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What do you suppose the Dalai Lama thinks about when he gets bored? Does he make prank calls to other religious leaders? Does he play practical jokes? Does he discuss Buddhism in relation to Taoism and Confucianism while completely tanked in the back of a local bar? "You she, see it's all about the ... er... wossnames, thingies, you have them in your head all the time unless you're masturbating, oops MEDITATING, oh yes thoughts." Does he look at photographs of hot Buddhist nuns and think "Yeah, I'd hit it." Has he ever thought of anyone as a "punk-ass motherfucker”?
I'm going to sit here and try to enjoy the day, try to forget the secret message I wasn't meant to see. You see, there's a panicking mob in my veins. They rampage, screaming through my lungs, colliding with my heart. Will you still kiss my salty face, love? Will you touch my tangled hair? Will you continue to patiently wait while I learn to forget that which I don't wish to remember, while I learn how to trust you again, while I discern for myself which of your words were true? Can you be that patient for me again?
She lays silent in the sun, contemplative bliss. Mixed scents come dancing to her nose, hello kitty. She finds the workmen annoying and informs them of this with a sneer and a twitching tail, never knowing that they could not possibly receive her message. They are equally protected from her expressions of wrath. The noise ends and I watch her eyes gently close, her face slowly sinking to rest on her paws. The breeze ruffles her whiskers gently and she is tolerant. She is content to sleep away her day until a pat comes. She is my solar powered kitty.
It is much cooler today than yesterday. I'm almost tempted to close the windows. I can hear the neighbor's music and it sounds like a radio playing softly one room over. If I let my attention wander momentarily, the constant stream of traffic could almost be ocean waves, the occasional honk or screech being the cry of seabirds fighting over a tiny scrap of fish. Is the dog running at the water? Is it a skateboard or a very small train rushing over its tracks? The life is much too abundant to close out. I have settled for a sweater.
She woke with the knowledge that her life was bullshit lodged in the front of her brain with the insistence of a knife. She considered it for a moment, gliding around so she might see it from every possible angle. What did she have to look forward to? There was work, with its endless stream of emails sent to hammer out the smallest tedious details. She had her 5:30 mojito at the local dive so proud of its mediocre nachos. She dreamed of walking away from it all. She dreamed of flight, countries rendered to saikei, freedom in the sky.
I feel the fear on me again, the kind that no litany can cure. I'm drowning in all the doubts you gave me. I am nearing hysteria from all of the knowledge I am lacking. You say to trust is to have faith. You council blind belief in words that have turned on me before. “It is different now.”
How can one defeat the urge to confirm, to watch when fears have been proven founded? Where can one find faith in fellow human beings despite a multitude of examples of their capacity for evil? How can I trust you?
The door was closed. She knew the words had failed her as she watched his face. There was polite disinterest and nothing else. All her apologies and promises meant nothing in the face of his glacial barrier. He had decided she wasn't worth it anymore.
There was nothing for it. She made her mistake. Even then she couldn't say for certain that it was a mistake in and of itself or simply shame at having been caught. The rain began with her resigned tears. She stripped slowly in his hallway, lingering to remove all jewelry.
She walked towards the bridge.
I left some memories with you,
I thought you knew.
Morning's sweet musk,
afternoon with a busy blur of us,
evening and its quiet sighing satisfaction.
I thought they would mean something to you too.
The candle with its glow
to reach the corners,
it believes in this hopeless effort.
It will never stop
Is hope merely another four-lettered word?
I have dreams in which we
slip away- another marooned love-struck
We hide and smile
We run and twirl
laughter skipping from our mouths.
there is a shadow over our play.
I know what Nicholas was; I wonder what he will be. Is he immune to the shifting landscape of mental possibility? Does he see the way he might evade his captors though his body be thoroughly theirs? In the land of endless white where the soft and solid are equally hard, he has the paints and palette. He can control the vertical and the horizontal, diagonal too. He can see in multiple dimensions and trick them in their two.
It is the death of his imagination that Nicholas should mourn. It is the last breath of the child inside him.
He felt calm as he watched her walk away and tried not to wonder what would happen. He didn't know how long he would have to spend not thinking about it. He wondered how long it would be before it was second nature to watch her walk away and not fear. How long before he no longer had to force on himself these multi-colored frivolities to avoid letting his brain walk that same track?
How long is it until practice truly makes perfect? Can practice ever be so strong and talented?
He smiled and turned to begin the wait.
the lips, her smile on her face
the flaming glory of her hair
the aftermath of a stampede of tears
a drop of blood in the bath
sheer swirling silk
a mark from a strong kiss
a cherry in its tree
a leaf in it's last season
a thought formed of pain and hatred
a flash on a your girl's nail
a whisper on a wave of pleasure
a place of velvet to rest my head
a distraction and a notice
a song and dance
the curve at the tip of my tongue
I know red.
I am not ready:
for my declaration of fat glory,
for my private sanctuary to be breached by the
air of outside,
for the words that just passed your lips.
I can't imagine:
a more fitting song for this moment
than the one you have given like a gift,
even though it wasn't your song.
My cat and I will hide
wide-eyed and prepared for quick flight
whiskers quivering lightly
spring-loaded claws, waiting for their moment.
We will watch as you pass;
ignore your invitations to wander along your
until the beast fails to devour you.
I hate you with the strength of a millions suns,
the steady revolution of as many moons.
I hate the look on your face,
your inability to distinguish between “your” and “you're”.
I hate your poetry;
I want to shred it.
I hate your eye for color in your photographs,
the way you make them glow, extraordinarily vivid.
I hate the little notes you leave for him,
your obsession with sex,
your absence from that place on the one day it
would reassure me to see you there.
I hate that you haunt the edges of my life.
”Hello, it's me.”
A steady rise and fall of your words as they ride on your breath, obeying the tide of your body functioning. The notes sliding down the deeper end of the scale and my body listens. It hears your heartbeat and I shiver with the strength of its response. The dream of yesterday with the sand and drinks, breeze and soft music, the crash and break of the waves on our feet.
We are moon watching, love. We breath in the salt of the sea as if we never left. We touch freely, knowing we always will.
Follow the bouncing ball though it weaves and turns in unnatural ways. Keep your eyes focused on it despite the sounds and scents from every direction. The trees on either side of the path reach for you, but you are running to fast for them to get a grip. The flowers release little shrieks and hide within their leaves. You don't notice. You are too intent on your prey.
The trail and ball both stop at the edge of a cliff before you notice your surroundings. You don't know where you are or how far from home you have wandered.
I remember that this is an exercise I tried before, writing a bit every day, no need for a connection, no commitment. I don't remember how many days I made it before the demands of school and my family drowned out my craving for creativity. There always seems to be a reason to put the most intangible important things off until another time, an easier time.
A couple of computers took ill and the words are lost.
I wonder what it was I said in those few weeks. Was it something worth immortalizing for the world to see? Is this?
The same, the same, it's all the same. These days, weeks, months and years all blend; shrink them down and they become moments in which we busy ourselves with the daily nonsense. We have bodies to feed and bills to pay, minor communications to read and major dramatics to dispel, beasts to love and games to play. We watch the creations from other minds, always prepared to criticize. What do we create? What do we add to the world?
Is nobility strictly reserved for those who save lives and fight injustice? Can we feel accomplished for making it through today?
My life can be read on little crumpled bits of paper, though not necessarily in the proper order. I mean to carry a notebook but I don't always remember. I write things that come to mind on any bit of paper I can find, notices from school, envelopes that formerly contained bills, receipts and bits of newspaper. I put them in my pocket with the idea that later I will use them. I will put them in my journal or start the best story I have ever written.
I don't. They sit and then disappear, never to be seen again.
How is it this particular song is stuck in my head? I haven't heard it in years. I don't know who made it or what it's called; I can barely remember the lyrics. For several days I hear what I think is the first line of the song followed by a mentally mumbled second and third. What is wrong with my inner dj? I try to meditate and it stays. I try others songs and it digs in its claws. Is there a message I'm supposed to be getting? Some secret message my subconscious is trying to tell me? What?!
The woods are silent in the moonlight. Silver-green leaves glimmer against the black of the shadows where the light can't reach. The water is still, as though holding its breath in anticipation of some propitious event. All the hoots and rustlings of the forest's night shift are absent.
Perhaps the forest is simply closed today. It sits, prepared for the next day's business. It waits for the sky to bring it the morning and with it the hikers and bikers, swimmers and fishers, all the insects and the birds to eat them.
Perhaps it is a special forest holiday.
This is the day of before. Events were unearthed that can change everything and the value of this has not yet been determined. It doesn't matter what the other days say. Love, newly rediscovered and fearfully cherished, was all that kept everything from breaking today. Today will be a beat in the back of our minds. We walk to it, cry to it, fight to it and love to it. We hope that it will fade away to nothing with time. We will try. We will wait.
We are happy to discover that we can still hold hope for after.
I watch other people's faces, hoping for a glimpse into their inner lives as I walk down the street. I do this when I am spending too much time in my head, turning the same unhappy things over and again. I do this to feel a connection to other people without having to put myself in a position where they can see my heart. I protect it well. I have it encased in concrete, surrounded by a large chain link fence with razor wire across the top. I have put it in an abandoned place. It is safe for now.
I wish I could understand why everything seems so different. It's as if I have entered dangerous, uncharted territory. Why do I have so many of the old familiar feelings? These are the same old feelings I though I had vanquished. Are our lives just a big loop that we work our way through repeatedly until we die? Life seemed so simple when I was a kid. I thought the adults in my life must have been incredibly stupid. How else could they have such a hard time figuring things out?
Does this happen to everyone after they grow up?
I know that I want to spend most of my time writing. I'm just not certain what. I don't want to do anything that doesn't involve writing of some kind but a degree is so far away. I could probably do some freelance work but I have nothing published besides three poems in a community college anthology, not exactly an exciting addition to my resume. It is definitely not something that would get me a job. If I want my fiction published, it needs to be submitted. I'm sure I could find something freelancing online if I looked hard enough.
It was an ideal day. They stayed in bed too long playing, rolling around until the sheets were tangled around their legs. They made breakfast together, sausage, eggs and hash browns. They meant to clean and organize. They had been in the apartment for months and still weren't completely unpacked. They spent a couple of hours relaxing in the sunshine as the breeze from the open windows wafted over their toes instead. They talked. They kissed. They cuddled on the cushions from their old couch as they watched a movie. They remembered what it was like to be in love.
There was a time when Ben & Jerry's was my favorite ice cream. It was so full of chunks and swirls of goodness that no other ice cream would do. They just couldn't compete. My favorite flavor was Rainforest Crunch. How can you go wrong with something that contained cashew and brazil nut buttercrunch? Then they sold the company. I'm sure they made tons of money but the ice cream has never been the same. I was barely into this pint when I started digging for the good stuff. It needed butterscotch caramel topping.
I wish they would bring back Festivus.
There had been too many late nights and early mornings, not enough oblivion. Every little detail of her life needed to be turned over so that there quickly grew a cacophony in her head that she couldn't take anymore. Her own thinking was likely to drive her crazy. She was too stressed to read, too preoccupied to watch tv and too exhausted to write. Sleep was evading her because of the stress of the day and music only seemed to remind her of her problems. The one person who could have helped was well out of reach for the day.
On every site I have ever been a part of that had the option, reading random entries has always been my favorite way to spend an odd free moment of time. It is an amazing display of variety and creative talent. I find when I'm uncertain how to write the thing I have dancing about in my head, there will be a random entry that will provide me with inspiration. I'll read it and realize how simple it really is. It flows so easily afterwards.
I look forward to one of mine being the random entry that someone comes upon.
I love to cook, for myself and others. This wasn't something I grew up doing. My Mom always hated to cook. When I lived with her, we survived off boxed and bagged foods. We ate frozen foods and were quite familiar with the -helpers and -ronis. It wasn't until I moved out with my boyfriend that I started to learn how to cook. His mother gave me a binder full of family recipes and very patiently answered any question I had.
I've noticed that the more I learn about food and cooking, the pickier I am about what I eat.
I keep coming back to this warm beach
my toes exploring deeper
in the sand,
frozen drinks and music,
other people to the edges of my vision-always
The night is dark,
and we can see all of the stars.
Your lips are on my neck
and your hand rests at the small of my back.
You hide your nose in my hair
and tell me how pretty I smell.
I'll gasp when I feel the
of your glass against bare skin.
You will do it at least once
and we both know it.
There is hope today,
a lack of the ever-present fear.
I feel I have closed the situation today.
that the one thing I needed
was to tell her how I feel.
“just so you know. It wasn't just me”
I feel pity for this voice
who can't take responsibility
the need to state the obvious
excuses her part.
She doesn't understand.
will harm her
in the story of her life
than any cruel words
I might choose to toss her way.
The Tip Jar