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June 1 2007.
A day that will live in infancy.
I can do this 100 words thang. It willl be good for me. I’m trying to create more structure. More GOOD structure that is.
After the year I’ve had, a nice long bout of writing is just what the doctor ordered.
Plus, what else will I do this summer?
My beautiful beach vacation is in the shitter, and I have a major cross state move to get ready for.
SO bring it on!
I’m not daunted!
I’m not afraid!
I can stick to it.
Hide and watch.
Birthday! Yay Birthday!
It is my birthday.
The fire pig.
Smack in the middle of Saga Dawa.
I hope this heralds a birth. A new beginning.
A new me drenched in the promise of life.
Every birthday recounts this to each. We are reminded that each life, is precious in the
nature of the Universe.
The fact that we ARE, is enough to assuage the suffering.
I am alive.
I am conscious.
I know who I am.
I can remedy that karma I’ve been hauling around like yoke.
There is beauty there.
Happy Birthday me.
What IS poetry?
Is it the long winded description of something un-see-able?
The sweet worded sonnet to a lover past?
Is it the angry slam-type-ram-type-in-your-face-type-words-that-come-on-like-a freight train?
Is it soft?
Structured hard like a haiku?
Is it rhythm like a sonnet of old?
Or free, like crumpled-trash-origami in the rain gutter?
Hot and sexy, licking you inside, upside, downside, roundside?
Or does it simply state?
Naw, poetry is this and none.
All that and then some.
Poetry is the clip clop of horse hoofs on cobblestone.
The baby crying in the airline.
Poetry is perspective.
Pure and simple.
I just love the movie “Lost in Translation.” I find it alarmingly beautiful. It is such a quiet movie. I can really appreciate a quiet movie. It is palpable to NOT be harassed by the ever present sound bites in the back ground. Plus I find the relationship between the characters very sweet. Very much a -me and you together- type of relationship. We get glimpses into the other people in their lives, and they are less than interesting. I love the sedate calming effect that they bring to each other in the hustle of Tokyo. It’s a beautiful movie.
Black Magick moonlight-feline-grace.
You are the everything-cat one could ask for.
beautiful as Bast,
dark as night,
Prince of Cats.
You found me, more than I you.
When we first met, you leapt to my shoulder and glared at the other lesser beings -content to merely rub my legs- looked into my eyes,
and I knew you were for me.
Past life lover,
or at least old friend.
Soother of my sorrows.
Catcher of all things squirmy and offensive.
Still bright and fierce as ever, albeit a bit more weathered.
Cat of mine.
That’s what they called him.
Dangerous man, with the poetic soul.
His soul is beautiful in its rawness.
He is nature.
Sleeping now in our bed. I have loved him for longer than I’ve know him. It has taken years to get where we are.
But this time, the anger has gone.. Our life together has risen out of ashes, I cast.
Sometimes a burning is necessary for life to flourish. I set the fire, but he arose.
He arose shiny and new.
Against the odds.
Against the norm.
Just like nature.
Only 100 words.
Too few to expound upon the truth and fallacy of reality.
Too many for a glib joke.
How can one open oneself and create in 100 words?
Through the implicit discourse on the breathe of laughter?
Through the ironic diatribe over the breadth of love?
In recalling past tales of childhood rivalries, clothed in friendship? Or in the tearful mourning of the death of a friend.
How can I speak in just 100 words?
100 words, no more, no less.
A daunting task by all accounts.
How can it be done?
The smell is primordially familiar. Singing in my cells a homecoming that speaks deeper than words. Hearkening to an era, eons past. Lunar rocking, back and forth lulling my senses. Calming my essence, soothing my spirit. A sensual feast, warm water lapping against me, salt taste, marine smell, undulating waves, falling gently on warm sand. I am called to the ocean.
Landlocked as I am, I placate with lakes, rivers, streams, but nothing speaks so loudly as Poseidon.
I crave the ocean.
Long for it. Every cell in my being speaks out for that oneness I feel at the beach.
What the world eats. There is a lovely photo essay at Time showing what typical families from all over the world eat in one week. Most of the families are smiling. It begins with a family in Africa. The Aboubaker family (6) of Breidjing camp (a refugee camp in Chad), lined out before them on the rug, three larger bags of what looks like bean, lentils and rice, and an assortment of smaller bags, and one, ONE bottle of water for the six of them to share for the week. All totaling up to $1.23 per week. Very interesting.
I’m blank tonight.
Blank, blank, blank,blank,blank,blank,blank.
Hmm.. Don’t know why.
There is too much to write about.
But somehow, the impetus just doesn’t click this late Sunday eve.
Could be a good thing.
Lots of writing is realized on the edge of a sword. Disaster and sorrow are strong muses.
So I should be pleased that on this late Sunday evening, I am left uninspired.
Is this what the rest of the world feels when they try to write?
This blinking blank space of empty page and empty head?
Don’t know if I like it.
It’s all about the intent.
That is my moniker.
What we intend is as valuable as what we achieve.
Our motivations drive our actions.
So yes. It is all about the intent.
Accountability is the knowledge that our intent will ultimately bring about some sort of action that will manifest in some manner in our reality.
Reward. A good thing.
Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Basic physics.
Karma, works on that same principle. Everything that we do, driven by our intent, will manifest somewhere in our reality, by which we will either have accountability or reward.
I received a video from a fellow Buddhist showing a performance of the 100 handed Kuan Yin on YouTube. It ‘s so beautiful. The idea of the 1000 handed Kuan Yin or the 1000 armed Avalokiteshavara, is the idea of a hand out to help all those in need. Or the idea that if you live a virtuous life 1000 hands will be there at your side. I have witnessed this. In the midst of doing something wonderful for others it seem like there is energy coming from reserves you weren’t aware of in the slightest. Check this out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0NIQHJ2ZtxM
Well crap. I missed a day. I was writing along everyday. Smooth as silk. Some days I even wrote MORE than once (had to catch up, I started late). So crap, I missed a day. I’ll have to work extra hard, extra long to catch these up. Writing daily is a habit I want to encourage. I’m thinking to start it with my son. Daily structured writing. He’s seven, probably a bit too young for 100 words. But he could come up with a pretty good essay on Spiderman I’ll bet. He LOVES spidey, and boots. It borders on compulsive.
“Mommy! There’s a flood!”
My son yelps at the gush of gutter rainwater.
“No honey, that’s just the rain collecting.”
Low clouds in Oklahoma, something to be wary of.
Cascading rain falling down, blacking the sky midnight.
Lightening rips the sky apart.
“Mom, it is really raining!”
“I know sweetie.”
“What if there is a tornado? This looks just like my dream- clouds like this and then aliens! Mommy, what if there are aliens?!”
“There’s no aliens honey. It’s just rain.”
“Are you sure?”
Eat your ice-cream.”
Town lore says it means “two is enough” for the two tribal elders that met to make a new capital at the end of the Trail of Tears. The third never showed so they determined “two is enough.” More scholarly folk say it comes from Eastern Cherokee lost city, "Great Tellico" or is derived from the word for “plains.”
Whatever it translates to, it will soon mean home.
It was, in times past,
good home for a girl with no horizon.
It tethered me.
Birthed an education,
and a child.
I HATE MOVING!
I hate the packing.
The grime that packing creates, the emotional upheaval of packing all the precious bits we scatter and letting someone else transport those boxes to a crypt like vehicle.
move it to wherever,
then reverse the process.
I like unpacking.
The clean spaces waiting to be painted with all our things we’ve collected.
and tiny birds.
Our oil lamps,
Sleep. Sleep falling over me like a drunk on a bender. Knocking me down to my pillow with a one two punch that lays me out for Oh.. at least eight hours. Sleep that brings sweet dreams of soft colors and lights. Sleep that ends with a yawn and a stretch and a lilt out of bed, all the way to a sweet cup of perfect coffee.
That’s what’s missing.
My nights are wrought with too much anxiety, resulting in too much clock watching. Culminating with bad dreams, conculded with an overslept morning of chugged coffee and snarky remarks. Sigh.
We just watched “Children of Men” on the television. I think the overall message in that movie is that even in the face of our own extinction we seem too oblivious to the precious nature of life. That even as we face our own mortality, we seem bent on destruction. Life is lost on us. For some reason we can’t see that each life is precious, and just how really fragile we are. We are oblivious. Lost in the moment. Our world is that lonely baby and while we look briefly in wonder we still don’t get it. How tragic.
As we began the drive back, the incessant rain pitter-pattering on the window, smudging the already there dirt-road patina…we began asking each other;
”…is this the right choice?”
“Have we thought this through?”
“What if this is a mistake?”
“What if we fail?”
“What if we hate it?"
”What about our families?”
“What about our friends?”
“When do we need to do this?”
“Why is this so difficult?”
“Did you like that one?”
Right about then as we turned the bend and drove out of the trees, the most beautiful double rainbow gave the answer we sought.
I feel better after writing for a good solid thirty minutes.
It is good for my soul.
It takes my angst,
gives it a good hand washing and then hangs it out on the line for everyone to see.
I like that.
Sometimes it’s cryptic,
things I write,
nuisances that only I will know how to decipher, words like delicate unmentionables hidden behind bed sheets.
Sometimes it’s as blatant as scarlet lace.
Pouring out onto the page and swirling up the foam to clean my soul and quiet my too noisy brain.
Words to dry in the sun.
Moving back to a small town is never easy.
There are a lot of concessions that must be made.
The first is, of course leaving my family here in the city.
I love being near my parents, even when my mom is driving me crazy.
I won’t be able to see them whenever I want.
Won’t be able to “just pop in” and see them. My evenings with them will be weekends.
“It’s not so very far away” -has become my mantra.
“Just a few hours drive, and it’s so beautiful there.”
But I’ll still miss them.
Yikes! Nine Hundred words scattered all over the floor like a child’s toys left there to tread upon. Prepositions, conjunctions, all parts of speech littering the linoleum like so much broken glass.
I was so on top of things.
I was writing like some sort of high power ad man, pouring out words, over and over daily.
But I let one day go by…and *POOF* it turns into nine!
Nine hundred words (wait..it’s only 821 words at this point…) to gather together in the bin and piece back into some semblance of order.
Here we go.
What to write, what to write…I suppose it is more the act of writing.
The daily spilling of creative guts onto paper that is more important than actually creating something pristine every time.
At least that is what I am telling myself.
I’ve not been very good at keeping this up every day.
Not terrible, but not too good.
Of course the pending move doesn’t help.
It churns in my head like an acid stomach.
Threatening to whip up a headache at any time.
Rolling and boiling,
making me crazy.
I must stop and pause
and take very
Had dinner with my parents tonight. We laughed and talked about the crazy manic mockingbird singing outside our window every night. That damn bird that has exacerbated my insomnia for over a week now. I described it in terms of that cartoon with singing frog… “Hello ma baby! Hello ma honey! Hello ma ragtime gaaaallllll….Oh my darling, Oh my darling, oh Ma DARLIN’ Clementine..” While imitating how I perceive the bird to be dancing in the trees; all old timey, ala top hat and cane. My mother and Jackson fall into gales of hysterics. It was too funny –their laughing.
Clever, exuberant, exquisite babies, eyes burning with promise – too soon smothered under the tyranny of social injustice
Those fires dampened by inequality and hopelessness
Replaced with an anger that burns hotter than before
A cauldron of unrest and sorrow
Sharp to the eyes
You must look away
Frightening to look at, but frightened inside.
“Better cross the street and cross yourself, or the devil might get ya!”
Look away and step up the pace
But, I have seen the beast and it is not they
It is the other
--Those that look away and deny the truth.
I added some of my kids to my “friend list” today.
as I browsed through,
I can’t describe my pain, when I saw all these
that I LOVE;
throwing up signs.
growling into the lens.
glamorizing drugs and “thug life.”
i’ve done my share of drugs.
i’ve lived on the edge.
ran with the hard crowd.
played illegal games.
but it’s not the same.
because in america, it’s much easier for a white girl to find her way back to PEACE then it is for a young black male.
IT'S NOT RIGHT!
I don’t think I have been as creative this project as I would have liked. Sometimes it seemed more about just writing, than creating something. But, I think the point has been to bring writing into everyday life. That has been difficult. However, for the most part, I have written everyday. Despite starting the project late - about 10 days into June- and needing to catch-up those days, I did it! I completed a batch! I have enjoyed it, even on days when I had to write more than one entry. I ‘ll keep it up.
It’s good for me.
Words seem to escape me lately. Maybe it’s the two day rebound headache I’m struggling through. Trying to maintain and deal without any pain killers. You can’t take pain killers with a rebound headache, that was why one gets the rebounds in the first place. So, here I sit sponge-headed, trying to muster up words. Digging deep into the gray matter. And all I can muster is;
bunny dumpling, feather bottom, hasenfefer-rah!
I don’t know really what it is supposed to mean, maybe it is the muscle relaxer I took earlier.
I didn’t say anything about not taking muscle relaxers!
Holding tight with eagle talons clutching my reality close to my heart Fear can anchor like manacles sometimes What is there to fear?
Only fear itself.
If the fear is cast aside, what remains?
Is this the emptiness ever-present in the dharma? The untranslatable emptiness?
Fall into the current and allow it to drive your direction. Only when we stand up and dig in our heels do we find resistance. Fighting the current will pull you down. Surrender into the flow and allow the pull to take you where you need to go.
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