Sunday, March 15, 2015

just another sunday

the dog is curled in the great beast of its poof. the tulips are arching ever so toward the light, opening, opening their fiery petals into the wide, about to drop stance of done. the whale we found in the driftwood sculpture, half burned from an abandoned campfire stands pointing the way to the waves. she is next to me, writing, writing. we are writers now, writing, writing. words fall out of fingertips in a silent roar of what roars up and out from the heart. is that where the writing lives? there, in the heart? i imagine the heart with it's door, opening, and the words spilling forth in long sentences that travel out in both directions down the long arms that carry each plucked letter into words. i imagine the flow that keeps on flowing and the eyes that keep on reading and that silent sound of my own voice mouthing, through a still mouth, speaking, through a mind alone, the silent words as i utter them to the screen.  the fingers pull them into being and i speak them in the silence of my own mind where they no longer live once they have found themselves here in this virtuality. ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, for the virtual of the reality these days. virtuality. i am here. it is sunday. my mind turns to picking up the girl child who will come here to live out the interim. and i will ferry her to and from san francisco. and she will explore the exploratorium and visit haight ashbury and wander, for her time, in golden gate park and i can think of nothing more spectacular than taking her to and from these places over these next few days and hearing the spill of her stories about the memories she's made and will make in these places and the joy of getting to be that kind of mom again. ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. that kind of mom. i look to the piles of things that will shift back into order.  the pool of pennies poured out of the change vase hastily as i had to make my way to the bus. the pairs of shoes, accumulating under the coffee table in some kind of puppy pile of waiting to be taken to the dark part of the top shelf in the closet down the hall.  the papers--of opened mail and bank folders and possibilities of actions yet to take just waiting, as they do, for the toss or keep filing that will eventually come--though the stack may have to grow before the balance of inertia is upset into action. ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. it is a normal sunday morning, with nothing much to do but wait for the petals to fall from tehir place in the vase.  the waves are still waving.  the wind still pushing the air around in a sweet kind of early morning breeze.  life is still living in these still lives of ours.  life.  on just another sunday. ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Saturday, March 14, 2015

pi day (3.14.15)

today, i resume where i left off wherever that was in the post shaven early days of growing hair.  i am here, again, in this now, looking out at the vast horizon of the waving pacific in my pacifica perched on the edge of the ledge of earth still standing firm enough to hold this whole shebang up.  and on this sweet saturday of the pi across forever--the string of symbols that track across the sky of forever--forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever. infinitely repeating patterns across the widest part of forever. where is that?

when something is forever in human terms its always temporal. it's always constrained by the unknowable, eventual end. maybe that's the thing about projecting onto the end of the earth--we end, but it, she, this universe of ours still spinning out at its edges is something that goes on and on and on and on and on to wherever forever began.

forward and back across forever in bridges of humanity that sense something sensate about sentience. ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. what it is to be here in this now across this forever.  i am here, hearing waves, dreaming of the outer edges of pi. there's something gorgeous about arriving in this life--about arriving in consciousness so that something can be considered as felt sensibility.

how to feel forever? ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, what a gorgeous human life to explore the outer edges--my outer edges of forever.  what an expanse to consider across this day if infinite repeating--those symbols stretched out in mathematical actuality across forever.

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, forever.

http://www.slate.com/articles/health_and_science/science/2015/03/pi_day_2015_ten_digits_represented_on_march_14_at_9_26_53.html


Monday, March 12, 2012

here in this now

on the edge of beginning to re-enter the world in a new way--an old way--a way from the somewhere in the sometime of once upon it.  i am here now.  i am here in this now looking at the universe beyond this window of words appearing as i type them--as i let them travel down my arms to my fingers poking at keys.  i have a keyboard again--a whole keyboard separated from a screen doing its thing there in that space and place where whatever comes into being comes.  i am here now.  i am here, clean butt in clean underwear on one of two chairs that still live here in this house.  i am leaving this house that is not a house.  i am leaving it.  when? under what circumstances? shall i wait for the authorities? just to see the eyes of my former friend as she looks pathetically in my direction? doing what she thinks she must? to make me, my ideas, my friends, my experience, my stuff, my willingness go away? i am here.  it is 4:49 a.m..  i am here and hoping for something...what is it? peace??? when one must leave, and one gets in one's car or on one's horse or even heads off into whatever landscape they imagine with their nap sack on their back--ohhhhhhhhhh--that's it.  i shall make myself a nap sack.  i shall head off into the sunset with a nap sack.  what are those made of??? sticks and handkerchiefs? a sandwich? what else??? here in this now, i am full of the fantasies of what will come when something does.  i am here in the moment of this unfolding now thinking about things that think themselves into being.  i am here, wording the way forward, where there is not one? where there is no thing but this thing in this life--this up early ness that manifests in words on a virtual screen that may never ever be printed on any single bit of former tree.  i am here.  i am writing.  i am here.  i am stringing the beads of words--one single letter at a time.  i am here with the san francisco cups for coffee and the expresso thing he gave me--lit by the glow of the big screen for this computer life he has invited me to live.  i am alive in connectivity.  i re-enter the space of work in the world.  i look at the burning tool that i've been using to etch my hearts into wood--smelling the stuff of burning--ever smelling the stuff of burning.  i am in the foundry.  ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, the found dry.  i am here in this place of what can become of this moment in this way of finding something--light and shadow? play? courage? water? wisdom? sunlight bouncing off the silver that made the waves of water on the big wall back when magick lived here.  strange, the magick.  seeing one's self in the seeing of one's self i find the scene of seen.  i hear the words of now.  i write them down.  they are only words, after all.  they are only the things that come out of the ends of the fingertips doing what they do to come out of the ends of the fingertips.  tipping the scales, i suppose.  words do that in their time.  they tip the scales of something--life? balance? balance over time? i am off to the hills that look like the hill i used to be entrusted with...forever shirking all that has been bestowed upon me, and never, it seems, knowing when to leave.  i stay too long in things.  i stay too long.  now, i am approaching the end of my stay, here, at the end of this space and place in time.  there is always the coming and going from things to things, spaces to spaces, places to places, story to story.  there is a public face and an unmasked place.  there is a world to word.  it shows up in the writing first--when i remember to show up.  here, it is, i am.  showing up, it seems.  5:am.  is there time for another dream???

Thursday, March 1, 2012

three sentences that are not sentences...

It was one of those perfect nights.  My soul had decided I would be in the room—not knowing, as I often don’t, where the room was exactly.  There is something perfect, for my spirit, about entering the flow of joy and following it as it moves me along.  There is something wholly alive about living the the moments of perfectly taken care of in that way.  I am here now.  I am here in the hearing of this clearing and I am writing.  My fingers are doing their magic.  I am asking for something—for the bump and groove of the sand to trip its way westward and for me to wake up in my above the ground way of knowing, this, too, will yield its spicy delight as some time in tune with weather.  What am I writing now? Just writing.  Writing in the written sound of sounding out the courage filling its fulfilled places—here and now am i.  ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, what wants to be written is so hungry now for the eyes of the page.  Blogging ever onward, a life lives itself out in rhyme.  Perhaps.  Time.  Perhaps.  Miles of courage order themselves one sweet letter at a time.  I am here now, in this hearing.  I am here now, in this clearing.  There is cleansing, still, and always, to do.  There is something in the somewhere of what has come and gone before the here and now of this moment.  I am here.  I am here.  I am here.  Here in the hearing heard of what is always and only life living itself out in fingers reaching for keys--------oh.  Tell me a truth I don’t already know? I am a sham ashamed of something? What? What.  This life lives its quiet desperation out of longing—whole enormities of longing—and inside that, there is just this one thing.  One thing whispers on one sound of one story in one mind of this beginning.  Beginning here.  I am here, beginning.  What is the here and now hour of this song? Psalming itself out of time? Out of quiet tribes of wilderness longing toward wholeness? What? Courage? Is this? in this night? Of rainy day? I am here.  I must put the laundry in.  I must find the quarters.  I must take the next right step on the wider path of what is possible in possibility.  Why does she say there is peace in me now? When I am most afraid? Of what ground will make itself? Soon, there must be palo alto dreams of where to set up my things.  Things. Things.  How to start clean of things?



We begin wherever we do down the long hallway of truth seeking.  Here in this hour of now, the world begins its turning over again—and I become all that I become in this wisdom.



Love loves me.  This is precious treasure.  I am still here and alive.  This is gratitude overwhelming me.



Life.

Does

Indeed.

Go on.

Friday, February 24, 2012

spinning missing vulture

somewhere to write the words--that think themselves out loud when in the activity of moving the fingers across the keyboard--its a kind of truth serum, i suspect.  its a kind of wording of words that order themselves when the opportunity is made--when the intention is set for them to come.  i am here now.  i am here in this hearing and clearing saying what there is to be said.  i didn't know--didn't realize the real lies i was living.  so many still to fall away.  i am learning to tell the uncomfortable truths.  i am learning not to hide or apologize or pretend or take back any of the things said in anger--as they are finally said when the anger gets to live itself out.  like fire.  fire.  can you imagine telling a little fire to stay little--when it knows it is supposed to grow up and be a forest fire? to clear the landscape? to re-fertilize the earth? can you imagine, if that little fire was turned into a plastic candle? with a fake light? how did all the light in the world get to be fake light? what is this thing caging electricity has done to us all? do you remember when we had to protect the fire? to carry it with us from place to place inside a glass hurricane, sure it would live between us all the day long as we brought our spirits to the room of our togetherness and let loose all that would come unglued? why is it we glue down the most precious bits of ourselves? keep them carefully tucked away? oh, yes--so the ones who can't see won't.  and the ones who can see and would steal what is beautiful and make it dirty, lonely, ugly, bad, wrong, won't get the chance.  we keep what is beautiful.  we keep it tucked in forests and hiding in caves and buried deep in the darkest earth.  we keep what is beautiful in storehouses of locked away.  we keep what is treasured in chests so heavily laden with armor and locks and keys that the keys have all lost their way to the locks that unlock the treasures so buried inside the coffins of unbreatheable that live all the way away from what is whole and good in a living life.  i am here, in my living life.  i am here in my fashioned living room.  i am here, looking at all i have been a party to creating--things on a shelf, stuff in a jar, storehouses of wine and possibility, courage, loss, lost.  i am here.  on the precipice of now.  having witnessed, in my way, the changing of the guard, the passing of an era, the letting go of that which has let go of this life.  i am choosing my hallways carefully now--as that is where all the living is--the hallways of coming and going from destination to destination, chair to chair, futon to futon, life to life.  art to life to work to life to train to life to corridor and hallway of happenstance connection to holding chamber of teeth and tongue--if i commit to a schedule of performances at open mics around the bay will i be famous in a year? will i be a hack? hackneyed or hockneyed or lockneed or lock jawed or lonely? will i be lonely? if i let myself be alone? whitney took the pills and drank the booze and let herself slip into oblivion.  it is such an interesting slip, is it not? i am interested in tongues and slipping and the accidental honesties they tell alongside lies.  i can not find my vulture.  our vulture is missing.  was safe in the freezer and now gone.  i have interrogated the interrogatable--the one mind spinning in the mind spinning place of the up up stairs.  i am ready for that mind to leave.  it must take its body with it.  i want my vulture back.  i eat the pomegranate seeds covered in dark chocolate from trader joe's.  i prepare for my many meetings that take place this day.  i begin at my beginning to begin again at reclaiming my life, my things, my space, my stories, my work.  mine, mine, mine, mine, mine.  mine.  it is a mine--this life.  i am still and always descended from miners working the coal in newcastle digging up the first dark stuff of the earth.  coal lead to diamonds and diamonds to oil--but there is salt in there, too, isn't there.  there is always salt in the wounds of the earth.  can you feel it? taste it? perhaps it is time, again, to pay a visit to the sea.  ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, where is this life taking me? a boat, i think--my queendom for a boat and a moat and a castle when i want it and a draw bridge i can draw--follow directions--every day i write my book.

and here it is today again.

Friday, February 10, 2012

working it out: the presence of absence

here we are in the middle of this space and place of possibility--working out the willingness to do and not do what can be done and not done in this undone of doable what? i am thinking of daniel goldstein's sculptures and the presence of absence he talks about and the surrounding halo of medicine bottles and lumped glass and string and the architectural element of the grate or gird or grid that allows all the places that hang down to hang down and i begin at this beginning to wonder what happens in the happening bits.  what is this space and place of wonder? what is this hour of now? what is this courage? courageous? what is this real of real realing its reel of time--wound up in strings--casting into the endlessness of rivers not yet crossed--what can come of this? thisness? what can come of this place and way of waves? what can come of this coming? and going? what can be here in the now of this container that contains what? precious heart. pumping heart. bloody heart. inhale and exhale of breath.  wider dream.  worldfilled thing of things that thing themselves into being things that attempt what is human? is human any attempt at being it? is human the animal of itself? is human the component parts of itself? is there more compassion in a human once a pig's heart has replaced the broken pump of the human one? is there love? in this space? of trying? working? moving? dreaming? thinking into the feeling of something? love? wonder? life? intimidating life? feeling life? real life? reeling life? what is this place of thisness? what is this journey? what is this safety? what is this place? what is this courage? what is this courageousness? what is this hour of now unfolding across minutes and seconds of time in the mystery of what can not be mysterious in the something of spoken light.  in the unspoken shadows, there is still a place to stock and store the dream.  in the spoken light, there is exposure, visibility, seeing things that can be seen.  is this the way of it, then? is this the here and now of it? is this the wilderness of what was wild? is this the thing? that things itself? onto? into? courage? i am here, now, where i have always been.  i am here.  in this here there is the wilderness and wondrousness of love.  it is all and only love.  but it doesn't always feel like it.  the presence of absence...the absence of presence...the willing forgetfulness of what was once whatever it was that was what it was when it was what it was.  here is the now of it.  hearing itself speak up for itself in its own space of what lives.  here.  what lives here lives.  ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, so that is it.  what lives here lives.

this, too, is alive.  still.  in the now of this hour.  in the space of this time.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

i wake up

i am looking, looking.  i am writing, righting.  i am reading, reading.  here in this now, i am awake.  it is thursday.  it is quiet.  there is nothing going on but the rent? songs, forever spinning in my head from all of their playing on the radios of the past.  i don't have them now.  does anyone? internet radio stations while i read.  spotify, telling my facebook friends what i'm listening to...old cds...just one wine box kind of half full of music i bought in my lifetime before this one.  i hae been so lucky to live so many lifetimes.  it is hard to tell all their stories--hard to notice all the places where the places are--and then, not so much.  it is not so very hard.

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh--a lost thing that wrote itself as fluid as water, gone to the switching between e-mail addresses and letting the world go the way it does in the gone of it all.  the gone of it all.  i am here now--after all the beauty of that flow having flown away.  isn't that the thing about flight? there is always the air to escape into--to fly out of sight with.  this is the way of that post--to have gone where it has gone as gone.  and now, i am not there anymore.  i am here.  i am here in the loss of that thing.

so fast, it happens.

she is helping someone die for money.  a dying woman is paying her to be with her until she stops breathing.  she is paying her to make her laugh, to see to her comfort, to feed her ice chips, to start and stop the flow of visitors, to allow for rest, to be present with her presence while she is still present.  it is the work of every priestess--to attend life.  to attend to the life of the living while the living are alive--and then to clear away the death, as fast as it must find a new place to go.  death lives in the air? but dies in the ground? is this how it works? or the water?

i consider.  i hang the garment brought as offering to me outside on the hangar of the altared book.  this woman's spirit--where will it go when it exits the body container? the body container? the body temple? the holy body of extraordinary life that lives itself out in story and mindset and mythology and reads itself wise in books and tells itself out in story and dances its way into air and beauty to the beat of a holy song.  collaboration is like this.  collaboration.  singing, dancing, storytelling, talking, being together in the together of being, making a mess of what can be made a mess of...art making. 

life continues the continuance of continuing.  it goes on.  stuff flows from natural fibers to makers hands to ships to ports to trucks to stores to sales to homes to garbage bags to trucks to goodwill to dumps to landfill to natural fibers of whatever grows in plastic from plastic.  what are the plastic trees ever going to give fruit to???  oh, yes, plastic fruit.  i am almost away from the things that have never been alive as anything but oil in the deepest ground.  when you take her wetness from her, she creaks about--bones and such.  life.  life.  life.  life is the most extraordinary thing--all green and unfolding, blowing in the winds of rain and wind.  i consider the air that has not been moving much except for the open door.  i consider the ways of this floor. i consider the space of making--the art of things re-thinging themselves in movement.  i consider flow.

flow.

flowing endlessly on. 

a kind of movement in the motionless space of here and now in sedentary time.  i am here and now in sedentary time.  it is sweet. 

good morning.