Awake in a Peacock's Dream

this is happening.

2010-09-30T14:12:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-14T17:17:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-09-07T10:49:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-13T10:55:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-05T11:04:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-02T23:09:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-02T21:57:00.000-07:00

...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

2010-07-30T10:22:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-28T11:19:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-27T08:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-12T11:04:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-12T09:51:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-08T13:33:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-29T13:14:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-06-28T13:42:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-27T11:57:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-23T11:25:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-18T20:45:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-14T16:01:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-10T19:34:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-03T12:37:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-01T15:12:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-19T10:52:00.001-07:00

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

2010-05-18T12:18:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-17T10:26:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-13T11:06:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-10T11:59:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-07T12:40:00.000-07:00

the grid plan

2010-05-02T20:29:00.000-07:00

"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

2010-04-28T20:44:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-28T20:21:00.001-07:00

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

2010-04-27T11:23:00.001-07:00

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

2010-04-03T13:43:00.001-07:00

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

2010-04-02T15:38:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-03-27T12:50:00.001-07:00

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

2010-03-14T20:01:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-08T11:39:00.001-08:00

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

2010-03-06T18:56:00.001-08:00

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

2010-03-03T14:01:00.001-08:00

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

how to live with it

2010-02-18T08:23:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-16T23:35:00.000-08:00

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!

2010-02-08T10:35:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-02T21:46:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-26T11:54:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-23T23:23:00.000-08:00

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!

open mic - listen!

2009-12-06T14:05:00.000-08:00

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.

waking

2009-11-22T22:43:00.001-08:00

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.

love and fear

2009-11-19T13:39:00.000-08:00

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.

how little I know

2009-11-11T11:53:00.000-08:00

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.

Encontre un hombre exquisito

2009-11-04T11:39:00.000-08:00

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

you're lucky

2009-10-22T12:20:00.000-07:00

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.

strange zoo

2009-10-21T22:48:00.000-07:00

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.

more dreams

2009-10-14T15:24:00.000-07:00

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.

crazy lady

2009-10-13T09:56:00.000-07:00

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

dreaming

2009-10-08T13:16:00.000-07:00

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.

my girl anya

2009-10-06T11:09:00.000-07:00

I love her. Great cameo too!

randy

2009-10-05T09:18:00.000-07:00

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.

a promise

2009-09-28T12:44:00.000-07:00

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.

message received

2009-09-26T22:54:00.000-07:00

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.

quivira

2009-09-26T09:00:00.000-07:00

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.

friends

2009-09-20T09:01:00.000-07:00

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.

a vow

2009-09-12T15:28:00.000-07:00

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

new poems up

2009-09-05T21:52:00.000-07:00

I have two new poems up in the current issue of Caffeine Destiny. Check them out here.

massage! cheap!

2009-08-13T14:20:00.000-07:00

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.

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!

getting better all the time

2009-08-10T07:49:00.000-07:00

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.

huzzah!

2009-08-02T11:52:00.000-07:00

Two poems were just accepted for inclusion in the forthcoming issue of Caffeine Destiny!

Happy dance!!

true things

2009-07-22T11:05:00.000-07:00

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.

yes

2009-07-07T13:10:00.000-07:00

"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."

pobrecitos!

2009-07-05T15:35:00.001-07:00

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.

not dead.

2009-06-25T16:35:00.000-07:00

... 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.

a love note

2009-04-11T19:32:00.000-07:00

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.

not a pretty bird

2009-04-08T21:36:00.000-07:00

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

mos-smith?

2009-04-08T00:02:00.000-07:00

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.

traveling spirit

2009-04-01T21:16:00.000-07:00

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.

thyme cookies. aya!

2009-02-22T22:40:00.000-08:00

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:

a beginning

2009-02-14T16:58:00.000-08:00

'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"

citadel of the spirit

2009-02-14T15:26:00.001-08:00

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.

man pants

2009-01-22T21:02:00.001-08:00

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.

love at first sight

2009-01-18T08:47:00.000-08:00

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!

resolve without resolution

2009-01-13T09:46:00.001-08:00

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.

the late unburdening of 2008

2008-12-07T21:08:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning I felt as though a fog had lifted from my mind. The day began with hoarfrost covering the ground and ended with fire in the sky. I discovered a song within me, which, though I can't recall it this moment, I know is immanent and my voice will rise up to meet it once again. This clearing is incomplete, but progress is being made.

I have vowed to resume the work of unburdening myself of things closed up in boxes. I looked around my room, too cluttered for my taste, at the accumulation of things that possess more of me than I'd like. I began the work before my recent move and then, with three jobs keeping me distracted, I didn't continue.

Why do I still own my high school yearbooks? They mean nothing to me, but I've carried them from place to place. I have a box of ceramic supplies I haven't used in the nearly eight years I've been here. Sure, maybe one day I'll have access to a kiln again, but until then, do I really need a bag of mystery glaze? I want to get rid of it all. Rip the cds and sell the discs. Finish the assortment of art projects in various stages of completion and leave them in parks or gift them to friends. The books, I'm afraid, are as culled as they are likely to be for a while.

I have a number of cool objects, but most of them don't bring me pleasure. They accrue dust and I am weighed down by the space they occupy in my life. Already, I've disowned the majority of the dishes I had that were not made by hand by people I've known, or otherwise exceptionally visually or tactilely satisfying. I want to rip, to shred, to recycle, to gift, until I feel I can breathe again.

I know there are things I will inevitably own or acquire. I make things. Things accumulate. But I genuinely want to sip tea out of the same hand made mug every day. I want my books to have dog-eared pages and coffee stains and signs of love and wear. I want my life to be a palimpsest of my experiences, not measured by the objects I've acquired or the (lack of) security provided by my bank account. (Which is marked by a negative trust fund for the foreseeable future. Ah, higher education!)

I want to stand breath sucked away and stunned by the fire in the sky more often. I am fortunate enough to live and breathe and to have a body and a mind to take in the world in all its horror and sublime beauty. I have a mind and a language with which to remain conversant with the universe and with others. I have a lot to do before I am taken back to merge with dust and minerals and light. It's time to wake up. The fog has lifted.

a little blake...

2008-11-01T19:16:00.001-07:00

A Memorable Fancy.

As I was walking among the fires of hell, delighted with the enjoyments of Genius; which to Angels look like torment and insanity. I collected some of their Proverbs: thinking that as the sayings used in a nation, mark its character, so the Proverbs of Hell, shew the nature of Infernal wisdom better than any description of buildings or garments.

When I came home; on the abyss of the five senses, where a flat sided steep frowns over the present world. I saw a mighty Devil folded in black clouds, hovering on the sides of the rock, with corroding fires he wrote the following sentence now percieved by the minds of men, & read by them on earth.

How do you know but ev'ry Bird that cuts the airy way,
Is an immense world of delight, clos'd by your senses five?

the lady of lone fir cemetery

2008-11-01T18:28:00.000-07:00

surely you've seen her haunting the graves and gliding through the neighborhood...?

for all the english majors...

2008-10-29T10:33:00.000-07:00

I don't know whether I should laugh or cry over Lifestyles of the Nouveau Pauvre.

sigh.

And then I went off and got a master's in writing... poetry of all things. Is there something wrong with wanting to exist in a mytho-poetic state ALL the time?

my poor little cancerous one-eyed pirate

2008-10-21T22:39:00.000-07:00

After treating cancerous tumor #1 and finally removing Buster's surgical neck wear, I was thinking he was on the mend. His right eye is improving, though hasn't yet healed entirely, and the gaping wounds on the left side of his neck are doing exactly what they are supposed to be doing...

But this morning I found another lump on the other side of his neck and the vet hasn't returned my call. Are these lumps appearing as a result of the blood draws he's needed to make his eye serum? Is the new one a result of the shot to sedate him for treatment of the other? Are my efforts to heal my cat resulting in greater ill health?

This morning I told Buster he was being stupid. If he was planning on getting sick and dying, I said, he should have gotten well first so that he could be running around outside chasing things before he kicks it. Sitting around growing tumors is about the least fun thing a cat can do, second only to sitting around growing tumors while trapped indoors, and he should really reconsider.

He didn't want to talk about it. He turned his back to me and resumed playing with the thin stream of water in the bathroom sink.

indulgences

2008-10-06T11:08:00.000-07:00

watching episodes of terminator: the sarah conner chronicles, mostly to see summer glau kicking post-firefly butt.

wine and cheese for dinner.

watching my roommate eat steak and cupcake for breakfast, followed by a molasses chip "for dessert" and secretly envying him.

anything one might do with a fancy cashmere blanket. fantasizing about such things and said blanket.

buying a new pair of boots I really can't afford because they were on sale and it's been raining and my cat's tumor site is sloughing off in a really unappealing fashion.

candles and bathtubs and incense. oh my!

staring at the sky until the clouds blur and dimensions cease to exist and I am almost certain I will blow away in the wind.

the poems of pablo neruda. all of them.

narcissistic blog entries even I don't feel much like reading.

mind prey

2008-09-29T11:31:00.000-07:00

It's astounding what one's own mind can do to one's self... It knows our greatest weaknesses and thus knows where and how to strike most deeply and effectively to prey on those anxieties. The mind lies in wait for those terrible opportunities to arise.

What would our experience of the world be like if we could harness that power to our own ends? Utilize such specific strength to target our goals, rather than our fears? This, I think, is a project worth pursuing.

I am feeling better today. My mind has cleared. I've had some important communication unfold, necessary conversations exchanged. All that's left is letting go of a particular thought form to make room for a better, more productive one. Slowly, I am making progress.

two from Neruda

2008-09-25T08:56:00.000-07:00

Tonight I Can Write

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

A Song of Despair

The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!

Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.

You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.

Pilot's dread, fury of blind diver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.

Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.

Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness,
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.

There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.

Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!

How terrible and brief was my desire of you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.

Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.

Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.

Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.

And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!

From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.

You still flowered in songs, you still broke in currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.

Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.

Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.

It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one.

in which I think

2008-09-25T01:04:00.000-07:00

I keep making posts to obscure my heart-broken rantings. I am questioning whether to delete my posts. (Perhaps this whole blog?) I'm no longer sure what purpose it is serving... Clearly, the work I need to be doing is internal now. Everything else needs to fall away.

surely

2008-09-25T00:40:00.001-07:00

that last post will live to haunt me.

my crappy day

2008-09-25T00:28:00.000-07:00

So, my cat has had an ulcerated cornea for weeks and instead of getting better, my one-eyed pirate is getting worse. If that weren't enough, I discovered he also had a lump. Upon further examination, it turns out that lump is cancerous.

Today also marks the confirmation that the man-child that I break my heart upon repeatedly is already chasing after two vaginas, neither of which belong to me, so now my new lease is looking more like a prison sentence. I would like to hate him, except the one thing he is not is a liar. I knew this was coming.

Did I mention that my ex-boyfriend and one of my best friends (or so I thought) has mysteriously decided not to talk to me, after ditching out on plans, and offering no explanation as to why on either count? Yeah, I thought about calling him to tell him our cat was sick, but I didn't see the point since he's gone all non-communicative.

Oh, and I still can't find a real job because improving your life through higher education actually is code for "your degrees freak us out, go away."

A fine fucking day, if I do say so myself.

fuckin' Pre-Raphaelite, yo!

2008-09-14T13:19:00.000-07:00

So, I'm standing at the farmers' market yesterday waiting for my girlfriends to arrive and join me for coffee. I'd just bought some apples from the Old World Apple stand and I was probably distracted by leaves and sunlight. A man with a guitar slung over one shoulder comes up to me and says, "Wow. You look like a Pre-Raphaelite." This jarred me out of my reverie and I made eye contact. "I mean, a hot red head standing there with her basket of apples, staring off..." He begins to walk away but then turns back around and says over his shoulder,"Fuckin' Pre-Raphaelite, yo!" At this point I can do nothing but laugh and say thank you. "I mean, I hate to break it to you this way, but..." then he swings his guitar,"Well, I'm gonna go play some MUSIC," the man says before walking away. What a riotous way to start the morning. If you are not familiar with the Pre-Raphaelites you can see some images of their artwork here. Afterword, Mayumi, Tricia, and Sarah joined me on the little Moroccan carpet near the coffee stand in the park, where we were later photographed for the November/December issue of French Glamour, for a story about the "Portland Lifestyle." No joke. What a fabulously strange morning!

notes from underfoot

2008-08-31T18:46:00.000-07:00

You know how it is when you are moving... all the sifting through objects, creating piles of varying degrees of importance and chaos, the cutting away of the extraneous. I'm feeling the urge to purge. Moving is a pain in the butt, yet so liberating. Already I'm envisioning the next round on the other end, finding more to recycle as I unpack and organize.

As usually happens, I have also come across old letters, notes to myself, weird scraps with fragmented thoughts whose contexts have been long lost. I've decided to post some of them here, to indulge my absurd impulse to preserve some of this nonsense, while still satisfying my overwhelming need to get rid of most everything.

"I don't jump into puddles anymore and there's no one that I'd like to splash with. Most people don't appreciate it. We threw leaves at each other in the park. That was almost similar."

"Tradescantia. Zebrina. Purpusii."

This fragment came on two pieces of torn paper that had obviously, at one time, belonged to several other pieces which have disappeared since the shredding. On one piece, only the end of two words were available (...hed ...ars.) but on the other, practically a poem:

"...dark window; on
your namelessness on her tongue and the s...

...still in her hand, while the birds sang softly
in the damp green of the trees."

Actually, now that I think of it, that may have been a draft of a poem. I wonder which one it was??

"I have acquired more bruises in the last week than I can remember having in a long time. My collarbone, purple with the weight of your forearm against me. Pink and yellow fingertips dot my thighs, the backs of my upper arms. The impression of your teeth finally fading from my shoulder, and the sand dollar-sized misfortune on my calf, which I don't recall doing anything to induce. I have been happier than I remember being as well."

"The key is elasticity. That's why humans are great."

"...the days I feel like all I am are the roles I play and I hold my hands up before my face and realize I am becoming transparent."

"...why we allow ourselves to be ruled by things that tick and silly painted lines."

"Don't eat that morning. No liquid after 10:20."

I also found a card from my friend Jeff that died this past January and it had me in tears for a full ten minutes...

And, of course, I've also been rifling through assorted class notes on Foucault, Lacan, Eliot's Prufrock, and pictures, cards, grocery lists, receipts, half-filled notebooks, numerous recipes, books and film suggestions, documents, letters of recommendation and rejection, strange foreign coins, and a single Costa Rican pejavilla (?) or palm kernel.

I'll leave you with this scrap I unearthed with this quote from Albert Camus: "In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer."

home | homelessness

2008-08-11T11:55:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, I have been largely unemployed since graduation (thank you for the copy editing work, Matt!!) and also worried about what I jokingly, yet fearfully referred to as my impending homelessness, since I've got to move off-campus in less than a month. Well, I am still jobless, but it seems I will not be homeless after all.

The word is intriguing to me: homelessness. It conjures up such an abstract melange of imagery. It suggests a lack of something, not rooted, necessarily, but certainly something deeper and more meaningful than the mere presence of a house. A home is a space in which to flourish, or retreat-- a space in which to do any number of things really, but chief among them involves this sense of home. More than a possession, or dwelling, a home represents a space where one belongs and can feel at ease with being one's self.

Considering I recently overheard another woman being attacked within earshot of my bedroom windows (that's two consecutive summers now, for anyone keeping count) I am really looking forward to living with R and to feeling more at ease in the space I have chosen to reside. Plus, my new landlord is also a writer, with the same degrees as I have, and seems like a pretty decent fellow. And with that, half my stress has just melted away. I have a plan, a place to put my things without building a fort from my books underneath a bridge. My kitties will get to run around outside again.

And, while I still won't have a gas stove (beggars can't be choosers, the saying goes) I do have a nice expanse of hardwoods, just blocks away from an urban winery, a park, a liberal arts college, plenty of new slacklining trees, and a rhododendron garden.

optimomentusm... or something

2008-08-06T11:51:00.000-07:00

So, I did it. I came to the end of the path I'd chosen over four years ago when I quit my corporate job (first, and probably last) at which I made more money than I've ever made (though, having worked a lot in bookstores, certainly isn't saying much) to return to school full time.

I now have two degrees that I didn't have back then, three in total: an A.A. in Liberal Arts - Multidisciplinary Studies (too liberal with my arts to get a proper liberal arts degree); a B.A. in English with a minor in writing; and finally a M.A. in Writing (primarily for poetry, but I've dabbled in fiction and nonfiction writing, though, perhaps regrettably, not technical writing, which is, it seems, where all the paying jobs are).

I was graduated with honors. I was optimistic. I'd planned on using the momentum from my recent experiences to propel me back into the working world and into a new apartment (since, as a recent graduate, I get the boot from my campus housing in 30 days) where I'd start to work on all the art projects I've been thinking of, revising my thesis into a fully-fleshed manuscript, and actually spend time cooking elaborate meals again.

I put out of my mind all of the upsets and difficulties these past two years have shown me. 2008 was supposed to be good; this is was I had told myself initially. And, I thought that perhaps the trials were over and I could relax into something good, something hard-won and richly deserved.

Apparently, I have some unpaid karmic debt left. I've been unemployed since June, applying to every job under the sun, including those that pay a third less than I was making at my last full time job, before my two recent degrees, and while I am qualified (and in many instances over-qualified) I can't seem to get a break. Now, imagine this as your platform from which to sell yourself to prospective landlords.

"No, really, I've been entrusted with teaching university students, I swear I will pay my rent. This is a transition. This is a brief post-graduate school obstacle. Trust me. TRUST me. Wait, where are you going?"

So, this is a shout out to the universe. I didn't mean it when I said to give me your best shot. That was hubris. A joke. Surely, you can forgive that little transgression? I've been humbled.

Oh, and I've also realized that if I am ever in a position to hire new employees, I'm going to call the over-qualified candidates first to tell them I appreciate their smarts and while I may not be able to pay them what they're worth, I certainly won't toss them aside because I'm afraid their passions may reside outside the workplace. Likewise for rental units. I aim to let common sense rule out over so-called "business sense" every time.

Now, hopefully I haven't irritated any potential employers/landlords with my ranting. It's a frustrating road. I trust they will understand. And so now my friends, I ask you, do you have any friends or relatives hiring or renting in Portland? No, seriously.

from a dark field

2008-06-25T15:23:00.000-07:00

My short story (very short. 500 words short.) is online at The Smoking Poet. TSP is a cool little labor of love from some very interesting folks and covers poetry, short fiction, book reviews and interviews. It also, as the title might suggest, reviews cigars and features writing about the joy of smoke. Since I don't smoke, I doubt I'll have any pieces up in that section any time soon, but if you'd like to read my story you can go directly to it here. But I'd encourage you to look around the rest of the site too.

flash fiction accepted

2008-06-15T17:58:00.000-07:00

I've just gotten confirmation that a piece of flash fiction I wrote has been accepted for publication in the online literary journal The Smoking Poet. It should be appearing in the summer issue and is titled "From A Dark Field." I will, of course, link to it here once it's up on their site.

it's over...

2008-06-15T09:55:00.001-07:00

Well, it's all over but the paperwork anyway. I have officially completed my master's degree and must begin panicking about finding work. After all, I am competing with PhDs for the same job I've been doing as a so-called graduate "assistant." Ah, the life of an adjunct. I haven't yet found the market for me to simply get paid for doing whatever I please. If you know where one exists, do tell. For now, though, cleaning and probably packing and certainly nap-taking are in my future. Oh, yes, and reading books solely for pleasure. I can't wait!

this made me smile

2008-05-26T22:14:00.000-07:00

So, I randomly came across this on the PSU website. It is a profile of a former and fabulous student of mine and if you read it you'll know why I smiled. And this on a day already full of smile-worthy moments.

two more poems published

2008-05-07T13:51:00.000-07:00

I just got word that my poems "Two Minutes in Hell" and "If Kubrick Had Been a Dentist" have been accepted for the 25th anniversary edition of the Suisun Valley Review! SVR is hosting an anniversary release reading at the Solano Community College Library on May 16, 2008 from 2 to 4 PM (located at 4000 Suisun Valley Road in Fairfield, California).

Sadly, I won't be able to accept their invitation to read, but for all my Cali friends out there, you might hear some lovely new poets if you can make it that day. So far my rate of return is golden, but I know the rejection letters are bound to come pouring in any time. This just can't last. In the meantime, though, I am enjoying it.