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?"

1 comment:

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