this is happening.

I keep repeating the words, over and over, to myself: this is happening. It is my effort to stay focused on the present, to not get too caught up in the weeping tide that might consume me if I let it. They are words to remind me, too, to look up, to breathe, to close my eyes and turn my face toward the sun that is right now shining.

A little more than a year ago I cut off much of my hair. It was a symbolic gesture meant to mark my grief and what was then, I thought, the beginning of a difficult transition. I had expected the intervening year to look quite different. The particular departure I'd been expecting never materialized, but the grief it represented was quite real, and I've continued to keep my hair the same relative length during this passage of time, in part, because I was still grieving, still, actually, actively being wounded. I decided a while ago that I didn't want the relationship I was symbolically gesturing toward to be marked by grief. There has, it seems, in the last several years, been enough things, lives, relationships, moments, that have been marked by grief.

I am ready for joy.

These past few months, I have been trying to do things differently. I have been trying to let go with love. I have been trying to gain clarity, of purpose, of vision, of intent. I have been trying to be present with my wounds without actively engaging their wounding. I have been trying to live my life from a place that is more open, more loving, more dedicated than ever to what I've discovered in my own heart, not in spite of the grief, but through it, because of it. These losses have been lessons, but so too have been those moments of joy, and I have been trying not to minimize their significance.

Today, my dear friend and lover of the past four years, begins to walk a new path that no longer corresponds with mine. We each take our first steps into this next leg of our journey. I have no idea whether we will ever find our way back to each other, or what it might look like, how that might manifest, even if we do. I think the next nine months or so will involve a lot of internal reflection, a lot of digging deep. I don't know how that will feel or what I will turn up.

What I do know is this: my love has never been stronger. Even knowing that I cannot engage it in the ways I have hoped for in the past, even with the lovely RMH making his exit from the state and from this part of my life, does nothing to diminish it. I wish him more love and sweetness and success, more abundance and possibility and joy, more fiercely than I have ever before. And that's saying quite a lot, because I have always been coming from a place of love when it comes to him.

And so this day has arrived. This is what the end looks like, and the beginning. This is happening. This is really very presently happening.

me and frankie

So, this morning I had yet another odd dream. In this one I'd somehow become slightly unstuck in time (I'm going to chalk that up to the Dr. Who episodes I've been watching recently) and had landed outside some kind of military base. It would have seemed like an outpost for a more active unit, except that there were families and children in close proximity and at least part of the facilities were dedicated to education. More interestingly (to me) was the fact that I'd also become very, very Irish.

Late one night I'd found a small girl wandering the dusty roads, slipping in and out of the shadows, trying to avoid the attention of any of the guards. She carried something small and shiny in her hands, but I wasn't able to make out quite what it was. The girl was quite obviously scared. Her thin, dirty limbs shivered beneath her tattered clothing, though it was hardly cold outside. The stars were bright. I intercepted her and brought her inside my tent. Also beside me in my tent was a handsome young Irishman, who sat with his back facing me, working his way through a book by candlelight. The girl appeared apprehensive.

I asked her, "What have they done to you?"

And she shook her head, glancing up toward my male companion, then sliding her gaze back down toward the ground.

"You don't need to be afraid of him," I told her. She looked skeptical. "I'm going out on a limb, here, but I'm going to assume that the men you are afraid of do not include this here Frankie McCourt."

At the sound of his name, Frankie looked up from his book and turned his face toward the girl. The soft light of the candle made his slight smile all the sweeter. They met eyes.

The girl shook her head again, recognizing that Frankie was not a threat. "Okay. I'll tell you," she said to me in the quietest of voices. She lifted her small hand and gestured for me to lean in close.

As my face neared hers, I could smell the sour scent of ripe child. She placed her hand around my neck and whispered in my ear. I do not remember, now, what it was she said to me, but knew only that her violation would be the last and that Frankie and I were to have a long, difficult night ahead of us.

hello world.

I'm feeling exceptionally stupid with happiness today. It's a nice change of pace, and something I wasn't expecting to feel any time soon. So, this is just a tender little missive to say, "Hello world. Thanks for looking out for me all this time. I know sometimes we grow distant, but in the end, you really do seem to teach me all that I need and provide me with ample opportunity for joy."

This makes me want to post this lovely poem:

My Dead Friends

I have begun,
when I'm weary and can't decide an answer to a bewildering question

to ask my dead friends for their opinion
and the answer is often immediate and clear.

Should I take the job? Move to the city? Should I try to conceive a child
in my middle age?

They stand in unison shaking their heads and smiling—whatever leads
to joy, they always answer,

to more life and less worry. I look into the vase where Billy's ashes were—
it's green in there, a green vase,

and I ask Billy if I should return the difficult phone call, and he says, yes.
Billy's already gone through the frightening door,
whatever he says I'll do.

~Marie Howe

lucky 13

I have found myself surprisingly busy lately, and very much acting like an insomniac. Despite this, I am not getting many of my chores done and my bathroom is not getting any cleaner... Isn't that what one is supposed to do with an astounding lack of sleep?

So many changes coming, so many already underway. Mostly, this is good, perhaps even necessary. Still, in some ways, I am carrying around a sadness. For all intents and purposes, I have lost one of my dearest friends, and this is both surprising and profoundly upsetting, not to mention demanding of some serious adjustment. I truly am a fool for love. And I miss my beautiful friend. I hope he finds his heart; I hope I recover mine.

In other news, "If We Are Kind" will be featured in the upcoming print issue of Dark Sky Magazine and I'm excited to see the new issue (and the print format) and will let y'all know where to get it once I have that sort of information.

Also, I kind of love that today is Friday the 13th. Lucky 13!!

solicitation

I just received my first ever solicitation for two poems for the inaugural print issue of Dark Sky Magazine-- how awesome is that?!? This means I will be one of their premier poets for the first issue (they've been online to date) and will get to go to the release party, which I'm sure will be filled with all sorts of swanky, cool, intellectual men and women of letters. I'm swirling my cocktail in anticipation, even now. Yay!

checked

I'm realizing I have a lot of undirected angry energy that I need to, not necessarily keep in check, but redirect into things more productive. On the surface, I feel like I am not even so very angry. I am sad. I am hurting, for sure. But then, to say I have no anger also feels a little bit dishonest. Perhaps it's more that I have no present anger, but I have the lingering echoes of prior anger that did not get properly voiced or exorcised. I have spent so much energy in recent times dedicated to the art of bending, to show support, to carry another's burden... at times, to another's will, and now I am simply a little spent and need to rise back up to my full height and strength, to demonstrate with body and mind the full force and power it requires to bend and bow so deeply, to assume the posture of supplicant. I do not come to anyone ground down upon my knees. I am not unaware of my own worth. And this anger, all it is telling me is that it is high time I demand what I want and need and accept no less than what I deserve. I am more than willing to give back tenfold what I ask, and it's time I stop giving to those who think so little of my gifts.

learning

...to be selfish enough to take care of myself properly, but not become so self absorbed that I begin to act like, well, you probably wouldn't notice if I were making a comparison to you, now would you?

baby steps

Step One:
Don't falter. When you find yourself wanting to lie in his arms, send him home.

Step Two:
Continue to speak your truth. It is no accident your worlds collided. Make the damage matter.

mouse

To the little grey mouse under the kitchen sink:

I'm sorry that there isn't enough room in the house for all of us, and I'm sorry for what must have been a traumatic evening spent, at least in part, between my cat's teeth. She was only doing what kitties do, and, in truth, it's probably best that she did. I only wish she possessed a full set of teeth so that she could have finished you off more quickly. Finally, I am sorry that I didn't have the heart to finish you off when she eventually tired of toying with you. I know you must have been in pain, but I could neither bring myself to wring your tiny neck, nor scoop you into a plastic bag (where you would have suffocated-- surely a fouler alternative), and instead only turned you out into the tiered bed of flowers in the front yard. I hope you expired quickly and in peace, or that you made a quick snack for a wandering owl, and that you can forgive me.

crossroads

Well, the times, they are a-changin'...

I know that I am on the precipice of something new that is unfolding before me and I know that the decisions I make now, the boundaries I set now, will alter the course I am on and lead me down a different, and hopefully better, path. As is often the case when one is faced with a pattern or path altering decision, it is sometimes difficult to see clearly the right steps to take (and by right, I simply mean, right for me), but I am reasonably confident that I am making the appropriate choice to stand where I am and to let go of those things to which I cling, perhaps too dearly, and embrace the uncertainty, which is, after all, the only thing I can ever truly count on.

baby raccoon

Yesterday, we found a baby raccoon nesting under our porch. He'd come out and was burrowing in the grass by the side of our stairs and was so cute and peaceful looking... And then it started to seize and make terrible wheezing noises, puffing itself up all over, and then collapsing back into a peaceful, sleepy state. It was the saddest thing to watch. We had to call animal control to come pick it up and take it to be put down. It turns out there is an epidemic of distempter in the raccoon population right now and it wreaks havoc on the neurological system and there isn't much they can do, but put them out of their misery. The mama raccoon came back last night to find her nest empty and the space cleaned out. I don't know if she'll stick around or not, or whether she's healthy or not, but I can't stop thinking about both of them.

words and deeds

It occurs to me that I do not always place my trust in those who are deserving of it. I expect people to act in accordance with their better natures, with what they profess is important to them, with honesty and integrity in all dealings. But the reality is that most people, certainly not out of any maliciousness, rather in their fumbling attempts to be happy, are utterly self absorbed and act with little to no regard for anyone other than themselves.

I ask myself why, for instance, do I place my trust in someone who chooses to be dishonest in his closest dealings with others? I don't mean outright lies, but lies of omission, which is, to me, as dishonest. And is it too much to think that the people I am closest to, who say they love me, might consider, for a second, what it means to, say, pursue a course of action within a very small pool, that will leave me having to swim in their mess after they are long gone, and, perhaps choose to do otherwise? That all sounds very abstract, but I live and work within a very small community and it would be nice to think my long term lover and friend might choose not to make things more difficult for me, personally and professionally, especially when he'll be leaving the state soon.

I have to remind myself of the kinds of relationships I value, that I want to cultivate in my life, and remind myself to not be so attached to one that fails in such important ways. I say this without judgment, despite how it may appear. I would not invest such time and energy in one that I didn't feel was worth all of it, but I sometimes lose the essential perspective that reminds me just how fickle and unreliable most everyone is. People are not what they say, but what they do, and while everyone makes mistakes, or takes some course of action that causes another some grief or difficulty on occasion, again, not with any thought of malice, it is important to consider the pattern of action that presents itself and not become too attached to those whose words and lofty aspirations fly so high above and apart from the more consistent baseline of their deeds.

Most importantly, I have to remind myself that I keep choosing these situations and I am the only one who can change that. I wonder, when I am quick to love and prone to accepting others as they are, whether perhaps it wouldn't have been a good idea to keep all my defensive walls in place instead of systematically tearing them all down. There is no point in having the world's most open heart if there is no solid foundation upon which to rest it. I have a lot of work to do.

an open letter

Dear Mosquitoes:

I swear I am not snack food. I'm begging you: please, please dine elsewhere.

Also, if you would remind me again of what part of the ecosystem you are so vitally supporting, I would appreciate it ever so much.

~me

a quiet day

This is yet another entry about my experiences on the #15. This morning was marked by the loud and mostly vapid conversation of two girls (in their late teens, I'd guess, but possibly early twenties). Both were dressed as though ready to hit the clubs, even though it was barely 9:00 a.m. on a Tuesday, which was fine. They were headed to Seattle for an overnight trip. They carried suitcases large enough to block the aisle for this overnight trip. I mean comically large. I mean, two weeks worth of stuff for one night.

They were probably pretty, with fine young skin, though it's tough to say for certain, since I could have carved my initials into their cheeks through their makeup. The wafting power of their combined perfumes was enough to knock over a small army, but, actually, none of that was what I found so off putting.

Girl #1 sat talking on her cell phone in an excessively loud voice.

"Yeah, like, this whole week I get to go on trips. Uh huh. I'm going to Seattle and then I'm coming back tomorrow night. And then I'm going out again. And then I work on Friday. And then this weekend..."

You get the idea.

An older woman, who happened to be sitting next to me, leaned over and politely asked, "Miss? Would you mind speaking a little more quietly, please?"

And the girls ignored her, the one continuing her conversation, it seemed, even more loudly.

The woman spoke up again. The exchange went like this:

Woman: "Excuse me, but would you please keep it down a bit?"

Girl #2: "Um... can't you see she's talking on the phone?"

Woman: "I know. I talk on the phone but do so---"

Girl #1: "Good. I'm glad you talk on the phone."
then to her caller: "Yeah, whatever, there's this woman..."

Girl #2: "If you want quiet, don't take public transportation."
(Girl #1 continues to talk loudly)

random male passenger: "They should make a rule against that."

Woman: "There is a rule against that."

random male: "Oh, there is." (Points to sign on bus with obnoxious girl talking loudly on her cell phone next to the phrase "Do Not Disturb Other Passengers"

Girl #2: "If you wanted quiet, you should have gone to the library."

young guy with saggy pants who is standing behind the girls, obviously checking them out: "Yeah, totally."

(This guy was strange, because he was encouraging their rude behavior, it seemed, in an attempt to impress these girls, and yet not three minutes earlier, he'd politely given up his seat for a guy with an injured foot.)

Woman: turns back to her book, shaking her head a bit but saying nothing.

Girl #2: "I mean, it's a public place. It's PUBLIC transit. If you don't want people to talk don't be in public."

young guy: "I know what you mean, right?"

The bus pulls up to the stop. The girls are so busy being rude and talking on the phone, respectively, that they don't realize it's their stop. The bus starts to pull away from the stop.

Girls (shouting to bus driver from the back door): "Um, we're trying to get off."

Girls again: "UM, WE WANT TO GET OFF HERE!"

Driver opens the back door for them.

Girl #1 to woman: "I hope you have a quiet day."

Girl #2 to woman: "Yeah! I hope you have a QUIET DAY."

They exit. The doors close.

I laugh and say to the woman, "Well, the good news is that most people eventually grow up."

Woman: "That's true. Except for the odd few, most people do."

Me: "Looking back, I'm sure I was a terror as a teenager."

Woman: "Oh! I *know* I was!" She laughs.

And with that, it was clear she didn't have any ill-will toward the girls. She was just asking them to take it down a little. But, presumably, because she was old and white haired and looked a little prim and was reading her book, these girls took it as an attack and went out of their way to be rude to her.

I decided that perhaps, terror though I was, I was perhaps not anything like those girls. I can't speculate on the women they'll grow into, but I can say that I hope I still have a sense of humor like the older woman I sat next to clearly possessed.

tuneskip?

Is there a word for when, for some inexplicable reason, a song gets stuck in your head that you have not heard anywhere recently and for which you do not have any particular fondness? Is there a separate word for when this occurs and only a small segment of the lyrics loop through your mind endlessly? Is there yet another word for the special kind of hell it is to experience both of these things to the tune of Toto's "Africa?"

water and napkins

So, I've been nerding out on a particular astrologist who deals with astrology from a depth psychology perspective. Among the many interesting posts she makes are weekly posts that give a day by day explanation of what's happening with the planets that week. Friday's entry included the following:

"The first celestial shift of the day occurs at 3:32am when mercury moves out of Gemini and into Cancer. the conscious mind and intellect's shift from Gemini to Cancer is from air to water, intellect to emotion, Spirit to Soul. With Mercury moving into the mothering sign of Cancer, conversation and communication can take on more watery, emotional, nurturing undertones. Speaking from the heart is supported in the coming weeks- as is focusing on the home, family and inner life environment." (emphasis mine)

I note this simply because I had some weird ass dreams early Friday morning, so much so that I woke up and drafted text messages to myself to remember them. This happened at about half past three. I've outlined the dreams below, since this blog has become a bit of my own personal dream archive.

Dream #1

I was attempting to navigate class 5 rapids alone and narrowly avoided my own potential death. I don't know why I was there, or really what I was doing. There was some kind of chute that had been constructed in the waterway. It had two tiers, one dropping water into another that further opened onto a particularly rough patch of water. Then the river continued on to the rapids. I was floating across the water in the top of the first tier in a small, round inflatable raft. I remember running my hands along the edging, afraid that the chute might open, while at the same time not really understanding the danger.

A carload of strangers pulled up to the side of the waterway and shouted at me to get out of the water. They said it was the worst part of the season and explained high high tide and high low tide. They also told me that the Eel River, which is where I was, was notorious for its dangerous rapids. Apparently the chute is where adventurous tourists would drop in and then directly head toward the violent, churning whitewater. (Later, I checked into the Eel River and found it is an actual river, and the Dos Rios to Alderpoint section of Eel River in California is 47 miles long and is classified as a class II-IV section. Weird.)

The next thing I knew, I was standing on top of a platform on the first tier of the chute and an old friend of mine who I used to work with at Kepler's Books was saying that he didn't understand how the whole thing worked. He leaned on a lever that dropped the platform and sent me flying over the edge to the second tier. My bag, which had been on the platform with me, was tipped over and the contents emptied onto the second tier. Water began rushing on top of me and I knew that as soon as enough water had dumped on me the second tier would open and I'd be sent straight down the chute into the rapids without so much as a raft. My friend absent-mindedly pushed the lever again and the flow of water stopped. I was soaked. I picked up my bag to find that my cell phone was still in it and completely dry. I was injured and wet, but otherwise OK.

Dream #2
I was sitting down to dinner at an outside table with B, and also R's friend Ryan. There were other people there, but I don't recall whether I knew them or if they were with us. Then a girl I used to know (in the dream, though not actually in real life) sat down to the table and began complaining about the explosive arguments she regularly got into with the man she loves. I told her "I might almost prefer that to the back and forth of 'I'm in this, wait, no I'm not, I don't feel that way, except, I love you, and we should do this, but I'm scared, well, I'm something, and anyway I want to be with other people, only, I love you, so, maybe I should go' and me going, 'okay. eviscerate me. again.'" The girl said, "If it works for you it doesn't matter that nobody understands it."

The girl and I then walked to R's old apartment, which he'd recently moved out of, and we went inside where we found various items that R and other former tenants had left behind. Most of the things we found were not particularly noteworthy, but then I saw a partial set of my cloth napkins and place mats strewn about the apartment. I remember feeling really annoyed by this and then going around collecting my things and stuffing them into a plastic sack. I remember not knowing how or why R had these things in the first place.

dogs

Once again, I find that I often have more patience and fondness for dogs than I do their human owners. This is, perhaps, because good dogs are often nicer and better behaved than the human on the other end of the leash.

you look like sex

Walking down the street this morning, I was treated to these fine words, shouted by a gravelly voiced indigent fellow:

"You look like sex," he yelled as I passed him to cross the street. "What are you doing walking around with all that sex?"

Some days riding the bus practically pays for itself.

unconditional

It has taken me a long time, but I think I finally understand what it means to love unconditionally. It is not a matter of not having wishes or desires. I may desire to be with you, that you might love me as I love you, but such desire does not determine my relationship to you or how I treat you. My love for you extends beyond our interactions, in fact, extends far beyond whether my wishes and desires are ever fulfilled. I love you and your singular nature. I love you and your godlike being that shines from within. I love you and your absurd sense of humor. I love you in your moments of sadness, and weakness, and contradiction. I love you even if you do not love me. I love you even if you love someone else. I love you for all the things you are, which includes the ugly bits, the difficult bits, the occasionally unreasonable bits, in fact, I love you because all the aspects of your personality and behavior comprise your uniquely beautiful and beautifully human way of walking through the world. I love your strength and fragility. I love your fierceness and your stubbornness. I love your laughter and your perception and your process of discovery and growth. I love that you challenge me to be greater than I am and that you challenge yourself. I love that, despite observing all the crushing realities around you, still you possess a childlike wonder and a kind, loving heart, still see the sublime beauty of the world, and that this is not the result of ignorance, willful or otherwise, or a filtering of fact; you see all that is harsh, inconsistent, and cruel, and yet you still go on seeking truth and seeing beauty and growing every day more lovely. And yet I also love you independently of all this. I love you even as you stumble or fail, even when you don't make any sense to me. I love you when you are present and when you are gone and I will love you even if you become to me only a memory. I think I even understand now what it must mean to love as a mother loves her child, in that my love for you is full of such tenderness that even if I were to watch you grow distant from me and we were to eventually part ways, I would love you still more fiercely, so that whenever you felt low, or wanted a friend, or simply wished to look back to see where it was you had been, how far you'd traveled, you might be buoyed by my love and it might give you some measure of strength or peace or pleasure for all the rest of your journey in this space-time continuum or any other.

junkies

I think, perhaps, the only thing more depressing than an old junkie (of which there are few) is a pair of teenage junkies making up stories on the #10 about how "sleepy" they are to excuse the fact of their "falling asleep" on some old woman's shoulder.

richard

I met a delightfully spontaneous character at the reading I attended last night (where Matt Love and Cheryl Strayed both gave great performances at the Blackbird Wine Shop) when I accidentally shattered an empty wine glass after the penultimate song of the evening. This man, who I later learned was named Richard, says to me, "Blame it on me. Nobody's gonna mess with me."

I then ran into him and his friend at the bus stop, where he chatted me up all the way to the next bus transfer and the whole ride we shared. He was this strange blend of old school New Yorker with a penchant for old school gyms and a kooky west coast old school Dead Head. He provided a near endless stream of hilarious one-liners and story fragments. What he shared with me in the twenty or thirty minutes or so our paths were crossed included the following:

several Woody Allen film references; a story about Ox, the big guy at the gym (always make friends with the biggest guy in the room and the guy with the biggest heart-- if they happen to be one and the same then you're in real good shape); an offer to set me up with his Irish friend Patrick; stories about the old MacTarnahan's and before that Finn MacCool's; several Grateful Dead fragments, most often involving people that you wouldn't have first guessed might be into the Dead; jokes about misfiring synapses; meditation; yoga; the phrase "coat hanger shoulders" which came from a story about his grandfather's tailor; various passing drug cultures references; Timothy Leary; Ram Dass; more about Ox; zero points; "I am 'anonymous' Bosch"; moving from solitary exploration to making peace with journeying on the path with others ("I can party by myself all day long, but I've finally reached a point where I'm cool with hanging out with other people again"); good folks to have at your side while navigating the bardos; why he doesn't need fruity hair products; and a lesson in what he called the New York shmear, which involved palming a $10 bill off during a handshake to smooth things over with someone (I inferred that given when he learned the lesson, $10 went further than it might now).

He was one of those characters you know you may never meet again and sort of wish you could have recorded for posterity because the riffs he went off on were full of things you couldn't possibly script any better and you know you'd laugh just as often and hard listening to him for the tenth time as you would the first. At least I think so... His friend Lee kept saying, "Richard..." in such a way that she may have meant anything from "oh you!" to "are you drunk?" or "why are you bothering this woman" or "I've heard that story before and it gets more elaborate with each telling." In any case, I found both of them delightful and hilarious.

weird baby

I have recently had my third dream of being in a car that has crashed into water in (I think) the past year. In all three there was a moment of realization that we were traveling too fast, taking a turn too quickly, and that the vehicle (in two cases a car, in one a Volkswagen bus) was ultimately going to land underwater. I don't recall being particularly frightened in the first two and certainly wasn't in this last dream. I only recall being the driver on one occasion, and in that case, it was a fall from very high up on a very long and narrow passage (read: cartoonishly impossibly high and long and narrow) and in this last one, I was actually very casual about the whole affair. I simply unbuckled my seat belt and climbed out the window onto the hood where I hopped from the car to a dock that we'd aimed the car for when it hit water. The really strange part of this dream was that I carried a baby in my arms the whole time. It seemed like it was my baby, but at some point after I'd climbed off the car I began to remember that I didn't have any children. I looked at this tiny human and wondered, if he didn't belong to me, who did he belong to and why did I have him? It was a beautiful day and despite managing to get out of the car without getting wet (while holding an infant in one arm) I found myself sitting in the grass, damp, and wondering where on earth this baby came from.

thunderbird

I dreamed of oceans and birds last night. In the first dream I was living in a house by the beach. There was a door in my kitchen that led to another dwelling space next door. Two separate houses that could function as one. Apart from walking around the house, dragging my toes through the sand, I don't remember much about this dream.

There was another dream, perhaps an extension of the first, but the beaches here felt more tropical than the first. I felt imbued with more jungle energy, I suppose. There was a man. He wore a shirt made of thin strips of leather knotted together. They trailed out behind him as he walked. I stood on the shore, facing the ocean. I looked down to notice my hands had been bound with thin white rope. The man approached me, but the sunlight was such that I could never quite see his face. I knew only that he was no threat to me.

The man attached something to my bound wrists, then walked toward the water and retrieved a large, flat board. He began moving rhythmically, his hips slowly bucking. He raised the board and moved it through the air in a stylized fashion, like I imagine I might if I were working with a sword, or a fan. He was moving in the service of something. Then, the board seemed to become an extension of his arms. His movements took on a wave like quality and he lifted into the sky. His strength rippled through the air toward me and I realized that I, too, was lifted up. His hands directed the board and the full length of his body snapped to attention with each wave. Each wave transferred to me and my body moved in time with his, though I trailed behind him as we moved higher into the sky. My heart was full and I felt happy, bound, as I was, to this man.

Then I dreamed of a bird. It seemed this (part of the) dream was a return to my house-attached-to-house at the beach. I found this bird in the front yard. The sun was low in the sky. All the colors of light were reflected in this bird's eye as it looked back into my own. Something was wrong with its wings; they'd been bent back, so while they were not, technically, broken, the bird was unable to fly. I leaned in close and spoke to it softly. I don't remember what I said, but I know my intent was to let it know I was going to help and to trust that I was not aiming to cause pain, though pain was probable.

I placed the fingers of my left hand at the top of its spine, at the base of the skull. I ran the fingers of my other hand along either side of the spine, which grazed the injured part of the wings. The bird's body immediately went into spasm. I paused and took a deep breath. I whispered something, almost a kind of incantation, holding my face low to the bird's back, as though I were trying to infuse its body with my words, my breath. I felt the light on both of us. I used my fingers to elongate the bird's spine. I dug into the space beneath its shoulders, to lift the scapula away from the spine so that I could create enough space to reverse the direction. It continued to spasm and its eyes locked onto mine. I don't know how I knew what I was doing, but I knew it was necessary and right.

I can't describe the horrible sensations I picked up through my fingertips as I did this, but I was able to return the wings to their correct position. The bird went limp in my hands and for a moment my breath caught in my throat because I thought, perhaps, I had killed it. Then the bird began to vibrate, small movements, but more and more quickly, and as these vibrations increased, its body filled my hands with heat. The heat transferred between us and soon there was a ball of light between my hands and I could no longer see the bird. And then a bright flash, the sound of thunder, and my hands were empty. I looked into the sky and saw my bird was there, flying, fine. And it was only at that moment did I realize tears had been streaming down my cheeks for several minutes.

fear

I awoke this morning to a random feeling of fear. Sure, I could attach it to something specific. I have plenty of questions swimming around in my head (does it mean what I think it means? am I over-interpreting or interpreting incorrectly? should I be interpreting at all? how do I know? am I missing something? will he run away? will I? can I count on anything? am I being naive? and so on...) but as I sat with my fear this morning I found that it didn't matter whether I could answer any of those questions. My fear would have found something else to attach itself to and so it seemed perhaps better to simply acknowledge its existence and to thank it for what it was trying to do for me, even if what it was trying to do wasn't particularly useful or helpful, since, at one time, it probably served a real purpose. As I did this I found it gripped me less. I don't feel any more certain. Many questions still swim around in the back of my mind. But, somehow, I don't feel completely derailed by it. I didn't let that fear turn into certainty that something was horribly wrong and, as such, I'm still feeling pretty good about things. This seems like progress.

happiness

I haven't felt bad in days. Since Thursday, to be precise. I haven't spent a lot of time asking myself questions that I can't possibly answer. I haven't been second guessing everything. I haven't been waiting for the floor to drop out from under me or for disaster to strike. I've been pretty much happy. At some points, I've even felt ecstatic. I am so in love and so uncertain of everything, with one exception, which is that acting on and engaging that love feels very right. I feel like I should spend less time doing things that don't feel as right and more time engaging in things that do. I don't know what happens next. I don't even know that I want to speculate on it, because then I'll be forced to deal with those unanswered questions and it will take me away from the happiness I've been feeling, right here, right now, and, for some wonderful hours, in the arms of the man I love.

now

How does one know when something is truly over, when the old chapter is closing and a new one beginning? Is it a sign of strength, tenacity, and honesty to hold on to something, even in the face of its apparent loss, or is that simply stupidity, weakness, naivety, and denial? What does loving look like when it encompasses also continually letting go? How does one walk away from the deepest love ever known, especially when shared with one's best friend? I feel as though I know and understand less today than ever before. The only thing that is certain is that I am confused. The sun is high, my heart is broken open, and I have no idea what comes next.

rilke

Your work needs to be independent of others' work.
You must not compare yourself to others.
No one can help you. You have to help yourself.
Criticism leads to misunderstandings and defeatism.
Work from necessity and your compulsion to do it.
Work on what you know and what you are sure you love.
Don't observe yourself too closely, just let it happen.
Don't let yourself be controlled by too much irony.
Live in and love the activity of your work.
Be free of thoughts of sin, guilt and misgiving.
Be touched by the beautiful anxiety of life.
Be patient with the unresolved in your heart.
Try to be in love with the questions themselves.
Love your solitude and try to sing with its pain.
Be gentle to all of those who stay behind.
Your inner self is worth your entire concentration.
Allow your art to make extraordinary demands on you.
Bear your sadness with greater trust than your joy.
Do not persecute yourself with how things are going.
It's good to be solitary, because solitude is difficult.
It's good to love, because love is difficult.
You are not a prisoner of anything or anyone.

—Rilke

not going anywhere

the grid plan

"I made the comment about how, you know, the Grid plan emanates from our weaknesses, this layout of avenues and streets in New York City, these systems of 90 degree angles, and to me the Grid plan is puritan. It's homogenizing in a city where there is no homogenization available. There is only total existence, total cacophony, a total flowing of human ethnicities and tribes and beings and gradations of awareness and consciousness and cruising.

And this woman turns to me and she goes, 'You know I never really thought of that.’ She goes, ‘I can't imagine it. Everyone likes the grid plan.'

And of course the question is, like, who is everyone? I mean, it’s just what I had said. I mean, whoever that is under the white comforter, cuddled up with 34th Street and Broadway, existing on the concrete of this city, hungry, and disheveled, struggling to crawl their way onto this island with all of their machinated rages and hellishness and self-orchestrated purgatories, I mean, what does that person think about the grid plan? Probably much more on my plane of thinking, my gradation of being, which is: let's just blow up the Grid plan and rewrite the streets to be much more a self portraiture of our personal struggles rather than some real estate broker's wet dream from 1807. We're forced to walk in these right angles, I mean, doesn't she find it infuriating?

By being so completely allegioned to the Grid plan, I think most noteworthy is this idiom: I can't even imagine changing the Grid plan. She's really aligning herself with this civilization. It's like saying, 'Oh I can't imagine altering this civilization. I can’t imagine altering this meek and lying morality that rules our lives. I can't imagine standing up on a chair in the middle of the room to change perspective. I can't imagine changing my mind on anything. I, in the end, can't imagine having my own identity that contradicts other identities.'

When she says to me, after my statement, ‘Everyone likes the grid plan’ isn’t she automatically excluding myself from everyone? ‘How can you not like the grid plan? It’s so functional. Take a right turn and a right turn and a right turn and then there’s a red light and a green light and a yellow light. It’s so symmetrical.’ By saying that everyone likes the Grid plan, you're saying 'I'm going to relive all the mistakes my parents made. I’m going to identify and relive all the sorrows my mother lived through. I will propagate and create dysfunctional children in the same dysfunctional way that I was raised. I will spread neurosis throughout the landscape and do my best to recreate myself and the damages of my life for the next generation.'”

~Timothy Speed Levitch
from "The Cruise"

my love

The following poem is titled "My Love, A Partial Explanation" and is written by Shaindel Beers. I just discovered it tonight.


You ask what was different this time,
and I answer that it was the combination of rocks and water
and make some obscene joke about the sexual escapades
which would have ensued had we been in Maine or Oregon,

but this is because I don’t know how to tell you about your eyes,
which you think are brown, but which I know are gold-flecked
in different lights, and the way they smiled
when we talked our odd talk about relationships
and the stars; not really astrology,
more astrodynamics and Eagles’ lyrics with a bit
of quantum theory thrown in for good measure,

and I don’t know what you see in me,
but I knew you were closer to the truth than anyone else
when you said that my body reminded you
of South Dakota, because I always knew I was a plains
state—only the colors of sand and wheat and
eyes as grey as storm clouds, which used to anger my mother
because she thought if only I’d had more color,
I could be beautiful—

The other day when we watched the geese,
and you said, wistfully, Soon there will be goslings,
I didn’t mean to be a bitch and say Poor, monogamous bastards,
but sometimes life is so structured, and I’m always
on the outside, never quite able to figure out the rules
that everyone seems to take for granted.

I’ve been told that loving me is like loving a guard dog,
you’re never sure if it’s love, or if you’re just grateful
that you’re the one thing it won’t kill;
and I don’t know how to stop this,
it just seems to be my way. The way that giraffes
are my favorite animal, not only because they’re so gentle,
but because a mother giraffe can decapitate a lion
with a single kick if it threatens her calf.

disclaimer

Man, I love clearing stuff out. I love the fragments I find. Things scribbled on tattered scraps of paper that at some point I'd found intensely amusing or important. At the very least, these were things that it felt useful to write down, as though they may one day have a good home somewhere. Well, I guess this is it.

(Disclaimer: some family members may find the following a bit too personal. Personally, I found it hilarious and not such a big deal, but I also find that to be the same about my lack of understanding of what constitutes inappropriate dinner conversation, and I've made more than one of you squirm with that...)

This is in keeping with previous efforts to capture and record some of my dream imagery. I don't even remember when the hell I wrote this... Here we go. What I found on a purple sticky note, word for word:

Dream - in house - group house - more like a hotel-type situation but in a house. Old Marine (now security?) says to me, "I love you." And I ask, "What? Why?" He explains that they're moving my stuff out of my room temporarily and one of the little kids of the people helping with the move found my vibrator under the bed and the kid thinks it's the best toy ever. I turn the corner to see the kid switching it on and off and squealing with delight. Hilarity and embarrassment ensue.

possessions

I am working my way through a stack of boxes that I have been ignoring for months. Where the hell does all this stuff come from? Truly, it's rather overwhelming...

I have boxes full of manuscripts, teaching materials, evaluations, old photographs, pages torn from magazines, pdf files of obscure texts, articles of interest. I have boxes full of old art supplies in various stages of use and decay. I have an obscene number of paper clips and, I can't believe I'm going to write this, I think perhaps I have too many shoes.

I ignore these things because it is easier than dealing with them (or that's what I tell myself, despite the evidence to the contrary). But lately, I can't ignore this stuff any longer. It's all making me feel crazy. I feel anxious and on the verge of tears just looking at it all, though paper shredding has proved to be surprisingly cathartic.

What's interesting, though, is that my anxiety and such is not produced by nostalgia, or even any memories attached to these objects. They are just objects in space, most of which have been boxed up long enough to prove they hold no special significance. But they exert control over me somehow and I find it hard to decide what to keep, recycle, throw away, give away. I overthink everything.

I find I construct scenarios in which said object might be useful (one day I might want to show someone the array of flyers and postcards I produced during my bookselling and event planning days, right? no? oh...) or hang onto things I might at some point wish to consider using in class. Even the desktop of my computer is littered with icons for websites I found interesting and might want to return to... I open seventeen tabs at a time, because, you know, there are all kinds of things I don't want to forget might be cool, or useful, or odd, or lovely.

It's madness! And this madness must be brought to its end. My work, possibly over the next several weeks, is to unburden myself of everything that really doesn't matter. I don't truly care about this stuff. I sometimes fantasize about having a Fire Sale. As in, please buy my shit before I set fire to it, because, frankly, I could use the money and I have to get out from under all these objects. Suffice to say that my work is cut out for me.

raw

I thought, perhaps my heart is so huge it has taken me nearly 37 years to notice I don't know my way around it... well, I am plunged into it now. There are no words to describe this rawness, this wounded bird. All my thoughts turn to ofic oqiruoylf qocinfdfn ;owcemr'utiqut when I try to articulate anything past this guttural howl.

petty griping

I'm in love and I'm scared. To say I have trust issues is an understatement, but then, surprisingly I manage to be rather trusting most of the time. My worst defense (offense?), it seems, is to pull away and become distant. That, or I push those I want closest to me further and further out of reach. This compulsion is maddening.

My sense is that I can let go of that fear, that need for distance, if I can relax, which is made easier if my beloved assists me in that regard, but that seems like a recipe for failure (not because he can't or won't or hasn't, but because it calls on the external to accomplish work I need to do internally). The trouble, of course, is that I am profoundly sad and often hurting most of the time, which means I find it very difficult to truly relax.

I know how to lounge comfortably, or blow off some steam, but relaxation-- truly letting go and dissolving all my tensions --feels damn near impossible. And because of this I am afraid I am driving away the man I love. I see it happening and yet I don't really know how to stop it.

we did it again.

My sister and I, once again, decided to do the open mic thing this past Monday at Three Friends. My lovely friend Matt Love was one of the featured readers for the Caffeinated Art Series. You can listen to me and Kiana here. I come in at 11:49 and Kiana comes in at 15:38. I love us! Hope you enjoy something of it too.

ch-ch-changes

I have been moving through the world in a bizarre state of sweet sadness lately. I don't know if it is the changing of the seasons that is getting to me, or the fact that, once again, I've had to accept that love and awesomeness aren't always enough, or if it's just another mood cycle for me. Whatever it is, it has been affecting me deeply. I am ready for this term to be over, to be done with grading papers and evaluating students. I am ready for the world to burst into blossom, to feel the sun on my back, to have more time to write...

I have been thinking a lot about a new friend. Well, a friend I made and then pretty much lost almost immediately. His name is Chris, a.k.a Cat, and he is a member of the USMC. I will admit that I didn't know much about what it is to be a Marine when I met him, but my conversation with him made me realize how, despite having strong opinions about war and government, I had managed to grow up woefully ignorant of how the military functions and what life must be like for those who see combat. Meeting Chris made me radically rethink a lot of things. I've been watching documentaries and other films, I've been reading various news reports, and researching USMC training. I have been thinking a lot about how smart and funny and sweet Chris is and feeling rather stupid about how irrationally heartbroken I've been to think of him being shipped off to Afghanistan and what he will likely encounter there. I've been thinking of how little the media shares of what these men are doing there (laying roads and building the necessary infrastructure, in addition to taking out military targets, like high ranking members of the Taliban) and how little we hear of just how horrifying Al Qaeda and the Taliban really are... it's not just sensationalism. There are some messed up things going on over there and reading about it makes me grateful to have been born a western woman in the era I was born.

I can only imagine the sorts of things he is likely to face, the things he has already seen and survived. I had no special fondness for men in uniform; I have not developed any sort of military fetish. I had the good fortune to meet one amazing human being and to get to talk with him, to learn something about him, and to have my eyes opened to things I had not looked at directly before. I gave him my address, if he wanted to exchange letters while he was gone, but in the end he made it clear he was not comfortable investing in a new friendship when he would be leaving so soon.I think I understand this now, though I didn't at first. Who am I to him? Apart from family, it seems there are few who would really be willing to support a soldier deployed overseas and who, sadly, may not return. Why would he believe a new friend be willing to endure the emotional strain or loss, or maybe more to the point, why would he believe that such a new friend would actually be invested enough in that friendship to care at all?

I have had only one friend ever who I corresponded with while he was in the military. I went to high school with him and we'd been close friends before he joined the Navy. We exchanged letters while he was at sea. He is now married with children and we are not close now, but I remember that friendship fondly and I remember how important those letters were at the time. Chris and I didn't have time to develop a proper friendship, and yet he's already had a big influence on my life. Perhaps the fact that I am at a crossroads in my life made the conversation I had with him more significant than it might have been, but I like to think that we connected in a genuinely human way, and I hope that he is not anxious about leaving and that he is safe while he is there. I hope the Pashto he has learned will spare him from having to ever fire his weapon and that he will eventually return home and will be able to live his life in whatever fashion he chooses. Again, I feel stupid for being so sentimental, so moved by such a brief exchange with someone I hardly even got to know. I'm almost certain I'll never hear from him again, and just as certain I won't ever forget him. Weird.

I guess knowing he is leaving (maybe even this week?) has brought him to the forefront of my mind again. Thinking of his circumstances sort of puts my life more in perspective. I'm listening to David Bowie's lyrics "Every time I thought I'd got it made / It seemed the taste was not so sweet / So I turned myself to face me..." and I'm thinking of what it must be like to carry your life in a bag, to know that any day might be your last, and to move through your day unencumbered by fear. I am actually fairly self aware, as much as any monkey can be anyway, but I realize that I am not always as honest with myself as I'd like to be. I sometime listen to my fears and accept less than I want or deserve. I sometimes don't reveal what is my heart, or hide behind a wall of armor for fear of what might happen if I stood as naked and vulnerable as I actually am. I am at my best when my fear is least. So, in the service of this feeling, I have taken to running, to focusing on getting stronger, to making some important changes in my life. I have renewed my desire to rid myself of all unnecessary objects and unproductive habits. I want to distill my life down to its essentials. I want clarity of purpose.

I'm not there. I am as confused as ever. I am on the precipice of letting go of a very significant relationship in my life; I honestly don't know whether to hang on or let go, or what that will look like either way. I only know that I need something to change and that I must clear out what is unnecessary in order to create the space in which I can see what I truly need and what I want my next move to be. I also know that meeting Chris has somehow set the wheels turning in my mind and I have been reevaluating what is important to me as a result. Whatever my politics are, most of the gripes in my life pale in comparison to what he is going to face, what he has already seen during his last tour. I will, thankfully, never see combat myself, nor will those I hold most dear, but I don't want my gripes to be petty.

I want to have the courage to honor my heart in all facets of my life and to commit to what my heart directs me toward, no matter the obstacles. I have always had a fierce determination to live my life with authenticity and integrity. I guess I am feeling like I must take it to the next level. I want to move forward without fear. I want to know what it is like to live my life without fear. And, as I said before, I want clarity of purpose. Winter is transitioning to spring, old ways are passing and new possibilities are unfolding. The world is awakening; its riches are stirring. I am stirring too. I am not content to be less than what I am. Big changes are afoot and I have no idea where I will land.

design or dumb luck

I recently had a student tell me that she knew she couldn't get away with bullshitting in my class. I took this as a compliment. She then wrote her final paper using the Harry Potter story as her guiding metaphor and comparing me to Albus Dumbledore. Despite what that may sound like, she was well within the parameters of the assignment and did a really great job on first draft (all I've seen so far), so I took this as an even greater compliment. Then, last night I was told by my lovely friend, who also happens to be a poetry editor, that she'd recently received a note from a writer submitting poems for consideration and in it this writer said that she really loved the magazine and especially the poem "How To Live With It" written by yours truly. That was a pretty sweet compliment to receive. Small moments such as these make me think that perhaps, whether by design or dumb luck, I am on the right track.

a good day

Today was a good day. There were bicycles and didgeridoos and blossoming cherry trees. There was sunshine and loud tailless kitties and fat little dogs and dogs that looked like you could strap a saddle to them and be taken for a ride (Great Pyrenees). The afternoon reflected off the water as the trains slid slowly by... It was a good day.

I should have been grading papers, but I wasn't. I was trying to feel light. I was trying to keep moving. I was also (again) looking into the tall arched windows of an old abandoned brick building. (The Yale Union Laundry Building-- don't suppose anyone knows who owns it and what their plans are for it?) And then the sun slipped down the sky and the air cooled and I closed all the windows and doors. It was a good day and now I am sitting here in the quiet, sad, and too much in my head.

I have recently asked for something that I really want, something I am afraid I had no right to ask for, something I am afraid I will never know in the manner I wish to. I am trying to be patient, but every minute that passes makes me feel a little sick, makes me feel a little closer to receiving words I don't want to hear. I spent the day running into the wind, trying to escape what I fear is inevitable, trying to be absorbed in the small wonders of my life. Today was a good day, but it hasn't distracted me from this looming question. I am, it would seem, very adept at torturing myself this way.

I have been researching cities I am toying with starting a love affair with. Seattle and Chicago, so far, top the list. I think about the mountains of Colorado, or the desert blooms and lightning storms of the southwest. I dream of the tropics and the light in San Miguel. They might all become a home to me. They might all prove to be welcoming. But in all of them, I'd still carry this weary heart, and while I might be taken by a sunny afternoon, I never forget what beats behind these ribs. I'd like to comfort myself by stating that it's a good thing to never forget one's heart; that even when it has been blown apart, it resonates with all that is worthwhile and still has something to teach, some important wisdom to bestow, if one can quiet the mind and simply listen.

When I listen to my heart, I hear your blood moving beneath your skin. I hear the breath beat of your living heart against my cheek, under my hands. When I turn to meet it, I see your face looking back at mine and for a moment I know, with certainty, that I am not alone in this world. It is hard to be quiet and patient now. I want to punch you and run away. I want to tell you that you never mattered. I want to do anything to prolong the time between this moment and the one in which my question is answered, finally. I am afraid. This missive is my effort to acknowledge that fear and to set it adrift, to help it along its way, to break its hold on me.

I want to say I will miss you, my beautiful friend, but I said I wasn't going to succumb to preemptive heartbreak. I have, however, succumbed to some sort of illness and it is at the feet of this illness that I lay all the responsibility for this nonsense. I will miss you, though, should things resolve that way. More than you will likely ever know. Certainly more than I will ever tell you.

another open mic

Here is another podcast from the Show and Tell Gallery Open Mic night at Three Friends.

how to live with it

I have a poem up here at Dark Sky Magazine! It's always exciting to see my words out in the world. There are some italics and stanza breaks in the original that don't seem to be appearing online, but that doesn't make it any less cool to see. I don't want to use a birthing metaphor, but, well, let's just say it's nice to see my poems take on a life of their own. They's all growns up now! (If there were any question remaining, yes, I am a total dork.)

sorrows

who would believe them winged
who would believe they could be

beautiful           who would believe
they could fall so in love with mortals

that they would attach themselves
as scars attach and ride the skin

sometimes we hear them in our dreams
rattling their skulls         clicking their bony fingers

envying our crackling hair
our spice filled flesh

they have heard me beseeching
as I whispered into my own

cupped hands         enough not me again
enough          but who can distinguish

one human voice
amid such choruses of     desire

~Lucille Clifton

puppets!

So, a short while ago I was able to put my degree in poetry to good use, trading poems for a painting by Mr. Dax Tran-Caffee of the San Francisco Bay Area. This exchange was, I think we'd both agree, a fabulous exercise in creative economics and, perhaps, a sign of things to come. He is currently embarking on a project called The Museum Proper, which will require funding from people just like you to get work underway in time for the SubZero Festival. Dax has made a video describing the project and what he needs right here. Please check it out. Please forward the link to your friends. Please contribute in whatever way you can. Public art deserves to be supported and Dax is an artist worthy of your appreciation, financial or otherwise.

onward

So, it's 2010 and we don't have jet packs. I can't say I feel I'm missing something there. January has come and gone. The new year is underway. I've spent the past couple of months in a strange state overt sociability and also rather, well, I want to say hibernatic (Is that a word? Interweb check inconclusive. It should be) behavior. I have just entered my tenth year in Portland.

In this past year I have managed, against all odds, to keep my heart open. Moreover, I have deepened that openness and can see into it with savage clarity. And I have discovered that my love is infinite. It is positively incorruptible. I'm not exactly sure what to do with that, but I think it is a good thing. It's progress.

A year ago I wrote that being moved by simple joys and laughing more than I cried was progress. With that as my measure, then I am successfully progressing still. There has been plenty of chaos. There will be stories and poems to come from the carnival of my life, for sure. Perhaps there will even be some peace. I don't have an agenda.

I only know that I love and love fiercely. I am taking care of myself and taking care to mind my creative impulses. I may feel alien, but there are moments I can breathe and moments in which I feel whole. I feel humble, devoted, unassailable. I suppose that's not a bad start.

archaic torso

I cannot get this poem out of my head, particularly the last sentence. So, instead of trying to rid my head of it, I thought, perhaps, I'd try to get it to crawl on up inside of yours:

Archaic Torso of Apollo

We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,

gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark center where procreation flared.

Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders
and would not glisten like a wild beast’s fur:

would not, from all the borders of itself,
burst like a star: for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.

~Rainer Maria Rilke
translated by Stephen Mitchell

dark sky

I have just been informed that my poem "How to Live With It" has been accepted for an upcoming issue of Dark Sky Magazine. Show them some love and check them out!