night walker

7 Oct

there is a green small blooming

of algae

that has come to the creek

that I walk over,

that I cross in the night

carrying my little baggie of bread for the turtles of all sizes

the blooming has covered the surface in chartreuse

which swirls now as the turtles swim beneath

oh, the mystery of a turtle’s mouth as it lunges

beneath the psychedelic dance of green

where to toss the bread becomes a guessing game

of chance, how can this night so much the same

as every night be a world transformed yet again?

no sky is ever the same

no tide rises to the exact same spot, ever

all pleasure is solitary and small and everything

there are so very few who could understand

how secretly happy I am, in the dark,

so alone

at last no one to tell about my small singular

exploding life

a woman is a blessed being

in her blossoming

which comes long after

anyone can see

yet her fragrance

is a powerful potion

blessing invisibly, generously

behind a gypsy grin and laugh

a twirling skirt of ascension.

hit me

26 Sep

I have to do my grading online.  I have to read the essays, correct and give feedback, all online, on this lovely little laptop that I am happily typing on right now.  I often do this task at home, and I am learning so much about myself and addiction through the difficulty that I often have in this task.

The inbuilt tools with grading online, with its shortcuts and wonderful ready loaded lessons, would appear to earlier versions of myself as miraculous.  However, (and I know you know where I am going next) I find the self-discipline needed to complete the task  (of say, grading forty essays) can be hard to find and my work is prolonged by many factors, all of which relate to addiction.

The task is challenging, grading.  Even with full attention on the task, I don’t seem to get much faster at it. After years of it, I have hardly ever found it top of my list for activities I wish to do.   What is so instructive now is watching myself (some part of myself) cry out for distraction, below the level of surface awareness.  This dreaded task is gifting me the view of the characters in me who cry out to the dealer – HIT ME.  HIT ME.  HIT ME again.  There are fractured selves that come up for observation.  One of them uses food for entertainment. One of them could nap her life away. One looks for hits in communication. One looks for beauty and art and inspiration in the endless pools of sights and sounds this world offers, now more than ever, through the searching on the web.  One likes to be surprised by strangeness. One likes to uncover lies. One plans. One ponders her image, and tries to fix perceived smudges in the mirror of the world. One likes to clean when it isn’t time to clean. One could walk for miles when there are some pressing deadlines. One dives into moments past and rearranges years. Endless.  I’ve just named those milling about my living room this very moment.

I’m writing this blogpost while my last 19 essays remain to be graded. How perfect the task, how perfect the distraction, how perfect the one who watches it all without any judgement. The flow of this life somehow always works out, the tasks get done, the life gets lived, well or not well– irrelevant through some views. Improvement does not come from disgust. I am simply learning who is asking for the reigns, so I can choose who drives.  Sometimes the car goes in the ditch in the process, but that is all part of the fun.

Reporting from the side of the road, waving to you, reader, as you fly by.  Who chooses to do what you do when you do it? Who is crying for a hit? Who chooses to allow the hit or to get to work?  Who is calling the mental health hotline and giving them my address right now?   The United States of M.  🙂

 

windexing the back wall of the cave

24 Sep

There are no other caves besides the personal one.

There are no other shadows but my own.

Aloneness at last reflects back to me a clue in separation

that togetherness can mask

for now I see my own puppet story skills

for what they are.

I put on a wicked good show.

This cave seems to lack an exit

so the way out appears to be in —

into the muck of my own waste.

Submerged and miserable,

there are only two options—

drown here or

stretch for breath

and reach untainted ease, at last.

Perhaps i’ve grown so old that the shackles no longer hold my wrists

or the flattery of the shadows is no longer true enough

to hold me sway, awaiting impossible union.

The drying out of this body

a time bomb that I ignite.

The eyes that meet beyond the bomb

do not shadow play anymore,

and once the cave is left

the dark draw has no pull.

 

 

 

leap of faith

30 Aug

Something became apparent yesterday.  I discovered the leap of faith I’ve been dancing around for years.  The leaps of faith in the religions I grew up with were more up front.  I found them early on and leapt with abandon, perhaps from conditioning for being good, perhaps for the love of mystery and the possibility that true goodness did exist.  In short, I believed.  I was not much of  a Thomas.

The one I just discovered might be so obvious that my mention of it will have you shaking your head with my slow processing speed.  No more beating around the bush, here it is:  If everything that I see, feel, hear, smell, taste, and experience in this world changes, the knowing of the thing that doesn’t change for me is a leap of faith.  The direct experience of the unchanging can not be known because (and here is where I am using my mind to try to solve a riddle that stretches out of the realm of mind) to know it would be an experience of it and experience is a changing phenomenon, by its very definition.

Stand up, flag me down, you who can answer my riddle.  Can you send a lightning strike to the heart that makes the unknowable known?  I’ve had experiences of beyond and daily I flow in a realm that meshes with the mundane, but is not of it.  BUT tell me tell me if you can what is the mystery in the heart of a man.  Is there a black (w)hole of connection to the unchanging within my heart, within every heart, within every quivering bit of matter?

I am not distressed.  This little epiphany just has me pausing.  Sitting sitting feeling feeling all to know what is unknowable.   Must we always leap to reach?  Is this why there is no where to go?

Love to anyone kind enough to tread in this unkept field of blossoms.  I love that you are there and here. This expression is me, moving beyond my knowing, allowing the questioning to come.  I am not separate, and yet this body being has existed from within this marga spot only, seemingly.  Can she merge with knowing before she’s gone from this body?  Oh, the strangeness of it all.

good will

21 May

My back seat was full yesterday, and when a small window of time opened up,  I crawled amongst the beach traffic to a Goodwill drop-off point.   When I pulled up, the worker was standing ready to help me with the boxes. On top of one box was a skirt that has made it through all my many moves the past 10 years.  It was a beauty, rich fall colors, a mix of fabrics.  Time to say goodbye, but my hand couldn’t help but fondle it one last time before I picked up the box to hand it to the man waiting in the drop-off.

May the next owner of that skirt be well.  May the skirt live the next phase of its life with joy.

“How are you doing, today?” I asked the man, present.

He told me as we shifted these boxes to his arms that he was not doing so well.

I asked him why this was and he said that “it started out okay but…” and his voice faded out, so I added into the words unsaid, “Then all hell broke loose?” and this made him laugh.

“Yes,” he said.

More boxes, more shifting of weight from my car to his arms.

“I hope you are able to resolve your trouble” I said as I waited for my receipt.

“Oh, it will be resolved alright.” He said.  “I’m moving out.”

“Oh, big life shifting.” I said.

“Yes.”

“Good luck with your move,” I said in parting.

He smiled.

I do not know what it is, this way life has of bringing me truer interactions with what many would consider peripheral.  It has been this way often.  The moment opens wherever and whenever.   May Mr. Goodwill be well. May his move bring him peace—and may we all meet where we meet in the smallest of moments .

the turkey and the chef

17 Nov

In the pan

browning on all sides of

my cubist self–forward, back, and side at once.

edge living

is hot!

 

at times I try to jump from the flame,

my own juice

basting over my head

a humiliating baptism to the one

who has forgotten

the agreement of what’s for dinner.

the hairs on my arms seek like radars

trying to read the flames’ intention; even though,

I signed a waiver.

 

veins pulse while

the heart is in its throws–

 

with or without me along.

I’m  cooked so long

falling off the bone

tender

tender

who sees the anxious fingers

slip into the pan

to satisfy the longing

for a preview bite

of this upcoming feast?

 

 

 

 

 

pain and joy got married

14 Aug

 

Can pain and discomfort glove the hand of plenty bearing gifts?
Joy exists not in spite of but because of obstacles – I assert this morning.
What do we have in the end, after bouts of illness and love, but just ourselves?
And the gift of this self is won in a simple marathon.
Outlasting our every thought, we still exist –
and in the ending miles,
we learn to be there in whatever way we are,
accumulated skeletons,
in need of nothing,
ready for any errand,
sitting in dull evening light,
a raging sunset escaping in rays between our ribs.
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