Wednesday, July 13, 2011

a history of silence

The grimaces of July didn't fare too well that year. 

June 8, 2008

Just as I sensed the spider, it must have sensed me.  On June 6th I had a spider walk into my home.  It was a moment, I will never forget, as on June 1st I wrote: I want a spider to walk through my window.  It has been years since I've seen one -- or shall I say -- I've never seen one in New York City, and I wanted one to come in -- how I missed them -- even though I'm afraid of them (deathly afraid).  When I saw that black hairy spider in my kitchen, it was like seeing a ghost, or a dead person come alive -- it was too eerie for words.  I asked it to come in, so certainly couldn't kill it.  My immediate want was to kill it, but this one I could not.

It was a history of silence -- all my absent-minded visitors had left -- up the stairs of disaccord, and unmoving lips.  Welcoming themselves into the wake of the journey, of joy, of delivering themselves of the certain knowledge -- like formidable turning leaves.  We all helped ourselves of the sun, and leased it as long as possible, the clouds of days and doubts.  Ah!  Right there: the pink petals of unturned lips giving straight smiles of surrender.  And right there, the crispy ones are folded towards their gods and systems -- just wanting.  Ignorance squared.  Infants protected.

June 13, 2008  2:17 a.m.

Look at those crescents in your eyes... the ones that make you look like morning.  Hey, listen Alcatraz: if I were you, I’d just look for the art inside the nothing new, and exclaim through my nose a relief -- a subliminal whoosh -- while falling asleep near Pepe.  And it is her making those noises, looking at me in mirrored regard... coy on the ruffle, the wave of my blanket.  Arms out and we all give up.  There is a fluent love of someone I don't know yet.  And a fluent thought of those yester guys -- the ones that made me twinkle --and the idiot in me that let me make me twinge.  The twinkle and the twinge.  The twinkle and the twinge.  I've got forgiving sheets on top of me: pink hydrangeas and brown leaves, curled fluff and palm paws up.  They relax on top of sleep.  A forgiveness on top of me.  And nobody knows me.  Nobody sees her -- the periwinkle of.  So.  There will be empty boxes of you.  To look and smooth back inside of yourself.  At this point, I must. 

Friday, 13, June 2008.  Now -- 14th

THAT is the sound of water.  THAT is the sound of love.  I tell my girl.  She loves to drink from my glass when I'm sleeping.  Stealing little licks.  And I don't like when she does that.  I'm not a water hole and Pepe's got her own bowl.  My little girl -- yes she does.  But she prefers to put her little black paws on my nightstand and duck her head-- the size of my glass -- into the very spot she's not allowed.  I tried pedestal glasses with thin openings, I thought it worked for a while.  Until this morning.  I heard a crash, and I politely yelled at her.  How can I yell at her?  But my wine glass fell to my tissue box, a perfect coffin on the bottom shelf of my stand -- colored in great reds and oranges of stark bold stripes and sudden red daisies.  It didn't crash to death.  It just crashed into the tissues and the rest, the wet, came to lie on my bed, on my pillow, and also striped fuchsia and plum sheets.  When I was awake and alert, later that morning, I changed my pillow cases, like I changed a diaper, wet, with an accident.  4:51 a.m. as I said, now the 14th.

June 15, 2008

In the nest of my lap.  I need parachutes and prayers for wherever I go.  So dangerous, so feeling, so caring, so far.  I am grateful to have lost myself -- genuinely -- to the love I have for another than to have kept myself away from such danger.  And so I have done without fear.  Me, the, kamikaze of love, having never spared myself -- how I struggle with it and nurse it alive, alone.  How I long to know the fierce joy of reciprocation.  I really wonder how it could be that I've never known it in my life.  Yes, I've had men mad for me, but I didn't have feelings for them.  And apparently vice versa.

My hands are growing old.  The diamonds in the pulp of my knuckles begin to look like rhinoceros skin or several eyes looking back at me.  And this tough skinned, observant girl is looking at the fragile chords she's made of: wondrous dreamy thoughts, solitude and the need for solitude, a perfect balance between chaos and organization where chaos becomes art and proof of life -- a surprising disarray that charms boredom away, and organization to keep not only thoughts, but assessments of chaos -- and simply put, to have a cleaner life.

No two people can journey the same.

June 16, 2008

Sugar!  Shuhugar!  Sugar!  Get over here.  Do you even know how cute you are?

"We all just want to be loved.”

If I don't make the effort I'll never remember my effort.  Guantánamo Bay -- can't talk about it... well -- 85% were captured for a $5,000 reward per person, gathered, collected.  "I am sure" there are up to 85% innocent, said the pro bono lawyer helping the prisoners.  Temperature torture.  For months on end.

Going downtown and calling Dan, telling him about the Lisa phone call coincidence, he thanking me for interrupting his boring life.  Me about to sleep under a kitchen.  Me, excited.  Homemade lemon tarts -- just call them "mom".

June 21, 2008, Solstice, Central Park

It's dangerous to be alone.  A hazard to be next to myself.  But Pepe is thoroughly enjoying the grass, munching on every cat’s behalf.  She is the quiet girl.  A happy girl, and I her counterpart munching on the world, my unspoken words, the ones that come to me in peace and in pain.  When I see her chord moving across the grass, I am on alert of the snake or spider I thought I saw.  It's only her.  Only me.  Squatting by the crevices, those shiny ones with age old mud and ants and stories before my time.  What Indians sat here?  Slept here?  Died here?  What other peace or pain laid here other than my pink Panamanian blanket and us?  Love -- where did you go?  Damp and beveled loss, mirrored reminders putting me in people's eyes.  I am a landing bird, uncertain from flying low.  I am the skinny one with little left to spare, the obese one with miles to share, in the joy of fragrance and my living girl -- both, all, flowers to adore.

This fat titted girl looks nothing like me, and that is also something to thank.  I won't dance -- I can't dance -- not when I can't appreciate the simple movement.  Above this rock ledge, the one that shines with history, the one that looks like a long strip of beef, this guy is kneeling on his white kerchief on the grass.  Kissing it in prayer.  I coincidently faced east with him.  He wiped his face with the kerchief and slipped out of the fence (our shared forbidden zone, shared with Tit in green).  I wonder where he goes now that his ritual is over.  And does he come here every day under such a variety of trees?  Oh, my white wings to feelings.

Wherever they take me, it's only back to me.

July 1, 2008

Pandering around in their jackass lies, the gods would whore themselves in mass publications, pushing ideologies on all lost souls, looking for comfort, looking for home.  And the gods resembled water and fire and all the plush flowers, love, “looking like” what people were “looking for”, leading the ignorants into their domes.  "Ung chung chang dum.  Ung chung chang dum.”

Shelter Island

E. Kelly's Spiritual Journey on Practice the Presence of God:

"Anything we hear from any person that makes us feel better is our awareness of God in that person.  That is what love is - the awareness of God's joyful oneness.

If you see God in everyone,  you will think, "Here God is like this" and "Here God is like that."  And you will give up criticizing others.  Who can criticize God?"

Monday, June 27, 2011


New Orleans, Mardi Gras 2007

The Privileged on St. Claiborne lost their dives to Hwy 10.  Past the Ebenezer Ministry Baptist Church, the Baby Dolls carried on with their tradition on the outdoor stage hollering their souls to the “Mother in Law” song.  There sat the mannequin of her dead legendary husband, on stage to the right, with his red shirt and plastic hands, wearing a wig like the rest of them.  Who’s catching who on the front end or back end of Mardi Gras?  Of continuing the custom carnival, looking at each other like a direction post.  Noted. 

There’s a Social Justice Renewal listed on the church for those looking for social renovation, whether their paths led down the parade route or not.  The progression continues, and for those who move like turtles or whoop across the renewal as fast as thrown beads from a Thoth Parade, in violent charm, they will all arrive.  We’re all on the front row of randomness.  And don’t interfere with the randomness of time.  Or double time.  From sequence to sequins there is a soulful intention in the loop.  From Bon Temps to white night conversations, there is a story being told in the music.  And no dialogue is needed in the continued history of the beat.  From Africa to New Orleans, Zulu perseveres.  They trim the streets.  The energy trucks move the wires.  The Thoth leave bead marks on your forehead…..Cocoa agreed they were winging it. 

The lieutenant of Muses came to say hello to her neighbor.  She was also a Roller Girl.  She makes 80 pairs of shoes for Muses and will have them done by 2008.

These are not the hot coals of Hollywood.  This is where you can let your hair down.  This is Headland.  

The power of thunder, the defiance of piss.

Monday, May 9, 2011

on heaven's lawn

On heaven’s lawn
A life, whispers

Like popping holidays
In my ear
Swaying, bending, knowing, loving
Riddles and secrets
Float in that space
Of no space

Balanced in the impossible
In divine patrol
Sleeping in truth as truth sleeps in me
And it is here we lie
Cooling doubts
Of no doubt

On heaven’s lawn
A life, whispers

Love, you sleep in me
Life, you breathe in me
Death, you know me
Cushions and cushions of illusions
Push the clouds of time
Yet I respond to the eternal
Becoming the smallest part of myself
Soaking in basins of relief
Stepping in the deepest part of myself
Becoming the unknown
Of no self
Of no time

La Camargue, France

Wednesday, April 20, 2011


The white blossoms now, remind me of last year's blow of flowers.  

April 10, 2010

I miss her most in the glow of morning
Her warmth now somewhere else
I could kiss her until my lips fell off
But they have nowhere to fall
Her beauty becomes the air
Her air becomes my breath
And I breathe in her absence
Until I also become absent
Until I also drive love to my grave
To keep myself warm in my death
My love will settle over my skin
Until my skin is gone
And my love will settle the dirt
As a hush, a caress, a fertile glow
In the mornings that I am gone

Pepe, my heart has water in it
Heavy from my heat
I find it interesting to stay calm
And to look at the soft lines
To look at the blur and fuzz
Of newborn leaves
Perspiring their blossoms to the street
Some flew through my window
New confetti turns to old confetti
And the welcomed gift of life through my window
Caught my attention in its streaming hands
Snowing empty faces past my sill
To softer places than the street
But they don’t belong where they won’t disintegrate
They don’t belong to me
And now I’m in charge of these friendly faces
That are dying on colored wool
Running their last white lives
On my natural floor
Oh the faces, I don’t know if they are turned up
Or turned down
They won’t look at me
The shy petals of 58th Street

Pepe, sometimes you wouldn’t look at me either
Your tiny little head so attached
Laying in your turkey position, tucked
Little black wrists so limp
You’d keep it all to yourself
Contained in your cuteness
Pushed behind your nugget nose
Sparking your spine in gentle black
You moved me
And I’d sway as the branches next door
Lit up in the explosion of spirits
Laughing in the silence of love
Doubling over in a crowded heart
Exalted in the freedom of you
Cutie pie
You’d make me jump
Much higher than your poking hairs
Higher than those few oily ones
On your spine, poking
God, they’d poke me in a comfort I can’t explain
They pet me like the tree across pet me
And it was always a surprise
I still see you Chou Chou
But I don’t have enough of you for the rest of my life
Little girl, what do I do?
Look at me then.  Keep looking at me
From your invisibility
Maybe now you will look at me

You are my shy petal
And I won’t dismiss the littlest gifts
Little fits
Of joy
Returning static to the whispering sun
A lift a release I am you we are one

Chou Chou?
Are you looking at me?
Then I will place you in me
It’s the only thing I can think to do
I am going to tuck you in to my fluttering soul
You in your turkey position, tucked
It’s easy that way
And I will hold you dear
Maybe love myself more if you are in me
I will I do I now cradle you
In my name

They’ll read about us in the papers, Pep
Cat Found Inside Woman
We’ll be famous for a little while
I hope you can handle that
We’ll be known for a little while
Until they forget about us
But I promise you I will never forget you
It would be like forgetting myself
Little girl, we are one

E. Kelly's Spiritual Journey on Live courageously:

"Our anxieties and fears come from our own refusal to live what we really believe in the depths of our soul.  Fears are an inner nonalignment."

Saturday, April 16, 2011

soul surgery

They’re the Hitler butlers burying the bird
Trying to
And wanting to
Be Accepted
And Wanted
To remember the freestyle way of
Knowing that bird
If that bird ever did exist
On the valence
Of our eyes
Or perhaps in our hearts
If our hearts were ever theirs

So they’d feel their sweat if they ever did
In sudden
Of the Life
And Loss
To sense a flow and somewhat flushing
Of themselves
If they really did exist
Before the mirror
Beyond their risks
Because they never knew
If their souls were theirs to sew


E. Kelly's Spiritual Journey on Live Courageously:

"One of the most helpful things for you to do is face the things you fear the most.  If you fear death the most, face it.  If it is illness, if it is becoming helpless, concentrate on it and face it, and realize all the things you still could do if these things happened.  Concentrate on the reality that death is but a transition.  Once you face these fears, they become insignificant, and you can continue living.  True living is practicing the presence of God."

Friday, April 8, 2011

red with truth

My heart bangs inside of my cage.  I feel it pushing my ribs with each thud – explosions of embarrassment like bombs of shame and wanting.  Wanting to not be here.  Wanting him.  And mostly, wanting to be myself.  I can’t believe my heart – if it had a microphone, the room would shake its walls, the kitchen would shatter its glasses and the three in the room would laugh: Silver with the hysteria of exposure, red with truth, the other two in wondrous curiosity how a pang could pang so hard.  Crashes of crystal and wall-dust on his Japanese antiques would stop K in the tracks of laughter, and the Other – the Other – would always keep an abbreviated laugh.  Witness: this is not love…this is reactionary of my haunted ego and bruised feelings, standing worlds apart from who I am.  A senseless self persecution, beats of desire, beating, BEATING inside my cage.  This earthquake couldn’t be happening.  I was a fighting bird fighting myself, flying into the fury of survival, of psychological torture and embarrassment.  Look, my chest, the ribs, a xylophone to harass.  Flip me face down so you don’t see my heart pop.  Pop. Pop.  A disgrace to my dignity – he even looked ugly, not only in his physique but in his selfish soul.  Looking like Rocky Balboa, the puffy hair, the shorts, double shirt with cutoff sleeves…with an air of arrogance as always.  Coming over to kiss me hello, Rocky apologized for not returning an email I’d sent him: an invite to yet another soirée.  “It’s OK.”  Silver Lies couldn’t capture a moment; she always gave them away to the quickest answer. 

Thinking of the Love she didn't invite: I would have invited you but I didn't think you'd like the crowd.  They were all human.  Not like you and me.

Lego Man

E. Kelly's Spiritual Journey on I promise you: A discourse:

“Much of what affects us is invisible.  There are great energies within us and without.  Some can be used; others must be endured.

There are energies thrusting through space, going through us like a sieve.  The theory of astrology is that wherever matter rotates in space it throws off patterns of energy contained in ions.  These travel through space and penetrate our atmosphere and physical bodies.  Sometimes energies meet and catch in a pattern.  At those times there is enormous stress in that area.  It can manifest sometimes in rashes of public behavior – rebellions, assassinations and so on, outward evidence of inward stress, affecting individual and group energy patterns.  Sometimes there is nothing we can do about it except keep our balance and inner peace.

Sometimes we are acting of our own free will.  At other times we are responding to those energies.  People live in a very closed context, and what may seem whim or chance is locked.  We are integral parts of the universe.  This should teach us not to impose ourselves on others.”

Thursday, March 31, 2011

resurrection plants

Looking through the blinds, she said It's ok you can laugh and make fun of your mom.  Titepoule, tell me a funny story.  Tell me a funny story.

When I'm alone, I don't have conversations with myself out loud.  I have them internally in my head.  Then they come out subtly like everyone you know, and I try to capture that, something interesting.  So there’s this lady from London.  She sells resurrection plants, which require no water, no light.  They are an eternal symbol of hope and rebirth, from dry and lifeless to lush witnesses.  They hold onto life forever.  When you're ready for them, and only when you're ready for them, you place them in water and like Lazarus they open to the world of the living, stretching their arms.  They whisper about the long night they woke from about their travels in time about the ballad of their neighbors and how they were stolen, disappeared and forgotten.  And as she stared at this riddle, her eyes began to yap with vivid memories of times, times she felt like that dead plant.  And this was one of those incidents when she switched to life - that second chance feeling - and she said to me the same thing she said to the plant, You are like me, you are starting to experience things that are out of the ordinary.

E. Kelly's Spiritual Journey on Exemplify what you believe: 

"Demonstrate truth constantly so that whatever you say comes from the heart.  Consider seriously what you believe, and from that belief speak to others.  From that belief do what is before you.  From this inner awareness, move, live and have your being."

Sunday, March 27, 2011

all the living animals

This, my life, is a thing.  It’s to be used then thrown.  It’s temporal, it’s mine.  For now, then gone.  I walk through the naked streets of New York and I always feel my face, no matter what.  My face moving along one two three sideways, one two three straight, freaking in my own picture of self and when they send me to the death, the end, I wonder if I’ll remember this second, that second, this step that.  Creaming in my own existence I walk I walk I walk I hold myself, the little baby of myself, the little infant, the beloved Pepe the beloved father who both died in their cancer, the one who fell in love. 

I’m all of these things.  I am my beautiful moment.  My devastating moment.  I am this person sitting on the bed looking through the bars of the fire escape past the diagonal man on the street, though the rims of the cranberry car and earphones and new green light, past the moving truck and rolling homeless cart, through the gates of St. Luke’s and up the veiny trees to the arcs and tunnel lights that vanish my view.  My love lives in inches in feet in years in deep, You, it lives in You. 

And I don’t want to be the one who draws the linen shades, the ones that fray.  I want to be the one watching the moving shadows on my ceiling turning flat to flux and I want to be the one to tell you I love you.  

We spoke.  His voice is my drug and my lingering thing.  It’s been years.  I hear him clearly- “are you lonely?” I said yes.  I was living with someone then, but surely I meant yes.  Shelter Island was my place to escape.  I wanted, needed, to get away from the city.  I dreamed of it.  And somehow things fell into place that I could go.  It was summer 2008, a year after the bomb: that summer day he told me he couldn’t do this, he just couldn’t do this.  I’ll never forget he told me “one day you will understand”.  As if he’d become famous and it would be suddenly clear one day as to why, that it would be so evident, so obvious, I’d understand.  Or that one day it would come flashing on my forehead that he was scared. 

I pretended I was alright, alright.  I even didn’t pick up when the fires were burning, when my things were close to singeing in the witch fires of 2007, when I couldn’t bear to pick up the call.  I was in Tahoe, finished, and my stuff was in Del Mar smoking and ashing in the near-fire.  I remember seeing his name.  The phone rang and it was his name.  That’s all I needed was his name.  I didn’t pick up and I lived the rest of my life without him.  I cried from time to time and from the most horrible times to times, how I loved him.  

A year later it got worse and oh my god I needed to hide myself from mankind.  And Shelter Island was the place to go.  I took the ferry I went on the island - it was supposed to be for a month or so.   I stayed one and a half years.

I remember knowing I was screwed, I was over.  How could it be that One Year after his “one day you’ll understand” that I would be worse?  How?  I would hold myself in all temperatures of myself and stay still.  I’d watch the swans from the windows and make friends with the dark, I smelled childhood in that house and trinkets of simplicity, painstaking simplicity, was all around.  There was the bar of glass windows, chock of Waterford glasses, and dimming lights braced those glasses in their own shadows.  It was a dark corner of handmade cabinets, amber lighting and a deep blue oriental rug.  Standing statues were in front of the brick wall, and pewter and porcelain and manmade things bought me back to others’ lives.  And the sink beneath was the home of a creepy spider I’m so sorry I killed.  It was installed like me, just simply installed, and I had no right to kill it right there in the drain. 

Maybe I was extinguishing all the creepiness around me.  But what was creepy, what was creepy was the silence, the darkness.  That more than the solitude.  At night it was pitch black in the room and a quietness melted over me, it kept on saying nothing nothing nothing.  It made sure you knew you were alone.  I’m used to garbage trucks and shaking sewer lids, horns and curses, forensics students smoking and talking, erupt flirtations, homeless mumblings, laughter, and pimp music rolling by.  I used to hear the clop of horse drawn carriages past my window in the morning and I foolishly liked it, until I realized the abuse that NYC horses endure, and that they don’t belong in city traffic drooling behind tailpipes in 0 and 100 degree weather pulling tourists, and they don’t belong in city buildings at night in tiny barracks where they can’t turn around and they don’t belong with their heads tied so close to a parking sign that they can’t even move their face and they don’t belong on asphalt with chains swinging from their foamy mouths 7 days a week in fear of busses and the Russian guy with the whip that doesn’t even pet him.  None of these sounds, liked or unliked, came through the curtains in Shelter Island.  And the only reason I pulled those curtains at night was because the blackness scared me and you never know, someone might row up to the dock in the middle of the night and just stand there at the black window and you wouldn’t even see them.  Sometimes I would hear steps in the dark and in the morning I’d find gobs of black marble shaped feces.  I became a naturalist and understood it to be raccoon.  I took their paw prints on the beach, those feeders, and then one night I saw them like a fairytale- the mother and the 3 babies making their way across the dock.  The fun that filled my eyes.  It had been about 15 years since I’d seen one- it was in California and I heard a screeching noise outside, a kitten being mauled by a raccoon- and I intervened with nature; the kitten was saved, but not from death- it already had an eyeball hanging out and had to be killed.  Marian didn't want to use her shotgun so we put it in a large box with a blanket to spend the night in the kitchen.  My guilt is the hours it took for that poor thing to finally be killed.  I wasn't brave enough and I didn't understand suffering as I do today.  When I found out it was killed by drowning I felt awful that I couldn’t just have taken a rock and finished it sooner. 

Which is why the day that Pepe disappeared in Shelter Island I just wanted to die.  I couldn’t bear the thought of her being mauled by a raccoon or fox.  It was my nightmare.  I don’t know, sometimes it felt like I went to Shelter Island to die.  And that was the perfect day to do it.  The sun was going down soon and somehow she slipped from the edge of the dock to the neighbor’s property.  I went trespassing with intent.  Pepe.  Calling Pepe.  A little boy was in his kitchen holding a black cat.  It wasn’t Pep.  I told him I was looking for my cat, then his sweet mother (who loves blue herons) came out.  She asked for my number- 1966.  Everyone in Shelter Island has the same prefix numbers.  I continued, dying, calling, thinking she’s gone on her senile walk to die in the woods.  But baby, it doesn’t happen like that- you’ll be mauled.  An hour later the lovely heron lady had Pepe in her arms- she’d found her at the edge of her driveway, ½ mile down, walking along.  She said how sweet Pep was, and handed her over.  That was the 2nd chance feeling we all get when we’re lucky.  Like all sins are absolved and the Missing signs on milk containers can stop printing, because they've all been found, alive.  Forget the broken heart- forget all that nonsense- because the most important is that I had my responsibility and my love safe in my arms.  

I think of her coming to the kitchen, woken from my midnight movings, and she’d turn the corner and sit.  I’d never leave her unsatisfied, never.  It was only my pleasure to give her a little something, a little chicken I’d heat up, a little love between, and I’d always be thankful for her presence.  It has been so hard to lose my loves.

S, I bought you a book on the streets of La Jolla- it was called How to Build a Miniature Zoo.  I remember how you liked everything miniature.  I never got the chance to give it to you, and it has now disappeared.  I remember everything about you, especially the silent times.  I know you, I do.  You sometimes don’t like to wear your glasses so you can’t see people looking at you, so you can feel invisible and not observed.  I called you the ice cream man the way you always wore white.  And I empathized deeply when you went through L's sudden death, how I was with you, mourning with you, loving M and wanting to protect her even though I never met her, stopping for her because no one deserves to be motherless.  

The padded elevator we met in was a capsule of time and we could've been anywhere but the Soho House, we could've been in 1800s Normandy, could've told secrets in that elevator that no one would've heard from the parlor to the street, no matter the century, they would stay safe in the billowing tufts of leather walls puckered with buttons, in tightened innocence, as I feel safe in that memory with you.  And one thing you don’t know is that even though it was a hot and sweaty summer, the way you’d come over to my place dripping in your clothes, I felt like it was already winter.  It was the only time in my life that all time seemed to merge- I was somewhere else with you, in all time.  I felt it was winter, I felt the comfort of you.  To my surprise your next book was titled about love and winter.  I recall losing you in the supermarket as you were in search of turnips, and how I was frustrated- I would do anything to be again frustrated by you.  But I don't want to burden you with this love.  I just neatly walked away and let my insides swamp.  I gave you what you wanted, which was not me.  When I watched "Love in the Time of Cholera" in Shelter Island, that was my hardest moment, and it wasn't until the credits rolled that I burst into emotion, and I went out on the dock and stared at the blur of the moon.  It was there I knew I'd keep this silence for the last my life.

E. Kelly's Spiritual Journey on Love one another:

"I think most people are afraid of love because it makes them vulnerable.  They would rather not love at all than be placed in that position.  When we accept the vulnerability and just go on, we progress.

The consciousness within us is infinite, and love has an infinite reach...  So hold on with love.  Do everything with love, knowing that no matter how difficult it is, it will turn out in the vastness of time to be good.  It doesn't matter whether we are there to witness.  We are part of the universe.  If we just function well in our little part, everything will be better."

Thursday, March 17, 2011

emotional sandbags

I always wanted to be a dolphin so I could bullet myself into the Pacific, into places I know that wait.  When I was lost enough, I remember saying goodbye- that I was going to go move to the ocean.  And when I got to the ocean, years passed, then I wanted to move into the ocean.  It seemed the only logical place.  Nat and Frank took me by the arms and led me away.  They seemed to know it wasn’t my time.  Drops of suspension, drops of surprise, of emotion and longing for the two children and the life I blessed that first day of May, that day we swung around the Maypole and I wore the borrowed wooden heeled shoes.  Those shoes.  They had white satin ribbons that gathered together and come to think of it they mirrored the ribbons of the pole and maybe the ribbons of my imagination and where I thought this marriage was going.  I play that day sometimes.  It was probably the most beautiful day of my life, if I was forced to state one.  He wore a kilt given to him by his uncle, I wore a 1960s dress from the Third Hand Store in San Francisco.  No one helped me choose.  I was alone in my preparation as I was alone in my separation and I’m pretty good at that.  Doesn’t a dolphin propel alone?  But on the peripherals there are schools of souls and it is among them and with them that I gain my force- even from rows over and in slipstreams past, we are all living the same life.  I am alone as you are alone, and I am crowded as you are crowded in this world of flesh and salt and oxygen.  I’m only writing to help you dream.  And you?  I don’t know you.  Ambiguous you.  But you?  I am you.  Ambiguous me.

Looking for myself after I left myself
In the facts of time when I no longer believed in time
There was a draft in my back
Sitting in my aloneness
In my age in my youth in my oldness
Whistling my sometimes wishes
When I still don’t matter when I still so much matter
To everyone and no one
And what I’m doing here

Usually when I swim so far from shore I get scared
And I remember the time I almost drowned
And how it didn’t matter because I was too young to know
And usually when I have no fear
It’s because I don’t care
And I don’t want to care

Snow surprises in the morning, and I don’t know why
It’s natural.  It’s normal.
But it surprises my eyes for what never lasts
It reminds me of the impatience
Of first my blood
How I wanted it to come so much I ate everything red
And now I could care less
As things come whether expected or wanted or not

Like a child

And on the 2nd floor on the 2nd month I wonder
If this year and this place is mine
Catching myself after I lost myself 

E. Kelly's Spiritual Journey on Death isn't all that much:

"Death is no more than an act change in a play.  The story is continual.  There is no way to stop it.  It is in God.  A Chinese proverb speaks of three difficult challenges.  One is to keep a secret.  Another is to bear injustice silently.  The third is to know that someday we will die... 

The Earth is a difficult place to be.  But it is a privilege to be here.  The danger is that we get too attached to the physical world.  This is like getting attached to the third grade classroom rather than moving on.  We should all go forward."

Saturday, March 12, 2011

my spare hands

On the mouth.  That's where I pass my, and take my feelings.  My migrating feelings, around the spheres of emotion then right back on the mouth.  There are little birds that are so alive and so young, feeding in a frenzy, feeding on the morning, and I am with them on the branch of the massive yew, chirping upside down in the fragrance.  I hold the branch with my earthen claws rippled with life, clutching, loving, ever fragile and sharp.  It is here I soak in the seeds of myself, taking them in, in a digestion of self.  And this choice is taken with many thanks to God that I am here, alive, as divine as the tree I thrive on.  Invisible noise passes in the hollows of the yew, sturdy and fresh.  Noise that I know.  They are from a life so much greater than mine, elsewhere, and in this formidable rush we call wind, it simplifies its mystery by repetition blowing and blowing past my little black eyes.

E. Kelly's Spiritual Journey on You have the philosopher's stone:

"The main goal is to make yourself what the Hindus call "one pointed."  Kirkegaard explained it as the purity of heart "to will one thing".  Simply put, the key is this: The subconscious mind remembers.  The conscious mind reasons.  The superconscious mind realizes.  If, at these three levels, you think of God, remember God, reason that God is everywhere, and realize that this is God's world - if you can hold this thought day after day, and do very well what you have to do, I promise your lives will be transformed."