I am in love. Like a tree orchid, this love is barely rooted in any actual happenings, drawing its power from dreams and imaginations, straight from the moonlight and morning wind. It puts a spring in my step and dance in my feet. I hum the music only I hear. I sleep less, eat less, get everything done, smile smugly, while the soft heat suffuses my belly. The heat waves get in the way of office work, but I don't mind, it's a good reminder of life's priorities. The Goddess is stirring again. The skin is oiled and glowing, legs shave themselves, and there is even a fresh pedicure, effortless. I look forward to our dances together, we speak the wordless language. Our dialects are different but complementary, the yin and the yang, the archetypal dance. I have promised nothing, so in the moment I can be everything. I dance out the woman in me, and the little gentle girl child. The wild panther makes her presence known with claws on the ready, slashing the air, prowling and pouncing, and the warrior stomps in the war dance. I am dancing with myself while being fully witnessed by the other. Perhaps that's the attraction, I'm falling in love with myself, with just enough of a masculine spice from my almost imaginary friend. And the other day he kissed my feet in gratitude. But I'm afraid to open the door. I've spent a year getting my inner house in order, becoming happy and balanced, creative and self-sustaining, healed and grateful for the new day. I tread lightly in my temple. God and I are finally friends and we have good conversations. Life is sweet and peaceful. And beautiful. And precious to me. I feel soft again and peeled of spiky shell I grew in the heat of the last survival battle. Two galaxies colliding, no one was left un scorched. And yet my altar reveals the secret desires of the heart. I've put a red candle in the love corner, and the dancing Krishna and Radha are my meditation companions. She's positively purring in his embrace. It is a feeling I recognize. Meditations alone on full moon nights will satisfy for a while, but I know better. The warm soft heat building up in my belly is a powerful magnet. The soul's desire to be revealed and witnessed is deeper still. I feel the currents of life picking up. I wonder, and daydream, and have conversations in my head, and laugh and cry and read my tarot cards. And then I set it all aside and just dance.
I’m so many things. Whatever is needed of me most. What’s the emergency? I’ll be what it takes to make things right. Except for on Saturday. Saturday a serpent curse releases itself upon me. My legs twist into a single appendage, bones to spine, all the way to my waist. My skin quakes and shudders releasing scales that feel like soft armor. When I lived in the city it was a major damper on my weekend. Thank goodness I live on an island again, making curse or blessing more a matter of logistics. My daughter is absolutely convinced that when I lose my temper, I turn into a dragon, but that’s any day of the week. I try to keep it down. Be good. Don’t lose my shit. But it’s so difficult to not to breathe fire sometimes.
I’m in my office rapping away on my keyboard at a feverish tempo. Lost in my world, lost in my words. Those etchings of black crossing the screen, creating something from nothing, containing meaning because we say so. I get so deep in them. So deep in myself. Giving dire meaning to something that doesn’t really matter at all … not to time or the universe. But goddess, it’s so important to me. And when an interruption trips me it’s like my very own creatively spinning planet experienced a violent collision with another astral body bringing it to a sharp stop. It’s jarring! Concepts fly off it’s surface, inspiration jettisons into space. Like when a dog shakes water from it’s coat. I’ll never catch all of those drops. They’re gone. The moment is never the same. I wonder how many civilizations that could have been were lost due to interruption of their creation process. My response is more sadness than anger, but my kids would never vouch for me on that one. It is though! The five stages of grief…
But most often I quit, and leave the carnage and go back to being whatever is needed, shifter that I am, doing my real job. Even I can’t predict what I’ll be moment to moment. I try to go along with it and make it the best I can. Except on Saturdays… and that’s the closest I’ll ever come to being a mermaid.
I'd rather have a Kit Kat bar then an all dark chocolate real whatever. That's just how I feel. I mean I know it's not healthy. I'm not ever a sugar person but an all dark chocolate real whatever is torture. Give me a Snickers, a Baby Ruth bar, even some M&Ms.
I'd rather be fucked then made love to. That's just how I feel. I mean I know that sounds masochistic or like I'm anti feminist or like I’m a sicko of some sort or another, and maybe I am, but please violate me. I mean as long as I'm attracted to you that is.
Everything is closing in on me. I mean the days are getting shorter or my fuse is getting shorter or my attention span is getting shorter and I think my spine is getting shorter. I mean I'm fucking tired. Tired of cleaning my house, mowing the lawn, feeding the animals. I'm ready for an ashram in India and I don't even know what an ashram is. That's how tired I am.
I mean the holidays are coming and I don't give a damn. I'd like to escape to an isolated island with my husband but I'm already there. If I escape anymore than this I'd be on row boat in the middle of the pacific surrounded by sharks. As a matter of fact that pretty much describes Maui.
I mean I'm siting here typing and bitching while living on the yacht so to speak. I mean do I have the right to bitch. No, not really, but what the hell? I know there's children starving in China. I mean I think that's still a fact. I know there's children starving here. I mean the U.S. I'm not sure how many children are starving on Maui. I mean with all the fruit around and all.
I've been chewing on this same fucking piece of dark chocolate for a week.
All I mean to say is, I'm over it.
That space, the very shape of it, and all it’s colors like a scrap of magazine
something which was left after the object was cut out.
The object of the sentence, it’s been omitted.
Where are the boundaries on the work of art?
Where ever you draw them, maybe.
If you choose only to see what’s there, framed by light and shadow which expertly direct your eye to the contours of the object, then you wander through the alleys of your memory to retrieve the closest object or box of objects that you’ve seen before.
You spend a millisecond playing with it all like a jigsaw puzzle.
A few years ago you would’ve lingered there, scraping the void against all possible aberrances.
Now your attention is made fickle by the jolts of electric impulses,
sparks flying everywhere nonstop nonstop nonstop
and when they stop it’s a relief so sensual, you are as aware of your precious numbered days as you will ever be.
Yet in that quiet stillness you forget to focus, and that means all is lost.
When I come up from the water I forget to breath. Or maybe I do breath unintentionally. I must or else I’d die, but I forget to enunciate to punctuate. My exhales are blaring sirens, staining the dark with fluorescent glow. Ineffable sound, and in it’s echo I hear nothing. It scares me worse than the thought of annihilation at the hands of this wicked shore break.
But where are the lines? Are they as imaginary as they seem, shifting with the balance of chemicals, of hormones and toxins, inhibitors and exstinguishers, the personalities in the room, their energy. It’s not a field like a bubble. It’s a diffuse particulate that weaves into all other present objects. Sometimes it is yet indistinguishable from the object itself, but more and more I can see them in the objects that surround them.
Take my picture, and if we are lucky something of the field will be perceptible down the line. Luck. Luck has nothing to do with it. We are blinded by the idea of luck. Blinded by the object. The very object intended to show us something, we see it in shadow, but with the light on the shape becomes ordinary. The boundaries reconform and it’s not time that constrains them in it’s sticky grid of arrows, they are weightless through time, like mirrors reflecting thousands of falling feathers where in reality there is only one.
Dense and powerful.
Iron mined from deep within the cavernous womb of the Earth Released in a torrent of intention, anger, grace.
Honor this moment,
Hear her cries of anguish at the missed opportunity to birth a new life,
Her barren soil rich with minerals awaiting a seed to nurture. Tears amass and the river floods the land,
Washing the possibility out to the sea,
Uniting with the depths of her heart,
Releasing the sorrow of the ancestors.
Honor this moment.
Taste the richness of the lava that leaks from her sacred chalice. Pele's fire,
Creating new lands and destroying old constructs,
Her rage fearsome and palpable.
Her love pure.
Crimson threads woven through the tapestry of womanhood
From the beginning of time,
Bleached bones that once held the marrow of purpose,
Now dust beneath our feet,
Minerals to feed the dreams of our children.
Serpent slithering on her skin,
All belly and contractions and sex.
Her wisdom parcelled into each scale,
Shining, iridescent tricks.
Look from here and see another truth.
All truth is hers,
Seeds planted deep root down and down,
Reaching for her heat,
The rhythm softly drumming behind every ear,
Moment by moment,
Must and sweat lead me down a corridor of secrets, desire and delicious bitterness.
His face, I did not yet know but I saw him.
I saw him in the shadows on the walls of the full but empty room. Full of bodies, empty of soul. I stepped in puddles of bass beats that pounded in my chest. In my hair. Over my wet, parted lips.
I thought he was the man in the long overcoat. He dropped something. Instantly to my knees, I took my place as his servant. Take my offering of the possibility you hold, I pleaded with my eyes, but it wasn’t him. Because what he said was “Thank you.”
He didn’t whirl me around and bring me to his breath. I didn’t feel his warm whisper in my ear.“Go away with me” he did not say.
I thought he was the man in the uniform. I slithered for him as I stared lust droplets from my gaze while balancing my dry martini.
It wasn’t him because he didn’t take my hand and walk me to his car.
He didn’t take me to his room and ravage the fullness that was my swollen hope.
He didn’t caress the tracks of tears where he was missed.
He didn’t share the space between my flesh and my bones.
He didn’t inhale the smoke left from the fire that was my longing to be wanted that scarred my landscape, and denied my blueprint.
I thought he was the turtle. The one who burned my labia with his past mistakes.
I thought it was him because when no one was watching, I floated past the boundaries my body held.
When no one was looking I was smiling from the inside of my throat, my arms, my pits and even my bones glistened when he touched my craving skin.
He made me a frog so it could not have been him.
I remember now what I should have known then.
I remember that pain I confused for love.
I remember the frequency his ravaging left me with, cold and empty, hungry for satisfaction, depleted, withered, tired.
I was looking or him my whole life. Like Cinderella and shit.
The fairy tale. The bullshit. The anger.
The fury the pain the catastrophe that was my expectation, that kept me from being young and wild and free and open and curious and kind and soft and brave and tender.
Not only did I miss my beautiful thirty three year old body, I missed the boys I fucked.
Because while I was feeling the satisfaction of being wanted, I missed who they were, what they had to offer.
Who was inside the pretty car? The one who opened the door for me?
I didn’t see that that wasn’t a ploy.
I didn’t see that he or they were just good guys and not just a tool to satisfy my hunger with.
He was a person and shit.
He had feelings, they all did.
Now I feel like an asshole. All hungry and longing and yearning and blah, blah, fucking blah, and shit.
Ew. I wanna leave you with a happy ending but that’s it folks.
That’s it. That’s what happened.
This morning I woke to tie-dye streaming through the window. My fingers wanted to run to the walls to trace it's patterns but as soon as I tried to stretch my limbs, I realized I was trapped... Locked in the spindly embrace of a Jackson chameleon! I blinked my eyes wildly and the fierce sound cut through the prairie. Thankfully, my butterfly friends recognized my call and soon arrived to free me from the Jackson's clutches. They worked for HOURS to loosen his grip, claw by claw, limb by limb. His googly eyes fluttered in dreamtime beneath his lids. I did my best not to giggle as the butterfly wings fluttered against my naked skin. I knew if I woke the Jackson, he'd only pull me closer before falling back to sleep. Then, I'd never escape. Normally I wouldn't mind, but I have a really busy day ahead of me. Fresh out of the Jackson's arms, I slipped into the shower. Cool, crisp vodka rained down on me, washing the Stardust out of my eyes and down the drain. I carefully stepped out onto my gardenia and let the vodka evaporate as a braided my rainbow into a high bunny tail. If there's one thing that slows me down, it's pushing rainbows out of my eyes all day. While I have my morning glass of moonbeams, with cream and honey, of course, I will formulate a list of the tasks that lay before me. First on the agenda, untie the knots in the wood. It always takes forever, but the trees will feel so much better when I'm done. They will dance till all of their leaves start falling off and make me laugh so hard that I will sweat ladybugs and plumerias will spill out of my mouth. Next, I have to cheer up the peaches. That shouldn't take too long if they're around when the trees start dancing. What else? Let's see… I need to invent a new color to paint the sky with… Maybe florescent clear? But that will make the air a little chilly. I suppose I should also weave a blanket from the lilicoi vine. That'll only take a few minutes if I can recruit a school of needle fish to help me. And... Hmmm... Gotta wax my wings, polish the pond, take the possums for a haircut, pet the ferns, walk the crickets, slay a couple of nasty bitches, rip their acrylic nails off until they bleed, shove that stick that's stuck up their asses right through their crown chakra, and then go straight to anger management class. On second thought, this day is beginning to sound a bit overwhelming. Maybe I'll just go back to snuggling the Jackson.
His body on my body and the way I laid in his lap next to the fire. Familiar and safe and warm. And open. No commitments in that cabin facing north west. I had lovers. A few. And a boy in Oregon who held my heart in his fist and another with mahogany curtains and a silk from India. I taste them and bits of nostalgic debris whisper to me as I attune to the light of his skin with water drops after our bath. The cabin was a result of me going to the depths of innocence as in being splattered on the sidewalk. I retreat in to the woods when I’ve gone too far into city consumptions. I hold on to awareness and righteousness and presence pushing and teetering and tasting the edge. I like the edge of climax best of all. At that moment when I rise and I rise and I contract and expand and contract and sometimes, when I don’t go over the edge and release into uncontrollable palpitations, I cruise with a bite and zest and juices of creation in my dreams. And dreams are where I belong. In the realm of stone walls and fruit trees and trying to scream but no one hearing me. That happened to me as a child in my dreams often, me, wanting to scream for help and no words would come out. No sounds. Screaming for words. Alone. I feel alone now and it’s something I’ve come to love. As I love that I still taste lovers past. And perhaps lovers future and mostly, the two boys I get to cuddle up with tonight. Because skin is to be tasted with salt.
Waking up in San Francisco groggy with too much sleep my thoughts tumble towards the collective so why fight it?
Maurgana surprises my heart with a range of freeways and off ramps and stop lights that mean go. Colleen soothes my heart with tales of wonder through the misty streets. Rose whose beautiful words glide across my heart like swans on lakes making a soft smile slide across my face. Lila knocks my heart over with words that turn life into poetry, hope into art, and fears into parachutes. Rainelle sparks fireworks in my heart having me doing backflips with her words. Chrissy charms my heart bringing me to exotic places with her words that journey to the core. Jessica whose words tickle my heart bringing tears to my eyes as I cackle and slap my thighs. Llana whose words paint a mischievous smile in my heart, with journeys and curves I swallow wanting to plead for her to never stop, never end, never more. Doris whose words carve secrets from my heart making me sigh in release, of kinship, of I'm not alone,of I can have more please? Levi holds the child muse in my heart with words that tease my chair into rocking with tales pouring into my ears then licking them clean. Andrea whose soft words charms feathers from my heart with words that tap wisdom into corners pushing witches off their brooms. Masha whose words bring me back to me making me want to curl up in her lap while she strums words straight through my heart. Sarah whose mysterious muses seduce me on repeat never failing to tantalize my heart making long stem glasses flicker in the dark. Carla that brings giggles to my soul where a cocktail of truth and depth turns my heart into a laughing Buddha. Kabba who has gone from teacher to friend, who I wait for before he appears, whose words send shivers down my heart making me yearn for cool sheets in the night. Gabby who gets my heart like no other, mixing monologues with words of spice and tragedy making me laugh till I cry. Marina that touches my heart in places I show very few, who’s words coat my ears making me yearn for candles and wine.
There, I said it, now to wake up Carl!
Amazing! Did I say life is amazing? It is! Right about now I feel like I don't know wether to laugh or cry, feeling like i'm about to burst at seams. I feel!!! I feel so alive, like a cat in the sun, stretching, stretching till my wings start busting out and spreading wide. I can feel them, big and strong, and very very real. I can feel my legs, I am them, I'm in them, I inhabit them. They shocked me at first. I must've been eleven or twelve years old, living in the world of dreams, using books as barricades against reality. I dove into them as soon as I got home from school, to drown out the kitchen reality of clutter and nonsense. They were big fat books on everything from nature to sci-fi to geography. It almost didn't matter. Any place was better than here now. The here now did not make any sense. In those books I was free. I didn't even have to live, I could just follow other, imaginary lives, like a ghost. I looked up from the book and suddenly saw my legs. Something was off. They were just way too long. And big, round, thick, with those big feet. They were their own animal. They didn't belong to me. I didn't really feel them, I didn't feel my body, not really. They were the strangest thing I ever saw, stretching the whole length of the bed to the wall. The grey blanket with the yellow embroidered sun was as always. The bookshelf with the books I knew by heart was just the same lit by the green lamp. The voices in the kitchen were the same, complaining and arguing as always. Fat old dog-eared American sci-fi novel, where Russians were the enemy, was still the same. But those kneecaps? Where did they come from? They can't be mine, they are huge! Too scary... to inhabit the body, to foray into that reality of sprinting to take cover under the desk, under anything that's hard enough, to escape raging hands and fists pummeling my face, searing the scalp, hair torn out by the fistful, fighting back, rage and fury, sobbing on the edge of obliteration... I am afraid to feel, to be vulnerable, exposed, unprotected, where nothing is between the fist and me, and no one cares, not even God. I lash out, better to end this torture once and for all, just turn the lights out, I'm ready, I won't miss this place. But I live, yet again, sobbing on the little blue mattress with thin yellow stripes that I pinched and stashed in the corner behind the armoir. The kitchen noises go on as usual.