 bottle and most wines between $15 and $35 are pretty good. It had a dark, rich color, too dark to see through when held regularly, but held up to the light and swirled it was a marvelous crimson gem. It also had good legs and held up quite well in the nose (I just love that phrase). It was full of dark berries, but not too fruit forward. It finished with a little earthy, peppery quality and felt good in the mouth. It is not the kind of wine that slakes one's thirst, but rather a wine to let linger on the tongue and swallow slowly. Water is for thirst slaking.
Plus, it has an awesome little wild boar in red ink on the label, which, frankly, is what got my attention to begin with. I'd certainly drink it again.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
friends
I just wanted to take a moment to acknowledge that I have the most amazing friends in the world. And to thank them (YOU) for the gift of being in my life.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
a vow
You and I
We meet as strangers,
each carrying a mystery within us.
I cannot say who you are
I may never know you completely
But I trust that you are a person in your own right
possessed of beauty and value
that are the Earth’s richest treasures.
So I make this promise to you:
I will impose no identities on you,
but will invite you to become yourself
without shame or fear.
I will hold open a space for you in the world
and allow your right to fill it
with an authentic vocation and purpose.
For as long as your search takes,
you have my loyalty.
- A Vow by Theodore Roszak
We meet as strangers,
each carrying a mystery within us.
I cannot say who you are
I may never know you completely
But I trust that you are a person in your own right
possessed of beauty and value
that are the Earth’s richest treasures.
So I make this promise to you:
I will impose no identities on you,
but will invite you to become yourself
without shame or fear.
I will hold open a space for you in the world
and allow your right to fill it
with an authentic vocation and purpose.
For as long as your search takes,
you have my loyalty.
- A Vow by Theodore Roszak
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
massage! cheap!
In the spirit of awesome things at a reduced rate, I just wanted to pass along this opportunity to you, my dear Portland-based friends.
My very dear friend Benjamin is a really-very-amazing massage therapist offering a 50% discount for new clients for either Thai or Deep Tissue massage. I’ve been to a number of massage therapists in the past and Benjamin performed better work while he was in school than most professionals after years of practice—and he’s even better now.
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If you’ve never had Thai massage before, it is sort of like a passive yoga session, where you end up feeling like you’ve had a bit of a workout and a bit of a massage, energized and relaxed at the same time. I highly recommend it! Ben is also offering the 50% off for two hours of Thai massage, which amounts to less than an average 1 hour massage costs. His Deep Tissue work is also awesome, but I prefer the Thai, personally.
Anyway, I wouldn’t pitch him to you if I didn’t honestly think his work is amazing. If you’re interested, just print out the attached coupon and try it for yourself; I suspect you’ll want to return. And if you’re not interested, no worries!
My very dear friend Benjamin is a really-very-amazing massage therapist offering a 50% discount for new clients for either Thai or Deep Tissue massage. I’ve been to a number of massage therapists in the past and Benjamin performed better work while he was in school than most professionals after years of practice—and he’s even better now.
.JPG)
If you’ve never had Thai massage before, it is sort of like a passive yoga session, where you end up feeling like you’ve had a bit of a workout and a bit of a massage, energized and relaxed at the same time. I highly recommend it! Ben is also offering the 50% off for two hours of Thai massage, which amounts to less than an average 1 hour massage costs. His Deep Tissue work is also awesome, but I prefer the Thai, personally.
Anyway, I wouldn’t pitch him to you if I didn’t honestly think his work is amazing. If you’re interested, just print out the attached coupon and try it for yourself; I suspect you’ll want to return. And if you’re not interested, no worries!
Monday, August 10, 2009
getting better all the time
A friend of mine asked me recently whether relationships are worth it (relationships, as in the romantic kind) because they seemed to take a lot of work. I told her at the time that I think it depends on the balance.
All relationships take some amount of work and if you are actually interested in real communication, not just a host of assumptions, then it will require more effort than it would seem many people are interested in putting into a relationship. But, I also thought that perhaps there was some invisible line, a demarcation between the effort being worth the payoff, and too much effort for too little benefit.
I am here to say, unequivocally, that when both you and the person you are in the relationship with are worth the effort then all the effort in the world to be honest and communicate is worth it. When the relationship is about actually relating it is worth it. And when it is so, words like "worth" become useless, because there is no tidy value, no way to make such relating fit into any kind of market terminology.
I am stupid in love with the most amazing person and I don't care who knows it. We have struggled and miscommunicated, but have persevered honestly and respectfully and I wouldn't trade a moment of our history. He is my best friend and most powerful ally and I can't imagine my life without him in it. My heart breaks with happiness. What sort of value can one assign to that? My life is better with him in it. Enough said.
All relationships take some amount of work and if you are actually interested in real communication, not just a host of assumptions, then it will require more effort than it would seem many people are interested in putting into a relationship. But, I also thought that perhaps there was some invisible line, a demarcation between the effort being worth the payoff, and too much effort for too little benefit.
I am here to say, unequivocally, that when both you and the person you are in the relationship with are worth the effort then all the effort in the world to be honest and communicate is worth it. When the relationship is about actually relating it is worth it. And when it is so, words like "worth" become useless, because there is no tidy value, no way to make such relating fit into any kind of market terminology.
I am stupid in love with the most amazing person and I don't care who knows it. We have struggled and miscommunicated, but have persevered honestly and respectfully and I wouldn't trade a moment of our history. He is my best friend and most powerful ally and I can't imagine my life without him in it. My heart breaks with happiness. What sort of value can one assign to that? My life is better with him in it. Enough said.
Sunday, August 02, 2009
huzzah!
Two poems were just accepted for inclusion in the forthcoming issue of Caffeine Destiny!
Happy dance!!
Happy dance!!
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
true things
I met a man named Will on the bus this morning. He complained of his car breaking down and how he hoped he had the money to fix it. He was dismayed that his brother wouldn't pick him up because it was too inconvenient. He spoke of one time when a friend of his decided to trade his Benz for Will's bicycle for a day and how everywhere Will went that day he was received as though he were successful, but that when he was on his bicycle he was treated as some black guy on a bike.
"I just want to meet people with true hearts," he said. "People with true hearts who will take care of me and I can take care of them. People who are more interested in true things than they are in owning stuff."
Will told me he liked to travel and try new food. I asked him what his favorite restaurant was and he said he liked all kinds of food, African, Greek, Italian, before asking me what I liked. I told him I mostly cook at home, but that I liked all the food carts popping up downtown. He agreed they were tasty. "And they give you decent portions, too," he said.
We shook hands, introduced ourselves and wished each other a good day before I stepped off the bus.
Moments later, I was approached by a homeless man in a green army surplus jacket with wild hair and a full beard. His blue eyes looked tired as his eyes met mine.
"Hello, miss. Can I ask you a question?"
I stopped and waited to hear what he had to say.
"I don't want to be out here this close to death," he said, holding his index finger an inch apart from his thumb. "I got cleaned up out at my sister's. I got cleaned up and I just got out of the hospital." He held his wrist out toward me. "Here's my hospital band if you don't believe me. And my back's getting better."
He paused and looked me in the face directly.
"I want to ask you a question, please. And I want to say please. You can say no if you like." He paused again. "My name's Scott," he said, extending his hand, "What's yours, sweetheart?"
He called me sweetheart the way old ladies and Southern gentlemen do, in a way that was endearing and not presumptuous or off-putting.
"Shannon," I said, shaking his hand.
"Shannon. I know I have problems and I know they probably have to do with my alcoholism." He seemed unafraid of his own candor, which was nice. "Well, I was wondering if I asked you for a dollar... well, I don't usually ask for a dollar, but if I did, would you..." His voice trailed off for a second.
"Scott, you know what? Today I had enough cash for a cup of coffee, which doesn't happen often since I'm up to my ears in debt from going to school," I told him. "But I have a dollar and I'd be happy to give it to you." I took the dollar from my bag and handed it to him.
"You would? Thanks hon," he said and took the dollar. He smiled, paused for a second, and said, "God bless you" before turning the corner and heading toward a cheap morning meal.
These were the coolest, if a little random, ten minutes I've experienced on the way to work in a long time.
"I just want to meet people with true hearts," he said. "People with true hearts who will take care of me and I can take care of them. People who are more interested in true things than they are in owning stuff."
Will told me he liked to travel and try new food. I asked him what his favorite restaurant was and he said he liked all kinds of food, African, Greek, Italian, before asking me what I liked. I told him I mostly cook at home, but that I liked all the food carts popping up downtown. He agreed they were tasty. "And they give you decent portions, too," he said.
We shook hands, introduced ourselves and wished each other a good day before I stepped off the bus.
Moments later, I was approached by a homeless man in a green army surplus jacket with wild hair and a full beard. His blue eyes looked tired as his eyes met mine.
"Hello, miss. Can I ask you a question?"
I stopped and waited to hear what he had to say.
"I don't want to be out here this close to death," he said, holding his index finger an inch apart from his thumb. "I got cleaned up out at my sister's. I got cleaned up and I just got out of the hospital." He held his wrist out toward me. "Here's my hospital band if you don't believe me. And my back's getting better."
He paused and looked me in the face directly.
"I want to ask you a question, please. And I want to say please. You can say no if you like." He paused again. "My name's Scott," he said, extending his hand, "What's yours, sweetheart?"
He called me sweetheart the way old ladies and Southern gentlemen do, in a way that was endearing and not presumptuous or off-putting.
"Shannon," I said, shaking his hand.
"Shannon. I know I have problems and I know they probably have to do with my alcoholism." He seemed unafraid of his own candor, which was nice. "Well, I was wondering if I asked you for a dollar... well, I don't usually ask for a dollar, but if I did, would you..." His voice trailed off for a second.
"Scott, you know what? Today I had enough cash for a cup of coffee, which doesn't happen often since I'm up to my ears in debt from going to school," I told him. "But I have a dollar and I'd be happy to give it to you." I took the dollar from my bag and handed it to him.
"You would? Thanks hon," he said and took the dollar. He smiled, paused for a second, and said, "God bless you" before turning the corner and heading toward a cheap morning meal.
These were the coolest, if a little random, ten minutes I've experienced on the way to work in a long time.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
yes
"my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said was a flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you today yes that was why I liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is and I knew I could always get round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldnt answer first only looked out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things he didnt know of Mulvey and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father and old captain Groves and the sailors playing all birds fly and I say stoop and washing up dishes they called it on the pier and the sentry in front of the governors house with the thing round his white helmet poor devil half roasted and the Spanish girls laughing in their shawls and their tall combs and the auctions in the morning the Greeks and the jews and the Arabs and the devil knows who else from all the ends of Europe and Duke street and the fowl market all clucking outside Larby Sharans and the poor donkeys slipping half asleep and the vague fellows in the cloaks asleep in the shade on the steps and the big wheels of the carts of the bulls and the old castle thousands of years old yes and those handsome Moors all in white and turbans like kings asking you to sit down in their little bit of a shop and Ronda with the old windows of the posadas glancing eyes a lattice hid for her lover to kiss the iron and the wineshops half open at night and the castanets and the night we missed the boat at Algeciras the watchman going about serene with his lamp and O that awful deepdown torrent O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."
Sunday, July 05, 2009
pobrecitos!
Did you know that in order to file for bankruptcy a $245 case filing fee must be paid to the court, a $39 miscellaneous administrative fee must be paid to the court, and a $15 trustee surcharge must be paid to the trustee, in addition to any lawyer's fees, which all sources seem to imply are necessary in order to file? Um, okay, but what if the reason one was considering filing for bankruptcy was because one didn't have hundreds of dollars just lying around in the first place? If one can't afford to pay the filing fees then one can't file, I suppose. Keep paying those bills, starving ones, just keep paying 'em. Gotta love the system. Of course, the real albatross round this particular neck is school loan debt, which can't be claimed in bankruptcy anyway. It's brilliant, really, when you think about it.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
not dead.
... though it seems Ed McMahon, Farah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson all are. Good thing I don't worry too much about celebrity, well, anything. North Korea is threatening to nuke us. R will be leaving in a few months to go teach in South Korea. I'm trying not to think too much on that, since it rather depresses me. However, my awesome baby sister is planning a move to p-town and I'm excited about that. I'm also planning to do a yoga teacher training program, which is also exciting (crossing fingers). I'm doing another word/art exchange. So many changes on the horizon. All I can do is to breathe often and keep looking up, or I fear my heart and head may burst. Hopefully, with an overflow of beauty.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
a love note
This is strictly an homage to A Softer World, but was fun to try. Word + photo by me, all technical skills and impetus behind my trying this, compliments of the inimitable Dave Wood.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
not a pretty bird
She was not a nightingale
as the Greek said.
Philomela was a woman.
The sister of the new wife.
Raped, tongue cut out by the husband.
Locked away.
Not a swallow, not the bird of morning
and late evenings that end so swiftly.
Not a myth. She was a girl.
That is the story: the empty mouth,
the bloody breasts. The outrage.
Not the transformation.
~Linda Gregg, from Things and Flesh
as the Greek said.
Philomela was a woman.
The sister of the new wife.
Raped, tongue cut out by the husband.
Locked away.
Not a swallow, not the bird of morning
and late evenings that end so swiftly.
Not a myth. She was a girl.
That is the story: the empty mouth,
the bloody breasts. The outrage.
Not the transformation.
~Linda Gregg, from Things and Flesh
mos-smith?
I am newly in love with Reed Wallsmith. And Chris Mosley. And the way Reed's saxophone plays against Mosley's butterfly-like hands across his guitar. So much tension and control. Like flying. Like poetry.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
traveling spirit
I am still fresh from the high off a weekend spent a mere three hours north imbued with the traveling spirit one usually reserves for the foreign and exotic. It was a successful experiment.
I am collecting empirical data, irrefutable proof, that we possess the ability to manifest all we desire and the key is right inside our very minds. The brain is a marvelous thing. The trouble is the brain is a powerful thing as well and we manifest all manner of things every day, much of which is neither desirable nor particularly helpful. Brain: I am waking up to you, you sly thing, and aim to work with, not against, you more often.
Aside from this incredible realization--I can change how the world interacts with me by a subtle shift in energy? yes!-- I also came away from the weekend feeling, as I often do but in a more pronounced fashion, so incredibly fortunate a girl. I have the most marvelous friends in the world. My chosen family.
Lastly, today marks the first day of the Poem-A-Day Challenge for 2009. One down, 29 more to go. I'm feeling fucking fantastic.
I am collecting empirical data, irrefutable proof, that we possess the ability to manifest all we desire and the key is right inside our very minds. The brain is a marvelous thing. The trouble is the brain is a powerful thing as well and we manifest all manner of things every day, much of which is neither desirable nor particularly helpful. Brain: I am waking up to you, you sly thing, and aim to work with, not against, you more often.
Aside from this incredible realization--I can change how the world interacts with me by a subtle shift in energy? yes!-- I also came away from the weekend feeling, as I often do but in a more pronounced fashion, so incredibly fortunate a girl. I have the most marvelous friends in the world. My chosen family.
Lastly, today marks the first day of the Poem-A-Day Challenge for 2009. One down, 29 more to go. I'm feeling fucking fantastic.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
thyme cookies. aya!
This morning I stood on my porch watering my sad little herb garden, which has mostly recovered from all the snow and frost, wishing, perhaps a bit too desperately, for spring to arrive. This morning, coupled with the cookie craving I've been gripped by this weekend, led me to want to share something with you. Yes, YOU.
I found this recipe on a window sill left by my former neighbors/former occupants of my then new apartment. They also left me a recipe in a drawer, written on a scrap of paper scribbled with red ink. In fact, I think I'll share both.
Thyme Cookies
½ cup shortening/butter
2 t dry thyme (adjust for fresh)
¼ t salt
1 C sugar
1 ½ C flour
¼ t ground cloves
1 beaten egg
1 t baking soda
½ t ground ginger
4 T molasses
Mix in order given. Drop by teaspoonful onto greased cookie sheets. Bake 10-12 minutes at 325°F. Dough freezes well, so double the recipe and freeze some.
Now for the other recipe:
I found this recipe on a window sill left by my former neighbors/former occupants of my then new apartment. They also left me a recipe in a drawer, written on a scrap of paper scribbled with red ink. In fact, I think I'll share both.
Thyme Cookies
½ cup shortening/butter
2 t dry thyme (adjust for fresh)
¼ t salt
1 C sugar
1 ½ C flour
¼ t ground cloves
1 beaten egg
1 t baking soda
½ t ground ginger
4 T molasses
Mix in order given. Drop by teaspoonful onto greased cookie sheets. Bake 10-12 minutes at 325°F. Dough freezes well, so double the recipe and freeze some.
Now for the other recipe:
Saturday, February 14, 2009
a beginning
'I'
It's the vertical plane: it connects the earth to the sky. In physical terms it represents the spine, with the anus at one end and the brain at the other. The 'I' explores this vital contradiction, our life is the conflict and resolution between these zones. One so exalted, seemingly unattainable; the other so base and basic, a world of bums, of earth, of dung and weight. The result of this conflict--that is 'I'. The world of idea, pure, and the world of pure shit.
~from Andrew Lindsay's "The Breadmaker's Carnival"
It's the vertical plane: it connects the earth to the sky. In physical terms it represents the spine, with the anus at one end and the brain at the other. The 'I' explores this vital contradiction, our life is the conflict and resolution between these zones. One so exalted, seemingly unattainable; the other so base and basic, a world of bums, of earth, of dung and weight. The result of this conflict--that is 'I'. The world of idea, pure, and the world of pure shit.
~from Andrew Lindsay's "The Breadmaker's Carnival"
citadel of the spirit
Well, folks, here it is:
Citadel of the Spirit is a valentine for Oregon just out from Matt Love's Nestucca Spit Press in time for Oregon's sesquicentennial, which is today, Valentine's Day.
This is a literary mix tape collection of essays and excepts featuring authors such as Monica Drake, Walt Curtis, Kaia Sand, Cheryl Strayed, Gina Oschner, Michael Strelow, David Horowitz, Erin Ergenbright, Bart King, and others, including yours truly. Much better than some corporate I-love-you.
Citadel of the Spirit is a valentine for Oregon just out from Matt Love's Nestucca Spit Press in time for Oregon's sesquicentennial, which is today, Valentine's Day.
This is a literary mix tape collection of essays and excepts featuring authors such as Monica Drake, Walt Curtis, Kaia Sand, Cheryl Strayed, Gina Oschner, Michael Strelow, David Horowitz, Erin Ergenbright, Bart King, and others, including yours truly. Much better than some corporate I-love-you.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
man pants
I just want to take a moment to say:
NO MORE BOYS IN MAN PANTS.
I really mean it this time. I'm swearing them off. I shall not succumb again. I repeat, no more boys in man pants for me.
NO MORE BOYS IN MAN PANTS.
I really mean it this time. I'm swearing them off. I shall not succumb again. I repeat, no more boys in man pants for me.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
love at first sight
This is just a quick note to say that I love love love my new computer! Oh, the clarity! The quiet! The ability to become portable!
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
resolve without resolution
Already we are midway through the month and I've not had any particular urge to write about the new year. It should be well enough established by now that I don't believe in New Year's Resolutions (TM pending).
There is only this: the sun in the sky, high above my bedroom window; a gradually diminishing set of boxes and objects for me to purge or deal with; a growing desire to write more, again, about something new, but with the clear, rested eyes I'd needed to return to the older work and whip it into the shape I'd meant it to be.
My heart is open and I'm managing to keep my head up and remembering to look around, look up, to breathe. I take my cues from the birds in the trees. I'm knitting again. I still don't know how to make hats, or gloves, or socks, but I'll get there. I'm picking up my guitar again. I'm finding my voice again. I'm making art.
I am still uncertain of many things, but grow more comfortable with the uncertainty. I am ruled more and more by simple joys and my own will and less frequently by fear. There is only this. This moment. This curiosity. This opportunity.
I laugh more often than I cry and when I cry, sometimes it is because something beautiful has welled up in me and I have no means of containing it. This is progress.
There is only this: the sun in the sky, high above my bedroom window; a gradually diminishing set of boxes and objects for me to purge or deal with; a growing desire to write more, again, about something new, but with the clear, rested eyes I'd needed to return to the older work and whip it into the shape I'd meant it to be.
My heart is open and I'm managing to keep my head up and remembering to look around, look up, to breathe. I take my cues from the birds in the trees. I'm knitting again. I still don't know how to make hats, or gloves, or socks, but I'll get there. I'm picking up my guitar again. I'm finding my voice again. I'm making art.
I am still uncertain of many things, but grow more comfortable with the uncertainty. I am ruled more and more by simple joys and my own will and less frequently by fear. There is only this. This moment. This curiosity. This opportunity.
I laugh more often than I cry and when I cry, sometimes it is because something beautiful has welled up in me and I have no means of containing it. This is progress.
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