Iscah Mara

The Brave Fool

2012-02-05T10:44:00.000-08:00

You're my memory

My past

Failure pulls at me

Sharply, and with absolute force:

It is the goad at my heel

The bit in my mouth

I clench and gnash

My jaw, aching, swollen and mangled

I'm held in place, paralyzed

Whilst a tidal wave advances at my back.

Judgement holds my tongue.

I remember all the times before

The passion of the new, quickly met

By the heartache of

Defeat

I cannot summon a contradiction

To testify in my defense

The sins of my fathers, for which

I am held to account.

We have always dreamed and failed

Seen far and held in squalor

Envisioned the thrones of kings

Only to be left alone,

Facing our regret.

Having despised the life we were given

Uncompromising, distant and without hope,

Or too much of it.

At the first spark of intention

Your flame envelops my becoming.;

I am, as I always was.

I will, for we always do.

You would comfort me with wise words

Of precaution:

Did I not keep you from the inevitable angst of loss?

You cajole.

Did I not keep you from forgetting your true self?

You kept me.

And so I am held.

Victim to myself

I cannot lose what i do not risk

Nor can I gain.

Ah, Sophia

Turn your head from my capricious imaginings

Cover your eyes, if you must

As I wander, unarmed into the

Unknowable

But do not stray far from my side

I will need you before the night is over.

I must be foolish now,

Leap into the absurd

I will most assuredly fail

I will lie humiliated before all

I will beg the hands of a hundred starving children

To raise me from my sinking bower.

If death is sure

Why not partake from the rush of youth

Glittering and sparkling in the new sun.

7 Weeks

2011-02-02T18:54:00.001-08:00

lost.

6 Weeks

2011-01-24T21:59:00.000-08:00

Tidal ebb and flow does not obey my whims,
Not of the great seas, nor of my draining womb.

Pangs of suffering do not ease at my song,
Not of the inumerable oppressed, nor of my straining flesh.

Peaceful surrender does not fall as I whisper,
Not upon the brutality of man, nor upon my fretting heart.

Time's presence and passage does not keep pace with my desire,
Not for the earth's rotation, nor for my yearning impatience.

I cannot summon the moon;
I cannot heal the poor;
I cannot calm the storms;
I cannot speed life on her way.

Though powerless, I bring forth life;
Though broken, you mend my many woes
with
one
quiet
steady
heartbeat.

If only

2010-10-10T23:31:00.000-07:00

As another year hastens to a close, I find myself still sinking into the couch, still hoping for health, still pondering the big question: life, the universe and everything. Since I'm not feeling particularly melancholic tonight, but rather easy (thank you codeine cough syrup with a green tea and honey chaser) and inspired (thank you Tony Bordain, my favorite loquacious, traveling lush). So, I'm not interested in deep meaning, but rather a list - clean and simple.

Following is a list, in no particular order of that which I truly long to do at some point in the short time I'm allotted:

Sommelier Certification
The love of wine requires no explanation. However, this particular pursuit might lead to a command of regional distinctions between each blessed grape, getting to use words like terroire without attracting dirty looks, and perhaps most importantly, increased consumer confidence when facing the interminable pursuit for the perfect $5 bottle of Pinot Noir.

Falconer License
After 7 years of study and hard work, I could either be an MD or a falconer. Other than my quiet love of birds and increasing desire to hunt, I find myself longing to beckon a falcon with a slab of sweaty raw meat in my grip for an entirely different reason: they're so goddamn beautiful. The Peregrine Falcon with its be-speckled chest tufted proudly in the waning sun as it clenches and releases my leather glove, lovingly clawing me with its fierce talons... this is a moment I must know.

Publish a Book
Okay, I'll settle for finishing a book. I'm not particular about the genre. I just want to stare down the blank white page that has intimidated me for as long as I can remember, and with a decisive stroke write, "The End."

Study at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris
It's my intention to grow as a cook with each new meal. This is one of the few pleasures that isn't tainted with the nagging necessity to turn talent into a career. I know that kitchen work isn't my cup of tea. However, I also know that food isn't quite done with me yet. We have a love affair that can only be truly consummated in Paris.

Act in Musical Theatre
Though my theatrical resume begins with "chorus member in Annie" at the age of 12 and ends with "chorus member in the Music Man" at the age of 14, my love for musicals remains fierce and true. I'm not looking for a lead on Broadway. But, perhaps a supporting, yet striking role in a humble but dedicated public theatre. You know: Mrs. Hannigan, Rizzo, um... Adelaide.

See Europe
Perhaps the most vague and ambitious aspiration on the list, and yet such is Europe to me. Other than some stolen glances out of the sky high windows of Charles de Gaul, my exposure to that fair continent comes only through Jane Austen, Albert Camus, Mmes. Bronte, and an ever expanding list of foreign cinema. I refuse to let Ethan Hawke's dialogue with that blonde Frenchie on a train through their youth act as the only mediator between me and Venice, Nice, London, St. Petersburg, Barcelona, Dublin, and of course, Paris.

That'll do for now. There are, of course, many more. I have sighed all my sighs for the evening. My insatiable longing for the richness of a romantic life is quite exhausting. Although, I have just this moment remembered one more...

Drink Peyote on a Reservation
I want to have a vision quest. I want to find my soul's mate in an animal. I want to have my hair braided by a gray streaked elder with leathery, pruning fingers. I want to taste freedom and breathe color.

Oh yeah... and I want to Own a Horse of my very own.

regret

2010-09-21T11:35:00.000-07:00

when the strain of too damn much erupts
my clammy palms stretch the skin at my temples
reeling back the piercing ache that threatens to overtake me.
can a brain swell from the stress of unfinished business?
like keeping pressure on a wound, all slippery and pulsing,
my hands constrict and push, fumbling desperately at a broken dam;
a life awash in worry, wasting away in the wonder of what should have been,
too preoccupied to entertain the what if.
hope is a commodity too valuable for the angst of regret.

It's the Birthday of Ernest Hemingway

2010-07-21T10:06:00.000-07:00

It's the birthday of Ernest Hemingway, (books by this author) born in Oak Park, Illinois (1899). He was just 22 when he moved to Paris with his wife, Hadley, having taken a job as a foreign correspondent for the Toronto Daily Star. Even though he was making decent money, he liked the idea of living like a bohemian, so they moved into an apartment in the Latin Quarter, in a neighborhood full of drunks, beggars, and street musicians. Rent was 250 francs a month, or about $18, which left them plenty of money to travel around Europe when they wanted to.

He rented himself a room in a hotel, and every morning, after breakfast, he would walk to his writing room and work. He said: "I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, 'Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.'" One of those sentences read, "I have stood on the crowded back platform of a seven o'clock … bus as it lurched along the wet lamp lit street while men who were going home to supper never looked up from their newspapers as we passed Notre Dame grey and dripping in the rain." ~ courtesy of the Writer's Almanac.

It's also the birthday of Candace Ruth Morris. Born to Bruce and Mary Whitney amid the desert air of Southern California in 1978, their youngest. In her youth she was often taken to spontaneous singing with a boldness that stemmed from her ardent desire for a true expression of love from her father and yet a sense that she was alone in the world and therefore couldn't possibly embarrass herself. At 24, she married Joel Hansen Morris, the son of a country pastor from Washington state whom she met at a rural Bible College in Northern California. Though she was initially fraught from wooing him, he would soon recompense this romantic redress with a lifelong tenderness and passion that would restore the young woman's heart bit by bit and evermore.

Perhaps it was the shameless consumption of Syliva Plath or the classical literary training that would inevitably find it's way to the page, but regardless of its origin, one day the world was given "Musings of a Melancholic." Within its web pages, Candace created a blog of soulish beauty. Whether she is featuring her brilliant photography, praising her husband (aka. The Saint), or recounting the painful, yet profound steps of a woman who manages to care deeply for others without losing herself, through this blog the world is granted passage into daily life through the mesmerizing turquoise of her watery eyes.

From there we found "Booklings" (a foreshadowing of the Bookish Wine Bar we are promised), "Pretty, Please" (An altar to coveting aestheticism) and "Secret Snob" (The shameless confessions of a faux-hemeian with a trained palate). Her words are a compass, a weather vane, the wooden mermaid carved into the hull of an ancient vessel retaining the remnants of a sea-stained teal paint all the more beautiful for the patina it has earned from each passing voyage.

Much is still to come from Candace Morris. She has tried her hand at waitressing, teaching high school English, executive assistance, and even home-making. Motherhood, I am sure, is soon to come. One thing is for sure, however, in whatever path she takes, her words will endure. To the world, she will be the sage that awes and edifies them. To me, she will be nothing more or less than the dearest friend I have ever known.

Hollow Chocolate Bunny

2010-03-22T13:05:00.000-07:00

There it is,
The kingpin of the Easter basket.
Those happy hyperbolized eyes,
The pastel suspenders and that toothy grin.
It's floating in a sea of mommy-loves-me Easter grass,
Which is made of some mysterious and unnaturally green material.

Once you peel that metallic pink and green wrapper
Into little strips as you delicately move around
Its fragile ears and little bunny toes
Making sure to keep it all in one piece
You sit back from your wicker treasure chest
And admire the work of your deft fingers.

Soon, your body temperature begins to melt the chocolate,
So you bring your thumb, now marked with brown goo
Up to your welcoming, parted lips.
It occurs to you that this bunny does not have long to live
In such a warm and hostile environment.
So, you bite the ear.

I'm sure there's a chocolate bunny factory secret
As to why the ear is the most solid part of the bunny,
Which is probably we always start there.
It also seems less cruel, I mean
Who goes for the foot first?
To dive right into the torso is serial killer material.

But, the ear is a farce.
You go a little further and take on the head
Opening your mouth wide for this big, chocolaty bite,
And then, crumble, fumble, spill and stain.
Chocolate pieces fall everywhere and all you're left with
Is a mediocre mouthful of waxy preservatives.

Determined that Harvey won't let you down,
I'm not sure why I think they're all named Harvey,
You start to lick up the pieces in your hand
And then, head into the shoulder.
The back of your throat starts to tickle
With the mounting levels of sugar your ingesting.

Is this worth it?
Your hand is now brown and Harvey is bending.
The once splendid creature inviting you into childhood
Is now a big brown mess that you can't put down.
After all, there isn't a foil piece big enough.
You start to survey the other tasty treats that await you.

So, you get up chuck Harvey on a paper towel in the kitchen,
Promising to come back for him later.
Soon you forget your Easter hero
With malted mini-eggs, marshmallow eggs, Cadbury eggs, jelly beans,
And Peeps, although I prefer my Peeps the next day,
A little stale.

As for Harvey, he disappears sometime during your sugar coma.
Perhaps mom decided to throw him out,
Maybe your little brother finished him off,
Or maybe he just couldn't take it anymore
And hobbled off with his stubby feet and one remaining arm
Still neatly nestled in his pocket.

I'm a chocolate bunny.
I look appealing, you might even come to me first,
But as my colors fade and my confidence melts
All that's left is a facade of strength
When in fact, I couldn't lift the box I came in
Without it crushing my fragile, hollow frame.

So Close

2010-03-08T12:39:00.000-08:00

Have you ever come so close to a meaningful epiphany and then held your breath as you felt it slip away. It's so simple. So subtle. Just a click in time-space where all things seem to settle into their right places. Connected. Special. Eternal. But, like the little speck in your eye that creates a lighted dot in your vision, as you attempt to focus on it, it moves away. So, begins this little game. You try to trick the speck of light. You look away, but secretly use your peripheral to study the speck. However, in the end, temptation wins out. The light flits away again mockishly.

I sat at the edge of my bed today, surrounded by sorted piles of laundry: darks, lights and whites. Stranger Than Fiction played in the background. And then, completely by chance, illumination descended. The meaning of life. My purpose on this earth. The next step required for achieving the fulfillment of all my deepest aspirations. All I need to do is... I held my breath. I opened my soul to fully receive the message. I gazed directly into the face of my fate. And, just like that, it was gone.

Down and down I spiraled, hurtled back among the unknowing masses clammering amid the dark chaos of life. Waiting. Stepping into nothingness. Left with only my doubts and the lingering suspicion that my near-life experience was merely a jolt of informed persuasion brought about by a movie about literature. So swayed am I by the tone and plot of great film, I often fancy myself belonging to the story. My tone and language conform to that of the movie and this hypnotic process can last for a few hours or even the length of the day. What can I say? I'm a romantic. Hungry for inspiration. And still, no closer to knowing what to do next.

So, all I can do is this.

bedridden quiz night

2010-02-28T23:04:00.000-08:00

i'm:

superhero?
superwoman

shakespearean lass?
lady macbeth

austen character?
elizabeth bennett

literary character?
catherine barkley

political figure?
hillary rodham-clinton

historical figure?
catherine the great

greek goddess?
aphrodite

movie star?
katherine hepburn

so, i suppose the only question is, when does my life begin to look like theirs?

top 100 movies of all time

2010-02-11T22:15:00.000-08:00

In 2007 the American Film Institute released the 10th revision of the LIST of the top 100 films of all time. Of those 100, I've seen 58. Somewhat impressive, I suppose, considering that the earliest film is from 1916. However, I can't help but feel minorly negligent in regard to the other 42.

So, other than updating my Netflix queue, I thought I might write small reviews both on the films I've seen and the new additions, according to the time I have, the order in which they arrive and the lifespan of my interest in this project.

I will however, review the one's I've seen from the top down. I might rewatch a few of the films I've seen in order to refresh my memory and/or get a more mature perspective on the ones I've not visited for some time.

This especially pertains to the numero uno on everyone's list - Citizen Cane. I confess, the only impression I can conjure is of an avant gard black and white with Orson Welles roaring behind those hush puppy eyes. Nothing of its infamy lingers. So, I think it deserves another go.

Which means we skip right down to #2 - The Godfather.

The Essentials:

1972
Based on a novel of the same name by Mario Puzo
Directed by Francis Ford Coppola
Starring: Marlon Brando, Al Pacino, James Caan, Diane Keaton, & Robert Duvall

With some films, so much has been said of them, the challenge is to provide a unique impression. I suppose that will be the case with most of these illustrious masterpieces. I remember my mom telling me how beautiful Marlon Brando once was, which seemed a bit of a stretch. Well, until I saw On the Waterfront, a film we'll visit as it has also rated the list.

What strikes me most about this film is its elegance. The family, the perserverance, the murder and even the betrayal all carry a certain savoir faire, that made us all want to be mafiosos or at least their wives. It's probably the most quoted film.

"If you had come to me in friendship, then this scum that ruined your daughter would be suffering this very day."

"Leave the gun. Take the cannoli."

And, of course...

"I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse."

Who doesn't want to be in the family? They take care of their own and anyone who comes between them, well they take care of them too. As for the performances, Brando is deliciously sure of himself with ice water in his veins. Pacino is naive, romantic and the stranger in a strange land that introduces us to this foreign mob world. Caan is the badass we've always known him to be, fierce and full of rage. Duvall is the level headed lawyer that looks the other way until it's time to father kids. A symphony of talent offering up the most convincing portrayal of what we all want a life in the "family" to be.

I'm sure I'm not telling you anything you don't already know about a movie you've probably seen as much as I have. I do know some trivia, however. For instance, I know that Marlon Brando accomplished his notorious jowelled slur by stuffing gauze in the pockets of his cheeks. I also know that James Caan was originally cast as Michael, until the newbie, Al Pacino came on the scene. But, what we all know is that crime never looked so good. In fact, how can you really call it crime?

After all, it's just a family business...

Sonny to Michael: Hey, whataya gonna do, nice college boy, eh? Didn't want to get mixed up in the Family business, huh? Now you wanna gun down a police captain. Why? Because he slapped ya in the face a little bit? Hah? What do you think this is the Army, where you shoot 'em a mile away? You've gotta get up close like this and bada-bing. you blow their brains all over your nice Ivy League suit. C'mere... [Sonny kisses Michael's head]

a quiet announcement

2010-02-11T12:51:00.000-08:00

As I'm not inclined to conjure up more competition, this is my very quiet announcement that my darling friend, poet and artist is hosting a giveaway for a delighhtful piece displaying a friendly chikadee.

So, do visit her site, do fall under the spell of her work as we all have, and do not hope to win - for that piece is mine!

Umber Dover

May the best Gomes win...

more memory lane

2010-02-06T11:07:00.001-08:00

Well, I know what you must be thinking, but no, it wasn't Halloween. We were actually dressed up for a 50's party for my Aunt Roxi, who was, of course, turning 50. You might ask why then am I all done up in 60's regalia. God only knows. perhaps I was simply looking for an excuse to wear those ridiculous earrings.

My brother, on the other hand, looks dashing as ever. What you can't see due to the tragically unfortunate erosion on the photo, is the pack of Pall-Mall's rolled up in his white t-shirt sleeve.

As to my mother - yes, she's gorgeous, yes she's sexy as hell, and yes, that outfit is crocheted! by my grandmother! what you can't see in this pic is that those aren't just any crocheted pants - those are crocheted hot-pants!

tadah!

Kathy, a family friend

2010-02-06T10:22:00.000-08:00

Here's a little blurb from my mom as she reminisces about a dear friend of hers that touched all of our lives. She's writing this for a memory book entry, which Kathy's husband is putting together of all her old friends. I thought you might like a little peak into my magnificent mother and some happy times in my childhood.

Enjoy!

Kathy and I started out on a pretty bumpy road. I was one of her customers, she actually called me Dragon-Lady, with good reason, but, nevertheless, she was very persistent in trying to get my business. Which, needless to say, irritated the hell out of me. Finally one day I was in a pinch and needed her services quickly. I called her up and told her it was the bottom of the ninth inning, two outs, tie score and she was “up”. She came through for me with such professionalism and grace, she not only got my business, but won my heart as a friend.

We would spend many years together having our “ladies night out,” sharing the stories of the week, gossiping and a lot of laughing. We would drink wine and smoke. The problem was, we smoked different cigarettes, she menthol and me non-menthol, so if one of us ran out, we had to call it a night because we would not smoke each others. Yuck!

We spent some wonderful time with my children – watching Joshua (8) throw popcorn up in the air and catch it in his mouth. Dressing Jessica (10) up in fancy clothes and fur coats regaled in full make up. We took pictures that were amazing and could have been published. Unfortunately, her father was not as thrilled and destroyed them all. And you wonder why we are no longer married.

One weekend, my birthday weekend to be exact, in 1991 we went to a women’s church retreat and had a wonderful time of reflection and bonding. We would sit on the bluff, drink our wine, smoke our cigarettes and discuss the lessons of the day. We made a decision at that time to quit smoking.

That next Monday, we met at Fisherman’s Wharf, shared a split of champagne and smoked our last cigarette together. Then we decided to leave a lasting impression, we would each smoke one another’s cigarette so it would leave an awful memory. When we were finished, we broke our remaining cigarettes in half and threw them into the bay. We finished our champagne, gave each other a big huge and continued on to work. This is what true friendship is really about. We supported each other at every turn. Encouraged each other every chance we got. But alas, it was bigger than the both of us and didn’t last long. But the story is sweet.

Soon after that she left for Florida and I went to the airport with her. We had a glass of wine in the Red Carpet room and stayed fairly silent through most of the visit which was not like us at all. We both realized that it was the end of a closeness that neither one of us had ever known. You think that it will just continue even after you are separated, but we both knew it would change. I hugged her goodbye as she boarded the plane and cried the whole way home.

Kathy often spoke of how she so wanted to have children. I knew it would happen and I also knew she would be the best mother there ever was. She and Jeff have withstood the test of time and have raised two wonderful children, whom I know will make an impact on our society. I have enjoyed the annual Christmas photo which brings me up to date on how they are all doing.

God Bless you Kathy as you slowly move into “50” with such grace and fluidity that you can hardly tell you have arrived. Even though we don’t keep in touch as often as we both would like, always know that you are in my prayers and thoughts and when I am feeling a little low, my mind returns to our little restaurant in San Mateo where we spent so much time in laughter. You have made a lasting impression on my life, as you have many others, and I love you for that. You will always be my very BESTEST friend forever and a day.

Love,

Neicy

(Kathy's nickname for my mom, Denise)

Heat upon Heat

2009-09-22T14:52:00.000-07:00

If there's anything I regret, it's my perpetual absence. I've usurped a full life with a gregarious demeanor. Who are these personae?

The Cold-Hearted Hero
So composed, so in control, so sure and scared. She is desperate to fulfill her promise, a child. Her voice is uncaring and impenetrable. She cannot be harmed, for her apathy is absolute. Her passion lives only in duty, her compassion died with the child that was harmed. The child in her care, whom she did not save, could not save.

She is emphatic, but only to persuade. She is poised, but only to strike at any that thwart her. He is afraid of letting her near a child, but he doesn't understand. She will never be a mother. She is merely the procurer of lost dreams. The kinsman redeemer of a childhood raped by a scorned trust in humanity. Her sadness keeps her erect. She made a promise, but she wants out of her cement chair.

To be fluid, submerged and loose. She is the epidermal armor that entraps the form that would be she. Oh to be a shawl, a draped accessory that moves with the wind, with the spirit.

The Secret Garden

Nothing can surpass the innocent cackle of a little girl. She succumbs with abandon to the jest of the moment; her hold body sways and trembles with laughter. I want her to laugh again, to play and never look over her shoulder for the looming man in the white porcelain mask and the trenchcoat that shrouds evil in daylight.

She doesn't live out of her mind, but trusts her instinct implicitly. Is the seer? Cybol, is that you? I cannot even find her and must describe her to draw near. All I hear is the Hero, promising, I will give you a child... I will give you your childhood back.

When she is with other children, she sheds any remnant of a broken past. She enters to a playworld so real, that imagination takes visceral form. Their language is simple and profound. She can play. But, without them, without even a prospect for caretaking, other than her own mending, can I still call her out?

The Ephemeral Healer

I've carried you for so long, Papa. Where you abandoned her, I held fast to the pretense of your love. I am the babelfish in her ear, when your words fall short. I am the arms that hold with selfless constancy, when your grip loses its sincerity. I am the father who provided, fought for, and knew her.

You will no longer have me to mop your vomit off the face of my beloved. You are only what you are, the father she never had. Abandoned and without provision, that is her story you prick. How dare you presume that it is not too late for you. Her child is gone and can only be tended in the secret reaches of her heart, by her own hands. Your balancing act was not sufficient to nurture this gifted creature.

Your jealousy, your selfish insistence upon a vicarious life through her bloody rags has lost you the only duaghter you will ever have. What remains is a woman who has made a life without you. If you care to know her, it requires that you acknowledge not only your failures, but your very soul. For I will no longer translate the language of mummified feeling to this glorious creature pulsing with life. I will not hover the graveyard for you. I am a ghost no longer, but an sprite of healing balm that will sooth the wounds you failed to mend.

The Illuminator

Impartial and calm, she dwells in a minaret with no stairwell; only a window from which her light alone is visible. Through it, she can focus and zoom on any crevice, splay any shadow, and foresee any harm.

It is not put to her to make decisions, she simply informs. She is compassionate in that she is wise and pessimistic, but her realism intimidates any soul that would leap without seeing, even her own. She fears nothing, because she has nothing to loose. She is the mouth-piece of the light. The voice of gods. She cannot bleed, but she can be diminished.

A Silo of Safety

One for you, one for you, another for you and of course, one for me. Each safe in her own space, this charismatic molder of the hearts of men can make all your dreams come true. A chameleon, a networking savant, she has the answer and knows what you need before you do. She can break bones with honey and you will thank her for it. Who needs an arm anyway? Especially, if that arm had the potential to be raised in fury against her.

She reads your potential, surmises the fact of your life, labels your soul and then forgets all about you until you pose another threat. Everyone can be happy at their own expense, for making herself safe is paramount. Perhaps the most controlling and manipulative, she is sly, trained and ready for anything.

I am sure there are many more to explore: the knower, the lover, the secret-keeper, the rebel. But, for now, these have pressed through and I will call them by name.

a blip

2009-06-29T14:50:00.000-07:00

i have my mother's hands. they're aging. dryer, darker, sunken with harder more severe lines. what is the function of writing? do we write to face our battles? if so, i have long since faced them and perpetually lost. they become more self-effacing when transcribed. at least in my journal. history chronicles the fool. not because she's grown so in the decade between entries and therefore can't believe she used to speak that way, use those words, praise that god. no. it is because she has changed so little and now merely has a record of it.

"hope, strange beast, what have you for me?" September 1, 2002

i'm immobilized. paralyzed by... exactly. if i knew that perhaps the battle would at last commence. instead of the undying picture of rusted soldiers still standing in a lonely valley with cobwebs clouding their guns. i can see them so clearly, because i have been standing amid them for countless years. the grey scene under a blistering sun. men at the ready, yet frozen solid like the tinman without oil. row after row of corpse after corpse. positioned at attention with comatic constancy. not a fly buzzes. nor a branch sways. clouds hover in eerie expectation. it is as commonplace as a suburban culdesac. there is not great threat, for all are certain that no battle shall ensue. for none ever has. it is the same nameless, faceless beast.

imagine a bride waiting behind the doors of the church, full of pink anticipation and flowery wonder. now imagine she has been standing there for twenty years. it's not that the anticipation has lessened, it has just been stretched thin, "like butter spread over too much bread" (LOTR, Bilbo). but, does it follow that knowing the cause of a thing can eliminate a thing. no more question marks. that querie doesn't deserve to be asked even once more.

rest surfaces toxins. they never tell you that. sleep, you'll feel better. retreat and clarity will come. purging is an ugly business. a rash on my face, my very pores bubbling with rejected bile. my urine smells like a plaque filled mouth in the morning. before health can be restored, these fleeting pestules of disease ridden reveries surface from their hiding places. i didn't recognize myself in the mirror today. all i can see is unhealth.

these words are my vile erruption of stored death. i am supposed to tell you not to fear the vulgar smear of my present insanity, for they will certainly lead to path of well-being. the way to wellness is paved in vomit. which is why we sugar coat it with positive affirmation: to alleviate the smell. fear not reader. all will be well soon enough.

i think i'll make some more tea. "tea is a good drink. it keeps you going" (The Shipping News, Dame Judy Dench).

trains are stupid

2009-06-28T20:04:00.000-07:00

it occurred to me that my words come more fluidly when inspired by the raw encounter of another human being, which brought to mind a writing project i thought of ages ago: "Portraits of a Stranger." writing novellas describing people that i observe and extrapolating what i think their life must be like.

so, i had this great (uber-romaticized and inevitably naive) idea of hopping on a train to nowhere for 3 days, sleeping in a modest car, with my wine and my laptop, eying strangers unabashedly in the dining car. after surveying a mediocre website, i phoned customer service only to encounter a rudely perplexed woman who insisted that i have a destination in mind.

when she finally conceded to serving my unruly wiles, she quoted me a price for a round trip, sleeper car fare from seattle to portland. before i could tell her that portland would be utterly insufficient as it is only a 3 hour drive and hardly meets my trip parameters of a 3 day journey, she let fly that the cost of said ticket was $400. $400? four hundred dollars! to portland! a flight can be had for a meager $80 on a bad day. since when has the slow, gruelling monotony of railroad travel become iconic to the point of justifying exorbitant fares?

then, it occurred to me that i was just the brand of sucker they are hoping to hook with these hopped up prices. alas, this writing project will require a flat-footed trek to local thoroughfares, complete with all the uninspiring familiarity i'm trying to avoid. after all, it's one thing to ogle a stranger on a train whilst tickering away mysteriously on my computer. it's another to have to face off the everyday schleps i might see again.

however, if i refuse to succumb to this greatly altered prospect, this creative pursuit will most likely fall into the gutter of an undisciplined writer, which is now threatening to flood.

To my daughter, Cypress Correia

2009-06-27T10:21:00.000-07:00

Hi Baby Girl,

We have not conceived you yet, but I have dreamt of your furious love, disarming smile, and adventurous curiosity. I can feel your tender weight pressed against my heart. I can hear your deep, dreaming breaths as your little fingers clench and relax on my shoulder.

I have wept deeply and often in my longing for you. I weep even now. The only solace I can muster is in writing this letter to you. A letter, which I am confident you will someday read. You are my treasure. My true ambition. You are my words, my song, my dance.

My soul contracts with the desire to gaze into your precious face. The thought of your gaze meeting mine in our first embrace feels likely to consume me. How often my thoughts wander to you. I would weave every hope and passion into your hair, if only to see you fly.

I want to be the one you run to when you're scared. I want to be the one you hide behind when you're feigning shyness. I want to watch you spin in your new sundress. I want to carry you up to bed with your head nestled on my shoulder, your arms hung limp, your heart keeping time with mine. I want to stay up all night by your crib, so I don't miss one breath.

It will be such a blessing, such a privilege to share 9 months of our lives as one. You father has told me that he would carry you if he could. He will watch over us as we grow together. I was born to be your mother. I choose to give you life and in so doing offer you my own. Nothing you could do could ever separate you from my love.

I'm trying to be patient, but I am so eager to meet you. Know that my heart has already conceived you.

With all the love that I possess,

Your Mom

You broke my arrow

2009-06-06T09:13:00.000-07:00

You broke my arrow.
I crouched over the cedar stem,
Whittling it between my palms.
We sat under its craggy cover till dusk,
Until the mosquitoes drove us home.
I can still thumb the callouses on their plump crest.

You took my hand.
I ran with you to the porch,
Clutching your fingers with enthusiastic distress.
We kissed briefly under the cool moon,
Until your mother called you away.
I can still taste the honeysuckle salt on your lips.

You found my feather.
I slit the cedar with your army knife,
Latching the abandoned goose down with my shoelaces.
We scoured the woods for an arrowhead,
Until you scavenged through the sacred Hopi graves.
I can still tremble in reverie of that trespass.

You made my bow.
I stole the fishing line from Father's tackle,
Hoping you had remembered to temper the bamboo.
We returned to our cedar but I missed the target,
Until you guided my arm assuring stillness in my ear.
I can still feel the gentle heat of your breath.

You mocked my aim.
I kept snapping my finger in the line,
Veering the arrow off course into the brush.
We played for hours in the brazen midday sun,
Until my arrow finally landed in the tree of my youth.
I can still see your blood on my little hands.

ruined for not but you

2009-03-02T23:32:00.001-08:00

where can i go to hide from you
where can i go that you won't find me
where can i go that you won't seek me steadfastly
where can i go
where can i go
you've ruined me

i see in you in every vine
the sun betrays my shade
my fingers move for you
your face moves for me

like a little girl who still believes
that all boys want is to kiss me tenderly
the dark room he woos me to
can surely hold no danger
my heart would not betray me
with this giddy assurance of my desirability

what good is awakening
when all i feel is naive again
the passionate innocence of propositions i cannot abide
like a virgin promising the world with her eyes
only to be discovered as a tease
unable to follow through on the posture of her mind
i want to be held again
clutched by the securities of a fundamental truth

i'm a runaway who can't pay her bills
what will i resort to when you have truly left me
what do i desire
if not to be smothered by your countenance

you've ruined me
i can resent you no longer

All I can say is

2009-02-05T23:41:00.000-08:00

sibyllinebard.blogspot.com

En Memoriam

2009-01-13T20:04:00.000-08:00

Mortality is a disheveled hospital blanket.

Groaning beneath a thin film of unconsciousness, a fitful life battles tirelessly and without peace. For what peace is to be had from IV needles, catheterized genitals, prodding aids with cold fingers and sterile voices? And, that thick smell of packaged gauze, spilt urine covered in ammonia.

The soul is made tangible in the vision of a dying man neglected in a hospital bed. Wounded and defeated, he shrinks from touch, both foreign and familiar. He responds almost imperceptibly to the call of his name, issuing only a shift in position or a more booming and staccato grunt.

With the body's diseased surrender, the soul regains the helm, and, like a masterful puppeteer, rattles the flesh in wordless repose until each jerk, each moan, each writhing gesture mirrors its true state. No more can the masks of reason, fear and pride deny the internal ache. The loss of dignity is the birth of an unimpeded soulful existence.

Fresh air is an expectorant of the soul. A taunting vision of a vast horizon peppered with evergreens and silver clouds lures the final breath from its organic entrapments. Sunlight finds his face as though offering direction. The soul's compass reorients its axis. North becomes skyward. South retreats to the bowels of the earth. East and West are left to the mortals still fit and able to roam on land.

Mortality is an Ethiopian woman wiping feces from your testicles.

If life is fragile, death is a wafer thin teacup balanced precariously in the mouth of a lit canon.

La Fleur et La Poesie

2009-01-04T22:39:00.000-08:00

Aster

Thus humble let me live and die
Nor long for Midas' golden touch; If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them much, Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content!

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Contentment

Begonia

The woman singeth at her spinning-wheel
A pleasant chant, ballad or barcarole;
She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,
Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel
Is full, and artfully her fingers feel
With quick adjustment, provident control,
The lines-too subtly twisted to unroll -
Out to a perfect thread. I hence appeal
To the dear Christian Church-that we may do
Our Father's business in these temples mirk,
Thus swift and steadfast, thus intent and strong;
While thus, apart from toil, our souls pursue
Some high calm spheric tune, and prove our work
The better for the sweetness of our song.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Work and Contemplation

White Chrysanthemum

seeker of truth


follow no path
all paths lead where





truth is here

e.e. cummings, seeker of truth

Cosmos

If heaven were to do again,
And on the pasture bars,
I leaned to line the figures in
Between the d otted starts,

I should be tempted to forget,
I fear, the Crown of Rule,
The Scales of Trade, the Cross of Faith,
As hardly worth renewal.

For these have governed in our lives,
And see how men have warred.
The Cross, the Crown, the Scales may all
As well have been the Sword.
Robert Frost, The Peaceful Shepherd

Geranium

Whose love is given over-well
Shall look on Helen's face in hell,
Whilst those who love is thin and wise
May view John Knox in paradise.

Dorothy Parker, Partial Comfort

Heather

Laugh and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough on its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
the echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing car.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Solitude

Larkspur

Wind shakes the big poplar,
quicksilvering
The whole tree in a single sweep.
What bright scale fell and left this needle quivering?
What loaded balances have come to grief?

Seamus Heaney, The Spirit Level

Lilac

My face turned pale, a deadly pale.
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked what could I ail
My life and all seemed turned to clay.

And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away.
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.

I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start.
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.

John Clare, First Love

Orange Blossom

Because I feel that in the heavens above
The angels, whispering one to another,
Can find among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of "Mother,"
Therefore by that dear name I have long called you,
You who are more than mother unto me,
And filled my heart of hearts, where death installed you,
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother -- my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are the mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
But that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul that its soul-life.

Edgar Allan Poe, To My Mother

Passion Flower

SOME have won a wild delight,
By daring wilder sorrow;
Could I gain thy love to-night,
I'd hazard death to-morrow.

Welcome nights of broken sleep,
And days of carnage cold,
Could I deem that thou wouldst weep
To hear my perils told.

Passion's strength should nerve my arm,
Its ardour stir my life,
Till human force to that dread charm
Should yield and sink in wild alarm,
Like trees to tempest-strife.

Charlotte Bronte, Passion

Star of Bethlehem

"Hope" is the thing with feathers --
That perches in the soul --
And sings the tune without the words --
And never stops -- at all --

And sweetest -- in the G ale -- is heard --
And sore must be the storm --
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm --

I've heard it in the chillest land --
And on the strangest Sea --
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb -- of Me.

Emily Dickinson

Zinnia
When to the session of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death¹s dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish¹d sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
William Shakespeare

Cypress:Tree of Light

2008-12-12T12:48:00.000-08:00

Even though I have the inclination to move onto some new imagery, namely the legendary phoenix bird, I choose to revisit this Cypress. In rereading my blog, I had only begun research and then abandoned the process of it. I find this is a tendency of mine: to pursue with passion and then walk away when the fire fades.

I'll none of that. The Cypress is far to important a locus for my identity to treat as a flippant fancy. Here are some words for my meditation from my readings met with the words you gave so generously:

tree of light in a desolate place of death
reviving tonic to women in labor
mythically ancient
bark: hard, fine, close in grain, durable, beautiful reddish-brown color
resinously fragrant
cypress twig secures free and safe passage across borders
the earth spirit of the East dwells in the cypress, and a portion of its immense life force can be absorbed if the resin is chewed
whispers in the wind and asks the birds of the air to deliver its messages
when harmed all the other trees will assemble at night to heal its wounds.
involves "bathing" in the fresh and healing air of a forest of cypress trees

I am inclined to first taste of the Cypress and enjoy its splendor. Instead of superficially identifying with these characteristics, I want to meditate on them for me, not through me.

The paradox of a powerful light, is that it is most brilliant in the darkest of places. Were I kneeling at the end of all things, I would trust the Cypress to guide my horizon and draw my eyes heavenward. I see a spiraling Cypress, evergreen and flaunting its life like a protuberant, proud chest, held high in the face of fear. I would rely on the Cypress to sway, carrying an odorous message to the falcon perched atop. "Guard her. Shelter her."

When my only comfort threatens to be cloak upon robe upon ragged garb over my flesh, the Cypress woos me from shame, from a mask of fear. Rather than hide from death and be weighed down in my claustrophobic attire, the elucidating presence of the Cypress inspires me to disrobe. I do desire to stand naked, bathing in her resinous, healing light. My body has too long been broken under these suffocating fears. My arthritic hands, my swollen knees, my fragile ankles, my clenched jaw, my organs burning, cramping, aching.

But, to be nude amidst so much death. To stand with nothing but peach flesh to separate you from the wintry cement of the grave. To open my arms to the starred sky and receive what the fates have long intended. To be comforted by the tree of my now. Disarmed, unimpeded, I proceed to her roots with tempered gate baring only the audacious hope of metamorphosis.

The pangs of a new life have doubled me over in a weary acclimation of daily pain. She rises, consuming my line of sight as I fall to her base. My eyes ask for her sacrifice and I am instantly reassured. "Partake." Drawn to the reddish brown bark of her trunk, my fingers delicately pry a shard of sturdy, dense meat. The smell is tantalizing, like the earth and sea mated in a bed of moonlight. I chew. The bittersweet flakes melt into a sticky sap, which sticks to my teeth like hard candy. Relief.

As I swallow, I feel a warm arm touch my ankle. As I look down in blissful comfort, I see a root, dark and foreboding against the white of my skin. Yet, there is no fear in me, even when I reach for it out of habit. The pockets of my doubt, self-abasement, and flagellation are spilled out on the rotting ground beyond my ken. As my hair is swept up in the wind, it snags onto the splintered edges of the base of the Cypress. I inhale the now overwhelmingly pungent aroma as my face is pressed against the tree. Freely, I wrap my arms around this sacred bush. I cannot see my legs, which have been carefully folded into the earth through a system of powerfully old roots.

Earth bound. Though the stars would call me home, I linger. Held fast by my sister, the Cypress. My pink skin has become but a reflection on her limbs, which one would mistake for the glare of moonlight. Together, we whisper to the birds, comfort the mourning, offer sacred balm to the birthing, and linger to meet death's sting with the warmth of a tender light.

A Morning Sky

2008-12-06T13:13:00.000-08:00

As I opened my car door to head to the U-district for a proctoring gig, I was lulled into slow motion, mesmerized by the sky. At first, I couldn't quite place the distinct brilliance of the blue, the close crystallized clouds shimmered in butter yellow. Whirling back to a normal speed, I realized that it was simply morning.

Even now, I cannot remember the last morning I greeted outdoors. The air seemed sweeter, less recycled by the day's breath and pollution. The colors sharper, a piercing glow that both held and stirred me. I felt I had a secret I could not wait to share.

Shhh... Let me whisper it in your ear.

As it so happens, my proctoring services were not needed. I willingly laid down my day of work to another, and in return received a gift from the gods, a spontaneous morning with my dear friend, Jenae.

We ventured to Vivace's new location for an incomparable cappuccino and latte. We mused about being 30: settling into self, trusting our passions to surface in their own time, choosing wellness in our work, feeling hopeful.

All in all, a delicious morning. Mornings. Hmmm... I must sample more of them - from time to time.

I Can French Inhale

2008-12-04T12:02:00.000-08:00

"The guys really go for it. And that's how I got my nickname, Frenchy. "
"Sure it is!"
~ Grease

It's immerse myself in French time. Here is a list of to read, to watch, and to learn French by:

Books:

L'Etranger, Albert Camus
Le Petit Prince, Antoine du Saint-Exupery
Le Malade Imaginaire, Moliere
Boule de Suif, Guy de Maupassante
Les fiançailles de Monsieur Hire, Georges Simenon
Les Miserables, Victor Hugo

Movies:

La Haine - Hate
Le Pacte de Loup - Brotherhood of the Wolf
Les Amants du Pont-Neuf - Lovers on a Bridge
Les Diner de Cons - The Dinner Game
Trois Couleurs: Bleu, Bialy, & Rouge - Three Colors Series: Blue, Red & White

Poetry:

Les Fleurs du Mal, Charles Baudelaire
Une saison en enfer, Arthur Rimbaud
Splendeurs et misères des courtisanes, Honore de Balzac
Le Moyen Court Et Autres Écrits Spirituels, Jeanne-Marie Bouvier de la Motte-Guyon
La Mort en perse, Anne-Marie Schwarzenbach
La Vie dan las plis, Henri Michaux

Shall we inhale together?

Dream Gum

2008-12-03T12:10:00.000-08:00

My dreams, as many of you know, are insatiably visceral. A recurrent character of late has been chewing gum. I don't often chew gum, so dreaming consistently about it is curious as it is. But, this seemingly harmless gum overtakes my mouth the moment the dream reaches its climax (think literary).

I struggle to pry it from my teeth and gums as it is lodged on the roof of my mouth and down my throat, gagging me. I then have to pull it from my throat without it breaking off, which it always does. I am forced to swallow the large lump of gum. Finding some relief at having come through this ordeal, I return to face my dream, only...

... I wake up.

Here is what dreammoods.com has to say:
To dream that you are unable to get rid of your gum, suggests that you are experiencing some indecision, powerlessness or frustration. You may lack understanding in a situation or find that a current problem is overwhelming.

Hail Joseph! This is precisely my perplexing condition. The word of my undoing - overwhelming.

A New Tree

2008-12-02T13:05:00.000-08:00

For some time, I have been drawn to the cypress tree.

My grandfather painted the cypress trees that line the northern California coastline. I have also heard that they can grow to at least twice their size under ground, with an expansive root system. This gives them the ability to endure arid and precarious conditions, as well as the intense winds associated with the sea.

As I am in search for a new tree, a new association set apart from the Arrow Poison Tree, a picture came to mind amidst a deeply stirring conversation last night with a dear friend, and saintly guru. It was of a tree rooted at the edge of a cliff alone and along a sea shore. It did not occur to me that this could be a cypress tree, until I came across this picture.

So, I'm in pursuit of more information, both mystical and physical, regarding the cypress tree, in hopes of some new imagery for my life. Here's what I've learned thus far:

* In Greek Mythology the cypress is associated with the god of the underworld, Hades.
* The cypress is an evergreen, cone-bearing tree whose branches are often meant to represent grief or mourning.
* The wood of the Cypress is hard, remarkably fine and close in grain, very durable, of a beautiful reddish-brown color, and resinously fragrant.
* There can be little doubt that the Cypress was originally a native of Asia Minor, and probably also of the island of Cyprus, from which it almost certainly derives its name.
* The tree at Soma: Perhaps the oldest living tree of any kind, is the historical and gigantic tree at Soma, in Lombardy. It is popularly supposed to have been planted in the year of the birth of Christ, and is looked upon with great reverence in consequence. It is more than 120 feet in height, and its stem is twenty-three feet round. In addition to the interest arising from this great age and size, the tree has the distinction of having been wounded by Francis I., who is said to have struck his sword into it in despair after his defeat at Pavia; and of having been so respected by Napoleon that in planning his road over the Simplon he deflected it from the straight line to avoid injuring the tree.
* The legend of the origin of cypress from Metamorphosis, by Ovid:
"Praying in expiation of his crime
Thenceforth to mourn to all succeeding time.
And now, of blood exhausted, he appears
Drain'd by a torrent of continual tears.
The fleshy colour in his body fades,
A greenish tincture all his limbs invades.
From his fair head, where curling ringlets hung,
A tapering bush, with spiry branches, sprung,
Which, stiffening by degrees, its stem extends,
Till to the starry skies the spire ascends.
Apollo saw, and sadly sighing, cried,
'Be, then, for ever what thy prayer implied:
Bemoan'd by me, in others grief excite,
And still preside at every funeral rite.'"

If you are able to find any more information about the cypress that might offer insight, please do so. Or, if you see any meaningful connections between myself and this mysteriously old tree, please do not hesitate to speak.

It's a Girl

2008-11-22T10:55:00.000-08:00

I'm having a niece!

My beloved brother and sister, Peter & Michelle, have just been informed as to the gender of the precious life of yet another Gomes making its way into this world.

SHE is due April 15th.

SHE will be lavished in shamefully adorable dresses.

SHE will have two terribly doting aunties.

SHE will have the most handsome older brother ever.

Response: Personality Plus

2008-11-20T21:15:00.000-08:00

Not many surprises here, but a fun read.

At the top of the list: Sexuality, Extroversion, Mystical, Humanitarian, Intellectual, & Stability

Advanced Global Personality Test Results

Extraversion	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	78%
Stability	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	74%
Orderliness	\|\|\|\|\|\|	30%
Accommodation	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	58%
Interdependence	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	56%
Intellectual	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	74%
Mystical	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	76%
Artistic	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	63%
Religious	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	56%
Hedonism	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	63%
Materialism	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	50%
Narcissism	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	50%
Adventurousness	\|\|\|\|\|\|	23%
Work ethic	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	43%
Humanitarian	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	76%
Conflict seeking	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	63%
Need to dominate	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	56%

Romantic	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	50%
Avoidant	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	36%
Anti-authority	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	43%
Wealth	\|\|\|\|	16%
Dependency	\|\|\|\|\|\|	23%
Change averse	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	36%
Cautiousness	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	36%
Individuality	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	43%
Sexuality	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	90%
Peter pan complex	\|\|\|\|\|\|	30%
Family drive	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	76%
Physical Fitness	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	%
Histrionic	\|\|\|\|	16%
Paranoia	\|\|\|\|\|\|	30%
Vanity	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	50%
Honor	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	50%
Thriftiness	\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|\|	36%

Take Free Advanced Global Personality Test
personality test by similarminds.com

Oy, My Aching Back!

2008-11-20T11:45:00.000-08:00

I'm not in my 20's anymore.

I threw my damn back out for the first time IN MY LIFE! It was a like a train hit me from behind and knocked the wind right out of me. I tried to breathe - piercing agony. I tried to move and then the real panic set in.

I cannot bend, sit, turn, skip, pillow-fight, touch my toes, do the splits (ok - I couldn't do that before), raise my hand (I know, you are all shocked and wish for just one day in class with me when such would be the case), or clean (a unexpected perk); lifting anything heavier than a sheet of paper is out of the question.

I downed more Aleve than I care to count and have ransacked my medicine cupboard for expired muscle relaxants. I am nestled into a heating pad and am told to attempt stretching, which sounds as appealing as a turn on the rack.

How did this tragedy befall me, you ask? Well, I... uh, was hitting the slopes too hard in the early season. Yeah, that's it. I mean, no... I was spending arduous hours pruning back my garden for the winter slumber. Yeah, that's the ticket. Actually, I was lifting a helpless child out of a ditch, a starving Sudanese child who I then adopted, but then had to relinquish custody of to her real parents whom I aided in retrieving visas and now reside in Seattle and work at Microsoft and... renamed the child after me and, yeah, that's what happened. That's how I threw out my back.

The Pernicious Tree

2008-11-19T00:26:00.000-08:00

Darkness. A warm blanket of nourishing soil retreats tentatively as her roots stretch. Heat beckons. The ache for a taste of that promised light draws her up, up, up. Into the unknown. A molting leaf flops on its side, making way for her outstretched yen. The radiance of the white world tingles her limbs, the pins and needles of a sleeping extremity meeting the duress of use with atrophied circulation. The pain of birth. The glorious content of stepping into true being, meaning.

The feast continues. Undisturbed growth. No curious crawlers, pecking perchers, trampling foreigners. Sabbath. Under a mystical, shaded canopy she is neither scorched nor neglected. No sooner does pulsing heat threaten to dry her feeble progress, than a cool fog kisses her cheeks. She abides in the mist. A haven that whispers of her beauty. Live. Grow. Be. Hope. Her names is Acokanthera Schimperi.

She greets new life as her reach extends over and under the earth. An underworld of silent, secret creatures, sacrificed for her nourishment. The white world sings, a complex cantata deepening as she moves over the red and black rocky hillside. She doesn't know hesitation, inhibition, doubt. Her cycle is her meditation. Sleep. Eat. Drink. Bathe. Stretch. Listen.

Each morning finds her farther from land. Her companions blur. Sorrow. Trepidation. Curiosity. Still, she cannot resist the call of the light. As soon as she begins to doubt her the necessity of her height, fauna visits for the first time. Never has the song been so near. A lullaby of affirmation. For this. She vows. For this Red and Yellow Barbet, she will grow her limbs long and high. A home. Another restful night. Despair put to sleep with the somber moon.
She wakes to a new light. Memories of that fierce morning when dawn first broke over her splash her face as she peers, unhindered into the sun. Glorious. Blinding. Assurance. This. For this, she was made and she grew. A new horizon. The desolate emptiness of red earth consumes the landscape. Only scattered remnants of lonely vitality interrupt the vast scene. Overwhelmed with sympathy, she reaches. She beckons the wind. No answer. She pulls at her roots. Nothing. In this quiet repose, she recognizes her own desolation.

Her vista hides behind a gray mountain, moving swiftly across the plain. Uncertainty. Terror. The tender refreshing of the morning has metamorphosed into a hateful pelting. She must drink. Choking. Trembling. Her shelter is gone. She peers down to her forgotten earth and remembers a happier time. She spies a sprout buttressed from the storm. Her doleful reverie halts. She is the shelter now. For this. She will endure.

Pain. A pang in her side. Then another. Tall creatures puncture her flesh, drawing her white blood. She prepares to scold these savages, when they begin to dance. The encircle her, lauding, shouting, thanking her for such a precious gift. They gather her fallen berries. She sighs as her growth nourishes them. Ah. For this. To give. To nurture. To feed. To satisfy.

Joyous revelation. Service. Limbs to support. Leaves to shelter. Fruit to nourish. Blood to please. Her voice arises strong and sure. She bends, letting the wind sway her. Whistling. Winnowing. Groaning. Creaking. Her song woos a Baglafecht Weaver. She offers her limb, her shade, her fruit. An eager eater samples with abandon. Faltering. Spinning. Falling. She tries to catch the sickly bird, to offer more sweet tastes to heal the famished creature. Collapse. Death. Another bird. Another berry. Death. She blames the summer sun and the absent rain. Another berry. Death.

Older now. Seasons of fruit push forth, fall and return again. A sacred graveyard laced at her feet. Another savage dance. A whistling dart. A tall one falls dying amidst the long since dead birds. Still. Pierced with a an arrow dripping white and red blood. Her blood. His blood. This. For this. She peers over her malicious flesh in shame. Her noxious berries. Her ruinous blood. Iniquitous. Injurious. Poisonous.

William Blake, The Poison Tree
And I water'd it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I stunned it with my smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles

Reading: A Life at Work, by T. Moore

2008-11-18T12:42:00.000-08:00

"Most creative people throughout history appear misguided. They live their lives by serendipity, inspiration and experiment."

Why am I persistently apologetic and hopeless about a life that appears misguided? Never have I been completely successful in shaking the heavy-handed expectations on my life toward greatness. To whom much is given much is expected. I hate this in as much as I need it to validate me. Using my giftedness toward the greater good (expectation) would somehow excuse the erratic life I live.

But, if openness, whimsy, a myriad of passions and talents can have value without clear focus or productivity, than my life is rather one of treasure. I have gleaned generosity, inspiration, tenderness, hospitality, creativity from life. Are these not eternal characteristics? Is not the work of my life the collage of these pursuits instead of an inflexible career, whether or not it is in my passions? Have I feared the idea of choosing a career, not for the sake of making the wrong choice, but rather at the idea of having to make one choice?

The question, then, isn't what am I going to do with my life, but what shall I do right now. I need not fear moving backward, away from my goal, but rather, make myself the goal and step forward with joyous ease knowing that I am moving ever closer toward myself.

"You have to be loyal to your essence... to trust the qualities in you that you know have not yet been revealed."

Fighting my essence is a battle with history in my life. I have long since known my qualities (and perhaps known them too well), but have rarely trusted them. Being "loyal" to myself instead prioritizing the resultant effect on others is an entirely new concept. The simple answer to why I don't trust God, is: I don't trust what he has made in me.

Can my soul trust that I am fearfully and wonderfully made without extending that trust to my creator? I feel inextricably tied to the stranger in the room pulling my strings, as though the strings are spindly extensions of my skin. To cut them, is tantamount to amputation. The bloodshed alone would kill me. I feel ready to be loyal to myself, but doing so demands loyalty to him. Perhaps I have been punishing myself to punish him.

"It may also entail fumbling for a period of time, making mistakes and failing."

I am too gifted in too many ways to fail. I only play games I win (or have a good chance at winning). I find peace in foreknowledge. I find joy in a success I can predict before I enter the room. These are the trite ramblings of a woman afraid of failure. To endure failure is one thing. To receive it as a sign of soulful faithfulness, that is a stretching that terrifies me. In fact, I may have located yet another aspect of my occupational panic of late.

"Chaos and calling go together."

Silliness and soulfulness, now that was a pairing I could endure. Chaos and calling, those are words which carry weight individually that slay me; collaboratively, I feel defeated before I begin. I see the truth of it. Chaos from the norm, relinquishing bonds of the expected, risking the unknown. Calling, vocation, vox, voice-ation, a space of life spent listening to self. But seeing has never been believing for me. Still, sparks of hope flutter ephemerally in my lungs as I inhale as a mantra, chaos and calling. We shall see.

"If flexibility is the primary virtue as you pursue your calling, then a philosophy of the polycentric life is a close second."

If there is a word to fuse all my spirit-led pursuits within the past 5 years, it is polycentric. A philosophers term for multiple centers or having various (if not infinite) points of origin and thus infinite radii or realms of meaning. In philosophy (Ricoeur), in fiction (Marquez), theology, relationships, cooking (random creativity with very little food in the house), and now toward a psychological pursuit of calling (Moore). I like themes. To be continued.

"A magus is someone who is plugged into the powers and mysteries of natures like the branch of an alien tree grafted onto a tree of a different species."

It seemed suitable to begin with a metaphor, instead of a more linear definition. Magus, singular for magi, is an ancient word dating back to Persian times. The general meaning is of one, descendant of a sacred caste, with magical properties or unique giftedness (as from the gods) related to healing, religious practices, and funerary rites. Synonyms through the ages might be: wizard, prophet, dream interpreter, priest. for more info: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magi

Recently, my conch shell of wisdom, Joel, described me as a tree, despised with its being and therefore anxiously tentative to root freely. When I begin to root, I feel the presence of this foreign tree in the earth. I know the deeper I root the more inevitably and indistinguishably I will be grafted to it. This different species and I are already one. So, perhaps, it is time to be the tree that I am: be that apple or plum or both.

"If you begin with who you are... your quest will be like a spring flowing from the font of your very nature, rather than a mere maddening search for a suitable occupation or position."

The wrestling over self I have been avoiding explains the maddening search I have been enduring. I choose me, not a job, not an occupation, but the vocation of my life: wife, sister, friend, teacher, writer, daughter, inspirer, singer, speaker, minister, magus.

Jai Trente Ans

2008-11-17T10:21:00.000-08:00

Inconsolable verification

Heavy, aloof, persistent, comical genius
Bankrupt relentlessness

Stout birth
Broad penetration
Red for such a time as this

Closet passion without focus
Imaginative reason
Awkwardly intellectual

Embraced pain and depth
Pressing, breaking rules
Intuitive integrity

Metaphorical fantasy
Dry lips
No licking for the hell of it

Advent denial
Prayer placating lonely, pierced denial

Ode to Hash Browns

2008-11-05T15:42:00.000-08:00

As an act of gratitude and celebration of a blissful breech in bad monotony, here is my ode to hash browns:

Time alone carries fantastical innuendo when you're robbed of it. Time alone in abundance, without aim, without energy, without sound is a different thing entirely. An unexpected burden are the meals between 8 & 5 that I can't muster the emotional energy to cook. Usually (and by usually I mean always) if I eat at all in the daylight hours, it's a meal as in uno (none of this breakfast and then lunch a reasonable amount of hours after breakfast).

At approximately 1:24pm I mill solemnly through the pantry, the refrigerator, the food drawers, back to the fridge. Then I put the kettle on, pick out my daily tea (market spice, gun metal green, or some times I just cop out with some Tazo Refresh), then I sit back down to the laptop and brown afghan; no new emails in the 8 minutes I've just spent in the kitchen. What was I doing? Oh yeah, I'm hungry. The kettle screams.

Usually (and by usually I mean every day but today) this is when depression sinks in. Too aggravated with solo culinary arts but too hungry to ignore the pangs. I put on another movie or decide on my next futile house project. This morning/afternoon, however, inspiration anointed my crown, lightening struck, the clouds parted and in that blessed moment I knew exactly what I wanted to eat. I knew I had all the ingredients: Krusteez, Yukon Golds, green onions, blackberry preserves, vanilla extract (I like a little vanilla in my pancakes), sour cream, only not in that order. This clarity of vision was just the motivation I needed.

I walked in the kitchen with purpose. I flung open cabinets with grit and Christmas Eve anticipation: mixing bowl, check, pancake batter, check, water, vanilla, a splash of vegetable oil, check, check, check. A little more water, too lumpy. The skillet already hot and lubed in Pam, I grab my handy measuring cup and scoop out some batter (no, I don't measure my pancakes - do you know me at all - they're ideal for handling the batter and making nice circles (for initials use a measuring pitcher)). 3 perfect pancakes sizzling away, now it's time to grate the taters. I hate grating and actually have a miniature phobia of the not-rare-enough skin grating incidents that peel away just enough flesh for a persistent sting, risk of infection, and the angst-ridden pressure to decide whether or not to tear that hanging flap all the way off or try to paste it back on when you know it's just going to catch on something and annoy you later, so you might as well take it off now because you know you'll be obsessing over that mini-wound until that happens.

Yet another sign that this day is blessed, no skin grating.

Pancakes are off and buttered as I hurriedly chop 2 green onions and throw them on the crackling olive oil. Nothing pulses saliva into the back corners of your cheeks faster than the smell of onions cooking in oil. I spread the potato shavings (sans epidermis) playfully over the onions and press them into the skillet with the back of my spatula. As they brown and crisp, I thinly layer some blackberry preserves over my pancakes (we're out of syrup, but I prefer jam anyway). Then, it's time to flip the meaty layer of spuds and let the other side crisp. I nearly run out of patience for them to cook, so eager is my appetite, and instead take these moments to put on the kettle and decide on the perfect condiment. Sour cream.

But, wait. A last minute stroke of genius, a humble smattering of shredded cheddar (I know it's tempting the fates to pull out a shredder twice in one stroke, but I carry the confidence of titans now, so superb has been this day). I reach for the jasmine pearls, admittedly a bold move. I mock tribulation. Tea steeping in one hand, the complex aromas of pancakes and hash browns in the other, I sit at my couch - not forlorn, not aimless and pitiable - but proud, self-congratulatory and really fucking hungry.

Sated.

Autumn of the Matriarch

2008-11-04T15:38:00.000-08:00

... where can you be Manuela Sanchez of my misfortune that I came looking for you and cannot find you in this house of beggars, where is your licorice smell in this pesthole of lunch leftovers, where is your rose, where your love, release me from the dungeon of these dog doubts, he sighed, when he saw her appear at the rear door like the image of a dream reflected in the mirror of another dream wearing a dress of etamine that cost a penny a yard, her hair tied back hurriedly with a back comb, her shoes shabby, but she was the most beautiful and haughtiest woman on earth with the rose glowing in her hand, a sight so dazzling that he barely got sufficient control of himself to bow when she greeted him with her lifted head God preserve your excellency, and she sat down on the sofa opposite him, where the gush of his fetid body odor would not read her... (G. G-Marquez, Autumn of the Patriarch)

Each in their own power, autumn & matriarch, wield a brimming chalice of reverie, replete with a surplus of symbolic meanings, musty smells of first-edition books and molting leaf piles, hot throbbing bosoms that beat a lullaby of nurture and rest, scratchy confident voices full of self-neglect and the peace of death. As long as I have been child, I have been matriarch, and as long as I have been matriarch, the autumns of my life have whispered to the earth of my beginning. The womb of my origin, the red and gold ocean winds, carrying the kind of chill that penetrates marrow and siphons blood from each joint, a gale that stings each nostril with sweet cedars, hoary fires and dewy grass staving off the frost.

My heart grieves when the flames atop each tree fade from their incendiary vibrancy to an ashy yellow, declaring the end of my time and the beginning of an entombed season foreign to me. Winter scolds me like an irreverent child at the hands of a long since irascible nun who caught me playing hangman during Latin. My very birth mocks her impending quiet. To her I am but a matador, full of color and pomp, implacably swinging my red décolletage as she paces behind the gates, snorting white fog in ire until the moment she is released and her icy pursuit tests the veracity of my posture and the power behind my promenade. But, to fear winter now is to snatch breath from my blessed autumn. To berate the child or hasten the matriarch is to neglect the soul. Come today. Step forth this moment and I shall meet you in the milky unknown with hope for my now and contentment for what can only be then and even then a mystery.

Muy Peligroso

2008-10-08T13:47:00.000-07:00

Why, when I see so many dearest to me choosing deeper into their lives, do I find myself choosing out? I flee from self-thought whilst chasing the white rabbit into tunnels of longed-for quiet.

Survival hasn't the luxury of dreaming. That's a pithy cop out. I suppose, though, one doesn't consider the vast, interminable ocean when struggling to regain footing on a shore of wet rocks.

When I dream of a writing desk, my stomach turns and I'm thrust into thoughts of a "paying" job. When fanciful what-if's tickle future, the present load of mail is delivered - full of bills and short a paycheck. When I catch up on some blogging time, I think, I really should get back to checking craigslist.

Yuck, this sounds like guilt. Financial despair. Self-deprecating analysis. Ah well, at least I have my health.

Reminiscent Conversation

2008-09-23T15:51:00.000-07:00

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING MATERIAL CONTAINS BIBLICAL, ECCLESIASTIC AND CHRISTOLOGICAL REFERENCES.

I found this rant whilst digging around some old files. I felt a spark in the philosophical dungeons of my bowels when met with a surprisingly kindred mind and subsequently (yes, in sequence) picked through some old writing. Old, as in, Nov 21, 2004. Apparently this was the day I decided to take on Karl Barth:

But scripture is always autonomous and independent of all that is said. it can always find new and from its own standpoint better readers, and obedience in these readers, even in the church which has perhaps to a large extent become self-governing, and by these readers a point of entry to reform and renew the whole church and to bring it back from self-government to obedience.

will the new readers, like all liberated oppressed find the inevitable reign of the oppressor luscious enough to choose a new governance? is this cyclical or evolutionary? are the fools introduced to the structured wheel of the self-governing “wise” as a necessary humbling? does this process of humbling represent the purification or the purest form of the word? if the word chooses autonomously and independently, will it not choose to make itself known and replicated in the new, obedient reader?

are there those readers who know when ‘tis their turn to pass the baton to the fresh hearer that the compassion of christ will be expressed through his word to yet another generation?

what is it the self-governors intend to preserve? self? a sense of church tradition? something that has always worked in the past? the word? their interpretation? a shielding wall to keep them out? their path to salvation? do we program a replicate of our first love, because we are unable to revisit it?

the way is not relative in that it is christ, but is christ intrinsically relative to all through empathy? relativity allows the fullness only in the sharing of empathy and surrender of self-governance, even in a community of believers. community is no solitary validation for a risky hermeneutic of the reader’s response.

we read the word because it lures us, compels us, mirrors the hope beyond our knowing. the hope we didn’t imagine but recognize instantly. the word does not bear authority because we wrap it in our cloaks and crown it, but because it is why we read. does the word contain, reflect, bear, birth, guide, remind, reveal, inspire, demand, witness God?

I'm not sure I would maintain some of these presuppositions, and yet there are many questions here that I still twirl my hair through. If you are at all interested in these questions, please share.

The Job I Lost

2008-09-18T12:06:00.000-07:00

I found a listing for a movie reviewer for a database designed to recommend movies based on experts instead of algorithms. I sat on the listing for a while (shocking) and then felt a surge of inspiration last night.

So, I completed the required application blurb: select your favorite movie and then list 5 movies you would recommend to someone who like the first movie, giving a 20 word description of each movie.

Well, the post expired

* which I discovered after having completed the above requirement *
UGH!!!

So, I thought I would share it with you instead.

And, if you happen upon any movie review jobs, do pass them on, won't you?

Darjeeling Limited (2007)

The latest collaboration of Wes Anderson and Owen Wilson depicts an effortlessly hysterical, sonorously spiritual, fraternal voyage through India.

Little Miss Sunshine (2006)

Nietzsche meets Miss America in this ramshackle comedy about a dysphoric family determined to reach Rendondo Beach by 3:00pm.

Punch Drunk Love (2002)

A darkly compulsive character leads Adam Sandler to new comedy depths in this accidental love story replete with endearing wit.

The Royal Tenebaums (2001)

The Anderson-Wilson flagship film is a sardonic comedy boasting an expert ensemble as the family you love to lament!

The Big Lebowski (1998)

It’s the Dude! Bowling with White Russian in hand the Dude embarks on a slipshod caper in this kidnap comedy.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998)

An adult comedy saturated in drinks, drugs, and questionable polyester, this film is funny the way scab picking is soothing.

Will Work for Peanuts

2008-09-17T15:05:00.000-07:00

Sally: Do you think a person can crack-up from too much responsibility?

Charlie Brown: Why certainly. There are some responsibilities and some pressures that are just too much sometimes to bear.

Sally: That must be what's happening to me... I'm cracking up...
It's a great responsibility, having naturally curly hair!

Charlie Brown: Oh, good grief!

S is for Slut

2008-09-14T12:03:00.000-07:00

Or, so sayeth the guardian of my soul. I've just noticed that every post begins with S. With the help of Freud, it has been determined that my subconscious has reveal my true inner-nature.

Although it is undeniably a prospective truth, I'd like to take a moment to propose a few other possibilities.

Scandalous
Sage
Sepulchral
Stacked
Spirited
Sagacious
Smutty

If these strikes you as incongruent to the me you know and love - I heartily welcome any other S words that better fit the bill.

Sincerity is the new Confidence

2008-09-13T20:59:00.000-07:00

The elusive quality which has of late titillated my intellect, at last has a name: sincerity. I watch strange pilgrims laugh unabashedly before looking over their shoulders to see if others are likewise amused. And again, other such enigmas offer sincere compliments, exclaim outright preferences for this or that, entrust gems of vulnerability without self-pity or desperate ploys for affirmation.

Sincerity, I am learning, has a sense of humor without cruelty. It offers encouragement without pity and support without minimizing or aggrandizing the cost. It is far from a gray, even keel. Sincerity is the lion's determined gaze, fierce and in full knowledge of its power. I see you, you earnest remnant, you unfettered few. I see you with plain eyes for you have made yourselves plain. You stand tall, not to emit a proud air, but because your mother taught you to have good posture, and anyway, it's good for the back.

Solicitude

2008-08-01T21:16:00.000-07:00

A noted observer of my life once inquired after my curious behavior with children: unabashed, free from poise and composure, playful, hell - even downright giddy. It is true; I do love children and certainly want to have my own some day. This "at-ease" temperament seems a tempting solution to my current intolerable state.

So, I couldn't help but wonder (hehe), what if my soul is craving some kid time?

I need a job that pays decently with some sort of structure I can cling to. But, I also think it could do me some good to play with kids all day. I found a position as a pre-school teacher at a Lutheran pre-school and daycare. And, well, I'm considering it. But, first - I need a word from all of you. Please let me know what you think of this random, Friday night notion.

Pros? Cons?

A Safe Place

2008-07-29T13:47:00.000-07:00

Lately I've been looking for a really safe place. A place to explore being all that I am without my two greatest fears flooding the camp: hurting other people and losing myself entirely. Church hasn't been safe. I've been given a community of friends that seems safe. But, how do I know? How can I be sure? I've tried to think of moments in life when I've felt really safe. I time when I my mind isn't spinning, my eyes scanning and re-scanning the room, or my voice crying out, "Is it safe? Am I safe?"

I remember my mother's embrace. She gives a world-class hug. She's always told me it's because of her abundant bosom. I tell her I love her hugs. "It's the boobs," she says. She's a couple of inches shorter than I am, so when I lean into her I slump to rest my head on her shoulder. My face nuzzles into her neck and her soft, blond hair tickles my cheek. I breath in her sweet perfume and she smells like home.

I inhale deeper. She squeezes tighter. Her hands press deeply into my back, as if to say, "Let go, baby girl." She won't release me until I exhale properly. Until I relinquish my caregiver arms and cede that role to her. The roles are clearly established in that first embrace. She's there to take care of me and I'm there to receive. There will be no debate, no question. If I start to pull away too soon, she pulls me closer.

A breath surges from my toes and forcefully escapes my lips with the sound of a deflating air mattress. She knows. She's always known. I surrender my weight and with it my worries. Once she knows I'm done fighting, she pulls her arms back ever so slightly and begins rubbing my back. Now she starts to sway, sway and hum. I'm 4 again, or 10, 18, 25-because she was there, always the same hug, always the same listless feeling.

She cradles my face in her hands as she pulls away. She kisses my lips slowly and turns her countenance to me. I am the world to her in that moment. Her face always glows: she's the sunshine. But, in that moment it glows for me. A mother's pride, perhaps, or just a met longing in seeing her daughter again. I think it's more than that, though. I think, when my mom stops time to look into my eyes, still fuzzy from her embrace, she's sending me a message. "I see you." And in seeing me, she loves me: fully and without restraint.

Tearfully, we sink into another hug. This one shorter, but just as meaningful. We seal the moment we had. We hug again to acknowledge this beautiful moment and receive all the blessing it entails. This is what happens every time I see my mother. This is my safe place.

Shut In

2008-07-24T12:42:00.000-07:00

There's something intoxicating about an empty house: the quiet security and liberty of unafflicted movement. An inviting sofa by the window shrouds me from watchful eyes, save that of the grateful gold finch at the feeder.

I read at my own pace to listful classical masterpieces. The quaint rebellion of a struck match sparking a solemn smoke. I am wooed by Daniel Day Lewis alongside Michelle Pfeiffer as I nestle into a romantic favorite, The Age of Innocence. All made possible indoors.

There's no need to look over my shoulder, holding my breath at the entrance of another person. The space is mine: no one to care for or tend to. No expectation of productivity or poise. Idleness can be a healing gift. But too much idleness, I am learning, is a plank all to precarious.

Soul Power

2008-07-22T12:58:00.000-07:00

"Either we respond to what the soul presents in its fantasies and desires, or we suffer from this neglect of ourselves. The power of the soul can hurl a person into ecstasy or into depression. It can be creative or destructive, gentle or aggressive. Power incubates within the soul and then makes its influential move into life as the expression of the soul." Care of the Soul, T. Moore.

The whitewater force of my soul rushes toward integration. Tuning the combative voices of my life into a melodic, harmonic choir. My incubation has endured a profound lack of topic, thwarting my expression. The stacking pressure of my soul's informants, however, demand expression: vivid dreams, waking fantasies, desperate diversions, comatose hiding, disquieted angst, fleeting flurries of hope, aimless imagination, idle hands throbbing for clay, loud-mouth friends preaching self-care. I cede my path the power of my soul.

I'd also like to think that soul power has something to do with channeling my inner-black woman, but that's another post.

Welcome fellow sojourners. My well is open. My shade I'll share. We'll eat what we hunt. We'll burn dry chaff and share stories only fire can conjure. The dessert is long and lonely. But, perhaps our illusions and mirages are the solace we require for the road ahead.