Friday, November 16, 2012

book of wishes

I thought I’d rearrange a little.  Put some flowers in front of me.  I thought five candles would do.  A little touch of paradise when I’m not there. 

They won’t open.  They won’t open in front of me. 
Tight white balls
That remind me of the past
They remind me of Osprey Lane
When Alex came to visit and made chocolate mousse
I bought the same balls then
But my god they couldn’t help but open
Into huge magnificent worlds spinning on stems
Propped up by each other like swans in love
Like swans rushing to each other in fat fluff
In a hurry to just be.

These are so uneven, so sad
Falling into the traps of life an death
Disheveled bed-head flowers
That can’t seem to get it together
Because they’re just embarrassed
Because they’re just nude
And they’re already worth so much more
In their potential
Than if they were just easily born
On any kind of table
And I see they’re just like me.

At least ten of my mom’s babies died.  Died in front of me.
I was in line
I was waiting to be born
Waiting to be here
Then Alex came and made me chocolate mousse
I’m not sure how I keep the hope now
In four simple years
I flourished, I got stuck, I stumbled
And Jupiter won’t shine to bring these small balls
Bring them to full life
To bring them to me.

Taking myself on vacation, on a ripple
I’ll keep looking at that blurry patch
Sucking on the water
Making my heart fall
They sound the trumpets of cacophony
Clouds of nothing, occupying nothing
So near, these miracles
If I had a book of wishes
I’d ask for delivery in a hospital one day
Of these milky muppet flowers
To just sing, to just be.

I’d incite the angels of winter.  The winter in front of me.
Brace the back of this ghost
And swing theses echoes around
I’d dip into life
Into scarlet, into faces, into little drops of paint
Until you, my stranger, knew me
And shy the curtains back
Not scare the sun
Not to scare your eyes
From the weight of
Watching for you, waiting for me.

E. Kelly's Spiritual Journey on "We are all One"
"WE FLOW THROUGH one another's bloodstreams, and we see through one another's eyes.  We are all locked into a matrix we think is circumstance, in a precise calculus of time.  There is no way we can be separate.
WHEN WE REALIZE that we all are one, we won't have wars.  We won't have depressions.  We won't have such great difficulties.  We certainly will not live in the way we live now.  The way we live now is unbelievable, it is so barbaric."

Monday, October 22, 2012

ghost stories

May 2, 2008
I remember his unhurried smile (a bit like the Mona Lisa) and how he warbled towards me with the intent of squeezing any dignity out of me.  This was always his prelude to his insidious banter, and the later it got, the more crooked his beak became: to pick and tear and rip at me like strings of flesh he saw fit to mutilate, humiliate, and eventually discard.  The savage, perusing the wasteland of his desires; he was incessant like a crow, indecent as a horny drunk.  The more I pushed him away, the more he came scratching at my senses, wanting to open me like a tangerine, explore me and seduce me with his stories.  

May 3, 2008
Festoons of flowers seem to decorate my hopes, and the newer the hope, the bigger the bloom.  And they open in ways only I could invite to blossom, should they not shut down and die in withering spoonfuls of nothing.  The heights of my hopes carry me.

May 5, 2008
These.  Sweet morsels of lust, found on the balustrade of my pain.  A hunger gone wrong.  An unbelieved disease in the corner.  In the vinaigrette of my dreams... breathing in fits of perfume, getting walloped by the air.  Seducing, like a hidden scar, shown only to the lovers, and still breathing in the lone unbearable truth.  Two.  In solitude.  Two sick flowers who can't look at each other, can't hear to surrender to each other in the course needed to go their own ways, studying themselves in their distance.  Boiiing!  And back again.  Two brown flowers not able to bear the mirror.  The mirror of each other.  And all the while in the distractions of sex, they might not even really have to look at each other.

The monstrosity of my obsession: Something that had switched from the abbreviated comfort of my life.  Waving in the wind, they don't wear power, but my God, they do feel powerful: The sound of approval; The induction of fear.  And understanding the psychology of a liar, how it reflects the shades of all of us.  

May 15, 2008
And what happened to the worshiped sinners, the leftover lovers?  Mumbling past my ringing ears.  It's Handel's Messiah.

In the slow sum of your forgiveness, I wonder why I still can't find comfort.  In an economy of feelings, I am on guard to spend them and believe.  There are slanted lines that go through the sorrys and pardons and people will come up either way in the end – and that is the noble truth or the disguised truth.  Neither to be trusted.  Oh such plump lies, puckering their ways through such rational mouths.  Can't you?  Will you?  Can't you believe?  Don't dummy your answer just to look better.

It's as if I was living in the rectal barracks of the imbecile future, looking, wondering where the past went – through shafts of the unforgotten, and forgotten.

My soul reason, my sole reason, my absolute soul reason I feel I have to express myself from the trunks of my imagination is because every once in a while, I want to come to life.  Even as I'm living even as I'm dead.  That eternal flame we’re always talking about: I don't want to suffer the possibility of not knowing it.  Those septic thoughts of disappearing – I find it vile – a fright only meant for Our supreme ignorance.  And we all love the ghost stories, told like floating ducks into the sound – they too will disappear, and we too will disappear in narrow clouds.  If just for a moment, I can be alive.

Plunked into fascination – into a barb of the skin, and sin: us humans.  There's no lotion to sooth my sword-like doubts.  None but my own.

May 16, 2008
Talking to Jacquie about the past.  About love.  About others.  Fernand calls from Canada, and I excuse myself from our delightful luncheon.  I hear her laughing upstairs as I write by the water in the room down here beneath, where Miche and Ott last slept, and my grandparents used to sleep.  And when Jacquie asked me about G, I have a sentiment that I wish I could heal something in him.  Heal his love as I wish I could be healed of my love for S; that condensed life of a reality that had been shown to me, as if I were living outside of time.  With him I was lost in time, and when we met in that elevator it was like time travel.

Jacquie said M didn't fit in with the family.  She saw it right away.  As if he were still performing and we were his audience.  I found him gauche, stealing that cloth napkin with the chocolate sandwich I offered him at 5Ninth.  She said G was a blur, a haze, as if he were not there.  Not dead, but with no sparkle.  Then she said he fit more with us, the more she spoke with him and saw that he was learned.

Cold and damp feelings running through my veins, swarming restless by the water.  I find comfort in the release of my own hot urine. 

They are rose-violets.  They are intense lovers that get along.  With each other and with themselves.  Rolling into each other as always rolling out of bed, relaxed and rested in hues that would never be ready for the museum – too vivacious for the crowds, or lonely fingers to pick them.  Ah, that bunch, they are their own crowd in that dripping clay pot.  I visit Jacquie's violets and “Oh my God” whispered as loud as a whisper can be.  And taking my flip flops back to my chair I have souvenirs, not even ready to say.  But they're all related to each other, these rose-violets, and know themselves. 

Selfishly, wordlessly, gladly, he in the plastic bag, her in the icebox.

May 17, 2008
And words came floating through my dreams last night – I was too lazy or unbelieving to write them down... tucked under my comfort, tucked in the black.  So many words of interest come and gone through the room, all to myself from myself.  And I'm cleaning my feelings with care, to renew myself.  Reflecting soft surfaces to believe in, to love.

Forgiving him and his perennial love, like metal boxes closing and buses halting, he's making the noise of au revoir, the clang of a curtain, the sewn up solitude of wind.  But those metal boxes were as hot as the sun, pumpkin.  And if you tried to retrieve it, you'd only find a blackening grave with land turning to illuminate your dismay.  His cordial massacre of my heart.  In his reverent memories and moon pie dreams.  That box of sun, no more.

She stands out like a pedigree, legs out, tight thighs lusting forward.  Turning out, turning on.  Sit her in a crinkle wrapper turning up, folds of lavender and crinkles.  She stands in her potential and her potentially black eyes, turning a neck in private.  Forget the batteries, let's go.  Locked up Angels, dried-up rivers and life vying for more life.

May 18, 2008.
The alacrity of his stare.  It was perverse, a selfishness; taking his fill, putting me in his pregnant eyes.  How dare he throw those demons on me across the gallery floor?  I wanted to run and vomit, but running and vomiting doesn't go that well together.  I only did what I could – pretend not to notice his vulgar sloppy eyes. 

Her arms were as long as centuries.  Look at these young boys, these old boys.  All men.  All now.  I'm in a smiley room of yarmulkes and rules.

Broad-chested, puffed up with confidence, this was a bird who never thought he could be brought down.  A chicken bird, impervious to his own, who spread a jam of self-deception all over himself.  Ingredients: arrogance, vanity, the selfish slur of superiority, candor and the raw fat boast of fame.  Stir it.  Love it.  Lick it.  He was shameless.  But the more he stirred and puffed, the more shapeless he became.  Insignificant and ridiculous, a walking blunder of his white washed ego, pathetic.

May 26, 2008
Impossibly skinny, she looked evaporated, like storm clouds had curled over her and taken her away.  Away to some vacant land where only wisps and waifs could live – wintering skeletons and sickly white candy sticks in their smoky pallor, strings from swamp trees in the dangling haze in such stillness as only stillness would have it.  All about her was to match, as if her slight frame weren't to be hugely remarked, she had slight undertones of disdain.  Hiding her hate inside of her thin body, her skinniness yet could not hide her despicable fake politeness.  Those diabolical terms of endearment – what lies!

May 27, 2008
These milky thoughts and sullen dreams of motherhood.  They get me in the shower, and places that don’t matter.  They get me in the presence of myself.  The infamy of love, in my rattled state of salvaged self…I look at a row of yesterdays, humbled.  What I’ve been through, what I’ve survived…my love, my indecent love, obsessions, and blatant dismissals.  I am the one to blame.  The long tongue looking to clean my jowl, the piked tip of my splendid ludicrous tongue….that doesn’t even speak.  The silly pink of me.

Oct. 22, 2012
Jesus.  Am I glad it's not 2008 anymore.

Shelter Island

E. Kelly's Spiritual Journey on "Mistaken":
"You have mistaken me.  You thought I was Love.  But I am really Hunger.  And this is my companion Gratification.   The latter touched me gently, in farewell, saying Don't feel badly- we are often mistaken for those others."

Sunday, September 9, 2012

purple shadow


My wrists were wet.  Two days later my arms were hurting.  And I also wanted you to know that the flowers in my shower are blooming.

For the record, this has been one of the most traumatic experiences of my life.  There’s no one to run to really.  That it is ok- truly.  But at this moment I feel a disconnect, even though earlier I felt the strongest love.  I change my mood like your Big Mac diapers. 

Tonight is the eclipse.  I plan to miss it; the hour just doesn’t suit me.  If, by chance, I had someone to watch it with, that would be different.  I thought I found someone but I only found myself.  The last eclipse I witnessed was a few years ago.  I was drinking more then, near the death of my father in 2004.  And I came home and wrote a poem.  It started:  

“You wax. You wane
Like a mother’s pain
In deepest purple shadow”

Today’s coincidence: the eclipse of the moon.  August 28, 2007.  And recalling the last lunar eclipse, describing a mother’s pain.

This experience of this birth has changed me in a way.  I want to shake everyone I know and remind them.  I could never express myself truly as I experienced it but I will try to tell you.  This was hell.  Hell in my body.  At the same time it was a glimpse of heaven.

Where do you start on a day like today?  It's a simultaneous movement; every time I think of it, it just makes me feel I'm living in a tunnel.  Experiencing Delfin’s birth was shifting to me.  It's not that it means that I want a baby more now, but that I am more in tune with my mortality than I was when my father died.  I think it had to do with me thinking that Bell was going to die.  I think it had to do with me thinking that this entire episode would have been completely different without me.  And for the first time in my life, I had a purpose, an appreciation that I felt truly, truly present.  Or that is to say I felt my life get a life.  I felt another life giving life.  But this was one of the scariest days of my life.

Her water broke in the afternoon around four o'clock.  We got to the hospital at 10.  I went home at midnight.  They induced her labor and she started contractions at five in the morning.  I arrived at 8 p.m. when she was close to dilated.  And she only really started pushing at 10.  Then 24 hours later, here I am again.  Rubbings Bell's belly I wonder.  I know I get lost in the wonder.  Where should I be on the natural report, in pink and purple lounged in sorrow.  I think of my love in a loose way, because it's all I can do now.  If I have a broken heart, at least I can give mine in another way to a beautiful friend.  I thought all I was supposed to do was be there for guidance to help her breathe and relax and focus to show her, her picture of the dolphin.  I have a garden of hearts and I don’t know what I am doing.

August 25, 2007 Delfin Day.

It's not to be forgotten.  1:23 clocked in from his waiting time.  I thought Bell would die.  I stood up in the middle of the procedure to check out the big cut and the nurse told me to SIT DOWN behind the blue drape, back next is to Bell's sweaty head.  I talked to her head, and gave her visions of clouds and oceans.  Nothing worked.  Teeth chattering, the pain the pain.  I saw the blood reflect from the doctor’s visor.  The reflection of her insides.  I don't think I really wanted to see; I didn't want that feeling.  My memory.  I knew my importance in being there.  In a sense, I never felt as needed on any mission.  It was a dependency I'm not used to having.  When I got home, I clicked off my green plastic bracelet and threw it in the bathroom garbage.  Thought of keeping it, but it's not for me.  I took a shower and didn't cry.  My first tears came from a cry of a newborn across the hall when Bell was still in labor, trying to push.  I had no idea it was going to be so hands-on, that my muscles were in demand, that I'd have to push her left leg back each time, the palm of her foot towards us, her knee towards her chest while we coached her to push.  Cynthia had her right leg, and I had her left.  She was the kindest Jamaican nurse at Lenox Hill, Cynthia, on her right side had the job of changing all the fluid and blood, red on many blankets.  And I had the job to encourage her to keep focused on the spot to push, the spot, the famous spot, through drugs, not to forget to push hard at that spot like she will take a massive poop.  Yes, that spot.  She dropped one of her red rocks as they rolled her away for surgery.  I thought it was a piece of flesh, and I looked closer.  I picked it up, her precious rock, and saved it with the other rock already pinned to Bell in a gauze pouch, attached by a large safety pin. 

It was the German doctor that didn’t want to wait.  He came in around midnight checking on Jamaica and I, and how we were doing his job.  He told Bell she had 30 minutes more of pushing, and if the magic didn’t happen by then, he was going to cut her open.  And that, he did.

When Cynthia handed me Delfin, I felt the hugest responsibility.  How could this tiny thing be in my arms?  How am I qualified to hold him?  I kept thinking how much smaller he is than Pepe.  He had slippery eyes from some sort of Vaseline.  Bell kept kissing him.  The Vaseline was glossing her lips.  I tried to turn him for her to kiss his cheeks instead of kissing his eyes.  It seems wrong to kiss his eyes.  While they were sewing her back together to her original package, I was sent with Delfin to be alone in a room.  He was minutes old.  How am I qualified to even carry this precious cargo down the hallway?  Alone.  I pushed through the surgery door with him in my arms, then pushed through the hallway door to the first room on my left.  He was like a little football and I was going for distance.  It already seemed so far.  What if I tripped?  What if I fainted?  I looked, I cried, I spoke to him.  He didn't cry at all.  I unwrapped his hands to take a look, and they were frightening.  White.  Alien-like with no blood, wrinkly with soft dark fingernails.  Tiny, tiny, tiny hands - so weird looking, so creepy.  I took a photo because it almost looked like his hands were crow’s feet; white like the morgue, with no blood.  I took a photo and the flash went off.  I was so angry at myself to expose his little Vaseline eyes.  That sick flash.  But I adjusted and took a few of his little hand, his hand that is now feeling the air, his hand that reminded me of Michelangelo’s pointing hand of God, his translucent hand of purity, of fragility, and his hand that will one day expire. 

His eyes hypnotized me out of my body.  If only for a moment, nothing else in my life mattered, not even myself.  There were just two souls in that room- Delfin and me, and I looked at him in a quietness I’ve never known before, as if a sheet of truth draped over us and he spoke of the secrets on the other side of life- in the dark, in the womb, where I once was and somehow remembered.  He also brought me to the other side of life, to weightlessness and the encompassment of being One.  It was where I was before I was born and it is where I am going again.  It was a symphony of truth.  And I knew it.  I knew it inside and out.  There was a rhythm, a wave of peace, something ancient echoing the space between us, and the space in that room was protected.  I felt the night and the mystery of the night.  There was a thickness in the air as if it was stuffed with miracle after miracle and links of complete knowledge, tinkling equations understood by everyone that has come to Life. There was Love.

On the way home in the taxi I smelled my hands.  They smelled of Delfin and I cried.  I want to protect him.  I left the hospital at 3 a.m. and walked across Park Avenue empty and dark hoping for a cab.  It was extra late, and I was extra tired from giving all my spirit and words of encouragement.  I thought of the past 48 hours.  I drank some red bull and dimmed the lights that morning.  Bell thought the baby died inside of her the morning before and went to the hospital.  I thought maybe it was my fault because I ran a bath for her, and perhaps it was too hot.  But the tub was only one third full with water and Epsom salts and ginger milk.  When Bell entered the bathroom I lit candles for her and told her to take her time.  I thought I was the murderer.  I told my mother, who gasped, while Bell was at the doctors searching for a heartbeat.  It's now 4:25 a.m. and I'm not sleeping.  Is it the red bull, or is it that I want to be a mother or maybe Delfin's mother.  For that I need to jot this down.  I offered my hands to Pepe to smell when I got home, but she was only interested in drinking from the bathroom faucet.  She gave a little smell though.  Would Bell really have been all alone if I wasn’t there?  Feelings swirled and I couldn’t help but feel alone, myself.

After I took off my blue paper zip suit, bonnet and paper shoes, I threw them in the hallway garbage then secured Bell’s Dolce and Gabbana bag under her crank bed.  I double checked her phone was tucked in there.  Tucked - that was the word the doctor said as he was digging inside her abdomen, he's tucked in there.  That was a horrible experience watching poor Bell tell me she was going to die.  I believed her for a minute and gave her all my energy as if I'm a healer or God to save her from slipping.  I’ll never forget her pale face, her teeth shaking like the sound of ice cubes falling in a glass- I never saw teeth like that as if in a cartoon: a stick on a washboard, marbles falling, pebbles mashing, an incessant chatter of ivory as she spoke- and I will never forget her words, “I feel it, I feel them digging inside me”  “I’m going to die”.  She said so with no life, without soul.  The beads of sweat on her white/green face weren’t lying.  I don't know C-sections, but that one seemed difficult.  I tried not to see the red, I tried to pretend everything was beautiful and focus on the idea of beautiful dolphins and joy and sunshine, but stroking her sweaty head and looking into her fear, I was just lying to her sweat.

His head was already so far down, they had to pull him back up and out.  His ear bent like a fragile apricot under his bonnet during our alone time in the recovery room.  One ear was fine.  The other folded under the bonnet.  So I flattened his ear to match the other and sealed it softly in place.  While we still had time, before it made a memory in the wrong place.  His skin was so soft, his face so perfect.  And we stared at each other.  My little love.  Everyone kept calling me Aunt Sylvie.  But I am not an aunt.  I only met Bell after she was pregnant and wanted to help her.  I needed to.  As soon as I met her I knew that.  Because I knew I would need someone like me if I were alone having a baby.  She stayed with me her last month of pregnancy and in a way we helped each other.  She inspired me to move past my broken heart and I offered her a safe and healthy home.  We’re not sisters but we lived like sisters for a few weeks, and here I was stepping in like family.  As I was exiting, Cynthia told me that I am blessed.  She is the last one doing this birthing business every day.  She told me I'd make a good doula, or whatever is the word for people who coach people into life. 

The smell of giving birth.  It wasn’t foul.  It was personal.  This person put me more in touch with my mortality than the death of my father.  This difficulty of pushing life through life woke me up even more.  If that is possible.  The preciousness of it all.  This precocious entry, where we twist and turn through the dark and now, investing the ways, watching this woman who was gently imitating the twist and turn with her hands up and slightly swimming by her face.  Her gloves wet with pink.  Those famous gloves, each time Bell had a contraction, she had a new one to dig in and push the magic spot for Bell to feel, a reminder of where to push.  Her fat, inflamed vagina was hard to watch.  Not to be described.  Not to be remembered.  Because it was falling apart.  What a waste that she had so much water still, after 30 hours of breaking, and still so much water; this was supposed to be easy.  I'm trying to make sense of this.  This example.  I'll never stop shaking.  I woke in the middle of the night or shall I say early morning- since I went to bed at 5- with the most vicious worm-like feeling inside of me.  I felt Bell's pain.  I felt them digging inside of me.  I was running in my bed.  I saw the horror in her eyes behind the blue drape.  I am not comfortable.  I will not sleep.  The idea of harvesting a baby holding down flesh with clamps and grabbing into the thickness through the elegant bikini.  The idea of recoiling it from where it was going and fishing him precisely.  Those scissor clamps holding Bell’s fat belly.  Then I walked in.  A pinch on the globe, for one new life.  One new snowflake in this world.  I wore Bell's name and yesterdays date on my wrist.  On a thick white band that bothers me.  It is the only one given out to someone other than the mother.  We were both given a band behind the blue drape.  First Bell.  Then me.  Then Delfin, with a band on each foot.  His were tiny.  This is the band that gives me permission to see and hold Delfin.  Today, tomorrow, and the next while Bell recovers.  And I still wonder, what gives me the right?

My life isn't my own.  It doesn't even belong to me.  It belongs to no one.  I'm just carrying my soul.  Carrying it for the universe or for whatever reason I'm here.  I came so easily and have been told countless times throughout my life how easy my birth was.  My mother said it was like putting an envelope in the mail.  That term comes from her mom.  I hope to put an envelope in the mail one day.

E. Kelly's Spiritual Journey on Miracles are Everyday: 

"A friend asked me if I believed in miracles, and I said yes.  I believe the whole thing - existence itself - is a miracle.  The most miraculous thing about miracles is that they don't seem like miracles."

Thursday, April 26, 2012

way to nowhere:


I had to pack another face with me.  One that wasn’t so fragile, nor tense.  I had a little extra room in my bag for such a thing, but I wasn’t sure how well it would fare the ride.  And sitting in the familiar French train I see the reflection of others in the windows.  I look and see mine.  I don’t like it.  Reflecting off the dusk and snow, the grey rivers of St. Germain, repeating rooftops and passing graffiti, tufts of grass poking through the hard new snow.

La Petite Misere

And the little miserable ones went walking their swans, telling the future.  They had the misfortune of knowing, and we all know what it is to cut down those who claim to know the future.  We’re the ones who are sold and sure on what we’ve been told, that it’s of no use to try to understand.  They’re wrong and you know it. 


I’m grateful for this pen, missing my original pen that exploded on the airplane.  The woman I sat next to was also a writer.  She saw how my pen exploded and offered me a paper to wrap it in.  She told me she loves these pens and that it happens sometimes in airplanes, she doesn’t’ know why.  Then she checked on hers and pulled out a great big handful of my exact pen.  At first I said no, but then I had to say yes, thank you.  And here I write, in the Marais with the airplane pen. 

So thank you, Barbara from Vermont.  Thank you for your stories, especially the one of your wild neighbor back in your day, back in the 70s when you were in your 20s, downtown NY.  And an eccentric Parisian guy moved in next door.  You knew he was smart- a genius in fact.  He’d sometimes lock himself out and you’d find him asleep in front of his door.  You told him “Ca ne va pas” and that it’s dangerous, he could be hurt by someone.  After it happened a few times, he decided to remove his door from the hinges.  He no longer had a front door and that was your first hint.

He told her it was love at first sight.  He pursued but she had her own life, she was 22 and he, 27 or so.  He bought two tickets to Halifax.  And he insisted she go with him.  The next day she returned the ticket to him- he wasn’t home but she went through his missing door and left it on the counter.  Weeks went by and one of his relatives called, saying he hasn’t surfaced for work or life, if she might know where he is.  She had a good idea.

His family went looking for him in Halifax, found him and relocated him back to France. This was a family of nobility, owning a great chateau on great old land, the uber affluent.  He stayed in Paris, and never returned to the estate.  Years, decades, went by and they contacted her again- this time to see if she could help.  They said: Did you know?  We thought you should know: that M has been waiting for you at the station for 40 years.  Every day he gets up, rain or shine, buys flowers and goes to all the train stations in Paris and waits for you.

Wishing and wanting of another.  That unfinished business of love and that everlasting battle of love vs. sanity.  That poor genius rich man- he went insane with the love and lost himself.  He walked through gare de l’est to gare du nord to montparnasse every day looking for and waiting for her.  For 40 years.  He could’ve looked homeless.  He never returned to his family, to the estate and ease; rather he jailed himself in a waiting game. 

When he got towards the end of his life, and his family knew he was sick, wandering those cold train stations, standing around all day in all climates; they begged him to stay home, but he insisted on going, on waiting for her to show up.  So they contacted her, to show up.  She flew out to Paris to help.  First they met at a restaurant and he ordered everything on the menu to make lunch last hours, he didn’t want it to end.  Then they agreed to meet at the train station the next day.  When she got out of the train, he wasn’t on the right track, he was far, to get the long distance view and make her arrival last longer.  She said to him now you can stop waiting for me to arrive, I’ve made it, I’m here.  He said, no you don’t understand, now I have two people to wait for- for you to arrive again, and for her to arrive.  He saw the younger 22 yr. old version of her as a separate person, so now there were two reasons to come to the train station everyday.  For her in the present and her in the past.  He was not cured.  Only death could cure him, and it did.

Running Away, Part 23
Dec. 2010

Thinking back to my visits of the world I realize a lot of them had to do with letting go.  I spent this past May in Côtes de Provence to leave my life as I knew it, and to mourn someplace else.  I had the hardest time just being alone, without Pepe.  I’d still rather be home with her now than here in Paris, or anywhere else, but she’s gone.  I’m not sure I can explain the depths I’d experienced.  How do you explain pain?  You don’t know someone else’s pain unless you could possibly experience it yourself.  Impossible.

I recall I was in St. Mandrier, in search of beauty.  Everything was closed.  It wasn’t the season to be in beauty.  Nor were my feelings.  I was at the apartment/hotel and dragged the bed out on the balcony.  I laid on it and cried on the sheets.  These were some of the saddest moments of my life.  They didn’t end.  They just continued.  I was draped in a nightmare.  Each morning, each night, seemed worse than the other, I felt so helpless, so useless, so lost.  I put myself out there in a closed corner of the world to get the hell away from everything I knew.  I’d just lost my darling girl of 15 years, right after I was stabbed in the back by my ex.  I needed to escape- and escape I did- within the deepest broken heart I'd ever known.  I recall those pink sheets and the tile floor, the tacky kitchen, the closet doors that never closed.  Through the balustrade of my prison balcony I spied on people coming and going.  Strangers crossed the garden moving on with their lives, clinking glasses, enjoying the pastels in nature and man made design, and all the while my heart swallowed and silenced the majesties of happiness.  The sea slowed like the sun and I kept adjusting with the shadows so nothing was random and nothing was free.

And when the sun got tired I never knew a more profound darkness and actual fear than within those walls on the Mediterranean.  I had been hushed.

 View from my prison balcony, St. Mandrier

"Ideals are like stars.  You will not succeed in touching them with your hands.  But like the seafaring man on the ocean desert of waters, you choose them as your guides and following them, you’ll reach your destiny."  Carl Schurz

That right there, that above was printed inside a miniature paper purse, on the inside of the purse itself.  It was left on the silver dish of the room in Marrakech with some sort of flavor nuts inside.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

fighting fish

He looks like a sad child who got smacked in the mouth.  Like he’s dying in his shoes.  And he can’t even tell you his disease.  Of non-expression, of the storm in his thighs, wanting to walk wanting to run wanting to make you his only one.  He’s not one to serenade.  Because he can’t even speak to himself.  Standing there, a citizen of his own world, he’s got a pair of eyes that have been left before.  And they will never let you go.  At least his eyes, his eyes communicate his grief and fascination; they let you know he’s lovable and in misery; they send you.  And like the flowers follow the sun, he’ll follow you, even into the darkest shack of feelings, cooking a little hope to try, just try.

Fingering the dark, feeling the dark, it's a carnival of curiosity.

Without grace and without waiting, I died.  And I was happy to be away for a while.  For I sought out what was kind.  And that had all to do with how I decided to be with myself.  There’s an exit for the weak, for the polite, for the fighters, for those in fright.  And I wanted to know if I could gallop into the beginning, as enlightened and ready to live the way I dreamed to live.  I see a freedom while I’m locked, a freedom while I’m boxed.

There’s another life I see, and I’m making it the way I see it.  I’m free.  Spreading miracles, I'm in charge.  

I listen to sounds of calmness and I wonder if I’m just better by myself like one of those fighting fish in single bowls at the pet shop.  I recall last weekend I went to visit Carrie in Belport, and we went to the pet store the next day to get dog food for her 2 pit bulls, the ones I feel so sorry for because they wake up and spend the whole day without food until dinner and I know that’s not the way I would want to be fed.  And we walk in and I see stacks of those ribbony fish in their blues and reds, staying so still in those tiny water globes.  Even in Glen Cove as a little girl I never liked those fish because they looked sad and alone, secluded in their individual bowls.  The whole point, I think, is to see the fish interacting, scooping through the water with each other.  But I move some of the bowls to tier them diagonally in stacks, so the one below doesn’t suffocate without oxygen.  A lot of the ones at the bottom were dead.  I moved them and made hotels of air for the fish.  I hear the crickets.  I decide to buy some to bring back to the city- at least I could hear some nature.  Then the reality set in when I asked how long they’d last: 2 weeks, maybe 3.  I then said I would not be able to handle their deaths, not want to be responsible for the whole captivity and disposal, just so they could sing me to sleep.  I put down the glass square aquarium and left the store.

While I was waiting to cross Ninth I heard someone in the cold, and he was talking to a friend about emotional and social distance, not physical, like we always associate.  And I thought of that for one block, walking.  I think we can be so far away from one another.

We seem to stop singing to each other.  And people fight like those fish.  They can’t help it when alone with each other.  And I feel like my sister is a bit like that.  She provokes me.  

ABOVE I wrote over a year ago.  My god, how things have changed.  And how grateful I am to no longer be pledging to the shadows of loneliness.  My Love has filled my Life.  

E. Kelly's Spiritual Journey on Love must evolve:

“It isn't knowledge that changes us, but the capacity to realize and express what we know to be true...  The direction of our own energy is what will save us.  You see, we all know.  Everybody knows.  Knowing is not enough.  We must realize, live.  Look into your hearts: What is it that you believe?  What do you truly think makes life worthwhile?  

Then do it.  Do it.  Little by little.  Give up what other people do.

And give up guilt.  Guilt is like rust; it is not vital or living.  People laden with guilt usually are suffering more from their reactions to life than to life itself.  Thus they are caught up in something that is not real.”

Saturday, March 31, 2012

seduced by puppets

Getting rid of ghosts, of animals that have no heads, no tail in the intimate world, the experience of earth, abstract and obvious.  Empty flutes and breaks in arcs of knowledge, past fixed understanding.  Reaching disciplines to put oneself in the ultimate place of sharing the past, as well known as the continued search. 

The romantic idiots, improper in the words they dress in.  Looking like visions of impossible beauty, they try to open others as they open themselves.  Eccentrics, with intentions of eating each other’s minds, entering, imposing, suspended on gentle mountains and the velour of air, forcing their roles to be understood.

Towering with strings no one else is supposed to see.  What refinement, what sorrow, that moves our wooden bones like an only feather on a lake.

Artifices and edifices
Dimensions of reflections
Courses of deception- a disharmony between the players and spectators in the theatre of jokes.  Cities of victims, organized groups searching for truth.  Sects of philosophers, the terrible infants, of prose, of concepts, to criticize, to use. 

A sulphurous life – born into the disadvantage of your generation and the half generation before you.  Raw space in language leaving perspective of ancient language.  Such aggressive precision, psychoanalyzing, forcing others to say what they should.  Seduced by irony, souvenirs to share with everyone.  Turning and converging the young.  When little voices invade.

Traveling through their favorite creations deciding they’d live forever.  Masters of architecture and stupidity.  Elaborate simplicity, practicing your sense.  Working on notions, of other worlds and oracles, modern gods and geniuses come to speak to the public.  Understanding hyperbole encompasses all.  Looking at the fluorescence in others, past the medium lines to the individuals who’ve cannibalized their intelligence, their opaque voices.  Figuring most philosophers are dead or modest.

Possessed by secrets, wanting to do somersaults in the love of truth of life, in death, in continuation.  Knowing we're not essential to this life.  Graced with hope, not urgency, provoking rivers of criticism, celebrating or not celebrating being thrown away.

The literal world, the digital world, the confused world, the plain world, the resembled world, the formed world, the traveled world, the consequences of the world, the profound world, the platforms of the world, the techniques of the world, the first world, the revolution of the world, the effected world, the given world, the quantities of the world, the changes of world, doubts of world, the new world, the touched world, the classic world of faculties, measures, transmissions, substance and subsistence, symptoms and introductions, of concepts, archives in the mobile and interested world, inherited from ancestors to our contemporary world.  To outlive ourselves, hysterical questions to bring us back to ourselves.  Progressing into the artificial.

Time Travel, 2010

E. Kelly's Spiritual Journey on Love One Another:
"You have to learn to love as you learn to play a violin.  though we may be born with an instinct for music, we are not born knowing how to express it perfectly.  The emotion of love is natural, but refinement is often necessary because love has become confused with pleasure."