Sunday, February 28, 2010

Mean Time

(Pre-Script: This post fills it's own space when read as the song, "Blackbird," #14 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

I packed the boxes tightly and with tape, then labeled what each one contained directly on the top of the box. I left some things out that I was going to use in the meantime, like a bowl and a cup. Every minute is the meantime. We put up with the meantime as a necessary process in hopes that it will lead us to the nicetime. Every second of meantime, we are dreaming about the nicetime. The niceplace. The nice. Sometimes it's like a mirage, taunting, like "here I am, right in front of you, see me, now come and get what I offer." but the more you run towards it, it never gets any closer, and you get so tired of running.
When putting things in places they do not belong in order to bring them to places where they will belong, make sure to remember that the space in between is not the drudgery it seems; it's just the place where you stop to catch your breath, then keep going.



(Pre-Script: This post tastes like peanut butter m&m's to a sad heart when read as the song,"Maybe," #55 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...)(...still waiting...)

Today my calves are sore, but I ate my weight in peanut butter M&M's, so that's something.
When anything wants to be born, it causes a great deal of pain at first. This is true of more than just babies.
When you love something, then Everything reminds you of what you love. When you miss something then Everything reminds you of what you miss. When you are sore in the calves from doing 5,000 jumping jacks the day before, then Every movement reminds of where you are sore. And when you are sore in the calves, or the head, or the heart, then you are sore everywhere.

Birthday, present.

(Pre-Script: This post pairs best with the song, "100 Years," #2 on the playlist, so go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

Here's a head up for you: if you ever receive an invitation for a party which contains these words: "No Gifts, please," you can be sure that the party is not for me. So if you ever receive this invitation and it says it is for my birthday, then you can know with confident assurance that it was sent to you by an imposter, or my best frenemy. You can spot my best frenemy easily; when I am with this person, I emerge with a large gaping wound where the knife in my back has been twisted, and twisted again.
Hurts. But I digress.
Don't get me wrong-if y'all want to come to my (imaginary) party and bring presents, ( and no, I will never say "Your presence is the only presents I want or need") then far be it from me to stop you, AND also, I don't like you more or less based on the whether or not you bring one. But if you do bring a gift, I will be happy to receive a gift, I will feel celebrated and lavished, because let's face it, you have every other day of the year to not bring me a gift, but if you ever might maybe bring me one, today is the day. So I will take it. Thank you in advance for the moment of indulgent frivolity between you and me.
The rest of life is messy as it is, bumpy, sticky, and unpredictable. Today is my birthday, and I am just trying to stay present.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Oh That the Humans

(Pre-Script: This post has the potential of increasing your brainpower up to 58% when read as the song, "Not Your Average Girl," #13 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

Oh, that the humans would start utilizing the brains in their heads, and start to think, and formulate ideas, and create, and analyze, and speculate, and imagine, and never assume anything except that they can never even begin to assume every angle of the thing, which is the opposite of what they do now, which is to assume they do know every angle of the thing, and all of the angles look like the one angle that they can actually see.
Oh that the humans would instead assume that there is another angle that they cannot even begin to conceptualize on their own, then ask God to reveal it to them, or at least the outline of it, or at least a plan of action for how to get to where they can begin to see it, and then begin to understand it.
And oh that the humans would continue to think, even when someone else says something, continue to think their own thoughts and not just adapt to some sort of group think that says that after the first person states an opinion, the rest shut off their brains and just go along with it.
Oh that the humans would realize that there is more to experience than what they have yet experienced, even if what they have experienced or accomplished seems very great to themselves, even if they have lived a lot of years and felt a lot of feelings and thought a lot of thoughts and been a lot of places.
And Oh that the humans would realize that if they haven't experienced or accomplished or been anywhere but where they have been, there is a more-ness and a fullness and a depth in that, too.
A to the Men, let's eat.


Friday, February 19, 2010

The Big Black Sky (Anything you've lost)

(Pre-Script: This poem pairs well with the song, "Little Wonders," #52 on the playlist, so go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)
Usually it looks like
an infinity of blackness, with a few staid points of light
dotting the horizon.
But if,
when you least expect it,
you see a shooting star
or meteor shower,
even if it begins in your peripheral vision,
lock your eyes on it and do not let them wander
(brilliant things tend to fall fast
no matter how much you wish upon them
and when it is appears to have burnt out,
remember that it never really burns out, it just
left your immediate vicinity for a time,
made you spin your head in confused wonder,
made you think, "was that real?"
(Tomorrow you will wake up and wonder if
you just imagined it)
but it was never
remember that
when it left the horizon you knew how to see,
it launched itself directly
into your heart.*
(*in time you will learn
to see it there.)


Thursday, February 18, 2010

Cloudy Logic

(Pre-Script: This post will serve as a secret key to all of your coded messages when read as the song, "My Back Pages," #58 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

There is one stretch of freeway that I drive almost daily. It is a raised highway, so when I look out my windshield, what confronts me is the sky. I am always impressed with the way the cloud formations are different every time I look. I am more impressed with this than I have been at any other age of my life. I think this is because I was so much older then, and I'm younger than that now.* Sometimes I see what look like shapes, and I think there must be a hidden message there for me, there really must be, possibly an encouragement or a warning from God-if only I could just figure out what it was. Then I would know where to go next, or how to act, or where to step, and not get stepped on. But I never can figure it out, and on my own, I tend to do really stupid things.


*Bob Dylan's original lyric. Thanks Bob.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

What You Love

(Pre-Script: This post will make you reconsider your career and long term life goals when read as the song,"Best of Me," #40 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist and click on that song. I'll wait...)(...still waiting...)

I had a great teacher in Junior College who used to say "Do what you love, the money will follow." and I thought, "wow, that sounds fantastic." and I knew he meant a career, not, like, the things I really love to do, like eating ice cream, finding the perfect color to paint my fingernails, or watching DVR'd reruns of Project Runway. Not, like, sit in the hottest bubble bath I can stand, so hot that my skin is steaming while I am drying off afterwards, with a rough towel, not a soft one, since the soft towels don't actually dry you that well, then slathering on some thick, good smelling body cream. The trouble was, I could not think of a single perfect career to love. I knew that I would have babies. I knew I was a good waitress. I knew I liked talking to the people who's table I waited on. It wasn't until the actual dreamed for babies were actual human beings that I discovered a career that had passed my level of consciousness my entire life up to that point. But then it was not the right time to go to school. The second career I would have loved to embark on would have been that of a make up artist. If I had gotten my head together at 18, I could have made this work, but at the age of 28, having just given birth to my 3rd baby, I was not about to suddenly become a professional make up artist. Plus, when I mentioned this career to people, they would often bring up the competitive side of it; say things like "the REAL artists move to LA or NYC." This spoiled it for me; took the wind out of my motivational sails; I don't want someone to hire me because I elbowed the others out; come to me because you think I'm fantastic; I already know I am; like I have time to elbow some 18 year old in the face so you'll hire me, not her. Please.
So what I did was I allowed myself to be talked into starting a do it yourself, from home, make up selling business. I did this forgetting that I don't like having to sell things to my own personal friends and relatives. Awkward. I also don't like the back end of the business; actually entering and keeping track of the data, and having to order and reorder stock. I just wanted to hold the gorgeous bottle of fill in the blank make up or face cream and hand it to the customer while she gives me money. Simple. I also didn't want to have to give up using all other brands of makeup. What a stifling way to live. Part of being an artist is knowing how to properly eclectically accrue. Everyone knows this. At least, everyone who cares to know, knows this.
Needless to say, (but people only say that when they are going to say the needless thing, anyway) the home make up business did not last long.
I discovered the less popular saying, the one that goes, "Do what you love, the money will blow right out your ear. It's okay; it was just imaginary money to begin with, anyway."
and it's even less popular cousin phrase:
"What you love?Ah, fogettaboutit. Take some tedious, life sucking job, and you just might be able to pay your bills on time"
I am doomed.


Sunday, February 14, 2010

Scandalous Living

(Pre-Script: This post will balance you out so well, you will be tempted to cancel your upcoming Chiropractic Appointment if you read it as the song, "Something Beautiful," #57 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...)(...Still waiting...)
Today, I sit in the car, which is parked directly facing the Pacific Ocean above a cliff, and watch it. This is not one of the places where the ridiculous people hang out on their surfboards, in black wetsuits, looking like small ants scavenging the Ocean for-
what, salt?
No, the surfers are a quarter mile down the coast, in less cliffy areas. The fewer waves determined to dash you against the rocks, the better, I say. Apparently, they agree with me...on this point, at least.
But if you sat on a particular chair in my living room, and didn't look before sitting, your backside might be rudely impaled with the pointy spike of the plastic dinosaur that was carelessly left there by small hands, then so rudely forgotten about, neglected to be cleaned up and placed back in the bin with the other dinosaurs. You can get where you think you are safe, stop looking at things on high alert, tune down the senses, put the fight or flight reflexes to rest, and then the most innocuous of toys gets you in the end. Literally.
I do this thing on Sundays that I don't do any other day. I actually try to rest by not letting myself do chores that don't need to be done that day. There are still enough chores that need to be done on a Sunday:
People need to be fed.
I do the laundry every day, and this way it does not pile up or become overwhelming. To neglect the laundry on a Sunday would be to cause a Monday pile up, and the thought of that would cause me undue stress, therefore limiting my ability to mentally relax. So it is actually more of a peaceful venture just to keep the laundry chugging. But as far as housecleaning goes, I refrain. But you see, one has to weigh for oneself what is actually stress relief, and what is more stress inducing, what balance of work to rest ratio brings peace and sanity, vs. what will tip the scales and knock you off into a pit of stressed out, rageful, insanity lava. One needs to pay careful attention, as these things can be very easy to confuse, hard to distinguish, and can mask themselves as the exact same thing, or change places from one day to the next.
I don't refrain in a legalistic way; it's not like if I suddenly pull out a mop and start to scrub something, I think I will be struck with lightening. Instead, it's a freedom I allow myself. It's a space to breathe, where I can see the work load and say, "I can do that Monday. I will get back to work every other 6 days of this week." And then I feel better.
Outside of my house, there are things beyond my control, and inside my house as well. The spaces the children create for themselves to laugh, and sing, and have dance parties while laughing and falling down all together. And again, the way they just as passionately argue and bicker. Emotional extremes and subtleties.
Today, I am looking at an Ocean who's waves I cannot predict; their size, how and when and where they finally break; I can only watch them happen over and over and over and completely different than the one before, again and again. I sit in the car and watch from the other side of the windshield.
Along the cliff of the shore, there is a fence. People are not supposed to go beyond it; it is meant to be a safety barrier. Just a moment ago, two people stepped over it, and stood there, just on the inside of it, the wild Ocean side.
"What are they doing on that side of the fence," We wonder.
"Illegal things," I say. "Dangerous, Illegal things."


Saturday, February 13, 2010

I End at the Edge of Myself.

(Pre-Script: This poem fits with the song, "Shadowfeet," #56 playing in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

I end at the edge of myself.
I discovered this when I reached it, and the world was still happening around me,
outside of this brain and it's thoughts and reasons,
beyond this heart
and it's emotions and sharp edges of emotions and smooth end of emotions.
The world spins around every day, and I don't perceive it;
it's the spinning inside the soft walls of this flesh, the hard cage of these bones, which makes me dizzy until nauseated,
until I fall down-
and finally look up to see what's happening all around the outside of myself.


Saturday, February 6, 2010


(Pre-Script: This post pairs best with the song, "Winter," by Joshua Radin, #27 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

Sometimes I don't feel like I am in my own life at all. Sometimes I feel like I am removed, a large creature watching as though through a telescope at the small person at the other end of the lens-the small creature is also me, and that part of me feels exposed, seen, dissected, analyzed. And then the large removed creature me takes the telescope and points it up, and I am looking at something in space that is also me; I am a comet pummeling through vast black space straight ahead to who knows where, but going fast. And also, I am the vast black space.


Thursday, February 4, 2010

Hog Wash

(Pre-Script: This post will tempt you to utter dirty words under your breath when read as the song, "Say," #4 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

I have never heard my father swear, at least not in the traditional sense. In times of frustration, he would resort to wordings, groaning, and uttering too deep for words, which I can only assume were learned from his Des Moines, Iowa upbringing. These consisted of peculiarities such as "Crimenetly," or "Hogwash," or sometimes, wordless, he would just whistle. It took me years to figure out (read: I just figured it out this week, because I never pondered it until this week.) that "Hog Wash" is just a fancy way of taking the name of "mud" in vain.
*WHAT in the name of MUD is going on here?*
So just two days ago, I was thinking about "Hog Wash," about how pigs need a source outside of their own bodies by which to cool down. Then I wondered why God decided to design and build the animal known as "Pig" (Latin Name: Pigus Pinkish Hugeous*) without any sweat glands in the blueprints. Obviously God did not forget,-Hello, this is God we are talking about-He designed this fantastically snort-tastic creature without an internal cooling structure on purpose, some purpose I can only guess at, and forever more, Pigs will be Fat, Pink Creatures That Roll Around In The Mud.** (or, FPCTRAITM) Which just goes to show you that, yet again, I have not figured God out. (Example/Instance #3,899.1)


*All Latin Names herein are merely suggested guesses of **possible** actual Latin Names.

**Not unlike certain human individuals I know, who shall remain nameless

Monday, February 1, 2010

Stained House

(Pre-Script: This poem should be read as the song, "Landslide," #18 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

What drips slowly down the inside of my walls
unseen from the outside,
I did not mean to stain you with,
did not mean to carry it on hands which
don't rinse off what you cannot see,
but only perceive the after effects,
like an earthquake.
takes a drastic shift
deep inside the earth
yet all you know is how it shakes you,
how it rolls you,
how the house falls down around you and then
everything and nothing is exposed,
naked as ever.