Sunday, December 26, 2010

What Makes Me Weird

Anyone in a lost moment, a moment of dropping completely in, is beautiful - no matter who they are or what they think of themselves. When you drop completely, you get directly in touch with the hard-to-handle loveliness of all; you almost can't stand it, and anything you're able to ignore otherwise you can't ignore now - primal things, soul, "all the wants and hungers".

Meditation, not in a perfumed room, but the real meditation of being in a foul mood on an "ugly" day before the ocean, alone on a rock or walking a rainy shoreline. Everything clears in a moment of deep, running pain. 

In the jagged coasts, the wet skies, trash in the gutters, dirt on skin...also in things deeply, anciently primal: almost intangible oldness. 

That ancient intangible. No matter how far we try to get from it, we won't outrun it. Even humans are only a step or two from wild, a pure and simple and intelligent wild. Our disembodiment is a choice, and maybe even beyond that, a fraud. Or not even. Maybe just a trick of the light. 

Saturday, December 18, 2010

We Fall Back

Two very similar comments from two very different sources. Or, again, are they different? Sometimes that which seems quite far away actually stands right beside you...

"One day we step back and decide to pay our imaginary debt to society. We accept the death of our true selves. And the great fraud is that this death troubles no one. To the contrary, it is watched for, welcomed, and rewarded." - Lalita Devi, from Tantric Quest

"At such times there is a song going on within us, a song to which we listen. It fills us with surprise. We marvel at it. We would continue to hear it. But few are capable of holding themselves in the state of listening to their own song. Intellectuality steps in and as the song within us is of the utmost sensitiveness, it retires in the presence of the cold, material intellect. It is aristocratic and will not associate itself with the commonplace - and we fall back and become our ordinary selves. Yet we live in the memory of these songs which in moments of intellectual inadvertence have been possible to us. They are the pinnacles of experience and it is the desire to express these intimate sensations, this song from within us, that motivates the masters of all art." - Robert Henri, from The Art Spirit

- Photo property of gladygirlca @ - 

Thursday, December 16, 2010

On The Way To What May Be

It's difficult to stay on top of this thing when one's hard drive goes on strike and one's body seems to be doing the same. Hold yourselves over on this, my few readers, until I get Old Unreliable and my bag of bones up and running again.

"There are moments in our lives, there are moments in a day, when we seem to see beyond the usual.

Such are the moments of our greatest happiness. Such are the moments of our greatest wisdom. If one could but recall his vision by some sort of sign. It was in this hope that the arts were invented.

Sign-posts on the way to what may be. Sign-posts toward greater knowledge." - Robert Henri

 Photos from "In Memory of Mr. and Mrs. Comfort" by Richard Avedon -

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Run Like We're Awesome

"We'll take ourselves out in the street
And wear the blood in our cheeks like red roses.
We'll go from car to sleeping car and whisper in their sleeping ears,
'We were here, we were here.'
We'll set off the geese of Beverly Road.
We won't be disappointed.
We'll fight like girls for our place at the table,
Our room on the floor.
We'll set off the geese of Beverly Road.
We're the heirs to the glimmering world.
We're drunk and sparking; our legs are open,
Our hands are covered in cake
But I swear we didn't have any.
I swear we didn't have any.
We're the heirs to the glimmering world.
Oh come, come be my waitress and serve me tonight -
Serve me the sky tonight.
Oh come, come be my waitress and serve me tonight -
Serve me the sky with a big slice of lemon.
We're the heirs to the glimmering world.
Hey love, we'll get away with it:
We'll run like we're awesome, totally genius.
Hey love, we'll get away with it:
We'll run like we're awesome."

Saturday, December 4, 2010

I'm Beginning to Like My Face

A smidgen of blog-fun - got the idea from Eloise In NY. Here's seven not-really-secrets-but-more-like-random-factoids about this not-always-malcontent-yogini, chosen in total free-associated order.

1) I skeeve animal hair, despite loving animals and working in a veterinary hospital. Gore, goo, gick, etc. doesn't bother me in the slightest, but hair - when it deposits itself on the furniture, my clothing, or any place other than the animal's body - drives me insane. No, I don't cover the interior of my apartment in plastic. I just vacuum a lot. 

2) I am the girl who the other girls ask to kill the spider or weird caterpillar or whatever insect wanders into territory it shouldn't be. FYI, I usually just move the offending crawly critter elsewhere without killing it, if I can help it. The point: crawlies don't bother me. Except for earwigs, centipedes, and assassin bugs. I respond with total visceral revulsion that's like a combination of the nails-on-chalkboard feeling and that gagging thing right before you vomit. Don't ask me why. 

3) I thought orange juice tasted vaguely like vomit until I was about 20 years old. Again, I have no clue what happened to make me think this, and I drink it all the time now and it's great. Was I a weird kid? Yeah. I am a weird kid still.

4) As a kid, the animated version of The Hobbit absolutely terrified me, especially the sequence with Bilbo and Gollum in the cave. But I think I watched that movie at least three thousand times and leafed through my dad's copy of the big fat illustrated monstrosity companion book every day after school. And then proceeded to suffer recurring nightmares for like, twelve years.

5) I think it was the year I aged from 12 to 13 that I fell asleep first at the party. Sitting upright in a chair, no less. This is the first instance of narcolepsy in my life that I remember. And there's no shades of gray. I either literally pass out in the middle of a riot or I'm the one staying awake into the dark-thirty hours wishing it never would end - despite getting only three hours of sleep the night before. 

6) I can put my body through hell. Sleep, food, dressing appropriately for the weather, whatever - it all sometimes seems utterly unnecessary and I forget to take care of it. Physical pain means very little to me, most of the time. But often I totally lack mental and emotional endurance. I've been told I possess this freakish intellect, intelligence, and ability to unravel the knot of thoughts with staggering precision - however, sometimes I wonder if I'm not some kind of savant. Because it absolutely deserts me when I need it most or in high pressure situations. Very frustrating.

7) The thing I suck at most is equilibrium. I'm either horribly logical, endlessly patient, and the bravest person you know ...or I'm flying off into the stratosphere of ill-planned decisions, jumping at every shadow I see, and manifesting monsters for my personal torment. It may not be apparent, but every day is a constant fight with myself to stay somewhere within the ever-shifting center of the center. At least I admit it. 

Thursday, December 2, 2010

And So I Thought I'd Let You Know

"You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life." - Albert Camus

" 'Well', said Pooh, 'what I like best', and then he had to stop and think. Because although eating honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn't know what it was called." - A.A. Milne

Thursday, November 25, 2010


In the darkness going faint,

Don't sleep long.

Because soon it must end.

Never quite the same again.

Identity means little in the thinning shadow

Of minutes ticking away,

Prefacing letting go.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

The Time We're Given

"We'll be washed and buried one day, my girl, 
And the time we were given will be left for the world.
The flesh that lived and loved will be eaten by plague, 
So let the memories be good for those who stay.

"And if your strife strikes at your sleep, 
Remember: spring swaps snow for leaves.
You'll be happy and wholesome again
When the city clears and sun ascends." 

Sunday, November 14, 2010

If She Could Just Remember That

10:00 p.m.

I know leather, sweat, all weather, the desire becoming need to move, to be physically spent and empty, tested and whole. I know dirty and simple, basic being most comfortable, the insignificant being most important, most pure and alive. 

My body is a rhythm machine and also a silent speech. My mind is a painting, a film, and the sun moving, all mixed and mashed together. It is a knife. My heart is an ocean. My words are memory, and seasons, and photographs. Music enters me and plays out as motion; motion is music. I know ages between sentences, between words, between notes. 

I am smarter than...what? 

I could do anything, sure. I could be a surgeon, run a business, be a leader. 

Last I heard, any fucktard could be a surgeon. 

I don't disguise my faults as assets. I don't need what you need, and I don't need to be what you need me to be. I really can't be anything but what I wish the world was. 

I am strong enough to smash against a wall. I am educated enough to intellectualize my decisions and beliefs out of existence, to unwind my own dreams. I am in touch enough to bleed out. I am smart enough to become stupid in places where my intelligence is a only a hindrance. 

This sounds silly, maudlin, airy, dramatic, oh-poor-artistic-girl of me, and you're free to judge me and my thoughts however you want. I'd hide if you weren't. I would not share. I don't put this shit down because I think I'm right or that you'll agree. I'm just warning you that I am not alone in my thoughts and feelings and ideals. I'm not even warning you, because a warning is a threat and I've no need to threaten. I am simply reminding you:

I am strong, educated, smart, and alive. 

You don't see it. That doesn't mean it isn't there. It's not my problem that you can't, don't, won't see. 

2:00 a.m.

"What she's learned is what she always learns. Plato was right. We're all of us immortal. We couldn't die if we wanted to. 

"Every day of her life, every minute of her life, if she could just remember that." - Chuck Palahniuk

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Saturday, November 6, 2010


This little field sits scooped into the earth, steep on one side and flanked in thin woodiness, a stream. The afternoon glows gray with the trees on fire in their funeral best, the leaves shivering in the wind. Crouched on top of the hill, I can feel a horse underneath me, maybe flying a drop fence. 

I wonder if I haven't simply, stupidly backed myself into a corner with all this over-thinking the "why" of horses and being with them. Maybe I'm nothing but a ridiculous and incorrect pseudo-philosopher about all of it. I know for sure that I'm highly skilled at the art of confusing myself into oblivion. I could be totally right, too - but what's changed is that I don't care and I'm not trying to figure it out anymore. 

A simple thought comes to me on the hill. Horses don't naturally gallop over fences set on the crest of a drop, nor do humans naturally run marathons, for example. Both horses and humans in their basic natures live as wanderers, nomads doing nothing more than covering moderate distances at a mild, steady pace and existing along the way. Yet both can intelligently be developed to run, to dance, to fly, to do things they aren't necessarily born doing but are quite often inspired to do and are capable of. 

There is much we are all capable of becoming, given the alchemy of intelligence, heart, desire, and these strange machines called bodies. Much of these latent capabilities are pure beautiful. I'm not suggesting that just because you can, you should - yet, if you can and subsequently you do, then do. There's nothing more to it than that. 

I've seen many a horse mid-flight and utterly at ease in body and eyes. Ears forward, heart open. Something to consider, that's all. 

"He who knows he is a fool is not the biggest fool; he who knows he is confused is not in the worst confusion." - Chuang Tzu

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

All The Wants and Hungers

"All day I think about it, then at night I say it. Where did I come from,
And what am I supposed to be doing? I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that, and I intend to end up there."


Thursday, October 28, 2010

Your Thing to Ponder (I'll Be Mad)

Just two unrelated quotes for your enjoyment. Wait, are they unrelated? You tell me...

"Run from what's comfortable. Forget safety. Live where you fear to live. Destroy your reputation. Be notorious. I have tried prudent planning long enough. From now on I'll be mad." - Rumi

"If you can get nothing better out of the world, get a good dinner out of it, at least." - Herman Melville

(Photography by Stacey "The Burred" Wright 2010)

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Your Thing to Ponder (It Still Will Rain)

Am I the only person in the world who thinks the last chapter of Death In The Afternoon can stand on its own as a beautiful piece of writing? This is the last part of that last chapter. 

Hemingway's was the "lost generation". I think mine is too.

"I know things change now and I do not care. It's all been changed for me. Let it all change. We'll all be gone before it's changed too much and if no deluge comes when we are gone it still will rain in summer in the north and hawks will nest in the Cathedral at Santiago and in La Granja, where we practiced with the cape on the long gravelled paths between the shadows, it makes no difference if the fountains play or not. We never will ride back from Toledo in the dark, washing the dust out with Fundador, nor will there be that week of what happened in the night in that July in Madrid. We've seen it all go and we'll watch it go again. The great thing is to last and get your work done and see and hear and learn and understand; and write when there is something that you know; and not before; and not too damned much after. Let those who want to save the world if you can get to see it clear and as a whole. Then any part you make will represent the whole if it's made truly. The thing to do is work and learn to make it. No. It is not enough of a book; but still there were a few things to be said. There were a few practical things to be said." - Ernest Hemingway

That Was September

Friday night, Saturday morning drive:
Blinking heavy. Clotted street. 
Muddy weedy fogginess of:
Too much on my mind
Too many loose ends
Too many little
Pains and frustrations.
Wish = would pass.
I'm not much for conversation;
Fall gratefully to sleep, 
All standing,
Fitful in no less than
Half a dozen dreams on
Separate subjects.
Morning: weary.
Breathing slows down
To a thread inside.
Like I shouldn't be there,
"hidden" in the kitchen.
But coffee cheers a little 
In the smattered shade
Of a lonely tree.
Creeping ivy.
Sun down:
Sporadic reading
Chewing cuticles
Sore and bloody.
Lean just breathing 
Against the wall.
Half past one before
The witches' hour:
The wake
Of a whirlwind.
Can we objectify 

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

From the Horse to Us, or Over and Out

"Again and again, we sadly seem to forget that we cannot force or bend the horse to our will, that instead this absolutely must come completely freely from the horse to us. From the concepts of ramener - the head position - to the concept of rassembler - where the entire horse's mind and body come together in full power - all of this is natural in the horse. Collection is form and function, versus rassembler, which is heart, soul, quality, and art. It is who we are, not what we are." - Unknown

Everything's eventual, as Stephen King pointed out. You didn't need to kill it. I'm talking to you.

This is the last time. Hope is fear gone bad. Don't ever forget that, kids.

"Self-absorbed chancre sore love you like a matador life is just a metaphor nothing's fair love is war. Nothing more."

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Like An Axis of the Earth

This weather takes me to the hunt, the chase, flying the's killing me. 

For all my fellow transients, whether of the physical or mental variety:

“It is for want of self-culture that the superstition of Travelling, whose idols are Italy, England, Egypt, retains its fascination for all educated Americans. They who made England, Italy, or Greece venerable in the imagination did so by sticking fast where they were, like an axis of the earth. In manly hours, we feel that duty is our place. The soul is no traveller; the wise man stays at home, and when his necessities, his duties, on any occasion call him from his house, or into foreign lands, he is at home still, and shall make men sensible by the expression of his countenance, that he goes the missionary of wisdom and virtue, and visits cities and men like a sovereign, and not like an interloper or a valet.
"I have no churlish objection to the circumnavigation of the globe, for the purposes of art, of study, and benevolence, so that the man is first domesticated, or does not go abroad with the hope of finding somewhat greater than he knows. He who travels to be amused, or to get somewhat which he does not carry, travels away from himself, and grows old even in youth among old things. In Thebes, in Palmyra, his will and mind have become old and dilapidated as they. He carries ruins to ruins.
"Travelling is a fool’s paradise. Our first journeys discover to us the indifference of places. At home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty, and lose my sadness. I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea, and at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from. I seek the Vatican, and the palaces. I affect to be intoxicated with sights and suggestions, but I am not intoxicated. My giant goes with me wherever I go. ” – Emerson

Thursday, September 30, 2010

Your Thing to Ponder (Whenever a Horse Stumbles)

"To begin depriving death of its greatest advantage over us, let us adopt a way clean contrary to that common one; let us deprive death of its strangeness; let us frequent it, let us get used to it; let us have nothing more often in mind than death. At every instant, let us evoke it in our imagination under all its aspects. Whenever a horse stumbles, a tile falls, or a pin pricks however slightly, let us at once chew over this thought: 'Supposing that was death itself?' With that, let us brace ourselves and make an effort. 

"We do not know where death awaits us: so let us wait for it everywhere. To practice death is to practice freedom. A man who has learned how to die has unlearned how to be a slave. Knowing how to die gives us freedom from subjection and constraint. Life has no evil for him who has thoroughly understood that loss of life is not an evil.

"Life itself is neither a good nor an evil: life is where good or evil find a place, depending on how you make it for them. 

"If you have lived one day, you have seen everything. One day equals all days. There is no other light, no other night." - Michel de Montaigne 

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Your Thing to Ponder (Taut Strings of the Soul)

Don't leave a book of Eric Hoffer's aphorisms on my coffee table! 

So, your thing, your little sting, to ponder is: what are you blaming on something other than insufficient application?

"Man's thoughts and imaginings are the music drawn from the taut strings of the soul. The stretching of the soul that produces music is the result of the pull of opposites - opposite bents, attachments, and yearnings. Where there is no polarity - where energies flow smoothly in one direction - there can be hustle and noise but no music. 

"They who lack talent expect things to happen without effort. They ascribe failure to a lack of inspiration or of ability, or of misfortune, rather than insufficient application. At the core of every true talent there is an awareness of the difficulties inherent in any achievement, and the confidence that by persistence and patience something worthwhile will be realized. 

"Thus, talent is a species of vigor."

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Your Thing to Ponder (Little Inner Catastrophes)

"When this happens, the shock sometimes brings on intense panic, fear of the void, anxiety about something more powerful than anything we have ever known. We sense the immense power of deconstruction..., and this is very frightening. We sense that the system we have forged for ourselves in order to survive is being completely upset, turned inside out, by an unknown force that is coming from the most inner part of ourselves. In these moments, a desire to retreat occurs; a wish to run away chokes us, because we feel this is irreversible. A tidal wave sweeps through our body. It is going to clean away all our established automatisms, all our fabrications. As soon as what is fabricated starts to crumble... Everything that is rigid in our system is volatilized. 

"The great trap will be the temptation to reconstruct another defense system. And to do so, we will use the teaching we have received. We will take the part that suits us, and with this part, we will reconstruct some certainty. This is the most delicate moment..., because right then when we are completely open, we are overcome by the tidal wave of anxiety, and almost immediately, we reconstruct some certainty. We will do this so well that we have the impression that our reconstruction is compatible with space. 

"It is, therefore, a process that unfolds in several stages. There is the first process of opening; then, an imperial need for certainty and a reoccupation of space where we can store mental objects. Soon, there will be no more room. 

"Then, little by little, with all our being we will understand the splendor of remaining completely outside of all systems that are built upon certainties. And when the certainties try to come back - because they always come back - we will perhaps be able to look at them with a certain irony, a certain tenderness even, noticing that they no longer work very well. Then starts the most joyous part..., because we see all these conceptual pieces of old junk, with which we have worked so long, make a desperate attempt to hang onto and then slide pathetically down the wall of the Self. There is intense happiness in participating in all these little inner catastrophes."

Sunday, September 19, 2010

A Bit Vague and Inscrutable

"I don't know that I have ever encountered a group of more certain-minded people than horsepeople. 'Horses like that'; 'oh he doesn't mind'; 'they can't do this.' Really? I would ask. How do you know? And I would be met with annoyed stares for an answer. Every group of horsepeople knows better than every other, too: the Saddlebred crowd looks with disdain on the rodeo, with its bucking straps and electric prods, its broken backs and broken legs; the hunter-jumper aficionados cringe at the barbarities of the high-stepping Saddlebreds and the methods of soring the feet that often get them that way; the rodeo folk spit in the sand at the knowledge that jumpers are being dosed with cocaine and ridden with shards of plastic in their splint boots; the practitioners of dressage assess everyone from the lofty height of history's oldest school of equestrianism, while everyone else looks back with disbelief that forcing a horse into a frame with too-tight side reins is truly time honorable, or honorable at all.

"I didn't want to stop being with horses, but if the only terms on which I could do so gave me bad dreams, then I didn't know how much longer I could go on kicking the crap out of an aged pony or trotting in circles to perfect my own balance while caring nothing about what the exercise did for the silent one beneath me." - Melissa Holbrook Pierson

"The effort to understand from all angles is the abandonment of limits, the letting go of the body-mind. Then the great fluctuation is established, we hear ourselves, and we come back toward our center without ever leaving the original source. Every point of the movement then becomes immensity itself, and the wave of the Real does not find its fall dizzying, nor its ascension fleeting as it breaks into silver foam in the space of the sky." - Daniel Odier

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Fingers In the Sores

It's very lonely, lovely, strange, and normal. I guess the first and the third are what keep people away - maybe the second and fourth do as well. Of course we know that lonely and strange hurt a little. But lovely also burns, in its way, and normal sometimes feels empty. Yet emptiness - really emptiness - is no less than divine.

Artifice drops away without my trying to make it do so, without my caring if it does or not. I watch these things I so long held dear - my beloved manacles that I could not feel - drift away, and it is effortless and painful at once. I dig my fingers into the sores. I swim crazily, just letting the tide toss me. 

Freedom is not easy. It is vast and all yours if you truly want it. A warning.

The loneliness hurts, sometimes. Hurts like it's supposed to - same as you lean into that deep cooking in sore muscles, same as you don't just let yourself collapse, same as taking one more breath. Hurts like illness purging out, like a wound draining. And it's not loneliness like, "No one loves me; I have no friends; wish I was DOING something right now; etc." It's the loneliness of having nowhere to hide anymore, and the parts of yourself that are still raw and unused to being exposed crying to retreat. It's also the loneliness of being very aware of everyone else's loneliness, feeling it like it's yours. It's the loneliness of learning that, in some ways, you are very much isolated and on your own. 

I can never turn around, only forward and wherever the wind says, really. And I am grateful.

Everything methodically collapses. 

This is happiness.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Your Thing to Ponder (Too Pretty Too Sad Too Silly)

People possess this odd ability to give me books that I never would have purchased myself, and the books end up being exactly what I needed or something I really love - which is, I guess, kind of the same. 

This passage comes from Alice Hoffman's Green Angel, which my mother bought for me during a low period of my life; the book ended up feeling strangely autobiographical.

However, this brief offering should ring for any reader. 

"When I went to my neighbor's to take her fresh water and fish I had caught with my net, I asked if she thought I seemed the same, the girl with ink on her skin.

"The old woman didn't say a word. Instead, she led me to the staircase, where there were the ashy portraits I'd cleaned. Now my neighbor told me to try to guess which one she was. I studied the portraits carefully, but I had no idea which she might be. They looked familiar, but one was too pretty, one was too sad, one was too silly to be my neighbor.

"Guess, my neighbor insisted. Go on. Which one do you think I am?

"Still, I could not tell.

"Look closely, she said, but even when I did, I had no idea. 

"At last I gave up. Who are you? I asked. 

"Each and every one, my neighbor told me. She shook her head as though I were a child rather than a girl about to turn sixteen. Did you think nothing ever changed?"

Sunday, September 12, 2010

As the Dish Outside the Window Fills with Rain

I spent a rather nostalgic weekend in a house that became my home away from home for a short period; this song, for no particular reason, remained stuck in my head the whole time. It really holds no relevance other than the fact that it remained stuck in my head - and yet it does, as the line, "It's time, time, time that you love" is a fitting addendum to my previous entry. I guess the song itself is the addendum. 

It's time that I loved. Nothing more.

Friday, September 10, 2010

Broken Chunks

Even now, it hurts. For those of us who speak the secret language, the details stab a wound we can’t explain. Blood bay with broken stripe. Fifteen hands high.
It stabs my heart, even now. The words that proudly flow from me into the online classified ad – desperately opening with the line “FREE to the right person” – provide a mystical and unwanted return to a time I wish I could forget. But it seems that time and experience of a certain kind just lodges itself in one’s bones and knits itself inextricably into the framework. The weather of late exacerbates the problem.
Have you ever instantly returned?
The chill coming down the October air lifts and magnifies the fully animal, very autumnal-in-itself smell of the horse’s sweat – the lighter notes of clean and worn out leather drift over the top. Myself, a small afterthought of a girl astride, simply nowhere but so deep in now that it feels almost elsewhere as I count silently, the strides disappearing to the foot of the fence. Three, two, one…four, three, two, one…one…one…
The horses hold their breath when airborne. Just like you. Time dissipates in the air.
So, what? Is it, then, the ultimate experience? Because even as I type these words I question what makes me so sure that I’ve been wrong for the last sixteen years. Perhaps I’m wrong now? Did I go wrong in making too much philosophy of it, of over-thinking what the life of a horseman is?
Or am I right, now? Am I right in my sudden break down-and-through of seeing the last sixteen years with fresh eyes? Has the slow yet steady unraveling of the last sixteen years been true?
Perhaps I am trying too hard, even now, in my efforts to efficiently come to one end or the other. And I hate to anthropomorphize, but maybe my heart is not the only one rattling broken chunks inside my chest.
What do my tears mean? I am either making a mistake, or this is just the last cramp in my metaphorical legs as I move onward and upward.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Sometimes I Want to Title Everything [ ]

In case anyone wants to snigger about this not being poetry...I wasn't writing it as poetry. I just wrote it. I am also not saying something vague and airy like, "Poetry is anything you want it to be..." Like, I really just wrote it and don't care much what you find in it. 

Do not create 
Arises when 
Affecting it. 
Pure beauty is already there.
We block it with effort. 
And you will dance. 
All is here. 
Get out of the way, 
And the way is here. 
There is
No effort, no work that will ever
Illuminate it. 
The work is to let it 
And let the fire catch. 
There is no
Holy beyond

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Your Thing to Ponder (A Complex Integration)

Allow me to beat a dead horse: don't make assumptions about what I do and what I am.

"I'm very sure that future of yoga will be safe and solid because of all the yoginis." - Sri T.K.V. Desikachar

"As yoginis we must conceive of a new liberation, one that does not seek a simplistic transcendence but rather a complex using yogic techniques that integrate the emotional and physical with the spiritual, women (and men who have the courage to resonate with their own feminine power) can strengthen themselves not only to resist the negativity of these tumultuous times but to positively influence the direction of life on earth." - Roxanne Kamayani Gupta, Ph.D

"The devadasi was revered as a living symbol of the goddess' shakti, or life-giving power." - Roxanne Kamayani Gupta, Ph.D

"When the devadasi danced, she became the embodiment of the divine, intending to transform the space being danced in as well as the audiences' visceral understanding." - Sofia Diaz

"I saw cascades of energy coming which particles were created and destroyed. I saw the atoms of those elements and those of my body participating in this cosmic dance of energy. I felt its rhythm and heard its sound, and at that moment I knew that this was the dance of Shiva." - Fritjof Capra (about sitting on the beach and watching the waves)

Thursday, August 26, 2010

The Summer Is Gone

Later the ducks
Bob under dusk
And we sit. 
Later still,
The moon shines through 
The traffic never stopping, 
Through the window.
Come morning.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Carving in a Cathedral

Oh, horse...

"Thus am I connected forever to the child that I was; the moment in which I first felt love has been preserved intact inside the pain of learning that it also presumes some loss...

"I never quite nailed it: the call of Eros, child substitute, tool for power, life companion; all of these yet none. In attempting to explain this weird deep love for a large equid I have been like a child at the beach, digging too near the water line for the hole to do anything but fill up again with each shovelful of sand I remove." - Melissa Holbrook Pierson

"I thought it was Easter time, the way the light rose,
Rose that morning.
Lately you've been on my mind;
You showed me the rope,
Ropes to climb
Over mountains
And to pull myself
Out of a landslide
Of a landslide.

I thought it was harvest time;
You always loved the smell of the wood burning...
She with her honey hair;
Dalhousie Castle -
She would meet you there
In the winter.
Butter yellow, 
The flames you stirred,
Yes, you could stir.

I raise a glass, 
Make a toast, 
A toast in your honor.
I hear you laugh
And beg me not to dance,
'Cause on your right, standing by, 
Is Mr. Bojangles:
With a toast, he's telling me it's time
To raise a glass, 
Make a toast, 
A toast in your honor. 
I hear you laugh, 
And beg me not to dance. 
'Cause on your right, standing by, 
Is Mr. Bojangles:
With a toast, he's telling me it's time
To let you go, 
Let you go. 

I thought I'd see you again. 
You said, 'You might do,
Maybe in a carving
In a cathedral
Somewhere in Barcelona.' "

- Tori Amos

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Your Thing to Ponder (Wombs and Ashes)

Walking Around

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swam made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes. 

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool, 
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens, 
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators. 

It so happens I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow. 
It so happens I am sick of being a man. 

Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear. 
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold. 

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark, 
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep, 
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day. 

I don't want so much misery. 
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses, 
half frozen, dying of grief. 

That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline, 
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night. 

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses, 
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar, 
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin. 

There are sulfur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot, 
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror, 
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, 
my rage, forgetting everything, 
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels, and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling. 

-Pablo Neruda