Tag Archives: Attachment

mango death grip

30 Aug

We die.

No news to anyone here,

but in all the lush and frantic

moments that make up days,

the inevitability of death lies in a sealed envelope

in the victorian desk drawer

locked with a key.

The heart knows

the time and the manner,

I suspect, and

that beating soft and tender fruit of life,

mine,

calls to the icy fingers of some immortal

to hold me in a mango death grip squeeze

each night.

This heart, I suspect,

thinks it good

that my body battles the passing of me,

in the moments of desperation for air.

My horror dreams

have me up and out of the bed,

turning on lights,

but light does not provide oxygen

and the outside summer thickness

hides oxygen in blankets of steam.

The cat wonders if he is dreaming

as I join him under the moon.

The life dream has lost its key, dear cat.

I can not go gently, just yet,

and the night is not good

who steals from me not only what I think of as me

but takes my loves and drowns them

into the depths of the sea.

At night, I am living death

as a calling to look deeper

to unlock and open the drawer –

to do whatever it takes to find out

who is the I am

who never dies

before I do again.

dream

1 Jun

in my dream, we are walking and talking in a strange place then we are riding a train, and talking, waiting for a meal at a large table.

Who are WE?

I am with some people I know well, though I cannot name them.  I think Don and Alison may have been there.  Maybe some more of you here.  We are talking about spiritual things.  We are pointing out the clouds in the sky next to a bridge over water to each other and  saying clever and deep things.

Suddenly, there seems to be a crash and much discomfort and death.  I am talking with someone, though I am in terrible pain.  I say, my eyeball is half ripped out, and I cannot breath.  I am gasping and my lungs and vocal cords are making a terrible, desperate noise.  I say, no words about spirit or beauty mean a thing unless they are helpful when you cannot breath and the body is in ruins.  I say, all spirit talk is only good if it can help me leave this body – help me die – when there is no grace to be had, but only pain.  How do I learn to stop breathing? Stopping the breath is bloody hard – it is a struggle – it is drowning.  Are we ready to drown?  We should talk about that instead of the pretty clouds – and then I woke with an urgency for this.  I have an urgency to practice dying upon waking that has not left, though soon, I know, I will go back to being transfixed on bird songs, flowers and clouds.  :0

what makes the world go round?

13 Dec

All of us have experienced often the vulnerability of clinging to the money raft on a stormy sea of change!

We are all students of supply and demand.  I have always had enough while also close to the extremes of way more than enough and extremes of need.  I have danced in many arenas and suited up this girl  well enough to fit into them all.   Ease is nice, but stress I found was actually higher in the higher dollar days I knew.  Imagine that!  I had more options, or more created options, that complicated the world I inhabited – I had to learn to navigate for myself the hard way.

Nowadays, I choose to live and interact in the realms where people have known a bit more struggle as opposed to the upwardly mobile movers and shakers.  I have had more eye-to-eye realness in a dollar store than on the she she sides of town.   I  also recognize and am grateful that among the money obsessed, I learned to be myself more clearly.  I learned to walk along my own way; I learned to find the needle of the others along the path in the haystack land of striving .  I got to watch the wheels of karma turn, sometimes, too.

Close to the bone, we have an opportunity to be real.  The struggle can embitter, or the struggle can break open the hard little seed of fear – we can share humanity in the bread line or at the tea party, though the tea party is a bit tougher to enjoy, for me.

The ebb and flow of needs met seems best left to such mysteries as the sea – I move up and down the sandy shore with the rhythms of the earth – I work hard – I try not to worry – I try to share – and not waste – I enjoy the pleasures when they come, often seeking out little indulgences for my tongue, my eyes, my skin that add beauty and joy to my experience and do not cause a moment’s hesitation of ambivalence or guilt.  What is guilt? 🙂

I started my 2nd job yesterday at a senior recreation center – and while the pay is unbelievably low – I liked it.  I feel somewhere deep inside, this is a logical next step  to something else I cannot see yet.   I can teach and also help a bit in a low stress place, full of sunshine through the windows and from within the people who come there.  I feel grateful.

I stare into the fog as it hovers this morning – unable to see but able to sense the green growth spurred on by the bright sun that is obscured but never leaves.

now for something completely different

9 Jun

I refuse to make myself a resume,

As much as the mind continually wishes to do this.

A pulsing of life in a body moves from experience to experience.  Even if it choses to stay in bed with the covers to its neck, the experiences come – through the light in the window – through the thunder outside, the mosquito in the ear, the pounding at the door –

All of the moments can be stitched together in such away to make a story – an attractive one – a funny one- a pitiful one – all still story.  The story adds layers upon layers which the deepest part of you knows is false.

dancing in  this world of ours of falseness – of suffering projected out into judgement of others’ worthiness – no one takes me seriously!  really?  why should they?   What has that to do with a thing?    Wanting others to view us in any sort of a way is all the act of resume building.  This conglomeration of bones tissue blood memories preferences achy fingers bruised shins sagging breasts twinkling eyes – is nothing.  In this realization of nothing lies great freedom.   There is no charge – no combustion – there is no thing here to get a rise out of.  My back may rise, yet know the hissing is just a fun game of pretend.  Look at my claws, meow.

I have taken the daily beating of the worst sort of sadistic suffering guards – and I learned to shower them with love.  If you expose your pain to me – even if you think you are wounding – I kiss it.  I know it.  I give because I need no reason – I am an empty vessel tapping into the thing greater than me – empty out the identity and you can know the universe and secrets within – and have no wish of personal gain from that.  Others think they kick me while  I could tell them wonders that I see in their buried parts – I can read the iris of their eyes and the lines on their palms, but they know not.  I kiss the bleeding wound, dank with infection and sully my lips none.

You can take and are a taker – this trait is obvious for all to see – has been all along – and in your peek upon my breast, you reveal your own.  In your wrath and prickliness, you reveal your soft underbelly – and desire to transcend your animal nature by diving deep within it – go on in head first, I shout.

I am coming to see the irony of the artist’s journey – the desire to be something to do something ties you to the flesh and to your experiences and to your pain.  Trust the alchemy of this – and know all are accepted in the lap, all are allowed to suckle – there is no shame – there is not wrong but an infinity of choice – to engage or to provoke or to accelerate or to stagnate for a bit – matters not – free choice –

All water flows to the amassed mysterious sea – or evaporates into the hot air, to be rained into the sea, again and again.  the games of who is good or who is talented or who has read enough to be deemed intelligent or who can name that line, “east is east and west is west, and never the twain shall meet,” in 30 seconds at the drunken literary dinner party – only to realize all is lost in the haze of chest beating and booze, let us fuck on this couch while my wife sleeps in the next room – she is hard of hearing – bravado.  if inspiration is borrowed, that is taking too, without permission.   And one says it sucks, one says it speaks, matters not, but that it was a choice of how to pass the time.  we are all floating in the same mind space oblivious and sharp edged – for now.  some awaken and merge and care not where one begins or another ends,  who creates or who absorbs,  or who is top or bottom; the merging is deeper than the mind can fathom.

* I feel the need for a disclaimer – All poking is at me or versions of me – boring, safe, predictable.  I allow myself to push publish as I flow into different spaces.   I find the format of a blog, which allows for free expression, also becomes a confine of identity at times.

passion play

9 May

haunted house, woman in red

Have you gotten a glimpse of the dark lord?

He swept me away.

I fell down a hole of his deception.

The body shook,

The body drained of its vital refreshment,

the body hung in a meat locker.

WWW:

Wide World of Weird.

What do I desire?

My desire,

my longing –

a house.

Strange words and inconsistencies,

from the soft lipped sorcerer,

were overlooked in the rush to secure.

I went there; I peeked in the windows.

I saw myself under the tree out back having tea.

Whose property upon was I trespassing?

I allowed.

I watched the show, and I allowed.

Body shook and

shivered to the bone fear;

vulturous thoughts tore out my tendons in the hot sun.

I baked to

an ashy pile, then I was

blown away.

These death spices overpower the soup of our dark times –

out there – some of us eat  each other, raw and bloody,

Bill hicks, yes, it is just a ride and

just a breeze away – the mist from the salty marshes

can caress you with the non duality of the earth without man.

I can even giggle at the scary parts of this silly passion play.

Nothing lost ultimately;

no thing can touch nothing.

The underworld master is in a silly suit – acting his part.

At intermission, he visits the men’s room, and

at the end of the show, he takes his bow,

and pokes you in the ribs –

I scared you, didn’t I?  

Dancing with the Devil in the Pale Moon Light –

batman – the burn, an accelerant if you dare.

I don’t mind

26 Apr

Dream_Chaser_by_cypherx

It might seem like maybe if you lose some weight, maybe if you get more money, maybe if you find a person who really understands you, maybe if you finally figure out how to have lots of friends, maybe if you get recognized for being famous, maybe if your face were a bit prettier, maybe if you could be a great athlete, maybe you could finally find yourself at the cool table in the middle school lunchroom, maybe if you were taller, maybe when the kids leave home, maybe when you can see things in the world, maybe if you could learn enough, maybe if you were a bit smarter, maybe if you weren’t so tongue tied, maybe if your family cared about you more, maybe if you could look perfect to others, maybe if you got promoted, maybe if your job involved cool travel, maybe if you could do what you thought was helping others as your job, maybe if you could support yourself as an artist, maybe if your house didn’t have clutter, maybe if a good day never ended, maybe if your kids were better behaved, maybe if you didn’t have to worry, maybe if you were important, maybe if you could be alone, maybe if you finally found yourself, maybe if your mind got quiet and you were enlightened, maybe if other people listened to your words, maybe if you didn’t feel invisible, maybe if you finally felt good enough, maybe if you figured it all out…

When one accepts what comes with equanimity, one is more open and present to deal with the moment with whatever is needed because the mind is not clouded by trying to cling to the good or run from the bad of what is occurring.  What happens, I don’t mind.    There is nothing wrong with me or you or this moment.

do the opposite

20 Apr

maskwoman

Basically this –  I’m afraid.

My acceptance into the improv company and the reality of actually performing in front of a live audience as a regular gig has me quite afraid.  Who is afraid?  Who watches the fear?

The body increases the heart rate in response to thoughts; the air flow constricts, the body pulls into itself, almost wanting to opossum itself under her chair.

What a  gift – to be feeling fear – and to get to experience the body and mind in this fear and to recognize the infinite array of choice here.

I’ve had a tendency (I guess that is what we do as human animals-have tendencies toward certain behaviors) to retreat.  I can get into my passive mode fairly easily, allowing myself to be taken by the currents, flowing with the go :), but not initiating the go, so much.

Where does the teaching come from that suggests one do the opposite of the habit or tendency as a practice toward the middle path?    One guru would be George Costanza from the Sienfeld show 😛

What compels us to do anything on this planet in our human bodies?  Dancers dance, singers sing:  why do I have hangups about just doing what it is I seem to be able to do?

The opposite for me here is that instead of retreating, I am walking straight into the fire of my fear.  My self doubt is tedious to me.  When I went to see a show this week, my little self was screaming inside, “You can’t do that.  Why did they want you in this company?  These people are all so funny and clever and spontaneous!”  And then those thoughts got old.  And I realized that I can say the opposite to myself,  of course.   I can stay open to the moment of whatever all of this brings.

What is difficult is that while you learn a new way of doing something, you make a lot of mistakes.  I say improv is a failure-based art form because inexperienced players fail almost every time they try to do a scene.[…]  Improvisors need to recondition themselves to see failure not as a negative.  Greg Tavares, Improv for Everyone  (Greg is one of my teachers)

Do I really care about success here?  NO, not really.  I just like to play.  And having an audience watch me play with others who like to stay in the moment in a massive game of silly pretend is of no matter.  I can do this.  Improv is a failure driven art form.  Life is a failure driven art form.  To live your life – the life of your own – you ultimately give up expectations and definitions of success and failure and just do what you are going to do.  The praise or rejection comes to no consequence.

In the world of improv,  My name is George, I’m unemployed and I live with my parents can even become a most powerful and attracting introduction.

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