after electronically thumbing through bukowski's musings. i've come to the conclusion that we spend our lives bouncing back and forth between the need to be alone and the desire to share life in the witnessing... whether desire or need, it's just the way we are. there's no use in fighting it really.

Attention

There are a series of images in front of you. There are a few patterns that leave an impression, a visual imprint that becomes a familiar feeling. One day you notice something; an image you haven't seen before. You wonder if something changed, if the pattern was replaced. You start to question memory and loss of comprehension. The lines drawn and color fades. You think... "I need to start paying more attention."

Neon

I have this feeling... you know the feeling you get when you want to say something but you don't quite have the words? A feeling like being on edge, on the verge. All rush and no decline. I have this feeling... The approach blurs into the leaving and I am left standing on the curb watching a never ending line. Neon blind.

mellows like snow fall

My mind is on holiday I think... Maybe hibernating for winter and I am relying on only my body to get me through. Oh this is not good. I feel heavy and slow. There are things I would like to do like sledding, snowboarding, drink hot cocoa, send smoke signals to someone i don't know, watch planes navigate the starry sky, skate away on ice. Oh I don't know. I will just sit here and sigh, when I should be sleeping or working or creating... something, (shouldn't I?).

paper dolls

Petite hands wield pressed pulp to pliancy.
Still and all we palpate gently.
Pinch and paper dolls tear easily.

What goes on

"Do you realize what just happened... the enormity of what we just did?"

This question wasn't meant for me. The voice echoed off the stairwell's concrete walls and there I was by inconsequential necessity. Think of all the conversations going on this minute... Audible life stories, digging deeper with language, with the substantial weight of sound. It makes me sleepy. And the electrified exchanges spark and flame but the quiet here puts it out.

Goodbye Emily Dickinson

Everyone is talking, even the geese flying in V formation are chattering. The cause for commotion? Winter is here suddenly and full blown. The first big snow fall was a blizzard and the next day the temperature dropped suddenly from the 30's to 1, 2, 6 degrees. Winter has officially arrived and I don't own a shovel. Having busted my neighbors shovel I now have to buy two.

I'm painting again, though the ideas are slow to transpire from head to hand. I don't feel the need to rush though. There are a few activities I should throw myself back into after a long hiatus... like cooking (I've been saying this since July). Winter months mean lots of soup and stew which are easy enough to prepare. I've discovered something about myself recently though... I apparently dislike following written instructions (this is a challenge for cooking if I need to look up a recipe). Running is another thing... I've been lazy about running lately. My standard excuses are "I'm so busy" and "it's so cold" or "I haven't eaten enough to go running" (see above). I have on the otherhand been spending time with friends and this makes me feel warm and whole. Goodbye Emily Dickinson, hello you.

1902

In the morning on my way to work, I pass by a building that is situated near the train tracks. The building address is marked clearly in black Sans-serif font. It reads "1902."

In 1902 Mount Pelée erupted twice in Martinique. The first eruption fell on Ascension day and killed over 30,000 people, which must have seemed like a terrible coincidence to doomsday believers and end of the world enthusiasts. The second main erruption occurred on May 20th and took more lives in its wake. Like aftershocks with earthquakes, the volcano didn't just go away quietly. It continued to erupt over the next few months. I don't think I would want to live near a volcano. It doesn't seem very safe.

She blinks

Her tempered glance falls sideways
No one is hurt in the shattering
The edges are dull but heavy
Eyes behind the screen
No one is hit
She blinks

Dear Colette

This poem is perfect and I couldn't have expressed my love of Colette any better... and how sad is it that so many wonderously talented women have taken there own life? Here's to Colette and all her strength and endurance of heart and mind.

Dear Colette by Erica Jong
Dear Colette,
I want to write to you
about being a woman
for that is what you write to me.

I want to tell you how your face
enduring after thirty, forty, fifty. . .
hangs above my desk
like my own muse.

I want to tell you how your hands
reach out from your books
& seize my heart.

I want to tell you how your hair
electrifies my thoughts
like my own halo.

I want to tell you how your eyes
penetrate my fear
& make it melt.

I want to tell you
simply that I love you--
though you are "dead"
& I am still "alive."

Suicides & spinsters--
all our kind!

Even decorous Jane Austen
never marrying,
& Sappho leaping,
& Sylvia in the oven,
& Anna Wickham, Tsvetaeva, Sara Teasdale,
& pale Virginia floating like Ophelia,
& Emily alone, alone, alone. . . .

But you endure & marry,
go on writing,
lose a husband, gain a husband,
go on writing,
sing & tap dance
& you go on writing,
have a child & still
you go on writing,
love a woman, love a man
& go on writing.
You endure your writing
& your life.

Dear Colette,
I only want to thank you:

for your eyes ringed
with bluest paint like bruises,
for your hair gathering sparks
like brush fire,
for your hands which never willingly
let go,
for your years, your child, your lovers,
all your books. . . .

Dear Colette,
you hold me
to this life.

Making lists

Today I...
*got the oil changed in my car along w/ rotation of tires and a wash.
*bought fabric with little gold stars to sew curtains in my bedroom.
*recovered my kitchen stool with newly purchased oil cloth.
*washed two loads of laundry.
*made dinner.
*came up with a new treat of rice, milk and honey warmed up on the stove.
*read lord byron's poetry.
*decided to write my own poem.
*thought it turned out silly.
*became aware of the full moon.
*fell in love with this song:

*washed dishes.
*fed cat twice.
*didn't drink enough water.
*or eat breakfast and i realize that was a mistake.
*thought about someone.
*marked off items on my to do list.
*made this list of things i did.
*remembered that there's more i need to do still.

The scene

The tangle of limbs
shiver and flex
as a bird in the thicket
flits her wings
hopping from branch to branch
causing a scene
in the hollow of daybreak
on an otherwise becalmed
and wintery morning

Hello

I am feeling more present lately and like I have found some sort of steady ground. Something has happened in the past several months. People have come and gone in my life, some have stayed some have packed up in the middle of the night and never called again. Major shifts of continents and a sea change. I could go on saying that I never thought I would be here, not like this. But I am, so what is the point in drawing that out. Funny how the universe provides if we're open and honest with ourselves. I'm so grateful for my friends both new and old. I'm still dumbstruck and surprised by the fact that I matter to anyone. I realize how that sounds... like my self worth must be quite low. I don't think that is it so much but rather the fact that I think I have lived most of my life taking the easy way, just getting by and not feeling like I was accountable to anyone else. Suddenly I see I matter. People meet me and remember my name. They may say "hello" or ask me how I have been. Every gesture, every spoken word, every acknowledgement both received and given is a reminder that we are all here in this together and I am so thankful to be here now with you all, including those who have let me down and those who have helped me pick myself up when I needed someone. I've realized that it isn't only our friends or positive influences in our lives who teach us about life and about ourselves... it's also the people who come into our lives and maybe break our hearts a little (or a lot) that provide a wealth of insight. I think I've finally figured out what my dad meant all those times he told me that "life isn't fair" in response to my righteous declaration that (something) wasn't fair (whatever it was). Mistreated or misunderstood, left alone without any explanation, being mislead, breaking vows, using harsh words... All the ways that we can be hurt or hurt others, there's a mountain of resentment and disappointment if you let it build up. So when my dad told me that life isn't fair, he really meant... Sometimes things happen without explanation or reason. Sometimes things happen whether we want them or expect them to or not. Sometimes people hurt us or we hurt them and there are no answers no matter how strongly we feel that not having answers "isn't good enough" or that we are "owed an explanation or something for our hurt." We are owed more... we owe it to ourselves to accept that sometimes life isn't fair and there aren't any answers or explanations one could offer in order to make things right - to heal... and that is where acceptance comes in. Living in the present, is accepting the good and bad. That is a vow I make to myself. For better or worse, I am here now.

Taproot

Where does all the forgetting go? Is it buried here beneath our skin? Does it seep beneath the surface? Do roots extend, do they twine and surge, tendrils weaving through the heart, the lungs? Those tender breaths and fingertips. The slender limbs. Taproot, my root, deep anchoring roots, they grew straight through to the center of me. All the forgetting things that fill me from the outside in. Sight. Smell. Taste. Touch. Sound. Am I a bud blooming for you now?

It's oh so quiet (shhh shhh)

There's a heavy fog hanging in the air today, like rain suspended midair making everything wet. I woke up at 4:30am but didn't give into wakefulness until 5am. It was so quiet that I heard St. Bernard's church bells ringing first at 6am then at 7. In the midst of all this quiet there's a soft buzzing growing louder in my head and I'm a little dizzy from smiling and a little out of breath.

Saudade

He called me selfish and asked me why I wasn't talking. I said "I hate that word, selfish." I asked if he knew the word "saudade." He asked me what I was missing. Without looking at him, I said "everything I've never known." I don't think he understood.

El tiempo se detuvo

There is a man with a white beard standing in the ocean at sunset in his underwear bathing two white horses in the salty water of the Caribbean. Running barefoot on the jungle path to the beach, I give myself over to the soft black mud and slowly ease with arched feet over the sharp roots of trees. Big blue and red crabs duck and draw their claws into their burrows as I pass. Walking barefoot in the garden overgrown with vines, edible food and spices tangled together like weeds. Everything is damp with or without the rain. I don't care about clothes, about smell, about any sort of image I might otherwise care about outside of this place. There is no point in caring, the humidity of the jungle washes away all vanity and necessity to be vain. Baptized in sweat, saltwater and sand I am reborn into the tranquil days at 5 am when the rooster crows. The bat, the cricket, the frog, the neon colored viper, the hummingbird and butterfly. The well fed buzzard picking through the trash bins. The deceptively slow sloth with its alien mask. The dogs all of which I affectionately call "pups" and the cats that have managed to outlive the owl's claws, I will carry you with me. I will cradle you in the skirt of my dress with the ginger root, Cinnamon branch and fern leaves. We will drink coconut water, suck on raw cocoa beans and stand on the shore at dusk, where we will listen to the water rush and sigh at the end of every day for the rest of our lives.

The rush and decline

There you are in black ink. I see you, one eye blinking behind the shade of your sandy hair. I ran back to the road to meet you at the gate, barefoot on black mud and moss. When I arrived you weren't there. It rains here and the water drops swell on the roof and pour in a stream making little rivers in the garden. I planted three seeds. None of them have grown but one almost started to sprout roots... Almost. I remember the white Styrofoam cup sitting on the dashboard of your red truck. I remember when I was 8 and covered myself in mud, red earth like rust. Rocks sliding off hills. Bouncing in and out of potholes, the white cup sits balanced and still as I slip back in the seat unaware of the timing.

Today

Everyone asked me how I was feeling about today, or they wanted to know how I thought I would feel. I said I didn't know. I've never done this before. We met a few minutes before and went in together. We had the option of sitting at separate tables or at the same table. We sat at the same table, with a microphone between us. I lost my voice a few times and the judge asked me to repeat my answer. Like before, we answered "yes" to everything. The court recorder stared at me or rather through me as she typed. The officer sitting near the judge kept nodding at me in encouragement or reassurance I'm not sure. I didn't know how I would feel. When we walked out I started to cry. I mean tears streaming down my face, hands shaking. I walked to a quiet spot and stayed there for a few minutes looking out towards the lake and then towards the capitol. How do I feel? I feel disappointed. I feel loss and like I have lost. like I have failed somehow and come in last. I feel like I've taken a hard hit and had the wind knocked out of me or losing pressure, like how the air slowly seeps out of some tiny crease, unseen but felt. I feel like this is life, sometimes.

Pura vida!

It was probably hour 20 of nonstop travel when the realization came to me. After spending the night on a bench in the Chicago airport, catching two flights on maybe two hours of sleep and then being spit out in San Jose with only a vague idea of how to get down to the Caribbean coast from the middle of Costa Rica, taking a taxi to a nondescript bus station, asking for help, grabbing another taxi to another bus station, asking for help, 4 hour bus ride, then another taxi... it occurred to me that I am a very calm, patient and optimistic person... at least when it comes to traveling. I have this irrepressible attitude that everything will work out and be okay... To be honest, I wasn´t really sure that I would make it here at least in one try. I was exhausted, dirty and smelly. But I was alive. I made it and everything worked out! Now I think I want to try to have this approach in other areas of my life.

Riding bicycles on dirt roads with giant potholes. Early morning ocean swims. Petting lots of sweet dogs and watching hummingbirds and giant butterflies. I have come to the land of giant ferns. I love it here.

it's been a long time long time

Nantes - Beirut

Boo! haunting of halloween's past

When I was little I liked to wear a Casper the ghost mask. I wore it even when it wasn't Halloween. Now that I think about it, that's kind of creepy. I liked Casper because he was "friendly." He made me feel safe and less frightened. If I was ever too scared to sleep my dad would tell me not to be afraid because he was the scariest thing in our house. My dad wasn't scary at all, so I usually laughed or challenged him by saying "yes, but what about outside?" I hated trick-or-treating. When families flocked to the door to fawn over whatever cutesy handcrafted-by-mom costume I was wearing I would turn incredibly shy and stand stunned under the glare of their porch light. I just wanted to take the candy and run! As I got older people stopped asking what I was before doling out the goods (which I was sure were spiked with razor blades or some deadly drug). Suddenly I wasn't the cute little kid with drawn on freckles. The spots on my face were real, and I realized I was that much closer to death. I found this horrifying and a little gross too. In the third grade I was the class Duchess for the Harvest Carnival. I campaigned for at least a day, asking for votes for myself as well as the boy I had a crush on. We won the honor and the boy I had a crush on promptly broke his leg, which meant I had to walk down half the length of the gymnasium alone in an altered maroon Victorian turtleneck dress my mom made for the event. The poor boy was propped up on crutches at the end of the coronation line with a full cast on one leg. I was mortified and he was too. As for scary movies, I used to just hold up a pillow or cover my eyes with my hands but I always ended up peaking. Thanks to a pre-adolescent viewing of "the Shining" I checked behind the shower curtain when I walked into a bathroom until I was in college. Okay... sometimes I still check, but only when I'm at a party where copious amounts of alcohol is being consumed. You never know what might be hiding behind the curtain or frosted glass door, waiting to jump out and scare the sh*t out of you. I shudder at the thought.

Up

Now I understand the meaning of "ignorance is bliss." Sometimes it's better not knowing what might hurt you. Lately (as in most of my life) I've been committing emotional harakiri and playing Joan of Arc. Have I been so disgraced? Did I hear the voice of God? Is it possible that I use other people as an excuse to feel bad? Am I continually playing out some childhood fear of abandonment and inability to be loved? (Sorry mom and dad, maybe you loved me too much). That would explain my pattern of getting involved in unrequited relationships. It occurred to me a few days ago that maybe I actually enjoy misery and this maudlin talk.

I thought about all the changes that have come about in my life lately and how the point of everything was that I would be happier or at least on my way to feeling whole. A few days ago I was sitting on the edge of my bed when it hit me like a shotgun backfiring on a bruised shoulder. I'm just as unhappy now as I was then. So maybe it's actually me... Maybe I'm the cause of my misery. I talk a lot about taking responsibility for one's self... and the idea that no one can hurt you unless you let them. I tell myself I live this way and yet I continually do things that make me feel bad and then blame someone else for being the jerk. I opened my eyes this morning and before I made a move I thought "Is this what I want: to do something/see something/read something that might make me hurt?" The answer was... no, and then I got up.

Say

Muffled beats of polka on tv is sounding through my floorboards. I don't know what my neighbor is watching, but it sounds entertaining at least. If I say I'm doing fine and wonderful will you believe me? I was driving today. When I came to a red light the sun beamed through my windshield and I closed my eyes for three maybe four seconds. It felt good and then the light turned green and I drove on. I'm doing everything I'm supposed to do. I work, pay my bills, clothe and feed myself, drink water and run. This is my choice. I'm doing everything I should be doing. So I guess that means that I'm doing "okay." Believe me when I say, there's not a lot to say.

"never give up, no never give up
if you're looking for something easy
might as well give it up."
-cat power

Overheard

Older gentleman at the copy machine where I work...

He was asking for help with the copy machine, so I got up to see what was wrong. It turned out that it just needed paper in Tray 1. While I was filling the paper tray he said:

"I thought I had done something wrong, but now I don't feel so guilty... I wish all of life's problems were as easy to solve."

You and me both Mr.

I was just thinking about this older couple I saw earlier today. He was wearing a bicycle helmet indoors and she was guiding him. She said "now you're going to veer left and watch out for the wall." Sometimes we could all use a helmet and guiding words to get along in this world. I'm glad he has someone.

Hallmark

There is a section of the BQE in New York that looks like a highway leading into Los Angeles. It's the ivy on the rock walls that flank both sides of the road. There's a certain slant of light in this upper Midwest town that stretches over scattered pine cones and leaves that reminds me of a patch of woods back home in Oklahoma, where I grew up. And then there is the scent of pinion and sage that delivers me whole and complete to the Arizona desert, windows down and driving by silhouettes of cacti so tall I confuse them with telephone poles. It seems that wherever I am now I can't escape the places I've been before. The impressions are sustained and I am in a state of constantly relating "this" to "that" and "that" to "this." Memories of places are okay, more bearable than some memories. For instance, places can't hurt you like people can and do. Maybe that isn't entirely true... I don't really know, which makes me sort of lucky I guess. Today I took a short break and went for a walk. I was wandering, just walking and enjoying the fresh air when I found myself at the Hallmark store. Sometimes I like to read greeting cards (not buy just browse) because... well it's just something I do. It seems most if not all Sympathy cards have the word "memory" in them and "memory" is supposed to be "comforting." Well ok, if you say so. But I have to say Hallmark, unless you're referring to something like the memory I have of running through brambles in North Carolina and breathing in the pure mountain air as the sun pours light on everything like ribbons of melting gold... then I'm having a little trouble believing you.

hall⋅mark  /ˈhɔlˌmɑrk/[hawl-mahrk]
–verb (used with object) 4. to stamp or imprint (something) with a hallmark.

Small

Yesterday I was driving my little car and the driver of a Dodge Ram pick-up wasn't looking and veered slow motion into me. At least it seemed like slow motion. The truck hit my back driver side door, rather than the door that was protecting me. I watched as it happened, and there wasn't anything I could do but brace myself for the blow which was really more of a bump. Funny though that I'm so sore after such a small thing. I'm beginning to see a pattern here. The small things hurt too, but we're not supposed to talk about that.

^

There are ten doors in my small one bedroom apartment. Lately I have only walked through a few of them. Small spaces can be comforting, like blanket forts. If I had a fireplace I would be almost whole. I love stacking kindling and firewood, lighting the match and watching the small flame bloom and change color as it grows. I don't know what I've done wrong. But I think it must be something. I must have looked left when I should have looked right. This life isn't what I thought it would be. So in addition to giving up caffeine, I'm giving up thought. I know this story about a girl. She could only cry in public spaces. How embarassing for her. If I was still thinking, I would say "she'll be ok." But really, who knows... I don't.

Sitting in a tree

One day in third grade, we took a short reading break. I sat on the floor in the back of the classroom and read my book silently. Adam kept pestering me, telling me I wasn't really reading because I wasn't saying the words outloud. I tried to ignore him but eventually I became too annoyed to concentrate on my book, so I said something sharply and to the effect that he was an idiot and I was reading my book to myself. I never like to be interrupted while reading. Boys never liked me very much in school. I think it was because I was a little mean to them. In kindergarten, while standing outside against the cafeteria wall after lunch Derrick ran up to me and kissed my cheek. I immediately ran and told the teacher on him. I was horrified and she laughed at me. On the playground we had something like a tree house. There were cracks in the slatted wood floor. I would shoo away all the boys who might be standing underneath looking up my skirt. Recess time meant me against the boys. I didn't laugh if they told a joke that I thought was dumb. I didn't want to hold hands or play coy. I still don't laugh at stupid jokes, but mostly I wonder what the hell happened to me? Ha!

run/ride

After work today, I went for a run. After my run, I wasn't ready to give up the beautiful evening so I grabbed my bike and went for a short ride. On my run I noticed a person sitting on a bench under a tree, staring at a field spilling over with late afternoon sun. I like watching people sitting alone in their own silence. While I was riding my bike I saw a father come home from work. His two small girls were sitting on the front porch with their mom and as he was walking up to the porch one of the little girls couldn't contain her excitement and kept squealing "yay yay yay!!!" it was adorable and I smiled at the sweetness. Floating by the homes, porch steps cluttered with leaves and pumpkin lanterns swinging from strings, I thought I was in heaven... but I was just on Spaight street.

What we see when we aren't looking

I walk down my front steps in the dark. It's been a few weeks now, and I still haven't replaced the porch light. I step slowly, hand on rail. Sometimes I think I've come to the last step, but I've learned to check first. Timidly extending my foot, I wait for my toes to touch on some solid surface before my next move is made. Careful. I wait. I feel like I am ninety-two when I walk down my front steps in the dark. I keep forgetting to change the light, but I remember to wait.

It's mid afternoon on Sunday when I leave the cafe. The lonely sun hangs in the cloudless sky, turning everything quiet and calm in its posturing. I tell myself to "stand up straight." Lifting up my chin and stretching out my vertebrae, I cross the street and look straight ahead, not up, not down, not side to side and I most certainly do not look back. What we see when we aren't looking. In the shadow of a building, I feel a softening. A red leaf falls at my feet. My eyes catch a glint of light. Leaves keep falling, not one by one but suddenly and all at once. Limp and limber in the wind. I bow my head and walk home under a canopy of dissolving trees.

We haven't changed

I had this feeling. I was standing in the dark behind the counter, gathering the day's paperwork and putting things in order when I stopped for a moment and asked myself what day it was. I flipped through the roladex of days in my head and couldn't seem to find a good match. Finally I realized it was Friday night, but it felt like Sunday evening, the beginning of a work week. That was the strangest feeling. My dad said that sometimes when he was working and driving home at 3 or 4am he would suddenly blank and forget where he was. Maybe this is our mind breaking free, just for a moment... reminding us that time is just something we use to mark the days and keep track of life in an imposed linear way. Here we are though, we haven't changed. The wave is always the water, but the water isn't always the wave.

*photo taken in France Winter 2009 - the Morbihan.

human/nature

"We kill them when we most want to save them and save them when we want to kill them."
-woman talking to me at the cafe about bugs and things.

Two strangers sitting by the window in the sun. We were both shifting uneasily in our chairs when she said that it was progressively getting hotter since she had first sat down. I said I felt like a little bug under a magnifying glass and someone was trying to set me on fire. So we started talking about the vicious little tricks children play on insects. After a lull in the conversation she said this. I looked at her, paused and said "That's so true, and beautiful." She said "Have a nice day" when she left.

Driving west with three in a car

Last night I had this dream... I was on a road trip with a guy and a little girl. This was my family. We were traveling west. I was in the passenger seat, he was driving and she was in the back. When we reached the mountains I was so happy as I always am when the landscape changes so drastically. Looking out of the window at the shifting scene, I said "Thank you for driving us west" and I meant it. We stopped at a gas station and the little girl, my daughter, gave me a hug but she squeezed so hard that it felt like my ribs were being crushed. It was the most painful hug I have ever felt and so I got upset and told her to stop. It was only a dream but it felt real. The wonder and the pain of it all.

Smiling

Seasonal changes bring a shift in light and temperature. The late afternoon sun pauses briefly before running off to some dark bar on an anonymous side street, could be anywhere. A street of empty lots and rooms full of empty chairs. The emptiness is what makes it real. For rent signs in windows, stagnant pools of pavement gathering moss between the cracks, every corner a ghost town. There are a few of us left now. I shrug off my coat and sit next to a man with long hair. He slurs his words when he tells me "People call me Jesus at work. They're afraid of me there." "Work" he tells me is a factory job. He likes it there, he does good. Management appreciates him because he works hard and picks up the long shifts no one else wants. He keeps his head down and brushes his hair out of his face. "There is a woman at work who isn't afraid of me. Her locker is next to mine, and she says hello to me sometimes. When she walks by she smiles at me." He says that maybe there is something there. He says "All I ever want is to be noticed. That is respect, just for someone to acknowledge that I am here." He picks up his glass and sets it down without taking a drink, leaving behind traces of fingerprints. His wife died in a car accident four years ago and left him with two kids. She had always been paranoid about cars and was certain she would meet her death this way. She was like this for years before she finally met her foreseen fate. Maybe she wasn't crazy after all or maybe she finally made her life become what she thought it should be. We are always told to make our own way in life. I guess for some that includes death. It took years for her end to play out. In all that time he never left her. With two kids that were an accident and the cause of their marriage on paper at least, he would have stayed with her despite the court's consent. The kids are almost old enough to be out on their own. He worries about whether or not he's been good enough to them, but tells me he's done the best he can and that's all anyone can do. I nod in agreement and pay my bill. The light has been gone for awhile. My fingers curl around the door handle and I walk outside. The world expands in the night air but I feel myself closing in and settling somehow. I pass his car in the parking lot. I know it is his because there is a black and white spotted pit bull panting at the window, alone in the dark, smiling.

The settling...

When I was a kid I loved snow globes. The perfect moment, a frozen scene situated on a tiny platflorm replete with snow or glittering rain. Shake the globe and the moment is clouded with dizzying specks of debris and then slowly the settling. Flurry by falling flurry the whirlwind of activity is restored to a quiet calm and the perfect moment is crystal clear in its watery safe.

The following text is from Haruki Murakami's novel "Kafka on the Shore."

"Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

An you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about."
— Haruki Murakami (Kafka on the Shore)

Snow globes and sandstorms. This has been my life over the past several months. My seemingly perfect scene, the quiet frozen moments of my days, first blanketed by winter snow storms and then engulfed in spring and summer rains. But it wasn't just the weather that changed... Something in me shook free, was stirred and tossed out of place or thrown into another path, an unfamiliar place. I am on a narrow mountain pass in southern France, shifting gears with the clutch and break. Terrified at the precariousness of dancing on the unguarded edge where gravel meets the treeline. He is holding onto the side of the door. His eyes shut tight. I am stepping on a moving sidewalk that carries me through a tunnel of neon lights, the latest in airport design. I do this three times. The first time I am standing behind a girl who starts sobbing in line. She calls to her mother and then her lover. They take turns pressing their faces against the security line plexiglass. Whisperering tearful French goodbye's, they leave salty imprints of breath and lips on the glass. The second time I am waiting in line, AirFrance has a terminal delay. "Terminal delay" I think, this is not a coincidence. The third time is the last. I leave him at the gate, watching him walk away before I make it halfway up the line. Numb and resigned I board the plane.

Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall. I am here now. Life in the upper midwest. We are on the cusp of Winter coming on too soon, too strong. There is a quiet anticipation building. My clothes whip around my body, loose and failing to provide protecton against the bullish wind rushing out of the gate. "It looks like snow!" but it is just falling leaves. "It sounds like rain" but it is the sound of dry leaves as they tumble across the concrete. I am here now, in this scene. The perfect and imperfect moments come and go with the steady predicament of constancy. I am walking on a path with a stranger at my heels. I step out of the way and let him pass. I am sitting in a parking lot, the sea of parked cars silent and some sputtering. There is a commotion, a sudden quickening and then the motion of the day softens and retreats. I am alone and there is the settling.

*photo taken at the Louvre September 2008

...like talking in a tunnel

I thought about being alone today. I thought, "this is something I have grown accustomed to" being alone, in quiet spaces. I have been alone for most of my life I think. Solitude is a familiar place, my old stomping grounds. Being around unfamiliar faces, meeting new people and engaging in conversation, giving myself over and opening up; that is actually something new and foreign and something I'm still struggling to understand how to do properly. But being alone, I know how to do this well, though sometimes I play helpless and unschooled, it is a craft I have perfected. Just ask the person I spent the last five years of my life with. He will tell you, I was alone even when he was around.

Stray feathers and tufts of fur. These are the small things that gather at my feet. Seed pods float in the water as ducks flip and dive, bobbing for food between the fallen leaves. Rowers row, gliding along. Tree branches curl and bend, a watery wind soaks through me. I stay warm from exertion. Blood flows to my cheeks. I am running. My hands go numb and afterwards fingers fumble with keys. Two hands that fail me, I think "what is the purpose?" It takes me ten minutes to open my door, and then...

and then the train whistle blows, a plane flies overhead, my phone rings. I answer "hello" and hear the familiar voice of an old friend. We haven't spoken in years... six or seven to be almost exact. He is calling from across the world. Okinawa, Japan. I hear sliding doors opening and closing and I have this feeling... like talking in a tunnel, there is space. It's been so long I don't know what to say, where to start. So I say "I have to visit you in Japan" and I mean it. It is something I have to do and something I will do someday. I will go to Japan. I will visit my friend. I know this, like I know I will fall asleep tonight around 11pm with my cat curled at my side twitching as he dreams. I thought about Japan today, and the "sea of trees" at the base of Mount Fuji.

No love for lovers

No one loves a romantic these days. It seems everyone either wants to be left alone or they want upright citizens of few words. Huff, scowl. furrowed brow, are considered la mode right now, so it would serve you well to lose le sigh, rosy grin and coyly arched eyebrow if you want to be in style. If you prefer poetry to op eds, novels to the economist, whispery songs about "you & me" to ACDC... then you may as well hang up your little heart with wings because flight's of fancy won't get you far. Try pouring cement in your shoes instead, this will keep you sensibly grounded. Just be careful to avoid rooftops, bridges, bars and any place where they might strum guitars.

White out

I am almost looking forward to winter... looking forward to the muted white landscape, quieting everything, making it pure. I've been saying this a lot these days, and I'll say it again... Tabula Rasa, clean slate. looking forward to everything slowing almost to a halt. reaching an impasse. I have reached the bridge, key change change chords. I think I will hibernate when winter comes. If you can't find me, please just wait for the snow to melt and the ice to thaw.

It's so easy it seems...

Goodbye goodbye the chimneys sigh in plumes of ashen grey. Walking beside the black iron fence, I trace my hands from one bar to the next, as miniature spires cast shadows on the atoning concrete. Precipitation collects in the crevices of leaves, heavy with the weight of water and made loose at the seams. Sometimes I think I can hear the trees grow. Then there is a moment when your shoulder touches mine. Did you ever notice the woods behind my house at night? In the warmer months, if you stand on the balcony you can see all the tiny sparks flickering. Winged bodies on parade. Celebrating pulsations, silently communicating. Beatbeatbeat. If you stand and watch long enough everything will blur, fall free and fade. Suddenly you are in the sky and gravity is on standby like it’s a choice we make, or some little thing like air to lungs and love to the strangers holding hands across the street. It’s so easy it seems.

Did you know?

Last night, after a long day of working two jobs I came home and painted my nails. Chanel la vernis "Forbidden." The color reminds me of Aztec hot chocolate, which is most definitely a forbidden treat with the savory decadence of spices and cocoa beans. Did you know that there's a place in New York City with a pretty blue interior where one can find such delicious revelry?

This morning when I woke up I didn't vocalize my usual stream of blasé semi-furious words. Instead I greeted my pawing kitten in his native tongue(mew mew) and said "Ok, let's do this." It occurred to me that I always say something out loud, talking to myself upon waking. Today the words were polite and cautiously motivated. I practiced half smiling at the day. Did you know that if you smile or dress your face in a genuine half-smile it is bound to improve your disposition, at least a little? A little is good enough sometimes.

Did you know that if the band on a Pyrrharctia isabella commonly known as the Branded Woolly Bear Caterpillar, is wide then a mild winter is predicted? It seems this may be the case for the upcoming winter. We shall see.

blue

today i wore a new dress a blue dress. ballet flats and painted "wine red" red lips. dandelion necklace fastened tight. my hair swung with a slight curl. today i wore a new dress a blue dress and i was hoping... but it started to rain. and then the wind came and the sun set early behind the clouds. i haven't had lunch or dinner and i'm sitting at home in the dark in my blue dress. my cat curled in my lap, rumpling the silk, getting fur over everything. tonight i wore a new dress a blue dress and i was hoping... but now it's time to change.

Raining

The rain seems constant these days. I don't mind too much, I guess. The only thing is that with the rain comes a flood... and suddenly I'm drowning. Touch, taste, smell... you know how. I feel it seeping into every place you've ever been. Setting sail on the sea of my body, my mind, that part of me that holds on for dear life. I think I saw you there, floating in some distant dream. I lift my hand to wave, but it's too late. Images flash like scratchy movie clips. The film reel blinks a few times. My front door opens. I see you, in a cotton hoodie, walking up my stairs, a little damp from rain a little sweaty from a last minute attempt to save the day (which you did by the way). You take off your bag, leave your shoes on the rug, shake out your hair and apologize for being such a mess. The sound breaks and hums. You say "welcome to my life." I smile, a little shy and say you don't need to apologize. You wore mismatched socks (they were different colors, striped), and a tshirt you said was too small. I probably didn't tell you, but I thought you looked wonderful. There is something... The way your face changes like clouds. Feels like coming home under a familiar sky. You used to come over in the late afternoon. A stack of books beside my bed. Bukowski, Murakami, Camus (I never read). You left your motorcycle helmet on my desk. I liked seeing it there, but I couldn't stand the thought of you so vulnerable and exposed. It was finally returned, though I admit that I was sad to see that small part of you go. You used to sing little bursts of songs. You spoke and I fell into every word and then sometimes you would grow quiet and taciturn, not to be disturbed. Like Neruda wrote, "In you everything sank" and I did. If I were to tell you this, you would roll your eyes and say how dramatic I am. I would smile because I have a weak spot for Neruda and your eyes, even when expressing your frustration with me. I checked out a book of fairy tales from the library. You were going to read them to me, because I find the illustrations terrifying. I returned the book several weeks ago, unopened and unread. I never had a chance to be scared. Images flicker in my mind, We are walking to the diner. I see you smile and say "How perfect is it, that we are walking together in the rain?" It's raining today and I'm walking alone in a blue dress. The fall chill fills the air. Passersby button their coats and push their umbrellas into the wind. You are somewhere in this town, doing something I don't know. It's raining today and I wonder how you've been and if you are managing to stay out of the storm

Forever changed

"Train entering the city
I lost myself and never came back
Took a trip around the world and never came back
Black silhouettes, crisscrossed tracks, never came back

Forever changed
Forever changed"
-lou reed

When I stepped into the chapel in the Palais des Papes in Avignon I felt a drop in pressure like the air suddenly left the room and all that was left existed inside my lungs, exhaling slowly. The room was dark and in the dark I think I saw a small flame spark and fade. The sound of shuffling feet echoed off the cathedral ceiling and in that sound something in me escaped. I think I lost a part of me there, or maybe a part of me just decided to stay.

Knot theory

Am I laughable? That is to say, am I a fool? Probably. At least some of the time I'm sure. I am excitable. I think sometimes I never grew out of that wide-eyed childhood stage of wonder and wondering. It seems to get more pronounced with age. Is it fearlessness or misplaced optimism? I don't know how to be any other way, should I ever try to change. I'm tired of wondering if there is something wrong with me. I changed my hair again, pierced my nose and inked my skin. A coworker commented "you are always in a state of flux." "Yes of course" I thought "aren't we all in a state of flux." I know he was commenting on my physical appearance, which is true enough, but isn't that what it means to be alive? Even in the stillness there is constant inconsistency. Nature is not perfect. Nothing is perfect. Including me, including us. Including those few moments when everything seems to fit so nicely. "Seems." I wake up alone. I tiptoe around my apartment because the floor is cold, and I bristle at the thought of disturbing my neighbor with heavy footfall over his head. I don't want to disrupt anyone's peace. The look on your face today made me sad. I wanted to say something to make it ok, to make your face soften and relax. I could have quoted silly song lyrics "why the long face?" But like a silent movie your eyes flashed a warning telling me not to say anything, and so I didn't speak except to mumble a few words in spare change. I am afraid sometimes, to even breathe. It seems like when I finally gather the courage, I end up knocking all the seeds off the dandelion stem. In one forceful blow, all of me parachutes into the wind. Scattering and sowing small scenes on the body of my history. I have a violin. I haven't practiced in two years. The awful sound it makes hurts my ears and I think it must be unpleasant for other people to hear. I think it's ridiculous to have this beautiful instrument and never attempt to play or learn to play, out of fear or hesitancy. Lately, there are a lot of things I never thought I would do that I have done. Some good, some bad. But I tell myself not to think of life in those terms. Nothing is ever good or bad, it just is. I just am. Back out at sea, the waves are violent and the sky is stormy, and I'm tying knots in everything. Wrapping my arms around myself. Hold tight. Stand still. Knot theory.

"Drop a bell off of the dock.
Blot it out in the sea.
Drowning mute as a rock;
Sounding mutiny."
-joanna newsom lyrics/sawdust and diamonds

winter coat

i put on my winter coat last night. the winter coat hanging in a closet in my apartment in a small east side neighborhood in madison, wisconsin. i reached into the pockets and pulled out a bus ticket from chicago to madison, train tickets for paris, a flight itinerary from o'hare to charles de gaulle, a boarding pass stub seat 34K and .49 cents in euros. i put on my winter coat and it's still fall.

rediscovered words: from 2002

it seems like it has been winter for a while now. but it hardly happened this year. the snow has melted except for the places in shadows. i slip on half melted ice when stepping out the front door of my apartment. i have things to do, like everyone living. nothing remarkable in that. i get in my car and drive. listening to npr because of the soft radio voices. i emulate the inflections and tones, like anyone else would sing along in their car. occasionally i do that too. driving at dusk has a calming affect on me. something about the sweeping haze and balmy glow of lights in the city. and the thought that somewhere darkness falls without regard for commotion with only the flashing red, green, blue lights from the distant planes above. looking up, from my point of view they look so tiny and fragile, paper planes held up by a slight puff of air. the occupants look down and see geometric shapes, flecks like dusts that could be swept away. it seems like another world. But the difference is only perceptual. the people on the planes above are drawn to the windows, to look below for any sign of the familiar. the church steeple, the water tower, the squared off neighborhood where they live bring them back to a time and place. cars and buildings, images fade in and out of view, these things only hold their attention a short while, before their eyes rest on clouds, and the horizon that is close and growing closer. a sight only someone at those heights could witness. it appears to be another world. i go on in my mind, reading road signs, noticing my surroundings, finding myself in relation to the past and the present. a building, a word, a car on the road beside me all spark a memory. I find myself involuntarily remembering quick instances of the past like the view from a plane, images fading in and out of sight. this meeting of the past and present runs through me without thought or control, it is the whole of me that has been present since my earliest memory. even more, there is an innate urge that comes from living and experience to consciously reach back for the familiar, the instances, people and places that brought me here. here, driving at dusk, I can recall a beautiful sunset from two years ago, still I have one before me and it is disappearing in haste. I take the time to fix my eyes on the swirling clouds, and melting colors glinting off my windshield. It almost feels like another world, but I know from experience, that it is the same.


"how beautiful the moon is tonight.
the moon is fascinating, isn't it?
its shape never changes
yet it looks different depending
on the angle of the light."
-from the film afterlife

naming things

bristlecone pine is a good name for a tree. naming things. i broke a glass at 4am this morning. barely scraped my hand while picking up the glass, bleeding. i left small bits of broken glass on the floor all night and picked it up in the morning. this thought actually crossed my mind: "if a small piece of glass finds its way into my foot... well there must be worse things that could happen in life." probably a strange thought. strange is naming things. oh yes, i have to remember "thoughts are neither good or bad/they just are/observe them/let them pass." i think i like to hold on to thoughts and invest a certain amount of energy in them just to feel like i'm doing something with my time. but what am i doing other than living in the clouds shaped like animal crackers inside my head ? i want to sit and breathe the scent of bristlecone pine.

haiku

building made of wood
falling apart with no roof
improved view of stars

driving tonight

driving tonight, the roads looked like runways. landing strip streetlights flashing in a row. i'm not sure if i was taking off or landing, but i eventually arrived home.

You are here

It's the last day of September. The sun warms the otherwise chilly air. Trees are less full due to the stormy winds earlier this week. It's autumn, and all the words used to describe this season can be used here. But I want to write about what is real, for me, right now. Right now I sit at a desk behind stacks of books worrying about applications, tests, and essays I haven't completed yet. I am easily jostled out of complacency by sound. Lately it seems that I have developed an alarming sensitivity to sound. Am I evolving sonar abilities? In this office I hear: the sound of the copy machine (squeak whir squeak whir), the space heater warming my feet (shhhhhhhhhhhhhh), throat clearing (aheeemgrrrhaaackhmmm), a coworker typing (click click CLACK click), the tape dispenser dispensing (craaaaaaaaacklecreeaaaak), the security lock alerting (beep!). I want to surround myself with less noise or at least a change of sound scenery. The sound of ocean waves is calming. The wallpaper on my computer at work is an image of a beach and someone is holding up an index card that reads "You are here." Sound would suggest otherwise, unfortunately.

Rediscovered words

(written in 2003)

Someone laughing. Their voice, a revelation, rises to my ears. I listen through the window. It sounds like they are crying, but they are walking outside. The intonation of their emotion is carried up to me and it must be laughter I hear. Laughter can sound so much like crying, and crying is just the same. We have the ability, unlike the mysteries we are taught... Everything in division, the balkanized head of nature too disconnected to see the sameness throughout the body of the whole. Someday, it will all return, as if played in reverse. The laughter will turn to cheers, the cheers to sobs, and finally the sobs to whispers carried as sighs through the air. the sound of a bird singing outside of your window.

*

i think i love inanimate objects. sometimes i think they speak. sometimes i think they are honest and lovely. inanimate objects. sometimes i love their color. sometimes i admire their quiet. and then they sing. sometimes i pick up a recorder. and it speaks when my voice is silent. sometimes i don't want them to move. sometimes i carry them around. sometimes i see them sitting in a store and i take them home. i think i love inanimate objects. they make me calm, i'm not alone. their glimmer their curve. their life is my own. i think i love things that can't leave me unless i choose to let them go.

*

I couldn't write. I couldn't think. Birds with legs chattering. Ruffling their tongues and preening their lackluster wit against their dull pallet. No color here. No voice ringing clear with vibrancy. Just abc's thrown together in a junk heap pile. I couldn't move. And then, words like violin strings bowed with finesse forming internally. Words singing. The sound strumming a warm note remains sustained, enduring. Released now, pluming like smoke in cold air. All the words dissipate there. No room. No walls. No remnants of plucked feathers. My world is fully alive and shadows of figures remain tethered to the background.

*
Old photographs

*photo taken 2004, "Secrets"

Little things

A few months ago I came home to find a note taped to my door. It was a simple "thank you" note from my neighbor. Now when I come home, approaching the white mailbox and red steps that lead to my green door, I think "maybe there will be another note taped up for me to find or unstamped letter in my mailbox" (indicating that it was hand delivered). This hasn't happened of course.

But...

Yesterday, the wind left a bouquet of branches at my door.

*photo taken Oct 2008/cereste, france Alpes-de-Haute-Provence

Potential

Why do I feel that every time someone looks at me, speaks to me, gets to know me... they only see potential. Having potential seems like it wouldn't be an entirely undesirable image to project, however I think it might be nice to be seen (and possibly appreciated) just as I am. Isn't that my best? I would rather be the diamond than the diamond in the rough. Though I know I am in a constant state of flux. Growing, regressing, learning, losing, remembering and forgetting. I often find myself to be the recipient of unsolicited words of encouragement. Maybe this is an image I project? Do I have some woeful quality about me, some desperatly needy look in my eyes that begs affirmation? It isn't that I'm ungrateful for praise and encouragement. I find it flattering and motivating, aligned with intentions. Everyone's worst fear is the "life half lived." I think potential is dangerous... like hope.

Fade

Shaking leaves and paper cups. The pen trembles in my hand as I attempt yesterday's crossword 1. Across: When things slowly go away. Answer: fade. My resolve spills on the page. A splash of ink and tea stains. This is who I am for now. A little careworn but okay. Sensitive some say. I curl and paw, never coil and strike. These days my cheeks blush when I get excited. I stutter and laugh inappropriately. I listen to songs on repeat, starting over before they have the chance to fade. I hear myself say, I was a casualty. A lonely bench in the middle of town. A temporary place anchored permanently.

*flowers in a field - Oct. 2008/somewhere between the palace of versailles and petit trianon - france

Vanishing point

It was only a matter of time before disappointment set in. The careful and deliberate binding of acquiescence and let downs. The slow disease of fear and hope settling unevenly like sediment on the ocean floor, smoothed by time's slow force the infinite ebb and flow. I saw the boat sink and said nothing. I heard the plane land and felt nothing. I watched the clay split into tiny pieces, watched it break over and over again and still, did nothing. Take down the letters, photographs, dried leaves pressed in my heaviest books. Remembering who, what, where, when, why and how. Remembering now, there is a vanishing point. Your body lies. Parallel, your arm touches my arm and we are fooled by perspective and the geometry of time. I live in a flight path and every day I hear the distant purr of planes turn into a nearing roar and suddenly, rage loud before fading into quiet once more.

*photo taken in 2001/channel islands NP (santa cruz island), CA

the sixth hour

Early morning mist, late evening fog. Precipitation in various forms, beading and billowing stirring up the scent of damp pine and dead leaves. I love the smell of trees; juniper, pine, cedar, redwoods. Slow mornings, unlocking my door and stepping out onto the red steps, feels like California... but here I am in the upper Midwest, home for now. Now and then. It feels good to wake up in my bed, to wake up on my sofa, to wake up on the ceiling. I feel that way sometimes. Lately I've struggled out of sleep and dreams. It takes me awhile to readjust to wakefulness, like eyes adjusting to darkness after staring at the sun. It's an odd feeling but generally passes once I pull off the covers, shuffle to the kitchen, feed my cat and crack two eggs in the little orange frying pan I keep on the stove. I enjoy mornings and late evenings. Afternoons are for the birds. I should live somewhere that carries on the tradition of siestas. Sleeping on the periphery of the sun is a love of mine... Sleeping in the afternoon, rain or shine seems necessary for the success and goodness of the human race. Let's all slow down and be quiet... hora sexta. okay?

*photo taken in 2001/Big Sur, CA