protection

Wrap you in Matthew's rose-gold light

my arms just for a night.

Habit is what keeps

us stubbornly knocking on

doors which are open.

Panning for gold I

wait for someone to bring me

more than just their dirt.

dad

my father is a tall drink of water. he can two-step. he and my grandfather are the earth in me. solid. sturdy. elemental. moving in ellipses around a single axis. things grow and we're not afraid. of the dirt. our hands. or sweat. we work. we eat bread. we bake. we wake in time for the dawn. sit cross-legged on the lawn as seasons pass through us. are aware of our dependence on the sun. my dad. can tell you the story written on the underbelly of every rock. and name all trees.

mom

my mother has black eyes and olive skin. born in Vienna to William and Beatrice. who were in love. she is the fire and weather in me, but mostly the fire. eye of the tiger. we hunt and laugh. as witches and sirens do. tickle and tease we swoon. over faery tales. whose meaning we pick over. like hungry birds. mask our loneliness with words thin as smoke. we delight in those that can tame us and those who get burnt alike. we secretly want both.

I am happy to report ...

... that I'm happy. But don't tell anyone. It's a secret.

children 2

tonight I'm going to write about letting go. then I'm going to do it. not forcefully, like something being torn or wretched away. but gently, tenderly. the thing I'm letting go of will not even notice it's new freedom. the way a child's hand slips from yours as they run to some new toy.

ugly little things

I cried tonight after you left. At some point I must have decided there would be no more tears - that I have cried enough. Some cold, calculating part of me added them up and decided any more would appear too self-indulgent. So I cut my self off the way a bartender would. A person can get drunk on tears. They're addictive in large doses. But they are also healing and denying my self them, as I have other things recently, isn't healthy. I'm still punishing my self for being unlovable. We do that, you know. Lives are wasted on such self-flagellation. Not good enough. Not worthy. Or bad. These are addictive in large doses. As is denial. The gut-reaction is always to suppress. I've been jealous and sad - emotions which are, to me, unacceptable. They make me feel small and insubstantial. They make me feel so little. It's uncomfortable. It's hard not to turn away from my self in these moments. To give it the cold shoulder. To snub. But it's how we deal with pain, crisis and hardship that's really the test isn't it? When things are going great it's easy to open, to be welcoming to ourselves and others. When there's a surplus in our lives how hard is it to give? It's not. I've been sad before and saw how people treated it as infectious. They'd keep their distance from me as though it were viral. I always thought they were missing the easiest of opportunities for kindness. I realize now how I've been doing the same. I've been treating my own sadness and jealousy as diseases. They're not. They're more like a scab (irritating and itchy) that you just shouldn't pick off. Ugly little things yes, but part of the process.

'I love you', said the man.

'Strange that I feel none the better for it', said the woman.

A.R. Orage, On Love

Drunks on the peninsula

All think that they're the Mayor.

Baja, Cabo Cantina, The Whaler,

Hinano, Mercedes, The Terrace -

What a menace. Be thankful if

You're not one of them;

These guys are a dime a dozen.

two not one

I overheard a barista at Starbucks yesterday. She said it hurt being broken up with, but that she was okay because it hadn't been "real" anyway. Whatever it was, it wasn't real. I don't know. It seems to me that most romantic relationships in general take on a quality of the unreal. They employ fantasy and imagination. They thrive on ideas like the past and the future. They exploit the emotions. Sometimes they're even validated by a certain chemical attraction - if you're lucky. Our individual experiences of the same event can vary so greatly it's questionable whether two individuals are in the same relationship at all. I've experienced this. And jumping from one to another is merely swapping one unreality for a different, momentarily more tantalizing one.

So where does the truth lie? Somewhere between these two perspectives or completely outside of it? And can two people ever live together so harmoniously and in the moment that their experiences coincide? Does it even matter? Does the animal part of me, driven by its own machinery, give a fig? Two are not one. It's much easier for me to grasp some notion of harmony and oneness on a macro level. Here in the dirt, the water and salt of the body, or two bodies, I find it almost impossible to imagine.

Can you lose your virginity twice?

The obvious answer is no. Another answer (as I may or may not have understood it) might be that certain folks have acquired the ability to experience things which are novel as novel - every moment being different from every other. Perhaps for these few there is no such thing as a repeat performance. Every time is their first.

My question now is this: could a person experience something as new not out of some achievement of willful presence and remembrance of self, but because they have forgotten themselves so fully that their repeat performance is experienced as a first? And how to tell the difference?

I'm plagued with a sense of my own inability to decipher whether or not I am improving or simply cycling through the latter of these two scenarios over and over again. And I feel strongly that if I don't work my ass off this will be the only story I ever have to tell. Not the story of my life, but the one of my slow death.

I must remember to remember.

twice I've woken

in bed

from earthquakes

only to realize

it was

my own body

shaking

a day in the life

Today I did my sitting, practiced guitar and Chi Kung, worked, updated my website, struggled with my blinds, framed and hung several prints and a few of Paul's drawings. Dave from New Zealand (with the red Moto Guzzi) helped me with my TV and took me out for a bite. I went home, showered and walked out to the pier. A clear night in Venice. The stars are out and the sky is dotted with airplanes on their way to and from LAX.

I like being alone and resist the urge (which I believe is mostly social) to feel as though I'm missing out on something by enjoying my own company instead of someone else's. If it is our desires which veil the truth from us, I'm tired of being shrouded in lust and longing. Tonight I wore a dress in which I can feel everything. There was a breeze off the ocean. It touched me gently. Discipline and curiosity may not be able to do this, but I plan to fill the man-gap with these anyway.

On my way home I was forced to choose between the lesser of two evils: walking down the dark alleyway I live on and where a bum and his shopping-cart full of belongings has taken up residence or take Catamaran and go in the back way. For those of you who don't know I recently vacated a life (and love) on that street. Walking it makes me feel awkward and ghost-like, tonight especially in my white dress.

I shunned the bum, deciding at the same time I need not be ashamed of my incredible ability to move on.

venice birdman

somebody else's trash

I smoked a cigarette by the water today and thought about what I wrote last night. Everybody comes here to visit the beach. They get oiled up, fight over off-street parking and leave trash everywhere. There are lots of little crabs on the bottom of the canal. Our filthy canal. Should I add my cigarette butt to it? These little niceties are a drop in the bucket. 

If you don't give a shit about your self, why should I? Every decision carries an exact weight and has a quality which acts on the soul either to tear it apart or build it slowly. This I know for sure. Me? I threw mine away. You can do whatever you want with yours. 

In the past three months I've attended two Guitar Craft courses. One in Seattle the other in Barcelona. There seem to be more opportunities for silence on courses (remember I've only been to two) than off. It arrives and takes hold of the room. Stops my tongue wagging. Reminds me to listen. That I can listen. Even in a room erupting with sound.

I fell into the role of silence nazi with relative ease. During one of the solo performances (given by Patrick) a rude individual at the far end of the table had the audacity to pour themselves a glass of water in the middle of his piece. It was highly audible. Downright loud. I leaned in to see who this person was but stopped short. The performance ended. Conversation ensued. I heard a voice across the room and realized. The person I had been judging was a guest on the course. But not just any guest, a child. Greg had brought his two lovely children to visit. I was ashamed, deeply.

It was hard then not to ask the question. What would happen if we treated each other with the same patience and tenderness we treat children?

It's all too easy to forget this question or to formulate an answer to it that suits our laziness and fear more than our sense of humanity and compassion. I nannied today and witnessed, with complete, unadulterated acceptance and love, a child being themselves. On my way home I thought about how very lucky I am for this experience and was forced to ask my self yet another question. Have I ever loved and accepted, fully, another person without judgment, without expectation, without exception. I've taken stock of all those I hold closest to me and don't think so. No. This is partly because I, along with most children, have been hurt by adults my whole life. But this is not the point.

The point is that I am very, very sorry. I am ashamed to my core. And I'm going to work on that.

venice 2

It will never again be safe for you to leave the house. You might see me. (I am everywhere.) And if you did, your face would melt off. Or you would turn to stone. Or perhaps you are already stone.

I'm watching a man pick through the feathers of a blue Macaw - who may or may not be watching me back with his black eye. He edges onto the man's shoulder as a big dog nears. The dog (a Great Dane?) still has its balls. The Macaw's name is Rocky. Rocky's owner enjoys, as I do, the reactions of passerby's. I like seeing children reach out to touch the giant bird. They're so brave. He likes pretty women. Rocky is 21. Rocky may bury his owner. Macaws have a rather long life-expectancy. This one will live forever. Like Bunnicula. Or he'll die only to rise up again like a Phoenix. Like my heart in a blaze of fire and fury. You should be there the moment it happens. The fireworks. The color. Everything awash with love. It will be beautiful. When I'm ready and not until then.

Until then I amuse myself with other people's stories and try to fulfill my obligations honorably. I look down on a small patch of sidewalk from a table in a dirty cafe on Washington and pretend I don't see you there.

the tear

can happen fast. it can happen gradually. it can crack open like a fissure in the earth or be divided over time in layers. it can be like paper. or skin. it can hurt. the tear is sometimes invisible. something may look whole when in fact it is not. this is most people.

invisibility is something I've wished for lately. all the aching parts of me are so obvious. at the market or on the street it's easy. you avoid eye contact, keep to your self and fade into the background. this is impossible with family. with family, as on a goddamn packed flight to Los Angeles, you're bumped into constantly. you're seen. it's unavoidable.

my recent trip to new york completely unseated me. like being knocked off a horse and dragged several yards before losing consciousness. it was my cousin's wedding. it was a beautiful event I had trouble enjoying. the upside of all this business is that I know I'm still alive. I've experienced just about every variation of tearfulness known to me.

for instance

some tears sound like small animals. some hiccup like tired children. some wail. some possess the entire body. turn it inside out. squeeze air from the lungs until there's none left. some hide in the clenched jaw. in the stomach. some moan and rock like a seasick sailor. are captured by the eyelids. soaked like sponges around each crease smoothing them out. the slow but steady trickle. guilty tears. angry tears. tears which break us in half and prevent us from walking or standing up straight. grab hold of the shoulders and shake us violently. pass unseen from eyes to hands. whose marks remain as splashes on paper, spots of snot and blots of wetness on t-shirts or mascara stains on pillowcases. we wear them. we wash and try to iron them out. our faces.

I left yoga today feeling emotionally unsettled. During my practice I realized I wasn't completely there. Not necessarily because my attention had wandered, but because I was insecure. I had a very similar experience during Kung Fu not long ago, but had the added disadvantage of being distracted by a remote but powerful memory. In any case, I circumvented personal interaction with my teacher and headed for the door, for the safety of anonymity. Which, of course, led me to the local Starbucks where I purchased my comfort beverage of choice and a banana. I went outside to find a seat and was greeted warmly by an elderly gentleman who was sitting alone. I selected a seat at the table closest to his without hesitation.

It wasn't long before I realized this sweet little old man was thumbing through the pages of a XXX-rated sex magazine. This effected me in a way I couldn't have anticipated. Whatever response this man hoped to elicit I wasn't sure, but I did know one thing; he wasn't going to hurt me. This was inexplicably comforting. Whatever he held in his mind didn't matter. It had nothing to do with me and couldn't hurt me in any way. He was so obviously past the age of being capable of sexual violence, perhaps even sexual function.

I didn't leave for a while. Walking away I felt quieted and had the sense that this man represented something to me - perhaps my own unbalanced desires (sex being such an easy one for people to distort). Perhaps one day mine will wither and age. If I stop nurturing them they lose their power. Perhaps one day they will be as scary to me as this old man and his pictures, instead of the monsters they are now.

animal sleep

shy and resistant he places his 
head in my hand for a scratch.
having woken from animal sleep.
my basic weakness is this: your
hand any hand reaching I need to be
touched and to touch everything
with love. with curiosity. my 
need to know scratched tenderly.

Today I saw your faces everywhere I looked.
Tomorrow I will only ache to see them.

venice 1

I saw a homeless man a few nights ago

palms upturned, arms outstretched under a beam

of fluorescent light behind a convenient store in Venice.

He spoke softly to himself as we drove by.

It was the light of God, of knowledge,

and he was Jesus, Muhammad or Moses.

prayer 1

there are too many clocks in this house to be counted
each set to flow into every other. each moment pulling toward the next
like the sound of soup brought in through the front teeth
sitting alone perhaps in an italian restaurant

clocks, hands, teeth, checkered table cloths and
bread rolls, the moment I slipped out of the bath. all these converge.
our soup of membranes and casual conversation. our fucking
our loving. everything we make together holy

salty

the sea laps             its foam bath           back to itself

a dream reversed                    receding a great splash 

a room filled then emptied

you were behind the wheel         of a whale blowhole 

swallowed                   mouth full of krill I swam       I 

dusted the sand from my feet       and got back in my 

car        I        tore out                                   myovaries

birdhouses

The electrical wires in this city crackle. The way a microphone might or speakers in a car which are blown out. I haven’t been here so long yet that I don’t pause to look up. I wait for them to fall on my head. Like twigs I expect them to snap. I’ve already been brought to trial. I sent a head-shot and a photo in my bathing suit ahead of me. It was enough. 

Everyone wants to know how I am. Only I can see the lines in my knuckles. Like dried earth. Andy Goldsworthy's garden of red leaves slide down my legs a cunt of thorns.

All girls draw their bodies as trees. And get tattoos of roses. There’s a birdhouse in the back yard I left unfilled. There is nothing here to eat.

children 1

if I give them what they want, they promise to forgive me. that's how much I mean to them. paper boats floating. then tipped over. each with its own little captain. and if I cry it makes them feel better. it makes their hope more buoyant. softens the blow. I resist placing my happiness in the hands of others. this makes me "selfish." my boat is supposed to be surrendered completely. without them even asking.

one of a thousand regrets

is there still time to return

all the things I bought
(for comfort)
in exchange for my absolute
knowledge
that all things are holy?

concentric circles

It's only been a month, but the Atlanta I knew no longer exists. It is having a gas crisis and I'm paying a dollar fifty three at the pump. The people I love there are still moving in concentric circles. Are meeting on purpose and by accident in any number of places. Are battling six foot cockroaches under the deck and drinking beer. They're looking out at the city from the patio of the Standard and trying to get comfortable in those unreasonably high metal chairs. I know it would be easier and healthier for me to put these aside. Live in the present. But the smells and sounds of that city are with me. As you are with me. And it's not so easy.

our last meal. my words still echo in our stairwell.

You ask me why I chose the things I did. Somehow every time I try to close my hand it's forced open down upon itself and straight through again. The point is I have no idea. You. And I. Are always at it's mercy. At my heart's whim. With no way to forgive it. There's nothing to forgive.