Me
You know,
I apologized to my Mom for being such a tough baby.
I could cry so loud and for so long.
I must have had amazing lungs.
Not now,
I go to a party and if I have to raise my voice for longer than a few minutes
because the music is too high,
my throat gets sore.
And changing my diapers was no easy task either,
she or my Dad had to sit on me,
yes sit on me,
because I hated it so much,
for what reason is still unbeknown to us.
My legs would kick like hell's fury
that one arm keeping them down wasn't enough.
Yeah, strong lungs and strong legs and,
obviously, strong spirit,
but that probably
goes without saying.
Anyhow, I am a baby.
Unconscious,
not suppose to be thinking
about how this was working out for my parents.
And yet,
here I am as an adult,
feeling so bad about how I behaved
that I felt the need to say
how sorry
I was for being that difficult baby.
How sorry is that?
That I am not worth the trouble
it took them to bring me up into this world?
As if
every bead of sweat,
every sleepless night,
every tear of frustration,
every argument,
every ounce of energy
it took to wake up each day
and do it all over again
isn't worth that miraculous creation
called
me.
Me,
the bespectacled girl in the corner waiting to be asked to dance.
Me,
the cackling one in that group of girls.
Me,
the one pulling an all nighter to finish her paper.
Me,
the one who fell in love with all things Italian, including the Men.
Me,
the one who had her first kiss at summer camp.
Me,
the one who checks everyone's skin for something to squeeze.
Me,
the one who doesn't need
to apologize
for
being
me.
I apologized to my Mom for being such a tough baby.
I could cry so loud and for so long.
I must have had amazing lungs.
Not now,
I go to a party and if I have to raise my voice for longer than a few minutes
because the music is too high,
my throat gets sore.
And changing my diapers was no easy task either,
she or my Dad had to sit on me,
yes sit on me,
because I hated it so much,
for what reason is still unbeknown to us.
My legs would kick like hell's fury
that one arm keeping them down wasn't enough.
Yeah, strong lungs and strong legs and,
obviously, strong spirit,
but that probably
goes without saying.
Anyhow, I am a baby.
Unconscious,
not suppose to be thinking
about how this was working out for my parents.
And yet,
here I am as an adult,
feeling so bad about how I behaved
that I felt the need to say
how sorry
I was for being that difficult baby.
How sorry is that?
That I am not worth the trouble
it took them to bring me up into this world?
As if
every bead of sweat,
every sleepless night,
every tear of frustration,
every argument,
every ounce of energy
it took to wake up each day
and do it all over again
isn't worth that miraculous creation
called
me.
Me,
the bespectacled girl in the corner waiting to be asked to dance.
Me,
the cackling one in that group of girls.
Me,
the one pulling an all nighter to finish her paper.
Me,
the one who fell in love with all things Italian, including the Men.
Me,
the one who had her first kiss at summer camp.
Me,
the one who checks everyone's skin for something to squeeze.
Me,
the one who doesn't need
to apologize
for
being
me.
What Are You Staring At?
You want a piece of me? Come here, I'll give it to you. Spread my legs and I give you all of me. But there's a price for that. It'll cost you more than you think. It'll cost you everything. Cause once you're done, there will be nothing left. I'll eat you up because I am more than worth it. And I don't give a shit about what you prefer. You want your cake and eat it too? Yeah, well, who doesn't? You don't get to be choosy. I do. I make the rules. And it's up to me if I follow or break them. In any case, what are rules anyway? Something written down or said that becomes gospel? The golden rule. It must be valuable, it's golden. Like the golden calf the Jews, my so-called people, created and prayed to when getting antsy in the desert waiting for Moses, or so the story goes. Lots of stories, who knows what is true. I want truth or do I? Maybe the truth isn't so convenient, maybe a version of the truth is better suited to my needs and desires. It's all a matter of perspective so what the fuck are you staring at? You think this is funny? Go laugh... no, go fuck yourself and I'll fuck myself because who really wants to fuck me? The real me? Not this pretty face and body that cover me. I can't hide in it forever. I know it's temporary no matter how hard I hold on to it, knowing any day it can be gone. Car crash, years, fire, anything can happen and bam, life as I know it is gone. And what's left? Memories? A beating heart? Something worthy? If it is worth being salvaged.
Bitter Taste
Love is Life,
Life is Love...
hat's what my latest Chai Rooibos Yogi Tea says.
How sweet.
Love makes the world go round.
Well, what if it doesn't?
What if love is a pretty cover up for all the yucky shit underneath?
Something warm, spicy, and pink that sugar coats the bitter taste.
A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.
Medicine go down.
I'll tell you what's going down.
All the feelings of
inadequacy,
jealousy,
comparing
that afflict me every day.
I want to be in the light
and even fool myself that it's always there,
surrounding me
but you want to know what?
It's often nowhere to be seen,
so far down the tunnel
that the glimmer of light isn't enough for me
to tell where north south east west are.
I am so freaking lost,
petrified to write out my goals
and actualize my vision
because I don't know what to even put down on my paper.
My business call this morning with 6 powerhouse women
and that is suppose to include me,
recognizing our blocks,
our excuses and then
shifting the perspective to overcome it and do the work
to change it.
I say yes,
I can do it,
these women my witnesses,
my accountability,
but I don't feel it.
I am acting.
My heart is shaking no,
too much fucking work.
As if we don't have enough else to deal with.
Massage,
oils business,
wedding planning,
responding to emails,
feeling so tired
and it's only 11am,
working out
or feeling bad about not working out,
guilt about not being grateful enough for this life,
antagonizing where I am not instead of celebrating where I am,
on and on and on.
Is there an
end
to all this
madness?
Life is Love...
hat's what my latest Chai Rooibos Yogi Tea says.
How sweet.
Love makes the world go round.
Well, what if it doesn't?
What if love is a pretty cover up for all the yucky shit underneath?
Something warm, spicy, and pink that sugar coats the bitter taste.
A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.
Medicine go down.
I'll tell you what's going down.
All the feelings of
inadequacy,
jealousy,
comparing
that afflict me every day.
I want to be in the light
and even fool myself that it's always there,
surrounding me
but you want to know what?
It's often nowhere to be seen,
so far down the tunnel
that the glimmer of light isn't enough for me
to tell where north south east west are.
I am so freaking lost,
petrified to write out my goals
and actualize my vision
because I don't know what to even put down on my paper.
My business call this morning with 6 powerhouse women
and that is suppose to include me,
recognizing our blocks,
our excuses and then
shifting the perspective to overcome it and do the work
to change it.
I say yes,
I can do it,
these women my witnesses,
my accountability,
but I don't feel it.
I am acting.
My heart is shaking no,
too much fucking work.
As if we don't have enough else to deal with.
Massage,
oils business,
wedding planning,
responding to emails,
feeling so tired
and it's only 11am,
working out
or feeling bad about not working out,
guilt about not being grateful enough for this life,
antagonizing where I am not instead of celebrating where I am,
on and on and on.
Is there an
end
to all this
madness?
Books
Books.
My parents loved them
or at least wanted us to read them when we were kids.
They knew it make us smarter
or more well-rounded or use our brains or...
Or it doesn't matter.
I don't know why but...
But I had a lot of resistance to it,
like it wouldn't be interesting enough.
As if there was something else that was more interesting.
All that changed the summer of 4th grade in Cape Cod.
Lots of time to do nothing so...
So why not something?
I picked up the battered cover of,
Dear God, it's me Margaret.
You know one of those coming of age novels Judy Blum does so well.
Anyhow,
everything changed.
I got it.
I felt the character,
I felt what it was to be a girl
that was to be a girl no more.
No one can really you hold your hand at that time.
But I.
I could when I read.
I could go anywhere in my books.
And I did.
I am curled up my twin bed,
devouring each page.
The curtains swaying in the warm salty breeze,
brushing my arms.
Coming through the window,
kids shouts,
birds' squawks,
ocean waves.
I am me but I am Margaret.
I want to stay in my little world.
Forever.
Seeing,
feeling,
being in this new world of rich characters and emotions,
being on someone else's journey.
My journey.
It's my thoughts,
those are my tears,
my anger,
my forgiveness,
my confusion,
my heartache.
I am here in it.
Feeling and it's so safe.
I love the safety of it.
Outside my simple room,
feelings can get me in trouble.
Like getting angry with Ken and Sunday School
who was so ticked off that as soon as I turned my back to him,
he punched me!
In the center of my back. W
ho does that?
I wouldn't.
No, I think
I'll stay
a bit
longer.
My parents loved them
or at least wanted us to read them when we were kids.
They knew it make us smarter
or more well-rounded or use our brains or...
Or it doesn't matter.
I don't know why but...
But I had a lot of resistance to it,
like it wouldn't be interesting enough.
As if there was something else that was more interesting.
All that changed the summer of 4th grade in Cape Cod.
Lots of time to do nothing so...
So why not something?
I picked up the battered cover of,
Dear God, it's me Margaret.
You know one of those coming of age novels Judy Blum does so well.
Anyhow,
everything changed.
I got it.
I felt the character,
I felt what it was to be a girl
that was to be a girl no more.
No one can really you hold your hand at that time.
But I.
I could when I read.
I could go anywhere in my books.
And I did.
I am curled up my twin bed,
devouring each page.
The curtains swaying in the warm salty breeze,
brushing my arms.
Coming through the window,
kids shouts,
birds' squawks,
ocean waves.
I am me but I am Margaret.
I want to stay in my little world.
Forever.
Seeing,
feeling,
being in this new world of rich characters and emotions,
being on someone else's journey.
My journey.
It's my thoughts,
those are my tears,
my anger,
my forgiveness,
my confusion,
my heartache.
I am here in it.
Feeling and it's so safe.
I love the safety of it.
Outside my simple room,
feelings can get me in trouble.
Like getting angry with Ken and Sunday School
who was so ticked off that as soon as I turned my back to him,
he punched me!
In the center of my back. W
ho does that?
I wouldn't.
No, I think
I'll stay
a bit
longer.
Jump For Me
Jumping jumping jumping.
I can't stop jumping.
I can't
or I won't.
10 minutes I must jump.
Jump for joy,
jump for anger,
jump for pride,
jump for integrity,
jump for sadness,
for grief,
for liberty,
because I can,
because I am doing what I am told.
I am told it's good for me.
It's good for repressed feelings,
to release them,
to let them go.
Say hey thanks for joining me
but I am done with you,
ciao,
austa la vista,
baby.
Fuck, my quads are burning,
I better have rock solid legs after doing this every morning.
Feet, land feet on the full sole, not balls,
I don't want my calves to ache again tomorrow.
Breathe,
shout,
from the gut.
Fuck, when is this over?
Use the exhaustion,
resistance,
channel back...
more energy,
more yes,
I am going to fucking do this and be a better person for it even if it kills me.
Haha,
imagine that,
keel over from too much jumping.
I am jumping for my life.
To live it.
You know,
really live it,
not in some semi-conscious state,
just floating down the road,
at dinner,
into bed and up again,
day in and day out.
Fuck that.
I am not another casualty.
Conforming to what mama tells me through example.
Locking herself in the bedroom when our fighting and yelling got too loud,
Mommy mommy mommy!
Banging the door down.
Can't deal.
Can't respond,
tune out.
I am not her.
I am her daughter
and I can see
and I can learn
and I can keep going,
going and seeing what is in me
and how I want to be.
I am confronting the demons in front of me,
in me.
I will not hold back
what I think,
what I feel.
If I am angry,
I will let you know,
don't you
worry
about that.
I can't stop jumping.
I can't
or I won't.
10 minutes I must jump.
Jump for joy,
jump for anger,
jump for pride,
jump for integrity,
jump for sadness,
for grief,
for liberty,
because I can,
because I am doing what I am told.
I am told it's good for me.
It's good for repressed feelings,
to release them,
to let them go.
Say hey thanks for joining me
but I am done with you,
ciao,
austa la vista,
baby.
Fuck, my quads are burning,
I better have rock solid legs after doing this every morning.
Feet, land feet on the full sole, not balls,
I don't want my calves to ache again tomorrow.
Breathe,
shout,
from the gut.
Fuck, when is this over?
Use the exhaustion,
resistance,
channel back...
more energy,
more yes,
I am going to fucking do this and be a better person for it even if it kills me.
Haha,
imagine that,
keel over from too much jumping.
I am jumping for my life.
To live it.
You know,
really live it,
not in some semi-conscious state,
just floating down the road,
at dinner,
into bed and up again,
day in and day out.
Fuck that.
I am not another casualty.
Conforming to what mama tells me through example.
Locking herself in the bedroom when our fighting and yelling got too loud,
Mommy mommy mommy!
Banging the door down.
Can't deal.
Can't respond,
tune out.
I am not her.
I am her daughter
and I can see
and I can learn
and I can keep going,
going and seeing what is in me
and how I want to be.
I am confronting the demons in front of me,
in me.
I will not hold back
what I think,
what I feel.
If I am angry,
I will let you know,
don't you
worry
about that.
Inhale Until I Bliss Out
The skin next to my nail is rough,
even though I filed it down recently.
Funny how peaceful it is up here
but when I close my ears,
the cacophony of outdoor sounds
is almost overwhelming.
Almost.
Not loud enough to actually be.
You know,
overwhelming.
Instead it's like a dream,
when you're in it,
it's all quite normal,
fits together without any questioning,
at least mine do
but when you think about it in a more conscious state,
it is bizarre.
My ears are like a dog's,
turning this way or that to the sounds.
The high flatulent birds tweeting,
wish I knew what they were saying,
water running into the pot for ginger tea,
car engines zooming by down below,
light switch turning on,
crunch of a tortilla chip,
leaves on the tree swaying in the breeze,
the scratching on my arm.
What.
What?
Wild what the funk?
I feel so freaking normal.
I bang my feet on the hardwood floor hoping
for something to wake up.
Wake up!
Wake up,
it's time to dig.
Do you dig it, man?
I love that expression,
makes me feel like I am in the 60's or something.
I know I am in the right time and place
which is right now
but I have a thing for that time period when people were waking up,
starting a revolution,
had big hair,
crazy bell bottoms,
running around naked
and taking LSD.
All things I can do right now
but I still enjoy romanticizing about it.
Who's to say one of my soul fragments isn't living it right now?
Nobody.
It doesn't matter anyways.
Imagination.
It can take me anywhere I want.
I want.
Want what?
To jump in a giant bouquet of flowers and
just inhale
until
I bliss out.
even though I filed it down recently.
Funny how peaceful it is up here
but when I close my ears,
the cacophony of outdoor sounds
is almost overwhelming.
Almost.
Not loud enough to actually be.
You know,
overwhelming.
Instead it's like a dream,
when you're in it,
it's all quite normal,
fits together without any questioning,
at least mine do
but when you think about it in a more conscious state,
it is bizarre.
My ears are like a dog's,
turning this way or that to the sounds.
The high flatulent birds tweeting,
wish I knew what they were saying,
water running into the pot for ginger tea,
car engines zooming by down below,
light switch turning on,
crunch of a tortilla chip,
leaves on the tree swaying in the breeze,
the scratching on my arm.
What.
What?
Wild what the funk?
I feel so freaking normal.
I bang my feet on the hardwood floor hoping
for something to wake up.
Wake up!
Wake up,
it's time to dig.
Do you dig it, man?
I love that expression,
makes me feel like I am in the 60's or something.
I know I am in the right time and place
which is right now
but I have a thing for that time period when people were waking up,
starting a revolution,
had big hair,
crazy bell bottoms,
running around naked
and taking LSD.
All things I can do right now
but I still enjoy romanticizing about it.
Who's to say one of my soul fragments isn't living it right now?
Nobody.
It doesn't matter anyways.
Imagination.
It can take me anywhere I want.
I want.
Want what?
To jump in a giant bouquet of flowers and
just inhale
until
I bliss out.
Flight
Waiting.
He's waiting for me.
Laying in bed reading,
content to be alone,
but he wants me next to him.
I want to be next to him.
I am waiting too.
I am waiting to complete this piece
and I have barely started.
Line 3 and why is it so hard?
It's not really,
it's just me focusing
on the blank space to be filled with my creation.
I am waiting
for the lightning bolt to go though the top of my head
and produce brilliance on the screen.
Waiting to see what comes out of me.
Waiting to check mark my growing list of to dos.
I have that big knot in my throat
as if I am holding back crying.
Am I waiting to cry?
Cry about not recognizing all life's amazing miracles
because I am looking the other way?
I am standing by the mailbox
and look down and see a dead bird,
her neck twisted to the point
that her head is a complete silhouette,
eyes open,
wings outstretched.
I gasp at the shock of it.
It must have been so quick,
the death,
at least I hope.
Couldn't have known what hit her
but it had to have been a car.
She looks so perfect,
intact,
the long green shards of grass
framing her body and wings.
It's like she's waiting
for me to discover her.
But she wasn't waiting to be killed.
She was living it,
doing her thing,
flying from this place to that or whatever birdies do...
and bam,
gone like that.
We clipped her wings
and threw her body over the gulch.
Those wings,
they are my reminder for flight,
for continual movement.
She's given them to me
and I am not going
to
waste
them.
He's waiting for me.
Laying in bed reading,
content to be alone,
but he wants me next to him.
I want to be next to him.
I am waiting too.
I am waiting to complete this piece
and I have barely started.
Line 3 and why is it so hard?
It's not really,
it's just me focusing
on the blank space to be filled with my creation.
I am waiting
for the lightning bolt to go though the top of my head
and produce brilliance on the screen.
Waiting to see what comes out of me.
Waiting to check mark my growing list of to dos.
I have that big knot in my throat
as if I am holding back crying.
Am I waiting to cry?
Cry about not recognizing all life's amazing miracles
because I am looking the other way?
I am standing by the mailbox
and look down and see a dead bird,
her neck twisted to the point
that her head is a complete silhouette,
eyes open,
wings outstretched.
I gasp at the shock of it.
It must have been so quick,
the death,
at least I hope.
Couldn't have known what hit her
but it had to have been a car.
She looks so perfect,
intact,
the long green shards of grass
framing her body and wings.
It's like she's waiting
for me to discover her.
But she wasn't waiting to be killed.
She was living it,
doing her thing,
flying from this place to that or whatever birdies do...
and bam,
gone like that.
We clipped her wings
and threw her body over the gulch.
Those wings,
they are my reminder for flight,
for continual movement.
She's given them to me
and I am not going
to
waste
them.
Criticism
The taste of the minty dark chocolate lingers in my mouth.
My face warms to the sun, this blinding sun that forces me to keep my eyes shut.
Shut, I don't want to open my eyes to those nasty things I don't want to face.
Like criticism.
When I hear the words, "Jessica, I have to talk to you,"
time stops,
the refrigerator humming suddenly is loud.
My throat is dry and I swallow hard.
Where is my breath?
I prepare for the worse.
My body tenses and I am thinking shit, what he's gonna say?
What did I do?
The image of my fists, coming up blocking my face knuckles facing outward, like an old-time boxer comes to mind.
My arms stay by my side but I have created the same boundary.
I want to flee,
run out the door,
down the driveway
and be gone so I don't have to listen to a word.
But
I don't.
I sit,
paralyzed,
ready
for the good,
the bad,
and the ugly,
except I don't think there's any good in there.
I don't even let myself entertain that possibility,
even though there's no reason
to believe that isn't just as viable
as the other options.
His tone is only serious,
not angry.
But they can go hand in hand.
I fear anger.
When I pissed my Dad off,
he'd yell and scare the shit out of me.
He didn't even touch me
but his energy was so palpable,
every cell of my body quivering,
like a zillion panicked faces resembling
The Scream painting from Van Gogh.
My cells hold on to this,
they aren't letting go so easy.
I take a deep breath.
"Sure, what's up?",
I ask in a my most casual tone.
My face warms to the sun, this blinding sun that forces me to keep my eyes shut.
Shut, I don't want to open my eyes to those nasty things I don't want to face.
Like criticism.
When I hear the words, "Jessica, I have to talk to you,"
time stops,
the refrigerator humming suddenly is loud.
My throat is dry and I swallow hard.
Where is my breath?
I prepare for the worse.
My body tenses and I am thinking shit, what he's gonna say?
What did I do?
The image of my fists, coming up blocking my face knuckles facing outward, like an old-time boxer comes to mind.
My arms stay by my side but I have created the same boundary.
I want to flee,
run out the door,
down the driveway
and be gone so I don't have to listen to a word.
But
I don't.
I sit,
paralyzed,
ready
for the good,
the bad,
and the ugly,
except I don't think there's any good in there.
I don't even let myself entertain that possibility,
even though there's no reason
to believe that isn't just as viable
as the other options.
His tone is only serious,
not angry.
But they can go hand in hand.
I fear anger.
When I pissed my Dad off,
he'd yell and scare the shit out of me.
He didn't even touch me
but his energy was so palpable,
every cell of my body quivering,
like a zillion panicked faces resembling
The Scream painting from Van Gogh.
My cells hold on to this,
they aren't letting go so easy.
I take a deep breath.
"Sure, what's up?",
I ask in a my most casual tone.
The Race
The sun is trying to break through the clouds,
creating patches of light in the shadows on the track.
My orange and black polyester marks me.
I am running,
sprinting,
past the other uniformed girls in their school colors.
Their legs are longer, strides seem double mine
but I am quick,
quick to overtake them,
one spiked foot in front of the other.
Faster,
must be faster,
my heart is sucking every bit of oxygen
my lungs can procure.
Racing them, racing myself, what is the difference?
It's never about them. It's doing it because
I can do it,
because I want it.
I want to beat myself.
I want to feel my body ripping through the flimsy ribbon,
hear the cheers of my teammates and coach,
feel the congratulatory pats on the back,
the knowing I gave it my all and it showed.
It showed I am a winner.
A winner.
What is that anyways?
Something I can do better than the next?
I judge it but I still want that medal.
The medal of achievement, good grades, love, success, righteousness, abundance...
I don't need a medal but somewhere I am still searching for it.
Maybe it's in my wide drawer under all the stacked papers,
mixed with the pens and pencils with erasers that don't work anymore, or
it's still on the track field,
dangling in front of my nose like a carrot as the wind whips past my prepubescent body,
forever striving for the unattainable,
for a race that can never be won.
It's already won
but
I just don't know it.
creating patches of light in the shadows on the track.
My orange and black polyester marks me.
I am running,
sprinting,
past the other uniformed girls in their school colors.
Their legs are longer, strides seem double mine
but I am quick,
quick to overtake them,
one spiked foot in front of the other.
Faster,
must be faster,
my heart is sucking every bit of oxygen
my lungs can procure.
Racing them, racing myself, what is the difference?
It's never about them. It's doing it because
I can do it,
because I want it.
I want to beat myself.
I want to feel my body ripping through the flimsy ribbon,
hear the cheers of my teammates and coach,
feel the congratulatory pats on the back,
the knowing I gave it my all and it showed.
It showed I am a winner.
A winner.
What is that anyways?
Something I can do better than the next?
I judge it but I still want that medal.
The medal of achievement, good grades, love, success, righteousness, abundance...
I don't need a medal but somewhere I am still searching for it.
Maybe it's in my wide drawer under all the stacked papers,
mixed with the pens and pencils with erasers that don't work anymore, or
it's still on the track field,
dangling in front of my nose like a carrot as the wind whips past my prepubescent body,
forever striving for the unattainable,
for a race that can never be won.
It's already won
but
I just don't know it.
Now It Is
Love me.
Hold me.
Kiss me...
hard, long, as if I am your everything,
because I am your everything, at least in this moment.
Ohh, do I want to do the same.
To be present.
To be utterly available to reckless abandonment.
Abandon the random thoughts running through my splitting brain.
Abandon responsibilities that serve
no purpose right here,
right now.
Now is it.
Not tomorrow,
not yesterday,
not this morning.
Now!
The blinding bluebird blue light from the mega projector reflecting off his translucent skin.
His wet tongue exploring,
teasing mine,
darting in and out of my mouth like a peek a boo.
I see you.
I feel you.
You wanna play?
I can play all right.
Come here, I'll match you.
I'll beat you.
There's no winners and thank god no losers.
Come to think of it, it's only winners.
It's the moment, how else could it be different?
His fingers trace the outline of my hips,
up my ribcage,
to my small breast,
coddling it before tweaking the nipple.
The nipple, made to feed babies...
and my lover.
He gleans his nutrition beyond what food can provide.
No sireee,
no serving the belly,
only open for full body satiation.
To be satiated,
to be full,
to need nothing more.
What more could there be?
Hold me.
Kiss me...
hard, long, as if I am your everything,
because I am your everything, at least in this moment.
Ohh, do I want to do the same.
To be present.
To be utterly available to reckless abandonment.
Abandon the random thoughts running through my splitting brain.
Abandon responsibilities that serve
no purpose right here,
right now.
Now is it.
Not tomorrow,
not yesterday,
not this morning.
Now!
The blinding bluebird blue light from the mega projector reflecting off his translucent skin.
His wet tongue exploring,
teasing mine,
darting in and out of my mouth like a peek a boo.
I see you.
I feel you.
You wanna play?
I can play all right.
Come here, I'll match you.
I'll beat you.
There's no winners and thank god no losers.
Come to think of it, it's only winners.
It's the moment, how else could it be different?
His fingers trace the outline of my hips,
up my ribcage,
to my small breast,
coddling it before tweaking the nipple.
The nipple, made to feed babies...
and my lover.
He gleans his nutrition beyond what food can provide.
No sireee,
no serving the belly,
only open for full body satiation.
To be satiated,
to be full,
to need nothing more.
What more could there be?
Belltop
I rummage through my drawer, searching for my least favorite clothes. Love that white izod vest, pass. Let's see, what is under it. Oh, that button-down shirt with the button missing at the bottom- perfect! The stained pants from dirt or Coco cola or something like that with the wide bottoms, they'll do too.. Like many of these clothes, they came this way, thanks to being the lucky hand-me-down recipient of my sister who I adore and usually delight in whatever I get from her. We are running out the door to Belltop, the daycare Mom takes us to. I don't like that place at all. So, I have made up my mind that I don't want to wear any of my nice clothes, wouldn't want to get them messed up and all. I have to be careful when I have my cool digs on so better to not care at all, especially when my spirits fall in the lower hemisphere. I got yelled at one day at Belltop and its tainted my opinion every since. It's the dreaded nap time. The whistle blows and us 3 and 4-year olds with our 70's bowl cuts, thick bangs, and feather layers, run to the pile of folded dull-colored synthetic mats, grabbing one and laying it down, side by side. I lay on my thin, cushy mat but I am not tired. I wish I were so I could sleep and be quiet like the ones next to me. But I am restless, and bored, just laying there. I do something, probably get the attention of a friend, or worse my brother, across the room and I am caught. And then ostracized. One of the teachers tell me I have to go into the other nap room. I don't know why but I don't want to go. No, please, don't make me go. I hate not being able to do what I want. I have to go to this ugly school. I have to do nap time. I have to go to the other room, with maybe the other bad kids. I never forget it. I never forgive Belltop for making me feel like a fool, embarrassing me. I know I am no fool but I am impressionable and I don't let go so easy.
I rummage through my drawer, searching for my least favorite clothes. Love that white izod vest, pass. Let's see, what is under it. Oh, that button-down shirt with the button missing at the bottom- perfect! The stained pants from dirt or Coco cola or something like that with the wide bottoms, they'll do too.. Like many of these clothes, they came this way, thanks to being the lucky hand-me-down recipient of my sister who I adore and usually delight in whatever I get from her. We are running out the door to Belltop, the daycare Mom takes us to. I don't like that place at all. So, I have made up my mind that I don't want to wear any of my nice clothes, wouldn't want to get them messed up and all. I have to be careful when I have my cool digs on so better to not care at all, especially when my spirits fall in the lower hemisphere. I got yelled at one day at Belltop and its tainted my opinion every since. It's the dreaded nap time. The whistle blows and us 3 and 4-year olds with our 70's bowl cuts, thick bangs, and feather layers, run to the pile of folded dull-colored synthetic mats, grabbing one and laying it down, side by side. I lay on my thin, cushy mat but I am not tired. I wish I were so I could sleep and be quiet like the ones next to me. But I am restless, and bored, just laying there. I do something, probably get the attention of a friend, or worse my brother, across the room and I am caught. And then ostracized. One of the teachers tell me I have to go into the other nap room. I don't know why but I don't want to go. No, please, don't make me go. I hate not being able to do what I want. I have to go to this ugly school. I have to do nap time. I have to go to the other room, with maybe the other bad kids. I never forget it. I never forgive Belltop for making me feel like a fool, embarrassing me. I know I am no fool but I am impressionable and I don't let go so easy.
That's ecstasy
That's what I am talking about. You know when you're chatting with someone and they get you. I love when I make that connection with someone. I am at the concert, enjoying being alone, but I can't help but scan the room for a familiar face, for a friend who I can play with, who I can see my reflection through. It's funny how I get to know myself through someone else's eyes. I can be by myself, mediate, focus on what I am feeling, but it's so easy to get distracted. I can feel peace but not the ecstasy of when I am connecting with a person. I am not even thinking sexual. I am thinking the girl power energy or sister energy. I am sitting on the couch cuddled nice and close with my sister, real sister, and we're floating on cloud nine, feeling so good in each other's company. Whatever I say, she totally gets it and if I make a funny or she does, we are laughing nonstop, those moments of total "I get you". I will be doing an impression of our parents, and she's on the floor or maybe I am. I think I am hilarious. I love my sense of humor, especially when I have somebody next to me who recognizes it. The friends that get it, they are the ones that last. Their brain wave seems to be matching mine, so it's like this curvy road and we are traveling hand in hand, or maybe she is just above or below, maybe even far away but the same road. When I need her, I just call out and there she is, right beside me, as if she has been there all along. I love that. It makes my heart burst from the seams. Burst, and the light shines. That's ecstasy.
That's what I am talking about. You know when you're chatting with someone and they get you. I love when I make that connection with someone. I am at the concert, enjoying being alone, but I can't help but scan the room for a familiar face, for a friend who I can play with, who I can see my reflection through. It's funny how I get to know myself through someone else's eyes. I can be by myself, mediate, focus on what I am feeling, but it's so easy to get distracted. I can feel peace but not the ecstasy of when I am connecting with a person. I am not even thinking sexual. I am thinking the girl power energy or sister energy. I am sitting on the couch cuddled nice and close with my sister, real sister, and we're floating on cloud nine, feeling so good in each other's company. Whatever I say, she totally gets it and if I make a funny or she does, we are laughing nonstop, those moments of total "I get you". I will be doing an impression of our parents, and she's on the floor or maybe I am. I think I am hilarious. I love my sense of humor, especially when I have somebody next to me who recognizes it. The friends that get it, they are the ones that last. Their brain wave seems to be matching mine, so it's like this curvy road and we are traveling hand in hand, or maybe she is just above or below, maybe even far away but the same road. When I need her, I just call out and there she is, right beside me, as if she has been there all along. I love that. It makes my heart burst from the seams. Burst, and the light shines. That's ecstasy.
Look and You Shall Find
Stay on the scene, like a loving machine. Looving machine... that is yummy. Taste, feel, delve deep into the senses. How sweet to forget the small talk, save time and energy, and get right into the heart of the matter, literally. The heart, a beating organ that sends life-force to the rest of the body is the focus in my second half of my life. I don't remember thinking much of it growing up and then I woke up to spirituality in Southeast Asia and I saw, felt that there was so much more than my eyes were willing to perceive. I am backpacking my way through Thailand, Malaysia, back to Thailand and I am feeling this pulling feeling, like something tugging on my hair strands, whispering too close to my ear, hey, listen, listen, there is more, you want to know more, probe, dig, see what you can realize. I gotta start somewhere so look in the books. Heck, I got myself all the way across the world, there's a reason I ended up here. And so I find my book. My messenger: a tall, skinny, freckly, pale Australian who was genuine and traveling my same path. We spent a few days seeing the sites near the River Kwai, you know from the famous classic war movie, Bridge over River Kwai with the actor that plays Star Wars' Oby1conobi.. anyways, we tried our luck at being lovers, it was well.. sweet but awkward...lots of banging elbows while kissing, stuff like that. Clear it would be short-lived, mutual understanding of this without having to verbalize it. He has a well-worn copy of The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying and gives it to me. I am delighted, touched, grateful... maybe this is where I will find the answer to the secret of life. My eyes devour the words, and the story returns over and over again to meditation. What the fuck is meditation? Remember, this is 2001 and it isn't mainstream yet, at least not in my sphere in the midwest. Meditation appears to be the answer to what? What am I seeking? Truth. The big picture. And end to the nagging issues I bottle up inside, like feeling guilty about leaving my family and traveling. Being happy, whatever that is. Feeling at peace. Whatever this feeling that is seeping into my bones, into my nervous system since arriving in this part of the world, this wake up, I want more of it. I am going to get this mediation thing figured out, whatever it takes.
Stay on the scene, like a loving machine. Looving machine... that is yummy. Taste, feel, delve deep into the senses. How sweet to forget the small talk, save time and energy, and get right into the heart of the matter, literally. The heart, a beating organ that sends life-force to the rest of the body is the focus in my second half of my life. I don't remember thinking much of it growing up and then I woke up to spirituality in Southeast Asia and I saw, felt that there was so much more than my eyes were willing to perceive. I am backpacking my way through Thailand, Malaysia, back to Thailand and I am feeling this pulling feeling, like something tugging on my hair strands, whispering too close to my ear, hey, listen, listen, there is more, you want to know more, probe, dig, see what you can realize. I gotta start somewhere so look in the books. Heck, I got myself all the way across the world, there's a reason I ended up here. And so I find my book. My messenger: a tall, skinny, freckly, pale Australian who was genuine and traveling my same path. We spent a few days seeing the sites near the River Kwai, you know from the famous classic war movie, Bridge over River Kwai with the actor that plays Star Wars' Oby1conobi.. anyways, we tried our luck at being lovers, it was well.. sweet but awkward...lots of banging elbows while kissing, stuff like that. Clear it would be short-lived, mutual understanding of this without having to verbalize it. He has a well-worn copy of The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying and gives it to me. I am delighted, touched, grateful... maybe this is where I will find the answer to the secret of life. My eyes devour the words, and the story returns over and over again to meditation. What the fuck is meditation? Remember, this is 2001 and it isn't mainstream yet, at least not in my sphere in the midwest. Meditation appears to be the answer to what? What am I seeking? Truth. The big picture. And end to the nagging issues I bottle up inside, like feeling guilty about leaving my family and traveling. Being happy, whatever that is. Feeling at peace. Whatever this feeling that is seeping into my bones, into my nervous system since arriving in this part of the world, this wake up, I want more of it. I am going to get this mediation thing figured out, whatever it takes.
Sorry, running late!
Laughing. He is laughing at me. At my seriousness, my plea to write a good one. To get to the heart of the matter, whatever the matter may be is yet to be scrutinized. Don't take myself so seriously, how true. How wise it is to simply take a step back and get perspective on all those so-called big things. Like, running late. I have this reliable tendency to be late to almost everything. Thank god I put the almost in there as I am on time to the Collective and that's something. Anyways, I get so uncomfortable in my body about being late and since that is all the time, it makes me cock my head sideways like my sister's dog Sheffield does when I make a funny sound, a bewildered look in her eyes, and wonder what is the sense in that? The sheer ridiculousness of the repetition of being late and allowing myself to get heart palpitations or something like that has to be worthy to be laughed at. I am not laughing though, but I want to. Because if I can laugh at my irrationalities and habits that don't serve me, I can be done with it. I want to be done with it. This weight is pulling me down, zapping my energy, my life force right out of me and I know it doesn't have to be this way. I know I can wake up and just see and feel and be with what is right there in front of me. So, wake up!
Laughing. He is laughing at me. At my seriousness, my plea to write a good one. To get to the heart of the matter, whatever the matter may be is yet to be scrutinized. Don't take myself so seriously, how true. How wise it is to simply take a step back and get perspective on all those so-called big things. Like, running late. I have this reliable tendency to be late to almost everything. Thank god I put the almost in there as I am on time to the Collective and that's something. Anyways, I get so uncomfortable in my body about being late and since that is all the time, it makes me cock my head sideways like my sister's dog Sheffield does when I make a funny sound, a bewildered look in her eyes, and wonder what is the sense in that? The sheer ridiculousness of the repetition of being late and allowing myself to get heart palpitations or something like that has to be worthy to be laughed at. I am not laughing though, but I want to. Because if I can laugh at my irrationalities and habits that don't serve me, I can be done with it. I want to be done with it. This weight is pulling me down, zapping my energy, my life force right out of me and I know it doesn't have to be this way. I know I can wake up and just see and feel and be with what is right there in front of me. So, wake up!
The English
There is something about the English. The quick wit, the quirky men, the lousy weather, the rugged landscape, and, of course, the hourly, would you like a cup of tea? It's the closest thing I can say in an English accent. If I could have, I would have spoken with an English accent all the time I lived in England, but I am just not one of those people who can pick up accents, never mind melodies or words. The auditory thing is not where I excel. Visual is more my cup of tea, so to speak. Wink wink. How do I convey in words that wink or low chuckle when you say something you think is funny or want others to think is funny? Anyhow, the English. I was born in England, though didn't stay more than a year, and maybe that's where my affinity with the English come from. It's not just the gorgeous accent, though that in enough could do, it's the dry sense of humor that gets me every time. Especially with the men. I had 2 deep, long relationships with Brits. They were attentive, I mean really attentive with me. He would rub my sacrum in the morning when I was still in that semi-conscious state but enough so to sweetly ask, Please...my sacrum. My bedhead hair laying in tangles and sticking to my face as my cheeks rubbed against the soft cotton colored sheets, my body moving in rhythmic circles to his pressed hand. Oh how I love that. The sensation yes but that the fact that he does this. He loves me. He probably doesn't want to get off his computer to come over and rub me, or maybe he needed the excuse. Either way, he knows it's gonna make me feel good, so he does it. No reason to argue with that. But in the end, it just wasn't enough.
There is something about the English. The quick wit, the quirky men, the lousy weather, the rugged landscape, and, of course, the hourly, would you like a cup of tea? It's the closest thing I can say in an English accent. If I could have, I would have spoken with an English accent all the time I lived in England, but I am just not one of those people who can pick up accents, never mind melodies or words. The auditory thing is not where I excel. Visual is more my cup of tea, so to speak. Wink wink. How do I convey in words that wink or low chuckle when you say something you think is funny or want others to think is funny? Anyhow, the English. I was born in England, though didn't stay more than a year, and maybe that's where my affinity with the English come from. It's not just the gorgeous accent, though that in enough could do, it's the dry sense of humor that gets me every time. Especially with the men. I had 2 deep, long relationships with Brits. They were attentive, I mean really attentive with me. He would rub my sacrum in the morning when I was still in that semi-conscious state but enough so to sweetly ask, Please...my sacrum. My bedhead hair laying in tangles and sticking to my face as my cheeks rubbed against the soft cotton colored sheets, my body moving in rhythmic circles to his pressed hand. Oh how I love that. The sensation yes but that the fact that he does this. He loves me. He probably doesn't want to get off his computer to come over and rub me, or maybe he needed the excuse. Either way, he knows it's gonna make me feel good, so he does it. No reason to argue with that. But in the end, it just wasn't enough.
See how dizzy we can get
Give me your bowl and I will ladle you a hearty stew of spiced vegetables and bone broth, oozing with nutrients to warm your belly.
Give me your eyes and I will melt into your pupils until my face turns blurry, camouflaging into the background.
Give me your trunk and I will wrap my arms around like a snug wooly cloak.
Bare your neck so I may press my face into your skin, inhaling your aroma, and kissing the ticklish spots.
Bare your teeth as your head goes back in laughter so I can match your joy and laugh with you.
Bare your tears so I can feel with you and hold you and swim in your river.
Swim we shall, down the crooked path of no return, where birds land on our shoulders and tweet in our ears, where skipping is the norm and walking the exception, where telling lies is as hard as the tough bamboo trunks and telling truths is the flapping of butterfly wings, where breathing long and deep is as simple as the abc's, and where dreams are our waking life, and sleep no different. Dreams become us and we become them. Over the tree tops we fly, looking down at all the directions we can go, knowing that any will do, but some will be more adventurous, or sad, or perhaps a tad boring, but no mind to that, keep cartwheeling along and see how dizzy we can get.
Give me your bowl and I will ladle you a hearty stew of spiced vegetables and bone broth, oozing with nutrients to warm your belly.
Give me your eyes and I will melt into your pupils until my face turns blurry, camouflaging into the background.
Give me your trunk and I will wrap my arms around like a snug wooly cloak.
Bare your neck so I may press my face into your skin, inhaling your aroma, and kissing the ticklish spots.
Bare your teeth as your head goes back in laughter so I can match your joy and laugh with you.
Bare your tears so I can feel with you and hold you and swim in your river.
Swim we shall, down the crooked path of no return, where birds land on our shoulders and tweet in our ears, where skipping is the norm and walking the exception, where telling lies is as hard as the tough bamboo trunks and telling truths is the flapping of butterfly wings, where breathing long and deep is as simple as the abc's, and where dreams are our waking life, and sleep no different. Dreams become us and we become them. Over the tree tops we fly, looking down at all the directions we can go, knowing that any will do, but some will be more adventurous, or sad, or perhaps a tad boring, but no mind to that, keep cartwheeling along and see how dizzy we can get.
The Sauna
I slide back on the plastic seats, sweat running down my face, belly, legs as I readjust my body to leave room for another butt to plant itself next to me. I am in a caravan converted sauna. Quite ingenious. This small but meaty space does the trick. It's chilly outside but with the constant supply of wood fueling the heat, it's deliciously toasty in here. I can let go. I didn't even realize how miserable I am with the nonstop cool rainy weather that gets right into my bones. This heat is getting into my bones and I am freaking loving it. I can feel my whole body start to melt, from the outside in, like a stick of butter, loosing it's shape on toast, spreading itself further on the toast surface. My shell is finally lifting and I can breathe and allow myself to feel again. Working in the mud, washing dishes between rain drops, trying to keep a smile on my face despite counting the days till I can leave this wholly uncomfortable festival scene, I am afraid to open myself, to be any more vulnerable than I already am. The heat hits me again, and I smile cause it's penetrating deeper now, and I am giddy. I observe how physical comfort can change one's perspective so completely. I glance over at the girl with the bobbed black hair and big boobs, and our eyes meet, she is in it with me, a stranger only moments ago, and I can see her and be seen, naked.
I slide back on the plastic seats, sweat running down my face, belly, legs as I readjust my body to leave room for another butt to plant itself next to me. I am in a caravan converted sauna. Quite ingenious. This small but meaty space does the trick. It's chilly outside but with the constant supply of wood fueling the heat, it's deliciously toasty in here. I can let go. I didn't even realize how miserable I am with the nonstop cool rainy weather that gets right into my bones. This heat is getting into my bones and I am freaking loving it. I can feel my whole body start to melt, from the outside in, like a stick of butter, loosing it's shape on toast, spreading itself further on the toast surface. My shell is finally lifting and I can breathe and allow myself to feel again. Working in the mud, washing dishes between rain drops, trying to keep a smile on my face despite counting the days till I can leave this wholly uncomfortable festival scene, I am afraid to open myself, to be any more vulnerable than I already am. The heat hits me again, and I smile cause it's penetrating deeper now, and I am giddy. I observe how physical comfort can change one's perspective so completely. I glance over at the girl with the bobbed black hair and big boobs, and our eyes meet, she is in it with me, a stranger only moments ago, and I can see her and be seen, naked.
The Path
I am a big girl now, riding my bicycle with only 2 wheels down the paved, yet cracked sidewalk in our safe little neighborhood. Each 60's-style 2-story house slightly different from the next, bordered by their neat green lawns, with the family cars sticking out of the attached garages. Pedaling faster and faster to keep myself upright but not too fast as that's scary. My grandpa from Daddy's side is out with me, helping me get a handle, literally, on riding a bike. And I am too young to articulate how much I appreciate his patience and help but I know somewhere deep in me that I am touched by his offering. On one hand, I am kid and expect everyone to be there, support me in what I want to do. On the other hand, I don't expect a thing, my brother and I do a lot to entertain ourselves so why should this be any different? And yet it is. It's special to have my grandparents there. They live far away and a once-in-a-few-years visit to our turf is a special treat. I like special treats. I like having him there, goofing around with his silly expressions, and juggling for us. He probably has a lot more to share but I am too young to see it. But what does that matter when I feel him? When I get to have his sun-spotted wrinkled hand that held big cameras, shooting sport events for the Boston Globe, steadying me on this tipsy bike with a big fat banana seat as I rode down the path of that cracked sidewalk,
the path of crossing the line of little kid to big kid,
the path of escape a bike can ensure,
the path of independence that speeding down the road gives,
the path of trust that 2 wheels can hold me and carry me,
the path of no return,
the path that keeps going and leads to new roads and journeys,
the path of love and forgiveness,
the path, the path, it's all in the path.
I am a big girl now, riding my bicycle with only 2 wheels down the paved, yet cracked sidewalk in our safe little neighborhood. Each 60's-style 2-story house slightly different from the next, bordered by their neat green lawns, with the family cars sticking out of the attached garages. Pedaling faster and faster to keep myself upright but not too fast as that's scary. My grandpa from Daddy's side is out with me, helping me get a handle, literally, on riding a bike. And I am too young to articulate how much I appreciate his patience and help but I know somewhere deep in me that I am touched by his offering. On one hand, I am kid and expect everyone to be there, support me in what I want to do. On the other hand, I don't expect a thing, my brother and I do a lot to entertain ourselves so why should this be any different? And yet it is. It's special to have my grandparents there. They live far away and a once-in-a-few-years visit to our turf is a special treat. I like special treats. I like having him there, goofing around with his silly expressions, and juggling for us. He probably has a lot more to share but I am too young to see it. But what does that matter when I feel him? When I get to have his sun-spotted wrinkled hand that held big cameras, shooting sport events for the Boston Globe, steadying me on this tipsy bike with a big fat banana seat as I rode down the path of that cracked sidewalk,
the path of crossing the line of little kid to big kid,
the path of escape a bike can ensure,
the path of independence that speeding down the road gives,
the path of trust that 2 wheels can hold me and carry me,
the path of no return,
the path that keeps going and leads to new roads and journeys,
the path of love and forgiveness,
the path, the path, it's all in the path.
The choice
It's real. Walking through the halls of adolescence, the 'cool' kids who must be the most the insecure, picking on the less privileged in some way or another kids. Less privileged in the fact that they aren't popular. I am one of those. The mean girls toss nasty notes at me, laughing, trying to upset me so I will make a scene or something. But I don't. I ignore them, pretending I don't care. I am good at that, keeping a calm facade, it's saved me more than once. But inside I am hurting. I am angry. I want to punch them and tell them they won't amount to anything. I want them to feel as bad as I do. I know this is a passing phase and life does get better, my big sister says so and I trust her. She sits me down with a consoling hand on my shoulder, looks into my big brown eyes, and I see she sees me, and I see her. She knows the pain and has come out the other side. The grandfather clock is ticking in the other room. My Mom is frying up hamburger meat for spaghetti, the enticing fat smell wafting through the living room, bringing warmth to the fall day. My sister is wearing an izod white vest, the edges of the collar shirt underneath standing up around her slender neck, 80's fashion at its best. She leans over and hugs me and I get it. I have a choice. Wallow in self-pity or take this bead of hope and let it carry me through till I can stop and realize I am on the other side too.
It's real. Walking through the halls of adolescence, the 'cool' kids who must be the most the insecure, picking on the less privileged in some way or another kids. Less privileged in the fact that they aren't popular. I am one of those. The mean girls toss nasty notes at me, laughing, trying to upset me so I will make a scene or something. But I don't. I ignore them, pretending I don't care. I am good at that, keeping a calm facade, it's saved me more than once. But inside I am hurting. I am angry. I want to punch them and tell them they won't amount to anything. I want them to feel as bad as I do. I know this is a passing phase and life does get better, my big sister says so and I trust her. She sits me down with a consoling hand on my shoulder, looks into my big brown eyes, and I see she sees me, and I see her. She knows the pain and has come out the other side. The grandfather clock is ticking in the other room. My Mom is frying up hamburger meat for spaghetti, the enticing fat smell wafting through the living room, bringing warmth to the fall day. My sister is wearing an izod white vest, the edges of the collar shirt underneath standing up around her slender neck, 80's fashion at its best. She leans over and hugs me and I get it. I have a choice. Wallow in self-pity or take this bead of hope and let it carry me through till I can stop and realize I am on the other side too.
The Night
Closed eyes. Tired. Wanting to go to sleep.
Persevering with what to must be done. Write. To write and be complete. Then go to sleep.
I am here, now, in this moment. Nothing else exists but this second. Mind moves to earlier today and then jumps to tomorrow and all that must be done.
Stop. Stop the distractions and stick with...with my heart beating, slight ache towards the right, sensation of feeling like I could cry creeping into my face, right side of face, feel eyes water ever so slightly, wetting the corners but not enough for a tear formation but enough that I wipe it away and see the shiny reflection on my index finger, the Christmas lights above dimly lighting the now evaporated could-have-been tear on the looking-like-normal finger.
Teeth clenched, awareness drawn to it, I separate my bottom and top teeth with my tongue just behind my front teeth on the soft palate. Jiva bundha, they call it in yoga. They say tight jaw means tight hips. Don't notice my hips, just my jaw- always gripping it seems. Working on that, got to. It's the cause of my headaches, I am sure.
I hate headaches, I get overwhelmed with the pain, the nausea in my belly, and can't be very productive, nor good company to myself or anyone else.
It's time now, for sleep. Finito.
Closed eyes. Tired. Wanting to go to sleep.
Persevering with what to must be done. Write. To write and be complete. Then go to sleep.
I am here, now, in this moment. Nothing else exists but this second. Mind moves to earlier today and then jumps to tomorrow and all that must be done.
Stop. Stop the distractions and stick with...with my heart beating, slight ache towards the right, sensation of feeling like I could cry creeping into my face, right side of face, feel eyes water ever so slightly, wetting the corners but not enough for a tear formation but enough that I wipe it away and see the shiny reflection on my index finger, the Christmas lights above dimly lighting the now evaporated could-have-been tear on the looking-like-normal finger.
Teeth clenched, awareness drawn to it, I separate my bottom and top teeth with my tongue just behind my front teeth on the soft palate. Jiva bundha, they call it in yoga. They say tight jaw means tight hips. Don't notice my hips, just my jaw- always gripping it seems. Working on that, got to. It's the cause of my headaches, I am sure.
I hate headaches, I get overwhelmed with the pain, the nausea in my belly, and can't be very productive, nor good company to myself or anyone else.
It's time now, for sleep. Finito.
Emotional
Hmm, this tastes good. Refreshing, alive. I like to consider this sucker as a projection of me. I am refreshing, alive. Maybe if I suck hard enough, I will embody this more and more. I have never used the word refreshing to describe myself but it's growing on me. When someone asks me to describe myself in 20 seconds or less, I could brag I can do it in less than 5. Yeah, I am that good. The thing is, if I am honest with myself, I don't know if I can use that word Refreshing, synonymously with Jessica. Of course, sometimes I am that, and I'm loving it, I am on my game, on fire, which seems like an oxymoron- fire and refresh but oh, it so goes together in this context. It's fair to say that with the constant change of emotions I experience on an hourly or minutely basis, it's impossible to limit myself to a few words. Or limit myself to a lot of words. I watch myself in the Collective today go from sadness, disappointment, laughter with a sense of comradery, feelings of inadequacy, shock, pride, relief... seemingly endless emotions that in the sum may make up me. Or can you use your emotions to describe who or what you are? I think not... ok, wait, I got my word- Emotional! Yikes, that says nothing, except the obvious usage for it in America- Being a woman! Really, though, everyone's got the emotions, even the most deadpan ones of us, so emotional don't mean a thang. And what's with negative connotation of emotional anyway? I am going to own it- I feel my emotions and I feel them hard, and dammit, I am refreshing. Imm imm, now ain't that the truth?
It's really not so bad
Shifts are good. It seems like I can get stuck in one way of thinking or feeling, it might only be a few minutes but there is something so sticky about it, so all encompassing, permanent that when I open my eyes a bit wider and see a different perspective, there is a relief that falls over me that it isn't all that bad. Take the last few hours, our how-awesome-that-it's-a-direct-flight-to-LA-during-the-day-so-I-can-sleep-in-a-real-bed-tonight gets mechanical problems and we end up getting rerouted to Honolulu for hours and now am on a red-eye. I didn't even realize how much this bothered me till I got on the phone with Doug and my voice starts cracking, eyes watering as I allow the disappointment and challenging adjustment to this new inconvenient plan sink in. Interesting how the familiar voice of a loved one, sets the emotions free. Whereas, only moments ago, I was holding it together, feeling mild annoyance at this new course. I was holding it together without realizing it. Even as my emotions were taking over, on the other end with my sweetie, I could see the bigger picture, as Doug says better to see the problem now then half over the Pacific. True, it's like I should be counting my blessings. I let myself grieve for those few minutes, feeling the weight of what a poor night's sleep could do to me tomorrow and then see how it's really not so bad. And if I can get myself to just the now, a constant reminder and practice, I can recognize laying on the airport floor with my legs straight up in the air (some pseudo yoga or something) with the other unfortunate folks playing their gameboys or keeping their children entertained, I am ok. Oh, heck, I could say even content.
Hmm, this tastes good. Refreshing, alive. I like to consider this sucker as a projection of me. I am refreshing, alive. Maybe if I suck hard enough, I will embody this more and more. I have never used the word refreshing to describe myself but it's growing on me. When someone asks me to describe myself in 20 seconds or less, I could brag I can do it in less than 5. Yeah, I am that good. The thing is, if I am honest with myself, I don't know if I can use that word Refreshing, synonymously with Jessica. Of course, sometimes I am that, and I'm loving it, I am on my game, on fire, which seems like an oxymoron- fire and refresh but oh, it so goes together in this context. It's fair to say that with the constant change of emotions I experience on an hourly or minutely basis, it's impossible to limit myself to a few words. Or limit myself to a lot of words. I watch myself in the Collective today go from sadness, disappointment, laughter with a sense of comradery, feelings of inadequacy, shock, pride, relief... seemingly endless emotions that in the sum may make up me. Or can you use your emotions to describe who or what you are? I think not... ok, wait, I got my word- Emotional! Yikes, that says nothing, except the obvious usage for it in America- Being a woman! Really, though, everyone's got the emotions, even the most deadpan ones of us, so emotional don't mean a thang. And what's with negative connotation of emotional anyway? I am going to own it- I feel my emotions and I feel them hard, and dammit, I am refreshing. Imm imm, now ain't that the truth?
It's really not so bad
Shifts are good. It seems like I can get stuck in one way of thinking or feeling, it might only be a few minutes but there is something so sticky about it, so all encompassing, permanent that when I open my eyes a bit wider and see a different perspective, there is a relief that falls over me that it isn't all that bad. Take the last few hours, our how-awesome-that-it's-a-direct-flight-to-LA-during-the-day-so-I-can-sleep-in-a-real-bed-tonight gets mechanical problems and we end up getting rerouted to Honolulu for hours and now am on a red-eye. I didn't even realize how much this bothered me till I got on the phone with Doug and my voice starts cracking, eyes watering as I allow the disappointment and challenging adjustment to this new inconvenient plan sink in. Interesting how the familiar voice of a loved one, sets the emotions free. Whereas, only moments ago, I was holding it together, feeling mild annoyance at this new course. I was holding it together without realizing it. Even as my emotions were taking over, on the other end with my sweetie, I could see the bigger picture, as Doug says better to see the problem now then half over the Pacific. True, it's like I should be counting my blessings. I let myself grieve for those few minutes, feeling the weight of what a poor night's sleep could do to me tomorrow and then see how it's really not so bad. And if I can get myself to just the now, a constant reminder and practice, I can recognize laying on the airport floor with my legs straight up in the air (some pseudo yoga or something) with the other unfortunate folks playing their gameboys or keeping their children entertained, I am ok. Oh, heck, I could say even content.
Morning Laps Around Mars
The African tribal funk music resounds in my tongue as it surfs its way down my esophagus, into the holy kingdom of acidity. I am roller-skating with the hypnotic chants, gliding faster and faster until the wind is no more and I am circling the rim of my bottomless cup of chai, inhaling deeply the spices of yesteryear, a sprinkle of wet leaves and a dash of the burning sun. I trip over a crack where you can see the striations of the rainbow, created from my manic energy and fall backwards, my fins flapping, into the piercing sun, my fingers first melting into the rays of forgotten sweet nothings, then the rest of my body following until there is nothing left or everything, depending upon one's perception. I am the dripping clock, ticking doodle dee doodle dum, watching the miniature elephants with their hummingbird-like wings, hovering above the antelopes, chasing the lions for their next meal. They are running with white tennis shoes, red on the edges from morning laps around Mars, but with the wind chill they didn't last long so they dove back into their caves of fine coppers and crystals and monatomic gold, immersing themselves into the rain of the next shooting star.
Write
Write whatever whenever you can. When you write, the oddest things come out. It's like you're digging, and you don't know what the next shovel of dirt is going to bring. Maybe it starts with the dry, hard dirt that seems lifeless, uninteresting, nothing to write home about. Oh, the rain keeps banging on the roof, oh how loud that is.
Write. Dig into the next layer, moist and juicy. Worms wiggle, odd-looking beetles dart about, uncomfortable with the hot light, trying to burrow themselves back into the wet darkness. You think, ooooo, gross, I don't want to touch them and get my hands gooey and dirty, but, oh no you do, you want to see what is down there.
Write. Be persistent, don't you want to shine your light and see what else there is? There will be roots who hold fast to the earth, they have no intention of letting go. But that doesn't stop you. You get down on your hands and knees, covered in wet dirt, and you pull. God damn it, you pull with all your might because, it's time. It's time to see what you're made of. No one said it was going to be easy, but whoever said what is worth going for is easy?
Write. It's an adventure. Seeing where the next corner brings you. And you should want to see. Because if you stay on the surface, what's the point? It's pretty and all, the grass, flowers... but where's your sense of exploration? Delve, and delve deep. That's where you'll find the real you. Explore the darkness, see it, feel it, move through it, so it isn't lurking in the shadows anymore. It played its role in forming you, the good, the bad and the ugly. If you expose it to the light, you realize what you don't need anymore. So say good bye and keep digging. And see what you find next. Maybe it's a bone, the dog that buried it from many owners ago. A treat for a day that never came. It's your delicacy. The gem you didn't even know even know was there until you wrote.
Write. Dig into the next layer, moist and juicy. Worms wiggle, odd-looking beetles dart about, uncomfortable with the hot light, trying to burrow themselves back into the wet darkness. You think, ooooo, gross, I don't want to touch them and get my hands gooey and dirty, but, oh no you do, you want to see what is down there.
Write. Be persistent, don't you want to shine your light and see what else there is? There will be roots who hold fast to the earth, they have no intention of letting go. But that doesn't stop you. You get down on your hands and knees, covered in wet dirt, and you pull. God damn it, you pull with all your might because, it's time. It's time to see what you're made of. No one said it was going to be easy, but whoever said what is worth going for is easy?
Write. It's an adventure. Seeing where the next corner brings you. And you should want to see. Because if you stay on the surface, what's the point? It's pretty and all, the grass, flowers... but where's your sense of exploration? Delve, and delve deep. That's where you'll find the real you. Explore the darkness, see it, feel it, move through it, so it isn't lurking in the shadows anymore. It played its role in forming you, the good, the bad and the ugly. If you expose it to the light, you realize what you don't need anymore. So say good bye and keep digging. And see what you find next. Maybe it's a bone, the dog that buried it from many owners ago. A treat for a day that never came. It's your delicacy. The gem you didn't even know even know was there until you wrote.
Do the Tibetan Rites Everyday
Are you tired of being tired when you roll out of bed? Do you wonder when your shoulders moved from the back to the front? Do you wish you had a low sexy voice? Is your memory a distant memory? Does your stress take over your day? Are you ready to feel good? Look younger? Be clear headed? Look no further. Do the Tibetan Rites everyday.
You ask, what are the Tibetan Rites? The Tibetan Rites is an ancient system of exercises created over centuries by Tibetan monks to live long, vibrant and healthy lives. Working on the energy centers of the body, the rites are comprised of five different movements performed up to 21 times with a top secret sixth movement... aren't you just a tad intrigued? Tibetan monks, enough said.
Do the Tibetan Rites everyday. I have been doing them for over 10 years. Can't you tell? They say they are the fountain of youth. I haven't aged a day since I started doing them. Look at me. Do I look 40? No, I see myself as late 20's, ok sometimes early 30's. We are talking youthing, not aging.
Do the Tibetan Rites everyday. My sweetie would watch me do them for 6 months, sipping his coffee, thinking how happy he was to have a yoga girlfriend, but he hates yoga so he was content to be on the sidelines. But it's not yoga, if the 'namaste' ain't your cup of chai. So one day he joined me and hasn't stopped being my rite partner.
Do the Tibetan Rites everyday. His hip straightened out, low back pain disappeared . He tells me he feels like a spring chicken. He looks like one too, jumping to the ceiling after each pose, popping out of bed like a gymnast, energy higher than ever.
Do the Tibetan Rites everyday.
You say you don't have time. Me neither, but I make the time. 7 minutes of your day, that is what it takes. You are probably in the shower for that time but do you skip the shower? I do, if it means no Tibetan Rites!
Do the Tibetan Rites everyday.
You ask, what are the Tibetan Rites? The Tibetan Rites is an ancient system of exercises created over centuries by Tibetan monks to live long, vibrant and healthy lives. Working on the energy centers of the body, the rites are comprised of five different movements performed up to 21 times with a top secret sixth movement... aren't you just a tad intrigued? Tibetan monks, enough said.
Do the Tibetan Rites everyday. I have been doing them for over 10 years. Can't you tell? They say they are the fountain of youth. I haven't aged a day since I started doing them. Look at me. Do I look 40? No, I see myself as late 20's, ok sometimes early 30's. We are talking youthing, not aging.
Do the Tibetan Rites everyday. My sweetie would watch me do them for 6 months, sipping his coffee, thinking how happy he was to have a yoga girlfriend, but he hates yoga so he was content to be on the sidelines. But it's not yoga, if the 'namaste' ain't your cup of chai. So one day he joined me and hasn't stopped being my rite partner.
Do the Tibetan Rites everyday. His hip straightened out, low back pain disappeared . He tells me he feels like a spring chicken. He looks like one too, jumping to the ceiling after each pose, popping out of bed like a gymnast, energy higher than ever.
Do the Tibetan Rites everyday.
You say you don't have time. Me neither, but I make the time. 7 minutes of your day, that is what it takes. You are probably in the shower for that time but do you skip the shower? I do, if it means no Tibetan Rites!
Do the Tibetan Rites everyday.
Don't Give Yourself Such a Hard Time
Don't give yourself such a hard time. In this day and age, we try to do so much, too many things that is humanly possible. It' s never enough. Are you always striving to do better without appreciating what you've already done? Maybe you lay in bed at night, check marking every action item you've accomplished, and then for a few blissful moments experience sweet satisfaction... before you remember all the things that still need to be done and the anxiety creeps in... oh, how am I going to get it all done?!
Don't give yourself such a hard time.
You can't do it all. Focus! One thing at a time. Why ask more than that? Do you think you're superhuman? Well, you are, we all are, in a matter of speaking. But superhuman isn't about doing, it's about seeing yourself in all your glory and not so glorious aspects, all those unique characteristics, that make up the one and only you!
Don't give yourself such a hard time.
Does this sounds familiar?... Stand up straight, go to bed early, don't drink too much coffee, how many glasses of wine is that already? stay away from the evil sugars and those luring carbs, cook more, exercise more, drink water, try harder, get your greens, get A's ...even if you're not in school anymore, be more compassionate, relax, meditate, do yoga, call your family, volunteer, donate money, love thy neighbor, i hate my neighbor, self acceptance, blah blah blah
Don't give yourself such a hard time.
Is that how you want to live your life? Listening to the critical voices in your head? Haven't you had enough of that? Isn't when you get down to it, there is so much more you want out of this existence on planet earth? I thought so. It's time, folks, to take a step in a new direction. Take a good hard look in the mirror. No, stop looking at the wrinkles and blemishes or whatever you stare too hard at. And try a simple exercise. Ready?
Laugh. Really, isn't this whole game we play funny? It's just you so no need to be embarrassed. Laugh at all your kookiness and neuroses, and see the imperfect perfectness of you. Beautiful, ain't it?
Don't give yourself such a hard time.
Don't give yourself such a hard time.
You can't do it all. Focus! One thing at a time. Why ask more than that? Do you think you're superhuman? Well, you are, we all are, in a matter of speaking. But superhuman isn't about doing, it's about seeing yourself in all your glory and not so glorious aspects, all those unique characteristics, that make up the one and only you!
Don't give yourself such a hard time.
Does this sounds familiar?... Stand up straight, go to bed early, don't drink too much coffee, how many glasses of wine is that already? stay away from the evil sugars and those luring carbs, cook more, exercise more, drink water, try harder, get your greens, get A's ...even if you're not in school anymore, be more compassionate, relax, meditate, do yoga, call your family, volunteer, donate money, love thy neighbor, i hate my neighbor, self acceptance, blah blah blah
Don't give yourself such a hard time.
Is that how you want to live your life? Listening to the critical voices in your head? Haven't you had enough of that? Isn't when you get down to it, there is so much more you want out of this existence on planet earth? I thought so. It's time, folks, to take a step in a new direction. Take a good hard look in the mirror. No, stop looking at the wrinkles and blemishes or whatever you stare too hard at. And try a simple exercise. Ready?
Laugh. Really, isn't this whole game we play funny? It's just you so no need to be embarrassed. Laugh at all your kookiness and neuroses, and see the imperfect perfectness of you. Beautiful, ain't it?
Don't give yourself such a hard time.
A Glimpse of What Once Was
Puttering away at the dirty floor of the narrow hallway, I try to conceive of a way to clean this space, me, my spirit, whatever is in need of dusting, clearing away the cobwebs, those forgotten memories that lurk in the shadows of our dream, the ones you remember right before you wake up, while you're still in the semiconscious state of being in 2 realities at the same time, recalling the significance or lack thereof of the train of events that must actualize into our deep thoughts of...of what? Of numbered days that at one time seemed so damn important but with the passing of time, means so little in the present moment, just a glimpse of what once was, like the smell of an old house shoots up into the amygdale of my olfactory sense and brings me back to 1st grade where I played with my friend in her creaky wooden home and what joy we had, where it was all about the buoyant heart, moments filled with the next game to occupy ourselves and how much we can make ourselves laugh, 33 years ago and it is like yesterday but yet so long long ago, a time I thought was gone, but it is there, waiting, waiting to come out and play, to remind me that there is more to the patterns of today.
All Consuming
A debilitating wrenching searing pain is emanating out of my left temple, spreading to the side of my head, pulsating like my heartbeat when I see a police car behind me, wondering what I am doing worthy of being pulled over, seeing the disapproving look of the man behind the sunglasses. This pain is all consuming, my nervous system reeling from this unusual state of being, trying to keep all my other systems working in unison, thank god I am not charge of everything functioning or where would I be now? The sensation in my head spreads to the nausea in my belly. I thought I was hungry but now any internal consumption has no appeal. The mind and all its thoughts lose power and influence into the overbearing physical reality of this vehicle I am inhabiting. The body becomes the pink elephant in the room- the only thing that is real, that is, everything else fades into oblivion. The humming refrigerator is fleeting, as is the Burlesque video playing in the other room, classic1930's music wafting in, tempting me to linger in the singer's high pitch notes, but it's no competition to this dominating sense of antagonizing feeling that holds me prisoner as I await hopeful for my next distraction.
Lingering Dust
Her eyes growing, enveloping her face so all I can perceive is her pupils, in a constant state of contraction and expansion, excitedly hooking into mine as she twist and turns deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole of her passion, her jugular vein pulsating on the side of her neck to the rhythm of her mouth going up and down as if lip syncing to the memory of forgotten lies, times before this bodily incarnation. Our 3-foot separation of her talking and my listening collapse like an accordion, transmuting us into oneness. Boundaries give way. She is me and I am her. I no longer feel myself as an entity but encompassing all shapes and forms, like the passive speck of lingering dust which floats from one space to the next, lying dormant on the top of the ceiling fan until the power of the rotation sweeps me down down to the tip of her curly dark hair where I restfully recline in the curves of the cushy strand until her piano long fingers tame the tangles out. I float once again as a leaf in the cool wet autumn breeze, landing on the edge of an antique-looking frame holding a faded picture of presumably her parents, laughing with a hint of mischievousness in their eyes as they look at each other coyly, a reality where things seemed so much simpler.
Wild Temper
I stare at the Vintage calendar girl. February. Sitting on her red heart-shaped-back plush chair, her Amazon long legs crossed at the ankles, posing seductive with her shoulders up and over to accentuate her breasts spilling out from her black camisole. She is ready to be devoured, like Jessica Lange trapped in chains for Hong Kong. The chosen sacrifice. What do I sacrifice to keep the life I have? I sacrifice sleep to write. I sacrifice time for money. Sacrifice or compromise? I don't want restrictions. Yet, I contain this wildness trapped in me. It wasn't always contained. I had quite the temper tantrums when I was little, so I am told over and over again by my parents. It's a story that keeps on giving. I am 3 and I am full of fury. I search for an outlet to release this rage. I plant my butt on the 70s style white with orange flower motif vinyl floor, munchkin feet bracing my body. I go for the low kitchen cabinets, gripping the corner of the door and I pull. I pull with my whole body and soul. I freakin' pull that door off it's hinges. It lays twisted, broken, on the floor in front of me. The sweet smell of maple syrup spilled on the table from breakfast permeates the room. Victoria, our Swedish Au Pair, stands shocked, her whites showing around her eyeballs, mouth dropped. No sooner had my success turned to utter horror when I fathomed the trouble I was in. And so I keep this wild in, locked, but it's not going anywhere.
Don't Fuck with Me
I am feeling evil eyes staring into me, even through these thick cement walls. I am triggered, holding this toxic anger toward her, which I recognize is not productive but who says all our emotions are productive? I get triggered when I feel attacked, criticized, finger being pointed in my direction. It starts so benign, a friendly chatter, my guard down, in receptivity mode. I realize too late I am caught in a cage of verbal assault. I am hanging, hanging on to my cool calm exterior that is evaporating as my blood bubbles, closer and closer to boiling point. We stand off, boring deep into the others eyes, in the narrow walkway of the simple outdoor laundry room. Neutral territory. My feet brushing the rough cement floor with loose grass and sticks stuck between my toes. The sunlight filters in on the door-less sides playing flickering shadows on the dark wood wall. The smell of lavender-scented detergent wafts up and lingers under our nostrils, unable to diffuse the discord, which is thick enough to cut with a ... a machete, it is Hawaii after all. My loose blue sweatpants feel hot. I stroke the hard metal of the paperclip in my pocket. I want to shut her up. I want my look to say it all. Stop fucking with me, or else. I want to turn it around so I am the aggressor. I will fuck you up. No words, no playing her fucking game. I might be smaller but I have the devil inside and I am capable of anything so get the fuck out of my way.
Royal Bitch
I am angry. Fire coming out of the ears angry. I want to punch something, actually a person, you know. A particular woman. She's a bitch. There I said it. I don't usually like to use that word but it feels so appropriate, you know. I told my parents that today- that she is a royal BITCH. And my Dad laughed. Which is cool since we grow up with no swear words allowed. Even when I used the phrase, "that sucks," I got in trouble. Sucks is not even a bad word. So we've come a long way when I can use the B word with my parents and they get it, they feel me, and they commiserate with me. That's precious, you know. I gotta hand it to them, my parents are cool. They may not get me or my hippie dippie ways but they are always there. Even when I changed my name to Shabab while living in an ashram, confirming their worst nightmare that their daughter had become brainwashed with a cult on her first trip to India. My intention of reassurance were emails proclaiming heightened self-awareness and living in the now. Not exactly everyday lingo for them. Surprise, this only served to add fuel to the fire, you know. But through all of that, they did listen, albeit 6 months later, and they got it. Maybe I'll get it someday too, you know.
Surging Adrenaline
My body feels stiff and my low back is aching but I am not too bothered about it, I have my trusty companions- hot spicy tea and whirlwind thoughts. But don't be fooled, I am bothered plenty. I lose it, I raise my voice, get angry. Equilibrium out the window and I am out of control. I don't like it one bit, being out of control. No control, no power. And that is scary. I am scared. I am scared of getting hurt. I yelled till I could yell no more at my imbecile of a boyfriend and with the energy surging like adrenaline through my veins and a tear-streaked face, I ran out of the caravan, down the dirt road, only to find myself in an open field of wild horses. The rolling lush hills of southern England, spread as far as the eye could see. The tall dry grass gives way to the large looming trees encircling the meadow. The light fades into dusk as the foliage greens becomes more vibrant with each passing moment. The air hanging heavy with humidity fill my nostrils. The pebble in my boot presses without discern into my pinky toe. Long black eyelashes frame the horse's brown eyes, studying my disheveled energy and appearance. My dusty gypsy boots with the side brass buckle I got for a steal a local thrift store plant firmly on the dry soil. I am thinking what am I trying to prove. I see it, I see myself, and I lift my face to the darkening sky and roar with laughter.
Late Night in the Bedroom
I am suppose to be sleeping now. I promised I would be less than an hour. I promise things I can't keep. I promise to please others, but in the end, I just please myself. I do as I please but I can make it sound as if I am doing otherwise. I manipulate. I lie to avoid conflict. I am a liar. I am still awake, tapping my fingers lightly on the keyboard. I am halfway under the covers, Doug's warm half- conscious body nestled against mine. The laptop balances awkward on the therapeutic foam pillow on my lap. The angled wooden beam ceiling encapsulates the white bedroom. His and her calendars hanging side by side on the inside part of the door. His featuring 2 alpha looking wolves nose to nose. Hers a 1940's pin up girl lying on her back with her thigh-high panty hosed legs straight up in the air, laughing as she holds up her dog, her purse draped from his mouth. Light emanates from a silver desk lamp on the narrow wood shelf Doug designed for me, lighting up the adjacent black speakers used for our home theater system, cushioned eye pillow, and grounding essential oil blend that I apply to the bottom of my feet in the hopes of removing electromagnetic radiation from the extended proximity to the computer. A slight wind hisses from the windows beyond, mingling with Doug's faint rhythmic breath. Extending out of Doug's blue soft cotton t-shirt, his arm drapes around his head with his long articulate fingers laying so still on the pillow, his dark curly hair peeking out from under the covers. I love being here with him and yet alone at the same time. He stirs. I'm caught. Time for bed for crying out loud.
The Reflection
My throat feels hoarse like I have been screaming, but I haven't. I had one of those annoying tickles that wouldn't go away, regardless of how many sips of water I gulped, convinced the last one would take the tickle away. And it did, but now its scratchy. Doug's head lays on my belly, it's sweet but making it challenging to write. He's so quiet and still, I'm almost afraid he's dead. I am afraid. I am afraid I'm not good enough for this life, for this man, for this body I inhabit. I am afraid that everything I've worked hard for will disappear. Just like that, as I snap my fingers. I don't deserve this good life. I have to earn it, not being given it. That feels ugly. I feel ugly. I glance up from getting ready for bed and take a good look into the mirror and the reflection surprises me. The dim lighting of the bathroom hides the dark bags under my eyes, giving my face that Gaussian Blur photoshop look. Behind me in the mirror sits my alter enclave with a delicate printed silk scarf I picked out in Mumbai 9 years ago with my parents. Jewelry explodes in the small space with necklaces hanging on small nails, earrings askew, mini Ganesh sculpture sitting stoic, shells and odd bits of all proportions from my travels placed random, with the center focus the dark wooden hand I found in a dusty Bali sculpture shop on a out of the way road while riding on the back of a scooter. It's ready to topple with rings upon rings stacked on each finger. My fingertips rest on the counter, next to the opened metallic-green Glide floss container with a discarded piece laying nearby. The room is silent and the faint smell of urine lingers in the air. I am alone. My t-shirt with an Indian goddess, Lakshmi perhaps, a good find at a Haiku clothing swap, conforms to my upper body. I look again, hard, at those eyes looking back at me, blink, and turn on my heels to bed.
When I Listen
It's quiet now, or so it seems until I really listen. I close my eyes and then my ears are filled with sounds- the sounds of living. Water running in distant pipes, like a toilet that won't stop flushing, a man's indistinguishable voice from some documentary playing in the bedroom. That's it, but it's enough to seem loud now that I am concentrating on it and with my mind going blank. Where are the thoughts rushing in when you need it? Usually, I have the opposite problem. I want to focus on something, no, nothing. Ok, that sounds cryptic but it's not. You know, like mediating. I am sitting there, trying to keep a smile on my face, focus on the serene music or my breath entering my heart, filling my body with light...but it doesn't go like that. It starts to but as soon as I realize it, I am distracted by my morning's line up, ok, gotta call so and so and then don't forget to send that email to those sweet ladies I had peppermint tea with at Cafe des Amis yesterday, because if I don't send it they will think I am flake, and I am not with those flaky Maui girls who says one thing but does another, but... no I sometimes find that I allow my busyness to take over and then my follow through can take weeks instead of a few days. Oh, I catch myself. I don't not need to be having this dialogue which is going nowhere. Back to the smile, the breath, and all is well in Jessica's world. And that back and forth continue until night comes and I snuggle under the covers, and read myself until I am convinced the mind is too tired to contribute any more rubbish.
Sad Chocolate and Strawberry
I am tired and ready to slip under the covers after a long day but I persevere, I must write before the day ends. Not sure what will come out of me as I feel a dense fog around my brain and I am yawning. Both of which I am sure I can shift if I want to. I shake my head in a no, getting the blood flowing, yawning some more, hoping the oxygen will get into my blood cells and get them active again. Readjust my legs. I think this must be so boring and I can't imagine reading this piece out loud but maybe I will get surprised and it'll turn in some kind of masterpiece as some of the worse ones seem to do. Though I really can't see that happening to this one. Because I am not finding the juice of it. How can I electrify this? C'mon, think of something really interesting. I look over at a partially eaten raw chocolate a friend gave me a month ago with a dried strawberry imbedded in it, laying on a wrinkled white napkin, saved for the occasion when I need chocolate. It was tonight, and one tiny bite was all it took for me to realize that it sucked and I didn't want anything more to do with it. I just haven't bothered to throw it away, so it lays there, sad, so full of hope of being the amazing raw chocolate truffle it could have been. Maybe it was, when it was fresh. But it was lost in my canvas bag that I got back in Delhi in 2004, and I found the chocolate like a week later and then threw it in the freezer thinking there was still hope for it. I've exercised that hope and now can move one. Goodbye and good night, chocolate that once had a chance of being yummy.
Superhero in the Rain
I am sitting in the car, watching the raindrops pelt the windows, knowing I should go out there and help Doug with filling the 5-gallon jugs. He's grabbed his only protection from getting soaked, a synthetic maroon sheet he uses for his visual gigs, and wraps it around him like a giant cape, almost like dress-up Superman style you did as a kid. It looks funny. He's 6'3 and got skinny legs coming out the bottom. It doesn't matter what it looks like to him- it's practical, and he's all about that. I have to admit, it's ingenious. No, you don't have to be brilliant to think of that but I don't think it would have occurred to me to do that, or maybe I don't give myself enough credit. I would just be stuck by the fact that I didn't have an umbrella, would continue to swear at myself for forgetting to put that umbrella back in the car, and freeze in indecision as to what I should do. I see him darting back to the car, each arm weighed down with a giant jug. And I feel bad. I am dry, comfortable, checking FB on my cell. I ain't doing a damn thing to help...soooo I ask if he needs my help, out of obligation cause I know it's the right thing to do, praying that he is all good. But he is not all good. Yeah, help me with filling them up! Damn, I am faced with the same problem. How to not get wet. I become the other super hero wannabe. I throw my bright decorative Bali sarong around my shoulders, take a deep breath, and run for it.
Back in the Saddle
It's here. You know, said all wacky like the little blond girl with big bangs and big eyes says in Poltergeist, except the line is They're here, which I never seem to remember accurate. It doesn't matter, it's the spookiness of it. I always hated scary movies and this one has to be the most memorable one from my childhood that kept me up for nights, imagining that freaky clown with the long red and white striped arms, coming out from under the bed to strangle me as he did the boy in the movie. I am extra nice to my dolls and do not put them under my bed to avoid the same fate. Oh, I feel the need to back track why I even started with It's here. It's here- the Writing group! We are back. I am back, in the saddle, assuming the position, cross-legged in front of my laptop, excited and curious where my thoughts will go. Happy to involve myself in creativity, in something for me, which goes without saying that this isn't about productivity, even though here I am needing to say it. There I said it, I am doing something for fun, for my greater enrichment, and this is damn cool. My heart is fluttering and the sheer joy of just writing whatever I feel like writing. Write like you Talk, it's one of the easier ones for me, I don't have to think, no that's not right, I do think, but I don't struggle and that is sweet! Let the writing begin!
