Saturday, November 21, 2015

Little Miss Pants on Fire


Midway through, I thought I'd have it figured out. Not the ending, but what the beginning meant. This is why we are all obsessed with memory and invoke meaning where we think it should go. Although we also all know history has a voice of its own. Capital T, Truth is irrelevant. The moral is in the outcome, not the story itself. Most of my real memories I have put under lock and key deep in the dark corridors of my experiential mind. Safe keeping. My own and others safety.
So some do inevitably morph into secrets and some are tempted to sneak out. Needless to say, I don't like digging around for the right one. It's messy in there.

When asked to conjure up my first memory ever, I responded as anyone would to the request as though being asked to clean someone else's latrine. 
But I found it. For now, it's the first ever.

My first visceral memory is of being called a liar. Not just labeled a ‘liar’, but awarded for being the best one. A ribbon fashioned from construction paper made with two notched out blue bookmarks that formed a vee, a circle glued over their intersection point notating the number one was bestowed upon me in front of my elementary peers one day in Mrs. A’s class.

When I brought it home from school my grandparents giggled at my grand achievement, a little too much. Telling and showing whomever they could, including the mailman, who, like me, didn't seem to think it was as funny as they did.
I was 5 and in first grade at Loyola Elementary, a richy-rich school, although I had an inter-district transfer. I knew there was much about adult humor I had to learn. I did not ever end up learning it in school, however. I was not proud of my ribbon, but they were and proudly put it on the left side of the Frigidaire affixed with an old AAA fridge magnet. 
I thought I should be punished, I half expected it. As far as I had learned in my handful of years so far, lying was a sign of weakness, either used to protect me or make someone seem stronger than they were.

Even now I do not disagree with that definition, especially after having been divorced for some time from a compulsive liar, I have the accumulated a physical BS ton by volume amount of experience with lies, white and tall. 


I remember that handmade ribbon vividly with its bold royal blue bands and happy orange circle. It defined me, made me, made me look more alertly for lies, question what is good and what is bad, and helped me to discover ribbons of my own truth somewhere in the middle. Now I understand why I needed to remember this misremembered memory, hindsight provides clearer vision. I am learning to embrace my little Liar after receiving an award for #1 Storyteller in the first grade. I’ve figured out that the ending will write itself. 







Image of painting by Ludwig Koch (painter) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, c. 1918.

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

Night-lights Navigating the Web


It felt like the biggest thing since the Enlightenment, a reliable sturdy creation with infinite possibilities much larger than the house Emily Dickinson imagined.   

It was critical or lethal and a bit of both.
Look what we made!
Oh well, it’s out of the makers hands now. 

The hints were there all along, it was just picking up the remote signals.
We are all weavers of webs, despite the gossamer display of arachnids who have been at their art much longer and have endless spools.
Along the world wide lines, signals are sent and retrieved, divisible in byte sized bits, digestible only be permeability, though we work at it every day.

Self-absorption. Absorbing all around. Come on-we’re not that porous, we usually bob on the surface letting the timely tide take us integrated, aggregated, curated, cultivated, pseudo-created avatar ambling along, shrimps on a Joeless shoe-string.

Hang on the line, was once a real line to hang yourself with.

Tailored threads hand me down, TV has nothing on receiving, channeling, funneling people or bots to works we make for man’s sake, it all started out as useful.

Like blinking, we trust everything is there in between-
Searches and updates are endless, archives immense, impressive towers that loom, spin castles into clouds, no wonder its knot raining this winter.

The clutter we defragment into micro-chips, the bottom of the bag, petabytes of particles add up.

Fine as silk, the web that covers the world wide connected by sub oceanic cabling balloons from no birthdays, beacons blinking vibrations, its working, we are entangled.

A fiber optic photograph on a 11-D graph, an amazing maze we made, the complex vortex wrapping fellow weavers and believers in their own image and calling it a cocoon.  


Resurrecting Dark Ages. 



Image By Christian A Diez (Christian A Diez), The Web (2008) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Acting out


“I get it,” she informed me. “I understand it now Mom,” she says nonchalantly while rifling through the pantry for afterschool snacks, past the crackers, straight to the chocolate covered cashews.  She seemed further away today, or maybe got taller.

“Oh yeah?” I think I challenged back, likely defiantly.

“You just have to be crazy,” decidedly closing the cabinet.

“Hmm…” I cast a lure for another line.

“In theatre…if I stop trying to be normal and not stress about being all in control, it’s better that way-the performance.”

“I think you’re right. Actors-the good ones anyway-lose themselves, you forget they are acting.”

“Mom,” correcting my conclusion she explained, “I can’t lose myself when I haven’t even found myself.”

Little did she know, what you don’t know can’t hurt you.


Cutting the rug of sanity, dance like nobody is watching, unraveling is revealing.  



Image by Everett Shinn [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Girl on Stage, 1906.  

Never trust a cook with a clean apron


The days we try to do what we do but it is hard, chunky, clunky even when balancing on muscle memory movements jerk and it still doesn't work-right-when writing is what you do but all those right words ellude, what to do with all that art that wont quit and just comes out like shit-
The forcible pushing through comes out labored and premature needing ICU(s), but tagged as terminal, I've flatlined-you knew it. You saw the trap and said nothing.
I got caught in all those corners where I am cowering from looking around for the little door, the way in, regretting all of the digging and the hole I burrowed myself in, eating dirt, thinking of Alice, and knowing a white apron and patience is all I will need in Wonderland.


Image by Conrad Poirier [Public domain or Public domain], Cooking Class at YWCA c. 1939, via Wikimedia Commons. 

Friday, October 23, 2015

Around the Bend: Trains (1)


There’s something about train stations and Mars-the canals (perhaps Percival planted that seed), No-the subversion, Martian-ness of this group travel, the train itself evocative of not just red and coal, gases and defiance, power, toxicity, it’s the Industry of it. And there is where one will certainly find the great hidden labyrinths below ground like in Paris. The romantic always interjects, yes, that is the fascination, the obsession, the fear, the fix of revolt and intrigue, our responsive, elemental self, raw and open to receiving. I see the train and I think I’ve seen it before. Not this one, not the ones in my town, in my lifetime.  The station itself, a hub I never frequented but feel at home. It is because it is so familiar, the sounds of multiple people bubbles jumping around one central location barely aware of one another, the sounds of such business on high and then a momentary hush, a warm wind and everyone suddenly remembers they are in the same place as others, going somewhere that is not here-together-today-anyway.

My grandfather was in the song “Morning Train” by Sheena Easton-not really, but it is certainly about him taking the morning train into the city-my grandmother would pick him up at the station in the evening with “the car” and notoriously kick up her left foot when they kissed before making the 40 minute drive home into the suburbs. That is true. I think he’s waiting for me at the train station, anytime he may be on one of the trains I impatiently anticipate that infallibly has nobody on it that I know, but I smile at them anyway since everyone likes to be welcomed home-even by a stranger at the train station thinking about the tunnels on Mars. 



Image By War Office official photographer, Horton (Cpt) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. W. Churchill waiting @ train station. 

Friday, October 16, 2015

Oboe We Are


We should treat ourselves as our finest instrument. An instrument we have gotten to know how to use over the years and the end goal of mastery is to become experts on our instruments, with our instruments, and yet all of us fumble a bit forgetting how it works, or neglecting the care and maintenance, turning our blind eye to the wear and tear and ultimately living our lives as though our instruments are a responsibility, our onus, our gift or curse, whatever, but existing outside of us. Our instrument is something we use to show how we do it.

For comparison sake I will compare thee to a woodwind. While neither you nor I need be musically tuned in any way I shall show is absolutely not necessary for full comprehension of this apt comparison. First and foremost, we are full of hot air. Likewise we need fine or general tuning before use. We can hear ourselves louder than anyone else. It doesn’t match what others hear. We can feel when we are off. We drool at the chance to be heard, to toot our own horns. And we, humans, all of us, bellow constantly whether in unison or solo, we think we sound better than we do. So if the oboe is our onus we should get to know its best notes, as the ugly duckling of Peter and the Wolf, we should know our part, play up our assets, and practice our skills, lightly.

Sadly, practice is hard, Practice is work, redundant work, it’s like work practicing.

No two oboes play the same, even with similar construction. I am an oboe, though, I have negative 12% musical talent, I hear myself, my oboeness and just recently I have been cleaning, properly storing and regularly my instrument. I’d even like to learn some new tunes once I become proficient at anything. Somedays I can’t even blow a note, so I admire what it can do while not having to waste my breath.  My oboe knows my moods, my pitch, my flaws, my touch, my lips, my song, and especially when my notes are all wrong.  


Practice does not make pitch perfect, but it does make it easy listening.  
Like the great Yogism goes, “In theory there is no difference between theory and practice. In practice there is.” 



Image by Thomas Eakins [Public domain], The Oboe Player (1903), via Wikimedia Commons.

Saturday, October 10, 2015

Plan Z


When? Then?
Now? Now then. Back when-
between now and then. In the past, not alive as "in" the past or as buried under, down in the back where, back when we want-
Now.
It's alive again and then it never was, is, has been-
Been stalling for some time, stall, a place to park, in the shade-time wasted, delayed, squandered, gone...it's going even now even though we don't feel it unless we move too fast or not at all, I never knew it had been now or never, nothing, measurable, nothing pleasurable comes, becomes a fleetin moment, a palpitation unmentionable and broken. A sinking feeling of tummy twists leaden, plummeting in silence, stillness eludes, discontent stacks past seconds, more, thirds, everything and their firsts waiting for someone, not you-anymore.
See? Where has the time gone now?
Exactly where you left it,
behind you, projecting your history on to others coming up back there as you race forward,
late for the future-again.


Image By Abbie Rowe, 1905-1967, Photographer (NARA record: 8451352) (U.S. National Archives and Records Administration) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons of reporters rushing through the White House, 8/14/1945. 

Sunday, October 4, 2015

Your desire



I object. I object to getting along. I object to making peace. I object to having hope. I object to giving volume and shape to such soundless and weightless objects. I object to mapping Babel, decoding dark matter, and documentation as fact. I object material wealth, gains of ills, drowning in debt, planning on procrastination, delaying destiny, fabricated faith, and all other coat racks collecting dust.  I object to forgetting yourself like a name since it’s only a temporary assignment.  I object the image. I project your image. An object you cannot touch. I object possession. I am not an object of possession. 


Image of painting by Samuel Dirksz van Hoogstraten 1664 [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sunday, September 27, 2015

Weighing the plumage


The queen owns all the swans in England. This must include the black ones. She uses sheep to keep the lawns trim, or was it goats- even so there must be a black one in the herd. I think Taleb is onto something. Maybe I am a black swan? Maybe I’m just a duck that think’s it’s a swan. My cats’ middle name is Waddles.  Countless humans have accused me of quackery, but I don’t understand the language, so I must speak chicken (and a little peacock). Well, if it struts like a rooster and sings like a mockingbird, it may just be a Phoenix.   

“Ever heard the old trick question, "which weighs more a pound of feathers or a pound of gold?"
The answer is supposed to be neither, because both would be a pound, yet that answer is technically incorrect.
Gold is universally weighed using a different measurement system than most other materials. It is weighed using the troy system, and troy ounces.
This system is measured so that 12 troy ounces makes up 5760 grains to the pound, while the common measurement for feathers would make them equal to 7000 grains to the pound.
Thus, a standard pound of feathers technically weighs more than a pound of gold!

And just now I have come to discover, I am mature enough, informed a bit, I am shown clearly and unavoidably, that predictions, planning, forecasting, and intentions are all just busy-body-bee-hive activities. I’ve subconsciously known this, like you, rationally, anything goes, right?  That’s why we have “Murphy’s Law”, “margins of error” and certitudes like “more or less” and countless (literally uncountable) ways to say the same thing-‘I guess’…
Yet I have not been a great planner. I have been a better gardener, planting seeds and then amazed when they grow into more than I initially ‘anticipated’. I have what I need and want. I recognize continuously wanting more is an American affliction and I quarantine myself if any symptoms arise.  
I think Karma is a great concept, instant karma even more so. Just like you I don’t know for certain, but I sense that there’s some higher form of justice-or maybe purpose. That is why planning is useless really. I have taken many dumb risks and survived. I took the largest calculated risk of my life and am still in a free-fall, but learning to slow it down and look around.  I believe that we should all believe in ourselves first before we try to go around believing in other things that cannot be proven.
It could be the butterfly effect. I can feel invisible strings. I think science and philosophy are inextricably intertwined but have been made thin as individual strands by the constant resistance to each others symbiotic connection, over the last 150 years.  Even as a layperson I feel obliged to try to understand as much as I possibly am able to of both fields, of their shared territories and studying poetry, the middle ground in which they both dance.  I do not expect to discover anything new, perhaps it's all just déjà vu.  
I think if I think things will work out, they already have, maybe the way they were supposed to, or maybe just the way I hoped or planned. Being optimistic is only half the glass, but it’s the replenishing part.  Is there such thing as luck if anyone can be born a black swan? Why do we bother being pre-occupied by our own conventions, nose in the microparticles instead of eyes wide open, terrified and exhilarated at the taking the biggest risk possible, to try, to go for it, to give yourself permission while you’re here to do what you want with your life. That is its own reward.

Risk is an irrational calculation. We are all accidents about to happen. Will is not free. Exposure is embarrassing. Jeopardy is a game show. A gamble is an investment.  Possibility is the address of Emily Dickinson. One’s fortuity is directly proportionally to how fortunate they feel, minus the scruples paid in interest.  Uncertainty is certain.  
“Hope is the thing with feathers…”-Emily Dickinson



1st Image photograph By PookieFugglestein (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons. 
2nd Image, drawing via Wikimedia Commons, c. 1885, sourced uncertain.

Sunday, September 20, 2015

Otherness (Def.)


“The highest form of prose is discourse, in the literal sense of the word.”
“The word is man himself.”
“We are made of words.”
“Words are born and die like men.”
(All above quotes from Octavio Paz in “The Bow and the Lyre” University of Texas Press, 1973)

The following conversation is a real conversation based on the prose piece by Harryette Mullen entitled, Sleeping with the Dictionary.
"What a funny title! What does that suggest to you-even if you hadn't read anything? If someone said to you-Oh, I have a book, it's called Sleeping with the Dictionary-what do you think?"
“Um, I think of someone cuddled up in their bed with a dictionary…um, that’s usually-that’s the first thought…do you want to hear my second thought?”
giggling
“Cuddled with the-cuddled sounds a little innocent-”
“Well. Well, I literally-that’s what I first thought of. I literally thought of someone just like, falling asleep with a book…”
“……….falling asleep with the dictionary.”
“Yeah-”
“Yeah-we do that a lot…”
“Do you want to say your second thought?”
                                 “My second thought-
having sex with the dictionary.”
“So what does that-”
all together             “Making Love.”
“F***ing the dictionary…what does it mean to “F” the dictionary?”
“Well, I mean. I think it means that…you-if you-so if you just translate the things that we mean when we say that about like, sleeping with another person. So it means, like, you know the dictionary really intimately. You feel almost, sort of, like you have the same access to the dictionary as you do to your own body. Um, so, like you just…and, and there’s an erotic dimension to all of that so…”
“Let me get back to the erotics of language and words. But let’s-What kind of person has a special relationship with the dictionary?”
unanimously             “A writer.”
“A writer-why? I mean, what is the real-the writer is to the dictionary as a dictionary is…what?”
“A construction worker to bricks. A plumber to pipes-”
“Let’s stick to bricks. Let’s say a mason and bricks. So, the writer is to the dictionary as the mason is to bricks. So what does that mean for the dictionary-
pause
It’s the things…that you put…to build with…poiesis, poiesis, you make with bricks. 
Words of bricks.”
“A writer as a sculptor to clay...”

“The spoken language is closer to poetry than to prose; 
it is less reflective and more natural, 
and that is why it is easier to be a poet without knowing it than a prose writer.”
-Octavio Paz

Image By Tomasz KrzykaÅ‚a (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
1st image By Andrews, William [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.


Thursday, September 10, 2015

passiflora


“...the bloom is clasped by 3 leafy green bracts, 5 pearlesque petals, a fringe like corona of white tipped rays, flagged with 5 antlers or stamens,”  I read...

It started with a large bowl containing forty-six shriveled maroon brown (ugly) palm-sized fruit in a wicker bowl on my kitchen table. That day I wrote my first published piece purely inspired by not knowing what to do with those wrinkled empty fruit, with myself, with my story. Lazy Susan didn't even know what to do with them, I asked and she just spoke in circles. The pursuance of purpose with passion(fruit) began with those little spent and shriveled fruit. The time was ripe. Since then, I have hidden and sprinkled little seeds in each poetic line, a memento sometimes I only know. Passion is preserved in my pages, not as obvious as photos in a scrapbook, but stashed between If & A Very Minor Poet Speaks. In the art of Oshibana time still becomes brittle. 
It could have been Dickinson that made me do it, or inspired me-alas her sadness never infused my muse. Besides we had not even been formally introduced academically. She seemed to see the same things in the garden, as the way one reads the sky, we both speak poetry.
 Instead of grapes, I planted a single passion fruit vine, on a pilgrimage of its own, running east to west along the fence line, signifying the borderlands, sharing its own passion with the sun.
No sour grapes, I am not whining, but the passiflora is out of control, overzealous and runneth over.

The passion fruit is a vigorous, climbing vine that clings by tendrils to almost any support. It can grow 15 to 20 ft. per year once established and must have strong support.

That is how a passionflower ended up pressed in between the pages of my grandmother's 1936 edition of the Best Loved Poems of the American People (no further comment on the content selection). I do not know why I robbed this fruit of its seed, cryogenically frozen in a wax paper sheath, a plan aborted, its architecture in perfect symmetry...the Holy Lance of leaves accented by tendrils or tamed tails, 10 virginal milk quartz petals as pillars, 10 faithful apostles guard the crown of thorns. Heaven and Purity, blue and white, fire and ice, behind lilac hued velvet drapes, yellow fireworks accent flashes of light.




The flower has been given names related to this symbolism throughout Europe since that time. In Spain, it is known as espina de Cristo (“Christ’s thorn”). German names include Christus-Krone (“Christ’s crown”), Christus-Strauss (“Christ’s bouquet”), Dorn-Krone (“crown of thorns”), Jesus-Leiden (“Jesus’ passion”), Marter(“passion”) or Muttergottes-Stern (“Mother of God’s star”).
Passionflower: Etymology and Names (source: http://signum-crucis.tumblr.com/post/23014727480/passion-flower-passiflora-symbol-of-christs)

I see now why one would like to preserve life, preserve energy mid-life, like passion interrupted, full and pregnant with expectation, abundantly awaiting night to shape shift in peace,
Letting go, forgetting all you know about the natural course of things, it's all the same and doesn't change the outcome, unless you've been interrupted by the existence of infinite possibility, unpredictably. Passion possesses. 
And that gentle hand of fate, the nudge in a direction, can be a push, a shove, a pull, a punch. A gentle hand can be made into a fist. We stand up to change, not letting the wild beast order us around, even knowing the beast is trying to scare you into a more beautiful you, we cringe at this reflection, we could fail. Change takes us to a new place we think we've never seen, but it knows us, has our placard and makes us feel dumb, Hello my name is Stationary.
I built this intricate and dynamic machine called daily life, I am its humble servant, I obey.
I only hope to be preserved one day myself, not by Botox, like the passion flower of poetry, the passiflora of faith, the seed of inspiration and the serum of my stimulation. Oozing with potential, already hidden in history, I write as though nobody's reading, I press flowers for all they are worth, for those that give a Dickinson. 



1st image of Julia Margaret Cameron [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Pasion flower at garden gate.

Sunday, August 23, 2015

Nutrition Attrition


***
Welcome. The door is open. Mouths are agape.
The Centers for Disease Control are accepting all applications.
***
We are busy, we have needs, we need to stay busy. Busybodies operating by delivery, remote, wireless, streaming, buffering, glitching, lagging, spiking, numbing up, dumbing down, working our wares as though anyone else cares, but they don't, unless their in on it too. This is where we notice the difference between us, a sea separates our islands made of sand. Deserted.
***
Loneliness, the disease, incurable with its myriad of side effects is considered cosmetic by insurance companies. Cosmetic companies combat loneliness, or so they portray.
***
Cancer makes its rounds in every neighborhood, like the Jehovah's Mormons gang, making house calls and leaving an (un)open invitation to witness the good news about the end of times, (un)fortunately membership is (not)free.
***
Western medicine has noted an epidemic of anti-bio-tics. Farm-a-sue-ticals and their cash crops are thriving, leaving a scar of deforestation where there were once trees.
***
A slow death. Suicide. Genocide. A plague of nations, we spread our reach, teach about an ounce of prevention, administered with a pound of sugar. You catch more bees with honey. Honey, have you seen a bee recently?
***
The doctor doesn't know. The future is blight. The end is in sight, one by one, until the bottle is done.
Sober is a scary word. Perceptive is not just a perception. Being alert is arousing. Sobriety may stimulate the regions where none should tread (lightly). Participation is elective in mandatory matters such as free radicals and anti-oxi-dants.
***
Peering through the icy front windows whose pains are laced by (in)valance, we see details in the decor. The eyes may lie, but the pupil's nose grows by learning and building (in)tolerance for other's taste, style, decor, or motif.
***
Daily doses of digestives are dissolving among the colorful diet of extra letters. Randomly assigned, codes for the ingredients, pronunciation not required.
***
Voluntarily we ingest our synthetics. Artificial intelligence is (well) underway. Open wide, step inside. Don't worry, there are no mirrors in this fun house.
***
Malnourishment of the soul is the new starving children once prayed for and invited to the dinner table. The dinner table was a square, rectangle or ideally round price of furniture once used that was burned in the Baby Boom ban against insidious domestication. Consumed in consumerism, convenience in a chewable.
***
Physicians do not treat (mal)nutrition. You are what you eat. Unsympathetic synthetics are ungrateful guests, taking up residence in your brain making sweet misery and harvesting sour grapes.
***
No pain, no gain does not mean (just) addicted and (not) afflicted.
***
SRO-No Vacancy.



Image of painting By Anonymous (Düsseldorfer Auktionshaus) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Saturday, August 15, 2015

Home-less-ness


Plenty are at perfect peace with their past. That is a private residence.
They always say they wouldn't want it any other way.
After all, it made them who they are today, and I guess tomorrow too.
Some of these people play the lottery, they have hope.
Of course, I am jumping too far ahead,
off a cliffhanger
I will backtrack seven paces-
_The gamble of being born, a sense of place you were told
Welcome and Home,
Home means Safe
You are always Welcome Here.

They say you can't win the jackpot unless you play the lottery.
They should say there is a winner and many losers, don't let chance decide.

My home felt bigger than the Heidegger house in which I dwelt.
My house felt like someone else's I was sitting in for safe keeping.
I never liked playing house.
__I was 11 when I became a woman, an elementary vixen, periodically out of my element.
___I was 12 when I received my first catcall. It was Spanglish which I didn't comprehend but felt the words like acupuncture beneath my summer clothes. I can still see his cigar brown skin thirsty for my foreign skin.
But I was safe.

We had a group home come to my little town.
____I was 13 when I was robbed of my first kiss, my girlfriends new boyfriend new how to speak in drooling tongues, his black eyes describing his wants.
But I was safe.
_____At 14 my green eyed boyfriend tried to kill me.
______At 16 a wizard tried to take me to Never Land forever,
I returned home despite his plans.
_______At 18 a professor told me all females fail his science class, he failed me,
I left home forever.

I took a gamble (I paid with free will)
I wait for my number to be called.

I wrote a poem as a little girl about suicide, it was loved.
As a woman I write poems about life, they are hated.

Now I am at Home wondering how I got
(out of)
Here
looking around, I fear nothing
is mine, like this borrowed time that cannot be returned.
I am Spent,
I am no longer safe.




Image titled 'The Way Home', By Cecile Walton, illustrator (http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36668) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Sunday, August 9, 2015

Articulating Plankton


'Tis nothing new that poets should speak with such passion that their syllables ooze with emphasis and project consonants that bounce off the walls, each whole word ending up stretching into its own elongated echo chamber.
And poets that use their hands like composers of the Sea Symphony, filling even the empty silence with so many notes the empty becomes loud. Knowing that to gesticulate is far too forceful, instead they demonstrate that a magic spell is made from thin air, naturally. Not of invisible nature, but so thin you could not see it until this poet who keeps trying to touch it and show it to you, to trace its outlines between the two of you...finds some semblance of rhythm and notices you hear it too.
A particular poet passionately appeals to professionals. The artists collar is colored blue for the speech, among his serious peers he evokes the voice of reason, a scientific observation posing clearly for the rational, logical and bromidic.
In the fields of ever altering change that is both constrained and contained by subjective experience,
Hypothesis are proposed: Problems are solved (ac-cord-ing to the values we plug in)

A poet is describing this brilliant oceanic phenomena as though it were a recently uncovered lyrical language, an opportunistic new found flow of vocabulary like rich nutrients abundant in the cyclical occurrence of upwelling.
Where every change is the constant, from the Galapagos, David Whyte ponders first deeply, the mixing of worlds...
Poets and scientists, the clash of temperatures where laws are asserted as theories and expression explodes into reaction, a fission of fusion striking agitated chaos which elicits sparks from his eyes, a magic trick. The eyes navigate around the work of art like a sailor at night on land, terrestrial in his element, grounded and in awe of bioluminescence of the sea that flickers gaseous royal blue arching splotches of the elusive green flash.
Bioluminescence, light of life in the language of liquid mixology from the shore, the poet writes the score and the scientist keeps notes.
“To my mind, the whole of existence and/or creation is actually trying to find an internal anchorage inside us which reflects its astonishing symmetry outside of us.” -David Whyte @PugetSoundTEDX-David Whyte @ PugetSoundTEDX
An additional note by David Whyte (also read aloud at TEDX Puget Sound):


Image By Shane Anderson [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Friday, August 7, 2015

Caught in a Web of Cliché’s


I.
Growing up in a small town made me want to travel.
Maybe it was the tall trees that made me believe growing up means moving out of the tree house and not letting roots sink in the same grove.
Then again, maybe it was all that camping as a kid. A taste of the gypsy life.
I have been lost in the woods, more than once metaphorically and twice physically.
Even with this experience under my belt I have wondered how one could successfully achieve getting lost when asked to, it's very difficult to plan. 
This is also sometimes called “running away”.
When I was 13, I boarded a Greyhound bus from Northern California to Colorado alone to see a boy whose family lived in Dot Zero, a decent place to start a life of discovery.
II.
Explorers have no fear of getting lost or of foreign objects nor of mythical creatures. Our imagination is able to create places and things better than reality, which makes it easy to overlook what you are seeking. Marco Polo was disappointed with the unicorn which is why explorers should leave their expectations in their own small towns. 
Explorers and Gypsies are not the same thing, one travels for leisure the other for survival, I forget which is which.
To Explore we are searching, seeking.
To Wander we are finding, discovering.
When one explores, they have plotted expectations and projections onto their mind map.
When one wanders, they discover what could not have been predicted. They find serendipity growing like fungi, strange exotic gems in dark places, like behind eyelids, noticing the smoothest stone and pondering how a rock can resemble a baby's soft cool cheek and not needing an answer from the rattling, gurgling creek. 
Echoes are nothing to fear.
Shadows remind us we are never alone.
III.
Near my desk there is a wooden square piece of art that features the quote, “Not all who wander are lost.”
That sign is everywhere. 
It does not tell one where to go but provides directions.
My step-father never graduated high-school since rock and roll guitar players 'don't need no education'. After battling some sort of “leukemia” or “cancer” and winning, he thinks he is wiser for it, that he was chosen to be stronger than X. 
It sleeps inside his body, he was chosen to finish learning his elementary lessons. 
On my last visit he had read an autobiography of some guitar player like Santana-living vicariously only costs $22.90 (Hardcover)-My stepfather regurgitated to me some profound thought from this book as though it were his own formulation of truth, something like "I may be religiously homeless, but I am spiritually at home" or maybe it was "I may not be religious but my spirituality is sacred," I don't know-each of those are cliché’s that you can hang a priest's robe on. I am not pro (being) found anyway.
In a class I took on Dante I used a paraphrasing of the last cliché about not being religious but my beliefs are sacred (in lieu of the hippie spirituality reference), a classmate called the comment "flap-doodle", I had to look that up. 
Sturgeon's Law applies to everything subject to subjectivity.
IV.
The movie Interstellar  was epic by definition. 
"We used to look up at the sky and wonder at our place in the stars, now we just look down at our place in the dirt," says Cooper in the movie. 
"When you look up you see very different things than when you look down." Brian Greene noted this astute observation in his book, “The Fabric of the Cosmos”.
Perspective is subjective, Sturgeon's Law applies.
In the bold and daring movie, exploration is emphasized often as a noble goal, although its actually more like a noble gas. Evoking the explorer in us, provoking our inner pioneer, incanting Marco Polo, is laced with a venomous ingredient called "Manifest Destiny", a different type of MSG. 
V.
We just flew by Pluto, a decade too late for it to matter.
We are on our way to Mars to pee on it, put a flag on it, figure out where all that methane is coming from. Here on Earth science has theorized that methane is toxic hot gas, waste in excess, sounds like our type of environment.
VI.
Dark matter is still debated. How will they know when they bump into it? Will it resist or devour or pretend it doesn't care if we are there are here, or not?
Time travel will always be a thing. Travel will always be the thing that yields the highest interest for your time spent. 
Considering how often people dwell in their sweet memories, remembering has become a second home sweet home except the housing is free and everything works out better than anticipated.
Travel nudges us so we can remember how to use all of our five or six senses. 
Wandering is traveling without a destination, wandering is the journey, the view, the experience that takes you from who you were to who you are and possibly who you can become. Infinite paths open.
Of course “not all who wander are lost” but maybe the wanderers are still working on it. 
Looking up at the sky at night it seems like it should be easy to become lost in a sea of expanding infinity, our own atomic volume being relationally a speck of dust in the cosmic thrust of “things”.
Looking down at the “pale blue dot”-seeing pictures from Hubble of our luscious spinning planet amid black space and amidst astronomical violence it seems impossible to become lost on this little encased bubble of paradoxical paradise, the probabilities, the possibilities all seem finite and calculable, reasonable considering the underlying chaos. 
VII.
Looking down, I have seen the forest for the trees. As a frequent traveler among the deep woods, I have learned the architecture, heard the whispers, smelled spring leaps, and touched soft skin that also bleeds.
Looking up, I have seen just beyond what I cannot see, a speck of blue, a hint of the beyond, a sense that I am trapped inside with the trees, rooted and I reach and stretch with them. I have seen the trees for the forest just passing by.
I always stop to wonder why people keep wanting to get discovered, to make discoveries, to pee on planets, prove that dark matter notices us, to reverse or distort the time we created as anatomically correct-
and I have such a hard time getting lost, even in Dot Zero.
A pioneer sees the trees for the forest. 
VIII.
Not to lose perspective but if spacetime travel becomes human practice I see unlimited potential. 
If spacetime travel grows into fruition, the soul mate theory contained in the apple of knowledge just fell on Newton's head, dropping the singularity of the one and only right one dead. I’d hitch a ride on that bus. Kismet will never find me. Maybe I could become invisible, or is that dark matter? Does it matter if no one can see me? I guess it depends on your perspective.
Sometimes spacetime travel is called “running away”(with reality), theoretically.
Conditions are infinitely subject to change. Sturgeon’s Law always applies.

Image By NASA/JPL-Caltech/Space Science Institute (http://photojournal.jpl.nasa.gov/catalog/PIA17171) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 
Earth is noted by the arrow as seen from Cassini positioned near Saturn.


Sunday, July 26, 2015

The New and Old You (Point of View)

She remains nameless and frozen. The fine features of her face, the depth of her eye sockets, the height of her forehead, her disappearing lips trace her likeness like a wanted sketch, someone like this, an outline of what we may be looking for, or need to find. Have you seen those police artists sketches that often resemble the Doe's? Hermaphroditic, androgynous, analogous but not amphibious, the shape of a polyglot. The lines are clearly marked, unlike those court reporters hasty chicken scratches, flippant and erratic spaces that bleed over lines attempting cartoonish movements in a blur of busy bureaucracy, a peak into the process not about the words. They hold no water dotted with the holes of the alibi, riddled between the plea if you could only see-the expression...
                                                               Here We see, told to look and the confident leading line, one you can follow and trust.       It is the line           requested when              hungry-
With clarity, simplicity, form that motivates the dot into a line, connecting past with the future.
You were Here!                                                                                                                                                                                                           Now-Look how far you've come!
Did you notice the lightness and inclusion of unshadowable detail. The afterthought, delicately doting on detail, adding a feather atop her head raising a hair of suspicion about her past and intentions now. A whimsical set of lofty strokes like musical notes, curled and poised in stale air in the not there of white. A tiny notation behind the tiny stroke that juts out but follows the flow, poised primly above the abbreviated arch of her button nose, stands a wisp of eyelash, stylishly profiled.
The neck of a lady lures lovers. With its silken simplicity it evokes other curves. The white remains stoic and fair among the occupation of black fur, wrapped and regal, coyly smelling the clouds.
Is she sad or being strangled by that choker?
Speechless and horrified, I spied the toothless hag whose eyes become her ears, her angular jaw devoured and transformed into a grotesque Jewess schnoz...I pause...
----Transfixing, blurring and re-adjusting my eyes with futile tries-----
to see only the Beauty and not the Beast, the pretty one to ogle, but the old lady boggles me with her hidden presence, they are both always there now in one. The future and the present connected by lines. As opposing as our black and white-words even act this way, misappropriated, misstated, re-propogated and positioned just so we know, our own indivisibility.
A drawing, art, is a polyglot. Art like music speaks. An image is placed in front of you, a view of your minds eye. It's meaning and subtle shapes, inclusions and omissions are your point of view...
Focusing on the eyelash they share, interminable, symbiotically, I continue to stare at this young and old pair, two in one, multi-face-ted, caricature pastiche of damsel and shrew that are both of you.

 “The line is a dot that went for a walk.”-Paul Klee

Sunday, June 28, 2015

It's about Time


I'm sure you've learned that the Earth is mostly water. We've adapted to this quite well.
Learning how to sail (sale) on the Complacent sea, all of us are searching, wandering, floating or steering, flotsam, jetsam, breadcrumbs and footprints. We are biodegradable and unstable, when we break down we put up a fight. This is sometimes called resistance, or a rip current.
Currently, some of us are lost and some found a map, but nobody can translate it accurately. Symbolically, some shipmates glasses are half full with doubt, they'll never figure it out.
Whirled peas, Alumni from Dumbguy U., Co-Exist, lofty liberalism I insist is the same as Righteousness, with Tolerance thrown out. Left to fend for themselves, a baby learns to dog paddle with or without apparent fear or trepidation, fitness survives. A baby lightly bobs between water and air, suspended and unweighted by heavy social lead.
Why do we listen to all the positively negative nonsense we call news? There's nothing new about hatred, it has not evolved to date, not even in the last Google algorithmic update. Malware.
Why can't we all get along? We'll never agree. Reducing the problem down to its LCD, the lowly ones are singularly stoic. Grounded in futility, they stand unmoved by any urgency.
As the clock ticks by I remember pennies and seconds, those disappearing dirigibles that go up with inflation before remembering, like an elephant in the skyroom, we can all see it.
The solution as clear as the sun.
What time is it where you are? It's almost three, here. Somewhere else its eight right now.
There it is, one anomaly on which we both agree. Except when we are trying to save daylight, or leap around, rounding off the edges of time. Even or oddly if its early or late, we both somewhat have the same date, or season, for understandings reason.
We should start there, or here.
Synchronizing our watches and fine-tuning our ears, recalibrating our empathetic monitors and juxtapositioning our consciousness, realigning our common ground.
Discovering, recovering our sense of equilibrium we will succumb to worldly agreement.
It's about Time
Eddie, the whirled doesn't revolve around Us.
But over all earthly territories, we have already proven we can agree,
This is our Time
we created,
adrift
ego's lost in the Legas Sea.



Sunday, June 7, 2015

Suffocating in stone

Our mass is felt most awkwardly oafish, obtrusive, repulsive, ugly, misshapen and completely wrong while in small spaces, be it a room, a car, a tent, a body.
That is how we are made to notice the significance of our every strand that so easily can become unravelled but shows how thick and tightly we are woven, braided, knotted and inextricably tied to others.
Our bed is how we like it, it should be-at least our side anyway, modest maybe, it is our humble hibernation space, a comfort zone, annuity fund.
We spend a fortune on thoughts tossed into the well of dreams while on the ledge of our beds between reality and fantasy, or nightmare. We frivolously spend our sleeping habits like worthless pennies that add up over time.
We properly adjust and situate and simulate our habitats.
A pretty bed, a California King bed, a four poster canopy bed may look inviting, but that doesn't guarantee comfort, losing sheep among the folds of the blinding mind.
It's cumbersome to be limited by the locale, character descriptions, steep and slanted arch-types with mis-matching labels, formalized by titles and rules.
Starting with an idea to edit one's reality, conclude with a change of your circumstance. You already have the tools you need.
One should heed Michelangelo and let the stone be freed from its misshapen form, it's mask of labels, loud stereotypes blur the fine lines and wrinkles.
You as the sculptor must start by manipulating, manually, your minds eye, adjusting your vision to take aim, instead of seeing life through rosy colored blame.


Image By Bain Collection (Library of Congress) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Saturday, June 6, 2015

Hungry, Hungry Hypo

Hunger is rampant, even in fat America.
Empty calories do not nourish.  I can imagine licking the wallpaper glue like they had to do in Russia during the 90-day siege of Leningrad.
When I put sweetener in my coffee I often think it could easily be arsenic or sugar. A spoonful of sugar IS the poison going down. 
How many of us were given the moral ultimatum about cleaning our plates at the dinner table (clean-plate club or no dessert-dessert has two s's because you want a second scoop) and yet this seems like feeding torture to kids-why must we eat more than we are hungry for? 
Almost 100 years ago, around 1920 a woman named Kitty Marion was imprisoned in London at Halloway prison for giving a gentleman who had come to her troubled about his pregnant wife, and his too big of a household already- with his not enough to go around, and what to do dilemma-she gave him a pamphlet on this new concept called 'birth control'.  For providing her voice she lost her throat. The gentleman turned her into the authorities and while imprisoned she was forcibly fed 233 times, permanently causing severe throat damage (a record of some sort). Stubbornly consumed with her cause of not biting off more than one can chew, she was arrested 9 times in 10 years for her advocacy of birth control, a suffering suffragette. 
I was born when my mother was on birth control.
I'm thankful for the small percents, perseverance, chaos, chance and determination.
As a mother, I was not a good cook until the beginning of the Food Network. 
I became an excellent home cook and began writing food and dining critiques for a decently known news group (corp.) until gallstones rolled in, but really the problems started not long before that when my appendix exploded. A couple years and multiple hospital visits later it was no longer "safe" for me to eat out anywhere. I stopped writing the column. I still eat my words every day. 
Nowadays it's not just empty calories, following recipes and painting by the numbers.
I changed my diet, I thought I was always hungry, I was just not understanding what I was hungry for. A craving always finds its fulfillment.
Eating out is a luxuriant cultural tradition. Eating more than you need is a luxury every American takes when they eat out or eat any one of our three prescribed dietary recommended daily meals. 

Most American's no longer speak the same language as their own bodies, a communicable barrier, a language gap, the thigh gap? That's still a thing, the thigh trap for teenage girls. My daughter told me no young attractive females like the fitted t-shirt, mid-drifts and booty shorts and they were all designed by pedophilic men, she may be right. Aside from the washing label stating 'wash delicately', it should also say made with less than 1% of self-esteem. Why don't women get pockets that actually hold anything? Women are expected to hold everything because we are used to carrying weight, not just ours, or our children(s). 
Women have a stronger sense of smell and a higher pain threshold than men. If only I could smell fear like bees and dogs.

American's enjoy denying the joy of eating. Morality is the condiment of the 'new world'.  It's an acquired taste. Many countries I have learned spend hours eating a meal, and I admit I don't love food that much anymore to spend that much time 'eating' and mincing words about alphabet soups and umami. American's eat wrong, weigh the evidence. I'm not one to write about it however.

When I was little and my grandmother shared with me memories about the spread of 'consumption', I thought she meant over-eating, eating everything from paper to plastic, from primer to paint.
She meant the TB kind, which was first thought to be a disease confirming vampires prior to the Industrial Revolution, but really humans have been getting this disease since the beginning maybe we were born with it even latently. This is not just an old affliction or a thread of my grandma's yarn, in 2012 alone 8.6 million cases of consumption were confirmed around the globe. Consumption can also mean ingestion or to utilize economic goods and bads for the satisfaction, wants, desires, whims in the process of 'production' with the likely result of destruction, deterioration, and/or total transformation. An appetite for destruction. Some people allow television to consume their time. I let books consume me.

Feasting your eyes on art is a guilty pleasure that will add positively to your total weight, but don't worry, you can never over eat creativity. Like water, it goes right through you. 
America chose corn over art. Sugar over poetry. Fast food over brain food. Controlled manipulation. Famished Nation. Inherited ignorance in a state of bliss. 
Meanwhile, my stomach growls, I understand what it's telling me, I am sated with food for thought. 


Image By Unknown or not provided (U.S. National Archives and Records Administration) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.