another benchmark moment

I've mentioned before, yes, that I enjoy the subtle pleasures that only MySpace can produce?

Here is another beauty:

Subject: hi

Body:

i like the strappy shoes pic, you have very pretty feet !

any chance of similar pics wth maybe a bit more leg ?

kane

~~~~~

Seriously? I get a foot fetishist AND a random, ridiculous message from a stranger all in one! Does it even get any better than that? I mean, the husband cheating on his wife who sent me a message to ask if I was his mistress, who then later followed up with me, post-divorce I assume, to see if I wanted to be friends with him, well, that is pretty hard to beat. But this comes close.

post in which the poet asks...

for a glass of wine, a massage, and a nap. In that order.

okay universe...

Give me what you've got. I'm ready.

because I cannot drift away like that

I am imagining the world across two oceans joined. I am enjoying the many silences outside my windows. I am unable to sleep.

There is a part of me that is so tired, so road weary and dust blind, I hardly remember how I've gotten here. And another that remembers each step traveled, recovers them like sand dollars and mussel shells on the shore.

What to do with these thoughts? What am I but a collection, memory bones, rattling the darkness of my night mind?

I want to write, but feel too quiet. There is a story about deer and islands and bare grass, but it escapes me. I want to dream, but Dream is an elusive bugger, and not playing games with me tonight. I want to be done with what needs to be done already. I want it to be spring.

But why rush to the end? Why reach the heady conclusion? Why turn towards anything but this elemental shift taking place all around me? Why not be patient, be kind, pay attention damn it. And what if?

I have never been so discovered. I don't expect mountains to get up and move of their own accord now, but it's nice to imagine the heavens aligning, colliding world into world, like two oceans joined.

what if I told you...

I am willing to wait as long as it takes. I don't mind so much, this being alone, despite what my bathtub might tell you about it. That I wish I could right my wrongs and be better for it. What if I could take it all back, or move it all forward, what then? What if I told you I am sorry for the things I've done, or didn't do, the things I've yet to; would you believe me?

And what if I told you I despise my own tendency to keep people at arm's length, that I've been battling it for years, that I often run far and fast from the people I want closest to me. Or that I am not afraid of dying alone, but rather terrified of becoming bitter about it. Or that I've never meant to live my life slightly askance, all the while believing in a dream I know to be real but that I'm too afraid to touch. Would you find me there? Would you know?

Would you crush me with such knowledge, or hold my still beating heart in the quiet hollows of your open palms?

close enough to touch and still so far away

In 1996 I went to Europe. It was hectic. Six countries in five weeks, a vocal jazz tour, a relationship on its way out, a lot of first class experiences crammed into a really short time frame. If I had it to do over, I'd rather have the second class eurail pass and a backpack and let my wanderings lead me where they may.

Still, it was a good trip. I sang jazz in France (4 parts -- the vocal arrangement of Miles Davis's Freddie Freeloader; I sang Miles' part in his key, back when I was in practice and had that sort of range). I saw dame Judi Dench and Vanessa Redgrave on stage in London, I went to the river I was named after in Ireland, spent an afternoon walking the staircases in Montparnasse, visiting the Dali Museum, thinking up ways I could live for a year in Paris...

I remember one stretch, a four day break from the tour, where we left Germany to take a train to Italy. The train took us into Austria briefly and through the northern Italian Alps. I remember looking out the window of the train, these massive green mountains jutted up against the rolling hills beneath them. Austria close enough to touch, Italy just unfolding. I remember thinking it looked like a painting. A small house, more of a shack really, might appear here or there, dotting the landscape, but otherwise it was like an unoccupied dream. I remember wanting to throw myself off that train and wander these hillsides indefinitely.

I haven't made it back to those countries, though I hope to one day. There is so much of the world I haven't seen and so much that speaks to me. I have the urge to travel. I always do, and traveling only feeds the traveling bug. It quells it for a time as well, but it has been too long. I can feel it in my bones; I need to go somewhere.

there are such things as perfect moments...

Today, while having coffee with my friend Sarah, she complained that she was not only a hopeless romantic, but also merciless cynic. "How does that happen?" she asked me.

I've always known one could stumble upon pockets of happiness, whether in love or just a very good day, the trouble for me is that usually I simply continue stumbling. There has been love, there has been kindness, there have also been pains too innumerable to mention. There have definitely been moments that I will always be grateful for, people who have touched me, shaped me, made me hopeful. And, I have always wanted to believe that love was enough, that it truly could conquer anything.

When Sarah asked me this question, I immediately said, "It happens because everyday your romanticism is thwarted by the overwhelming presence of reality." I paused. "But that doesn't mean it's not possible."

I thought of all the hard lessons I have learned, the times when love wasn't enough, the failures, if one can call them that, to be faithful to the love that has been created. I thought of certain conversations I've had with my mother, where I described the kind of life and the kind of love I wanted. She would respond as the cynic. She would tell me that the reason Hollywood makes such good money from films about true love is because they are selling the myth--the dream-- that everyone wants to buy, but that doesn't really exist.

I love my mother, but I had to tell myself she was nuts. Despite the mounting evidence to the contrary, I have always held on to this dream of love. Real, imperfectly perfect, honest, bone-shattering, mountain-moving, everything-you-ever-wanted kind of love. In fact, I'm fairly certain that I've fucked up quite a few good relationships on account of this belief.

This past summer, during the crush of wedding season (which deserves an essay all to itself: the effect of one person's wedding on everyone else's relationships), I saw my lover, the groom's Best Man, walking down the aisle with the Maid of Honor. She was already married. She is a fine person, beautiful and kind. There was nothing remotely inappropriate unfolding, but, watching them, watching her smile up at him, I saw what he might look like if he were truly happy.

It was beautiful and it hurt. I think a part of me gave up on love right then. Looking at them, looking at the bride and groom and seeing what was so obviously between them, I knew that was not us. I really wanted it to be him. Truly, I did. He is a good man. He'd have been a good father. He is the first person I have ever been with that I actually wanted to remain friends with, after the end. But when I had thought about our future, this burgeoning desire to have a child, I did not ask myself whether this was a man I would love, who would love me until the end of time, but rather, once it all goes to crap (as it always had before, seemingly inevitably), is this a man I would want in my life forever?

I could answer yes, because he is really a fine human being. What more could a person ask for? But I saw how unable I was to make him truly happy. I knew he deserved that kind of happiness and I knew, deep down, that I couldn't give it to him. And I knew that I deserved to be that happy too. No matter what either of us might have wanted, we didn't seem able to do that for each other. There is more to this story. There is always more. I will always love him and he has taught me much about who I am and what I am capable of (both good and bad) and I will be grateful to him always, deeply grateful for all the moments we lived inside together, for a long time.

I have been jaded. I have been thwarted. I have been so down. And there I was this morning in the coffee shop telling Sarah that anything was possible. Despite everything, it seems, I have never stopped believing, no matter how tenuous my hope and how thin my belief. This dream of love... for it to be possible, it is vital that one never cease to believe in it. Right now, I feel in love with the whole universe and I want to shout at the top of my lungs to anyone who will hear me-- anything is possible. I know it now, in my bones. Even with all the hurt and sadness, this cynic in me has been put to rest. I have never been happier.

not quite spring

There's a phenomenon in Portland (well, actually, in a number of places, but it happens so often here that it bears mentioning) where the sun shines while it is raining. A bit further east and I've even looked up to watch snow fall from an otherwise blue sky. A friend of mine told me there is a saying people (which people, I know not) have for when this happens: the devil is beating his wife. I have no idea what that means, but I can't help thinking of it whenever I am walking through town in this sunshiny rain.

I've had a completely unproductive weekend. I've spent most of it rather antisocial, procrastinating by any means possible yet still managing to have accomplished close to nothing all weekend, save for doing my laundry and a handful of dishes, watching episodes of Smallville while drinking port, and slapping a bunch of green mud on my hair in order to make it more red. Meanwhile, the editing project I have sat on my desk, taunting me. I'm ready to spend time with it, but in a few minutes I'll need to rinse the horse-food-smelly concoction from my head and then I'll try to sleep off all the tea I've consumed so that I can do yoga in the morning. I hate when I get like this.

My impulses are in a 101 different directions, so I stay in, try to keep my head from spinning off my shoulders. If I go out in the world, I am confronted with memories and confusions and I feel ill-equipped to deal with it all just now. I haven't written anything I've been happy with in weeks. I haven't revised all the things I keep telling myself I need to revise. I haven't selected the poems I am planning to send out, nor for which publications I should like to risk ridicule (because, it seems, all bookish offices have a wall of shame I hope to never be slapped upon).

And yet, there were good things too. I made plans to get ridiculously dressed up to do nothing more than walk around, perhaps feeding birds, perhaps knitting, just so our small group will have an excuse to wear some of our more costume-y attire. I read something that made me stop everything else I had been doing to reread it on the spot. My neighbor made me coffee so that I wouldn't be forced to go to starbucks, since I was feeling too lazy to make the 15 minute walk to stumptown. One of my cats did a thing that I like, which is to begin to meow and, midway, get distracted by a yawn while the cat sounds are still resonating, and this always makes me laugh. A stranger made me smile. And the sun shone continuously while it rained and I walked around in it, getting wet, but only slightly.

because whatever neil wants, neil gets...

It's the least I can do for the man I'd marry if he'd only have me. Yes, I mean that. Neil makes me think, "Crispin who?" so what does that tell you? Anyway, at Mr. Gaiman's behest: Penn Jillette

have I gone slightly mad?

I have noticed I talk to myself more often, now that I live alone. Though I know that all people tend toward this behavior, I am astonished at how often I do it. I have been sitting at my desk balancing my checkbook and updating my budget spreadsheet, musing about myriad ways to pinch pennies in order to pay all of my regular bills, while still feeding myself and my cats, all the while deftly chipping away at my credit card debt. I have been sitting at my desk running through this laundry list --aloud-- and assuring myself that I will be able to accomplish this goal! Has living alone caused my grip on reality to loosen just a touch? Am I slowly going a little mad, or am I not alone in this?

boy is it ever wednesday!

That's right. It's not Saturday. Today is exactly one year to the day from my first blog post. What's that you say? I must be mistaken? No, no, no! Don't let yourself become confused by such things as "facts" as those have nothing to do with reality. Reality is all about perception, baby, and thus I begin this post to commemorate one year, both new and old.

So, if memory serves, my first post had something to do with not believing in New Year's resolutions, and well, a year (or a lifetime) later I still firmly do not believe in resolutions. Having said that, I have plans. Do any of my plans consist of blogging more consistently? Probably not. But there will be more yoga. And fewer unreasonably drunk evenings. And I plan to actually start submitting my writing for publication... I plan to start with something like the New Yorker, so that I can't bother to feel badly about my first rejection letter. I've learned (from reading quite a lot of submissions myself) that there is simply no reason I remain unpublished except that I have never submitted anything to become published.

So, 2007 will involve submission. Er. Yes. It will also include an effort to be more aware and to let go of what is unnecessary, beginning with miscellany and various other kinds of crap I am surrounded by but do not need, then moving into the metaphorical and spiritual. Or, at least, I think that's how it will go. That's the plan anyway. I'm choosing to look upon myself and others with more kindness and less judgment and to look up more, on clear nights especially. I may even begin to snap photos for the cloud catalog I dreamed up years ago and never followed through on.

I plan to knit more than I cry. I plan to make more art and new friends and more calls and visits to old friends and once good ideas. I plan to have less to do with those things that don't make my heart sing. And, with any luck, perhaps I will begin to sing more often, out in the world again, and not in the privacy of my bathtub (since I no longer have a car). Which reminds me, I also plan to retrieve the fabulous beach stick from the back of my old car before said car goes to car heaven. I don't know what I plan to do with the stick, but I dragged it off a beach in California and brought it all the way to Oregon and it lives in my old car that I don't even own anymore, but its keeper promised to take good care of the stick. And he's a good one, that keeper.

I plan not to continue with this nonsense any longer... for tonight anyway. Happy January 3rd by way of Saturday!

this doesn't actually complete my life, but...

I can't emphasize strongly enough how much I LOVE THIS MAN!



If only he'd have let me smell his hair, or massage his sore elbow, or have 10,000 of his babies (not truly... make the effort as often as that, but only one, if any, would do). Sigh. I'm into a multi-decade crush. Crispin Hellion Glover: He's my density!

How can I go forward when I don't know which way I'm facing?

I'm sitting here listening to Lennon's Imagine and suffering that bizarre (slightly self-absorbed?) phenomenon of the post break-up, post-traumatic experience world where song lyrics seem to speak to you from out of the past. How indeed, John?

Lately, there are moments it seems like I can hardly breathe, followed by other moments in which I am overwhelmed by all the simple joy and beauty in the world. Actually, they feel very much alike, these moments. You know the moment before you break down into tears, where everything rises up through your chest, your throat narrows, your eyes begin to sting, and your ability to think of the appropriate word escapes you and you know it's coming--that you are about to push over that edge and will not return soon? I live there, in the moment before the moment it actually happens.

So often I've too many things to do, read, think about, be present for that I've no choice but to push through; I find it a little exhilarating and also exhausting and I wonder when the equilibrium will return. Nearly done with the first of six terms in grad school I find I'm curious whether I've learned a damn thing of real importance over the course of my college career. Sure, I'm writing (though, notably, still not submitting anything for publication) and I've met some quality people recently. I love my students. B and I are trying hard to remain/become friends after the "divorce" and apparently I haven't lost absolutely every friend made in that time period. When I take stock of my life, I have a lot of things going for me and a lot to feel good about.

So, why am I sitting here (now listening to Dylan's Blood on the Tracks) on a Friday night, wondering if I should call the new adorable couple I've befriended through school, or whether I should get drunk with one of my single girlfriends, or if I should stay home (perhaps getting drunk by myself) just so that I have something to keep me from feeling so fucking sad all the time? It's not that dire... The adorable couple are possibly the sweetest, most genuine people I've met in a long time; the girlfriends are good girlfriends; the bathtub and a bottle of wine are really that enticing. For serious.

I'm only self-medicating to a small degree and I've lost a lot recently, so that's saying quite a bit. It's just that it all happened at once: a once-good relationship went south, topped of with a generous dose of my own thoughtless ineptitude to truly fuck it all up; the cosmic bitchslap I wasn't prepared for (and though I've been talking about it much in my personal life, I'm not prepared to spell it out here either). Add the pressures of full time grad school, graduate assistant teaching responsibilities, a part time job and my fumbling efforts to remember what being a singleton feels like (replete with brief affair with a beautiful young grad student that I actually wanted to be friends with to complicate my work and personal life) and I'm lucky my head hasn't exploded.

And as I look at this, all I can think is, jeezus Shannon, shut the hell up. Stop dwelling on yourself. Go outside and do something with your fucking time and energy. But I've lost my umbrella and it's raining and I wish I had someone to splash in puddles with that could just make me laugh. And laugh. And forget. Just for a while.

just damned...

damned if you do. damned if you don't. seriously.

this october sun

It's not easy to walk through the world with an open heart. Every day presents a challenge, a reason to put up a wall, or to tear one down. On a bad day, I try to take comfort in the tears. It's okay that they creep up on you in the bathtub, take away your song, and show you to be as naked as you are. They are a reminder that we are still alive, still feeling. Energy flows in and back out again.

Buster has been mewling and knocking things over for nearly five hours. His cry is as constant as this October sun. He grows, along with his his neurosis, slightly more hairless by the week. He wants to eat. He wants to chase the crows outside the window. He wants attention. He wants to be put down now, thank you. He doesn't truly know what he wants. Meanwhile, Minou sits passively, watching the world unfold as it is, with her Buddha belly heart.

My challenge is to grow like this: more still, more fearless. I wish to take it all in, let my spirit intertwine with the atoms of the earth, breathe in, breathe out. I don't need to hold on to anything. This is not to say I won't mewl and cry on occasion. These acts too, remind us we are alive, but they keep us pinned to a particular, when what we deserve is to be free. If each of us were truly free, it wouldn't be so complicated to bump souls with each other. It wouldn't hurt so much to let go. There would be no need for such things. Everything would simply be and that would be enough.

Enough. What does that word truly mean? Did I love him enough? How can such things be measured? I loved you and for a time, I hope, I loved you well. Before that, we loved others, and perhaps in the future, we will love again. Should it be enough to love and be loved at all? Shouldn't we appreciate all the bright October mornings and all the afternoons of rain; the long lazy summers, the times of grief and longing, the act of two bodies coming together to make love? Should not these things sustain us in the times we feel alone in the world?

We are not alone. There, the sun and the moon. Today, the crows. Yesterday, a smile from a stranger, a kind word from a friend. There has been love and will always be love. The world has its horrors, yes, and also the blind assurance of beauty. There is much to be grateful for, to weep for, to rise up and laugh about. It is enough.

random exclamation of JOY!

I don't know what the downsides are to tossing a bunch of batteries around and, frankly, I don't want to think about it. If only this idea could get pushed one step further-- something sustainable, non-toxic, solar? Anyway, check THIS out!

file this under random weirdness

Oh, the subtle joys of myspace... today I received three messages, as follows:

"I know this will seem very strange, but I am wondering if you know someone by the name of J___" (name edited to protect the girl who sent this)

"If you do know J_____ and are romantic with him I would recommend that you call me first before speaking to him."

"I didn't mean that you should contact me before him in a threatening way. That is your choice completely. I would only advise from past experience that if you are involved with him that you may have as many questions as I do. Perhaps not, perhaps you think I'm some crazy chic babbling nonsense about some man you don't know.

I hope more than anything that is the case. If not, please contact me. If it is more comfortable for you to call me, I can give you my cell phone # if any of this is relevant. I apologize if you have no idea what this is about.

Sincerely,
C______"


Well, suffice it to say that I had no idea what she was talking about. So my response was this:

"I've known J______s before, but none with that spelling and certainly I am not currently involved with any now. Hope that all is well with you though-- sounds like there may be an awkward or strained situation. Good luck!"

To which she very kindly replied:

"I'm very relieved that it sounds like you have no clue what I am talking about. I am going through a very difficult time with my husband that is making me obviously paranoid. I'm sorry to bother you. You do seem like a cool person. Thank you for the response, you could have told me to go straight to hell and you were very kind.
Good luck to you as well."

What an odd day. I hope she fixes what's wrong with dear old J___, or takes it as her cue to walk. Either way, I feel for the woman and was glad to give her at least a moment of relief.

I'm exhausted.

Who knew that teaching was so much work? (okay, okay, that's obvious, but jeez) I made it through my first week of classes. I didn't trip, vomit, accidentally bare a breast, fumble my language so badly it resulted in a wildly inappropriate double entendre, nor, does it seem, did I bore or frighten my students. But, on the downside of things, I haven't eaten since yesterday, I'm running on four hours sleep, and I have no idea how I'm going to squeeze my studies into all the lesson/unit planning I need to do (read: how the hell did I get myself into this and will I be able to get through it)? I wonder, at the end of these two years, will I still have earned that fancy distinction of getting to wear a bright yellow rope around my neck?

finally...

I've begun the work of adding recommendations for books (and probably music, art, and other interesting things as they occur to me or I discover them) over at my other blog: Almost Better Than Honey. I'm not at all sure what I'll do with it really, or whether I'll even have the time, given that the new school term begins in two weeks and my time between now and then is filled with workshops. Not to mention I was tapped for teaching duty, so yours truly will be expected to stand in front of a classroom full of 25 students and act like I actually have the authority to be there. Which I will, but I'll surely feel like an impostor! In any case, wish me luck. I'm sure I'll need it.

overheard in the wine aisle

To set the scene:

An elderly woman stands directly behind me, browsing the deli selections while I browse the wine section with B. A rather homeless looking man walks in and breezes between us.

"Good to see you grandma," he says, continuing past.

"Excuse me? Who are you speaking to?" she says.

"I just said 'good to see ya'"

"I am not your grandmother," she huffs.

"I was just saying hello."

"What? I can't hear you. I'm deaf." And with that the elderly woman turns heel and walks away.

This was the most awesome exchange ever. B and I stood still for the duration, afraid to move or speak and thus break the spell. We had a good laugh about it afterward, but damn if I don't want to be that spunky when I'm her age!