All I see
in my mind's eye
are landmines matted
in the neurons
of my brain
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
"You're the red in her painting." - I Am Sam
So simple to know something so profound. To have that inate sense of gorgeous love and struggle and contentment and darkness.
But we ignore it. We ignore that simple right-ness; it's a small little beauty, really, even when it seems so complex. We ignore, in favor of the more brass and obvious pleasures of the world. The ones that are sometimes adversely complex, yet empty, meaningless, and ever harder to obtain. We are always searching for what will make things better, what will make us appear bigger, smarter, more beautiful, better to ourselves and the rest of the world.
We scorn innocence, pureness, faith and hope as naiveness and silliness. We are above it, we grow out of it. We don't remember this Neverland where colors are bright and fun is of utmost importance and love just is, because it's true. We never seem to understand that though we don't remember it, we are always trying to get back to it in the things that we do because we can never find enough to satisfy us like this particular little space in our souls.
Children are still there in their minds, if they're allowed to remain for the duration of their childhoods. And sometimes I think those with special needs are there too...they just never wanted to leave the warmth and amazement of the Never-Never for the seemingly bleak "real world". Others are lucky to catch glimpses of the light and the Lost Boys as they stream by in their debauchery...fleeting spots of sunlight that dapple the otherwise bleakness of the common day.
I see your real world. And I think I want my soul world instead. What I would give to be the red in someone's painting.
So simple to know something so profound. To have that inate sense of gorgeous love and struggle and contentment and darkness.
But we ignore it. We ignore that simple right-ness; it's a small little beauty, really, even when it seems so complex. We ignore, in favor of the more brass and obvious pleasures of the world. The ones that are sometimes adversely complex, yet empty, meaningless, and ever harder to obtain. We are always searching for what will make things better, what will make us appear bigger, smarter, more beautiful, better to ourselves and the rest of the world.
We scorn innocence, pureness, faith and hope as naiveness and silliness. We are above it, we grow out of it. We don't remember this Neverland where colors are bright and fun is of utmost importance and love just is, because it's true. We never seem to understand that though we don't remember it, we are always trying to get back to it in the things that we do because we can never find enough to satisfy us like this particular little space in our souls.
Children are still there in their minds, if they're allowed to remain for the duration of their childhoods. And sometimes I think those with special needs are there too...they just never wanted to leave the warmth and amazement of the Never-Never for the seemingly bleak "real world". Others are lucky to catch glimpses of the light and the Lost Boys as they stream by in their debauchery...fleeting spots of sunlight that dapple the otherwise bleakness of the common day.
I see your real world. And I think I want my soul world instead. What I would give to be the red in someone's painting.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Scream
I wanted to scream. Loudly and with much gusto. But do you know what I discovered? I can't scream. My voice appears to be broken in more ways than one.
P.S.
I know this is for a reason, but I am in awe of my reaction right now...I am happy and hopeful, but terrified that I will mess things up. This step means more to me for some reason, and it's just making me raw.
Go figure.
Go figure.
I lied. I didn't mean too...in fact, I meant what I said and believe what I said...all of the things that came out of my mouth from my brain were true.
It was my heart, the lying bastard. My heart lied to me. And in it's trickery, it led me to believe that I felt something entirely different than I actually did.
Let's see if it can work itself out of this one.
It was my heart, the lying bastard. My heart lied to me. And in it's trickery, it led me to believe that I felt something entirely different than I actually did.
Let's see if it can work itself out of this one.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Um. Yeah.
A reader calling herself Rebellioness collaborated with me to come up with five revolutionized approaches to the art of rebellion. I present them here for your use, as they identify the kinds of behavior that will be most nurturing for you to cultivate in the coming weeks. 1. Experimenting with uppity, mischievous optimism. 2. Invoking insurrectionary levels of wildly interesting generosity. 3. Indulging in an insolent refusal to be chronically fearful. 4. Pursuing a cheeky ambition to be as wide-awake as a dissident young messiah. 5. Bringing reckless levels of creative intelligence to all expressions of love.
- Free Will Astrology
Saturday, January 02, 2010
Friday, January 01, 2010
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Say something.
Something...anything...just to let me know that you are there. That's all I'm asking - to know if you are there. Because if you're not, I can't be either.
I wish I had the ability to be nostalgic - write pretty,flowy, meaningful words to commemorate 2009 and wax poetical about my hopes for 2010. I seem to lack the gene that makes me get all gooey and tearful when it comes to the end of one and the beginning of the other. We start all over all the time; well, at least I do.
What's the big deal?
So, to you, 2009, I say: Adios. I am happy for my health, my family, friends and good fortune.
2010: Let's see whatcha got.
'Cause I'm game.
Something...anything...just to let me know that you are there. That's all I'm asking - to know if you are there. Because if you're not, I can't be either.
I wish I had the ability to be nostalgic - write pretty,flowy, meaningful words to commemorate 2009 and wax poetical about my hopes for 2010. I seem to lack the gene that makes me get all gooey and tearful when it comes to the end of one and the beginning of the other. We start all over all the time; well, at least I do.
What's the big deal?
So, to you, 2009, I say: Adios. I am happy for my health, my family, friends and good fortune.
2010: Let's see whatcha got.
'Cause I'm game.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
It's hard to type when you are laying down...
Here's the thing. I think that I am attracted to half-people...well, half-men, for a reason particular to my situation. "What we have here, is a failure, to communicate."
Not half-man like, as in Centaur, but half, as in, not whole, not complete, no matured, not ripe, not ready. Sometimes I feel that I am drawn to those who are still cookin' because I am too...simmering away at this vile brew that's festering and heating up inside of me. You see, I have to let the nastiness get hot and boil over - before I can create a culinary masterpiece that good and right.
And sometimes I think that it has not so much to do with me being done as it does with me not wanting to be held accountable; it's easier to be dismissive and not have to try with someone who is not a finished product. Still struggling, his missteps are forgiven. Because some how it seems, if he were grown, those errant choices would be more grievous.
But who is ever done? Who is ever not searching? Completely content? Even when you are happy, you always have an eye peeled for whatever it is that will make you happy next. We're like sharks...we can't just be still, or we'll die.
And aren't we a sum of all our parts? Past, present, nasty, good; we are all of these contradictions that we've created for ourselves in life, right?
Right?
Here's the thing. I think that I am attracted to half-people...well, half-men, for a reason particular to my situation. "What we have here, is a failure, to communicate."
Not half-man like, as in Centaur, but half, as in, not whole, not complete, no matured, not ripe, not ready. Sometimes I feel that I am drawn to those who are still cookin' because I am too...simmering away at this vile brew that's festering and heating up inside of me. You see, I have to let the nastiness get hot and boil over - before I can create a culinary masterpiece that good and right.
And sometimes I think that it has not so much to do with me being done as it does with me not wanting to be held accountable; it's easier to be dismissive and not have to try with someone who is not a finished product. Still struggling, his missteps are forgiven. Because some how it seems, if he were grown, those errant choices would be more grievous.
But who is ever done? Who is ever not searching? Completely content? Even when you are happy, you always have an eye peeled for whatever it is that will make you happy next. We're like sharks...we can't just be still, or we'll die.
And aren't we a sum of all our parts? Past, present, nasty, good; we are all of these contradictions that we've created for ourselves in life, right?
Right?
Friday, December 25, 2009
Before the inspiration dips below the horizon of my heart...
"I gave her my heart, and she gave me a pen." Say Anything
I am starting to know when something is right...I feel it. I just know. I don't question it. It just is. Like an instinct. Like the sky. No doubt in the addled brain means a lot. But I am also learning that even though I know something, it doesn't always mean anything...because some of the feelings that I have, though valid, can't ever breathe the light of day if they are not shared. Other feelings are significantly mine: when warmth spreads through my belly: inspiration. When my pupils dilate, my lips part and my skin tingles: excitement, curiosity. When I isolate myself on the island of my cold side of the bed: loneliness, self-induced. When my toes hit the sand touch the waves: my spirit, my home. When my throat feels closed, tight, tense: mute. Oh yes, mute is a feeling to me; not using my voice, burying myself under a mountain of each other person's expectation will be death by silence. And it will be a quiet, hurtful violence if I allow it to happen.
It is ok to feel in color, to hear so acutely, to bundle up each tiny emotion in it's own unmarked box so that I am never sure what I am pulling out of the attic of my soul. It's ok to want to fish with the egrets in the salt marsh and covet Christian Louboutins: pumps, black. It's ok to be wrong, it's ok to fight when I am right, even if that means everything around me will change. It's ok to want it all, from one opposite end of the spectrum to another.
And it's ok to be afraid, as long as that fear is an impetus. Because if I don't take my respect for the things that I love and turn them into something useful for me and the world, it will be a waste. No one can write about the heart-breakingly beautiful shades that the intercoastal can be on any given day like I can. No one can wax poetical about her love of a small beach town and live in the greatest, craziest city in the world like I can. No one can talk my particular brand of smack and use the same mouth to sooth a fussy child like I can. No one can feel people and read people and really see people like I can. I can, I only have...all I have is to try. But I know before I can do any of it I have to be without fear. I am ok with trying and failing. I am not ok with dying and never knowing.
What I have longed for is this. The words; somehow communicating the intrinsic beauty I see in the things that are special to me. I have been trying to feed the longing with other things, I have been thinking that what I ache for is him, or that thing, or this place...when really I have been aching to be me. It all makes me stupid with distraction, discouraged that I can't seem to get it right and no one seems to get it. But I am not trying to be anything but a fraction of me, a shadow of the dark, sweet, honored power that I posses. I ignore and I pretend and I smile and I hope for the best, but nothing else will mean much until I use what I have at my fingertips...my very own heart. No one can see it or judge it or measure it, only me.
My gift is me.
"I gave her my heart, and she gave me a pen." Say Anything
I am starting to know when something is right...I feel it. I just know. I don't question it. It just is. Like an instinct. Like the sky. No doubt in the addled brain means a lot. But I am also learning that even though I know something, it doesn't always mean anything...because some of the feelings that I have, though valid, can't ever breathe the light of day if they are not shared. Other feelings are significantly mine: when warmth spreads through my belly: inspiration. When my pupils dilate, my lips part and my skin tingles: excitement, curiosity. When I isolate myself on the island of my cold side of the bed: loneliness, self-induced. When my toes hit the sand touch the waves: my spirit, my home. When my throat feels closed, tight, tense: mute. Oh yes, mute is a feeling to me; not using my voice, burying myself under a mountain of each other person's expectation will be death by silence. And it will be a quiet, hurtful violence if I allow it to happen.
It is ok to feel in color, to hear so acutely, to bundle up each tiny emotion in it's own unmarked box so that I am never sure what I am pulling out of the attic of my soul. It's ok to want to fish with the egrets in the salt marsh and covet Christian Louboutins: pumps, black. It's ok to be wrong, it's ok to fight when I am right, even if that means everything around me will change. It's ok to want it all, from one opposite end of the spectrum to another.
And it's ok to be afraid, as long as that fear is an impetus. Because if I don't take my respect for the things that I love and turn them into something useful for me and the world, it will be a waste. No one can write about the heart-breakingly beautiful shades that the intercoastal can be on any given day like I can. No one can wax poetical about her love of a small beach town and live in the greatest, craziest city in the world like I can. No one can talk my particular brand of smack and use the same mouth to sooth a fussy child like I can. No one can feel people and read people and really see people like I can. I can, I only have...all I have is to try. But I know before I can do any of it I have to be without fear. I am ok with trying and failing. I am not ok with dying and never knowing.
What I have longed for is this. The words; somehow communicating the intrinsic beauty I see in the things that are special to me. I have been trying to feed the longing with other things, I have been thinking that what I ache for is him, or that thing, or this place...when really I have been aching to be me. It all makes me stupid with distraction, discouraged that I can't seem to get it right and no one seems to get it. But I am not trying to be anything but a fraction of me, a shadow of the dark, sweet, honored power that I posses. I ignore and I pretend and I smile and I hope for the best, but nothing else will mean much until I use what I have at my fingertips...my very own heart. No one can see it or judge it or measure it, only me.
My gift is me.
Monday, December 21, 2009
You have a strong heartbeat. I can feel it when I am close to you, I can see it pulsing in that little tender area of your neck. And sometimes, when I touch you, even just the slightest touch, I can feel your heart begin to race. I thought at first that it was just your physical nature, but then I noticed that it happened when I spoke, too. Like a revving engine.
That's what I got. That's the only indication that I am different. There are few words, there are few actions. There is just your heartbeat.
It's just that I can't feel it when I am not close to you...
That's what I got. That's the only indication that I am different. There are few words, there are few actions. There is just your heartbeat.
It's just that I can't feel it when I am not close to you...
Sunday, November 15, 2009
It seems that the can of worms that I have considered closed for years now has been pried open by the other owner of all of the memories, emotions, and f-ed up sentiment that I have been trying to stuff back inside of it since it's creation when I was years younger. My conventional method of sealing the lid on said can of worms forever, i.e. ignoring it's squirmy, burrowing, dank, dark presence and going about my daily business, doesn't seem to be binding anymore and the lid on all of this drama has for all intensive purposes popped right back off in my face because he is insistent upon allowing the mealy mouths of each individual worm see the light of day.
Curses.
Curses.
My ex-fiance. Wants closure from me. The same man who dissappeared with no explanation while we were still engaged, tried for a second chance, watched me walk away, accepted my decision to not speak with him anymore, was without any knowledge at all of me for six years, during which time HE GOT MARRIED, and then randomly, TWO YEARS AGO, ran into me on the streets of the most unlikely city in the world to cross my path, and all of a sudden his world is in turmoil, his marriage goes defunct, and he feels the need to make amends with me...to get closure. From me. It's like an un-redneck version of My Name is Earl and not nearly as funny. I mean, I am not even close to being as searingly funny as Jaime Pressly is...
W.
T.
F.
W.
T.
F.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Why must we "bomb" the moon?
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/11/13/moon-ice-nasa-lcross-disc_n_356926.html
What has the moon ever done to us, except be hauntingly beautiful and make people a little crazy now and again. Man, we humans really can't leave anything alone. Sheesh.
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