Tag: postaday
It Just Happens
The Wayward Spirit
By
M. L. Redford
the wayward spirit wafts in
through the window when the patterns of weeks, months passed, at last,
let go and shift
she moves about the room like Franny Glass making one or two things
flutter a bit, and is gone
out past the opposite shoulder as I turn in to see what I hear
to notice things
in the room which were always there but hadn’t been noticed for weeks
or maybe months
and which had obviously been there for a purpose, staring through the books
on the shelf to find
a forgotten bookmark, an absent fold, maybe a latterdaymexicanpink
autumnal ritual –
seven parts revelationinitiation and fifteen parts flutterbybestowal –
curiouser and curiouser
are the ways of the spirit: if I follow, will I flutter, will I perch or will I fall?
either way I’ll find
the pink of gist and need to meditate before I waft or get stolen
but the spirit talks
of grounding, without talking, for she is no airy/faeree: the meaning disappears
the more you look
but in looking at the unfindability you discover all the meaning for to see:
body, soul and beauty
but no room at the inn for language, ‘you can speak a hundred languages
if you want but
you’re never as wise as the illiterate who speaks with love in her heart’
she says, without a single word
but thought of a hundred languages smaller than the stars which float away;
the language of Waywarduese
butterflies about all over the points, and all of those points held
in one wing-spread,
colourful and puckering hold, sprinkled and dlappled like rain
Oh!
Can I have it?
Is it for me?
It’s for me?
It’s for me!
It’s Mine!
You stole it from me!
I’ll be generous and
share it with you
if you let me keep it.
Please
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Cell in a Body
I immerse myself
In the massive instinct
The record of the massive
Instinct of human change
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Self Organizing Systems
You watch murmuration of starlings
Turn dusk into a kaleidoscope
Who watches the murmuration of humans
Organize and dance to a word you spoke
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Hand Crafted Moment
Hands recognize
Eyes forbid
Feelings consent
Crafting your sighs
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That Thing
Is the thing
That thing
That manages
The paths of stars
Every baby being made
The weather currents
Each flower blooming
Ever overworked?
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Relationship
Exquisite moment
Tender deceit
Open hearted
Trust
Surrender
Not defeat
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Inner Workings
Or what?
The body asks
The soul
What then?
A story
Gets told
We believe it
To go on
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Worlds Without End
Bridge your heart
And mind
Playing to unwind
Then make the art
That brakes apart
The Universe defined
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Like the Sky
Wink
Smoke
Out of
Your eyes
Or clouds
Sudden shudder
Deep sighs
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Yet It Fits
The
Joy
Beauty
Story
Frailty
Strength
More immense
Than
A tiny human
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Virtual or Reality
Artificial hollow
Life-giving
Mechanical heart
Online roll-play
Gaming
Part death
Part life
Part art
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Playing Here
Did I volunteer
To be this frail
And full of fear
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Under the Pale Sun
Ancient
Winds
Blowing
Storms
Back
Then
The same
Breeze
On my face
Again
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An Instant
Flickering
Fragile
Warm
Magical
My being
Her
Burning
Candle
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What are Angels?
Clumsy grace
First toddler steps
Humans
Trundling along
So sweet
The angels wept
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New Under the Sun
Original
Art
Original
Thought
Original
Original?
Is it?
Or
What?
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What’s Right
Careful
Doing
What’s right
Till
Right melts
Into
Wrong
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To Realize
Oh
Oh!
Where it’s
Invisible
Grows
My very
Soul
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Breakthrough
If I were me
If I were you
I am both
Who are you?
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Personhood
The value
Of me?
Wait
Let me see
Is it steady
Or based
On
Meritocracy?
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Love to Disagree
Mix it up
Us who
Disagree
To care dilutes
The care
About
Beliefs
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Game Dilemma
Between
A quest
A grind
Or afk
What to gain
This decade?
What enjoy today?
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Feeling Ways
Slow panic
may congeal
Warm trust
Fires up
To become
What’s fluid real
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A Feeling Place
Grinning face
Passionate
Writing
Coffee and Grace
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The Meaning
Together
Feeling good
Feeling better
Together
Than you
Otherwise
Would
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Not What I Thought
Be the truth
Stump evil
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You Then, You Now
Elegant destruction
Magnificent while mad
Stillness in it’s offerings
To re-create
was had
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Acceptance
Plop
I forgot
Sometimes
My feelings
Drop
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Reproduction
Shiver a soul
Asunder
mitosis
Violence or blunder?
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Cheating Life
Cheat life
Cheat it
Choose
Suck up to death
Point my attention
Outwit
Lose
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World of Humancraft
Miniature gods
Not dolls
Gaming gods
Involved
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Book Learning
I’m learning
Living by living
Life is
The book
The yearning
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Knowlege of Good
Reach up into
A story tree
Pluck and bite
A story
See
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Being Held
Life of my life
Flows unstoppable
I flow gently with it
Relaxing allowing
Sweet new beginnings
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Blindfolded or Bored
Surprise
Cooks in hot
Huge Vats of
Unpredictable
Surprise!
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Autonomy Really?
Sawing my invisible backbone
With a dull serrated knife
The heart of heart stuff
Lungs made of lung
Doing their own autonomy
Unaffected
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Then What?
Deprive my soul thingy
Of stories to collect
Of desperate choices
Dangerous encounters
Clashing wills
Dark nights
Triumph of wills
Irreplaceable loss
Implacable spirit
Brocken open hearts
Catalysts story arcs
Unexpected twists
*
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An Open Eye
People are asses
So diverse
Stunning breathtaking deadly
Acts of God
Just like our mother
Earth
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Snuggle the Struggle
“I don’t understand hate”
Hate the euphemism for
All the crap
I didn’t get before
My sugary apathy
Hates back
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Dangerous Beauty
Life sculps
Transformation
Canyon drops
Sink holes
Towering cliffs
Sixteen foot waves
Deadly venom fangs
Killer deserts that flower
Heroes and psychopaths
Transformation
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Blank
Memory, this strange invisible time travel organ transports me back to forbidden moments, times I shouldn’t even have access to. For good reason too since who wants to remember how your diaper feels and smells when it needs changing. Since I do remember my annoying itchy stinging clinging sticky diaper I figure when I remember where I came from before the diaper days it may have some merit.
A blank slated innocent new perfect baby might be the case sometimes, but not mine. I didn’t enter the world a blank slate. Well maybe a bit blank in some necessary spots but mostly I came stained with karma or whatever, you know stuff I wanted to do stuff I wanted to learn and stuff I wanted to fix plus I wanted some new tree rings and bragging rights. I remember. Not the place, I don’t remember a place. It’s the urgency that fades back in. The vast sence sometimes of how far back this goes, this desire to understand to care, how deeply I wanted this and for how long. Lots of stinky diapers are a small price to pay to play. Remembering one though sucks. I remember two.
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Communion
Feast on dreams and verbs
Round glows festivus
Burn your dreams for firewood
Plucked by minds to smell
A dream to bite and chew
Washed the etherial dirt off
shucked
Peeled
Cut into bite size chunks
Chopped
sauteed
The flesh of juicy dreams
Invite your friends to eat
Harvest more from your fertile souls
Surrender bits
For composting
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Limits to the Five Senses?
A sense of time, what sense is this?
A sense of vision, no?
Vision Touch Hearing Smelling Taste
A sense of smell, now mean it like visionary vision
A sense of vision. What?
If vision can be expanded to the imagination
If vision has a passport to the future, but
A sense of hearing… Them voices you mean?
Why hold back the other senses from expanding?
What’s the expanded form of sense of touch?
Good taste may be yummy to all the senses
Our senses our sense of self or sense of selves
Why is only visionary rewarded esteemed healthy?
Hear into the future or imagination, smell feel
Taste these results
Feel how it will feel
Hear it’s voices
Fall in love
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Writing on the Beach
Open window trailing words
Blue chemistry falling views
Gleaming explosions gusts of worlds
Wisps of stillness
Enchantment twirls
Life blows in
Inspirations waves
Smashes hurricane
To the page
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Writing Into Dust Devils
“I feel ungrounded. No poems to read. No pictures to ruminate over.” One of my good reader friends complained on May 2 after National Poetry Writing Month NaPoWriMo was over. When I stopped posting.
Hay, NaPoWriMo is over. No more poems for you.
But then, his unease started sinking in and reflecting how I was feeling. I realized. I feel ungrounded too. No picture to create, no poem to wonder into being. My life is off.
Only half of why I write is enough to keep me writing for the rest of my life. To stop writing wondering painting the reasons the wonders is to die. The other half of the reason I write is unrest or energy swirling, mind dust devils curiosity and ravenous hunger to ride to learn to grow to tell stories to inhabit stories.
Postaday on WordPress is still here though NaPoWriMo is over. So even though I can’t get the Postaday badge to stick on here and it seems a little contrived, I need the stucture to write and hope now. A game to ride the beautiful bucking swirling dust devils into ink seahorses to frolic on the page for you. Because I need to.
Weekly Photo Challenge and Weekly Discover Challenge also keep me wondering and going there admiring the world. Admiring the world keeps me close to the wind and tight woven with the magic of gratitude so they enchant this mysterious rodeo.
I hope you have as much fun reading as I do writing. I love the ride. I love you guys.
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It Just Does
He makes you
Belive the sun
It shines for you
All night
The crossroads is
It’s true
It is
Just not here from him
To you
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Place
Dissapointment compost
Dirt after it rains
The smells it grows
Feeds you from pains
Life Cycle
Somehow knows
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Green Superstition
Do You Think Contrast Is Needed Again?
Notice the lack of additional contrast?
I wonder what this lack of contrast says about the minds of woman in America. Do you?
Please Catagorise US Presidents by Race and Gender
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Weekly Photo Challenge- Imaginary Friends
Trees
My friends
Fairies inspiration
Living pets
Hugging company
Inner
Mind
Playing tennis
With a
Holy ghost
A heart
A pet
In here
Somewhere
Fun
Wonder
Companionship
***
Weekly Photo Challenge: Companionable
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Your Filibuster Life- The Artist’s Eye
“I can’t believe I still have to stand here and hold this sign!” Woman supporting filibuster outside Texas Capital.
So I can take a pill to take back my period.
“Being gay is not a choice, but being a bigot is.” I instantly re-tweeted from God@thetweetofgod. It’s funny, not true.
Took me a while to figure out how it’s not true, but like art which is not true, it points to truth. Like the Pietà, Michelangelo’s sculpture that shows Mary the mother of Jesus strong and tall while her crucified son is like a child in her arms. Not necessarily true proportions, just true about a mother’s heart.
I don’t believe being a bigot is a choice. It’s not a permanent state of being, either. Gay is permanent, judging from my straight perspective, though I might be off. But bigot is like pregnant. It’s a state. It may or may not be a choice. It can and will, usually, end. It’s story and outcome are what epic is made of. Plenty of bigotry ends in abortion. Other bigotry ends with new life. Bigotry, yes, is human. Mine and yours. It’s a place on a journey, a grade in school, an incomplete quest. What we do with it may become art.
High school kid calls fifth-grader stupid.
Well, she don’t know The Grapes of Wrath isn’t fruit!
Art doesn’t make sense, it helps me make sense-of people.
This “Yes-we-are-allowed-to-end-a-relationship-before-it-bigins-filibuster is pregnant.
Art is being made here. Bigotry is a shiny material.
Inspired history feels like community committed art. HIstory is being made here.
Could making history be making art?
The Daily Post: The Artist’s Eye
Related articles
- Texas Dem Filibusters Abortion Ban (drudge.com)
- The best tweets from Wendy Davis’s filibuster (storify.com)
- No longer will I sit quietly: How a filibuster strengthed my resolve (anunconventionalme.wordpress.com)
- Texas filibuster rules (feministphilosophers.wordpress.com)
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Invisible Ampute-The World Through Your Eyes.
Invisible Ampute
You know, it only looks like they can work. But they can’t. They are missing something it takes to get a job and work.
They lost all self-esteem. It was amputated. They are doing what they can with what they got. You can’t get a job without some self-esteem and they don’t have any at all. They are doing what they can do without it.
That beggar looks perfectly good to work. That’s what we think. But begging is what they can do. So they do it.
Get a job! I’m not giving them one penny.
My sister voice acts, while rummaging for her purse in the back seat. On our way to Bikram Yoga, she finds it, takes out her wallet pulls out two dollars, rolls down the window then wishes the young woman with the sign a good day with it.
You know, I just learned this. I figured it out from a pattern in the suicidal vets I interview.
It’s a pattern. He grew a conscience. The pain he saw or caused or aided and abetted, wasn’t justified after all. He quite buying into “it was the right thing to do”. I was just following orders, just doing my job, does not cover him anymore.
I killed those people, hurt that man. The right thing to do for America and liberty, I don’t believe it anymore. They are dead. I can’t bring them back. I am that person, a person who can and did do it.
It’s becoming a post-facto murderer, a murderer with a conscience. It’s becoming a monster. It’s taking responsibility. It is a total loss of dignity and self-esteem. It is suddenly discovering “I am a Hitler”.
Sudden, or bit by bit, a feeling of being just like, no different from Hitler, while feeling total disgust for him, is self-esteem apocalypse. Got a few million people horrendously executed, now you realize it wasn’t for liberty and justice, or to make the world a better place. You weren’t doing your duty ridding your country of monsters, lice, mosquitoes, terrorists, roaches, and child molesters, and making it safe. One or many dying human faces, has the same effect.
No, it was not for a just cause. I killed innocent, men woman and children, for nothing.
It was a mistake.
I did it.
Now where do I go from here? That wouldn’t even be a question.
There is nowhere to go.
Daily Post Weekly Photo Challenge The World Through Your Eyes
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The Garden
Come to me trolls!
Line up
Line up for kisses
A world needs some more
Lots more handsome princes
Wonder up
Sweet over something
Trip and break one mind
Frolic through answers
Feasting inside
Twist into existence
Leave this window ajar
Re-introduce
Magical spicies into our wild
Daily Post Prompt: Your Inner Dickinson
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Playing With Space-And Stuff That Is Not There
- Painted Honey
Terrified
Swatting at 1986 killer bees
Today
Agreed upon sanity
Scarce Sweetness
Called sane
Madness’ taste of fairy honey
Holding on breath
The way of our bodies
Whimsically true
Parallel planes entwined
***
Weekly Writing Challenge:
Playing With Space
Interesting:
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Color-Sideways CrossRoads-Weekly Photo Challenge
Close Up: Magnificent mosaic mural on the corner of 11th Street and San Marcos in Austin.
Close Up: Feeling Perspective on the corner of Waywardspirit Blog and WordPress Plane.
Weekly Photo Challenge: Color
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Share the Love
Worldwide Magic
Ingredients for magic
Or a spell
Studied or cast
Present or past
This magic you weave
Weaves me
Daily Post Daily Prompt: Share the Love: http://wp.me/p23sd-4tP
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Transporter
The Road for Transport-A Poem
My Most Precious
Willowy sapling Attention
Blown away
Oft transplanted
Run over
Mowed
Uprooted
You may be
A Presence of redwood ent
More than shade fruit or would
Transport-A story
It wasn’t the crush, or a temptation. Her shape and bright color captivated me. But more than that, and deeper. The choice is already made. Discovered this the first time I lay eyes on my iMac.
What is this?
The sales guy gave me the info to back up my preference. The colors enchanted me and fueled mysterious passion. It was so hard to pick one. The Steve Jobs story of exile and come-back woke my asleep. The sudden reinvigorating of the market and turn of share. When I stood close that wind of change, stands my hair on end. I feel it blow. Right there in Best Buy, in the isle, next to the iMac display it blows.
Should have known by then, that choices click into place without explanation. Logic is not banished. It just lives in the other world. I invite her blindly back, slow, by comparing prices and waiting three days to bring my love home with me.
I wanted blueberry. Strawberry was the only refurbished model at Best Buy. That was back, way back before the Apple Store or the Apple Story. In the days of three-point-something-percent market share Apple. When Apple still allowed Best Buy to carry her precious babies. More than the sum of its parts, love at first sight, experienced not described. Love got me. A love story told me.
To compromise with my wallet, I bought a refurbished strawberry iMac rev C. It was three hundred dollars higher than a way-more-options PC, even so.
After I brought Strawberry ShortMac home, two sample chapters of a Steve Job’s story found me. Couldn’t afford the book. That was all I needed.
I received a blueberry printer cover in the mail after ordering a strawberry one from Epson. My taste for blueberry, satisfied. Having two printer covers is luxury endowed. What else can I upgrade with?
I download anything Mac compatible that did anything I might want, and didn’t have. install, try, it. The thing was a lemon. It had issues. I fixed it or called tech support, or both every week. Finally the tech support dude, asked me what I was doing to my computer. Strider wasn’t always there, but I always asked for him, cuz he led you through a Lord of the Rings quest as Malady till your iMac worked again. The guys back at support finally asked why I installed all those patches when the machine was working fine. They were mystified. I wasn’t satisfied.
The software it came with was all good but, I was swept away with upgrading. I wanted it to do things. To do something I didn’t know what, but it was irresistible, to try to find out. That and surfing the net. My computer is the bomb. I love it. I play Nanosaur and Bugdom. My kid and I bought Bugdom before it came with all rev D iMacs. Then, we upgraded Nanosaur.
Chat rooms I discovered are dangerous. After three days achat, I vow to never return.
I love iMac so much, sometimes I just stare at her.
When I sat and just look, at this pink form, noticing it, pink love and wavy feelings bubble up then spout like pink gold, Texas tea. I noticed this and sometimes just sat on the bed staring at my iMac for the joy of the delicious feelings that came up. She was my first computer. I’d been hurt-bored by the sea of old sandstone hardware. She though, is gleeful to behold.
Sometimes I’d look at other beautiful things. The angles of my rustic pinewood chair, just so in the light were I’d set it to sweep the dining nook. It’s beauty makes everything soft, the world shimmer. Swept air tastes me, time stands still, the feeling delivers me to the glory my iMac feels of. The floor is clean, a vast place to sit and be eternally swept away. So there I sit and let it. My iMac is happy. I’m happy, and there will there be upgrades for her, that really do stuff. The thought feels like a first encounter. Yes!
Again, pointless love at first sight thought. Feeling rushes crashes on me like the surf. New cool upgrades! I wonder what they will be. I sit in that meditation while a love for something that I want, that feels human, maps a place in me that has always been there. Steve Jobs and Apple are making something I can’t live without. When I checked out the newest stuff though, it was not there… There was noting I couldn’t live without. I was pretty happy with my Mac and printer, anyway.
This kept happening.
Meditation gets intense: iMac, Steve Jobs, Apple, making something for me surges up like candy ocean. When I stay there in the feeling intensity billows like clouds of light making it with lightning. They turn into a river of gratitude for this thing I want that Apple is making for me. It about bursts my chest, till I let it strike me, while I focus on Steve Jobs making this, and flow it to him. Then just like that chaos storm turns river. Washed through intense emotions of rushing light serene flowing, a delicious river in an artery of gratitude to the guy, who is making something for me.
Almost every time I meditate it happens. The feeling, this delight about the new something. It tumbles my feelings into explosive gratitude firing up water turbines, shooting a six-foot cable of light at me. I focus it on Steve Jobs and Apple. Like focusing on the feeling of being in love, with delicious electric current flowing fast as light yet still. A pre-emptive strike of ferocious gratitude. I sit with it till the fireworks turn off.
Multi-colored iMacs thrill me. I kept the folded pictures in my school bag. I can look at it when I want. Not because I need a new computer. The picture induces idolatrous transports like porn.
For a months this happened a few times a week. Then less. After a while I could look at my iMac and focus and nothing would happen.
Other things came up and turned into tornadoes and reflected different places. None felt like a heavenly river of light though. And every year even after the years of the experience dwindled, I’d check out what the hell I was expecting and still don’t find anything earthshaking at Apple.
Bought my second iMac. Nothing special Apple is making for me happened. She is my friend. And I figure she chose to come home with me. She and I bond and enjoy each others company. My new mac is my friend, too.
Then, last year, I got an android smart phone. Blasphemy. I wanted an iPhone. This phone fell into my lap just when I needed it bad and had no other way.
A few weeks later, I’m out with my phone in hand walking in a fascinating wood feeling connected to the world in a friendly intimate way by my phone. A whisper from the Earth’s every voice resonates low in me. Wonder strikes my inner, deeper echo place. Not lightning struck, voice of the world deep rock struck.
Oh, so this is it.
Hmmh no wonder!
It makes no sense.
It makes perfect sense!
Ha! This is what all that advance gratitude was about!
Oh, I love my android, and the World it holds in the webbed palm of my hand.
I love my friend, my phone. I smile when I think of Steve Jobs.
I never met, never saw him. Never wrote and mailed, or talked to him.
One day though, my heart broke in an instant as I raked last years leaves in midsummer Texas heat. Grief torrents and whips me like a blizzard without provocation. Sinking to a log on the ground I weep like a child. My parter thinks I’m crazy for suddenly putting down the rake in subdued grief. Sitting, there, I cry bitter tears for half an hour. Something about my iMac and a dear friend has died. I can’t explain it.
Next day I find out.
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The Social Network-City of Light
A City of Light
Star light rapids
Pillar of day
Water rafters
Sweep hearts clean
Hearts swept away
Ravished blood night
Unimagined communion
Daily Post Daily Prompt: City of Light:
National Poetry Writing Month:
NaPoWriMo: http://wp.me/pf2B5-48H
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Odd Couple-Polygamy
Rumors preceded him.
She sneaked out to check out the rumors.
This new preacher had it real.
He plants passion
She thought he was handsome.
She was nineteen.
He thirty-nine.
She was a belle at high school.
He had four wives.
She saw him float right off the floor, lifted up by light, knew she would marry him, the presence of some horror she never met, leered at her from the audience.
He moved the crowd left them swaying, went off to a meeting.
She followed him, got his attention, informed him she would be his wife.
He said when I came back to town.
He did. She was ready.
I am their tenth child, counting the ones who didn’t grow up.
They believed in me.
I was their purpose.
Conceived in a Mexican jail.
Born while he stood trial.
She sold my home to bribe the judge.
To give the world my little brothers.
Their purpose was their passion.
They weren’t right.
Yet, in some matters, the matters of their passion, what really matters, they were right on target.
Kids and grown ups feel the same being bullied.
Being bullied.
Becoming bullies back.
The good old USA declared open season on Mormons, by Congress jokes and bullying.
They were not allowed to marry whomever their passion dictated, from the beginning.
They weren’t.
History would have been different if they had been.
But that would make a boring story.
Daily Post
Daily Prompt: Odd Couple
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Five A Day
Daily Prompt: Five a Day
You’ve being exiled to a private island, and your captors will only supply you with five foods. What do you pick?
I am vacationing on this private Earth island.
Been here for a while.
So far I have bought into the limited.
You will only supply me with five foods a day now will you?
Well that is not good enough. Not anymore.
I am not your captor.
Here is the list of what I am having:
All five food groups each for each of my five bodies every day
Cooked and served please
Spirit Body
Mind Body
Physical Body
Emotional Body
Body of Work
We want Five a Day!
We need Five a Day!
We get Five a Day!
Any Questions?
We take care of ourselves and each other.
No compromise.
Thank You for your kind support Facilitator.
Life is Good.
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Trading Places/Happy Happy Joy Joy!
I’m so wanting to believe in people-including the weaker sex. The tits-bated weaker sex. The devoid of reason and control by tits, lured to their death by mermaids, trapable weaker sex. I’m wanting to believe they are not a mistake. Girls-next-door, church lady or stripper, it’s a continual, universal wonder. What’s up with men and tits, woman or whatever?
I’m wondering. Wondering and asking for four years now. I always get answers. So what then? What?
Looking at my breasts in the mirror, to me, is about as enchanting as looking at my hands without a manicure. At least done nails thrill me like adorable outfits. I love looking at my outfits, any outfits. Fashion, outfits, hair, makeup, yummy costumes captivate me, but not bare tits. Tits in lift up lace or leather? Hell yeah. It’s the leather. Trust me, it’s the design, the angles, the style shaped around the tits, tits in a bodice not tits themselves. For sure, not my pretty tits. Not mine, not anyone’s. But really, much less my own. Breasts are for decoration, as far as visual pleasure. That’s it for me.
Breasts and feminine beauty make me feel lovely and captivating when I see them. I never want to touch them. Except maybe out of curiosity, or the softness of the fabric they are tightly laced up in. When I see it, it makes me feel: That is for me! I am this beautiful. Same reason I love romances. It’s how it makes me feel about me. It’s about me. It’s how I feel romanced, loved, worshiped, adored. Tits have almost nothing to do with it, except the feeling seeing them gives me that mine are beautiful. That I am all this beautiful.
Men though, they go retarded instantly over any pair of tits.
Yeah, I don’t trust men.
There is just something sinister in their weakness for tits.
Not only chaste wifely woman think so.
Why do guys always try to get a twenty-dollar dance for ten?
Oh, I so hate that!
It’s so insulting.
I know. It’s belittling.
I just turn around and walk away. I won’t even deal with that kind of customer.
I know, it just brings you down. It devalues us as dancers.
Yeah, it makes me so mad. How would he feel it he wasn’t paid for his work? When ever I go for that stupid deal, I just feel not worth full price.
Yep, ruins your whole night. They keep insulting us with stupid offers.
Grabby guys and ten-dollar guys, the worst!
I don’t know, but what’s up with men in general?
A tits-switch flips their brain cells off.
Just like that. You can’t trust it.
I want to. But.
Oh, god, I know!
I buy into Michelle O’Donnell’s view that God or Allah, or Universal Evolutionary Impulse, or Whatever, did not make the obvious mistake. I mean didn’t make a mistake (even the obvious one) when men were created or wired or whatever, wrong. Wrong. A mistake. But Life doesn’t make mistakes so….?
I mean when I love someone, any other flexed biceps are irrelevant. There is actually only one man in the world. This wonderful utopia doesn’t seem to apply to men. Even when they sing about it, cuz it’s what the stronger sex wants to hear. Or something. I don’t get it.
This question had a lot of chances to be asked.
Wow, this guy is not asking me to have sex for money!
Wait, he is. Who or what do you think I am? Pause. I defer to the mind of “God” on this matter. I understand there is a bigger truth I do not see. I defiantly do not see it!. I trust men are created right, for a reason and not a mistake. Takes deep breath. Sighs. I need help.
No thanks for your kind offer. I dance. That’s all. I only dance and the laws apply.
The question burns like the bright incandescent lamp that always goes out.
My wtf idea of men, is not the truth about men. But I don’t know what the truth is. I really don’t. It’s super annoying.
No, you can’t touch.
Little Tommy, you can’t touch Little Betty that way…
But that day, that one day, everything changed.
It was a normal day. The ten dollars left in my left fitted jeans’ pocket feel good. I had paid my bills and paid off all that debt. I’m ten dollars ahead and ready to start saving. Yeah.
I’m in the zone dressing to go out running when a glance up at my topless reflection in the bedroom mirror captivates me.
I glance, in passing, in the mirror its my tits.
Those. Yes!
Tits! It’s a instinctual wild animal reaction. My whole body shouts out rippling joy. Joy’s crashing waves of smashing euphoria irresistible pleasure.
The mirror’s treasure, edible bliss! I must have. I must touch, now. Reaching where no does not exist. Water after dry days in desert intensity, this cool waterfall of deliciousness palm trees shade smiles all for me to swim in taste, feel with my whole body, tongue electrified, lightning stricken mind, on divine fire, missile target smitten emotions lunge at all this satisfaction just for me. For me!
Oh wait, I better something… as I leap, one arm reaching grasping for heaven, the other reaches for the bill in my pocket. Here! Take it! I must touch! It’s all I have! Take it, please!
If I had 500, I would say the same thing. Or a thousand. Or five thousand. Or whatever…
Then. My reflection is a reflection. I am myself again.
The earthshaking pleasure, in a river of chocolate I taste with every pore of my body, and the vast space of tasted mind, the ease the universal delight of dessert, tastable delights walking around everywhere in my whole world vanishes.
I don’t’ know how anyone can live, or not live, like that.
No words suffice for the world men live.
Goddam God! No mistake made! Question answered. Got it. Okay.
The intense rushing cascades of joy from just seeing and feeling, wanting to touch!
Never felt anything even remotely like it. There are no words. Nothing comes close. My emotions are just as intense and delightful, but its even the same taste bud. Indescribable heaven of physical desire.
I don’t even understand how men handle this so exceptionally well. I, I couldn’t handle it. I’d go around tasting everything, begging, borrowing and stealing, more, more! What a wonderful world! Wow God. You knew what you were doing. What a sexy world!
I understand now why a man would feel like he is hungry and being deprived of all this amazing food. It sits there wasted while he starves. He steals it, of course! What starved person wouldn’t. It’s stupid like: “A mans steals a loaf of bread and shit goes down.” I might even have just taken it in that moment. No handle on restraint, no practice, no understanding of the harm it could cause to the wonder of beauty dessert.
Hopefully “she” would have been a big enough slut to accept my ten.
Porque yo no respondo!
Because I can’t be held responsible for what I might have done!
…Men are intensely vulnerable, sweet and lucky.
Creation is fucking awesome.
Response to: WordPress
The Daily Post
Daily Prompt: Trading Places
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Judgement Day
Remember when we were dumb?
Seven-year-olds looking back at being six.
Remember we thought we ‘d get lost if we walked over there behind those trees?
Yeah!
We were so dumb!
Remember when we were dumb?
We used to be so dumb. Every year. Then, the next year we were smart.
One of my sisters or I would inevitably pop the question. We laugh at our old dumb selves. Then start remembering something even dumber.
Remember when we used to fight for Roundy?
Yeah! That was so dumb!
No it wasn’t! Food actually tastes better when you eat it with the one-and-only round spoon!
Remember when Sandra decided to just keep the dang thing in her pocket all day? She could instantly win the fight to eat supper with Roundy?
Well that was smart. Till it fell out of her pocket into the outhouse.
Remember how mad I was at her? She was so dumb! I chased her all over to get her to stop and listen to how mad I was, and how dumb that was. When I caught her I punched her. Wow. She slapped me back. So I had to chase her to hit her back. I was so dumb!
We were thirteen when it dawned on us that we were always going to have been dumb.
What are we going to think is just dumb?
What are we going to know was really dumb?
What is gonna be really, really dumb and what will be, cringe, so, soooooo dumb?
Remember when we used to believe snakes and scorpions would chase you as soon as they look at you? Remember we used to practice out-running snakes?
Yeah!
Remember we thought scorpions were gonna be as big as squirrels. They were going to chase us with their stinging squirrel tails curled forward to jab us to death with that one deadly poison sting.
We were so dumb!
We could try to avoid some of those.
We tried.
It hasn’t worked.
I can still sit and ask my sisters this same question and get the same kind of answers. Still makes me cringe. Still embarrassing. Still unthinkable. Still nothing we can do about being so dumb.
Remember when we thought “bad people” were all going to hell?
Yeah, and we really felt dark skin was inferior, too.
Yeah. Don’t remind me!
Remember black people just were never going to add-up?
It’s to soon to remember that one. I don’t want to remember when we were dumb.
Well, we really did believe that.
I know we did! But it’s so embarrassing. I’d rather remember squirrel tailed scorpions. Remember we argued whether scorpions were furry like squirrels or reptilian like lizards?
Remember when I found a lizard that curled up it’s tail when it raced by? I ran like hell. It was a baby scorpion and had a momma scorpion, like a mamma bear, near by.
Yeah and I took you to find that lizard to prove that scorpions were lizardy not squirrelly. Remember we figured hunting a dragon. We crept into a dragon’s lair, over there between that cactus and those two bushes. Glad we practiced running like hell. This scorpion might attacked us.
I was so going to prove to you that scorpions were more dragon-lizard than vicious-squirrel. I had already practiced my acceptance speech.
Remember a tiny scorpion. The stare in disbelief at the puny thing after we shook, ran just from the name? Just a weird insect thingy. After we named it we ran for our lives. Deadly!
Remember we thought gay was an abomination, condemned?
Would you please shut up!
Remember when….
I’m not listening!
Okay remember when we puffed our bangs up into that big forward arch? Remember we thought that was tho only pretty way to do bangs?
I try not to!
Oh, but even worse, we thought there was one right way to heaven and we were on it. All ten of us, while everyone else was going to hell. That wasn’t the worst part though. Everyone else was going to hell unless we showed them the right way.
Yeah, okay, I remember, unfortunately… See ya the hell later. I’m getting out of here. Want anything from the store?
***
Judgement day sucks!
Judgement gained: Priceless!
In response to The Daily Post
Daily Prompt: Judgement Day
http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/03/27/daily-prompt-book-cover/
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Competition-Daily Prompt
Competition focuses, reaches, catches, traps, evolves, gives, takes, glorifies, laughs. Competition is a god.
Competition is like love. I don’t want to give it up! Like love, competition puts the fun in everything. Competition makes games. Games make fun. Fun makes community.
Think, Olympics without competition.
Imagine only one football team.
Games, all about not winning?
Business, drooping like some Communism.
Events, not planed to out-do the one before.
Competition is god. Sometimes though, we stand up to god. We can pick how we want to worship. We get to say what games we want to play. Vote with our feet.
The game where a few smart and amazingly talented people beat the rest of the world at the Monopoly is not fun. The point of a game is fun right? Fun on both sides. When the game is over, it stops. Or when we say it’s over, it stops. It’s a game. We made the rules, remember?
Play a new game.
Tug of war is no longer fun when it’s people against a machine. Maybe this game got dropped from the Olympics for good reason.
Give us bread lest we die.
It’s that old story. Growing up I always thought the protagonists that the God in the Bible Stories helped were the good guys.
But Joseph Sold Into Egypt he was more like a Red Ocean dreamer of dreams. So, like Warren Buffet, he could tell what the economy was going to do. We get the story that his prognostication was fair and based on the weather. Maybe so. In that case, so is the economic climate: There was going to be an inflation then a drop. So he invested and bought up all the corn. Yeah, people ate nothing but corn.
Then when the Great Depression err famine came he did the usual.
The people spent all their money on food the first year of the seven-year famine, Great Depression.
Second and third years people traded their cattle for food.
Next years their land.
Then the clincher: Give us bread else we die!
So, our righteous Joseph-Sold-into-Egypt accepted the lives of everyone in the kingdom in exchange for feeding them. Viola!
He was the king’s deputy. Kings are servants of their people. Not the other way around. They got their jobs backwards.
I don’t know if a God did or didn’t give him the heads up or the vision of patterns and the wisdom to save the world from starvation. Enslaving everyone was not necessary, though. Or was it? It was four hundred years later that, well surprise, Joseph’s own descendants are enslaved to the system that he started when he might have just served.
They wanted out of slavery and vicious miracles got them out in our Exodus Bible story.
Key to being enslaved is both sides play the game.
Oh, so you want just you and the Pharaoh to be left alive then?
You lose us, you lose your kingdom. Ayn Rand glorifies this outcome. In her popular novel Atlas Shrugged, just a Pharaoh and a Joseph and a mighty girl are left after they didn’t help the people. Try and get dumber than that. No one else was worth it. Some folks do seem to think that is a great story. (Note: I was one of them. People change.)
“Give us liberty or give us death!”
It’s just an attitude, as opposed to:
“Give us bread else we die!”
People are more important than game rules. Rules and games are for people. People matter. Public servants are for people. Smart ones are great gifts to all of us. Smart people matter just as much as not-smart-in-that-way, people.
Joseph and Warren Buffet can serve and care and offer their gifts how their hearts desire.
We have hearts, too. We can dictate what we experience and believe by consciously making choices.
We don’t have to sacrifice liberty to live. We don’t have to kill anyone, or die.
My childhood hero Joseph Sold into Egypt no longer impresses me.
Re-living re-rewriting this same story now.
Heroes, step up.
In response to WordPress The Daily Post
Daily Prompt: Competition
http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/03/24/daily-prompt-competition/
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Seeing What State My State Is In
The state of My state, dictates my state, and how I relate to my State.
State of mind
Emotional state
State of home
Writing states
My spirit’s state
Physical state I’m in
The state my game got at
State of my friendship hat
State of my kin
State of the light in her eye
State of my garden wars
State of my inner horse
Blogs injected states
State of traffic
State at work at play
Cuddled with deadly State
Smiling Wild State
Stating in the Union
Of Texas State
Anonymous state of disunion
State of all States
State of communion
State of every World
State this Web of Light reflects
My statement
Inner State
Daily Post
Weekly Writing Challenge:
State of my State
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Idyllic – Creating New Worlds
One thin slice of Idyllic
Whole when each shares hers
This is impossible
Possible, what I experience
Experience, what I want
***
Response to:
WordPress Daily Post
Daily Prompt:
Idyllic
Try it here:
http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/03/25/daily-prompt-idyllic/
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Austin Local Flavor – Tourist Guide
Flavor is in relationship. Yummy people! Tasty things. Breathable feelings.
Flavor is a recipe. Subtle spice, people salt, texture things, color mixed, just so original ingredients, design place flavor.
The usual staple ingredients are pretty much the same everywhere. It’s the details that delight you. The details of landscape, story, living things.
The flavor of a place.
Local flavor is song of people in their happy places, letting bees buzz.
I keep Austin weird. Enough of us do to cook Austin a creative wild dish for the world to taste once and want to stay.
Places have unique flavor color weirdness.
Same with sideways people.
Sideways traditions.
As weird as you really are.
In response to WordPress
The Daily Post.
Daily Prompt: Local Flavor
http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/03/23/daily-prompt-local-flavor/
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Stranded Runaways -Daily Prompt
Tosh was like that. Her voice electrified empowered, drove like a wireless tool.
You guys are getting out of here, now. Her tone is final. Get your asses out! You will never come back here again.
It came to this. A long whispered navigation through our non-options, huddled in the visiting room hoping it wasn’t being recorded.
You have to get out of here. You know it. Her voice went down instead of up. You will disappear.
Goodbye good luck and good riddance.
We knew she meant the situation, not us. We huddled and hugged. I don’t know how, but you are going to do it. I am willing it. So, you know it will happen.
It started to happen. We did our best. Now, instead of visiting her in Tuiles County Jail again this weekend, we are stranded. Stranded on the Mexican side of the border in Nogales with no money, no gas, not a crumb of smuggled food left. It’s hot, hungry, scary as thirsty hell. No friend, no place to show up. Not even to park. No gas to go on. Nowhere to sleep after two bat flying nights and bleary eyed days without a stop on the oil dripped road. Except to pee re-oil.
We were six. All under seventeen. All running away from different foster homes in Salt Lake City. All crammed into the belly of the beast, taking turns driving. I am fifteen, but my twelve-year-old brother drives my turn. I just prayed and shook, shook and prayed. They drove the thousand miles to the freedom of the Mexican border.
We got across it too, with just a social security card.
Mexican delightful air feels free light, a breathable shout of joy. The morbid weight of being caught, taken back to testify again vanishes. I’m too tired to shout, so I skip a little, smiling with my whole body. When I look around, five others had the same relived triamph glow on their faces. The air in Mexico tastes good. But it is hungry air, going nowhere.
Gas should have run out near Flagstaff, by Estephania’s summer school mile-per-gallon calculations. That was hundreds of miles ago.
We hadn’t expected to eat. Who knew. This car hadn’t been pillaged yet. Estephania secretly bought this beast three days ago with school clothes money. We stole licence plates for it off a same looking abandoned, sorta, car. Then kidnapped our younger brothers. They searched my little brothers, did, and scored 50 cents from between the seats. So from nothing we went to having a whole kilo of fresh tortillas from a Tortilleria. The best tortillas I ever remember smelling tasting, slow chewing. The only thing left from the picnic basket was salt. We didn’t even dream of butter. Okay, we did, but salt was still perfect.
Pulling over out of town parking and sleeping on the ground for two days didn’t improve our mood. The boys found water. That improved our survival.
I found acorns in the leaves we laid on. If you can stand the bitter, and focus on gathering and cracking little handfuls, you don’t have to stay hungry, a germ at a time. But I was still so hungry from not wanting to do that and the bitter was worse than hunger. Fasting is at least worth something.
So, I am fasting. Pretending I am fasting. Way to bitter not to. Finding a way to survive in the wilderness had been on my bucket list. Check.
We will survive! We will make it back home to the kids.
But shit! We need a better plan.
None came. Every possible one failed depressing us more every time we talked.
Two edgy sweat-filled ravenous days drowning in knowing we couldn’t go forward jackhammered the resolve in our eyes. But it didn’t move the picture of resolve in Tosh’s eyes from our inner eyes.
That last night driving to the border knowing gas would run out any second was war. The invisible enemy guns aimed at us. Ambush any second. We would be caught and skinned. Being caught, just the thought, made my stomach fall into the bottomless pit where my heart was.
All it would take is one cop to look twice. Out of gas and no way to buy any was a ticket straight back to foster homes. We wouldn’t see Tosh either, then. After all Sgt. Vogtechy wouldn’t bother to drive six of us all day to see our sister once a week, again after this, would he? Now we ran. The hollow spirit creeps of murdered eye sparkle, sucked at my soul. Life would suck unimaginably worse than before if we were caught and taken back there again. We would be caught prison escapees. Cruel. Punishing. Looks.
Besides we would have failed. Failed. So, so much worse! The wrath of God was supposed to be worse, but wrath of my foster parents totally trips me.
I feared the betrayal in their eyes. In hers it wold be shooting aimed fire. Withering. I know it’s there. They won’t understand. Can’t explain it. Those looks I sense drive me mad. Mad!
Betrayal is in his eyes. That I dare not even imagine. I can’t be thinking of it now, it drives a tornado ice drill. So I don’t. His eyes, hurt more than hers in wherever something I don’t understand.
Nothing to do.
Drive to where the gas will take us.
It takes us to the Judicial checkpoint outside Nogales. They won’t let us by.
Vayanse! Get out of here. You can’t come through.
Nowhere to go. The relief from being out of the USA is tangible. None of us is willing to go one inch closer to that place by turning around and driving back.
You kids aren’t either Mexicans.
Show me your papers.
The car’s got no papers either?
Go back were you came from or we are going to have to confiscate your car. It’s not ever your car is it?
We looked at him shrugging with our eyes. Looked at each other. We know judiciales pick and choose what they confiscate. This old four door green dinosaur Ford wouldn’t make the cut. We are embarrassed driving it. Though just then, we were beyond all embarrassment. Unmoved, we just sit there. He just stood there. Crossed his arms. Fidgeted. Walked away. Came back.
You guys are not getting by. Please leave. Now.
We didn’t. He hurried off to check out new arrivals.
We are frozen. In limbo too exhausted to move. We sat there indefinitely.
Quitense! Get out of the way! Other people want to get through.
We pulled the car to the side. Nothing else came to mind. Nowhere to go. Stunned we sat staring straight ahead staying out of each others fried terrified thoughts.
I need help! We need help! Falling falling into the well, down down were my heart is in the pit. I give up, whatever this is. God You gotta handle this!
The dust doesn’t settle. We do, right out of the way, on the side of the road next to the through lanes. We parked and stayed.
We just stayed there.
Then a surreal crazy man in a judicial uniform burst out of the dust and sun and silence.
Vayanse! Vayanse ninos!
A frustrated Judicial was waving his arms shouting. Get out of here kids! Just get the hell out of here! This time, he was waving us forward.
We drove on.
No gas. No money. A few hundred miles through the desert to Caborca.
We drove.
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Impossible Things
Dreams have no choice but to come true!
What would you do if you were a dream?
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Menagerie-Daily Prompt
She pets me
She is my pet
Sometimes we go to sea
I through her
She lives in me
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LunchTime-Photo Challenge
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Not A Hail Hitler Work Ethic-Post SXSW 2AM Photo
Manager sent:
Her text pict went wherever texts go when not instantaneously delivered.
Thought it was my alarm at 2 am.
Snapped out of exhaustion into alarm-focussed-sleep-attention.
It was this note posted at work.
Best text ever!
-Slept till now.
Daily Post Wring Challenge: 2AM Photo:http://wp.me/p23sd-4le
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Bone of Contention-Who Leads Us?
It’s super cool to stomp away from stupid people who are too pea-brained to see the truth. Then show up among people of inconsequence where we are gonna get it right. Just watch us!
It’s awesome and miraculous to flee the slavery of Egypt into the Promised Land, then show them we can do better as we wipe out all the people of no consequence occupying the lands we have promissory notes to. We are gonna get it right.
You know, flee religious persecution in the Old World and come to the New World where there are no people of consequence, and show them back home we can get it right. Just like this.
Flee German slaughter into ancestral land strewn with people of no consequence, and no promise, and show them Germans that we don’t treat people like that. We can get it right, just like this.
We flee United States persecution into the wilderness of Utah among an uncivilized people we bring consequence to, where us truth-bearing Mormons are gonna get it right. Just watch us.
We escape the persecution of the gone astray Mormon church into the Promised Land of Mexico among a lost and fallen people, were we are gonna get it right. We are getting these bloody drug wars right. Just watch us!
Flee the zombie hordes of corporate America, of this corrupt government, into survival mode, and watch the thing go up in smoke. We have miraculously escaped. We are gonna get it right this time. Watch us.
I hate my fail parents. I’m gonna get the hell out of here and get it right! Seriously, just watch!
It’s the Pharaohs’ fault.
It’s the kings’ fault.
It’s President Van Buren’s fault.
It’s the new president of the Mormon churches’ fault.
It’s Hitler’s fault. It’s Hitler’s fault, again.
It’s corporate greed and the system’s fault.
It’s _________’s fault!
It’s all my idiot parent’s and family’s stupid fault.
While here in my tiny all-encompassing world, it is ALL evil monster Ervil LeBaron’s fault. The bastard!
But, I’m gonna get it right this time. Just you watch me!
This is how I really feel:
***
Response to WrodPress
The Daily Post
Daily Prompt: Bone of Contention
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My Perfect Shot-Photo Challenge
Wiped this off a tunnel under Mopac at Duval.
It took some of my perfect angle shot.
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Abstraction-Weekly Writing Challenge
As I read this, I hear the voice inside my head reading this.
Hello Voice.
As I read, I hear you reading.
When I notice.
Why are you an abstraction?
Oh!
Hello Abstract Me.
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Stranger than Fiction-Weekly Photo Challange
Stranger than fiction.
True of this tribe.
My tribe.
Now, we will get to make sweet bread! We hadn’t tasted it in months.
We just finished building that oven. We showcased ourselves, dirty hands and triumph, instead of showcasing it. Round top peeps up in the back.
Our own wood-burning adobe plastered oven, like the pioneers-that we were.
Boy did that oven deliver!
That’s me up front with the light-colored flowered blouse, bowl haircut.
A perfect goal-oriented-working-day in my favorite blouse. Favorite, yes favorite with orange and yellow flowers. Plus, the sleeves aren’t to long or two short. They are medium size. Like me.
Totally didn’t expext my best bluse to never look good and feel favorite again after that perfect day.
That day, I didn’t have to do 20 People’s dishes-three times.
I could fly!
Hadn’t seen this picture in thirty years.
Then, last year, our long-lost, very lost, friend posted it on Facebook.
Lots of stranger than fiction under the bridge since then!
Just saying.
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Mystery
It looked like he came out a gate. He may have come from behind. He is looking away as he walks away from the fence, Eva’s fence. Vague perplexed twitches scratch my mind. Did he come from her yard or something? Or was that not a side gate closing? He doesn’t even turn to look at us when we pull up in front of this house. Or was he just walking from the field behind her house?
I have never been here. Just now I drove up for the first time. My sister Gaby has, and was having trouble remembering which house is Eva’s. Oh, it’s that one! We were half past it when I pull over and parked. I’m too done driving to put the car in reverse and back up a few feet and park directly in front of the house. I just idle the car waiting for Gaby to insist, or I’m not re-parking. She doesn’t insist. So, I turn the car off.
We are way passed the driveway. Our car is parked half way between what is supposed to be Eva’s house and the next house on a quiet Phoenix col-de-sac. If Gaby is right, our old best friend Eva lives here with her three-year old daughter I can’t wait to meet, and her boyfriend I haven’t met yet either.
Are you sure this is Eva’s house?
Yeah, now I’m totally sure.
Is that her boyfriend, then? I nod in the direction of the man crossing the narrow side yard between the house and the construction site next door.
Gaby turns and stares in his direction. He reaches the construction cluttered next door front yard, bends over and picks up a bucket. His back is to us. He walks a few feet, puts the bucket down, turns and picks up the garden hose, then walks a bit further and puts it down, then reaches for a shovel.
No! He is way to old to be Eva’s boyfriend.
Well it looked like he was coming out of her fence. But I’m not sure. Maybe he wasn’t.
I don’t know what he is doing, but that is not Eva’s boyfriend. Why would you even think that?
I don’t know. Maybe she hired him to work on something. What if he is a friend of her dads or something? He could have come from behind the house, I couldn’t tell for sure.
I watch him, perplexed. He stands the shovel against the wall by the front door, picks up a brick from there, and puts the brick where he got the hose from.
First I’m wondering who he is. Now I’m wondering what he is doing. He seems busy and focused. His feverish work keeps his face turned away from us. If he was working for Eva, unless he is real shy, he would have wondered about us by now, maybe said hi, and figured out who we are. He must be shy or obsessed or something.
But he would have expected us, if he knew Eva. She would have told us if he would be working on something when we are showing up.
Even shy people notice a car drive up, and woman in it. Not a glance though.
Gaby is getting her things, cleaning up, folding sweaters, bagging up food wrappers and Starbucks cups. She tosses the pillows into the back seat and reaches back for her overnight bag. I turn the music down.
You go on in. I’ll come in after a while.
The truth is, I just can’t move. I need stillness. This happens sometimes.
It’s about ten in the morning, we drove all night expecting to arrive sooner, before Eva left for work. Traffic held us up after we did a circle around Sky Harbor. Eva isn’t home now, so rushing in won’t make me see her any sooner, anyway. I must sit here, breath, relax.
One thing I love about Gaby is she gets me. I don’t have to explain why I just sit here. I don’t help put CD’s away or straighten up or fold the lap blanket, or tell my daughter to get her things. I turn off the music.
Gaby looks around. Maybe we should tell Eva.
I think so. I nod.
I zone out. Gaby doesn’t disturb me.
I don’t see what the guy is working at. The hose doesn’t go into the bucket, or on a pile of cement to water and mix. He doesn’t turn it on. He doesn’t follow-up with a next logical step. The next, brick he picks up, he puts down next to a half-empty sack of cement. When he takes the rake from one spot on the ground and puts it down at another random spot on the ground, an uncomfortable feeling crescendos in bewildered, silent questioning.
What is going on!?
Sitting there uneasy, wondering, dazed, zoned, empty, time stands still.
A silent flash of nothing mixes with the nothing in me. It forms something. Not thought or words or even a feeling. It is an absolute, a knowing, an imperative, a command, no voice. Word-thought shaped of unquestionable authority that is not mine, booms in a still unheard un-voiced statement of fact.
“She is mine.
You can’t touch her!
She is mine.
Because I love her.”
I don’t know what stated this. It felt exactly like my feelings, but it wasn’t me. I just totally agree, because I do, and don’t know why, except that of course, it’s just what I would have said if I had thought of it, and knew why I’d thought of it. But I didn’t, and I didn’t.
But, then, it strikes me to add:
Not her, not anyone!
Then nothing. A sense completion, followed by a sense of peace.
My job here is done. It is a feeling, a certainty that came with this mystery. I have nothing else to do here, but don’t know how to say it, or even think it.
You can say or do what you think is right, Gaby. Whatever you think needs to be said to Eva or done, you do it. I’m not going to do anything.
The guy, when I notice again, has gotten on a bike. He rides past us with his face turned away staring, eagerly searching, it would seem, for something amazing across the street.
I can move now. Then no further thought. I forget about the whole thing. We all get up and go inside to shower, sleep and wait for Eva.
While Eva gets dinner, that evening, I play in the back yard with our kids. Our ball hits the gate. I look at it. It is unlatched. I latch it.
When we go inside I remember. The side gate was not latched, Eva. Now it’s latched.
It was unlatched? It couldn’t have been. Maybe…, she seems suddenly exasperated, well I don’t know how, I better double check after some people come over.
I don’t think of any related incident or anything else to say about it, while she seems frustrated with her beloved suspect.
Gaby forgot about the whole thing, too.
We all had a great time together, for a couple of days then we got back on the road.
After a few weeks when we were back home, Eva called Gaby frantic and terrified, sobbing.
The police had pounded on her door, urgently showed their badges and ordered:
Get your purse and your kid right now. You have to get out of here. We can no longer ensure your safety. Don’t come back here under any circumstances. You can arrange for someone to pick-up your things later.
We leave right now.
You know the Bicycle Stalker?
Yeah, of course.
He has now been identified. He is in your area. You and your daughter fit the profile.
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Apple Wannabe
Endless adventure-less days dragged behind and drooped ahead then, but now I’m free.
Free from boring. Free, not shut in the house all day with my little brother. And there will be lots of kinds of food, every day.
Everyone else gets home from school or work where all the fun is happening, but can’t tell me about it. It’s great to go to school, I know it, but no one can tell me exactly why. When they try to I don’t understand. I ask so much why about everything. No one answers anymore. They have adventures. I don’t. They get to do things at places I can’t go. Relished embellished tales my third grade sister Tosh spins to enchant me to envy, do.
Mom, in full regretful consternation, obeys the law. She sends us to elementary school, nothing else. I beg to go to kindergarten. She said I wouldn’t get to go even when I was old enough. No one else in our family ever goes, or would go, to kindergarten.
They don’t make kids go to kindergarten so you are not going under any circumstances. I wouldn’t send you or anyone to school at all if I didn’t have to.
What are circumstances? I wonder out loud looking back and forth from mom’s face to Tarza, fishing for an answer the best way I can in as many languages as I know, all at once to see who will help me. I need to find a way to go to kindergarten!
My oldest sister Tarza likes to and can answer almost anything. She explains in patient sing song:
Circumstances are something, that could be a good reason to go to school this year. What mom is saying is that even if there is a good reason, you are still not going to go to kindergarten, no matter what. We are against it.
All I hear is: “good reasons to go to school”.
Good reasons to go to school. I know of a whole bunch of them, and one of them has to not be the “no circumstances” one.
Something is wrong about us even going to school at all. It bothers mom like me not doing the dishes after breakfast does. But I still don’t do the dishes after breakfast when I’m told to. So, I can still go to school, in the same way, even if it bothers her. Mom does not agree.
It’s not about that. It is because school corrupts you. The danger tone switches on in her voice. She tells me about how other children have become corrupt. Some have even had to be stoned by their own parents, for it.
“Corrupted” shakes me up. Grave and scary shivers erupt on the inside. I can almost feel the ominous evil spirit trying to. I don’t want it to happen to me. I know this is bad and it can happen to me in school, mostly in kindergarten, I guess. So, I’m really glad to not risk it this afternoon.
Mom, I promise not to get corrupted, if I can go to school today!
How will you do that?
I will just not let corrupted do it to me.
How will you know what corrupted is?
Because it’s bad, so I’ll know.
The thing about getting corrupted is it’s tempting. Mom has stopped dressing and is looking at me in a sudden way. She sits me down on her lap on the bed. She never does this anymore and it feels tender nice and awkward. After a minute of balancing me on her lap she maneuvers me next to her at the edge of the bed where she can look at me. I swing my feet in the air bumping the box springs while she looks at me with a very important look. I stop swinging my legs. I’m craving important.
You want to know how corruption starts?
I nod wide eyed, knowing that however it does, it won’t, because I’m not gonna let it.
Corrupted. It is when you start to like your friends more than you like to do what God wants you to do. When you think your friends are more important than God is, the devil has you and it is almost impossible to ever get away again. You get dark minded, then you don’t even want to get away anymore. She pauses and takes a hearse breath. That’s how the devil tempts you, she sighs.
I know that my survival depends on understanding what she is saying.
He leads you astray with things you like more than you like God, and you become corrupted. She looks at my face for signs. I know this is solemn, and not time to shout how I’ll absolutely win and she has nothing to worry about!
I won’t let the devil tempt me! So, I’ll never get corrupted. I’m resolute, fierce, not smiling, only knowing and solemn. I feel solemn. It’s so much nicer than the shivers and horrors feeling.
You won’t know it’s the devil because he pretends to be good and you aren’t old enough to know the difference.
I am old enough though. Only dumb people, and bad people don’t know the difference. I can too tell what is the devil and what isn’t.
How can you tell?
I just know I can.
I’m imagining a serpent whispering for me to eat that apple. I won’t eat it though-no matter what. Then I start thinking, obviously the snake is wicked. And obviously it was Snow White’s wicked stepmother, in that old lady suit, too, that made her eat that poison apple. Snow White wasn’t as smart as I am. I’m smart enough to skip Snow White, though since mom says fairy tales are simple-minded, and corrupt and have no moral, but Eve wasn’t that smart either. And see, I know what corrupted is, too, I muse. I know which story is the right story.
I won’t get tempted like Eve did! I’m sure of it. I always double-check, make sure people aren’t the evilest ones, or the devil’s servants, and I will make sure that it’s right before I do anything.
How can you tell?
I just can.
The devil disguises himself to lie to you so you will believe it.
I tell mom how I will always not believe a lie.
How could you tell it’s a lie?
Because lies aren’t true.
Every few days a new reason pops up that hopefully wasn’t under the any circumstance clause and so would get me on the adventure bus in the mornings . I follow mom around when she gets home. Different ways, surprising times, wondering aloud about a different angle, for a loophole, and bring it up in conversations, comment about it, nag, then remind her that I still want to go, to school no matter what, too. Nothing works. But the peak of my day is the hope.
I resort. Whining, begging, weeping, screaming “It’s not fair!” and being locked in my closet till I my head pulses as hard as I have sobbed. Charm fails. Getting up and being ready for school fails. Trying to sneak on the bus failed when my own sisters didn’t let me try.
Close to the end of school, all hope isn’t lost.
Mom I will be happy to go for just whatever days are left, please, please, please! Please mommy!
Ouuuuwh! This was the wrong way to get to school, for sure because mom is suddenly madder and meaner.
You are hurting my ears. I have a headache. And I’m so, so sick and tired of you nagging and begging me all day long! Under no circumstances, whatsoever, are you to ever, ever mention school to me again. Do you hear me? One more word about school and I will spank you. One more word. Don’t even say school! Her face wrung the words. The words squeezed me dry.
The best reason yet, for me to get to go to school, is that there aren’t even enough days left for me to get corrupted anyway. The feeling jambs my thought. It squashes my breath and gives me a gripping voice ache.
Then, all is lost. The “lost and never to be” void gapes wide, dark, open, tunneling through my whole chest. My sister Tosh has fun tossing things through the tunnel.
The morning of the first day of school mom is a weird mad. I whooped a piercing triumph war-cry at the top of my lungs in the house smirking at her when she reminded me to get ready for school. She did not deliver me to the inevitable dangers of first grade that first day. When everyone else walked, she refused to take me to register.
You are not going to school today.
The second day I didn’t turn the dryer on as I was told. So my fist-day-of-school purple corduroy outfit isn’t ready in time. Mom is mean and won’t let me wear it wet.
I try to show her how it’s the second-day-of-school anyway. So what do first-day-of school- clothes matter anymore? At first she tried to explain first impressions to me, but I didn’t care about those. I just want to go to school today.
I don’t have time anymore to go by the school to register you anyway.
I howl searching for any clean not wet clothes to wear. She threatened to make good on that spanking if I don’t be quiet. And you will not be going tomorrow either. Meanwhile I couldn’t find any other clean clothes and all my underwear are shame for shame dirty. None pass school inspection without washing, and she hadn’t washed any with my outfit.
My outfit is the only thing in the dryer, she had washed it by hand quick to get the stains out. It was to be clean and dry, on time.
Remember I told you not to wear your new clothes till school started? She sighs accusing.
I did remember. But it has a big yellow flower with pretty orange trim on every petal sewn on the front. This big flower is at the bottom front and to one side. A perfect spot on the front of a blouse for a big flower just like this one to be.
I could not wait for the first day of school. I couldn’t wait or change before I went outside to show everyone then stay to play. I couldn’t wait long enough to change before I ate sloppy joes. I was too hungry.
You be a good girl or you aren’t going to school at all this year. I don’t care what the law is! Her voice hung at the end of thin rope. So did I.
On the third day of school I’m walking for the first time with my sisters. I’d imagined myself on this day skipping and whistling triamphantly. All of the “I’m free!” whipped right out of my body language though. Guarded, regretful and talking to myself in “what if’s”, and “When I’s” I lose my self in sidewalk cracks. My sisters walk on ahead and turn the corner. Lost and left behind stings my eyes. Then, up ahead, Tosh is part telling part pleading part commanding Nickie: “It’s funner this way!” But Nickie comes back and risks a peek around the corner just for fun, and gestures for me to catch up.
School is wonderful. And after a while, I discover this irresistible apple. The un-poisoned apple of desperate need to be the teacher’s pet. No one offers the apple to me. I want the apple. I poison myself with it.
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Even After It’s Gone
Who with matters
It matters
because
It matters to me
Nothing else matters
Unless it matters
To you
Or to you
Or you
Or
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Dumb Ways to Die
A Viral Video
Dumb Reason to Die
A Viral System
Die for
Freedom
Country
Love
– Dying for People
People matter so
The sacrifice matters
Makes a hero
Die for dust in the light
Die for no one’s stuffed toy
Die for nothing
Die for sins
Dumb Reasons to die
Three die
Why?
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Money
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My Hobo
My Hobo
I didn’t know that when the curbs started looking cracked again I was falling out of love.
Books got more interesting.
Fault lined streets jutting tectonic plates after a quake, are old and droll again. Plunging in, jutting up, crags of street twirling streaks of tar don’t dance to me like before. Weeds growing out the unruly wild sidewalk seams, depression, not mighty, mini jungles to me.
A few weeks ago they where a sign of life of loves stories, an oasis’ in the desert concrete. When I looked at them I knew: Life, worth it beautiful, no matter what. It all says nothing to me now. A week of street perfection ago, I had smiled a wave walking through these same sidewalk jungle weeds. Imagining my hand waving as I passed felt like an actual friendly salute to this magnificent life. For the sake of possible onlookers, or myself, or for both, my inner life does it, just like I do to human people but on the inside. Waving, and nodding as I passed these green people felt natural.
From the bus window, today, they are all strange, out-of-place, depression sprung up and taking over all the way from East to Downtown.
I vaguely miss something. Like missing a friend. Empty, an echo of a vague longing, about something familiar. Something. What?
The wait for the connecting bus at Sixth and Brazos is stupid. My connection bus goes by two minutes before this bus gets there. A daily near miss. It’s on the schedule that way. This is not well planned. Sometimes I catch the connection if it is a minute or two late, or mine is just that early. A few times the bus driver flashed those special lights to flag it down. A square moving continent stops just for me to get on.
The driver smiles waving me on enthusiastically. Go on!
I skip a smiling gait all the way across the street to the hissing door re-opening for me.
Some people are nice. That stranger in a bus driver uniform saved me that dreaded forty minute wait.
Sometimes though, I just know not to bother the driver’s day any more than it already is. I try for myself to catch it. Sometimes, the hope and the possible, and the being overlooked and passed up, is too much, and too much effort, so I’d just not think about it.
I feel like some of the drivers, like not bothering with my day by trapping that bus. If it it’s there, I’ll go for it, if not, I’ll date my books. That and homework time is the bus stop. I’m slow at assignments. Completing them takes up all my time. Trying to figure out math and how to cram my thinking into small tight structures that when I squash it in one side it pops out the other is brain damaging. I’m back in grade school which I never attended anyway, feeling pretty stupid doing math, structured assignments. I work it till I get it done, mostly. It takes up all my time, at school and at tutoring though. I need this bus stop time to read, and take notes-the easy parts.
The bus stop and Sixth and Brazos, is not inviting. The bench is empty. The trash can next to it is full. This stop is one of the ones that needs a pressure wash really bad. It’s been dirty since I’ve taken these classes.
I always sit on the bench without casting around a disgusted look first. I walk up to it like it’s as safe and clean as my living room couch and plop daintily down getting comfortable, hoisting my back pack to my lap, I pull out the text-book without a second thought to the hobos standing around, right behind me.
I acknowledge them as a group, like a friend entering their parlor when I walk up. After that all homework. I’m an intense student. Usually, I talk to people wherever I am unless it’s finals or I’m lost in thought. Here, though, well, I’m gonna have to spend a lot of time. If I get friendly I won’t be free to choose what I want to do, after that. I’ll always have to say hi, then manners then small talk, not just nod and acknowledge, the way I do every day so far. They are chatty. They were carrying on the first time I walked up. I know, I need this time to study, or for myself, so I just don’t want to get into the swing with anyone. Therefore, not one word.
Summer school is almost over now. I’ve sat on this bench a few times a week this whole semester. The same people are here every day, like I’m here when I can’t catch that elusive non-connection.
People are passing, people come and go from the bus stop. Sometimes an old infirm woman or man will sit next to me. Mostly though, everyone stands away from the dirty smelly place-as far away as possible. Yeah, the place stinks like pee. Or the people do , I don’t know. It always just smells, beer and dirty and body odor.
They are all always over there, so who knows. If I sit on something nasty and smelly, that would be better than treating the people who I’m gonna have my back to, like they stink or are dirty or the bench they sleep on at night has cuties. I got to be able to relax to study. I figure they will have my back if I respect them. No faces about the smell. No scowling at the trash, or checking if the bench is clean enough for my royal butt to sit on. More than anyone, these people, I sense, need their dignity. I guess, I know how they feel.
I look up, at them, then sit down. The bus had been in sight and I ran for it. One of the bums had stepped up and hailed it for me. Drivers seem used to ignoring whatever drama is going on at my lively bus stop. Why would anyone driving a bus or otherwise think twice if a hobo runs after them shouting waving them to stop? He is insane, drunk, high, joking or dangerous, and stinks.
I felt sorry that he had exposed himself to that loss of dignity. He didn’t seem to notice. I looked a thank-you at him. He ignored me. They were always doing random things. Sometimes a hubbub, bantering, sudden laughter. A shriek of dainty mini-tag and arm bumping. Compared to the passers-by, all on their way to somewhere they have to be, their minds there already, their, bodies trying to catch up, these homeless folk with few teeth and ragged clothes held up with dirty rope, these people have a life. They feel alive, more real than the shadows floating by circling at an uncontaminated distance. A man on a phone rushes by but not to fast to watch his back on this side. People cross the street before they come to this corner if this is not their stop. Mostly, across the street phantoms are floating by, somewhere else.
The life is so different on this corner. At first I hadn’t noticed. This was like the corners in small towns and cities in Mexico, where people stop to talk and hang around. Oh, that’s called loitering. Oops. I remember the way I’d pass through the usual loitering men, on my way home from work, in the dim street lights late in the evening. I lift my body to my tallest-regal body language, look straight ahead, fearless, sweeping a gaze that catches everyone who looks for a second. Small nod. Mona Lisa smile. What cat calls?
I missed the life on the street. People just looking, noticing, talking, watching the slow crowds move conscious of each other. I had an unspoken missing of the cat calls, too, though I won’t admit that to, myself.
Don’t guys think I’m pretty anymore? I know, it’s this culture. The stupid disrespectful huddles of cat callers I so hated felt like thugs back then. But goddamn, even dolled-up the casual onlooker usually lets no response escape around here. Everyone just ignores you, or barely acknowledges you. Often they turn away on purpose. No one shows any open admiration even in the smallest glancing. When they do a double take, they re-write it like they didn’t. Sometimes it looked like it was almost just there, but not. Such relief riding the bus feels like now since when you smile, people smile back. They look again just enjoying. Not on the street though.
The hobos, there were about eight men and woman in all, they are aware and engaged with everything, in their little world, noticing the flow of everything around them. We don’t talk. But we are aware of each other and engaged. Cheerful snippets of conversation sometimes uproarious laughter ripples through the smell. Mini arguments, intense complaining, anecdotes. I noticed they tone it down when I show up and take a book out. After a while it made me smile. People. Life on this corner.
I’d show up, nod, looking up, sit down on the side of the bench closest to them, and the trash can, take out a book or a pen and notebook. I enjoy this.
One day when I showed up four police officers were giving orders to my hobos, in their own hobo spot. It’s like the cops are in my neighbor’s house, conducting an illegal search or something. Some hobos were hanging their heads and not responding. One was in a quiet firm stand up with them. He kept that defending more pleading less defying stance in front of the cops when everyone else backed off, sorta behind him. He is standing up to them. They aren’t having it. Like a giant blue python, every time he breathes out his words they wrap tighter. I see the authority winning bit by bit from across the street.
I’m seeing this from where I get off the bus walking over to our community. I see the SS rounding up the scum taking them to concentration camps to clean up the streets. Those asshole officers harassing my people, putting cuffs on the one with spirit. I stop imagining my usual routine stopping at the bench, noticing my peeps. Not making sure the cardboard on the bench isn’t dirty, turning and sitting down on it, nearest to the life on the sidewalk. My mind marches straight up to the badged assholes.
Scenarios test themselves.
Couldn’t find anyone your own size to pick on today, officer?
So, you found a great place for him to live, then? Well, then, why doesn’t he want to go?
What the fuck is going on here? This is a free country isn’t it? Oh, wait. I’m wrong. It’s not a free country.
Absently comments: Wow, look at this. Cops harassing the poorest citizens. Hmmmhh Observes, intense and obtrusive, scribbles notes. Watches, scribbles notes.
Putting my late night loitering danger gear on, I remember: What cat calls?
That’s it.
Poor bastard cops. They don’t know any better. They are no better off than the street guys. So, I don’t hear what they are saying or acting like, anymore.
I walk up. My usual deference to the occupants as I’m entering their space as a guest.
Oh, I see you have other guests as well, today.
Other guests, hello. I stand there among them. A guest at a cocktail party, Mona Lisa-ing to other guests, being present on the inside , observing on the outside. I feel like a hobo, and a cop. I might have run the hobos off, or been run off by the cops, or just been right there.
Then, everyone without further anything, just headed off in different directions. The hobo went away in handcuffs, but it didn’t seem to feel serious to anyone anymore. I had a book that needed reading, in the empty silent space. Didn’t see anything going on, after that. But a feeling of loss lingered. No more hobos for me.
I’m not looking at the words I read.
This phantom street lifeless again, had a dull inevitable thud to it.
When I get off the bus on this lifeless street the next week, I scoured for my bus praying it would be there this time. Be there, so I can just keep on going. It wasn’t. Walking dazed, following my feet with my eyes, following the feet of the person in front of me heading in my direction, I don’t have to look up for myself. Looking down at the street just feels more comfortable right now. The differences, I’ve no interest in seeing what it has now become. Just thinking it will never be the same again or something. It’s changed, it’s not safe anymore. It’s uninhabited. So, I’m going to check if there is any gum on that bench before I sit, way the hell away from that trash can.
Then, I walk into a dream. All of my hobos are here, brighter than ever. I look up at them gazing longer than usual. I smile. They carry on. I don’t look for gum, or green spit wads. I cozy up on the far side of the bench so I can turn and face more in their direction, I’m not letting the cops sneak up on’em again, while I’m here.
Sat for a while wondering, got out a book to stay in character. I usually just space out thinking between bursts of reading, anyway. This time, no reading. Why are these people here anyway?
If I looked the part, someone would be shooing me off this bench, too.
Why them, not me?
Why am I here?
Why are they there?
Why not them here, and me there?
Shock hadn’t worn off. A daze prevailed over my mind. Why are there homeless people at all? Why not just not?
Why are we so stupid that we have homeless people? I imagine a world without homeless, just people.
It gave me the creeps.
No! no! We need homeless people, this overriding protest counteracted the creeps.
What the hell? Not having homeless gives me this horrid creeppies? I’m not understanding my own mind. Not that I usually do, but it’s still uncomfortable and still takes me by surprise every time, weird illogical shit starts saying itself, or more, feeling itself. I remember a feeling in an incomprehensible short story by Ursula K LeGuin, from last semester. It had given me these creeps too.
I’d written an essay on it that I didn’t understand myself, trying to understand why I was saying “Walking Away From Amelius” was just as creepy as staying in Amelius, were they tortured one person so everyone else could have a great life. Both are freaken creepy. For once, in an English class, the story meaning had eluded me. Suddenly, it’s relevant. Why still escapes me.
The homeless situation before me is not okay. There just never being homeless, that is not okay either. Not okay and not okay…So, my mind descended into madness. In this thick breathable liquid homeless are essential. There could be nothing, as we know it, without this position filled. Like baseball without a pitcher. No homeless, no game. And I love this world. Oh, holy crap. They love this world. They love it. Way more than I do. No one forced them to be homeless. It needed to be done. Someone had to do it. No one wanted to, really. So, he volunteered.
Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll go. Send me.
That one who had stood up to the cops. He was right there in my mind’s eye, reasoning with himself.
Okay someone has to clean out the sewers. I guess I could do it, since someone has got to. You guys will have a great sewer system. Enjoy your lives. I got your back.
Hey that is familiar. Oh shit. Okay, he hadn’t died for me. But this is even worse. Way, way worse, he is being a hobo for me. This guy is way more Christ than even Jesus.
No miracles, no followers, no hope, no lucky early heroic death, while knowingly obeying His Father with a purpose, while he is still handsome and has all his teeth.
This guy, hand volunteered for indefinite hopeless scorn without purpose. Just to keep the balance of things unbalanced. He did it so everyone could live. So I could live here, now, and sit on this bench wearing these heels, smiling in my makeup, snug in these fantastic fitting jeans, on my way to school, in just this world. This perfect world. This perfect Hobo world.
Oh my God. Holy shit. Magnificence strikes me. Tears whelmed up on the inside white rushing forcing through an irresistible desire, a need to bound toward him like an ecstatic puppy and bow down at his feet. To kiss his feet would be even better!
Lucky for me, I run scenarios:
I rush forward, overcome with worship, falling at his feet. Smelly dirty shoes not a part of anything I see or feel. The relief is instantaneous. Like a lover’s arms. I just need to be right here in this moment, worshiping my Hobo.
All the time, I’m staring ahead into space, semi seeing him standing there with his fellows, just being. I smile all over thanking Life for sending Him to serve me, and him for doing it willingly without asking anything in return. No guilt needed. Swaying a deep swerve into love with my life, all of it just as it is, a gracious gift from my hobo. My hobo is standing where he always stands. There on the sidewalk, the victim down cast look, defensive, roving eyes, he is shooting the shit in rags with his forlorn friends, the bottles in little brown paper sacks stashed more effectively today.
Then, my Hobo, without a word or a thought or change in his usual, walks to the curb. Without looking back, he steps onto a bus.
Books got more interesting.
Fault lined streets jutting tectonic plates after a quake, are old and droll again. Plunging in, jutting up, craggs of street twirling streaks of tar don’t dance to me like before. Weeds growing out the unruly wild sidewalk seams, depression, not mighty, mini jungles to me.
A few weeks ago they where a sign of life of loves stories, an oasis’ in the desert concrete. When I looked at them I knew: Life, worth it beautiful, no matter what. It all says nothing to me now. A week of street perfection ago, I had smiled a wave walking through these same sidewalk jungle weeds. Imagining my hand waving as I passed felt like an actual friendly salute to this magnificent life. For the sake of possible onlookers, or myself, or for both, my inner life does it, just like I do to human people but on the inside. Waving, and nodding as I passed these green people felt natural.
From the bus window, today, they are all strange, out-of-place, depression sprung up and taking over all the way from East to Downtown.
I vaguely miss something. Like missing a friend. Empty, an echo of a vague longing, about something familiar. Something. What?
The wait for the connecting bus at Sixth and Brazos is stupid. My connection bus goes by two minutes before this bus gets there. A daily near miss. It’s on the schedule that way. This is not well planned. Sometimes I catch the connection if it is a minute or two late, or mine is just that early. A few times the bus driver flashed those special lights to flag it down. A square moving continent stops just for me to get on.
The driver smiles waving me on enthusiastically. Go on!
I skip a smiling gait all the way across the street to the hissing door re-opening for me.
Some people are nice. That stranger in a bus driver uniform saved me that dreaded forty minute wait.
Sometimes though, I just know not to bother the driver’s day any more than it already is. I try for myself to catch it. Sometimes, the hope and the possible, and the being overlooked and passed up, is too much, and to much effort, so I’d just not think about it.
I feel like some of the drivers, like not bothering with my day by trapping that bus. If it it’s there, I’ll go for it, if not, I’ll date my books. That and homework time is the bus stop. I’m slow at assignments. Completing them takes up all my time. Trying to figure out math and how to cram my thinking into small tight structures that when I squash it in one side it pops out the other is brain damaging. I’m back in grade school which I never attended anyway, feeling pretty stupid doing math, structured assignments. I work it till I get it done, mostly. It takes up all my time, at school and at tutoring though. I need this bus stop time to read, and take notes-the easy parts.
The bus stop and Sixth and Brazos, is not inviting. The bench is empty. The trash can next to it is full. This stop is one of the ones that needs a pressure wash really bad. It’s been dirty since I’ve been taking these classes.
I always sit on the bench without casting around a disgusted look first. I walk up to it like it’s as safe and clean as my living room couch and plop daintily down getting comfortable, hoisting my back pack to my lap, I pull out the text-book without a second thought to the hobos standing around, right behind me.
I acknowledge them as a group, like a friend entering their parlor when I walk up. After that all homework. I’m an intense student. Usually, I talk to people wherever I am unless it’s finals or I’m lost in thought. Here, though, well, I’m gonna have to spend a lot of time. If I get friendly I won’t be free to choose what I want to do, after that. I’ll always have to say hi, then manners then small talk, not just nod and acknowledge, the way I do every day so far. They are chatty. They were carrying on the first time I walked up. I know, I need this time to study, or for myself, so I just don’t want to get into the swing with anyone. Therefore, not one word.
Summer school is almost over now. I’ve sat on this bench a few times a week this whole semester. The same people are here every day, like I’m here when I can’t catch that elusive non-connection.
People are passing, people come and go from the bus stop. Sometimes an old infirm woman or man will sit next to me. Mostly though, everyone stands away from the dirty smelly place-as far away as possible. Yeah, the place stinks like pee. Or the people do , I don’t know. It always just smells, beer and dirty and body odor.
They are all always right over there, so who knows. If I sit on something nasty and smelly, that would be better than treating the people who I’m gonna have my back to, like they stink or are dirty or the bench they sleep on at night has cuties. I must be able to relax to study. I figure they will have my back if I respect them. No faces about the smell. No scowling at the trash, or checking if the bench is clean enough for my royal butt to sit on. More than anyone, these people, I sense, need their dignity. I guess, I know how they feel.
I look up, at them, then sit down. The bus had been in sight and I ran for it. One of the bums had stepped up and hailed it for me. Drivers must be used to ignoring whatever drama is going on at my lively bus stop. Why would anyone driving a bus or otherwise think twice if a hobo runs after them shouting waving them to stop? He is insane, drunk, high, joking or dangerous, and stinks.
I felt sorry that he had exposed himself to that loss of dignity. He didn’t seem to notice. I looked a thank-you at him. He ignored me. They were always doing random things. Sometimes a hubbub, bantering, sudden laughter. A shriek of dainty mini-tag and arm bumping. Compared to the passers-by, all on their way to somewhere they have to be, their minds there already, their, bodies trying to catch up, these homeless folk with few teeth and ragged clothes held up with dirty rope, these people have a life. They feel alive, more real than the shadows floating by circling at an uncontaminated distance. A man on a phone rushes by but not to fast to watch his back on this side. People cross the street before they come to this corner if this is not their stop. Mostly, across the street phantoms are floating by, somewhere else.
The life is so different on this corner. At first I hadn’t noticed. This was like the corners in small towns and cities in Mexico, where people stop to talk and hang around. Oh, that’s called loitering. Oops. I remember the way I’d pass through the usual loitering men, on my way home from work, in the dim street lights late in the evening. I lift my body to my tallest-regal body language, look straight ahead, fearless, sweeping a gaze that catches everyone who looks for a second. Small nod. Mona Lisa smile. What cat calls?
I missed the life on the street. People just looking, noticing, talking, watching the slow crowds move conscious of each other. I had an unspoken missing of the cat calls, too, though I won’t admit that to, myself.
Don’t guys think I’m pretty anymore? I know, it’s this culture. The stupid disrespectful huddles of cat callers I so hated felt like thugs back then. But goddamn, even dolled-up the casual onlooker usually lets no response escape around here. Everyone just ignores you, or barely acknowledges you. Often they turn away on purpose. No one shows any open admiration even in the smallest glancing. When they do a double take, they re-write it like they didn’t. Sometimes it looked like it was almost just there, but not. Such relief riding the bus feels like now since when you smile, people smile back. They look again just enjoying. Not on the street though.
The hobos, there were about eight men and woman in all, they are aware and engaged with everything, in their little world, noticing the flow of everything around them. We don’t talk. But we are aware of each other and engaged. Cheerful snippets of conversation sometimes uproarious laughter ripples through the smell. Mini arguments, intense complaining, anecdotes. I noticed they tone it down when I show up and take a book out. After a while it made me smile. People. Life on this corner.
I’d show up, nod, looking up, sit down on the side of the bench closest to them, and the trash can, take out a book or a pen and notebook. I enjoy this.
One day when I showed up four police officers were giving orders to my hobos, in their own hobo spot. It’s like the cops are in my neighbor’s house, conducting an illegal search or something. Some hobos were hanging their heads and not responding. One was in a quiet firm stand up with them. He kept that defending more pleading less defying stance in front of the cops when everyone else backed off, sorta behind him. He is standing up to them. They aren’t having it. Like a giant blue python, every time he breathes out his words they wrap tighter. I see the authority winning bit by bit from across the street.
I’m seeing this from where I get off the bus walking over to our community. I see the SS rounding up the scum taking them to concentration camps to clean up the streets. Those asshole officers harassing my people, putting cuffs on the one with spirit. I stop imagining my usual routine stopping at the bench, noticing my peeps. Not making sure the cardboard on the bench isn’t dirty, turning and sitting down on it, nearest to the life on the sidewalk. My mind marches straight up to the badged assholes.
Scenarios test themselves.
Couldn’t find anyone your own size to pick on today, officer?
So, you found a great place for him to live, then? Well, then, why doesn’t he want to go?
What the fuck is going on here? This is a free country isn’t it? Oh, wait. I’m wrong. It’s not a free country.
Absently comments: Wow, look at this. Cops harassing the poorest citizens. Hmmmhh Observes, intense and obtrusive, scribbles notes. Watches, scribbles notes.
Putting my late night loitering danger gear on, I remember: What cat calls?
That’s it.
Poor bastard cops. They don’t know any better. They are no better off than the street guys. So, I don’t hear what they are saying or acting like, anymore.
I walk up. My usual deference to the occupants as I’m entering their space as a guest.
Oh, I see you have other guests as well, today.
Other guests, hello. I stand there among them. A guest at a cocktail party, Mona Lisa-ing to other guests, being present on the inside , observing on the outside. I feel like a hobo, and a cop. I might have run the hobos off, or been run off by the cops, or just been right there.
Then, everyone without further anything, just headed off in different directions. The hobo went away in handcuffs, but it didn’t seem to feel serious to anyone anymore. I had a book that needed reading, in the empty silent space. Didn’t see anything going on, after that. But a feeling of loss lingered. No more hobos for me.
I’m not looking at the words I read.
This phantom street lifeless again, had a dull inevitable thud to it.
When I get off the bus on this lifeless street the next week, I scoured for my bus praying it would be there this time. Be there, so I can just keep on going. It wasn’t. Walking dazed, following my feet with my eyes, following the feet of the person in front of me heading in my direction, I don’t have to look up for myself. Looking down at the street just feels more comfortable right now. The differences, I’ve no interest in seeing what it has now become. Just thinking it will never be the same again or something. It’s changed, it’s not safe anymore. It’s uninhabited. So, I’m going to check if there is any gum on that bench before I sit, way the hell away from that trash can.
Then, I walk into a dream. All of my hobos are here, brighter than ever. I look up at them gazing longer than usual. I smile. They carry on. I don’t look for gum, or green spit wads. I cozy up on the far side of the bench so I can turn and face more in their direction, I’m not letting the cops sneak up on’em again, while I’m here.
Sat for a while wondering, got out a book to stay in character. I usually just space out thinking between bursts of reading, anyway. This time, no reading. Why are these people here anyway?
If I looked the part, someone would be shooing me off this bench, too.
Why them, not me?
Why am I here?
Why are they there?
Why not them here, and me there?
Shock hadn’t worn off. A daze prevailed over my mind. Why are there homeless people at all? Why not just not?
Why are we so stupid that we have homeless people? I imagine a world without homeless, just people.
It gave me the creeps.
No! no! We need homeless people, this overriding protest counteracted the creeps.
What the hell? Not having homeless gives me this horrid creeppies? I’m not understanding my own mind. Not that I usually do, but it’s still uncomfortable and still takes me by surprise every time, weird illogical shit starts saying itself, or more, feeling itself. I remember a feeling in an incomprehensible short story by Ursula K LeGuin, from last semester. It had given me these creeps too.
I’d written an essay on it that I didn’t understand myself, trying to understand why I was saying “Walking Away From Amelius” was just as creepy as staying in Amelius, were they tortured one person so everyone else could have a great life. Both are freaken creepy. For once, in an English class, the story meaning had eluded me. Suddenly, it’s relevant. Why still escapes me.
The homeless situation before me is not okay. There just never being homeless, that is not okay either. Not okay and not okay…So, my mind descended into madness. In this thick breathable liquid homeless are essential. There could be nothing, as we know it, without this position filled. Like baseball without a pitcher. No homeless, no game. And I love this world. Oh, holy crap. They love this world. They love it. Way more than I do. No one forced them to be homeless. It needed to be done. Someone had to do it. No one wanted to, really. So, he volunteered.
Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll go. Send me.
That one who had stood up to the cops. He was right there in my mind’s eye, reasoning with himself.
Okay someone has to clean out the sewers. I guess I could do it, since someone has got to. You guys will have a great sewer system. Enjoy your lives. I got your back.
Hey that is familiar. Oh shit. Okay, he hadn’t died for me. But this is even worse. Way, way worse, he is being a hobo for me. This guy is way more Christ than even Jesus.
No miracles, no followers, no hope, no lucky early heroic death, while knowingly obeying His Father with a purpose, while he is still handsome and has all his teeth.
This guy, hand volunteered for indefinite hopeless scorn without purpose. Just to keep the balance of things unbalanced. He did it so everyone could live. So I could live here, now, and sit on this bench wearing these heels, smiling in my makeup, snug in these fantastic fitting jeans, on my way to school, in just this world. This perfect world. This perfect Hobo world.
Oh my God. Holy shit. Magnificence strikes me. Tears whelmed up on the inside white rushing forcing through an irresistible desire, a need to bound toward him like an ecstatic puppy and bow down at his feet. To kiss his feet would be even better!
Lucky for me, I run scenarios:
I rush forward, overcome with worship, falling at his feet. Smelly dirty shoes not a part of anything I see or feel. The relief is instantaneous. Like a lover’s arms. I just need to be right here in this moment, worshiping my Hobo.
All the time, I’m staring ahead into space, semi seeing him standing there with his fellows, just being. I smile all over thanking Life for sending Him to serve me, and him for doing it willingly without asking anything in return. No guilt needed. Swaying a deep swerve into love with my life, all of it just as it is, a gracious gift from my hobo. My hobo is standing where he always stands. There on the sidewalk, the victim down cast look, defensive, roving eyes, he is shooting the shit in rags with his forlorn friends, the bottles in little brown paper sacks stashed more effectively today.
Then, my Hobo, without a word or a thought or change in his usual, walks to the curb. Without looking back, he steps onto a bus.
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Mayan Calendar-Special Photo Challenge Inspiration
Hijackers Crawl
Behind
Walking Away
Yellow Seed Sunny
Bright Way
Now
Day
…
No Better Time To Follow
Special Photo Challenge Inspiration
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Killer Looks
Daggers
In the heart
Kill
The Anti-Christ
To free
The Christ beneath
Another way
To find Christ alive
That doesn’t work
I think
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Inspiration-Special Photo Challange
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Green-Weekly Photo Challange
Green Writer aka Noob
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Your SuperPower
It’s no longer:
“What if?”
Now it’s:
“What is it?”
That, and:
“When did you discover it?”
“How?”
“How have you developed it?”
“How does it make you feel?”
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New Currency
People are it
The reason
For this season
People make
To die for
To be great
People are the reason
People like you
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Strong Wind
In your eye
I am safe
Swirling around me
When I need you
Strong gentle Wind
The Wind I breath
Your eye
In me
Around me
I’m in your eye
My friend
My Wind
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Forclosure
Becouse the mom is flacky
Take the childs toys
The law is on your side
That is the truth
Whats the lie…
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Perspective
Joy
Seen
Known
Inciting wonder
Throbbing lust
Delighting
Nourished eyes
Fill heart and body-
Word naked
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Weekly Photo Challenge Renewal
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Quest Guide
The Christ is inside me
Why look around-
Were then, would
The Anti-Christ be?
Who returns first,
Again?
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Between Brothers
Dark vs Light
Brother vs Brother
Evil is to fight
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Falling
When I fell in love, it was his lips. The way he curled one side of his lip when he smiled drove me out of my mind. Falling in love. If you have you know. You won’t if you haven’t, and nothing can explain it to you.
It is the same story. If it’s not a smile it’s a look, a twinkle, a curve, a laugh, a way of looking, a something about, the feeling, that certain feeling, the way she makes you feel. We gladly go insane. No two fallings are alike. Yet, they are all the same. Somehow though we never tire of love stories.
I lived in mine, an altered state of reality where he could bend the laws of physics, and these laws only applied to my world with him. Even the impossible feels easy. The only hard part is being away from the beloved. It seems so clear that everyone should know and see that there is no man in the world as terrific as this guy. Everyone must be in love with him. The incredible mystery is that they are not.
Sometimes we fall in love collectively, too. We all fall in love with the same person. You feel it or you don’t. When you are lucky enough to adore an icon like everyone around you, it’s this crazy bonding riot. Communities are built around it. Everyone falls in love the same. It’s the same thing, for everyone who does, though not everyone does. It is a religious experience- which brings me to Religious Experience.
It’s the same story. If you have you know it. If you don’t know, there is no way to explain it. You crazy madly fall in love with a rescuer, a feeling, a twinkle, an answer, a question, a state, a worship, an idea, a song, the wind, a spirit a visitation, an experience, a state a transport, an exstacy. Sometimes it happens collectively. Communities are built around it. It drives you crazy with wonder and delight. The enigma is why everyone isn’t in love with this amazing God. Oh, and I forgot to mention- you can’t stop talking about it.
This experience is the same for every human being, everywere in the world, no matter what framework God is in, regardless of His name, His attributes or expectations. Like love, only the details, the stories, and the names vary. It is the same damn story.
Note: Falling in love with God, feeling and knowing without a doubt that He is loving you back, does not make you right about everything else in your value system, any more than falling in love with a person does.
P.S. Ditto on experiencing the miraculous. A miraculous experience may mean you got that part right, or that you are on you own right path in the moment. Yay for you!
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Devotion
Devotion is devotion worship is worship, prayer is prayer, meditation is meditatuon. Feeling nurtured and at peace, is feeling nurtured and at peace. While translating a devotional today, the delicious transport I felt is the same as when I was practicing. I don’t have to be a total believer to experiace God. Every kind of religious or spiritual practice that connects you, no matter which, feels the same. Its the same religios experience no matter what religion. It is not a matter of how we describe it. Even if it varies in intensity, and the detail is tailored and personalized the thing every religious experience in any religion has in common is we are all connecting to the same, same God Thing. The experience in a church, a tempe, a Mosque, a sacred grove are the same. The experience is the same for anyone who surrenders to any one.
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Compassion
Is currency
Light and dark at obsolete
Like war
Life of the Earth
It matters more
Both Light and Dark
Are in
Old struggles?
Humans win
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Eyes Can Blind Us
Eyes Can Blind Us
Sometimes our eyes can blind us and logic can be misleading. We have truly lived when we open our hearts to things beyond what we can ever see or understand.
♥ ♥ ♥
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About Mine
-Story Telling in 30 Seconds-
*Whistles*
I am my Beloved’s seat-belt.
Mother Teresa could do it. Steve Jobs could do it. I can do it.
Video from: notabob.blogspot.com
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Light and Dark, A Photograph
All I need to care for this facet of the world, in wonder.
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You are Mine, You Make Me Happy!
You make me very happy. Period. You are my purpose.
You are giving my life meaning. Fulfilling my happiness.
Never thought I’d say this. Now, I know how it feels.
You are my Reader. You are my Audience. You are my Sunshine!
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God Swirl
God Swirl
Different Gods inspired desired un-desired
Child, game avatar, friend, played, possessed-delight
Person, vast chasms, culture oceans, belief cliffs-mighty art
Long skirt mountain ridge whispers stone to her friend
Swooning open soft valley laughs her flowers back
Swirl together, please
Blend into a gooey gray uni-culture, never-ending plain?
explode color, clashing sky, land taken by sea
Intolerable un-the-same
World Life’s children-untamed un-fixed, unnamed
Playing harmony
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Skating Through Limbo
Skating wonderfies little girls. That has not changed. But everything else has. I mean the little things that matter most. Like falling down. Like the rules we play by. Like limbo. Like the way the world feels, it’s texture.
The world first became fluid today, the world did, while we celebrated the equinox. We ended up celebrating it by pretending it was like Christmas, and we were Santa Clause. The reason that works, I was explaining to the skating expedition party of four, eight to eleven-year-olds, is because elves are nature spirits. And the gifts are dilivered with the seasons, four times a year. Nature and or elves are making what we need, and want. They have been working all season to make gifts. At the turn of the season, we put out our lists to be be checked twice. We get what w ask for by aligning with the changing energy, and allowing it to move our life, too. That it only takes one person to align with nature, and put in the list of what is needed for life to get better. This is what happens at Christmas too, I’m making this up as I go, because, in the case of Christ, one man delivered a great gift all at once to the whole world. So, can anyone, is what dawns on me. Whatever it is that we want and need for our world, we just align, ask, surrender it, and then, in the moment, like midnight at Christmas, all the homes in all the world get unique gifts that are all still the same. Didn’t you guys wonder, I find myself asking their curious smiles, how Santa reaches every home at exactly the same time all around the world?
They look at eachother. The litle one shakes her head, two nod, and shift in their seats, and say I know huh…That is all done by people working with nature to deliver them, energy gifts, like salvation and that. Whatever the Santa person cares about, and wants to be delivered is delivered. In Christ’s case, it was something special. The ancients calculated the exact moment of the equinox, and solstice, to catch the wave, and shift the gifts on it. So, we can too.
And we did. After that, the world I ware is made of softer, finer brighter fabric.
The rink was different than other times. Youngest didn’t know how to skate, yet. As I held her hand taking her around the rink, it occurred to me that she was going to fall-allot.
Well Punkin, you need to fall five good times before you will be able to skate.
She eagerly said okay! all exited. she was eager to fall, to start counting!
Celebrating the falls was the most laughing fun.
No, that one wasn’t a good fall. It was just your knees. Do you think that counts for your over all total?
Nah.
I know right. Let’s get a really good fall in.
Laughing, every fall, she shouts out her number.
At five. Yay!
Now, every five falls after this, you just level up. You get better, and better, funner and funner.
She smiles with eagerness that doesn’t come from trying not to.
At the game of limbo, which she had never played. She thought it was a do-over video game.
She was never out. She didn’t quit. Weather she made it or not, she got back in line. She tried again.
The whistle blowing meant nothing to her. She kept playing, laughing, going under.
The best gifts have been delivered.
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Trending Email
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Are You of Weak Mind, American? Weekly Writing Challange Mail it In
I’m figureing you are.
I know I am. That, and when we are really young we are especially weak-minded. As a matter of fact, kids are all of weak mind. Yeah, all kids are, including them Arabs, and all the other ancestry in our collective genetic melting pot.
There isn’t enough title space to list all the “other” races, and identities, though.
Yet, in each world culture, somehow, every weak-minded kid ends up with one of these, pre-packaged “identities”. Pretty much, she just puts it on, and wears its. It’s a permanent, unchallenged fashion. It’s also exclusive, and often, mutually exclusive, unalterably tied to wherever, and whenever, this kid happens to be living. The kid becomes just like everyone else around her. How weak-minded is that?
Why not become more like people from some other place? Why the copycat, unoriginal becoming?
If you live in Texas, like I do, now, that makes the Dallas Cowboys strong. If you live in Austin, yes, Austin, Longhorns rule. If you live to far North though, your view gets skewed, so Texas A&M football may cloud your judgement. Or if you are born into the wrong kinda family, like a Texas A&M family, you are in trouble. That is some unfortunate karma. Sorry for you. We stay away from them, when we can, politely. We know who to support. So do our kids.
By the time an American girl grows up, just like the little Arab girl, she knows for sure what is good, and what is sucky, and why. So, do the Pigmies, and so do the Philistines.
I have kids. They are of weak mind.
Two live in Mexico with their dad. We haven’t been together since they were toddlers.
One lives with me. Her dad barely even knows her.
My two daughters, with daddy in Mexico, they think I’m scary. The one with me? Well, I’m her best mommy. Their weak little minds created these images. Yet, I’m me-the same person.
I never really grew out of my little weak mind, you know. Supposedly, I’m all grown up, and yet, when I get this email… I never do figure out how to mail anything in for this Weekly Writing Challenge…
…What was I doing again?
Whatever it was, weak-minded me, stops. I open this email.
Right on target, there is some comment in there, referring to me, personally, as weak-minded. How prophetic is that?
Weak minded.
See that scary looking guy, yeah, that word again, that guy, right there in that middle YouTube video picture. See him? He is the balding guy in that miniscule dark picture, right there at the bottom of this bad photo of my inbox.
That guy there referred to in this report as the “Mormon Manson”; That’s my dad.
His name is Ervil LeBaron. No one has anything good to say about him. Lot’s of people have lots, and lots of bad things to say, though. I was born when he was on trial for having my uncle killed. Then, it got worse. He died, some prefer, he was killed, in prison when I was seven. But, then, after he died, the situation he helped create, got much, much worse.
But, it’s been a really long time now, and, yet people don’t stop talking about him. Somehow, it’s still relevant.
I wonder why?
That, and what does a weak-minded kid, like me, usually feel about her daddy?
The usual: He is awesome!
These guys in these vids, they don’t think so, though. In general, their wicked perspective isn’t to far off the story.
Shane Smith of Vise, did a fine job of framing and, telling the stories, His rug, “it really ties the room together”. I appreciate that.
Since this is what I write about sometimes, and it’s so much more, than these short, somewhat deranged videos I figured I’ll share them with you. Anyway, who isn’t deranged? Besides, some spun tails about my family have been so damn much worse. This guy, at least, like Sanjiv Bhattacharya, in his book, Secrets and Wives, on Polygamy in general, has pretty decent perspective for so mysterious a subject as my wayward subculture, its ancient faith, and my good old family. It’s a sad story.
I haven’t seen that last vid yet. But, there it is. Now, I’m going somewhere that is not a coffee shop. My head phones are lost, and I really want to hear this.
Scary.
Part 1/7: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ef5YU6uaAH8&feature=player_embedded
Part 2/7 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fvm_98WTHYg&feature=watch_response
Part 3/7 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FzUUIY9g0wQ&feature=player_embedded
Part 4/7 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y5RRg3OvV1k&feature=g-all-u
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Ways Coffee
I smiled sideways, all day
Thinking of getting your letter
Smiled all day when I got it
And all the next day.
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Trusting
Reaching out
Entwining fingers
Invisible, all-visible
Life that is mine
Taken to dance
Beating a wild step
Waist under His hand
Twirled, swung, let go
In always still hurling
breathing in the breathless
Snatched up out of into eternity
Held, spun, dimples of twinkles
Celebrates, delighted in
Bursts into yellow bows
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Stylish Imitation Emily Dickenson
You gave me two Summers
I took the Fall
Lady Spring, and Lord Winter
Danced down the hall
Whitened stone sepulcher
Un-whiten, yellow, crumble
Resurrect in flowers
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War
Fun Perspective, diversity, how does this make me feel?
“War does not determine who is right – only who is left.”
Bertrand Russell
From Syrian Atheists
* * *
Aza’s Story
Bosnia, 1990s
(from ‘Escape from Bosnia’ as told to Sue McCauley)
“On 27 March 1992 I went home to Purtici…I was going to stay for the week, then return to Sarajevo as I had oral and written exams coming up. On the way home I stopped off at a mountain town where I had some close Serb friends, and went to have a coffee with them. One of them said to me, “Please don’t go into Zepa. There’s going to be war there.”
I thought he was joking. “Why should there be?”
“Can’t tell you that,” he said. “It’s not my fault, it’s not your fault, but there will definitely be fighting in Zepa, and very soon, so keep away from there. Leave Bosnia. If you don’t have…
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Meditate Create
Sparkling flowing river framed, is prayer
Riding a wild river bursting into sky, is a place prayer may take
If you have been down this river, like orgasm, you know it
Flowing mighty thank you, take you
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Nothing
There is this thing.
It’s this thing that happens. I wouldn’t say that it just happens. It doesn’t.
Yet, when it does, it feels sweet mysterious, suspiciously like magic-a flash of light, and a spell.
It’s nothing; like story.
It’s nothing; like feeling.
It’s nothing; like myth.
It’s nothing; like magic.
This nothing; it is a thing I like the most.
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Game In A Game
Instantly, without warning I’m taken up, and dropped into an alternate reality. Snap. All the rules are different.
Time is ticking. It’s The Maze. At first I don’t realize. The faster I escape this maze, the bigger the reward I’ll get. The first time the random event swept my Runsecape character into it, I did a double take. One second a friendly player I just met and I were strolling our way to Dryner Village. The next second, I was lost. I didn’t know how to communicate back to my friend to say thanks and goodbye. I definitely didn’t know how to get out, or if the computer had gone mad, and loaded some random game. I’m lost in there for fifteen minutes, long past any reward. It was so much worse than the puzzle random events. Nothing redeemed me. Tears of frustration, dread of being whisked back there at any time, and sometimes a heroic, nephew rescue. finally, I got a pad and pen to keep track of the order of the clues. And with that a systematic quick get away. It started getting easier.
Game life got better. Life got better. No more stuck for 24 hours in the maze. Learning to use the chat features to tell my friends that I had been kidnapped by a random event helped. But, sometimes I was gone when I needed to be somewhere, or left people waiting. Sometimes, they left me waiting.
After playing a few days, you’re on the same page with other players. The good feeling of being in the know, where everything is under control, makes it okay to suddenly disappear from the main game. Then, just as suddenly, to reappear in a mini-game, and stay there till you solve the puzzle or escape the maze. It get exciting, then feels normal. Though the game never gave you a choice.
Later you discover fascinating by choice mini games with rich rewards. The rewards entice you to leave the World of Runescape to play in a game in another dimension of Runescape where the object, and, all the rules are different. When you win, you get super cool stuff, envied by those not brave enough to venture into the inner-game.
When you choose to play a game within a game, and leave reality, or you are randomly swept away to an event in that other dimension of Runescape, no one calls you demented. Dimension travel is not dementia. It is not medicated, institutionalized, curable, or non curable. No one figures you lost touch with reality, or you got manic. No one doubts your sanity. It is not a pink elephant.
It seems like The World is like the world of Runescape. Except that people never get used to random events. No one is supposed to acknowledge that anyone else is choosing to play an extreme mini-game, and will be out of the main game for a while.
In this world we pretend that there is only one game, one set of rules, one God, one reality.
Only one is true.
The Truth.
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Weekly Photo Challange, Free Spirit
Writing Shoes
A writing game
Everything for a level
Other levels- intangible.
The tools, invisible.
Living quest
Playing for story
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Which Cricket?
My game-bound conscience is out of it’s mind. It always has been. Does it have a mind? What is a conscience, and when did we start to have one?
It might be a dictator. It may be a cricket. It may be both, and more, and less.
Our celebrated American freedom is about the protected privilege of acting according to the dictates of your own conscience. Or is it the freedom is about acting according to the dictates of your own cricket?
This cricket, she or he seems to chirp a different for everybody. For some folks the cricket, is a feeling or a knowing. For others, intuition, the voice of god or an angel, a voice inside. Often, the voice is a still small voice, yet, sometimes it shouts, echoing in inner space. For others or at other times, it’s an urge, or a heart flutter, a warning, boring guilt, anticipation of guilt, red flags, or the sharpness of the edge. It could be regret. What kind of cricket is this?
I don’t implicitly trust this Cricket Dictator anymore.
Let your conscience be your guide? I don’t think so.
Did this guy tell our beloved forefathers that the unfenced land in the new world was already taken? No, it dictated manifest destiny. Did it warn the pious praying Jews to flee Hitler, or holy Christian Germans, and the rest of the consenting world, that a holocaust was definitely a bad idea? Or were we all just not listening?
It’s hard to imagine a whole nation, that can’t figure out the difference between right and wrong, until you remember our own conscience didn’t cover slavery back in the day.
Now it does. Did our conscience need an upgrade?
The conscience cricket seems more like an -antivirus. An antivirus only covers known viruses, after it’s been programed to. It won’t help you out against being a holocauster, or owning slaves, or chopping down sacred trees, until it’s programmed to protect you from committing these violations.
For example, if you were an evangelizer, and you pass up an opportunity to save a soul, and you know that soul will go to hell, your conscience will itch, just as if you had cheated. But if you were a shop keeper some tourist towns in Mexico, or doing buyers beware business, under some law, making out on a good cheat feels rewarding. Cheating is the thing to do, a way of life. The cricket has nothing to say about that.
Or did your conscience give up?
More likely, a conscience is a consciousness, of the rules you are playing by.
Every creation myth seems to come with completely different rules. There are lots of different ones in our world.
What game are you playing in your life?
What are the rules?
That is your conscience. That is your consciousness.
What do you think we are racking up Carma over, and yet totally innocent about?
Wonder.
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The Other White Man
Hey there, God, whatever you are. Hi!
How are You?
What’s up?
How are you feeling today?
What’s going on over there?
What’s on Your mind?
I see.
I can talk to You. You can’t talk back. Why is that? Is it really so? What’s wrong with this picture? Makes me wonder.
What’s it like to be talked with, talked to, and talked about, yet to not participate in the conversation? Are You not free?
Why do I like You? What if You did talk back?
If You blog, what space, where?
Is inspiration Your tweet?
Surprise me with a message in the field!
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Wolf Eyes
Wolfe tenderly glared me in the eye, willing me, not quite begging, me to understand. You care more about things, and ideas, than you do about people.
I care more about what than what? Your saying I don’t care about people? You make no sense at all, is what I’m feeling.
Piercing him back with my eye, I brush the whole thing off. I know he knows what he’s talking about. Yet, he is off.
Had I seen even the faintest glimmer of what he was talking about, my feelings would have curled into a ball, and whimpered.
It was obvious. I know I care about people. That was that.
Till now.
With temperamental love a fit all over my life, pretty much like my relationship with writing does when I get other busy, I know something big is off. What? Blame my partner, sumptuously tempting… Ha ha, that’s the dumbest thing I want to do. Writing is demanding, and temperamental, let me blame it when things get crappy there.
Just to get it out there, so I won’t be talking behind your back. Writing, you are a lot of hard work, and a big pain, and sometimes you suck.
Writing, sometimes it’s fire, it blazes; warming, consuming, cooking, destroying, out of control, doused, gone out. Sometimes It’s ice.
Often, I’m failing at it. Times of manic writing, erratic slumps, sickly, bloated to please, smelly, writing; treacherous unfinished stories; lagging, droopy perspective unwinding itself, liquid acid dripping, dead weight sprawling on the page.
It’s a tricky thing, writing is, like any worthwhile relationship.
Yet, committing to it, a marriage made in Nirvana-imperfections and all. I always, pretty much, show “Writing” my love, and devotion.
Writing is an idea, written work, a thing.
People, yes I do love “people” and I show it. No need to go into all that.
Yet, for love of the forest, I missed the tree. The one tree that is mine.
It’s not “people” I don’t love. It’s person. I don’t show I love the person. A Person.
I’ve been more into being loved. I thought I’d committed, but commitment isn’t words, it’s showing up, and showing.
How the heck do I show, and do more than I’m doing, and still be myself?
No answer.
At the edge of the end, the obvious, a wash of cold water, with ice, smacks me in the face. I have been asking the wrong question. It’s not, How can I be happy?
How can I make him happy?, is the way. This focus swap changed everything.
Just asking the question to myself, felt like turning around, and heading off in a different direction, on a strange road, to somewhere else.
How can I make him happy, while at the same time being happy myself?
Making him happy is, pardon the cliché, a labor of love. Labor, as in, hard ass sweaty, please can this be over, work. It’s just like writing.
I’m loving it the whole time, except when I hate it.
Smiling.
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Wispering
Wolf told me so, but I didn’t understand what he meant, even enough to believe him.
You wouldn’t know what love is if it were painted red in front of you!
That’s the way it was put in The Trading Post Girl, a story I loved. I’m the same little girl delighted by this story, while the whole time I’m saying to myself, unlike her, I do know what love is…
But it’s not working,-love isn’t.
Wolf explained to me, You show someone you love them.
Tried that, it just felt like trying. My inner Yoda had allot to say about that, whole trying thing, too. He just repeated the same thing allot of times.
How the hell do you show a man you love him?
Guys don’t like flowers. I’m going down the list. Ways to show, Ways to be, ways to behave, ways to look. It feels hollow. My heart is getting hollow. So is his.
I guess it’s all the romance novels, not including The Trading Post Girl, of course, narratives of a woman being loved, adored and, well, romanced that had me imagining happily ever after was a state of being. It’s not.
To a man a romance novel must read like a honey-do list. Impossible, therefore uninteresting.
The guy, in one of these novels, he just does things just right, every time, for his beloved heroine. When he makes a mistake, he realizes he is wrong, and rectifies. Then, he does everything right all the time after that. Then, once she is convinced by his unimaginable feats, and risks that she is really loved, they live happily ever after.
Happily ever after?
What the hell is that?
Wolf said the same thing, about that, just in different words; “I don’t think you are ready for an every day man.”
That is what happily ever after is- Every Day.
Every Day does not read like a romance novel. So, pretty much, I’m not ready for Happily Ever After.
Which sucks, because I like the romance in the novels and happily ever after is where I wanted to go. But, I’m doomed.
Then, after overcoming shock and horror, and with humble acceptance of my loosership, I got to figureing; relationship, it’s like writing.
So, I love to write. Actually, I need to write. So, I start a journal. Then, blogging sometimes works good. I’m enjoying just writing whenever I feel like it. I love to write!
I’m liking it so much I get serious. I think I’ll make a career of this. That is when the romance novel ended.
Boy was that a marriage!
Then, there it comes, right were the happily ever after is supposed to be, heartache, and heard work.
It’s a beast, writers block, making a living, the horror, and tedious headache of editing, that and a million loose ends. Then there are the times something needs to be written, but refuses. When inspiration does not knock. Sleepless nights of doubt, fear of rejection, then actual rejection…
Where is the happily ever after?
When is the happily ever after?
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Secret Identity
Don’t you just want to smile, sometimes, and allow someone to be your hero?
I do. You know, let someone else be challenged where they are great.
I’ll be the hero where I am.
I’m guessing, the more heroes in action in the world, the more my greatest visions of a wonder world are happening. You know, every person has a different power, so no one has to do everything, and get it right. No one group has all the powers, and is able to do everything best. Apple is the exception, of course.
Not even the mythical powers that be have got it all, they just have the powers that be, not the powers that are to be, nor the inner power in every person. That’s allot of power not to have, when it’s rumored you got it all.
What about the power of fate, belief, need, desire, and entrepreneurship, and well, to cliché it, love?
I’m sure the Powers That Be sucked all these up, too.
By the powers that be, I mean whatever it is that I imagine, has got power over me; death, taxes, and the devil, or fate, circumstance, lack of opportunity and all that race, gender and luck related craziness, and institutions.
What about my own powers; perhaps my own superpower?
For me, the knowing I have a power is the easy part. Believing in myself, and trusting my choices, that is the wicked part. You know, delusions of grandeur and all that.
Thinking I am especially gifted, mystical in some unprovable way is like pointing out a pink elephant in polite company. It’s signing up to be stereotyped, getting those slanted, unbearable, sanity questioning looks then flying headlong out of a cozy community. Yep, super fun that one.
I would be complaining, but I am my own polite company. I give myself the looks, and ostracize myself. My shoulder is ice. Then, I accuse myself of delusions of grandeur, and who do I think I am?
Who am I to have a spidy-sence which I can act on by non-action, and the stillness of asking? Who am I to always get an answer, and get results?
So, delusions are on my mind. What is it that triggers the idea of delusions of grandeur?
What is the difference between offering a viable, mystical, unimaginable, super-gift, with epic healing or whatever, effects, and being stuck in a place of, I’m so great, or in thoughts of I’m so powerful?
It’s becomes clear when I ask myself the right questions.
If I were a superhero, and could really make a difference, what would that difference be, as in, who is affected?
Something is helped, a person, a group, a community. So, let’s say I help, using my unique powers, and willingness to do it, and this action makes the world is a better place. So, this makes me a hero.
Why?
If being a hero means doing something good, helping someone in need for example, or making something better for people or a person or animal, or a place, then it is important because the person is important.
No person in need, no hero. No person with a problem, no hero. No powers, super or otherwise, needed. To be a hero, someone has to need, and not be able to do for themselves. That need becomes important only because a person is important.
So, the greatness of a superhero is derived from the intrinsic value of a person. You are a hero becouse of the value of a person helped. A person, any person is so valuable and intrinsically worthy of rescue and care, that if you have a superpower or any power and help the helpless with it, it makes you a hero.
You can be a hero by the rescued person recognizing that you recognized their value, and acted on it. A person sees you for the powerful person you are, and believes in you. The “powerless” endow you with power.
That still came from the person, or as it’s said, the people. You a the hero to whomever sees your action and believes in you and requests or allows you to serve them. So, the heroness is endowed from the helpless. Then it is strengthened by anyone who recognizes your abilities. abilities that would mean nothing, if no one needed them or recognized them. So, heroness still originates form the power of those whom it serves.
Heroness exists because of, and to serve man’s right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. The quality of hero, is of the people, for the people, and by the people. It’s a gift that derives its power, and it’s meaning from the people it serves.
Delusions of grandeur are about truly having a gift, some healing power to serve, and not recognizing it is only good in service.
It’s only good because people matter.
by not recognizing my own intrinsic, innate, person value, then figuring I need to suck it out of my great gifts then reapply it to myself is the process of manic aggrandizement.
People matter most.
When I look around, I can’t tell.
Now I look at the way I have been treating those closest to me. I have forgotten that motherhood is derived from the preciousness of the child.
So, now I chose to remember. And I’m choosing to remember that I am the precious child of my community, of my government and the powers that be.
It seems like our ideas of “public service” have been manic, depressive, and delusional.
So, what can we expect from our institutions?
Hitherto, I’ve expected just what we have all been experiencing, together, children and grown ups alike.
Now, I figure, that I am the meaning. I’m the reason, and the purpose of my community and my civilization. I am the power, and the purpose of my government. Everyone works for me.
Everyone works for you
And those of you waiting for an invitation to use your superpowers to leverage out clean free energy, to de-glitch the economy, wrangle world peace, heal the sick, feed the hungry, beautify and sanctify, and create heaven on earth for me I’m offering you some of my power for our purpose.
I am in service, too.
Thanks all my superheros!
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Nature of the Question
Phenomena doesn’t seem to need explanation, so much as imagination, and un-begged questions.
It isn’t so much the danger pink of the elephant that is scary. The creepy part is being the only one to acknowledge it, and to feel alone, like the only one who wonders of it, and then, sometimes wondering about yourself.
Then, it matters if any un-questioners wonder. Life begs the mystery, the unimaginable, the unthinkable to be expected. It just seems so, or why else would we, as a race, be so fascinated with the unexplainable, the magic, the light, and the dark, even if we allow fiction to be its main explorer.
Perhaps it’s all the enigmatic nature of the game of Nature.
Mystery keeps things fun.
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Wandering
A need, wanting, takes the fun out of adventure for it’s own sake. At the same time, it adds purpose, creates relevance, meaning, and a story. The height of the stakes, just how bad something is wanted, how deep the loss if it were lost or never found, make matters matter.
What is it like, how does it feel, to wander on purpose?
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Winds of Change by Jessica LeBaron
Flipping over that impossible, towering, seven-foot gate just happened. I was leaping up with all the force of my running leap, grabbing the pipe at the top and, flying over feet first before any thought or reason. It was the only way to catch up to Jared, my brother. He was going to outrun me to show me that he was not meant to do house work and I was.
If I climbed over that gate he was clambering up leg over leg the way he was, he would be out of the yard, around the corner, and out of sight snickering, or silent. But, he would have got away with not admitting to unfairness.
If he got away, I’d have lost the element of surprise. So, next time I brought it up he would be prepared and I’d be made ridiculous.
Just because the grownups make only girls do the housework, while you boys don’t have to do anything, doesn’t mean its right. You can pick up a broom sometimes, too.
Well?
I don’t have to talk about this. No grownups are asking me to clean the house, and cook, and stuff.
I know they aren’t but they should. You get to explore all day, going on adventures, while I can’t do anything till all the food, and dishes, and floors are done, which means almost never. You could think about helping. Maybe, just do one job. Maybe sweep the porch.
I don’t have to. And, if I did, what would stop me from ending up with more, and more chores?
You mean like me?
Yeah, like you.
No, you don’t have to, but it would be fair.
I don’t want to talk about it, and you can’t make me.
Off he trotted.
Come back, this is important.
You’d have to catch me.
Now that was impossible. He could evade five or six fast kids bigger than him.
Being laughed at when I failed to even get close to catching him was almost as bad as doing all the housework, all the time.
Then, I just found myself chasing him in slow motion as fast as I could pound my feet forward. I was falling further and further behind as we approached the gate at the end of the long courtyard. He had plenty of time to climb it before I could even grab his leg.
He had to agree to sweep the front porch. So, then, Josh and Danny would fallow into doing one job each, as well. That would begin the long road to fairness.
When I landed next to him at the other side of the gate, he didn’t bother to squirm away or run. His eyes wore shock.
How did you do that?
Same way I’m gonna get you guys to help, was the unspoken truth.
Nothing came out.
The boys volunteered to do the sweeping that week. Dishes were still to much to ask.
Fairness, the need for fairness, flew me over that gate that day.
What propels flight now?
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Wondering
What incredible, crazy super-gift does every singele person I ever encounter secretly possess?
If you had a superpower, if your natural gifts, and passion were boosted into the range of the miraculous, how would you have fun?
What do you need to begin to really offer your gifts? What inspires you, and what ignites your super-passion?
What do I do in every encounter with any one stranger or not, to bring out their super?
What world will I live in when every person is being their own sweet superhuman?
This is the world I want to live in. You create it for me. So, how can I help you do it?
I’m experimenting on myself.
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World in My Pocket
Manic depression is an unrecognized healing gift.
She just said it. Dr. Renee Hilmer, my body talking chiropractor lightly tossed into our few minutes of chatting while she adjusted my feet to end at the same length. She was telling me how my body was compensating for an injury I didn’t know I had by bending itself out of shape, to keep my head on straight.
yeah, your body talks to me. She didn’t mean it that way. She meant that in her body she felt what my body was up to, so she know where to focus and how to talk my body into healing. Or something like that. That wasn’t exactly what she said. I couldn’t focus.
Healing gift. Manic. Crazy. Depression. Healing gift?
My spidy-sense sparkled, then, instantly fizzed with a bucked of ice water with ice cubes, so sparkles wouldn’t catch anything on manic fire.
Manic depression, it scares me.
Admitting that I think I may just posibly have a healing gift, is invisible, pink with a trunk and big ears, but it’s more likely manic depression. Don’t manics always think they are special?
And who am I to be special anyway?
That’s why superheros wear masks, I think. We are socialized to not recognize, or expect the truth about those who recognize big service magic in themselves. And if they do, it’s often, used to play up, ridiculed, or out of control.
Discovering and properly coaching, using a super power is as much a life long vocation, task and, a learning curve as honing any innate innate recognized skill. It’s just genius in a niche. It may take time, and maturity to practice and apply. Or may be sudden strokes. It could be hunches, intuition in anything about anything, on any subject. Sometimes we have to work at it and get it wrong. Like making a basket. Mistakes will be made. There will be gains, and losses. Yet, there is a day worth saving.
One of the reasons super hero’s don’t discover their powers is well believing in the imposable, and the unproven, the unsubstantiated is so hard. I have really big reasons why not to be super. Everyone does.
Like what others will think or believe, or not believe.
No matter what special incredible gift a I have, it seems pretty normal to me. And so it is with most everyone gifted in spiritual, or unscientific or mystical or any gift not measured by a test and, that already has a top school or program ready to snap you up and connect you to the machine, math music sports buisness.
Once a person does something big, and measurable with the gift, and gets great renown, then we believe it is a gift and start looking for it.
Who is the next Steve Jobs?
No one was looking for anyone to do what he did before he did it?
So, wonder.
By my wondering, the unimaginable gifts that would turn our world into an even more wonderful place are all locked up. Inside me. Inside you. In our insane asylums, in our prisons.
Rather than suffer year after year of drought in our land, why not wonder what a rain dancer could do for us and nature and the environment? And where is this person. Hey, rain maker. Hurry and get a hunch. Get this message in the field. Get an inspiration, a request, a desire, a dream, a thought, a feeling, or god speaking to you. Whatever works for you, whoever you are, we need help. Much appreciated. Thanks
Wonder, where is the hero, super or otherwise, born just to save the world from __________ ?
I wonder what people or group are making my life sweeter, and in which ways! Hey guys, wherever you are. Can’t wait to find out!
And just wait till you feel the terrific improvements I got coming your way.
I wonder what happened to the hero who’s life purpose was to make sure income tax laws where never passed.
You know all those apocalyptic scenes?
Anything in our world that sucks is post apocalyptic. The world were that particular thing existed to make it wonderfu, or didn’t exists to make it wonderful, well, Some Ida Tarbell gave up. Every service in our world would already be a monopoly if she had given up, and no anti trust laws had been passed.
What worlds are you helping to create, or destroying by not believing?
The chosen one? There is a chosen one for every tiny unimaginable detail wonder that could exist.
You are a chosen one.
Everywhere you look a chosen one.
So, when I have a problem with the way things are, like mosquitoes, I wonder. Whose passion, and adventure is it to recreate this world mosquitoeless?
Whoever you are out there, crazy person, I believe in you, and hurry up.
When my crazy ideas or spidy-scence tingle, a call to unimaginable service, now I allow it to call my spirit forth to serve. But, I keep it to my inner circle, and hold the world in my pocket, till my job is done for that day.
Trust me, you have been in my pocket.
I keep my super hero work quiet, and, private. I even secrets from myself, sometimes.
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Opi
He was my second. Two since then, but he was special. Lightning flashed with internal thunder the first time he laid eyes on me. That first look wrapped a halter around my soul and dragged my heart along. It didn’t beat fast in that familiar way. It didn’t skip a beat. It sucked in the universe. Then exhaled s fresh universe where I am captivated by this one whom I had already loved with all may heart, anyway.
I’d waited four weeks for him to open those eyes. I’d been waiting, but that was not why my soul was drawn up by him. Like I said, I know, everyone knows what cute little babies look like. I’d loved quite a few little darlings myself, from the day I met them at the hospital or the day they were brought home by their mommies. I’d had a baby before.
Yes, my first-born, she had lifted herself onto her hands all wabbly and turned her head to look across at me from under the jaundice lights where the nurse had insisted on putting her right away. I’d had to command he to, and she relented and had rolled the bright light table with my baby on it,right up next to me. Then left.As I talked and cooed to this strange new creäture, she did a bouncy wabble head turn from side to side, inspected the room, then inspected me. When she had looked at me in that magical post childbirth bonding window moment, I got the message inscribed in the field there for the parents to absorb. I just knew, like I knew she was mine. I hadn’t let her out of my sight since she came out, and her mouth was unmistakable. No babies mouth had ever taken up half it’s face when it cried like hers did. All babies of same basic race basically look the same, but not her. Her mouth when she screamed opened pretty much twice the usual size. And the message had sunk in right there after she had latched, or grabbed on the first time and herself a nibble, then got the usual inspection right there in front of me, and had looked over at me from that table. I just absolutely and suddenly know it. No doubt. I know like I’d always known that she was , the smartest child ever born since the dawn of creation. The dawn of creation thing, because the whole history of creation evolution, more creation, and more evolution and millions of choices, and all that time, so much time and change played like when your life flashes before your eyes. Her historical origin of life flashed right before my eyes like obvious evidence. Like I’d seen all the work put into creating this unique recipe of intelligence, just so, and just right for something and, never before made. Guess I could say custom latest model, but more mysterious, and magnificent and fleeting. Like a sudden flashy thingy. Back then, I didn’t even believe in evolution. I guess I started believing in that moment, but didn’t have words for it.
She read and understood the weather cycles at three. Found ways to skip school in kinder, mad with boredom. Then all teachers at the elementary school she attended in Mexico put together a gifted students program to keep her out the endless mischief she wrought while the rest of the classes where still finishing their work. She gave them no rest, so they got her half way through middle school, and she got tired of five years in a row being the top five in her grade in Monterrey, and having to go on the same school trip to the same theme park. And we didn’t take her to shake the president’s hand. That is all pretty normal stuff.
This was different.
He looked at me. He really looked at me. He opened his preeme eyes for the first time, he looked straight at me and really saw me. If he had winked, I wouldn’t have been more surprised.
I got you mom. Remember?
The bright light was on the inside, and gone leaving me reeling in the rapture of love.
Oh my little baby, my open eyes one. Open Eyes. Open Ojos. Opi Okos!
Afterwords, throat breaking jaw wrenching howls, convulsed my body knocking my breath loose. while my hands ,blind, pressed down to hold the ruptured bits of, the exploding stone that filled up my chest sledgehammered to pieces in one smash. Flying shreds of fragmented rock bursting cutting scratching, the dust choking. I can’t breathe. My arms went limp, and ached for weeks, like a headache in my arms that needed to hold him. Imagining that I held him didn’t take the ache away.
Laying right next to me so innocent, so sweet, were I could rouse myself to feed him every two hours, for fast weight gain, that week, but he had up and died.
As I figure it, he done it on purpose.
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Social Nature
August in Elgin needs a breeze. She need the cloud wrestling fall breeze to trot by, sweeping leaves, and spirits up. Fall Breeze, however, is not due till the end of September. Her soft puffs have nothing to do with this. This smashed stillness after Sun pounds the land into vessels of radiant heat slow released in tepid puddle nights. Still Heat and Cool Breeze don’t even talk. They passed each other on opposite errands in set weather patters.
This time of sweltering year Rain Storm is on vacation. A schoolteacher, she is completely unnatural in July or August.
This year is a fairy tale. They must have friended, and liked each other on Facebook. Then the birds got involved. Suddenly, this year, it rained two weeks in July and August. Almost very evening, too, one or other of the Wind sisters clad in wisps of cloud, or wrapped in thunder heads, sneaks in for a girl’s night out with one or the other of the Natural Phenomena. They dance ancestor princess dances like the sea is near by, only without the humidity.
Mother Nature is catching on.
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Twisted Mystic
the dream felt like me. to feel like me feels good, and bad. the part about being a young girl looking down out a window onto a narrow street feeling drawn to the people and, the flow of life. the girl ends up in a mafia family working as a family member, then, not able to do what she is told to do, then, stealing away into the back seat of a car witch then suddenly takes off. we end up driving up and witnessing a fight, that escalates till one person kills another, then open fires at the only witnesses in the nearby car. I’m describing being shot at, to my partner, back under the covers after he woke up and he told me his dream. His dream was three images.
In the middle of my reaching into my memory to grab a detail of the feeling of being in the back seat of a car, with a suddenly mine baby, and how it had looked like just a drunk and the night watch, then the fight escalated to two bad asses and the drunk turned hit man, shoots the place up, while I’m in the back and the driver, he is the mafia guys driver, doesn’t drive off or let me out or help till the victor is shooting at us…
before I get there, the part about ducking, then suddenly remembering to reach back up for the baby, the man next to me in bed, who I’m telling my dream to, asks me were I put the grocery shopping list.
the end of the dream stuck in at least six places. stack of bad memories, stack of grudges, stack of hurt feelings, stuck in throat, beginning to squeeze out eyes, and just a drop of it in a tiny place of reason, there are more spots, but not logging.
bad timing to break down and tell him he is being an inconsiderate listener, but, I do. he doesn’t even know what i’m talking about. not the best timing, or treating a man.
the day, ruined for both of us in most of the sparkle eye aspects. my sparkle went and extinguished his on the way out. we mope. what is it we love about each other? what is it that i needed? what have i loved in my life? why have i loved?
oh, i feel love when you are interested me.
revelation.
so does he, and everyone else.
revelation.
waywardspirit 
