Saturday, June 25, 2011
questioning
what does it look like inside the womb? do unborn children see waves? pulsations of energy? vibrations of heart beats? a continual flowering of sensation? can you re-connect to your inside, inside self? what did i know? the further along you get the less you seem to remember; all information is trumped by present knowledge. can you connect to your past self? what about to other times? if energy is not lost but only transferred, where was i? where did i go? headlong into the fog, i'm driving into the white heart of the moon.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
short morning journal
[trying to get back on track again. it's difficult. finish one project and it's hammock time]
i've been having vivid dreams lately. you are in them. most time it's positive, but this time you were far, far, far away on a little ship stuck in a bottle.
i dreamt my mother was sick. we lived next to the sea. glass bottles kept rolling up on shore, hundreds of them, like fishes left when a tsunami sucks in it's gut. there were local villagers, micronesians perhaps, and they were collecting the bottles to sell. maybe they sold them to people like me so i could stick your little vessel in there, your three proud white sails like youth and admiration i'd like to preserve. but you were gone from the dream by this point, only the faintest illusion of you through the shine of newly polished sea glass could be glimpsed.
meanwhile my mother got sicker. or at least who i thought was my mother though the physical likeness was nothing at all like my mother but was, in fact, helena bonham carter. it was more of a macabre masquerade than a real life tragedy. i spent most of the dream running around crying hysterically. i wasn't necessarily sad as it was helena bonham carter i was crying over, however, the pain for such forceful crying seemed very real. my throat was sore and my eyes stung.
you never appeared again.
i've been having vivid dreams lately. you are in them. most time it's positive, but this time you were far, far, far away on a little ship stuck in a bottle.
i dreamt my mother was sick. we lived next to the sea. glass bottles kept rolling up on shore, hundreds of them, like fishes left when a tsunami sucks in it's gut. there were local villagers, micronesians perhaps, and they were collecting the bottles to sell. maybe they sold them to people like me so i could stick your little vessel in there, your three proud white sails like youth and admiration i'd like to preserve. but you were gone from the dream by this point, only the faintest illusion of you through the shine of newly polished sea glass could be glimpsed.
meanwhile my mother got sicker. or at least who i thought was my mother though the physical likeness was nothing at all like my mother but was, in fact, helena bonham carter. it was more of a macabre masquerade than a real life tragedy. i spent most of the dream running around crying hysterically. i wasn't necessarily sad as it was helena bonham carter i was crying over, however, the pain for such forceful crying seemed very real. my throat was sore and my eyes stung.
you never appeared again.
Monday, June 20, 2011
those lost hours
do you remember the used book stores? remember how we'd get lost in the musty stacks, dream ourselves one of the great ones, imagine knowing all? remember? hours of sunlight burning with want outside but the two of us burrowed in yellowing leaves like squirrels in fall, building a castle of words for warmth. remember feeling nothing less than love and poetry, love and poetry, poetry and love? sneaking up behind one another to extend boundless beautiful volumes, tireless titillating titles, perfect pearls in a sea of indescribable treasures. remember when you looked at me and saw a sea of indescribable treasure, pearls trembling at my lips, your fingers lightly pressed against my novel self, careful to study, careful to sturdy things?
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
lunch break lightness
nestled into the flank of a plump pu'u like a little one in mother's downy feathers, i hatch. this place has given me a feeling of easiness, lightness, simpleness. if ever i were grass it would be now. wind rushing across my body and me reveling in the pressure so unpredictable but safe. the sun warming my blood as easy as a porch swing on cool rivets as easy as a dearly beloved maple leaf flowing down a tranquil and trusted stream, a perfect state of homeostasis. i photosynthesize. easy. light. simple.
i adjust my legs which are, themselves, blades of grass. there is no tangible root here, only the sense of complete comfort, an ease of just being without trying to be. the root is perhaps in the mind. to know where i am is where i want to be and what i'm doing is what i want to be doing, that is happiness. i contemplate the blade of grass that i let droop from my lips. i used to pretend, not moments ago, that this grass was a fag i used, i in the role of tortured artist, to get by. but now that piece of grass no longer symbolizes the human invention, the human state, the human need, but rather, is a piece of many pieces growing from my grassy self.
i stretch my body out and the sun lays on top of me. i let myself photosynthesize for a while. sometimes i wonder if its a problem being all imagination and no sense. but then again, maybe its a blessing, maybe its a ticket to freedom.
i adjust my legs which are, themselves, blades of grass. there is no tangible root here, only the sense of complete comfort, an ease of just being without trying to be. the root is perhaps in the mind. to know where i am is where i want to be and what i'm doing is what i want to be doing, that is happiness. i contemplate the blade of grass that i let droop from my lips. i used to pretend, not moments ago, that this grass was a fag i used, i in the role of tortured artist, to get by. but now that piece of grass no longer symbolizes the human invention, the human state, the human need, but rather, is a piece of many pieces growing from my grassy self.
i stretch my body out and the sun lays on top of me. i let myself photosynthesize for a while. sometimes i wonder if its a problem being all imagination and no sense. but then again, maybe its a blessing, maybe its a ticket to freedom.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
top drawer
"why don't you write something happy?" she asked.
"what's with this obsession with happiness?" i replied.
"i don't know. because it feels good to be happy. people like happy, they like reading things that make them smile"
"smiling gives you wrinkles" i responded dryly.
"you give me wrinkles" she laughed.
i contemplated saying that her mom gave me wrinkles, but remembered that it may have a different effect for those whose mothers were deceased. so i settled for, "yeah, well"
"yeah well you might be able to write better if you got out of bed"
"get out of bed!" i scoffed tussling the blankets for dramatic effect, as if her suggestion was the most ludacrious idea she had ever had. "i need to be in a place of comfort, a place where my dreams feel safe to surface" i lifted the cup of coffee from the nightstand and gazed guiltily at her from behind my laptop. it was a lame explanation and i knew she wouldn't believe me.
"i think that perhaps the lethargy in your writing might have something to do with your environment" she teased, grabbing hold of the round knub of my foot beneath a mountain of blankets.
"i'm perfectly content writing from bed, besides, too much stimulation stifles me"
"ah yes, okay" she smiled, "well, i'm going to town"
"what for? i thought we were staying in today?"
"we need food" she bent over my laptop and kissed me on the cheek, "someone has to be the realist"
i loved her. "happy huh?"
"yeah, happy, try it" she laughed.
"and how do i start?"
"i don't know oh queen of the bedroom, survey your kingdom for inspiration"
i looked around our small, little bedroom. my eyes lighted upon her dresser drawer. "can i write about your top drawer?" i asked.
"my top drawer?" she looked in the direction of my gaze, "you mean, the junk drawer? that place is a total abyss. i don't know what you could find in there"
"you" i replied.
"me?"
"yes, you. you wanted 'happy' so i'll write about you" i smiled.
"charming" she said lifting an eyebrow "well i hope you find miscellaneous junk inspiring" she looked down at her watch, "i should go. see you in a few hours. i hope you'll be out of bed by then"
"i thought you were a realist? do they hope?" i joked.
Top Drawer
the bed is an ottoman, an ottoman i kneel upon when my dreams grow up like incense smoke, like ripe red cherry tomatoes, perfect on one side but bored through by precocious worms of realism and prudence. the bed is ocean front property facing a wild, deep. i am speaking, of course, about that dresser drawer of yours. that heavy and wild and deep house of things. that belly full of secrets.
pause. too serious. think happy, think happy. i pulled the blankets back and reached for the drawer.
wee wooden knob like the head of a minature dwarf, a mini, mini, a pine replica of a mind boggling oddity, i pull with the desire to loosen the door to what i hope will be a universe of you. the wood compresses on its runners, thick weight as real as any ocean, any ocean bulging out of its shorelines. it opens half-way, blocked by a sock or a shirt or a gramaphone. i tug and tug, but the drawer will not be forced, it will keep some things in shadow. ah yes, a universe of you.
i extract articles from the drawer like an oil tanker in the deep blue, pull it up, pull it up, take all i can. like a longliner drawing horizontal lines to comb through every molecule.
item 1: All Natural Mint Flavored Lip Balm. Mood: happy. Place: the border of Arizona and New Mexico listening to Christian talk radio going 70 down the interstate with chapped lips and sun blazing across our wind whipped faces. faces we hid desperately behind tiny visors. the line between shadow and light so sharp it sliced our faces in half. we were all smiles then. all smiles and teeth, yerba mate on your breath and Carolynn's Irish Cream on mine.
item 2: Madonna's Ray of Light CD insert. No CD. Mood: drunken. Place: a techno dance club in Montreal. you tripped out on E and me worried about you, worried about you, pretending not to be so worried about you. i felt out of body, an instrument only, a harmony slightly, a finger tapping descretely. you held the shoulders of a thin whisp of a girl. she was high too. and there was something between you two my mundane mind couldn't transcend. rabid wolves ran off with my sense and i jerked you to a corner. you almost forget to let the closed eyed angel go, your hands still cupped around imaginary shoulders. i kissed you to wake you. but you were farther away from me than the abstract.
i hold the CD insert between forefinger and thumb. i imagine burning it.
item 3: A neon green post-it with my handwriting. Mood: happy love. Place: stuck to the screen of your laptop before you woke. i had to go away for the weekend. i wanted to wake you, kiss you up, suck on the very essence of you before i had to catch my taxi. but i knew better than to cling. the note read: "i love you more than anything in this world" and it is true. it is the truest thing in this world.
"what's with this obsession with happiness?" i replied.
"i don't know. because it feels good to be happy. people like happy, they like reading things that make them smile"
"smiling gives you wrinkles" i responded dryly.
"you give me wrinkles" she laughed.
i contemplated saying that her mom gave me wrinkles, but remembered that it may have a different effect for those whose mothers were deceased. so i settled for, "yeah, well"
"yeah well you might be able to write better if you got out of bed"
"get out of bed!" i scoffed tussling the blankets for dramatic effect, as if her suggestion was the most ludacrious idea she had ever had. "i need to be in a place of comfort, a place where my dreams feel safe to surface" i lifted the cup of coffee from the nightstand and gazed guiltily at her from behind my laptop. it was a lame explanation and i knew she wouldn't believe me.
"i think that perhaps the lethargy in your writing might have something to do with your environment" she teased, grabbing hold of the round knub of my foot beneath a mountain of blankets.
"i'm perfectly content writing from bed, besides, too much stimulation stifles me"
"ah yes, okay" she smiled, "well, i'm going to town"
"what for? i thought we were staying in today?"
"we need food" she bent over my laptop and kissed me on the cheek, "someone has to be the realist"
i loved her. "happy huh?"
"yeah, happy, try it" she laughed.
"and how do i start?"
"i don't know oh queen of the bedroom, survey your kingdom for inspiration"
i looked around our small, little bedroom. my eyes lighted upon her dresser drawer. "can i write about your top drawer?" i asked.
"my top drawer?" she looked in the direction of my gaze, "you mean, the junk drawer? that place is a total abyss. i don't know what you could find in there"
"you" i replied.
"me?"
"yes, you. you wanted 'happy' so i'll write about you" i smiled.
"charming" she said lifting an eyebrow "well i hope you find miscellaneous junk inspiring" she looked down at her watch, "i should go. see you in a few hours. i hope you'll be out of bed by then"
"i thought you were a realist? do they hope?" i joked.
Top Drawer
the bed is an ottoman, an ottoman i kneel upon when my dreams grow up like incense smoke, like ripe red cherry tomatoes, perfect on one side but bored through by precocious worms of realism and prudence. the bed is ocean front property facing a wild, deep. i am speaking, of course, about that dresser drawer of yours. that heavy and wild and deep house of things. that belly full of secrets.
pause. too serious. think happy, think happy. i pulled the blankets back and reached for the drawer.
wee wooden knob like the head of a minature dwarf, a mini, mini, a pine replica of a mind boggling oddity, i pull with the desire to loosen the door to what i hope will be a universe of you. the wood compresses on its runners, thick weight as real as any ocean, any ocean bulging out of its shorelines. it opens half-way, blocked by a sock or a shirt or a gramaphone. i tug and tug, but the drawer will not be forced, it will keep some things in shadow. ah yes, a universe of you.
i extract articles from the drawer like an oil tanker in the deep blue, pull it up, pull it up, take all i can. like a longliner drawing horizontal lines to comb through every molecule.
item 1: All Natural Mint Flavored Lip Balm. Mood: happy. Place: the border of Arizona and New Mexico listening to Christian talk radio going 70 down the interstate with chapped lips and sun blazing across our wind whipped faces. faces we hid desperately behind tiny visors. the line between shadow and light so sharp it sliced our faces in half. we were all smiles then. all smiles and teeth, yerba mate on your breath and Carolynn's Irish Cream on mine.
item 2: Madonna's Ray of Light CD insert. No CD. Mood: drunken. Place: a techno dance club in Montreal. you tripped out on E and me worried about you, worried about you, pretending not to be so worried about you. i felt out of body, an instrument only, a harmony slightly, a finger tapping descretely. you held the shoulders of a thin whisp of a girl. she was high too. and there was something between you two my mundane mind couldn't transcend. rabid wolves ran off with my sense and i jerked you to a corner. you almost forget to let the closed eyed angel go, your hands still cupped around imaginary shoulders. i kissed you to wake you. but you were farther away from me than the abstract.
i hold the CD insert between forefinger and thumb. i imagine burning it.
item 3: A neon green post-it with my handwriting. Mood: happy love. Place: stuck to the screen of your laptop before you woke. i had to go away for the weekend. i wanted to wake you, kiss you up, suck on the very essence of you before i had to catch my taxi. but i knew better than to cling. the note read: "i love you more than anything in this world" and it is true. it is the truest thing in this world.
Friday, June 3, 2011
clouds
the moon was full some time ago and now it is disappearing again. chug, chug, chug up the mountain, we do. we do. the light is spectacular in the morning and i'm reminded of haikus i'd like to write. why haikus? why write? why anything really. haikus like clouds dotted across blushing skies.
i imagine that with enough coffee to bombard my bones those hard parts of me will liquify, rendering me formless but unfortunately not weightless. i'd like that, the formlessness that is. and if i were weightless, or perhaps as a compromise to the absurdly unattainable, if i were of less weight i could become a cloud and morph, morph, morph into something else entirely. a squid, a man with a wheelbarrow, Florida, all within a minute. how miraculous!
is it wrong to envy clouds? clouds who are so gentle and clean even when they're storming? wild bill apparently rode a funnel cloud. i can't much imagine a cloud would allow itself to be disgraced in such a manner. and yet, there it is the literature, a man saddles a wild cloud, or was it a twister or a hurricane or a mushroom cloud above some city we'll remember when watching drawn shadows on our living room walls like people nearly forgotten? memories get distorted and visions clouded.
chug, chug, chug up the mountain in a van full of sleepy people and i want to be a cloud. is it a disorder? is it in the DSM IV? to feel a cloud in a human body?
i imagine that with enough coffee to bombard my bones those hard parts of me will liquify, rendering me formless but unfortunately not weightless. i'd like that, the formlessness that is. and if i were weightless, or perhaps as a compromise to the absurdly unattainable, if i were of less weight i could become a cloud and morph, morph, morph into something else entirely. a squid, a man with a wheelbarrow, Florida, all within a minute. how miraculous!
is it wrong to envy clouds? clouds who are so gentle and clean even when they're storming? wild bill apparently rode a funnel cloud. i can't much imagine a cloud would allow itself to be disgraced in such a manner. and yet, there it is the literature, a man saddles a wild cloud, or was it a twister or a hurricane or a mushroom cloud above some city we'll remember when watching drawn shadows on our living room walls like people nearly forgotten? memories get distorted and visions clouded.
chug, chug, chug up the mountain in a van full of sleepy people and i want to be a cloud. is it a disorder? is it in the DSM IV? to feel a cloud in a human body?
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