Fairy Ringed Trees

It's the fairy ring of roots intertwined

all trees born: maternal manifests

of youth's time

(underneath;)

Bound without, yet

beyond permission-

To interwoven, dependent-state(d)

existence.

"I'm sad, you can't have tea, Mom,":

the ignored interjection.

I am sad, too, son.

Maternal beginnings

trump the emotional entitlements

had by Maternal Givings:

As though what feels most real is in the mirror,

the me I was before,

staring back

at all that I came from

The reflected I and all before:

the what the present lacks-

locked in wallpapered-flat:

perpetual, dimension-lacking past.

Land-escape

"It's just hummus," I replied.

"It's all over his hands, I've got it, no really, are you sure, 'cause I . . .".

"It's fine."

Sigh.

If it were, fine, I wouldn't be here alone,

dripping in discomfort as I reach for salvation.

If it were, ok, I wouldn't be here with two,

speaking to you,

Of how the transition from one to two

is ten times harder than I thought.

At twenty-six and smitton,

And at twenty-nine, we sacrifice,

The I for them,

All ifs for when,

See, there is no lasting then.

And, then I met she.

A whole host of choices, a set I didn't see,

And, I did, I found it beautiful.

Who could better appreciate

the continual efforts forward

the pure lack of me

but him

with his she.

He knows, and persists,

like I persist still.

And, although I know her,

without knowing any her,

I crave the savior in he.

Are you both searching?

For an out into the in?

For your self, admist

self-lessness,

your her against the she?

I complemented the response

with a certain lack of (french: that certain something)

the I, exposed.

Yes, I take it for the team-

underneath the orgy of need:

family.

Yes, I fake it.

I take it, as all hers

while longing to be shes

I take it because I can't

bear

to mistake the I from underneath.

I miss you both.

Tirelessly.

My Sweets.

Under the guise of circumstance be:

One Dead

Other, heads.

Like a toddler's attempt at tag,

you chase at me.

So straight to the grave-

deep grievance in my heart-

Reside- Sweet.

Love still, it beats-

and sweats in,

Near exhaustion,

From the effort and the heat

ever emanating from the fire beneath.

Both, left from me,

Beyond- from you choice after choice

and feat after feat.

Let down, it pours on me.

Let down, it comes,

Mercilessly.

She.

He.

Dead in defeat.

Dead.

And, still yet,

I reach.

Vacancy

Remedy me my gray skies

Sunshine.

Vacuum out the dusted dreams

Light

Left behind.

Your channel is set

to my TV station

where white hope and dark visions collide

along a landscape

We both ascribe.

More than or nothing less than

Your Demise?

Oh, heaven sent demon

Oh, godly love-

all but you have been romanticized, but yet

Forgiven.

How simply

divinity is held close

beyond reason.

Needed.

Raped of permanence

but still not forgotten- in some purgatory

of Sentence.

Banish me somewhere

Closer.

Some other place where less is understood.

Not someplace to sneak between

but yet relish in

the Exposed place.

Left.

waiting.

Apology accepted.

Demeaned meaning,

to some other, lesser place

where

the Pomp and Circumstance of it all

can peacefully reside in;

My love, loved and yet

still loves.

Faithfully.

Dutifully.

She demands nothing less, but all the more-

he Scores.

Note by note, he, perhaps,

as my orchestra and your Sweet Orator,

was written for us both.

Oh, my love is My Love.

I demean your interference

into those sacred spaces

held in Other's places.

But, tonight.

Tonight.

Tonight.

Grieve mercilessly.

Come find me.

I am somewhere, lost in and

underneath the shallows and

regrets,

the fine space between

Pomp and Circumstance.

Lifted.

Left.

It's Mine, too.

Big day today, not the huge 30, though, so I am in the clear for a while longer.

Last night was a tough one, but have arrived at some peace in the way of that. Two years ago yesterday marks the passing of a dear friend and it has been a trial of acceptance. Love to her and her dear family. I know we have all been at different points on the same road and I look forward to the time when we all reach our space of peace again.

Two years, tomorrow.

Two years, tomorrow,

Uninvited, but in full-knowing,

The day approaches.

And, in my arms I nurse the alternate ending:

Act Two: Scene One:

You live.

All that I would share,

Regretfully, too much time since passed,

Much has transpired.

And, in my mind I believe somehow you achieved.

The End: (no Epilogue found.)

Two years, tomorrow.

Unfortunate. Never able to

Make it up to you.

If There Was No You

Another great song. I guess there are like these musical themes to my weeks. I am trying to write more, but I have a chorus of another variety filling the room and I need to attend to that before trying to sort out my own thinking.

Some Birthday

The present was presented.

All tissue-wrapped

bow-tied mystery;

Packing-tape sealed perfection.

Butter-knife sliced

sugar-box complete;

No greater feign forgetting.

Pink champagne haze

Reminded, I fell;

An Antidote of Another Sort

An short excerpt from a short story, from a short book, entitled, "This is Not My Life- That's a Much Longer Story."

Is it ever anything but autobiographical, she thought to herself as she set down her Pinot and began to write. What a tease, she believed, to think it possible to divorce ourself from our Self as central theme.

Though as of late, she had been encouraging her husband to read more, she hadn't half expected the text. A paraphrase, although too eloquent to be his own, yes, it must have been lifted in it's entirety, a quote making the case for female Viagra. No accident that only an hour before, she had glanced at an acquaintance's Facebook status expressing her frustration over her students' inability to fully grasp the notion of plagiarism.

The quote, in summation, needed no further argument to be anything but convincing- for the premises that he had apparently omitted, she simply filled in from her own life. Have women in this liberal and post feminist age become too radicalized in their roles and related expectations that they have dropped the desire to faux-procreate once they have already offered their womb twice over to the preservation of the race? It seems in all the emasculating that's apparently occurring in the modern American family, women are tolerating man's whims less and less. And, the NY Times finds this newsworthy? And, he finds this mid-afternoon text-worthy (simply hyphenating all words that are apparently not words, but she believes they should soon become).

Perhaps female Viagra is the answer, or perhaps, she thought, another antidote of an altogether different sort. Emasculation seems to be impossible to occur if women aren't simultaneously being de-feminized. She thought back to the college years and the women's lib-beat on the street feel of her courses and thought there was one missing; the course needed to bring full circle the link between expectations (the kind that are met) and attraction.

The Impressionist

If the subject is somehow impressed upon, does it grammatically follow that the object is the impression or the impressionist? Or maybe neither of these, but actually the Impresser. Whatever the proper conjugation, or maybe the meaning intended, I am not sure if the consequence belongs better linked to the affect of the subject of the effect of the verb. Perhaps, then, one might be simultaneously effected as a result of the affect, all the while affected: so having been quite impressed upon, locked in reciprocal consequence.

But, it is not so much a discussion of the properties of words but content of thought that is so weighted; a simple meditation of how one allows the self to be impressed upon at all, really. An unrequited, incomplete something. A chimera of some intangible object of thinking.

Hand-Maiden with Love

I fingered the stitches as I knew she had lovingly stitched them, remembering back to more impressionable years, to a time coupled with first love naiveté and compulsive-creative flurry.

I pretended the threat to the tee- sheet unfolded across the vertical length of the couch and there, in my hands, clutching the lover's gift. The irony that I might be body wrapped-warm in a matrimony of each loving stitch- a crocheted quilt for a love-past when love itself spilt tirelessly over. I, now clutching not the gifts-intended, for the recipient slept hard in the bedroom with the baby at the far end of the opposite hall, but hard onto their heathered-blue and white shared trinket.

Under the queen-like size blanket, one much larger than I had ever stitched for self or lover alike, I felt enveloped in their darkness between. Had she loved him more than I? I didn't care. I loved that he had been loved hard. Loved through every stitch. And, after they had married and done divorced themselves rightly from their shared history, I appreciate their love; their display of common experience reminds me of a time littered with another happiness far before this.

Although we have all since been moved from the show of it, the sweet display of stitch after stitch, I am kept warm under the blanket of lust and circumstance, promise and regret. Is there a love better defined than by this?

Though I made not a single stitch, I too have loved hard, been, too, compelled to create many homemade gifts. I have lusted for and treaded badly through circumstance, been tempted to make and receive promises absent of foundation and regretted much of the very lack in intention. I hope that the many other women who now warm the beds of lovers I have also loved, they might be one day kept warmed by a word I have written, hummed to a tune to a song I penned- I hope they might appreciate their lover's ability to have and to yet still, inspire love.

(An attempt to articulate the irony of sleeping on the couch -and all the loaded meaning therein, under the blanket handmade by your partner's former lover.)

Keeping it Topical

I think I am on a mental-hiatus from my deeper self. Instead of meandering roads and tangents to places I can't restore, I have found some place to recover myself- in the pages and thoughts of others. Reading and thinking again, for sure, but writing- not yet. I can't bear to see the encoded mess of me undone in print, so I am hovering along the surface of what is- taking in the metaphors and thought-whims of others and basking in stories far from reach of my own. And, when I have fully recovered the desire to challenge myself, wit, vocabulary, I will. Articulate. For sure- just not today.

I agree that we are all "bad actors with bad habits."

Goodnight.

An Introduction to Someone You Should Know

Since I am lacking in creative flare of my own, I would like to introduce you to another woman- who is certainly never lacking. Full of depth and imagery, even a few lines inserts you directly into her prose- as if every letter was a moment and every space between the word, a feeling. Her work is phenomenal and I am surprised she hasn't already been whisked away to a Writer's Colony atop a mountain somewhere in the Alps.

I love her work and I am inspired to one day tackle the short story in addition to my poetry.

So without further ado, Ms. Tina Cabrera.

e.e. cummings, "somewhere i have travelled, gladly beyond"

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

I think I am the most sleepiest girl in the world. I am drained.

Think.

Proceed.

Think. Turn left.

Think. Stop. Stop thinking.

Try to sleep.

Think. Think. Think.

It's the sinking in, this thinking of.

The thinking in that's stopping us.

Think.

Proceed.

Wait. Don't.

Wait. Stop. Stop waiting.

Try to let go.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

The waiting for, this fated now.

The fated waiting

that

is

us.

todavía no se ha hecho pública toda la historia

(the full story has yet to be told)

I wish I could scrapbook my mind

share all the time-moments and lapse-memories

Revealing all instance of treasured love's beginning:

I would thus artifact

(for you) my existence.

As, merely, I am the sum of subsequent parts

a conglomerate of feeling, choice and pieces of heart.

I wish I could choose you.

I wish I could choose,

and also with you.

Amen my brother, you agree?

Peace be in the antiquated moments of fleeting

vulnerabilities.

Peace be in the shade of a forest you sang for me.

Peace be in the broken-sun streaming across your cheek.

Peace be in the love made quietly in a room shared on a street I drive past just to remember.

Amen my brother.

I wish I could choose you.

I wish I could keep all I have made and carry with them along, as I have carried

And you

carried on for so long.

I wish I could take up with some simultaneous rage

of mind and intellect and heart.

of ours and mine and make it new-now together.

Peace be in a stool in a shop near Haight.

Peace be in corner of 6th and Mesa in the town we met together.

Peace be in you seated on a rock-stage of our play to the ocean-audience of romance past.

Amen, my brother.

Under the guise of now,

I keep you,

like a favorite tune,

to remind me a time I used to like to sing.

A time, that given all appropriate conditions,

would return to,

Now you may be seated.

Amen my brother, you agree?

My Ashbury trinket

My San Pedro secret

My leitmotif and very life's theme

set to the composition

(Unaware,

Unintending, perhaps)

You scored me.

Days like to today

I think about what is and thank

Jesus himself for my having made

the choices I made.

And, it is on such a rare occasion

I employ the use of God and His Name.

The very fact that I am in such an

advantageous position

as this

to complain.

It really is quite the life,

when my biggest concerns

of the afternoon

lie focussed on

cooking plans, routine doctor visits,

and the unnecessary wardrobe additions

I plan to purchase.

Someone recently asked if I'd even ever given

this man the chance?

Well, today, I solute you

Mr. Restaurant worker, dock-hand man:

You provide for us in all the ways that

lead me to feeling as though

I have the freedom to complain.

In other words,

thank you.

Inauthenticity

Immense freedom

found in the what is

(where most reside)

Having stopped copy-catting

the past

projected from our history's transperency

where all I could see

were the long standing-line

of ifs before me

What is is just this

Truth-concentrate.

hmmm. but still.

I don't think you believe you.

Happy in the Shade?

If I could have rewritten the lyrics, these are what they would read:

I think that once,

the maple could have been happy in the shade,

Allowing the oak to simply soak up the light

While watching it grow out,

up and beyond her reach.

And, it's not that she ever screamed, "oppression,"

As simply stopped wanting to compete

There is most certainly trouble with the trees

Some force has shaken them at the roots

(at the very base of their inevitability)

Or, so the maple alongside

is urged by the oak to believe

The maple can't help the depth of feelings

they simply result from the way she was made

But she knows no happiness in such a sun-deprived forest

(wishes no world shared by an oak)

where nil but a slow-death-come from shade

The maple can't help the depth of feelings

they simply result from the way she was made

And it is surely no testament to the good in the oak

(antiquated forest-fantasy banished underground)

but more a nod to way the maple behaves

My negative, Exposed

Uncover me

Shed my skin of vulnerability

simply because you can

For no other reason

sufficiently describes

simply because it is

you who can

Unfold arms embracing

what the it is

they hold so gently

Impressed upon

the familiar image of yourself

staring back

Using your skeleton key

to which you unlock every door

behind the I in everything

naked standing

unfolded

exposed

me

Understand the whom

to who you seek

Measure

What is the weight of desire in gold?

Sentiment in silver?

The worth of a life traded

for a past mulled over?

Or two lives, or three, or five?

The whom to who you seek

choices measured not in pennies

but penance paid

to your personal history

(Come) Undone

Come exposed

Come seen

Come under the weight of necessity

or ascribe to the permanence of possibility

But, come

Undone

Come exposed

Come seen

Let the rarity of negative exposure

from the dark rooms of dark halls in dark living

Develop.

See yourself

As you are seen

By me.

Falling Slowly

I don't know you
But I want you
All the more for that
Words fall through me
And always fool me
And I can't react
And games that never amount
To more than they're meant
Will play themselves out

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice
You'll make it now

Falling slowly, eyes that know me
And I can't go back
Moods that take me and erase me
And I'm painted black
You have suffered enough
And warred with yourself
It's time that you won

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you had a choice
You've made it now
Falling slowly sing your melody
I'll sing along

Glen Hansard Lyrics, Falling Slowly.

Shadow on the Wall

Gone

It's hard for me to see when I'm wrong
It's hard for me to weep when I'm strong
But I could never sleep when you're gone
Oh but still
If you were gonna crucify me
I wouldn't want nobody to see
'Cause you could kick me hard when I'm down
Down, down, down

I don't want wanna be
Nobody's fool
I've played that part so many times before
How I long to be
A shadow on the wall
I will make no sound at all
And when the sun goes down
The shadow on the wall
It cannot be seen at all
At all

Over it
Hey it's not that you would mess with my head
Find More lyrics at www.sweetslyrics.com
I believe that you believe what you said
You think you know me best and you care

But that's not fair!
'Cause I don't really want to be safe
It must have been the way I was raised
Sleep with one eye open I say
Hey hey hey

I don't wanna be
Nobody's fool
I've played that part so many times before
How I long to be
A shadow on the wall
I will make no sound at all
And when the sun goes down
The shadow on the wall
It cannot be seen at all
At all

Oh
How I long to be
A shadow on the wall
I would make no sound at all
At all

Brandi Carlile, Shadow on the Wall

Is this way easier?

Brandi Carlile, The Story (Cover)

(See more recent post for this cover tune. I have decided to put the video blogs up through YouTube so that I would be able to manage them more easily.)

So, rather than write some poetry and post this song, I just assumed cover it and paste it up. I just discovered this artist, Brandi Carlile, (though I think I refer to her as "Brenda" in the video intro, shoot- see I really did just find her!) thanks to my listening obsession with Pandora. I have always loved Ani DiFranco and then this other amazing woman's voice was chiming through my computer speakers. Phenomenal energy, phenomenal lyrics, just so Patsy Cline-ish and raw- very beautiful music.

I am loving her today.

Here is an additional Brandi Carlile track I am in love with today, "Closer to You":

Uncovered Indefinately

Going to sit and meditate with my guitar in hands, capo on the 2nd fret, and not cover anything. I am going to see what happens. Ugh. I haven't wanted to revisit myself in this space and have been prolonging the time away through working out covers only. I feel like I have this truth locked away and that it will be like Pandora's field-day (never mind that damn little box) when I am alone and open my mouth.

Someone said something interesting last night to me. They said that they were recently told by another that when we have out a shield, we also have a drawn sword; that in battle, we are taught to throw a block while maintaining the resistance. I think that I wonder sometimes what is in the other pocket, the one to the opposite side of the shield; I wonder what's in the clenched fist gripping at the hilt.

Perhaps, instead, the writing isn't on the wall, but in my hand. In blue ink. I am conscious there is a message, worn by time, but still insistent not to wash my hands of it just yet. Like, the way I felt after a boy first took it and caressed it under a table, I felt so sad to wash the experience away with soap, as if each trip to the water faucet would bring me one further from the moment I longed to be in. If at eight, I could feel at that depth, imagine the ocean below at twenty-more. Much to navigate. The space I mean, that both separates us into oceans apart, but connects us as we travel upon its sturdy back of circumstance.

I love you Past. I love you and I don't have to think about how to have you in my life, as you are. This is the experience. We are living in. We are living across. We are both living on. Intregal(ly) connected upon the same sea of certainty. My first mate, my captain, my siren at rocky-shore edge. (Breathe).

The present we bathe eternally in. (Breathe).

And the present has passed. (Breathe).

But, then a new present returns. (Breathe).

Forever Yours,

B

Throw Your Arms, cover

(Needs to be re-done. . . ha ha. Biggest critic has the power of the veto action.)

So, I got the suggestion that I should use my hood this morning to cover my bed head. Well, I think I am maybe the only one that finds early morning (afternoon in this case) hair is simply rad. A serious testament to a night slept well, great dreams, and easy living.

Yep, never mind the cross-eyed action once again. I think I know this song by heart, but wasn't bothering to test myself. Hence, the constant reading off the screen action.

Ok, I've got like five minutes to shower and get over to Redondo Beach.

So, if there was any mandolin player out there, hint hint, who wanted to learn this Eddie Vedder song:

E(m?)/A/E(m?)/B

or, the way I am playing it is basically capo on the 2nd fret, D/G/D/A - and then, bridge is just D/G/A.

YouTubeable

Hmm. What's the song of the day? I listened to plenty of Jason Mraz this afternoon in the car. I was super disappointed to find that he is not quite as YouTubeable as I had hoped. I really wanted the chance to find this one song and then study the lyrics and chord progression tonight for this open mic on Thursday. Needless to say, it was a true needle 'n haystack search after following one internet-tangent after another.

So, to all you ex-boyfriends out there who made me CDs with your dedicated list of Mp3s, it would have been super fabulous if you had also left me a list of the song titles. What's sad is I don't know from whom I picked this live track recording up from. What's even sadder is I can't recognize the handwriting, but I probably own a pair of his socks somewhere amidst the collection.

Angel Babies, thanks for last night.

(Place-holder)

I am going to re-record this song then place it back up. I can't stand parts of it, like my being super off key and my attempt at some vocal licks that are super out of my range.

I can't express how much it felt good to just go out last night and chill with great people. I am trying to focus a bit on the positive at the moment (hard, I know, I am so tempted to wallow). So, good times at the mic last night, I guess I never mind goofing off at it. Sure to repeat soon (tonight most likely). And, I better pull some lyrics to some familiar songs off the internet here, or I am sure to repeat ballads from our dear Ben Harper all evening.

Bargain-chipped

I've decided to include some musical piece as an intro to my own personal writing. I think so many times, we creatives are longing to find a way to uniquely express a very common experience. So, I put it my way, Dylan wrote it his, but we are both attempting to harness a bit of the ineffable.

In my inability to suck in,

hold,

exhale

and repeat today,

I realized I was traded over a table,

gambled at my own expense,

an accepted defeat as consequence for trivial longing

Bargain-chipped for someone else's freedom

A good night sleep

A favorite show

a post-couple-war copulation

following the loss of your personal life's stronghold

Under what terms did I masquerade?

What value priced out for?

If I could trade you in for peace

Admittedly

I might.

But,

I sleep to escape from daydream-girl fantasy

I don't even own a TV

And, there isn't enough fight in the circumstance I chose

to have peace come at the expense of me

Vanilla-bean fantasy, look eslewhere

I asked what flavor of ice cream he wanted

Vanilla

Keep it vanilla.

Being the saccharine-sweet sugar I am

I scooped him a sundae of wonderment,

a fudge-dipped, cherry tipped of desire

on one hell of a banana boat of fantasy:

And, hon',

We don't sell vanilla here.

Not a value judgement as so much just a statement

I think if you really wanted to keep it that way

Vanilla, I mean-

referring to a relationship fancy-free,

you wouldn't find yourself

wheeling 'round in the revolving door

to a store you continually return

over and over again

only to rediscover it doesn't carry

the Vanilla

you're looking for.

I implore:

Rid yourself of this cognitive dissonance

once more

Resolve the urge to continually revolve.

Make peace with the mistake it was to walk away

to turn down the sundae

for that simple, predictable-

and oh so palatable vanilla taste.

Quit participating in the pretentiousness

that what we have is what we live for

when really, it seems that if we have what we lived for

we might surely cease to live at all-

'cause the over indulgence in the what of our desire

rather than in the actual desiring itself

seems to give away

give in

and make hasty waste of triple scoop, chocolate decadent fantasy.

Have your vanilla- but don't come 'round here seeking it out.

And, if you do,

don't be surprised when it turns out that in

the temporary absence of your continual return

the store you repeatedly seek

has closed up

gone underground

or just underneath-

the sheets perhaps

of something more permanent,

like an enclosure of circumstance and choice-

remade and remade ad infinitum

Latin for I'm stuck.

Latin for your Vanilla-bean of regrets in choiceless living.

Slow n Steady

Leonard Cohen cover, Jeff Buckley version. Take 52. Yes, I'm reading the words and chords off the computer. Simple progression, just making it easy for me. Nope, not typically cross-eyed, contrary to video footage embedded here.

Best part:

"Baby I've been here before

I've seen this room and I've walked this floor

I used to live alone before I knew you

I've seen your flag on the marble arch

But love is not a victory march

It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah"

Home is Whenever I am With You

Nice. Speaks my mind. Makes me want to shake my tambourine for you.

This method-acting

I am excited to report that I am going to some random street corner this evening and will be playing "out." Sans the mic, of course, but there will be live bystanders and perhaps a Guiness in store. Covers, covers, for sure. In good time, I will hope to revisit the ones I can claim for my own in addition to penning some new ones. But for those in the know, we can probably imagine that the new ones will be recycled versions of the old, so why trample a done thing, right? Maybe, new experiences will equal new material. For my own listening pleasure, I hope so. I don't think I can stand to hear the whining anymore either.

Some ideas floating in the mind-mix.

Damn

when I know that I couldn't pretend

my heart into passing

this polygraph of testimony:

I'm over it.

Green-screen of living

On autopilot to escape into the daydream

My mind method-acting (out)

the alternate piece staring you and me.

So, duck You into the margin of my thoughts

Take a seat

there

in the chair

Beside what could've been.

Watch the wooden stage-

upon which play the players,

from a script to the role you wrote

yourself out of.

Jason Mraz, I'm Yours cover

Like we really need one more cover to this Jason Mraz tune, but it was too catchy to avoid. So, after a big long 4-year hiatus, here is my stab at this radio-kill song, butchered of course, ha ha. Figured posting a cover was my first step towards putting it all out there with some original, oldies but goodies. I am sort of on an anti-pining tip, so maybe it's just time to start penning lullabies or some other emotionally harmless stuff. Next step, Baa Baa Black Sheep- so watch out.

Dear Moth:

This is your Flame speaking. Lately, I have been burning rather bright, too bright. Perhaps, I have been unaware of the potential burns that can result from this. I have been selfishly bent on (over)communicating my desire and need for constant kindle and have neglected to remind myself that this is not your responsibility. It is in your nature to appreciate, but continually feed? Yes, not apart of the original negotiations.

pin me

Broadcast of my mind

place them in black in white upon some billboard

but in a language unfamiliar to everyone

but not entirely unknown to any(one)

Trivial encoding of all these feelings

(the regret-provoking longings)

into some one-trite-sentence-summary

available for all to read

however, so specifically placed for any(one) to relate to

Leaving open the possibility

that in some metaphysical autumn of circumstance

all the leaves of current burdens be would be swept away

into the current of (his)story

Oh, love's manifest in my heart

taken hold in this mind and despite

all I have done, undertaken, and shunned

long, I, ever more, my dearest one.

Recent Interview

Recent Interview:

Q. When did you first suspect you were pregnant and what made you suspect you might be pregnant? Describe what steps you took to make sure you were pregnant.

A. I was trying to get pregnant, so I took a pregnancy test over the counter on the first day my period was due. After getting a positive result, I contacted my OBGYN and made an appointment to confirm the pregnancy with a blood test and ultrasound.

Q. Describe your feelings when your pregnancy was confirmed. Describe any new emotions you have felt during your pregnancy.

A. I felt positive about the pregnancy but was nervous because I already have a little boy at home. I was anticipating being ill all the time and knew that would make things extra difficult.

Q. Describe how the prospect of being a parent changed your sense of identity. What new responsibilities do you have as an expectant parent and how do you feel about these responsibilities?

A. It didn't change my identity as so much as "add" on an additional one. I now wear many hats. Mother is one I tend to wear often. There is also 'wife', 'daughter', and just 'me'- the individual I grew into, but exists sort of aside from all these other roles. I feel both positive and resentful of all the responsibilities that come with the many hats I have to carry at once.

Q. Describe the kinds of changes you made in your lifestyle when your pregnancy was suspected or confirmed.

A. I didn't take my son out as much for the first four months. I was very sick and was always having to pull off the road and get sick in the gutter, literally. So, that put a damper on play-dates.

Q. Describe two things that have been the most exciting aspect of this pregnancy.

A. It was very exciting to have to learn how to cope with life on life's terms, sans the coping mechanisms one grows used to employing while living life as an 'individual'. Enough on that note.

Q. Describe what has been the most worrisome aspect of this pregnancy.

A. Read above.

Q. Describe any preparations you have made for this baby (books, classes, doctor appointments etc).

A. I attended all the prenatal care offered through my OBGYN office. In addition, I prepared for labor by reading books on visualization, home birthing, natural labor, etc. I did not attend any birthing classes, since this is my second child. Following the birth, I frequented a local lactation consultant's breast feeding clinic weekly for three weeks.

Q. If this is your first child, in what ways do you think your life will change after the baby’s birth? If you have other children, how have you prepared the sibling(s) for the new baby?

A. I prepared my son by letting him play with another play doll baby (a glow worm) with whom we practiced allowing the 'baby' to nurse and take turns with diaper changes. This was very effective in preparing him for what was coming.

Q. Who has given you the most advice or has been the most helpful during this pregnancy? In what ways have they helped you?

A. A childhood friend who has two children now. She has been instrumental in my child-rearing, although she may be completely unaware. She was very influential in my positive parenting approach and in practicing an attachment parenting model (baby wearing, loooooong term breast feeding, bed sharing, etc.)

Q. How has your baby grown since he/she was born within a year ago?

A. Nicely. She is a little tank. And, she nurses like a champ. She is developmentally on target and that's comforting. Great sleeper, great disposition. I couldn't be more at ease.

Happy Bonding

My OB-GYN told me at my six-week postpartum check up about a drug routinely given to women after birth that is meant to increase their libido while simultaneously triggering their desire to bond (to their husband? child?). Hmmm. As it seems, all too many thoughts can be imitated, controlled, and reduced through a prescription. When, as a society, did we allow the emotional fix-it ticket to become so prevalent, so well-promoted? How removed we have become from the notion that it is the very struggle that is so binding and that to numb the inevitable emotional consequence of our experience is to deny the most human part of our intelligence.

I think I only got through about two chapters of Aldous Huxley's Brave New World, but as I remember, he discusses a futuristic time when people are able to choose how to feel- or what feelings to mitigate- simply but taking a colored pill with said properties. And, when sci-fi becomes this reality we are emulating, rather than finding ourselves motivated to avoid its very creation, it scares me. We have been warned by playwrights, authors and others in like professions- professions whose members are notarized for their perceptiveness and intuitive descriptions of the human condition- yet- here we are, right? Recreating the fantasies they warned us about. . . through one prescription at a time.

To be aware of our past trials and to long for future desirables, to yearn for pleasure and remember pain- these are the gifts of our humanity. To try to negate their existence, to numb them is to falsely replenish desire when there is none; to dictate that absence of feeling - or one's ability to articulate its sort, and thus denying to ourselves the very condition that defines us. So, rather than divide our commonality through diagnosis and uniquely treat away the very symptoms of our collective circumstance, why not prescribe recognition of the greater possibility that our existence bears hardship through the mere cognizance of our condition- a shared, and highly contagious experience-- especially when meditated upon in the presence of others. (Well that last clause gives me bit of a little giggle.)

Cheers to you, fellow human conditioners, and never mind the 'script pad, I am with you out there, whoever you are. I too, remember. I too, hope. The struggle is (our)(the)(shared) experience, it is what sets you and all you fellow 'humaners' (apart)(above)(from) all other species. So, why not celebrate our common struggle some and connect through the discomfort, the awareness, the hope.

As my brother just said to me this weekend, "What about you makes you think that your experience is so unique?"

Letter to My Unborn Daughter, Pt. 1

Dear ____________ :

May you grow up to have all the abundant gifts a girl should possess, and none of these I mean materially. May you spend more time in the library than in the nail shop and more days dining on incredible conversation than on Ben & Jerry's (my own waistline's demise- well that, and you of course ; ).

I hope that you spend your days seeking opportunities to explore the world and its mysteries, and truths, and stories. I hope you choose to challenge others through your discoveries, share the insights you have both stumbled upon and sought. May you value each for their inherent worth- the lessons life teaches in addition to the ones you, yourself, seek. May you seek them. Apply them. Share them. And, repeat as necessary throughout your entire life.

Know that you are deserving and wanted at all times, especially know this when you are faced with the inevitable doubt in those close to you and in those you feel abandoned by. You do not need to ever convince someone of your worth- you are my daughter, you are incredible. Your worth transcends words and no language of man or woman, mother or father, could succeed in its articulation. So, I will not try only to fail- but allow my presence in your life to always be a testament to it. Your value is within you, please don't seek out others to show you what you are already in possession of. This is another one of your mother's blunders- may you make your own.

Your family is readying itself for your arrival, may you come in peace.

Love,

Mom.

The Room I've Since Been Searching For

The bed is unmade,

and those memories, they are worn,

But there is a thought of you

So long ago

that testifies warmth;

When we woke to the light,

It was splintered up through your blinds

and in the dark of your room

a new world dawned and we,

we were alive;

But they all continue to say

that nothing good can ever remain,

And that everything that is beautiful

well it is destined to fade,

'cause nothing that feels perfect

is actually what stays;

The coffee is cold,

and those stores are all past closed,

but there is a life with you

so long ago that I long to restore;

And, now I'm in

In the dark of your hall,

Reaching out for that handle on on the door,

to that room that we shared,

The space I have since been searching for;

But they all continue to say

that nothing good can ever remain,

And that everything that is beautiful,

well it is destined to fade,

'cause nothing that feels perfect

is actually what stays;

Here's to Mr. So-and-So.

preface: this piece was written when I was a senior in college. I included it because at the time, it was Rita's favorite piece of my writing, which was set to music, so yeah, it's a song. After I graduated, Rita had me come and open for her "open mic" night at UCLA, the good ol' Eclectic days. Of course, I was supposed to make a few bucks 'cause Rita always got her friends paid gigs. So, here's to you, Rita. RIP.

Now before you leave,

finally this chance, it's on me,

there are words that I need to speak,

but only to diffuse all of their power in meaning;

There must have been a time,

But I cannot recall,

When the love that you gave to me

Was nothing short of magical;

And those colors that you said

I brought to your life

Were like none that you'd ever known,

But that there would always be something

that you,

you would love more;

So, at dawn, I finally fall asleep,

And, I am kept awake all night in dreams;

'Cause the hardest hope to know,

is the hope that you,

you will not ever be able to let me go;

But one day, you started to prefer,

Black and White,

and you didn't need any colors in your life

'Cause you painted them yourself in all your pride;

And you taught me that magic,

Well, it's only composed of tricks,

And, that truest love and deception,

They can never coexist;

So, now before I leave,

Finally, this chance, it's on me;

And, the hardest hope that I know,

it's the hope that you will not ever

be able to let me go.

Golden Days of Yore

for grandma.

Twist Roman shades back

Reveal days of youth

before trepidation gave treaty to

Sister Apathy;

Draw up the Shutter latch

Watch the driveway of olden days

(past the intersection of the Golden Days)

from the padded kitchen chair on the

beige stained linoleum stage;

Turn on the Tiffany

Illuminate secrets

of life's mysteries composed from

Circumstance' score;

Unbolt the top lock of the security door

Just in case of emergency or another fall

(not this time for a man, but for God)

and make your way by your slow shuffle walk

down the burnt-orange carpeted hall,

past the fortieth anniversary portrait,

past the towel closet,

past the outdated pictures of your grandkids on the wall;

"Are you the love of my life . . . "

"Well you say that I treat you like a book on the shelf,

I don't take you out that often

because I know that I completed you."

-Conner Oberst of Bright Eyes

All in Moderation

Taking the recycling out with the trash,

Since they are received by two different, although adjacent, bins,

They are taken out in the same trip;

So, with a bag in the left and another in the right,

climb down the steps to the garage where the cans are kept;

Thinking sometimes I mix them up,

Because too often the things intended to be disposed of, return,

And, the things I meant to revisit, discarded;

So, with both free hands now idle,

climb up the steps to the place above where the original mistake is made;

Keep 'em Cummings

Wanted to post this, obviously, this brilliant piece is not mine . . . although, in some sense, I have claimed it, since I find that it and my heart are speaking the same language. RIP Rita.

Lost in prose.

i carry your heart with me

I carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

eternal return

In a maze of tangential truths,

a thought exposed continuum

And all these paths,

they bring me back to you;

Romanticize through your memories,

the still-prints of our history,

forgotten are the 'negatives'

of the in between;

And, I am hopeless,

And, I am faithless.

'Cause, I would rather be blind

than shed the denial from my eyes

and wait and watch

until you fade in the periphery;

And, I would rather live a thousand lies

than have to face this truth's demise

and be without you for the rest of my life;

It's through the luxury of history,

that we prison our reality,

Letting a contrition of faith,

define our state;

In a matrimony of moments,

Is born our conception of time,

As you slip from our awareness,

Into the margins of the Single Mind.

And, I am hopeless,

And, I am faithless.

And, I would rather be blind

than shed the denial from my eyes

and wait and watch

until you fade in the periphery;

And, I would rather live a thousand lies

than have to face this truth's demise

and be without you for the rest of my life;

From the patterns between you and me,

let's project a new transparency

Onto the wall

of our possibility;

We could make nil our mistakes

Let forgiveness abstract away

the beauty of intention,

from the quality of what was made;

And I am hopeless,

And I faithless.

And, I would rather be blind

than shed the denial from my eyes

and wait and watch

until you fade in the periphery;

And I would rather live a thousand lies

than have to face this truth's demise

and be without you for the rest of my life;

Good Mourning

Until this moment,

I haven't written a word down,

scared to articulate my pain.

Somehow, writing of the event

cements its permanence,

like I am taking some metaphysical account of the members of the world,

and you now,

by my pen,

are admittedly

Not here.

And, in this account,

I must divorce myself from guilt perceptions

and the continual replays of you and I in my mind.

But, even in modest objectivity-

The news: presented pictures

that I have since projected

onto my movie screen of memory:

you: hanging.

A single light illuminating-

something not unlike film noir,

so said your sister upon finding you.

The consequential effect,

your pain's undoing-

my sweetest girl,

the most muted human shade of blue.

You: the girl that was on the phone with me,

minutes prior, crying.

Crying out,

Talked over.

You: the woman who I told was "facing death"--

accurate or encouraging?

How much power did you burden me with?

How much power you did burden me with.

Day Dreams

Day dreams are those ideas that seem to be some sort of synthesis between what we will and what we dare not admit. Being that they are intangible in all respects, Day dreams are the unmasking of circumstance, the dethroning of longing, the protest of hope.

What can come of ideas that seek to negate and derail? To overwhelm and prevail still, despite repeated reprimands from the understudies to the roles in the life we should have partaken of.

Day dreams are the stories of opportunities lost, when choices were made without concern for the peripheral. Manipulated outcomes driven through tunnel visioned motives. How did this come to pass even, you asked. By denying access. By shutting down. By instilling fear through my having none. By letting go too easily. By my forgetting to think of whatever it was I needed, in order to see beyond the horizon of permanence that was upon me. For a time, I lost myself. And, I have now opened up only this moment to the life that will ensue. The life that will take place and pass too quickly. The weight of time, lifted. The gravity, unbearable. The silence to come, deafening.

Day dreams are those reminders of all those experiences you wanted that didn't come to pass. The shadows on doors we closed of selves we were too long ago. The knocks on windows late at night by children we could've been together. The late night regrets from dreams we ought not have and dare not share. Not to them. Not to each other. And eventually, like all things beautiful, the anticipation of reconciliation will soon become realized to be irreconcilable.

Day dreams are pain transferred from the unconscious and projected onto to the screen of the movie starring you and not me.

Dreaming in Technicolor

Waking dreams. Ambitions. With hope externalized onto the canvas of what is current, we commit ourselves to their actualization through their verbal expression. All the while, our esteem and self-doubt boldly state their rebuttal. Riding on follow through and chance and perceived ability. Through waking dreams, we challenge what is with what could be.

Night dreams. Interpreted. Internally scrawled messages in the margins of thoughts. We dance around in details and subtle suggestions of possibilities. And, the modal consequences bearing no weight. Weightless. Regretless. Limitless. Choices are endless and behavior no boundaries. Pure Id. Through night dreams, we create and play within our own alternate reality, apart from what is; apart from what could be.

And, what of Day dreams?