I love life and sometimes it's just too much
I'm not being negative
I just need to say fuck
I'm in here now
The guy behind me is humming
One square inch
Can I have one square inch to call my own
I observe myself eating my fingers
Chewing my cuticles
Don't let that stop you, keep going
Need pain to feel
Shell so thick around me
Nothing gets through
No ordinary soft feelings
Like love or joy or the sunset
Localizing my pain helps
I think it's funny and that's another lie
Don't have time to eavesdrop on your world
It is hilarious that you think I do
I saw a movie last night
The guy reminded me of you
The shame I had over loving you
Must still be with me
You came to mind
I don't miss you don't want you
Just need to make myself feel bad
I think I'll rip away at my cuticles
For awhile instead
Localizing my pain helps
Sometimes my pain looks like you
Sometimes it looks like a bloody hand
Dangling from my arm
All the same old, rooted in my gut pain
All you did was interfere, get in my way
Interrupt my self hatred
And wear it like a princely robe with powers
to destroy or grant reprieves
Without my pain you were nothing
Do you feel your powers start to slide away
Slower, fast, faster, rapidly declining
Hanging on by a thin bare thread
Now the tiniest of microscopic filaments
That's right
Relish this final moment
For you are about
To Disappear.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
FRIEDOM
"You drink your coffee like there's bourbon in it."
Friedom (Danish and pronounced "freedom"), his
voice hisses through my open window and me
thinking the horizontal blinds keeping out the world.
I smile back, "I never sipped my bourbon." He laughs.
It's fun to make this homeless man laugh. Had the
Homestead Act still been in place he would own the
garage behind my five unit one-story apartment building,
having squatted rent free for the past three years.
Sleeping on blankets his box of possessions at his side.
This week had produced a new friedom. In his homeless,
carless, moneyless world he somehow received a
Mastercard and promptly got a full set of new teeth. I had
grown used to his brown broken stubs he hid behind a
tight smile. "These temps are a bit yellow, the real fakes
are whiter." Yet I shaded my eyes against the glare. They
looked perfect. Out of place, almost horse-like compared
to the winter forest of before. He said they cost too much
and that the dentist worked on his teeth from 3:30 pm to
3:30 am. "Now I can have sex and die from aids like everyone
else." Yes, you can. Having met someone on a gay chat board
he was looking forward to a new life. I only somewhat
understood his predicament, having broken my own right front
tooth on a Skittle weakened by an old root canal. The crack ran
diagonally across and up to the point that the entire tooth had
to be extracted. At the time it seemed exciting, having a blank
spot in my smile. Sporting a "flipper" they called it, a retainer
with one fake tooth until the gum healed and a real fake one
could be implanted. That I would talk with a lisp and have
something removable in my mouth seemed pleasingly different.
Something new. Always intrigued by something new had gotten
me into a lot of trouble during my life but this seemed like a
reasonable thrill. It wasn't so much the intrigue of something
new getting me in trouble but my denial of that fact and
staunch refusal to do anything about it. However the thrill
of being called Elmer Fudd by my boss, and "once that tooth
is in we can take her out." was getting old
although I did like the attention. And the added burden of
brushing another tooth separately each night, of not biting into
my food like I used to, of never chewing gum again at least
for a while. This being California, I kept my Bubba tooth, yes we
named it, in a plastic round container by the front door
long with a banana and my shoes. The threat of earthquakes
keeps one prepared for the worst and what would be worse
than to escape a falling building only to survive and be
interviewed on TV without a front tooth?
Friedom (Danish and pronounced "freedom"), his
voice hisses through my open window and me
thinking the horizontal blinds keeping out the world.
I smile back, "I never sipped my bourbon." He laughs.
It's fun to make this homeless man laugh. Had the
Homestead Act still been in place he would own the
garage behind my five unit one-story apartment building,
having squatted rent free for the past three years.
Sleeping on blankets his box of possessions at his side.
This week had produced a new friedom. In his homeless,
carless, moneyless world he somehow received a
Mastercard and promptly got a full set of new teeth. I had
grown used to his brown broken stubs he hid behind a
tight smile. "These temps are a bit yellow, the real fakes
are whiter." Yet I shaded my eyes against the glare. They
looked perfect. Out of place, almost horse-like compared
to the winter forest of before. He said they cost too much
and that the dentist worked on his teeth from 3:30 pm to
3:30 am. "Now I can have sex and die from aids like everyone
else." Yes, you can. Having met someone on a gay chat board
he was looking forward to a new life. I only somewhat
understood his predicament, having broken my own right front
tooth on a Skittle weakened by an old root canal. The crack ran
diagonally across and up to the point that the entire tooth had
to be extracted. At the time it seemed exciting, having a blank
spot in my smile. Sporting a "flipper" they called it, a retainer
with one fake tooth until the gum healed and a real fake one
could be implanted. That I would talk with a lisp and have
something removable in my mouth seemed pleasingly different.
Something new. Always intrigued by something new had gotten
me into a lot of trouble during my life but this seemed like a
reasonable thrill. It wasn't so much the intrigue of something
new getting me in trouble but my denial of that fact and
staunch refusal to do anything about it. However the thrill
of being called Elmer Fudd by my boss, and "once that tooth
is in we can take her out." was getting old
although I did like the attention. And the added burden of
brushing another tooth separately each night, of not biting into
my food like I used to, of never chewing gum again at least
for a while. This being California, I kept my Bubba tooth, yes we
named it, in a plastic round container by the front door
long with a banana and my shoes. The threat of earthquakes
keeps one prepared for the worst and what would be worse
than to escape a falling building only to survive and be
interviewed on TV without a front tooth?
Sunday, January 11, 2009
ONE TIME DAVE
The holiday lights and sounds wafting up from thirty stories
below lapped at his bare toes. From his rooftop terrace view
the edges of intruding lower arches prohibited full exposure
of the city's New Years Eve revelers, yet their cheers cloaked
Dave in loneliness. The humid air hung thick, he thought,
thick enough on which to float. He tested the ephemeral
cushion with his feet. The blue neon clock tower at the beach
glowed 11:59:00 PM, 11:59:01, 11:59:02. His thoughts
stretched, thinning like the last passing moments of the year.
And then this idea of a new year. Of starting over. Erase the
past like a bad dream never remembered is what he wanted.
His mother labeled him the late bloomer though eldest of her
twelve children, but he felt like a loser. Until she happened
along. She with the home-wrecker breasts between which he
slept and dreamed. She with the heart and mind that sucked
him in, captive along with his eight brothers, even the three
sisters had been drawn to her essence when she entered the
room.
Then gone, as mysteriously as she had appeared, her memory
a cancer entwined around his bones as he watched the others
go back to their own lives and forget.
Over the ledge of the brick terrace wall, legs dangling in the
full bodied air, he wiggled his toes. On the loneliest night of
the year he pushed off from the wall onto the thick billow of air
and floated at first, his shirt inflating then ripping away from
his thin body.
With increasing speed he dropped feet first past a swirl of
twinkling red and green until midway down he turned and
contorted his body into a beautiful majestic swan dive, so
was his need to be seen, to prove he had not disappeared
though he knew that he had.
Faces in the crowd rush at him, the thick air enfolding him,
protecting him, and with his last thought he wondered why
no one had told him it would feel this good to be rid of it all,
such was the effect of the massaging pressure against him
as he plummeted downward.
In the crowd stood a young woman he had never before seen,
strands of her long red hair sticking to the stem of her
champagne glass. His eyes locked onto the glistening bubbles
in her fluted crystal and at 11:59:59 PM he disappeared into the
sparkling brew amidst welcoming cheers.
Rising, he broke through the liquid surface as the blue neon
clock tower glowed 12:00:00 midnight. Suddenly the lights
were too bright, the sounds too harsh and he cried as firm hands
wrapped him in a soft blue towel. Without the burdens of the
past he was much lighter. Small and newborn.
Surrounding faces shed tears as those same large hands lay
him on the breast of that beautiful redhead and she cradled him
gently, firmly against her and he only able to accept that feeling
of a requited longing stemming from a desire he understood not.
below lapped at his bare toes. From his rooftop terrace view
the edges of intruding lower arches prohibited full exposure
of the city's New Years Eve revelers, yet their cheers cloaked
Dave in loneliness. The humid air hung thick, he thought,
thick enough on which to float. He tested the ephemeral
cushion with his feet. The blue neon clock tower at the beach
glowed 11:59:00 PM, 11:59:01, 11:59:02. His thoughts
stretched, thinning like the last passing moments of the year.
And then this idea of a new year. Of starting over. Erase the
past like a bad dream never remembered is what he wanted.
His mother labeled him the late bloomer though eldest of her
twelve children, but he felt like a loser. Until she happened
along. She with the home-wrecker breasts between which he
slept and dreamed. She with the heart and mind that sucked
him in, captive along with his eight brothers, even the three
sisters had been drawn to her essence when she entered the
room.
Then gone, as mysteriously as she had appeared, her memory
a cancer entwined around his bones as he watched the others
go back to their own lives and forget.
Over the ledge of the brick terrace wall, legs dangling in the
full bodied air, he wiggled his toes. On the loneliest night of
the year he pushed off from the wall onto the thick billow of air
and floated at first, his shirt inflating then ripping away from
his thin body.
With increasing speed he dropped feet first past a swirl of
twinkling red and green until midway down he turned and
contorted his body into a beautiful majestic swan dive, so
was his need to be seen, to prove he had not disappeared
though he knew that he had.
Faces in the crowd rush at him, the thick air enfolding him,
protecting him, and with his last thought he wondered why
no one had told him it would feel this good to be rid of it all,
such was the effect of the massaging pressure against him
as he plummeted downward.
In the crowd stood a young woman he had never before seen,
strands of her long red hair sticking to the stem of her
champagne glass. His eyes locked onto the glistening bubbles
in her fluted crystal and at 11:59:59 PM he disappeared into the
sparkling brew amidst welcoming cheers.
Rising, he broke through the liquid surface as the blue neon
clock tower glowed 12:00:00 midnight. Suddenly the lights
were too bright, the sounds too harsh and he cried as firm hands
wrapped him in a soft blue towel. Without the burdens of the
past he was much lighter. Small and newborn.
Surrounding faces shed tears as those same large hands lay
him on the breast of that beautiful redhead and she cradled him
gently, firmly against her and he only able to accept that feeling
of a requited longing stemming from a desire he understood not.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
DRESSING FOR THE MAN
Advancing years had Sheila waking up in need of make up, especially under
the eyes. Efficiency was not her main concern this morning as she looked in
the mirror and studied the face she had seen for 49 years. But this morning
was different as she shoved her flattened brows to a standing position and
thought of the people at work. Nice, crazy, smart, urgent people. But personally
what did she care except that she earned money, wasn't bored and actually liked
being there. But no energy, nothing special went into her morning routine. How
could she put some snap back into her life? How could she cultivate the aura of
energy that draws people to her, makes them desire to be around her?
She decided she would imagine she was dressing for a date with George Clooney.
So with George in mind she applied her make up with more care, blew her hair
straighter to accentuate the blonde highlights and donned her great jeans, gray
long sleeve sweater with the one inch collar, the body of which cut off at her waist
and a a white shirt that hung out a little at the edge of the sweater. Her brown boots
completed the outfit.
Pleased, she drove to work.
Her attitude was confident. They gave her compliments on her sweater and to her
delight noticed her hair appeared more blonde.
"Did you use a new shampoo?" the 24 year old that sat next to her asked.
"I dressed like I had a date with George Clooney", she confided to the young
woman.
"You are such a freak" the young girl laughed.
"I know, isn't it fun!"
The 24 year old smiled the kind of smile that agrees, even envies the older
woman's ability to not only come up with this game, but to play it successfully
and then reveal her secret.
The next day several women showed up looking noticeably smart in their
carefully pulled together outfits. And the next, and the next.
That Sheila was dressing for imaginary men was never openly discussed again
but by week's end a new energy had taken over the office, and one man was seen
coming back from lunch with a retail bag on his arm.
the eyes. Efficiency was not her main concern this morning as she looked in
the mirror and studied the face she had seen for 49 years. But this morning
was different as she shoved her flattened brows to a standing position and
thought of the people at work. Nice, crazy, smart, urgent people. But personally
what did she care except that she earned money, wasn't bored and actually liked
being there. But no energy, nothing special went into her morning routine. How
could she put some snap back into her life? How could she cultivate the aura of
energy that draws people to her, makes them desire to be around her?
She decided she would imagine she was dressing for a date with George Clooney.
So with George in mind she applied her make up with more care, blew her hair
straighter to accentuate the blonde highlights and donned her great jeans, gray
long sleeve sweater with the one inch collar, the body of which cut off at her waist
and a a white shirt that hung out a little at the edge of the sweater. Her brown boots
completed the outfit.
Pleased, she drove to work.
Her attitude was confident. They gave her compliments on her sweater and to her
delight noticed her hair appeared more blonde.
"Did you use a new shampoo?" the 24 year old that sat next to her asked.
"I dressed like I had a date with George Clooney", she confided to the young
woman.
"You are such a freak" the young girl laughed.
"I know, isn't it fun!"
The 24 year old smiled the kind of smile that agrees, even envies the older
woman's ability to not only come up with this game, but to play it successfully
and then reveal her secret.
The next day several women showed up looking noticeably smart in their
carefully pulled together outfits. And the next, and the next.
That Sheila was dressing for imaginary men was never openly discussed again
but by week's end a new energy had taken over the office, and one man was seen
coming back from lunch with a retail bag on his arm.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
PARIS
A broken heart does not Paris mend. She tried to imagine scenarios
to match the uninhabited mansion meant now only for show and focused
on the ungroomed back corner of a small garden, the part of the over all
that was ignored and invisible, much like herself.
Scratching out her pain on an odd-sized tablet with a pen purchased
in the 16th Arrondismeau near her school, she sat on a wooden chair
near the pond in Luxembourg Gardens. It was July and hot and her heart
heavy. The little French boy and girl with their pet duck swimming,
the relaxed couples lounging, enjoying the beauty around them.
She tossed off these images with a shake of her head and noted Central
Castings eagerness to accommodate all but her.
So not like Hemingway she thought and decided Hem only loved Paris in
retrospection, his dislike for the things he professed to later love would
dominate. Was she less than human in her disdain for this city? It was
not in the actual living but the Proustian idea of the remembrance of
things past that scared the hell out of her. What if the real joy of living
was felt only in one's memory? The pain of life certainly was.
With half her money gone and two-thirds of her stay remaining she made
her way to the McDonalds across from the Pantheon and bought a burger
and fries, a sure cure for the broke and broken.
She stuffed her parisian fast food into her purse and waited with the
others for the Pantheon to open. It struck her as odd something that old
would have hours.
And waiting to see dead people. Not a festive thought, but she was
here and so were they.
Inside the cold, dim rooms she wondered how many men it took to
slide the tomb covers off the thick stone slabs encasing the remains.
Sections of the Pantheon were crumbling, large pieces dropping from
the beautifully painted ceiling in areas where visitors were cordoned off.
A narrow casing of steps wound up to an open rooftop patio where
the view on this clear day, spectacular. Above her to the left, the
Pantheon dome. She climbed up the curved smooth surface, above the
ordinary tourists, and ate her burger and fries. Paris spread out below,
a cream colored, two-storied city with flashes of interest populating its
sprawl. The Sacre Coeur church, the ferris wheel at the Tulleries, the Eiffel
Tower and Notre Dam.
Crumbling her wrappers she lay back against the warm surface of the
dome. Arms spread as though on a cross, she lay open to the sun and
imagined, as she had one month ago on a beach in the Hamptons, the
healing properties of light filtering through the universe, that beating
down upon her would some how cleanse her soul and destroy all the
darkness and pain within.
to match the uninhabited mansion meant now only for show and focused
on the ungroomed back corner of a small garden, the part of the over all
that was ignored and invisible, much like herself.
Scratching out her pain on an odd-sized tablet with a pen purchased
in the 16th Arrondismeau near her school, she sat on a wooden chair
near the pond in Luxembourg Gardens. It was July and hot and her heart
heavy. The little French boy and girl with their pet duck swimming,
the relaxed couples lounging, enjoying the beauty around them.
She tossed off these images with a shake of her head and noted Central
Castings eagerness to accommodate all but her.
So not like Hemingway she thought and decided Hem only loved Paris in
retrospection, his dislike for the things he professed to later love would
dominate. Was she less than human in her disdain for this city? It was
not in the actual living but the Proustian idea of the remembrance of
things past that scared the hell out of her. What if the real joy of living
was felt only in one's memory? The pain of life certainly was.
With half her money gone and two-thirds of her stay remaining she made
her way to the McDonalds across from the Pantheon and bought a burger
and fries, a sure cure for the broke and broken.
She stuffed her parisian fast food into her purse and waited with the
others for the Pantheon to open. It struck her as odd something that old
would have hours.
And waiting to see dead people. Not a festive thought, but she was
here and so were they.
Inside the cold, dim rooms she wondered how many men it took to
slide the tomb covers off the thick stone slabs encasing the remains.
Sections of the Pantheon were crumbling, large pieces dropping from
the beautifully painted ceiling in areas where visitors were cordoned off.
A narrow casing of steps wound up to an open rooftop patio where
the view on this clear day, spectacular. Above her to the left, the
Pantheon dome. She climbed up the curved smooth surface, above the
ordinary tourists, and ate her burger and fries. Paris spread out below,
a cream colored, two-storied city with flashes of interest populating its
sprawl. The Sacre Coeur church, the ferris wheel at the Tulleries, the Eiffel
Tower and Notre Dam.
Crumbling her wrappers she lay back against the warm surface of the
dome. Arms spread as though on a cross, she lay open to the sun and
imagined, as she had one month ago on a beach in the Hamptons, the
healing properties of light filtering through the universe, that beating
down upon her would some how cleanse her soul and destroy all the
darkness and pain within.
MUSIC
She turned her cream colored Dodge down her north Dallas
suburban street right into a wall of music. Not odd, considering
32 kids lived in this neighborhood block.
Five houses down on the left she pulls into the only red brick
home with a circle drive in the front, the music so loud now even
the voices of her own thoughts beaten silent.
All doors and windows of the surrounding homes were closed to
keep the simmering Texas sun out and the air conditioning in.
But she had convinced herself it was to repeal the assault.
Entering the front door the music grew inconceivably louder.
Not the sound of Bread or Kiss or Boston or the Stones. A rhythmic
marching beat. Cosack-like. Germans, Russians, and the US military
marching. An entire orchestra sending troops to war.
And the marching. Pounding of boots, not on gravel but linoleum.
Now hardwood, now across entryway tiles her father's stern, energized
steps . Left, right, left.
A can of Pearl beer in his left hand, a lit cigarette in his right. Marching.
Marching. Her escape down the hallway coincides with the arrival of
his military might.
"Hi Dad," Over-powering and without as much as a glance or a nod, nay
without acknowledgment of any kind, this army of one stomps past
muttering orders to his troops, not understandable but spoken in that
"I'm talking to myself don't interrupt" ind of way while simultaneously
flattening his daughter against the hall wall in his wake.
He proceeds to the end of the hallway and with a drag from his cigarette
and a gulp of his Pearl beer, he reverses direction though not labeled
retreat in his mind.
suburban street right into a wall of music. Not odd, considering
32 kids lived in this neighborhood block.
Five houses down on the left she pulls into the only red brick
home with a circle drive in the front, the music so loud now even
the voices of her own thoughts beaten silent.
All doors and windows of the surrounding homes were closed to
keep the simmering Texas sun out and the air conditioning in.
But she had convinced herself it was to repeal the assault.
Entering the front door the music grew inconceivably louder.
Not the sound of Bread or Kiss or Boston or the Stones. A rhythmic
marching beat. Cosack-like. Germans, Russians, and the US military
marching. An entire orchestra sending troops to war.
And the marching. Pounding of boots, not on gravel but linoleum.
Now hardwood, now across entryway tiles her father's stern, energized
steps . Left, right, left.
A can of Pearl beer in his left hand, a lit cigarette in his right. Marching.
Marching. Her escape down the hallway coincides with the arrival of
his military might.
"Hi Dad," Over-powering and without as much as a glance or a nod, nay
without acknowledgment of any kind, this army of one stomps past
muttering orders to his troops, not understandable but spoken in that
"I'm talking to myself don't interrupt" ind of way while simultaneously
flattening his daughter against the hall wall in his wake.
He proceeds to the end of the hallway and with a drag from his cigarette
and a gulp of his Pearl beer, he reverses direction though not labeled
retreat in his mind.
Moving Home
"You can always move home," her mother's voice sincere, not angry, even hopeful
"But will we have to speak?"
"What?" her word more spit out than released.
"Will we always have to talk?"
Mom's happy, hopeful smile now screws in a tight twist across her face.
"No, not always, but mute co-existence will be uncomfortable."
"But each time we pass in the hallway I don't want to have to feel like
I always have to say hi."
Her mother's expression that of a woman whose daughter suddenly sprouted
two additional heads. "I don't understand what you mean."
"I mean, if I'm watching TV and go down the hallway during a commercial
and you or dad approach from the opposite direction, we're close enough to touch.
Do we pass by like the other isn't there, or do we smile, nod and say hello
because all this acknowledging could get old."
With a dismissive shake of her head Mom tidies up the kitchen. I" don't see it
being a problem. One hi a day is fine, two max.
She wanted to believe her mom but lingering doubts were bolstered by the
thought that living life as a permanent greeter at some social function was
cause for concern.
That she felt a stranger in her own home escaped them both.
"But will we have to speak?"
"What?" her word more spit out than released.
"Will we always have to talk?"
Mom's happy, hopeful smile now screws in a tight twist across her face.
"No, not always, but mute co-existence will be uncomfortable."
"But each time we pass in the hallway I don't want to have to feel like
I always have to say hi."
Her mother's expression that of a woman whose daughter suddenly sprouted
two additional heads. "I don't understand what you mean."
"I mean, if I'm watching TV and go down the hallway during a commercial
and you or dad approach from the opposite direction, we're close enough to touch.
Do we pass by like the other isn't there, or do we smile, nod and say hello
because all this acknowledging could get old."
With a dismissive shake of her head Mom tidies up the kitchen. I" don't see it
being a problem. One hi a day is fine, two max.
She wanted to believe her mom but lingering doubts were bolstered by the
thought that living life as a permanent greeter at some social function was
cause for concern.
That she felt a stranger in her own home escaped them both.
Monday, December 22, 2008
More About Me
My feelings surround me like a blanket
Smothering me with their weight
Unseen monsters claw at my mind
Cutting a hole through my imagined prison
Provides escape for tormentts that haunt me
They are free to go but they go naught
Like glue they stay, sinking deeper
Where is the release?
Where do I find the peace I seek?
Dropping to the floor my acid tears melt
The carpet in patterns of confusion
The glaze across my eyes turns a candle flame
Into a burning star gliding though space
Could I hitch a ride?
Is that star my ship through the universe?
I pray it comes for me
Stopping at the door of my mind.
Here it is.
It has come.
Can my mind carry me past my tears?
The flames dim to reveal steps from the star
Unfolding to my mind
One step at a time I climb
Closer and closer to reality
A reality as God and the universe see me
Happy, healthy, with the peace of mind I long for
Reaching the top, one foot in the star
I look back at the false world behind
It will and will not be missed
As I fully enter, the starship flames melt
My protective covering
Bleak, despairing thoughts vaporize to
Nothingness, warmth and peace
My Heart full of hope
We sail off exploring new universes
New worlds, new thoughts and joys
Until we are but a glimmer of light
In the distant galaxies
My eyes now open
These new feelings still within
Thought I've never left the floor
Tearful patterns of confusion once known
Now gone
This universal journey I am on
A product of my mind
Is my mind
And the disappearing starship
Merely a candle flame burning low
Smothering me with their weight
Unseen monsters claw at my mind
Cutting a hole through my imagined prison
Provides escape for tormentts that haunt me
They are free to go but they go naught
Like glue they stay, sinking deeper
Where is the release?
Where do I find the peace I seek?
Dropping to the floor my acid tears melt
The carpet in patterns of confusion
The glaze across my eyes turns a candle flame
Into a burning star gliding though space
Could I hitch a ride?
Is that star my ship through the universe?
I pray it comes for me
Stopping at the door of my mind.
Here it is.
It has come.
Can my mind carry me past my tears?
The flames dim to reveal steps from the star
Unfolding to my mind
One step at a time I climb
Closer and closer to reality
A reality as God and the universe see me
Happy, healthy, with the peace of mind I long for
Reaching the top, one foot in the star
I look back at the false world behind
It will and will not be missed
As I fully enter, the starship flames melt
My protective covering
Bleak, despairing thoughts vaporize to
Nothingness, warmth and peace
My Heart full of hope
We sail off exploring new universes
New worlds, new thoughts and joys
Until we are but a glimmer of light
In the distant galaxies
My eyes now open
These new feelings still within
Thought I've never left the floor
Tearful patterns of confusion once known
Now gone
This universal journey I am on
A product of my mind
Is my mind
And the disappearing starship
Merely a candle flame burning low
Sunday, December 21, 2008
The Bomb
I wonder what it takes to go back out that door
Comfortable nightmares seem tame after living in reality
I hear the sounds of cars speeding past me
And know it's my mind racing away away from the truth
That master of decit, my mind.
It chooses at will the visions which support my ego's plans
I feel trapped in a body, held prisoner by them both
Neither of which has shape or form.
They push me around, fueled by thoughts of fear
Felt only by something or someone perilously close to self-destruction
To what length would you go to stay alive?
To that extent and further yet will my mind and ego fight.
War's destruction all around us
But the battlefield of my mind
Rages with terror.
As I walk down the street
I am certain people hear
The bombs going off inside
And with each explosion
My head jerks imperceptibly.
My soul, the part of me held captive
Silently Screams
The "why" questions I promised never again to ask
Come thrashing out
And with every question asked
Comes no response.
I feel a drop of sweat running down my face
Confusion and chaos ignite within me
A gasp for air shrieks out of my lungs
And now I know
The drops of sweat are really tears
Tears for the sadness I feel
Tears for my fear of never escaping
The bondage I am in
All wrapped up in one
I am sinner, convict, judge, and jury.
The battle between good and evil
Commander of the warring factions
And yet a prisoner of the war
I feel I am everything and nothing
Between my allness and my nothingness
I wait to disintegrate
Comfortable nightmares seem tame after living in reality
I hear the sounds of cars speeding past me
And know it's my mind racing away away from the truth
That master of decit, my mind.
It chooses at will the visions which support my ego's plans
I feel trapped in a body, held prisoner by them both
Neither of which has shape or form.
They push me around, fueled by thoughts of fear
Felt only by something or someone perilously close to self-destruction
To what length would you go to stay alive?
To that extent and further yet will my mind and ego fight.
War's destruction all around us
But the battlefield of my mind
Rages with terror.
As I walk down the street
I am certain people hear
The bombs going off inside
And with each explosion
My head jerks imperceptibly.
My soul, the part of me held captive
Silently Screams
The "why" questions I promised never again to ask
Come thrashing out
And with every question asked
Comes no response.
I feel a drop of sweat running down my face
Confusion and chaos ignite within me
A gasp for air shrieks out of my lungs
And now I know
The drops of sweat are really tears
Tears for the sadness I feel
Tears for my fear of never escaping
The bondage I am in
All wrapped up in one
I am sinner, convict, judge, and jury.
The battle between good and evil
Commander of the warring factions
And yet a prisoner of the war
I feel I am everything and nothing
Between my allness and my nothingness
I wait to disintegrate
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
I SHOULD CONTINUE THERAPY
What is it about people that makes them stay in a place they don't really want to be? Habit, laziness, timing, convenience, or maybe the desire to try and make things work.
Can you really discover your real life while living another? Or do you have to vacate the current one to make room for the new? And what if that would put you at a disadvantage and make the new search a lot more work and trouble for yourself?
And why don't I just do what I want and others be damned? maybe I am waiting to be certain. That could be a long wait.
Can you really discover your real life while living another? Or do you have to vacate the current one to make room for the new? And what if that would put you at a disadvantage and make the new search a lot more work and trouble for yourself?
And why don't I just do what I want and others be damned? maybe I am waiting to be certain. That could be a long wait.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Beat the chicken so it will lay eggs faster
Now we all know that doesn't work. Logic prevails, but only so far. As the players involved change, expectations and need destroy logic. The higher up the food chain the more logic fails.
I see and hear them. Fumbling over descriptive words stripped to a minimalist state. Seeking that one word or phrase that explodes a world of images in the reader's mind. Laboring over structure and characterization. Hours. Days. Months. Sometimes years.
Now a call from the agent. They can't represent a writers who isn't producing. They can't keep them on the register if they're not bringing in money. These agents are suffering the consequences and don't like it. Pressure from above. They call the screenwriter and deliver veiled threats.
Let's all remember that fear stifles creativity. Fear stifles desire. Fear stifles the art end of anything. And now the writer is afraid that they won't make the grade. That they will lose their insurance through the WGA. That they will be dropped from the agency, confirmed when the lonely drum roll and flute dirge arrive as the background music to the rewrite notes.
Frustration and fear. The agent calls. They read the notes too. The freak out builds. Emotions escalate. There is no way you can write when you are fighting for your life.
Do I want to be a part of all this? If I want to see my work produced, I'll write for theater. Or sneak in the back door and write a book first and sell it to the people who want to find a screenwriter to flog. No wonder screenwriters are considered odd. Knowing what they willingly put up with qualifies them as dangerous social misfits.
I see and hear them. Fumbling over descriptive words stripped to a minimalist state. Seeking that one word or phrase that explodes a world of images in the reader's mind. Laboring over structure and characterization. Hours. Days. Months. Sometimes years.
Now a call from the agent. They can't represent a writers who isn't producing. They can't keep them on the register if they're not bringing in money. These agents are suffering the consequences and don't like it. Pressure from above. They call the screenwriter and deliver veiled threats.
Let's all remember that fear stifles creativity. Fear stifles desire. Fear stifles the art end of anything. And now the writer is afraid that they won't make the grade. That they will lose their insurance through the WGA. That they will be dropped from the agency, confirmed when the lonely drum roll and flute dirge arrive as the background music to the rewrite notes.
Frustration and fear. The agent calls. They read the notes too. The freak out builds. Emotions escalate. There is no way you can write when you are fighting for your life.
Do I want to be a part of all this? If I want to see my work produced, I'll write for theater. Or sneak in the back door and write a book first and sell it to the people who want to find a screenwriter to flog. No wonder screenwriters are considered odd. Knowing what they willingly put up with qualifies them as dangerous social misfits.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
My Curious Beta Life
My entire existence if Beta based. Here, try this and hey if it doesn't work out, thanks for playing. Say, how's that Beta liver working for ya? If I wait for everything to be out of Beta I'm the last on the continent to participate. Some people go to church but I subscribe to my faith in Beta. Beta builds faith. How can one be hopeless in a Beta-based world? I am hopeful every day when I awaken that everything I use that has the annoying "Beta Testing Version" discreetly imprinted below the title will work. You know that argument we just had? That was a Beta test. No we didn't get back together so I'm simply stating the program crashed and we will have to try again tomorrow so sit down. All this makes me want to have a kid and name him Congif.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Seat Saver In My Own Life
What is this, the Academy Awards? We drive west Los Angeles Sunday mid-morning looking for a breakfast place that doesn't have a wait and doesn't have nation-wide signage over the door, although scarily enough, those places seem to have the longest waits.
There was a line outside our usual place (location to remain anonymous) so we buzzed the neighborhoods checking out those lined up in other places. Too many kids is the most popular issue and return and write my name on the list at "our place."
Wait. Wait. Wait. Chilly. Wet. Kid alert! Finally a four-top becomes available and the waiter informs us we are welcome to sit, but if a larger party arrives prior to our food being served we would have to move. He says this with a sincere expression.
"We aren't table fillers until a better party comes along!" How unrelaxing is that? Eyeing every new party that arrives, wondering if this is the time we move. Is this the time we stand and let the grown-ups, the real movie stars, those with more power and prestige look at us with their opinionated eyes as we scatter, grabbing our belongings and shuffle off to Buffalo?
The waiter immediately moves on to the next party of two and they agree to take the table. We eye them like the prideless losers they are.
Two places at the counter open up but that's like trying to have a relaxing breakfast in the middle of a loud, busy kitchen run by strangers.
Finally a two-top. We sit and my friend can only obsess about why two lesbians were allowed to sit at an open four-top and we weren't. Why they received special dispensation. "Because they agreed to move!" That's not a difficult one, and his self-flagellation skids to a halt.
But just to show the waiter that we can't be manipulated, my friend declares he'd like to sit at the two-top next to us. He says it's because it is closer to the heater. I don't even see a heater and pick up my purse and move like the dutiful dining companion.
There was a line outside our usual place (location to remain anonymous) so we buzzed the neighborhoods checking out those lined up in other places. Too many kids is the most popular issue and return and write my name on the list at "our place."
Wait. Wait. Wait. Chilly. Wet. Kid alert! Finally a four-top becomes available and the waiter informs us we are welcome to sit, but if a larger party arrives prior to our food being served we would have to move. He says this with a sincere expression.
"We aren't table fillers until a better party comes along!" How unrelaxing is that? Eyeing every new party that arrives, wondering if this is the time we move. Is this the time we stand and let the grown-ups, the real movie stars, those with more power and prestige look at us with their opinionated eyes as we scatter, grabbing our belongings and shuffle off to Buffalo?
The waiter immediately moves on to the next party of two and they agree to take the table. We eye them like the prideless losers they are.
Two places at the counter open up but that's like trying to have a relaxing breakfast in the middle of a loud, busy kitchen run by strangers.
Finally a two-top. We sit and my friend can only obsess about why two lesbians were allowed to sit at an open four-top and we weren't. Why they received special dispensation. "Because they agreed to move!" That's not a difficult one, and his self-flagellation skids to a halt.
But just to show the waiter that we can't be manipulated, my friend declares he'd like to sit at the two-top next to us. He says it's because it is closer to the heater. I don't even see a heater and pick up my purse and move like the dutiful dining companion.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Living in LA (or at least I'm not wearing a Burkka)
To not acknolwedge how lucky we are to live in America is to prove our ignorance of the world. Okay, what's it like living in the paradise of southern California? The sun is out, the sky is blue and the first thing you notice is that LA is like walking into the Emerald City in the land of Oz. If NYC is black & white and Texas more sepia tones, LA blows your mind with the colorful flowers, green grasses and blue skies on idyllic days.
Then one day in January, February or March it rains and keeps raining. Rivers of water drain from the mountainsides carrying with them the dirt which closes all the roads. In some instances leaving no recourse but to take the long, two-hour way into town or stay at a hotel close to work. Then the Santa Anna winds blow in from the desert and some idiot tosses a cigarette or sparks from a vehicle ignite a field and now fires destroy homes and lives.
Okay, you'd bettter enjoy the sun while you can because "the big one" is on its way. Like insurgents, we don't know when or exactly where, but we have a pretty good idea it's a given. And LA. The airports, Longbeach Harbor, the unprotected shorelines. Too much area to watch. I know they are trying. I pray for them.
But I also believe one day in some way paradise will end. Okay, I'm walking and talking and driving and laughing and no one shoots at me because of my religeous beliefs or my heritage. No one drops bombs in my neighborhood or snipes at me from a rooftop. And because that is not happening I refuse to take on survivor guilt. The inequity of life is a good arguement for reincarnation. The arbitrariness just too painful.
Then one day in January, February or March it rains and keeps raining. Rivers of water drain from the mountainsides carrying with them the dirt which closes all the roads. In some instances leaving no recourse but to take the long, two-hour way into town or stay at a hotel close to work. Then the Santa Anna winds blow in from the desert and some idiot tosses a cigarette or sparks from a vehicle ignite a field and now fires destroy homes and lives.
Okay, you'd bettter enjoy the sun while you can because "the big one" is on its way. Like insurgents, we don't know when or exactly where, but we have a pretty good idea it's a given. And LA. The airports, Longbeach Harbor, the unprotected shorelines. Too much area to watch. I know they are trying. I pray for them.
But I also believe one day in some way paradise will end. Okay, I'm walking and talking and driving and laughing and no one shoots at me because of my religeous beliefs or my heritage. No one drops bombs in my neighborhood or snipes at me from a rooftop. And because that is not happening I refuse to take on survivor guilt. The inequity of life is a good arguement for reincarnation. The arbitrariness just too painful.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Passive Income Streams and Other Myths
Do they exist? According to several email newsletters you can get rich through real estate and the stock market while you sleep. I am also drawn to the promise of "Write a Book in 28 Days." I subscribe to and read through many of these emails. Hoping. Praying something will strike me. Reach out and grab me. Force me to act upon it.
I start with real estate. Just a little rental where I can break even. Where I can use half my 401K for a down payment (and then pay myself back with interest with my after tax dollars ;-) Okay, I'm willing. I can't retire on what my 401K will be anyway. And what if the market drops or sucks or changes dramatically. Maybe now is the time to plop down that 50%.
So what does that get me in Los Angeles? Well, if I want a commute time to my day job of less than 2 hours I'd better look elsewhere. A 1/1 condo (that's without dirt, folks) for under $450,000 is impossible. As opposed to another market, let's say Texas, where that kind of money will buy more bedrooms and baths and land scenarios than are even offered in Los Angeles. But I don't live in Texas. And my first attempt at passive income screeches to a halt.
I start with real estate. Just a little rental where I can break even. Where I can use half my 401K for a down payment (and then pay myself back with interest with my after tax dollars ;-) Okay, I'm willing. I can't retire on what my 401K will be anyway. And what if the market drops or sucks or changes dramatically. Maybe now is the time to plop down that 50%.
So what does that get me in Los Angeles? Well, if I want a commute time to my day job of less than 2 hours I'd better look elsewhere. A 1/1 condo (that's without dirt, folks) for under $450,000 is impossible. As opposed to another market, let's say Texas, where that kind of money will buy more bedrooms and baths and land scenarios than are even offered in Los Angeles. But I don't live in Texas. And my first attempt at passive income screeches to a halt.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
How clip-art opened the door to anti-depressants
Row upon row of inane images. Grotesque colors and shapes begging me to choose them. "Use me," they shout from their neat formations. That they don't play hard to get makes me hate them. Scooped up by wanna-be creatives and inserted into yet more clip-art templates.
I loath lack of creativity as much as I loath lack of talent. These thoughts feed my own sense of self loathing. One can't be master of everything. But to see clip-art on a website is a knife through my heart. For a venue as far reaching as the Internet, I want local color. I want what is in your heart and soul. What expresses you.
Clip-art stifles. Clip-art constricts the lines of that box around our brain from ever parting. Clip-art fills me with dread. Anyone that uses clip-art isn't someone I want to know. Isn't someone I find interesting. Because someone who takes from the masses to project their own sensibilities is just playing scrabble with the same known words, forming and reforming some tired old thing. Am I bitter? No, hungry. For something new.
I loath lack of creativity as much as I loath lack of talent. These thoughts feed my own sense of self loathing. One can't be master of everything. But to see clip-art on a website is a knife through my heart. For a venue as far reaching as the Internet, I want local color. I want what is in your heart and soul. What expresses you.
Clip-art stifles. Clip-art constricts the lines of that box around our brain from ever parting. Clip-art fills me with dread. Anyone that uses clip-art isn't someone I want to know. Isn't someone I find interesting. Because someone who takes from the masses to project their own sensibilities is just playing scrabble with the same known words, forming and reforming some tired old thing. Am I bitter? No, hungry. For something new.
Why Moises Seems So Happy
I see him. Sidewalks. Grocery stores. Big Lots. Target. A squat, happy nebula spinning around a solid core based on an attitude of gratitude and a sense of family. He doesn't care how fat he is. He loves the idea of sitting down to a great home-cooked meal. Extra cheese please. He doesn't fret his corpulent body into anorexia. Holding his kid's hand they cross the street, albeit one of the ugliest intersections in town at Rose and Lincoln. I see their happy laughing faces.
My therapist says there are people out there that get up and go to work at a normal 9-5 job. Then they actually come home, play with the kids and eat dinner. Only to cap off the night with a rousing two hours of television. And they are happy. I envy them. Their sense of community and history and shared struggles. Their laughter and joy. Their gleaming perfect white teeth.
Except for the teeth it's the life I had growing up. The green house with neat white trim. Wild fields to play in until dinner then back outside in the summers and in front of the television and fireplace in the winters. Back when it was impossible to visualize the end of summer vacations when school let out, and an all-nighter meant unable to sleep Christmas Eve knowing a fat, jolly man in a red suite would soon tip-toe into my bedroom, filling my stocking full of amazing little gifts that would keep me busy until mom and dad could get up.
My therapist says there are people out there that get up and go to work at a normal 9-5 job. Then they actually come home, play with the kids and eat dinner. Only to cap off the night with a rousing two hours of television. And they are happy. I envy them. Their sense of community and history and shared struggles. Their laughter and joy. Their gleaming perfect white teeth.
Except for the teeth it's the life I had growing up. The green house with neat white trim. Wild fields to play in until dinner then back outside in the summers and in front of the television and fireplace in the winters. Back when it was impossible to visualize the end of summer vacations when school let out, and an all-nighter meant unable to sleep Christmas Eve knowing a fat, jolly man in a red suite would soon tip-toe into my bedroom, filling my stocking full of amazing little gifts that would keep me busy until mom and dad could get up.
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