here for a while now, but kept forgetting when I came to the keyboard. Tonight, candles lit, catching their golden fingers round threads of smoke, headphones firmly clamping my ears, and a new song, a new artist I am suddenly floored by, awaking my spirit to old thoughts, and renewed passion for real, tangible growth. Yes, a friend of mine insisted Kelly Clarkson is talented, and I, basing my decision entirely on radio hits, said that I just didn't really get anything from her music, didn't find it exceptional in any way. Today my friend posted a thousand Kelly Clarkson videos to my facebook, and I listened first to, "Sober," and have to say that this song is going to be playing on my ipod nonstop. This is going to be my background song. This is the song that sends me back in my rocking chair, knees tucking excitedly into my chest, smile breaking my face open, spirit flying up. I will wear this song out.
The reason I love this song is not necessarily because of Kelly's vocal talents, but I feeeel this song. This song is sticking in my skin like summer sun, like something long missed. I feel like I am finding a letter in a box, a secret joy that was always waiting somewhere beneath a shadow. The aspect I love most is simply the three months.
It reminds me of a time, during my senior year of high school, my youth pastor called me because a girl I knew was considering giving up, ending her life. When I met her in a room at the church she showed me the pills, she rolled them in her hands. I didn't know what to tell her.
It came to me somehow to get up and literally walk forward in the room, and have her walk with me. And it was the simplest thing. We talked about taking one step forward. That was all. She gleamed. I don't remember entirely what went on in that room, but I remember that, this discussion of steps. I asked her to, every time she felt like ending it all, stepping back, stepping out, to try and inch forward. Literally, I told her to feel it, feel it with her toes, get up, and inch forward. And if she had to step back sometimes, she could, and that was okay, because someday she'd move farther again. She would go somewhere. And that was the point. That we get somewhere. We go places. We change, and we do it so slow sometimes, we have to look back, we have to force our eyes over our shoulders and see the distance. She called me to tell me when she moved forward. Honestly, it was so simple. So simple. But sometimes, that's all we need, I guess. To feel like somebody is willing to stand beside us and inch and tell us it's okay if we have to take a few steps back sometimes, and that they know, they trust our goodness, our possibilities, our potential enough, the Bigger world enough, that we will go forward again, we will not be stuck forever.
I fall into depression every so often, particularly when the world grows colder and I begin to feel forgettable, unworthy, unlovable, even repulsive. It's painful. Physically. And in those moments where every fear, every worst thought comes stabbing (I literally think of that scene in Lord of The Rings where the wraiths plunge their swords into the feathery beds), I feel the deep plunges, the incredible voids making themselves in my stomach, spreading their weight onto my spine.
Today, I felt this. I took a nap, and snap, as soon as the alarm sounded I felt the deep churning, the terrible shadow coming down. I couldn't stop the thoughts--the joblessness (despite the fact that my seasonal job only ended a few days ago and I still do have one job), the masks I wear in different environments to keep people pleased, the pain that I haven't just let the joy out (let myself laugh and joke and play like I want to because I'm too busy playing the game in my head, worrying and controlling and feeling my way, trying to stay one step ahead), the dependence of my situation, the looming of graduate school deadlines and I've done nothing, the incredible weight of potential failure arriving in soft light envelopes in a few months, my inability to just be brave and live what I have always wanted to live.
I read this thing once, I believe in The Artist's Way, (and this is what I've wanted to write here for so long), about imagining yourself five years from now looking on yourself now. In the exercise, you're supposed to consider what you would say to that self? What would you do to that self?
And Wow. I hear that question ring in my head, I think of myself five years from now wherever the hell I am, single, married, still struggling in the job market, dealing with all sorts of strife, and not giving a damn. I think of that self seeing this self who is so scared and sad and worried and crazy and I think of rushing to her and holding her to my chest and just whispering to her that I don't want her to worry, that I want her to be free, that I wish to free her. My God, the compassion I would feel, the compassion I do feel, thinking this way. It's amazing. I want to rush myself and save me. I want to say, let's go, let's do this, let's get up, let's walk around this room, let's walk out, let's walk around the city and sing OUT LOUD. MY GOD LET'S SING FOR SOMEONE RIGHT NOW.
I am listening to this song on repeat, joining Kelly near the end, my spirit-voice scream-singing that three months thinking, Wow, thinking, how long can I keep this. KEEP THIS. I think of goals to make. Small small forward steps. Like making my bed in the morning. Like, staying off of facebook for a while. Like writing in my journal. Making art. Singing. Singing all the time. Setting out to really find a good job. Really finally putting that portfolio together that I've been planning for some time. Really finishing jobs. Really being honest and brave and just bulldozing terror as if fear isn't worth my time anymore. Who cares? Who cares? I have places to go, people to kiss, hands to take, hearts to accept and love and remain open to. I have poems to write, books to write, letters to write, songs to write. I have things to do. And I won't stay pinned in the sweat and toil depression takes.
Cheers to counting steps and looking back with immense pride. I have come a long long way already, and I am so proud.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Alchemy
I am practicing alchemy at the coffee shop. Trying to spin gold from rain, trying to make some kind of sun explosion, glint in my palm, from this damp, dark day. Patty Griffin raises something, a flag of organic, earthy hope, with her song, "I Don't Ever Give Up," thumping through the small speakers perched up near the menu boards.
The place was empty a few minutes ago, so I started singing, and it echoed, my voice, it echoed and that echo, the thunder of my own sound coming back toward my spine, climbing it back up to its origin, helped me out. It pointed my spirit up, again. It felt creative, and it was loud. Singing sometimes feels like the bravest thing, especially on these days, even when there's no audience. Just belting it, bringing force to it, attaining new heights with it--that feels like triumph.
I have this gorgeous fairy-esque friend, who has the biggest, most magical eyes you've ever seen. She and I always end up talking on the phone for hours in the middle of the night and she always brings such an interesting new shade of light to what I am going crazy over, and a few nights ago she said this, "In order to live, we must lose our fear of being wrong." Then we began to talk about how, as children, we were so brave. We were limitless. Our imaginations stretched their palms to the edges of everything, and nothing was impossible. And though some things were improbable, everything was worthy of testing, of trying out. We didn't assume we were right about situations, we simply didn't care, the experience being worth so much.
It is a wonder how many people are hiding their dreams in boxes, three ring binders, their heads. It is a wonder how many people only speak to themselves of high hopes, and great expectations.
I found something I had written on a piece of paper about a year ago. I'm guessing I got it off of a movie or something. And though it's somewhat cheesy, I am strengthened by it. I feel more capable after reading it, hearing it in my head as it should sound, this great noble question, "Is this the woman who doesn't give up?"
I want to be that woman. I want to learn the art of shutting up the surpressive voices in my head, to say with vigor, "Enough! I have had enough."
The place was empty a few minutes ago, so I started singing, and it echoed, my voice, it echoed and that echo, the thunder of my own sound coming back toward my spine, climbing it back up to its origin, helped me out. It pointed my spirit up, again. It felt creative, and it was loud. Singing sometimes feels like the bravest thing, especially on these days, even when there's no audience. Just belting it, bringing force to it, attaining new heights with it--that feels like triumph.
I have this gorgeous fairy-esque friend, who has the biggest, most magical eyes you've ever seen. She and I always end up talking on the phone for hours in the middle of the night and she always brings such an interesting new shade of light to what I am going crazy over, and a few nights ago she said this, "In order to live, we must lose our fear of being wrong." Then we began to talk about how, as children, we were so brave. We were limitless. Our imaginations stretched their palms to the edges of everything, and nothing was impossible. And though some things were improbable, everything was worthy of testing, of trying out. We didn't assume we were right about situations, we simply didn't care, the experience being worth so much.
It is a wonder how many people are hiding their dreams in boxes, three ring binders, their heads. It is a wonder how many people only speak to themselves of high hopes, and great expectations.
I found something I had written on a piece of paper about a year ago. I'm guessing I got it off of a movie or something. And though it's somewhat cheesy, I am strengthened by it. I feel more capable after reading it, hearing it in my head as it should sound, this great noble question, "Is this the woman who doesn't give up?"
I want to be that woman. I want to learn the art of shutting up the surpressive voices in my head, to say with vigor, "Enough! I have had enough."
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Because I was bored tonight I went here and read this:
http://www.mattlogelin.com/archives/2008/04/13/what-happened/
Then, I read this...and looked at the pictures...particularly the one where the mom is seeing her daughter for the first time:
http://www.mattlogelin.com/archives/2008/03/24/update-715pm/
READ THE ABOVE BEFORE MOVING ON.
And now, after three glasses of wine especially,
I am bawling my eyes out over the keyboard
thinking of how everyone says that people are in a better place
when they die, and all theological arguments about heaven and hell aside,
I imagine being in Heaven,
having just given birth to a baby girl
crawling on the golden streets looking at God with such bitterness
crying, "I just wanted to watch her sleep for one fucking night."
Reading this makes me feel incredibly hopeless about the future. I don't know if I could ever deal with grief. Not that immediate. Not when someone so close to me is taken away so soon.
Loaded Guns: Some Thoughts on Vulnerability
It is fall and cold and numb and unproductive and lonely and drifting. Sometimes I am able to romanticize this and for an hour, life has potential--even in this Blah-Dee-Blah--this cloud soaked ceiling and grey floor, I can hear a sweet red secret leaving lips and I think--yes--I think there is something pressing in with fire in his hands.
I am listening to Damien Rice, one of my new favorite fall-ish musicians. My recent favorite has been the song, "Dogs," because I fantacise about being the beloved girl who does yoga. But today, it is, "9 Crimes." I never understand the lyrics entirely. It seems to be about cheating on a spouse or partner who really isn't there anyway. The chorus is beautiful and strong and the words are, "It's a small crime, and I got no excuse. Is it alright, yeah, to give my gun away when it's loaded? If you don't shoot it, how am I supposed to hold it? That alright? Yeah, with you."
I'm always fascinated by the inclusion of a loaded gun. I was taking a bath the other day, submerging myself in warm water, because the house was too cold, and sometimes a bath, making myself stay there with music and no other sounds, bubbles cracking at the air, the occasional re-situation of water around the body, can pull my mind back down into my bones, into the organic thing I am, the organic reality of my life I so often forget about, when I jump all the way to my forehead and run frantically in that space for weeks. I was listening to this song, as a part of a playlist, and I kept trying to figure it out.
Of course, the gun could be sexual. And that's probably part of it. Maybe. But today, I happen to be thinking about vulnerability, of laying cards out on a table, or stepping forward not taking into account anything, just reaching from the gut and not stopping that soft hand from grasping. A gun is dangerous, something to be held carefully, cautiously. It can destroy, easily, simply. And in a way, it could be fragile, it has the potential of indicating the fragility of whatever it is aimed at.
I think about relationships, such as the one exhibited in this song, and how, when you hand your loaded gun to someone, you're giving them power, you are entrusting them with something, and in essence, you want them to shoot it, to make you that fragile thing, that rests entirely in their arms. It may not be as unhealthy as it sounds, as in, the person you choose to take you out, take you as their, "kill," I guess, to put it as cheesily as possible, should be trustworthy. And it sounds like in this relationship, each has this loaded gun that they have given to the other, but the other doesn't seem interested in owning or declaring or committing to the relationship. If they shoot that gun, they're in it. They've chosen something.
Terrifying. But, in essence, lovely. I admire those who can hand over their loaded guns, who are smart enough to know who to hand them to and when, or eventually take the risk despite not knowing fully. I know a few success stories, and hope, someday, to be among them. To be a part of the brave fold, the hardest working fold, I know.
I am listening to Damien Rice, one of my new favorite fall-ish musicians. My recent favorite has been the song, "Dogs," because I fantacise about being the beloved girl who does yoga. But today, it is, "9 Crimes." I never understand the lyrics entirely. It seems to be about cheating on a spouse or partner who really isn't there anyway. The chorus is beautiful and strong and the words are, "It's a small crime, and I got no excuse. Is it alright, yeah, to give my gun away when it's loaded? If you don't shoot it, how am I supposed to hold it? That alright? Yeah, with you."
I'm always fascinated by the inclusion of a loaded gun. I was taking a bath the other day, submerging myself in warm water, because the house was too cold, and sometimes a bath, making myself stay there with music and no other sounds, bubbles cracking at the air, the occasional re-situation of water around the body, can pull my mind back down into my bones, into the organic thing I am, the organic reality of my life I so often forget about, when I jump all the way to my forehead and run frantically in that space for weeks. I was listening to this song, as a part of a playlist, and I kept trying to figure it out.
Of course, the gun could be sexual. And that's probably part of it. Maybe. But today, I happen to be thinking about vulnerability, of laying cards out on a table, or stepping forward not taking into account anything, just reaching from the gut and not stopping that soft hand from grasping. A gun is dangerous, something to be held carefully, cautiously. It can destroy, easily, simply. And in a way, it could be fragile, it has the potential of indicating the fragility of whatever it is aimed at.
I think about relationships, such as the one exhibited in this song, and how, when you hand your loaded gun to someone, you're giving them power, you are entrusting them with something, and in essence, you want them to shoot it, to make you that fragile thing, that rests entirely in their arms. It may not be as unhealthy as it sounds, as in, the person you choose to take you out, take you as their, "kill," I guess, to put it as cheesily as possible, should be trustworthy. And it sounds like in this relationship, each has this loaded gun that they have given to the other, but the other doesn't seem interested in owning or declaring or committing to the relationship. If they shoot that gun, they're in it. They've chosen something.
Terrifying. But, in essence, lovely. I admire those who can hand over their loaded guns, who are smart enough to know who to hand them to and when, or eventually take the risk despite not knowing fully. I know a few success stories, and hope, someday, to be among them. To be a part of the brave fold, the hardest working fold, I know.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Twenty Facts (Because Everyone Else Has Already Done This)
1. I have a birth mark that looked much like a four-leaf clover as a child. It's on my ankle, and I used to show other kids, as if I were telling them a secret. I remember thinking it looked like a three-leaf clover, but the stem was transforming into a fourth leaf, and I remember believing that this meant I was becoming special, becoming lucky.
2. I am not a crazy animal person. As a child I loved the various dogs I grew up with, and actually started bawling on a friend's shoulder one day leaving school because I had learned that our beagle had been hit by a car. I remember feeling ashamed of the sadness, actually, and held it in and told no one, and this friend happened to hug me as we were leaving school and I just fell apart. Anyway, the real point of this fact is that when I was six years old, (my mom verified this information for me last night), my mom brought home a cat named Toby for me for my birthday. I loved the cat, and was very excited. One night, my mom asked me if I would like Toby to sleep with me. My mother tells me that I looked at her as if she had lost her mind. She said I was careful to be nice and polite, and just asked her, "Why would I do that?" She said she actually felt rather dumb for suggesting it, as if it was totally illogical for children to want to sleep with their pets.
3. I find Helena Bonham Carter to be the most attractive actress. Honestly, I would begin batting for the other side, if I could be with this woman (though her ferocity in most of her films is rather sexy, it would probably actually be quite terrifying). I was thinking about this last night, and tried to think of which actors I find to be attractive, and I couldn't think of any right off the bat. None that I would be drawn to physically. As I am a heterosexual woman, I began to ponder why I find Helena Bonham Carter so attractive, and my conclusion is that I envy her ferocity, and very defined face, as these are physical features I lack. I always am terribly insecure about my jawline. So, apparently, I rarely find a man I'm physically attracted to because I'm so busy worrying about my unattractiveness. Ylechblech.
4. I hate wearing jeans. I don't know how to describe my dislike for them. I would rather be wearing a dress or linen, or something. I just don't feel myself in them.
5. I also don't wear shorts, often. I wear them when I'm by myself, but never in public. I have knock-knees, and feel like I look like a chicken or something. I'm starting to get over that, though.
6. I love driving through snow. I find it thrilling, unless I'm late for something.
7. Sometimes I listen to country music.
8. When I get really stressed out. I mean REALLY, I forget to eat. This is how I keep a steady weight. I gain a couple of pounds for a couple of months, and then something stresses me out (oddly in the spring, somethimes in the fall), and I don't eat anything for a week or so.
9. I love potatoes. And I mix tuna fish with thousand island dressing and eat it...just like that...in a bowl. My old roommates used to love my eating habits, and even used them as part of their way of introducing me to new friends.
10. I always jump to the conclusion, when people are MIA, that they have died. Specifically in a car wreck. Morbid, right? I don't know what it is, but my youngest sister seems to have similar ideas, in that both of us get really freaked out if we can't get a hold of our mom. She calls me, or I call her, and we both wait in agony for Mom to call us back. I'm living with my mom right now, and if she goes to visit her boyfriend, an hour and a half drive away, for a Saturday, and it's two in the morning and she isn't back yet, I imagine this one particular stretch of highway I once drove with her to his house that has these really high cement barriers around it, and I worry that something terrible has happened. I can never sleep when I know she's driving home, late. And if I know any of my friends are driving late at night, the same thought will typically cross my mind, though I usually talk myself immediately out of the worry.
11. I love mornings, though I don't get out of bed early. I love to wait in my sheets, and just feel them, and see the sun laying on the floor. I get soo blissed out just lying there, softness stretching around everywhere, I feel almost foolish.
12. I enjoy singing more than writing, or anything, really. But I am terrified of sharing my voice, though sharing my writing doesn't faze me all that much.
13. This summer, I developed an interest in cooking. Not by recipes, but just experimenting with spices and sauces in vegetables and so forth. I've discovered that when I cook, alone in the kitchen, I get very hushed and accepting of all that is, and isn't. It's like meditation.
14. I grew up with a farm across the street from my house and got up early every morning, before my mother, and went to help the farmer with the cows. I remembered recently that I've actually taught calves to walk, and remember feeding them with bottles. I've always admired cow eyes, soft and wide, and almost terrified looking, their long lashes framing them like eccentric curtains.
15. I love water. The house I grew up in (until I was 20), has a giant pond beside it. My sisters and I used to put on goggles and submerge ourselves into the fields of bluegills beneath the surface.
16. Despite my love of water, and wanting to be in it or near it, I think I would be quite afraid to take my first step into the ocean. Because I've never been there, all I know of the ocean I see on television. So, my first thought, when dropping my big toe into the ocean would be that somewhere in there rested enormous monstrous creatures which produce their own light and have teeth two feet long which stick out of their mouth like spider legs. But, if I ever make it to the ocean, I will try my very best to brave it.
17. I want to see a giant whale before I die. I've never seen one, and I think that it would kick all the depression I could ever have's ass. I can't imagine ever really feeling truly meaningless or suicidally sad if I see a creature that large alive, functioning.
18. I have also never seen a snow capped mountain.
19. I often feel like there are things that will never happen in my life. For instance, I feel like I may never get married or have a baby. I think I accept these things as impossibilities because I don't want to get my hopes up. I've always been so interested in people who talk about their future husband, and future life, when I can't assume that any of those things will ever happen. I want them, too, and I feel like part of me should start living as if they are a possibility, as if I am totally as capable as these other people of having a good future relationship which would result in marriage.
20. If I ever get married, I want it to be a backyard potluck wedding. No expenses, really. Just mothers making meatballs and rolls and potlucky foods, and dancing, of course, in the yard, late into the night after a brief ceremony. I also would not want a pastor to give a sermon or anything. I would just want friends to read things. I told my friend Andrew this idea once, and he said, "Michelle, that sounds like the happiest wedding, ever." I agree.
I'm hoping at least one of these was a new to you.
2. I am not a crazy animal person. As a child I loved the various dogs I grew up with, and actually started bawling on a friend's shoulder one day leaving school because I had learned that our beagle had been hit by a car. I remember feeling ashamed of the sadness, actually, and held it in and told no one, and this friend happened to hug me as we were leaving school and I just fell apart. Anyway, the real point of this fact is that when I was six years old, (my mom verified this information for me last night), my mom brought home a cat named Toby for me for my birthday. I loved the cat, and was very excited. One night, my mom asked me if I would like Toby to sleep with me. My mother tells me that I looked at her as if she had lost her mind. She said I was careful to be nice and polite, and just asked her, "Why would I do that?" She said she actually felt rather dumb for suggesting it, as if it was totally illogical for children to want to sleep with their pets.
3. I find Helena Bonham Carter to be the most attractive actress. Honestly, I would begin batting for the other side, if I could be with this woman (though her ferocity in most of her films is rather sexy, it would probably actually be quite terrifying). I was thinking about this last night, and tried to think of which actors I find to be attractive, and I couldn't think of any right off the bat. None that I would be drawn to physically. As I am a heterosexual woman, I began to ponder why I find Helena Bonham Carter so attractive, and my conclusion is that I envy her ferocity, and very defined face, as these are physical features I lack. I always am terribly insecure about my jawline. So, apparently, I rarely find a man I'm physically attracted to because I'm so busy worrying about my unattractiveness. Ylechblech.
4. I hate wearing jeans. I don't know how to describe my dislike for them. I would rather be wearing a dress or linen, or something. I just don't feel myself in them.
5. I also don't wear shorts, often. I wear them when I'm by myself, but never in public. I have knock-knees, and feel like I look like a chicken or something. I'm starting to get over that, though.
6. I love driving through snow. I find it thrilling, unless I'm late for something.
7. Sometimes I listen to country music.
8. When I get really stressed out. I mean REALLY, I forget to eat. This is how I keep a steady weight. I gain a couple of pounds for a couple of months, and then something stresses me out (oddly in the spring, somethimes in the fall), and I don't eat anything for a week or so.
9. I love potatoes. And I mix tuna fish with thousand island dressing and eat it...just like that...in a bowl. My old roommates used to love my eating habits, and even used them as part of their way of introducing me to new friends.
10. I always jump to the conclusion, when people are MIA, that they have died. Specifically in a car wreck. Morbid, right? I don't know what it is, but my youngest sister seems to have similar ideas, in that both of us get really freaked out if we can't get a hold of our mom. She calls me, or I call her, and we both wait in agony for Mom to call us back. I'm living with my mom right now, and if she goes to visit her boyfriend, an hour and a half drive away, for a Saturday, and it's two in the morning and she isn't back yet, I imagine this one particular stretch of highway I once drove with her to his house that has these really high cement barriers around it, and I worry that something terrible has happened. I can never sleep when I know she's driving home, late. And if I know any of my friends are driving late at night, the same thought will typically cross my mind, though I usually talk myself immediately out of the worry.
11. I love mornings, though I don't get out of bed early. I love to wait in my sheets, and just feel them, and see the sun laying on the floor. I get soo blissed out just lying there, softness stretching around everywhere, I feel almost foolish.
12. I enjoy singing more than writing, or anything, really. But I am terrified of sharing my voice, though sharing my writing doesn't faze me all that much.
13. This summer, I developed an interest in cooking. Not by recipes, but just experimenting with spices and sauces in vegetables and so forth. I've discovered that when I cook, alone in the kitchen, I get very hushed and accepting of all that is, and isn't. It's like meditation.
14. I grew up with a farm across the street from my house and got up early every morning, before my mother, and went to help the farmer with the cows. I remembered recently that I've actually taught calves to walk, and remember feeding them with bottles. I've always admired cow eyes, soft and wide, and almost terrified looking, their long lashes framing them like eccentric curtains.
15. I love water. The house I grew up in (until I was 20), has a giant pond beside it. My sisters and I used to put on goggles and submerge ourselves into the fields of bluegills beneath the surface.
16. Despite my love of water, and wanting to be in it or near it, I think I would be quite afraid to take my first step into the ocean. Because I've never been there, all I know of the ocean I see on television. So, my first thought, when dropping my big toe into the ocean would be that somewhere in there rested enormous monstrous creatures which produce their own light and have teeth two feet long which stick out of their mouth like spider legs. But, if I ever make it to the ocean, I will try my very best to brave it.
17. I want to see a giant whale before I die. I've never seen one, and I think that it would kick all the depression I could ever have's ass. I can't imagine ever really feeling truly meaningless or suicidally sad if I see a creature that large alive, functioning.
18. I have also never seen a snow capped mountain.
19. I often feel like there are things that will never happen in my life. For instance, I feel like I may never get married or have a baby. I think I accept these things as impossibilities because I don't want to get my hopes up. I've always been so interested in people who talk about their future husband, and future life, when I can't assume that any of those things will ever happen. I want them, too, and I feel like part of me should start living as if they are a possibility, as if I am totally as capable as these other people of having a good future relationship which would result in marriage.
20. If I ever get married, I want it to be a backyard potluck wedding. No expenses, really. Just mothers making meatballs and rolls and potlucky foods, and dancing, of course, in the yard, late into the night after a brief ceremony. I also would not want a pastor to give a sermon or anything. I would just want friends to read things. I told my friend Andrew this idea once, and he said, "Michelle, that sounds like the happiest wedding, ever." I agree.
I'm hoping at least one of these was a new to you.
Friday, October 16, 2009
New Poems
I just wrote this first poem today. I don't know how it happened, and once again, it's from a man's perspective (perhaps I'm in need of some serious psychoanalysis).
A Turning
You have changed direction
in the kitchen, bird
slipping on the green
tile, as if figure
skating, and I remember
your yoga class stories, the cunning
of your tongue
conspicuously tipping on your right
canine, as if to say also, and not to
say what you could do
in bed.
This is your language—
the non-language language
which keeps our small mouthed relationship
eventful,
and uneventful; the way you
stroke your forth finger,
left hand, while we are
eating pizza in the living room,
and after we make
love on the orange couch, sagging as if it has just
given birth and its womb is full
of nothing.
You have signals, and yes,
I read you.
We watch movies,
my movies, and you fall asleep
twenty minutes in.
When I ask you how
you liked the show
you say, always you say, you
did, sort of. I say,
You would have liked it if you were awake,
and you— soft and broken,
lax as fabric just out
of the dryer—
whisper, I was awake.
And I thought I'd include the poems that have been accepted to be published in Weave Magazine:
Only Transactions
I.
It was the question in your head why certain people
will not look you in the eyes. It was the man turning apricots
on his thumb, pressing into bruises, looking the kiss of skin
as if a wound. You had asked him, making the usual words:
How are you, today? And either he spoke another language,
or he did not want to turn his face up to your sound.
When he finally looked up, he saw your hands,
and stayed with them, and that was fine—the soft green bills
unfolding between you, the plastic bag whipping up,
opening like a new yellow lung, sweeping back to the table.
II.
After that, a day of men keeping their eyes down—
taking only transactions, fruit, testing everything, you needed
pouring coffee beans into a grinder, your sister speaking in her large
eyed way, and even the conversation, however it started, of when
your mother would die, and how could either of you handle that.
She said, I want to go first. You told her you wanted a husband by then,
to sit on the floor with you, who would hold the pictures up in his
hands of your mother, and her mother, the pictures taken before you
lived, the pictures in black and white, yellowing.
III.
Another man came in today and he said he was not going
to buy anything, but he wanted to talk, looking you
straight, he smiled, told his story: Missle testing sites in July,
tucking the nose of jets into their bellies, lowering docks,
firing and watching how many colors you can make
out of sand in Northern Texas, out of atoms split wide, the oily ocean
at the shore of hell. He said, he lost that job, he lost everything.
You notice, in the silence after, how hard it is to keep your gaze
steady on the weighted water of his.
In Spirit
We are afraid she is not touching the bed,
our mother, levitating again,
lifting in her old bones lying
there, her mothballed nightgown
inflating as if it were a great
lung, her whole body pitching itself
to the slope of her voice, coming up
out of her like the fin of a fish
cutting the dark surface of water:
Do not kill me.
Our tongues are stuck to our teeth
while her voice stretches to us,
standing around her in suits, black,
we were tired, until she came at us
in spirit, yes,
is she here?
Her body lies on the bed, and I think of sliding
my hand beneath her shoulder blades just to see,
just to see if she has died yet.
Thanks for reading!
A Turning
You have changed direction
in the kitchen, bird
slipping on the green
tile, as if figure
skating, and I remember
your yoga class stories, the cunning
of your tongue
conspicuously tipping on your right
canine, as if to say also, and not to
say what you could do
in bed.
This is your language—
the non-language language
which keeps our small mouthed relationship
eventful,
and uneventful; the way you
stroke your forth finger,
left hand, while we are
eating pizza in the living room,
and after we make
love on the orange couch, sagging as if it has just
given birth and its womb is full
of nothing.
You have signals, and yes,
I read you.
We watch movies,
my movies, and you fall asleep
twenty minutes in.
When I ask you how
you liked the show
you say, always you say, you
did, sort of. I say,
You would have liked it if you were awake,
and you— soft and broken,
lax as fabric just out
of the dryer—
whisper, I was awake.
And I thought I'd include the poems that have been accepted to be published in Weave Magazine:
Only Transactions
I.
It was the question in your head why certain people
will not look you in the eyes. It was the man turning apricots
on his thumb, pressing into bruises, looking the kiss of skin
as if a wound. You had asked him, making the usual words:
How are you, today? And either he spoke another language,
or he did not want to turn his face up to your sound.
When he finally looked up, he saw your hands,
and stayed with them, and that was fine—the soft green bills
unfolding between you, the plastic bag whipping up,
opening like a new yellow lung, sweeping back to the table.
II.
After that, a day of men keeping their eyes down—
taking only transactions, fruit, testing everything, you needed
pouring coffee beans into a grinder, your sister speaking in her large
eyed way, and even the conversation, however it started, of when
your mother would die, and how could either of you handle that.
She said, I want to go first. You told her you wanted a husband by then,
to sit on the floor with you, who would hold the pictures up in his
hands of your mother, and her mother, the pictures taken before you
lived, the pictures in black and white, yellowing.
III.
Another man came in today and he said he was not going
to buy anything, but he wanted to talk, looking you
straight, he smiled, told his story: Missle testing sites in July,
tucking the nose of jets into their bellies, lowering docks,
firing and watching how many colors you can make
out of sand in Northern Texas, out of atoms split wide, the oily ocean
at the shore of hell. He said, he lost that job, he lost everything.
You notice, in the silence after, how hard it is to keep your gaze
steady on the weighted water of his.
In Spirit
We are afraid she is not touching the bed,
our mother, levitating again,
lifting in her old bones lying
there, her mothballed nightgown
inflating as if it were a great
lung, her whole body pitching itself
to the slope of her voice, coming up
out of her like the fin of a fish
cutting the dark surface of water:
Do not kill me.
Our tongues are stuck to our teeth
while her voice stretches to us,
standing around her in suits, black,
we were tired, until she came at us
in spirit, yes,
is she here?
Her body lies on the bed, and I think of sliding
my hand beneath her shoulder blades just to see,
just to see if she has died yet.
Thanks for reading!
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Some Help
I don't often write posts like this. It is more of an inquiry than anything else.
Tonight I read a story in Sex God, by Rob Bell about a wedding where the couple walks out into a field and lets go of balloons. The gesture symbolized them letting go of their pasts in order to create a new future together. A couple of years later, the couple divorced.
I have probably read this story more times than any other passage in this book. It crushes me. It twists in the deep and I want to press my hand against the story and make it new, let it end with balloons bouncing against the bottoms of clouds, finding their way through a great maze of atmosphere.
But the story doesn't end that way.
I look at my story, my head lost in the clouds for a few moments, hope snuggling in the soft stem of me, and a few moments later the realization that everything is still a mess--my room strewn with clothing and records and books and glasses where water used to sit and gradually evaporate; the passenger side of my car splashed in mud; one job ending soon; the world growing cold and desperate; my inability to focus on anything; how very empty and cold my hands are and how my time seems not to have done a thing about that.
But then, some days, with good organic stories, lovers still choosing one another, delicious kitchen experiments to long winding road songs, smiling strangers, art on the street, a look caught before it was too late, a honest word spilt finally despite the risk, a walk in the leaves, a rocking chair, sitting in the mess and being okay, small successes, surprising conversations that last forever and stay fresh, slow movements, coffee-some days these things make me wonder how far down or up we really are.
And is it really discipline that gets us there? What about us hopeless cases? What about the ones who despair so quickly? What about the ones who live so far down in their minds that even the light hurts when it finds them, and it is so much easier to shrink back, to fall away?
I don't want to say that we should all just lay in bed and wait for God to come to us with breakfast on a tray, an invitation to work at our dream job folded nicely next to the orange juice, a flower from some idealistic boyfriend smilingly perched in a vase. I know that to live is to risk. To get anywhere implies jumping from enormous terrifying heights.
But, is there room for Something to help us fall, help us make our beds in the morning and actually apply for jobs, be strong enough to risk relationship, meet the world and test the soft skin of its wounds with our trembling fingers? I've often asked God for help but never believed he/she/whatever would really be interested in lending a hand. In fact, I doubt I've ever believed he/she/whatever felt that I needed help.
When I think about it, I find it fascinating when people say, "We could only have accomplished ____ with God's help," or, "God, we need you to help us be _________ and _______ kind of person."
I know that it is in desperation that we realize a lot of things--that we delve into the dark waters to find the ropes that might (just might) lead to something important, something that would make us feel okay about coming up for air.
I feel like I need something to help me along. I don't trust life, anymore. I don't "believe" in life. And in a way, I don't "believe" in myself. I want to learn to like myself, and to trust myself in some senses, but to rely entirely on myself is beginning to feel impossible. I know many of you might not agree with that statement. Perhaps we'd have to discuss it in person, for me to really make my point. But, I am terribly fallible. And I'm trying to believe in Something or Someone, who might not be as crazy as me.
It's fascinating how the mere thought of setting some of this weight into God's hands makes me feel more capable. I still can't logically explain it, because I can't prove God, but for me, right now, this is what has to be. I have to hand it over, because otherwise, I will drown.
Tonight I read a story in Sex God, by Rob Bell about a wedding where the couple walks out into a field and lets go of balloons. The gesture symbolized them letting go of their pasts in order to create a new future together. A couple of years later, the couple divorced.
I have probably read this story more times than any other passage in this book. It crushes me. It twists in the deep and I want to press my hand against the story and make it new, let it end with balloons bouncing against the bottoms of clouds, finding their way through a great maze of atmosphere.
But the story doesn't end that way.
I look at my story, my head lost in the clouds for a few moments, hope snuggling in the soft stem of me, and a few moments later the realization that everything is still a mess--my room strewn with clothing and records and books and glasses where water used to sit and gradually evaporate; the passenger side of my car splashed in mud; one job ending soon; the world growing cold and desperate; my inability to focus on anything; how very empty and cold my hands are and how my time seems not to have done a thing about that.
But then, some days, with good organic stories, lovers still choosing one another, delicious kitchen experiments to long winding road songs, smiling strangers, art on the street, a look caught before it was too late, a honest word spilt finally despite the risk, a walk in the leaves, a rocking chair, sitting in the mess and being okay, small successes, surprising conversations that last forever and stay fresh, slow movements, coffee-some days these things make me wonder how far down or up we really are.
And is it really discipline that gets us there? What about us hopeless cases? What about the ones who despair so quickly? What about the ones who live so far down in their minds that even the light hurts when it finds them, and it is so much easier to shrink back, to fall away?
I don't want to say that we should all just lay in bed and wait for God to come to us with breakfast on a tray, an invitation to work at our dream job folded nicely next to the orange juice, a flower from some idealistic boyfriend smilingly perched in a vase. I know that to live is to risk. To get anywhere implies jumping from enormous terrifying heights.
But, is there room for Something to help us fall, help us make our beds in the morning and actually apply for jobs, be strong enough to risk relationship, meet the world and test the soft skin of its wounds with our trembling fingers? I've often asked God for help but never believed he/she/whatever would really be interested in lending a hand. In fact, I doubt I've ever believed he/she/whatever felt that I needed help.
When I think about it, I find it fascinating when people say, "We could only have accomplished ____ with God's help," or, "God, we need you to help us be _________ and _______ kind of person."
I know that it is in desperation that we realize a lot of things--that we delve into the dark waters to find the ropes that might (just might) lead to something important, something that would make us feel okay about coming up for air.
I feel like I need something to help me along. I don't trust life, anymore. I don't "believe" in life. And in a way, I don't "believe" in myself. I want to learn to like myself, and to trust myself in some senses, but to rely entirely on myself is beginning to feel impossible. I know many of you might not agree with that statement. Perhaps we'd have to discuss it in person, for me to really make my point. But, I am terribly fallible. And I'm trying to believe in Something or Someone, who might not be as crazy as me.
It's fascinating how the mere thought of setting some of this weight into God's hands makes me feel more capable. I still can't logically explain it, because I can't prove God, but for me, right now, this is what has to be. I have to hand it over, because otherwise, I will drown.
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