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Reading Piri Thomas. Getting acquainted with the poetry scene. Raise the kids. Work. Pay bills. write. Love my husband. Love my kids. Responsible. Me. Hopelessly infatuated. Too sensitive to beauty in all forms. Floors me at times. Want to strip everything, peel all layers, immerse myself in the beauty of; sky, night, clouds, stars, blue, purple, orange pink; the grass, the trees, the flowers (the deer that wandered in my yard). Dark, smoke-filled rooms, the stage, the mic, the poets, the words, words, words. Want to swim in it, bathe in it, swallow it whole, drown in all the beauty.
Worked hard to be unlike mami. Alcohol, minimal, drugs zero(well some weed in t he past) clubbing once or twice a month. Upstanding, reponsible, super-mom. Oldest 19 youngest 12, 14 and 16 in between. Proud. Yet sometimes I think responsibilty, highly overrated. Romanticized life: live in a tiny manhattan studio. Eat oatmeal for breakfast egg sandwhich for lunch, tuna for dinner. Read by candleght at night. Write in the park by day. Make random love to random beautiful people, some physically some spiritually. Wear sexy glasses, messy hair, no make-up. Fall in love every day. Die immersed in water.
Compel: to force, drive or constrain: So I am compelled to move forward with this course of action. Consequences are clear, but my mind is made up. A simple invitation, I react torn between doing what feels right and what is right, but right by what standards and does it even matter? Yes or no I keep asking myself until I finally realize I am already there sitting on your sofa, drinking your coffee, smoking cigarettes filtered with the words that meet your lips and my ears. No has been erased from my vocabulary since I first saw you there.
Wrote my first article today. Waiting for my second pair of eyes to review, then its attach and hit the send button. Good I think, good enough, I believe but its up to the powers that be. Waiting impatiently for the next time. Last night surreal. The dark room, the movie posters, the comic strips on the wall, the cuddly cat, the tension, the poetry, the conversation, the electricity in the air, the heat in his eyes burning through me, the dish he cooked for me, The 100 Years of Solitude, the kiss. Hope they publish my article, I hope.
Down on the ground grown man kicking you in the gut; babies watching, tears, confusion. A dark night, but not late. People aware. No cops, just backs. Flash forward. All good. A distant memory. No more flashbacks; visions, a black fist, angry eyes. Just leave, pack up, live in a box if you have to. Hunger is better. Freezing is better. Let the security go, keep your dignity. So long ago. Sharing with someone recently, brought back the memory, but the pain isn’t there. It’s like watching a film. An actress lying there battered and bruise, not me. Never again!
I think I’m SNOW blinded by this SNOW look out my window SNOW open my front door SNOW sick of the SNOW falling in great waves SNOW or light flurries SNOW makes no difference SNOW it’s still SNOW cloaking this city SNOW in white SNOW the SNOW transforms SNOW dirty slush piles SNOW 3 feet 8 feet 15 feet SNOW cold SNOW warm SNOW give me rain wind sun heatwave anything SNOW not SNOW my mind is SNOW clouded by SNOW my mood is SNOW darkened by SNOW my heart is SNOW pumping just SNOW can’t breath strangled by SNOW!
Really want a cigarette. Tomorrow is actually my smoke night, yes weird, but I curb my smoking to Saturdays hangin out with the gang. It doesn’t really make sense. I probably smoke ¼ of a pack sometimes ½ . Do I do it to merely to boldly declare that I’m not a “smoker.” Then again, I have no other vices (coffee?), I’m really probably too good, or at least I have been. Being good takes its toll on a person. You begin to wonder what your missing. Then when your faced with temptation, you second guess. Tired of being good!
Shopping the supermarket is the epitomy of domestic duty. Perusing for an empty cart, bobbing and weaving other carts, watching ladies in curlers cursing at screaming children or saying no over and over till the kid gets what he wants. Old couples, young couples. Buying toiltet paper, tampax, laxatives, condoms. Ever check out what the person in front of you is buying or copped a pack of gum or nail polish? Everyone in all walks of life should be required at some point to shop at the supermarket. When was the last time you think Jay-lo bought her own tampax?
Saturday night: Smoked, drank, played Asshole: friends. I have good friends. Feel lucky. I had a dream that Snoop Doggy Dog was this dealer out to kill my son who owed him some cash. Woke up cryin hysterically. My dreams are vivid, creepy sometimes how vivid they are. Like i'm watching a movie. It was actually warm yesterday. The dog was in my dream too, rolling around in the mud till he was coated in black. Died my hair rich brown. Salma Hyek is 36. Her hair is dark. Don't wanna look exactly like her, but a resemblance wouoldn't hurt.
Smell of: a new book, chopped garlic, fresh sofrito, fresh cut lawns, newborn babies, Bronx Botanical Gardens, your skin, Feel of: a new poem, my dog's fur, a soft pillow, the hot sun on my face while lying on the beach, my feet buried in the sand, my body immersed in the ocean, your eyes, Look of: a waterful, raindrops, a woman's naked body, a stack of read books, a stack of unread books, trees in autumn, your hair.
Is there really such a thing as "Black & White?" Probably not. I'd say that my life has probably consisted for the most part of the whole ROYGBIV spectrum with varying shades of gray thrown in. Right now I'm hovering somewhere in the area of smokey gray with layovers in yellow, green, and blue. I don't know how to make out the gray areas. They fuck me up. Someone once told me that my kisses were pink. I think that's where I'd like to be, in the pink area. Pink kisses. Pink nights. Pink mornings. Pink lovemaking. Fuck the Grays!
Winter Blahs: Clouds, snow, rain. Ice on the ground, mountains of once white snow now caked with all the pollution that circles the air we breathe. I wonder if that's what my lungs look like. The river behind me at work is frozen. Use to go out there and sit, smoke a cigarette, watch the surface breathe, inhaling and exhaling, fantasizing about the beach. No oceans here no beaches. I miss the beach. My skin has lost that caramel shine. I feel like a pale ghost drifting. I want to wear a short skirt, open-toed sandals, and a slinky tank-top again. Frown.
Feeling heavy today, not the weight thing, the heart thing. Snow is falling heavy again (nuff said of that). Wanna cry, scream, scrawl damning words across the sky. Albeit temporary, nonetheless effective, feeling that is. Went running with my son the other day, it was nice. He's still happy to hug and kiss his mom, end of that is near. I'm not unloved, just partially understood, even by myself I imagine. The snow is pretty when you only have to look at it. I like it best forever suspended in a globe, shake it up when I see fit. Controlled.
I need to be alone. Shared a room with my brother till, well too long. Have children, husband, dog will travel, with me, always. They're all cool, love them and all that. But I've lacked solitude in my life. Need a quiet place for more than just a couple of hours. Read, write. Read more, write more. Smoke some. Contemplate life, death love, sex. Well maybe not that much solitude. Missing someone today. Stroking my guilt slowly. Purring it away. I think I haven't made my 100 words cryptic enough. Certain eyes ahould never see, wouldn't understand. Well, fuck me!
Spring is almot here. Can't wait to wear a short skirt and sandals. Thinking about a nose ring, a very small charming one. Maybe too old for that. Although I'm told I look 25-ish (sometimes even younger). Maybe not, I'm thinking about it. The sun is going down now. Just painted my nails, blue-black. Hang-out night. Later that night: Things went sour. Hubby acted like a typical man. Saddened. Surprised. Perhaps knowledge is tickling at the edge of his consciousness. No excuse though. Don't be a dick manifesting fears in behaviors that may only justify my actions.
Heard we're banning everything French. Dumping French wine like a Boston Tea Party. War is imminent, death too. My feelings are mixed. I'm pissed at all these anti-war mongers. They don't seem to have mixed feelings at all. Peace or nothing at all. I fear war and death. I fear hate and ignorance more. Sit on our hands and wait for the hate to hit a boiling point till enemies come knocking down our door; again? Don't have the answer but I'm sure it isn't as simple as to war or not to war. September 11th a distant memory now.
Spring is here! The end of the old and the beginning of the new. I have a new "friend." It's all good though. And I want to say thank you. Thank you for revealing to me a part of myself I never new was there: Thank you for 100 Years of Solitude; your poetry; your passion; for allowing me to share some of your space. And finally, thank you for your friendship. I accept it willingly and gratefully. I have a new awareness, a new vision, and a new memory to keep warm when its cold again. Spring is here!
About this imminent war: Pointless deaths: Pointless politics: Pointless pointing of fingers: Pointless chants of peace: Pointless chance of peace: Pointless oil: Pointless Iraquis: Pointless Saddam: MSN.com says: "How to cope with war," and directly beneath that "7 ways to lose weight." I sat in front of my mirror this morning and as I lined my eyes I thought "here I am getting ready for work while countless others are getting ready for war." To them: "Life is no life to him that dares not die, And death no death to him that dares not live." -- Sir Henry Newbolt.
After just one incident I am suddenly indifferent to his embrace? Ladies: You know that feeling of complete powerlessness, helplessness, directly resulting from the actions of your boyfriend/lover/husband; that complete isolation leading you to feel a complete and utter weakness in the physical/emotional/mental frailty of being a woman. No matter how untrue you know that to be you are nonetheless convinced of it at that exact moment. How do you recover from that? How do you accept an embrace from the man who inflicted that feeling upon you with anything other than indifference ever again?
I'm in the midst of a solitary metamorphosis. Solitary because it's not something I can share with friends and family. In six short years my youngest will be 18. Already I feel the magnitude of a wing span fighting to rise to the surface. I feel my guilt confused in a mass of passion, freedom, ecstasy, and stealth resignation. Recently things, people, events, have occurred in a rash of collage-like menageries: perhaps I am identifying too much with Marquez's 100 Years of Solitude as I read it hungrily. Perhaps the irony is intentional; divine intervention? Perhaps it's a brain tumor.
Wicked toothache today. Dentist waiting to torture me. Spring day 1 and this is what I have to look forward to. Poetry reading last night. Of course lots of war poetry. I had one, no strong political/angry statements, snapshot: my little girl, when she was a little girl, juxtaposition: child, war, innocence, war, naiveté, war, beauty, war, yadda yadda yadda. Isn't that what it all sounds like at this point, just a bunch of "yaddas." My nephew just enlisted in the Marines. Twenty, beautiful, really don't give a fuck at this point about right or wrong, death is imminent: YADDA!
Remedios the Beauty She drifted into the air the freshly washed bed sheets billowing beside her; never to be seen again. Wish it could be that way sometimes, standing out in the sun performing some mundane chore like hanging the sheets out to dry when suddenly some phantom breeze appears to lift me off my feet and I levitate to some unknown destination never to be seen again: Of course that's just my hopelessly-romantic self babbling. And besides lately I feel like I'm floating anyway. I guess I was Remedios in some way; taken suddenly by some mysterious "phantom breeze."
Love always becomes a ghostly memory replaced by the bills and the laundry and the garbage to take out and the toilet paper to buy. I think all of that was okay once but now I've discovered there's something else. I've found that there is this other state of being out there that transcends this earthly ideology of "love." It's just being with someone and laughing with them and talking to them and making love to them and all of this before you've even been alone together; suddenly you find your mind drifting to that one night over and over.
Having a hard time reading him. When were together I can feel that he's happy to have me there yet when were apart I get the feeling that he could take me or leave me. Like if I suddenly dropped off the face of the earth he'd be like "bendito pobrecita," and then smoke a joint. I probably shouldn't even care except that I'm anxious to see/talk to him when were apart and I'm beginning to feel like some stupid puppy nipping at his heels. Or it may just be a pretense; if he pretends apathy maybe he'll convince himself.
As my batch comes nearer to an end, I find myself panicking. I've revealed much with fingers crossed in the hopes that only the eyes of strangers will read this. It's ironic that I should be sharing myself now. This month has found me changing drastically. I no longer want the things I was so sure I was ready to live with and yesterday I had to swallow the fact that I'll have to live with them nonetheless. So much for breaking out of this cocoon, instead I'll have to break out the thread and sew it shut once again.
While I haven't actually looked back on my batch, I have thought back. Fear I've been somber writing in a haze of woe-is-me-isms. I must apologize and redeem. Here are things in my life I am grateful for: My children My husband My friends My family My dog My poetry Open mics Poets Good books Dreams Good coffee Salted Margueritas Medium steak Spanish rice When my children hug me without alterior motive Blue jays singing at my window Spring His arms; eyes, hair, taste, smell, kisses, words, poetry, company Humor, passion, passion, passion, passion. . . My passion for him.
So we're going to move forward like married people do. He asked me if I was still "in love" with him. He's obviously still "in love" with me so I guess it's possible to stay "in love." I'll just keep up the pretense like so many others: Sparing him by staying or going? Then there's the object of my passion, something about my soul, my spirit, touching me like that: Mystical. All will hit the fan inevitably leaving me with neither; so be it. I've discovered a bit of mysticism in myself: those little yellow flowers raining down on me.
Spring changes my perspective. Things don't bother me as much. Woke, still dark out -early birds chirping outside my window. Went upstairs to check my email. Wearing my hair in pigtails today. Hilarious how men go nuts for that. One day I'll wear a pleated plaid skirt, knees socks, garter belt, black & white cheerleader shoes and my pigtails -all Britney-Spear-esqued- just to see their reactions. I sit by the water for my lunch hour now reading/writing. To die like that, sitiing on the grass, reading "100 Years. . ." ebbing & flowing of water, sun kissing my face, heavenly.
Daugter's practically taller then me/caught my son, well, you know he's twelve/oldest boy finally ready to be a semi-adult/middle boy, working, grounded as always/don't expect rocket scientists/doctors,/lawyers/just to be basically good people/chasing their dreams voraciously/settling for nothing less. Tried to live my life in that vein. Hopefully they'll follow my lead. They invite me to watch movies with them, listen to my poetry, share they're lyrics with me, we laugh a lot. Must have done something right in the midst of my many mistakes. Forever grateful for what they've taught me.
March 30th and snow is falling, FUCK ME! Hate the fucking snow! Hate the fucking snow! Hate the fucking snow! Hate the fucking snow! Hate the fucking snow! Hate the fucking snow! Hate the fucking snow! Hate the fucking snow! Hate the fucking snow! Hate the fucking snow! Hate the fucking snow! Hate the fucking snow! Hate the fucking snow! Hate the fucking snow! Did I mention, Hate the fucking snow! Sad that my next to last entry for the month has to be so fucking dreary, blame it on the FUCKING SNOW! I think mother nature must be dead.
31 Days/100 words a day/discipline never though I had/adhered to the rules/not looking back/anticipate publication/excited anxiety/joyful trepidation/some entries remembered/others a blur/someone I know reading my entries/surely/scary proposition/strangers?/hate mail?/judgments?/yet anticipating reading those daily rants/examine my daily state of mind/blah/blah/blah/too boring for final entry/take the advice of George Castanza/end on a high note "so much depends upon a red wheelbarrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens" -William Carlos William- getting better/only 75 words/what else is there/thirteen words that characterize March batch: mystical enchanting metamorphosis revelations poetry snow snow snow fucking snow "100 Years of Solitude" My 100 fucking words: EXHALE!
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