So, the world is small
a distant fleck of light on a shivering night
huddled beneath the green intent of building a fantasy
borne of cool strokes in thankful connection.
Arms to hips
fists to grips
angles and ships
trusting navigation to the waves
anchors to rudders
views from the moon
pulling and pushing
resistance and release
assessment and belief
chartering the ebbs and tides with the patience of a saint
who whispers from behind
this has been done before
through storms and skies unadultered
risks and sly lovers
pinning fate within the bend of a stalwart bow
scrawling moments as refracted plows
sent to till and establish that which can grow up from a seed
the beauty of a need
to tend and imagine
stalks strong and robust.
These two cannot match
driving forward and standing up
to lean down and ignite the pluck
slipping past my hip, dropping an illusory lip.
To claim yourself a steward is cruel
while the water and the soil waits.
Dependent upon the skies and seasons
that pull our tide and make our gardens grow.
Lucky Tide, it always shifts
as the Earth bestows it's gifts.
Here I float, fingers tensed
imagining the beauty on a fence
lost in the prince with no common sense
steering the rudder with the wind of the waves.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
New city, still haven't written of the drive
In the midst of stasis
and waiting
as though these two do not agree
this is the echo
melodramatic and resigned.
Amazing in it's place.
Seek if you will.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7nY2ZmbAhE
and waiting
as though these two do not agree
this is the echo
melodramatic and resigned.
Amazing in it's place.
Seek if you will.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7nY2ZmbAhE
Friday, October 8, 2010
of memory
I can tell a million stories
that scurry and slip
to weave and admit.
I can stand in admittance
of a proof of identity
a call to some arms
that are imagined far and wide.
I can build arms for the pedestals
to laugh at the hubris
of those who don't catch the humor
in the clear craftsmanship
built of honor and remembrance
while I slide by,
hoping for a hilarious hook.
A change.
An awareness.
A look.
And I can settle in remorse.
Arms thrown to the wind
of words suddenly silenced
and hopes deemed dimmed
Perhaps return is not possible.
Penelope at her loom
unabashed and slyly supported.
Belief at her temple
pounding as it does.
So, to wait.
To smile.
To be correct.
Despite the odds.
A hurried heroine pulling at threads.
A hubris blanket with harried ends.
that scurry and slip
to weave and admit.
I can stand in admittance
of a proof of identity
a call to some arms
that are imagined far and wide.
I can build arms for the pedestals
to laugh at the hubris
of those who don't catch the humor
in the clear craftsmanship
built of honor and remembrance
while I slide by,
hoping for a hilarious hook.
A change.
An awareness.
A look.
And I can settle in remorse.
Arms thrown to the wind
of words suddenly silenced
and hopes deemed dimmed
Perhaps return is not possible.
Penelope at her loom
unabashed and slyly supported.
Belief at her temple
pounding as it does.
So, to wait.
To smile.
To be correct.
Despite the odds.
A hurried heroine pulling at threads.
A hubris blanket with harried ends.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
This is of the Moon
From Wikipedia: Desire
Desire (emotion), a sense of longing or hoping
Desire (philosophy)
Greed, one of the seven deadly sins, selfish pursuit of wealth, power, or possessions
Interpersonal attraction
Libido, sexual desire according to Freud and psychoanalysis
Limerence, an involuntary state of intense romantic desire
Lust, intense craving for self gratification
Motivation, a thought that leads to an action
Preference, a concept in the social sciences, particularly economics
Taṇhā, craving in Buddhist psychology
Want, in economics
To transpose:
To sit and to wait,
holding propriety in a pose projected
Nodding only to an esteem
That means nothing, merely a choice in position
while assuming clarity.
A passive projection.
A worthy rumination.
A formula of frequent fruition that stands aside,
watching over,
rejecting reasons right and demeanors slight.
I have been undone and intrinsically bound.
He has been apparent and stringent and sound.
Now Finally screaming yes and learning limerance
Understanding the sight.
Having Awkwardly skirted in this light
That has been due to shine like the moon
With Jupiter at her hip
As she does so now
My eyes are serpent sponges
With brows aware and knit
to welcome this slip
This indulgence of night
This truth.
Our protective grip.
Sent to stare and skip
in perfection and blips.
The welcome of bliss.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Rediscovering Memphis
I had a plan. I had planned to document my drive from Chicago to Los Angeles as a meditative practice. I did so on the first day. After that, the plan was shirked in the blogosphere because, well...I wanted to enjoy the drive and found that there was a bit too much, and a bit too little, to record. So, I condensed. If I were to follow my path of travel, it would be done so in a silly photo-documentary of a Mr. Potatohead adventure pictoral that I sent to a friend, who was kind enough to indulge.
Even in writing, in whatever form, plans change. Rather than write of the journey, I find myself wanting to write of the discovery of places.
Rediscovering Memphis:
I never realized how pretty Memphis is. Driving into the city, and in retrospect, I was struck. How pretty is this city with which I have held such loyalty and itchy discomfort? The people and friendships I had built here in my early 20's are pristine. I have never known such a loving, caring and strong community before nor since, yet I have memories of the city as one of complete disarray and discontent. I remember a strong pulse of anger and segregation in some areas, combatted by a calming reminder of those who persevere and stand strong to negate that pulse with beauty, stoicism and resolve. Perhaps I never realized how pretty the city is simply because I'd never been a visitor. My introduction to this city and community is framed in a leather biker jacket, screaming out windows, falling hopelessly in love with impossible relationships, and running back to NYC to nurse the wounds of a failed glimpse at a potential life I could have absorbed, wondering about the "what if" life that I now live.
As a visitor, I found myself not as a guest, but returning family. What a relief and release to return to the success of my dear friends, the continued success and expansion of Playhouse on the Square, who brought me out there in the first place, at the tender age of 22, when I was young, a little lost, and over the top. I learned so much in this city, and I am incorrect to eulogize my memory, as it is still in the texture of both my experience, and the transcriptions of some of the best friendships I have ever been lucky enough to hold dear. Memphis never forgets. Memphis may skirt, but her memory is long and open. A city of true revelry and significance and a slow burn of expansion that clings lovingly to it's own history, despite the discomfort of the pain that lingers as a texture of experience and the process of change.
Even in writing, in whatever form, plans change. Rather than write of the journey, I find myself wanting to write of the discovery of places.
Rediscovering Memphis:
I never realized how pretty Memphis is. Driving into the city, and in retrospect, I was struck. How pretty is this city with which I have held such loyalty and itchy discomfort? The people and friendships I had built here in my early 20's are pristine. I have never known such a loving, caring and strong community before nor since, yet I have memories of the city as one of complete disarray and discontent. I remember a strong pulse of anger and segregation in some areas, combatted by a calming reminder of those who persevere and stand strong to negate that pulse with beauty, stoicism and resolve. Perhaps I never realized how pretty the city is simply because I'd never been a visitor. My introduction to this city and community is framed in a leather biker jacket, screaming out windows, falling hopelessly in love with impossible relationships, and running back to NYC to nurse the wounds of a failed glimpse at a potential life I could have absorbed, wondering about the "what if" life that I now live.
As a visitor, I found myself not as a guest, but returning family. What a relief and release to return to the success of my dear friends, the continued success and expansion of Playhouse on the Square, who brought me out there in the first place, at the tender age of 22, when I was young, a little lost, and over the top. I learned so much in this city, and I am incorrect to eulogize my memory, as it is still in the texture of both my experience, and the transcriptions of some of the best friendships I have ever been lucky enough to hold dear. Memphis never forgets. Memphis may skirt, but her memory is long and open. A city of true revelry and significance and a slow burn of expansion that clings lovingly to it's own history, despite the discomfort of the pain that lingers as a texture of experience and the process of change.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Day 1: Driving on 9
9-3-10
I drove out of Chicago with a searing pain in my temple, a car packed strategically to the gills, and a quest for enlightenment, in whatever form it may, or may not reveal itself. The rain coursed down as I paced through the early morning rush hour traffic I had tried to time aside, nodding to the low-slung cloud coverage and constant gray pounding of water. I was thankful, knowing that rain will be a rarity in California, and this exit shower deserves appreciation. In traffic, it is fine. Stopping, starting, listening, wiping away, seeing through. Challenge arose when the traffic broke, and speed increased. Trucks barreled, landscape flew, and the mist tossed off by the barreling trucks became blinding, as it coated the windshield, and the wipers were forced to quicken, shake, desperately clearing a space for visability. After all, it's rarely the weather that creates danger or erases visibility- it's the byproduct of speed that courses past thoughtlessly, covering you in impenetrable film, loss of a moment, and a fury to regain sight and control.
This went on for a few hours. I did drive out of the rain, yet the thick cloud coverage hung like a low ceiling, and the drive seemed flat. Which makes sense.
I drove out of Chicago with a searing pain in my temple, a car packed strategically to the gills, and a quest for enlightenment, in whatever form it may, or may not reveal itself. The rain coursed down as I paced through the early morning rush hour traffic I had tried to time aside, nodding to the low-slung cloud coverage and constant gray pounding of water. I was thankful, knowing that rain will be a rarity in California, and this exit shower deserves appreciation. In traffic, it is fine. Stopping, starting, listening, wiping away, seeing through. Challenge arose when the traffic broke, and speed increased. Trucks barreled, landscape flew, and the mist tossed off by the barreling trucks became blinding, as it coated the windshield, and the wipers were forced to quicken, shake, desperately clearing a space for visability. After all, it's rarely the weather that creates danger or erases visibility- it's the byproduct of speed that courses past thoughtlessly, covering you in impenetrable film, loss of a moment, and a fury to regain sight and control.
This went on for a few hours. I did drive out of the rain, yet the thick cloud coverage hung like a low ceiling, and the drive seemed flat. Which makes sense.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
The Moon always shines
A dream that recurs.
Standing in an apartment I've never seen
Preparing a departure dinner
we didn't mean
I can’t make myself
this time
To welcome strangers never met
that hold the world of the prior shaped fantasy
with tweezers and tenfolds of control and consistency,
twilight and transition.
I am happy to comfort and extend in my cowering
Happy to primp and prepare in reprieve
So long as it is distant
so long as the tears defining our sleeves are clear.
(by tears I don't mean tears, I never do)
I've asked for guidance.
He pauses and asks to come to my home
overwhelmed
In need of escape
I agree and we are in the car
He drives, as I sit in the passenger seat
Watching the landscape slide by,
happy to go.
I lose control
My hand, my arm
lucid and aware and involuntary
No ability to stop the movement of my limbs toward his body
My hand to his knee.
Until impulse returns
I offer a friendly squeeze
A note of comaraderie
To his glance of surprise
and some suspect suspense
My hand, my arm
Darts back to my lap
Eyes to the landscape
And the sliding of time.
It happens again
This loss of control
Inebriation of intent
My hand, my arm
Pulling to his on the shift
Control comes quicker this time, stopping short of a touch
He reaches out and grabs my hand
Placing it under his on the shift
Relief
Fingers entwining
Finding
Pulsing
Greedy
Exposing
Apparent
Free.
We walk our hands in our arms
Exploring the moon
Up the back stairs
Into my moderate mess
And he speaks to me
Fingers entwined
"Don’t bother with this
Start serving yourself
Let your world out
Instead of trapping it in
Reach."
I agree
Shining high above our atmosphere
with the promise of inhibition
and the dream that recurs
once a month.
sometimes twice.
when we're lucky,
blessed
and full of a moon that turns blue
with a promise that can be temporary
restrained
free
or discarded,
The moon always shines.
in the recurrence of a dream.
Standing in an apartment I've never seen
Preparing a departure dinner
we didn't mean
I can’t make myself
this time
To welcome strangers never met
that hold the world of the prior shaped fantasy
with tweezers and tenfolds of control and consistency,
twilight and transition.
I am happy to comfort and extend in my cowering
Happy to primp and prepare in reprieve
So long as it is distant
so long as the tears defining our sleeves are clear.
(by tears I don't mean tears, I never do)
I've asked for guidance.
He pauses and asks to come to my home
overwhelmed
In need of escape
I agree and we are in the car
He drives, as I sit in the passenger seat
Watching the landscape slide by,
happy to go.
I lose control
My hand, my arm
lucid and aware and involuntary
No ability to stop the movement of my limbs toward his body
My hand to his knee.
Until impulse returns
I offer a friendly squeeze
A note of comaraderie
To his glance of surprise
and some suspect suspense
My hand, my arm
Darts back to my lap
Eyes to the landscape
And the sliding of time.
It happens again
This loss of control
Inebriation of intent
My hand, my arm
Pulling to his on the shift
Control comes quicker this time, stopping short of a touch
He reaches out and grabs my hand
Placing it under his on the shift
Relief
Fingers entwining
Finding
Pulsing
Greedy
Exposing
Apparent
Free.
We walk our hands in our arms
Exploring the moon
Up the back stairs
Into my moderate mess
And he speaks to me
Fingers entwined
"Don’t bother with this
Start serving yourself
Let your world out
Instead of trapping it in
Reach."
I agree
Shining high above our atmosphere
with the promise of inhibition
and the dream that recurs
once a month.
sometimes twice.
when we're lucky,
blessed
and full of a moon that turns blue
with a promise that can be temporary
restrained
free
or discarded,
The moon always shines.
in the recurrence of a dream.
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