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I’m going to give the 100 words a shot again. SO I’ve decided every day, after my meditation, I’ll write.
One hundred words.
It’s a good way to integrate two things I NEED back into my life.
Writing and sitting.
I miss the writing.
The clickety-clack of keys.
I've tried to keep a hand written journal, but those just don’t work out for me. I think it’s a Gemini thing. I feel move plugged into an electronic journal. More connected to the words.
So this will be part confessional, part poetry. Who knows what it ultimately will be.
Off on a big jet plane to ice the cake of 17 years culminating in destruction.
My Kali nether parts exposed for all to see.
Black as night.
Destruction for the sake of freedom.
For the sake of life.
At the expense of another.
Is killing a marriage murder?
Can I be tried and convicted?
I did it.
I pulled the plug.
Pushed the plunger.
Threw the grenade.
I had to.
There was no option, except my own demise.
SO now, I stand of the bones of my marriage and dance.
Heads strewn around my waist.
My friends are my sangha.
In them I take refuge.
I love them.
I miss them terribly, but know, they are
Always a step back in time when we are together.
Or maybe there simply is no time when we are together.
We stop time.
We exist in a place beyond time.
Time is relative anyway, I don't believe in it, don’t subscribe to it, don’t follow it. Who is it to dictate to me what, where, and when?
My friends and I are timeless.
We don’t need years to define who we are.
We have lifetimes.
Cells strung together,
breath by breath,entwining,
curling through the helix,
Vein-like cords mapping the flow.
Cells dividing and weaving,
changing into ever the same but never the same.
Always something new and different.
Always and forever- Unique, but common.
Emptiness is realizing that your cells, your space between the cells is Space.
I am Space.
I am a puddle of awareness in a sea of existence.
Breath it in. Breath it out.
Feel the space.
I am the Universe, and the Universe is me.
There is no separation.
I am the mantra mala of the Universe.
The Dakini muse that sings to the blind.
The Projector, showing the way.
The double Gemini never quite knowing, and arguing with myself, as to which way that is exactly.
The lotus stretching up through the murk into the light.
I am the breath incarnate through flesh.
A spiritual being having an Earthly experience.
Feeling my way through this plane, on my way to another.
An ego, an id, 5-senses, 7-chakras, a sex drive, hunger, fears, anger, love, and laughter
all wrapped up into an amazing package with legs.
Walk with me.
It’s all in reverse now.
You probably kept the tiny birds- I’ll miss them.
You called me a fucking bitch in front of our son, our mothers and your sister.
It was just one of many white-trash bonding moments I had with you.
This time, I tried to yell back.
Tried to yell at you that it was NOT my fault.
That YOU were the catalyst.
You. broke. it.
With your, so cool, punk rock demeanor.
Punk rock is dead-sexy at 24, but it stinks and looks like shit at 42.
I am alive.
Thanks to me.
Ode to the Grateful Dead
“Driving that train, high on cocaine.”
Sh’yeah. Right. Like I could even begin to do cocaine these days.
I’d probably vibrate apart into tiny pieces; or assume the fetal position in back of the
U-haul. Nevertheless, there is something to the idea of tokin' a line for a cross country drive.
Didn’t actually listen to The Dead while making the trip. Just sang in my head.
“Truckin…just keep trucking on… Sometimes the light’s all shinin on me; Other times I can barely see. Lately it occurs to me what a long, strange trip it's been…”
As a reformed liar, and former stifler I believe in full-assault honesty now. Honesty honed to a razor sharp point. Honesty as a salve to try and staunch the bleeding left by wounds. Honesty to rock the boat of boredom, and complacency. So many years spent biting my tongue, holding my tongue, I’m amazed sometimes I still have one. But I do, and now, I wanna wave it like a freak flag! Putting your tongue, opinion, thought processes on the line is a vulnerable, valiant effort not one to be taken lightly. It must be done with mindfulness.
April/11. I read your 3,100 words just now. Many of them are lost memories, but some came flooding back making me cry.
Why couldn’t we just work it out?
I miss some of those times. I wish you could understand how much I wanted to make it work.
How hard I fought myself.
But I know, now, you just hate me.
I am the bringer of your worst fear.
I am Prometheus- stealer of light.
All I ever wanted, was to be in the light.
I’d hoped we could be there together.
Oh dear-You make me light headed.
You make me feel like I've spent too long on the Tilt-a-whirl.
We shouldn’t move so fast,
but how can we help it?
We’ve waited a long time.
And god-damnit, if it is, what we think it is, why shouldn’t we rush?
With wild abandon, to each other?
Last night I dreamt of you (again!) but this was different.
Someone, a bearded man (draw your own conclusions) peeled our bodies away and all that was left was blue and green light.
We were mingled together.
And we were blissfully happy.
Igniting inner agni.
Failure is stasis.
Failure is seeing the elephant in the room and not shooing it out before it has the chance to poo all over the rug.
Failure is forgetting who you are in favor of living for another.
Failure is seeing the mess and not picking it up for whatever reasons.
is not, trying.
It is not falling.
It is not looking like a fool.
It is not asking for help when you need it.
It is not speaking your truth, and expecting the worst.
It is not looking at the map.
balm of breaks,
and battle scars,
soother of sorrows.
I write to clear my head.
Ease my soul,
Sing my song,
and break a bottle or two.
I like seeing my thoughts manifest in characters.
Feeling that emotional bladder release into something that can be put out into the world.
Like marking my territory.
Pissing all over the place.
I struggle sometimes to verbalize the thoughts, but my fingers like to talk.
Like to express.
Like to be verbose.
They dance over the keys in some sort of psychic choreography.
Singing all the while.
Sometimes while I’m really rocking a meditation, and I am feeling the flow of breath, in and out, and I find that sweet spot.
just how long could I sit?
What would happen if I went all Rumplestiltskein,
and just sat?
I imagine the world passing by in a blur,
like a video on high-speed.
Just waves of color streaming past.
Initially, people would try to rouse me,
they’d just accept that I was becoming something,
let me be.
Then, I see myself thousands of years into the future,
solid as a statue
I am enough.
I need not. Want not. Waste not.
So what if they turn off the phone,
or the cable,
or I default on my student loans?
Really, in the grand scheme of life,
the Universe and everything,
I am alive.
I am awake.
I am aware.
I am breathing, and beating, and cognizant of who I am amid all this interstellar minutia.
I'm a conscious mist.
This body is not mine.
It’s on loan from the All.
intent those are mine.
Fully integrated me.
Alive, and alone
- as we all are.
I suppose there is no easy way to break-up. In my mind I think:
“Can’t we both just accept it and move on, maybe not as friends, but at least in a civilized manner?”
But what he thinks is more:
“I hate you, you cunt. You horrible person. You selfish bitch. You child stealer. You flake.”
That’s a lot to try to digest. But we do have to skirt the issue, because it’s not just he and me. There is another involved, and he
pick sides. That wouldn’t be fair.
Can’t we all just get along?
Anger reared its ugly head.
Finally swam up from the depths with intent to maim and destroy.
Looking for a port to wipe out.
Looking for a ship to sink.
A leviathan surging into my conscious,
egging me into a rage so profound it made me shake, and wail.
After sooo many years of swallowing,
it was inevitable that it rise to the surface.
Come up for air and say hi.
My Mars in Aquarius makes my anger a bit berserker.
I don’t like anger.
It wasn’t just from fear of him.
But fear of me.
Fear of crazy
Fleeting and falling,
blanketing the earth in soft coldness.
Drifting, and drowning
so many pains and sorrows.
I don’t know what it is about the snow that makes me feel baptized.
Makes me feel clean.
when the snow is falling,sometimes
the sun breaks through the clouds,
and for an instant the air is diamonds.
That’s how the snow makes me feel -- Alive.
Each individual snowflake an intricate work of stratospheric art.
The conditions each flake is subjected to determine ultimately what that flake will become.
Each individual drifted down,
only to melt.
Fuzzy loony toon.
Who knew that you, would become such a sweet, adored part of our little broken family?
That something so small
could give so much?
So warm, and delightful.
I just want to cuddle you up close
and hold you as I fall asleep.
Your prey instinct is still so strong,
but I feel you striving to get past that.
And I think about how hard it must be to trust,
when every cell in you must scream to hide.
Your tiny heart thumps with fear but you know,
we are your herd.
days?” I implored
“…One is too many.”
Was your sweet reply as we said goodnight.
Sighing, I lay the phone on the table,
I find myself trembling with longing.
Thinking of being close to you.
Feeling your skin on mine.
Feeling that I can not wait any longer.
It has already been a lifetime. \
The miles and years between us seem insurmountable.
But somehow, they don’t quell this intensity.
I wake at night aching for you.
Wishing you here, now, in my bed.
Taking that first kiss we both wanted,
but never had.
Walking down a lonely stretch of highway, alone. Seems redundant.
Then the rain started.
Sitting on the couch watching the days go by.
The clouds roll by.
The breaths flow by.
I had a three hour nose bleed last night.
Just like Gilligan and the Skipper,
except with more gore.
As the blood flowed out
--first time ever! --
and I pinched,
"What if it
stops? What if I bleed to death,
from my nose?
How fucking embarrassing.
Girl. You need a shower. You need to get yo’ass up and DO something.
Wallowing in this limbo is gonna make you crazy!
But, I don’wanna get up. I just wanna lay here and wallow. Can’t you just let me wallow?
Oh good lord woman!
Listen you two, Can’t we find a middle ground here?
Id, you should have some wallow time. You are going through a very hard time. You do need time to heal, lick your wounds and plan your next move. It's ok to wallow a bit.
But, seriously? You really should take a shower.
Happy Earth Day!
Today’s the day we celebrate
the tit off which we suckle.
As though somehow having an official “day” will make it allll better.
It’s the oxygen the breath.
The water we drink.
It's our very nourishment.
The ground we make love on.
And the sky we gaze into.
Today, I meditated as I watched
“Amazing Earth Videos” on YouTube,
to post on the Book-of-Faces,
my own honorifc reminder.
I didn’t intend it as meditation.
Just happened that way.
But I watched,
in awe -the savagery,
and striking magnificence.
Earth - Love it,
or go fuck yourself.
My Mom is moving to Denver.
I am simultaneously elated and wary.
I worry that she will get here
and want to make my life,
While I welcome her with wide-open arms,
what I really hope is that she
will find her
one that will overlap with mine.
I hope she finds a place to just be herself.
Free of the memories that haunt her.
Free of the streets and sites she and Dad would frequent.
Free from him.
Not that she should forget.
How could she?
But she should move-on.
Life is for the living..
I adore painting faces
Feeling foundation flow into pores
Contouring and highlighting
sculpting a face into perfection
Painting until the canvas is primed for color
First, I paint the eyes
The soul’s window
I generally have an idea, insight, or inspiration before I start
but it usually gets tossed
I pick colors to match mood, mode, or model
Brushing shadows, and creams,
until the eyes looks ethereal,
or enchanting, or elusive
I render each face with the perfect hue of cheek: Rosey, blushing, tanned.
Eyes lined with ancient kohl
Lashes tinted dark
Oh! Get over yourself already!
You are NOT the only one in pain..
You said not to call or email anymore because it’s "too hard."
Man up already!
Jeez, if you’d fucking been able to be the man I needed all along, we’d not be here.
Yes, I cast the final stone,
but it wasn’t I who stacked them.
Years of being afraid of how you might handle something,
or hurt yourself,
or accidentally hurt me or our son...
Years of biting my tongue to the point that I bit straight through.
Divorce is such a first world problem.
My son is the perfect blend
of his father and me.
My feet, hands and eyes.
His father’s nose and jaw.
My goof-ball sense of humor,
a love of laughing,
and the compulsive need to be making noise almost constantly.
His father’s adoration of The Ramones.
Now as he comes of age,
and his father and I are apart.
I see a man emerging.
Tonight, as I cried over so much pain;
as he had Nirvana pounding
through his Rasta-headphones,
his jaw set,
brooding eyes straight forward --as we drove,
he took my hand,
just to soothe me.
He is perfect.
So tomorrow’s post-
(which is actually one I just wrote- See? I time traveled. Time is relative.)
is a complete and total cop-out.
sometimes it’s just about producing right?
Making the moves?
Playin the play?
Singing the song…
even when there’s no heart in it.
it’s just about going through the motions,
and being able to “fake it, till you make it.”
These are the rafts we cling to
when life has sent a deluge to overwhelm.
A paradigm to flow to.
Ride it out and wait for the waters to dry.
They always do.
Word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word.
Word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word word up.
Recipe for a Lovely evening
Under the stars listening to laughter and the mandolin twinkling out into the pines.
Campari and campfire
Smoke and cold
Nibbles of brie, olives and bruschetta, grown warm from sitting out
Green coffee beans roasted over mesquite then steeped into a smoky brew
Funny anecdotes, accents, and political sidesteps
Feeding the foxes old eggs – and laughing as they sneak up to the edge of the firelight watching the strange human circle
Django Rinehart, Gypsy blues, and Pearl Jam
Some wander home to warm-beds
the remaining huddle closer to the fire
and put another log on.
So we wait.
As we have.
For each other.
The dichotomy of emotion I feel right now runs from relief to frustration.
I want you more than, I think I’ve wanted.
But, to wait, is to possibly
have something more.
Something worth waiting for.
Something worth living for.
So we wait.
We keep each other up late into the night.
We talk when we can.
I send not-quite naughty pics.
You make me swoon.
because we already have.
We spent years wondering “what if?”
Now, “if” is perched on the horizon.
So, we wait.
The Tip Jar