Sunday, August 31, 2014

goal setting, dreamwork, and other paradoxes

I want to finish all things that need finishing. Stop new things from flooding in. I want to be worthy of a toddlers worship. To not curse when I trip over his stuff, just as he doesnt when tripping over mine. I want to be accepting, helpless and surrendery, without any expectation. I want to be strong and capable and forceful. I want to not want to.

I want to walk in and walk out of rooms unchanged. I want to pad around dry in a wetsuit. I want to accept the many imperfections of my size, age, personality. I want whats good for me and whats good for the world, to be the same thing. I want to stop worrying about rivers and mountains of garbage engulfing the world.

I want to have a nice cozy fever with tea and a good book. I want to sweep all my worries into the big closet outside, and let spiders feed on them. I want a rulebook on what I should get done in the next 5 years. I dont want a rulebook on ditto. I want to organize all my pictures and memories in chronological order. I want to prove beyond all doubt that I exist. I want to also eat the bottom half of a sesame bagel.

I want to get better at being a soul on a mission. I want to let my animal be in charge sometimes. To switch off the torch, toss the map with the escape route, and just feel my way around. I want to buy a bookshelf, and fill it with all the books ive already read. I want to do the right thing, the right way, at the right time, instead of clumping around noisily where angels fear to tread.

Saturday, August 23, 2014

sailing with a checklist

after gathering all the blips of a beautiful day, that should be happy and all that, but instead, is filled with doubt and fear, in equal parts, of where I fall in the rhinestone scale, did I make a passably progressive trail, have I left in the right milestones, the urge to gather a sample set and questionair it...

trying hard to stick to a stream of consciousness, I mean, unstick and flow really, so the artery between heart and fingers is allowed, to peel off skin after skin, mask upon mask, and be true, to mine own self, that thinks the most beautiful things, the most horrific things, but that be life, anything true, is filled with equal parts misery too, and its useless to do anything but steer into the skid and hope for the best, once the determination to leave a positive balance has been established, handed over like an overripe fruit to be eaten or thrown

my age is all caught up, the free ride is almost gone, the people who people this world cannot pardon a me without clear outlines and a trail of paperwork, which I have of course made a trail of paper boats arranged in the stream, in the rain, just because, the trees are so green and beautiful, and if we must waste paper, lets waste it right, instead of filling it with pointless things, and leaving them in stiff stacks for more of.

this age brings with it more slowdown, urging me to practice waiting right NOW, to spin the coins and march no matter how they fall, or when. this age is unwelcome, brings with it more fears, more weight of big important labels that I stick on my boxes, before forgetting what they mean, what order they go in, which boxes have what, and why boxes.

this soul is still a little deaf, the memories haven't faded,they are all there, waiting to be examined, and delighted with or cringed from, but they come slower now, after multiple stops to decompress. the silences have gotten longer and stronger, and the things I will do to avoid words more determined, this life is now a length of knotted string, well anchored, and yet, and yet, tangling wildly in the wind, ought to be a straight line (now where did that come from)

aside from the somewhat plaintive wail at linear time piercing through irregular space, I think life is good...

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

wobbling to the halfway mark

good gamblers never bet
the cost of their freedom
no matter what
good winners
see the lights
the fireworks, the ocean
reflected in their eyes
and remain still
calm and unsurprised
good losers
cry a billion tears
before they get up to try
good lovers
invent a pupa every day
with their soul inside
good soldiers
only aim and spin
the best they can
never let their goal
good humans
do what they can
and forgive themselves
life is nothing
a trial version
expires, no matter what

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

djembe on the carpet

lies in the wobble zone
between silence and energy
relies on the temp human
to tilt for sound
clumsy but hopeful
of memories in song
spoken in the language of hands
distinct from the worry of minds
of dances in staccato
untangled from hearbeat
of a tune louder than the nerve
in the temple, closer each day
to the final beat
of music earth and sky
threading an unknown inventory
of careless discarded breaths
careful saved breaths
with faith in the age of feet
and fireworks

All you can give us is what life is about from your point of view. You are not going to be able to give us the plans to the submarine. Life is not a submarine. There are no plans
                                                                                                              Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

Tuesday, August 05, 2014

high tide

the barrier was made of sand
piled up on the tallest dune
in a furor of activity
ants queued up in the desert heat
as sand slipped and time seeped
the hourglass flipped, the world changed
the barrier switched, the desert set
and water rose
sometime when the moon is pink
there will be no shore left
and the ants afloat will think
the barrier was made of water
and history will switch mediums