Something Important

I have an ache the size of something terribly important – but am exhausted by the business of so much minutiae that I’m not even sure for what I ache, nor where the longing itself is located – would I fill it with one more trifle.

There is a pen
            and so many drawers
                          emptied of words.

A stifled urgency.

A haunt.

the cure

I have been looking for a cure for as long as I can remember. First, it was for food when I was hungry and for something to drink when I had thirst. Once I realized I could get my needs met, by asking to be fed, for a glass of water, a blanket – it was as if finding something out there to fix what was needed in here
became the blueprint for my next decided action. I quickly began to look towards friendship when I was lonely, an excuse when I was mad, a party when happy, a lover when amorous, a bed when fatigued. Soon it was coffee when tired, aspirin when sore, hat when frizzy, diet when fat, and absolutely anything when bored. So that every feeling should be resolved or counter balanced. An antigen found. A remedy procured. But what if. What if I did not so rashly fill my hunger, sate my thirst, friend my loneliness, blanket my chill? What if tired were allowed to be sleepy, and chubby, plump, and frizzy, fro? What if lonely were lone, and mad just that? Would all just simply BE?

happy. amorous. tired. inert. hungry. lonely. bored. alive.

Curious is.
Living is.

May We Be.

Busy Sleeping

Sometimes, when you’ve tripped over one too many half-folded laundry piles (on the way to the closet to get the vacuum you all of a sudden urgently need, having discovered dirt clots on the carpet you passed on your way to retrieve the needle for repairing a long lost duvet button) on your impulsive way to the laptop to google new linens (because that sounds like a good idea too in the flurry of the moment) and you find yourself suddenly searching mattresses because why buy new linens when you really need a new bed and then maybe a smaller one would be better because you wouldn’t have to crawl in from the foot of it and could maybe have a lamp for reading but then there’s that “then no one else can curl up and watch a movie” that gets in the way so you start searching fun things to do with kids because screw television and then you are redirected to some Waldorf inspired educational program and suddenly you are failing as a parent and ruining your children’s chance at a real childhood so you start making pancakes with whip cream smiling faces ( all organic of course) and try to enroll your little ones into the process and maybe we could grow our own wheat and learn how to sprout it and (mental note to self: look up how to spout wheat…and nuts and seeds while you are at it…) and “can you MAKE me a glass of water” ripples across the room for the 15th time in the day so digging up the home depot water cooler for camping is a good idea so there is always cool water but DAMN you really need a filter for the sink even though you tested it with the $20 test kit from the health food store and the flipping Britta you bought on sale at Target was on sale because the lid never actually fit those fockers and the dryer beeper goes off but the pancake needs to be flipped so you stay put for 1/10th of a second before unloading the dishwasher because you need a plate for the pancakes and you realize you didn’t fill the ice tray back up so MUST DO NOW…..Sometimes, when this happens, this tripping over the not so metaphorical half-folded laundry, you pause – just long enough to redirect yourself to the refrigerator, where standing – dumbfounded – and not necessarily hungry, looking for something to shove into the void of discombobulated busy-ness, you wake the fuck up. Not always, but sometimes. What then? For me – it’s the crossroads. Am I going to DO one more thing to somehow “fix” all the half-done, tedious, outward seeking sense of incompletion? Am I going to take down a bag of Famous Amos cookies? Should I fold the laundry? What if I actually put it away? What then? The energy it takes to stay asleep during waking hours is quite impressive. So very busy sleeping.

Stealing Time From Busy

I always wanted to steal time – to sneak into the fissures and crevices of it’s passage before NOW was gone, and put a halt to it. As if somehow I could manage a suspension. An idling. A breath forever caught in the inhalation. Spaciousness without borders. No tick-tock-ing of the forever omnipresent but elusive clock. A still-life.

The hurry of childhood saddens me. How I raced at it with nothing but eagerness and zeal. How my own children can be so swept up in the promise of aging that tomorrow seems like more of a gift waiting to be granted than today appears to be a miracle. How we plan. How we dream.

Today, a 10 year old said to me, “Me? I’m a lonely sorrow”.

He wasn’t sad when he said it, merely alive and spontaneous and unguarded. The words did summersaults off his tongue and bounced around in the car until they fell like lead balloons into this mother’s lap. She stole the line.

I like to think that we are not broken. That our wounds are the glue that keep us adhered to life. And maybe this is where Time stands still. When we listen. When we allow meaning to fly

or crumble

or sit

still   .   .   .

footsteps

Aside

dog barking.

car door shuts.

no footsteps.

To be everywhere

without moving

is some kind of renaissance

or maybe

it is a hiding

that allows distraction

and fear

to parade as education.

When the clock refuses to stop

and the sun shifts just enough

into a bustling sky

one must forfeit the retreat

and walk

(though trepidation spurs the coil)

with head up into the day.

Remembering Everything

in moments warranting attention

causes the coyote to whimper before lunging

and the prey to smile

before the escape.

This Garden

Because there is bamboo and mums and the filtering of sun through trees. Beacause he said “I love you more, Mom, and yes, it’s possible.” Because god. Then the shock that is a gentle awakening too quickly turned to chaos and the impossibly fine line between play and rage – only then and because god is tolerance. I wanted to love like some Southern California sun – so consistent and reliable the warmth, the offerings, that the life-sustaining light itself could be taken for granted. I wanted to love like water. A brook, a river – an uncharted ocean whose quiet calm could not be imagined. Still, the magnificent crimson mum sharing a stem with her lifeless brother and they, the mere possibility of a bulb only one Winter gone. This womb. There are wild clovers thriving amidst flowerless forget-me-nots – their heads pulled off without method by the eager fingers of adolescent’s zeal. This garden. I figured the succulents would take – would spread and cover the cinderblock walls that define our beds. But they are weary – their empty hands seeking light in this Northwestern house of shade.

Keeping Up With Yourself

This I know: Nothing. 

I say that, but I also mean to include that there is so much to know and do and think and be about – that it is dizzying. Striking. Brilliant. Scary. A wonder-filled life. A shepherd’s pie.

I am sitting here, 42 years old, reading glasses on, ice tea in hand, and I am as baffled by and as certain about life as I have always been. Happy, struggling, joyous, agitated, peaceful, alarmed, free. And not. But in the midst of all the seeming bi-polarity, somewhere beyond the black and the white, there is a shade of grey that blankets everything. I am trying to find my blankie. When I am not looking, I own it.

Nonsense or no-nonsense. Your choice.

 

 

 

Spirulina Licorice and The Dementia

My friend Nat told me the other night “the thing about your writing is that you say things that I think everyone wants to say but doesn’t”. Aside from this being a huge compliment as I have worried that my blogging is merely self-indulgent, I felt compelled to say “Then…F- you!” Not to Nat, of course, but to every other person I ever wanted to say “F- you” to, but didn’t. And now, since I sort of feel like she gave me permission to say a few things that maybe other people wanted to say, I think F- you is very apropos. So there, I said it. Now, I take it back. I am even sorry.
That she also mentioned, in passing, a person whom had actually used the phrase “he has the dementia” simply made me happy. Not because someone has dementia – that is sad – but because someone called it “the dementia”. In doing so, he gave a secret squirrel insight more into himself perhaps than the person of subject. I imagine he has an old closet full of neatly folded doilies and handkerchiefs from 1939, and a trunk full of someone else’s old photos. I imagine he opens the closet only on the first Sunday of the month, at precisely 7:12 PM. He wears vintage white gloves that have never been washed but still appear pressed. He is lonely.

Hearts are broken all the time. Some breaks are more like surface cracks that hurt in the instant but seem to regenerate and even close after a modest kindness from time. Others occur more like tremendous re-enactments of the Grand Canyon – an act so ineffable and deep cutting that neither time nor any forthcoming kindness could propose to offer solace. These are the ones that stop time. The swollen heart syndrome that destroys a day a month a year a life…in an instant…that seems to last forever. They are the great global tragedies, the abuses done to the innocent, the day someone tells you they no longer love you. “F- you” doesn’t do it here, words fall apart in your throat, muteness only speaks to the surface. If I had a color for every bottomless moan and wounded yelp that cannot be uttered, I’d paint a crimson umber blood orange sky that wrapped the entire universe in forgiveness. I’d sing so sweetly, so quietly, so right.

People want to be acknowledged where it hurts but not dragged into the mire. I am supposed to say something funny that wipes all the badness away. “The dementia” helps with this. My own, and yours too. If I told you that my seven year old flipped me off the other day, you’d think I have some good fer nuthin’ punk ass kid with a bad attitude and a whole helluva lot of trouble headed his way. These are not the facts. My son is funny and sweet and kind. He makes me laugh everyday, from the bottom of the barrel of my gut. He is precious and he cares about the hearts of others. And, he gave me the middle finger. The funny thing was, he didn’t mean to . But it happened, at just the perfect time while he was saying just the perfect thing. Quite by chance, it was the middle finger that pointed at me, while he made some playful delivery and we both laughed until we cried. So inappropriate, so awesome. If, in the same breath, I mention that he also called a “mean kid at school” a “ball sack” you might think differently of him again. But I tell you, he is an angel. An angel who has a way with words way beyond his age.

Being married is a whole lot like a carnival. Caramel apples, merry-go-rounds, and the House of Horror. A crazy tooth-less Carni super-imposed by a lovely plump lady in a polka-dotted dress. Sun shining “this is the best day of my life” while a midget is stealing your wallet.

Time Out

It has been nearly 3 weeks since my last confession – I mean post – and I think that is a significant amount of days for the “time out” my previous blog warranted.

a new day.

i have a therapist.
this is new for me.
even newer that i would say it so LOUDLY.

It is fascinating to me, this seeming indulgence, that for 50 minutes straight, one day a week, I would speak either entirely about myself or, if about others, how they occur for me. Not to me, but FOR me. me me me me me. Now, I am whole-heartedly and sincerly interested in other people – people move me – they make living worth all the little whiles that are burdensome. They are my light – even in their darkest hours. It just didn’t dawn on me, truly, that who I am and what I believe, feel, think, etc., might be of serious consideration to another. That sounds silly – almost ridiculous, i think, and I suppose this is some sort of pride in reverse. ( I am wholly aware of the inconsistency in capitalizing the “I”.
I also get that I am paying my therapist to listen, which adds an entirely other but noteable element to the equation…meaning maybe there is an agenda to the supposed interest – but putting that aside for a moment – fascinating nonetheless.

I used to be afraid (though it was masked in disdain) of becoming the stereotype of a middle aged mom. It was not so much the suburban living, the minivan (yes, I had one), the soccer mom label, or even the white picket fence and golden retriever (though this image did at once haunt me) but rather the tiny things that would seal the deal and bury any sense of true self I once harbored, forever.
1. Having plastic, matching labelled bins which housed various re-usable decorations for each holiday.
2. Being invited to tupperware parties. ( It is true that I called my mom once almost crying when I was invited to my first Tupperware party – I thought it meant my life was over. It is also true that 4 years later I was asked to host a scrap-booking event at my home for a friend selling Creative Memories crap and I immediately put my house up for sale. It was, for this bohemian, rebellious poet who suddenly awoke to herself driving a minivan and living in a subdivision where everyone drove a minivan and had a matching house, the vertiable straw that broke the camel’s back).
3. Not only buying every form of calendaring device and life-organizing tool to efficiently run a family, but actually using them with steadfast efficiency.
4. Having matching bed sets at all costs.
5. Pre-set, organized, planned out play dates.
6. The days running into each other like a series of Ground Hog days with no room or space or time left for the magic of spontaneity and passion and whim.
7. There are more.

The point, or maybe there isn’t a point after all – just a moving sphere or blob or spatula – is that I have become (sort of) a person who does this shit because (sadly, somehow) it works. Sure, my bins don’t match, and most of the crap inside them was given to me by people who felt my naked Christmas shrub/Hannukah bush was all together wanting. True too, that I make the calls or send the texts, albeit only moments before “pick-up”, proposing a play date or two. (The dry-erase calendar posted at eye level for kids still shows signs of the manually filled in dates from back in September when I got it and…. I’m usually flying off the seat of my pants when it comes to attending school events (even though I programmed them into my smart phone weeks before) having forgotten almost every day of my life to actually look ahead and what is already on the schedule.)
What interests me about all of this right now is that I don’t truly give a damn. I’m almost disappointed in myself for having taken the time to even write about it. AND, I still gotta get my ass of the computer and go pick up the kids, feed/love/coddle/admire them and then get them to gymnastics, sneak in a date with my guy, pick them up, feed ’em, read books, snuggle, turn off the lights, and “prepare” to do it all over again tomorrow.

So…for 50 minutes I was asked to recall some things. My childhood. The blazing sun, the freedom, the joy of no plans and no structure and simply radiant wild dirt-filled outdoor living. I remember it fondly and vaguely. Not so much as a series of events but as a feeling. Some eternal, parent-less summer in a safe neighborhood with no real rules. It is not so much that there were no parents, but they are noticeably absent from the memories, from the feelings that are evoked by the memories. Like maybe they were there, while this pack of wild children was running free all over the open hills between Tiburon and Corte Madera……but maybe they were organizing their bins or scheduling appointments, or crying into their Crystal Light.
I am one of those people who do not wish they had a different childhood. I feel lucky. I made lasting friendships and felt that the world belonged to me. I want that for my boys. A Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn kind of life that involved fishing poles and bare feet and all day adventures from one end of town to the other.

Ammends

I need to start by making an amends both to George W.Bush and to golden labs everywhere for suggesting that either were maybe one card short of a deck. I see now that it was mean and unnecessary – especially coming from a girl who is about as smart as a box of hair….on a good day. Even if I delete my previous blog, I get that any future running for the Republican party is over for me now once and for all – independent of what my somewhat “colored past” would have determined anyway. So, it’s back to writing for me – and real estate. I just hope all the families out there with labs won’t look elsewhere now that I’ve inadvertently slandered one of their family members.
I wrote that last night but then almost gave up blogging entirely – I was disappointed in myself for having, the day before, resorted to saying anything negative about a man I have never met. If I ever get the chance, I will apologize in person I suppose.
Enough.
This feels too indulgent – this blogging about nothing in particular. Self-centered at least, if not downright narcissistic. I fell like I should be heralding a great cause or describing Mount Tam after a very fortunate run, or minding the stars.
I am not sure where all of this leads, except deeper into the rabbit hole. The Mad Hatter just knocked on my door. What a beautiful time for tea.

Rebel Mom

okay…I admit…it is getting old – even for me – this searching around for a name for my pen other than “FingerPoet”. This coming up duds over and over again – an ever futility-inspiring moment of realizing I missed the boat on domain names….likely years ago…when all the organized A types were buying the cool new tech saavy shit while the rest of us ( or maybe just me) were still sifting through the rack of the Salvation Army for a cool (dig it) polyester blend floral mumu we would pretend we had the umph to someday turn into a funkadellic pillow….or a shawl.
I digress.
I gave RebelMom a shot – TAKEN. Not that I actually want to conjure up visuals of a harley davidson vest wearing 40-something with mom jeans and a feather-strung roach clip in my hair. Plus, for this mom, it hits a little too close to home….like calling myself a rebel will somehow betray the last 15 years I’ve spent trying to undo that stigma. I imagine myself smoking Marlboro reds with chipped fingernail polish while making Pillsbury Plus sugar cookies out of the tube. Of course, after being denied access to the purchase, I perused the site for rebelmom and it (she) was nothing like I imagined myself to be, given the name. She’s all manicured and beautiful and has her S%#t together – a pretty mom (likely of girls, which explains some things) and she has the real deal advertisements on her site to prove she is up to some reputable good.
Sigh.
Next, either off the seat of my pants, or through the ingenious methodolgy that only a mind itself can know, I searched “FatPeace”. AVAILABLE! But c’mon, you know 37% of the people will think I meant “FatPiece” which makes me immediatly think of “piece of ass” and well, the truth is, I don’t want anyone to think of a fat piece of ass when they think of me, or my writing. So, the drawing baord smacks me up side the head again and I have to hope that someone out there reading this will either convice me to choose what I got, or at least point me in a sound direction. (Then I have to deal with whether I am indeed a person even willing to follow sound direction). Uh,,,,Duff?
What kind of rebel am I anyway, really? I mean, when you get down to it? I wake up every morning, make the oatmeal or breakfast burrito or yogurt parfait (yes, there is a bowl or 3 of cereal in there somewhere). I pack the flipping lunches – REFUSING to cut the crust off – I attend the games. Do hoework, day dream about botox and manicures and more time. Certainly I’m not slamming martinis before getting in the car line or popping valiums on my way to the dry cleaners – and that wouldn’t necessarily make me any more of a rebel than an ass, so…?
One of my partying friends was saying about New Years Eve to another friend who had said she was spending the night home with her kids “Oh, come on! What are you gonna do, stay home with a tomato enema and a Mormon video?” As if that were like the worst thing one could do on a night so worthy of hurrah as New Years Eve. All I could think was “a tomato enema and a religious video (?) – that’s right up my alley!”
Sadly, I am only sort of joking.
I added adsense to my blog thinking it would be fun to make $000.13 a month off my writing but the only ad they approved me for was some nonesense abouta phone service for “entreprenuers”. I am not sure whether to laugh or cry.

hair cut

tonight i got a hair cut because i can neither smoke nor nonchalantly toss back a shot of wild turkey nor drive off a bridge. i have no desire to harm myself…i simply like change. alteration. riots.

there is something so quiet about being simple. and the silence grates on me. makes all my inner poetry a beggar. makes all my hunger mad.
i try to be quiet. not to stir up the metaphorical pot of wanting that bangs like a thousand fists upon my psyche – demanding i spill my own gunk over into your lane – and YOU – driving so fucking fast – across these freeways called los angeles moments – that you have no time – no space – no listening – for my need.
you see, the want became a need in only 44 words. imagine a life. despair.

so we give up the trying.
trade it in for some real authentic no bars held love. the good stuff. we suffer having enough (finally) like a series of jesus’s in drag…i know gayle…. you will understand this. (and mostly because of the girls who broke the rule.) i’m not sure all wisdom is earned. some of it just is. like an allergy. like a curse. like a gift.

the line that is the finest is always the one one is walking. i am at odds, forever, with my mouth. she speaks. she chews. she catches breath.

because my hair is parted, there are lovers leaving each other for the last time. the way the bangs fall means the loneliest man in the world has just been given a promise. crazy glue and broken hearts and gob-stoppers and electric eels and dinosaurs and magic erasers and the wilderness and yellow work. people say thank you. they ask “how are you” and wait for an answer. married couples remember why they fell in love.

had i curls, on the day you came to cut – it could’ve been different. you may have been a poet and i pencil or maybe there’d be two children laughing or i’d roll you a cigarette instead of going to therapy. and maybe you would have pop tarts in your car and for that reason alone, for you, i would take a bullet or give you my parking space or maybe i would learn how to sing.
but today the hair was straight so i just said “thank you so much” and when you drove away, I said a prayer for the girls who broke the rule.

The Tamed Dragon

Taming the Dragon sounds so much more interesting that actually having tamed it.
Sounds like the fire is gone. All the magic – poof.
That’s what it feels like inside the absence of a compulsion to write.
Easier was it when the finger, connected to the pen, spilled the not so metaphorical blood of the heart.
Now, there are highways between need and want. Long stretches of road that separate the flame from the campfire. How do you warm another person with matches soaked in minutiae?
Understanding the distinctions of that word, which is incidentely the name of this blog, adds very little to the overall effect one can have on the world, but it makes something interesting – just what that thing is, I’m not sure.
i was very disappointed to find out the e.e. cummins already had some sort of a monopoly or at least claim to the little “i”. I thought I had really stumbled upon something when I began to use it. Expressing the tiny insignificance of my me – a reversed solvency of the soul. a bounced pay check.
there is certainly some disdain for CAPITALIZATION – not that the liberal whimper in me has something to defend – it’s just so formal. So run of the mill. That it is expected and suggests a lack of attention to detail in its absence ruffles my feathers – makes obtuse my particulars.
Can one imagine no longer using the first person singular? For a minute of conversation? A day? A week. One would perhaps need to seek refuge from an awareness of self-centeredness through silence. Try it. Do you understand of what she speaks?
SO – the recovery business. Working in recovery. Drunks, meth addicts, heroine junkies, bingers. purgers, gamblers, coke-heads, pill poppers, inhalers, gamers, sex addicts, klepto-maniacs, cutters, my brothers, sisters, saints.
                                  
      I i I i I i I i I i I i I i I i I i I i I i i i I i i i I i i i i i i I i I i i i i I  I i I I I I I  i i i i i i i i I I I i I i i i

A whole bunch of enormous and tiny me me me’s running around inside a broken heart. Having been there makes the trouble almost endearing. I want to squeeze a heart of joy into the broken drum. Sooth a million sorrows with a whispering. Patch back up the brokenness with a nod.
The question now is do I break the silence with some detail?
What is the imaginary line that one might cross between sharing and spiritual extortion?
Where is the listening?

Puff lived by the sea. It is not a happy ending. Like so many fairy tales and children’s stories, with awareness comes the realization of the great tragedy involved. Is this the point? To break the heart as early on as possible? That we might understand each other? That we might learn to defend the weak? That we might build a wall around ourselves? What? Why?
Puff
Bambi
Nemo
all of them.
Something huge is taken away by something bigger.
And we act as if.

I suppose this is where god comes in. God. god. GOoD.
One enormous amorphous unnameable sigh
holding up the umbrella
marshaling us home.

*Minutiae (pronounced /mɨˈnjuːʃɪ.iː/; sing. minutia, /mɨˈnjuːʃɪ.ə/; both also /mɨˈnjuːʃə/) are, in everyday English, minor or incidental.
In biometrics and forensic science, minutiae are major features of a fingerprint, using which comparisons of one print with another can be made.

B Sic

I want to start an AA meeting called B Sic
which stands for Being Sober is Cool
but I am not sure that it really is
or whether any of that actually matters at all.

It is possible to have your heart ripped out of your chest
beating pumping beautifully bloody
and alive
and then, through the immaculate beauty of sorrow,
have it handed back to you
in tact
effortlessly free
and re-covered.

Being rescued is lovely
all these little islands of despair
where the ship of some larger horror shows you your grace.

I thank god every day for showing up inside of you
and reminding me
that we are the same.

I have not seen my boys since 8:23 this morning –
when I watched them walk in a single-file line
into the school house.

I hit AA and recovery and belligerence and faith HARD today
squirreled it all up
inside a cupcake
with a friend
on a street
in LA.

All I am saying is that she is beautiful
those newly seeing eyes
all green and hazel and glorious.
We sat side by side and were thankful
to know each other
and be a friend.

i am in love.
there is no more meaningful way to say this.
he comes home with his sweater on inside-out
smelling like cigars
calling me chuchi.
i want to open the door and say
I ATE 5 DONUTS
but instead i open it
give a kiss far from the lips
giggle at the tag on the outside
and say nothing.
we carry the boys to their beds.
we yawn.

i met a man from cambodia today at Miss Donuts.
he liked my blond hair.
The Red Carpet he mentiond. America.
8 Years in America and he has his own business.
The American Dream.

But always working.

I want to go back to not capitalizing.
so i do.
thinking i will invite him to dinner sometime. to yom kippur or christmas or kwanza or tea.

my boys went crazy for him. this smile that went on and on for miles.

they asked to be his friend. yes. he said. yes. i am happy your to be a friend. what? huh? i am happy –
i understood every single sentence he spoke today. and even the ones that he did not utter.

there is nothing like los angeles.
i am telling you.
there is a miracle here – ever uncovering itself.

there is some kind of bizarre and honest hope.

lost angels

and so i suppose we are.
living here amidst the lights and the traffic and the busy buzzing bumbles.
the quiet rage.
the sparrow.
i want to reach out through my windows and touch the walkers.
people huddled over their bags at the bus stop.
an old man with no cane on the sidewalk leaning east.
inside the heart of every person
is a riotous knowing.
a belonging to something unspeakably grand
yet still….unspeakable.
i do not look far for god –
brooding in gray eyes on sun-beaten faces
or hurried whistles chasing a bus
or you.

dim sum and pot-bellied day dreamers

christmas woke me up round. dusted off my lashes and poured me a cup of joe as strong as a woman. i snuggled into wrapping paper, ribbons and bows. only , there really are no ribbons or bows at my house. lots of tape. and extra folds in the edges. no clean lines here – a rumpled pile of a gift. a present.
having given back sugar, these days of holy divining are so less sweet.that is not a metaphor for anything i say. simple isms. stevia. rice.
brother cooked eggs and bacon and bread. reminds me of a heart attack. i am drinking water like it is wine, and still legal. inside my own little courthouse.
did i mention love? tumbling from the branches of our crooked little tree – busting a toe in the newest stocking and onto the floor with a crash! his eyes are the richest brown. the insides of dark chocolate. espresso micro suede umph. we made 2 more – because of those eyes – and now there are 6. crazy saucers of radical delight. heavenly tortes.
yesterday J said “wait! i am pulling buddha out of my pants” so I had to idle before backing out the car. I am sure you understand……… he is 4………so…….. of course he is pulling buddha out of his pants! sheesh.
when i think about 20 years ago i am filled with great joy and also a slipping. wooosh.
and what will tomorrow bring. poetry? peonies? poverty? promises? plethora? polyoople lop?
pangs.
i am hoping everyone has little slice today – and yesterday and now and next week and tomorrow and in an hour and backwards and upside down and inside out and even in the places where there is no light i am hoping there is an eensy weensy teeny weeny lil‘ slice-o-love.

Casein-free

There is so little time to dig a deep hole. So they are shallow; and, because they are shallow, they are safe and kindly without purpose. I hold tight to old friends, pray they stay unbelievable.

I wonder outside of the dream to fill Tupperware with the same old thing: salami(2), baby carrots(2), sliced apples(2)one cliff bar per back pack(snack), water bottle(2). “Middle class” green. I should have glassware, not plastic. No salami – I wouldn’t eat it. Maybe some hand-rolled vegetarian sushi and a wakami salad I made from first soaking the sea veggies in reverse-osmosis water in a porcelain bowl.

I read Dr. Seuss to the kids and then ate two mugs of mint chip ice cream from Safeway. We discussed composting – my attempt at apologizing to the honey bees.
It is definitely a circle – every action causing a ripple which eventually taps you on the shoulder; “Hey you, I’m back.” You learn to toe the eco-friendly line.

If i did not love people with such unreasonable urgency, i might crawl into a chair facing a window and just stay there. not get up anymore. not try to connect the dots. only because there is something to just sitting. to just sitting and listening and not doing. not speaking. i could not go on one of those silent retreats; the knowing that i was going to speak again at some time would ruin it for me. i’d have to just stop sometime without having planned it. just mid-sentence shut my mouth. i wouldn’t want to try to explain – even to the person to whom i was speaking at the moment i quit. no cheapening allowed. …..lets face it though – the probability of my quietude???!!! blah blah blahing and all until sleep comes again- raw cheer – “cogito, ergo sum”.