from yesterday:

dry leaves chase me down the sidewalk two or three feet behind, caught in a breeze. upstairs my windows open to the sound of my neighbor's lovemaking. the gentle cooing of pigeons.

organ donor

Some people reject love like a body that rejects a new heart or liver, even though it could save them.

life of the party

And some throw their fragile human bodies off balconies having mistaken themselves for birds. There's only one organ that knows how to fly and it's the heart. The rest winds up broken on the pavement.

the "ex"

I met someone tonight who thought she knew me. She didn't. She thought she knew you too. I can't be sure, but I seriously doubt it. My love for you wasn't casual - like most things.

sensitivity

Today I feel like a scar. Some scars are beautiful. I had a crescent-shaped burn between the thumb and index finger of my right hand for years. I was reaching into the oven to pull out a batch of cookies while trying to hold the phone to my ear with my shoulder. My hand touched a coil. But that's not the kind of scar I feel like today. Today I feel like the kind of scar that's become numb to the touch - prone to insensitivity. Some nerves don't always grow back quite right after injury. If it's your scar, the desire to avoid another accident might make you preoccupied with yourself, with self-preservation. If it's someone else's scar, it's hard not to want to hurry the process or be hurt when you caress this part of them (be it small or large) and are met with insecurity or worse, no response at all.

I'm interested in people with intelligent transparency - people who choose to be openly vulnerable not out of naivete or ego, but from an unshakable sense of inner security. 

mirrors

Most people, in one way or another, try to tell you something about yourself. If you don't know who you are to begin with, this information can be difficult to sort through. You can be taken advantage of. It helps to be able to see what others' motivations are, but this is also difficult unless you've spent some time tracking your own. A lot of time, actually. And, if you're looking for one, a true friend is an individual who has gained some measure of autonomy or freedom for themselves (usually hard-won); everyone else is looking to fill a gap.

Having just found a title for this entry I realize I'm missing the other half of the story. The flip side is that those people who are themselves - who have moved steadily closer, over time, to their own unique destiny, are also mirrors. But in them you see yourself more clearly. Where other people's dirt distorts the truth, these have been polished clean. By love. By the work of love. When standing in front of this quality of person you are asked not to confirm or deny but to simply watch and be. How grateful I am to have had both experiences in my life rather than just the aforementioned. 

a question whose answer, given by me, always sounds wrong

I'm afraid of being judged. Someone might think I am playing the victim. Someone might think I think I've gone through some sort of hardship to get here - that I don't realize what others have suffered. That I'm not truly thankful.

I'm afraid of giving other women reasons to dislike me. They always seem to. Women tend to police other women. I learned early the worst thing you could do in a group of women is be unapologetically yourself. Women are supposed to be modest. 

God forbid you think yourself worthy of love or admiration. God forbid you admit, publicly, that you have ability or intelligence. God forbid you point out your struggles without preface. 

"When you look into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you." - Nietzsche

My experience in Italy reorganized me in a small, but fundamental way. Having looked into so many beautiful people and them into me it's hard, now that I'm home, not to avert my eyes. Kindness is harder to find on the street if you find it at all.

One month later and Venice has remained virtually unchanged - the drunks perpetually drunk, sober, drunk and sober, everyone doing slightly altered variations of exactly what they were doing before. It's only from the outside that you notice it's lack of motion. The drama that feeds this area, and keeps its bars full, gives the greatest illusion of change. I suspect several generations of beach bums (and I'm not talking homeless people) will come and go here none the wiser. 

venice 4

she-wolf

One of these days I'll meet a little piggy whose house I can't blow down.

I'm probably not who you think I am.

But, if you think I'm someone who just kicked ass at darts,
you're a hell of a lot closer than most.

self-importance

I attended a concert the other night and found myself getting upset at the two drunk bitches behind me who wouldn't stop talking. I was afraid I might lose it and say something to them uncharacteristic of a lady so I started thinking up alternatives just in case.

If I could say anything and have them really hear me what would it be? This is what I asked my self. What began as an exercise in how to cut someone down in the most acerbic, poetic way possible ended strangely when I realized that what I really wanted to say to them was this:

"You are not nearly as important as you think you are. You're much more important than that."

darts

The hardest games, for me, are not the ones that require the greatest amount of attention, but the least.

very exciting news

For the first time in my life I can ask myself this question:

"Are you willing to live alone, without a husband or children of your own, for the rest of your life, if that guarantees your ability to continue to pursue what you value most - be that art, truth, or self-knowledge?"

and have the answer be "Yes."

the trick

to living on the cheap
is to always want
what you already have

with me

Someone left a letter for me on the course. It read,  "WE ARE ALL WITH YOU". I may try to find a more eloquent way to say this later on but please accept, for now, that I have found this to be true. And my life has been made immeasurably richer by having all of you in it.

more bullshit

A funny clip from The Onion News Network, sent to me by LJ.

fig tree

blood from a stone

Something happened recently which caused some concern over whether I have the propensity for brutality. LJ assured me I'm not brutal in a malicious way, just that I'm not satisfied with veneers. I want to know what's really there, what's beneath, so I apply pressure; I give people a  little squeeze and watch what comes out. Like tubes of paint. Some are yellow on the inside, some green, others you could wring until you're blue in the face and still, nothing. 

The tube metaphor is over-simplified but, right or wrong, I've noticed I can be judgmental of the ones that seem to come up empty. The colorless ones. The holes. Perhaps there's nothing wrong with being empty. It may, in fact, be part of the natural order of things, of decay. But I've had a different experience of humanity and can tell you without hesitation that most people don't have a clue what or who they are - how valuable, how utterly irreplaceable, how color-full - and I can't help but feel this a terrible waste. It's a fucking tragedy. 

I suspect some readers might balk at my description of the empty ones and my assertion that a lot of folks (not you, of course) are ignorant of some very basic things. Who the hell am I? How can I tell? Holes are often obvious. The incredible lengths people go to to cover up what they view as their deficiencies make them so. These deficiencies, real and imagined, are like landfills where people dump all kinds of shit: their shit, other people's shit, but mostly bullshit. It can be smelled for miles away in any direction.

People who are full of shit can be annoying, but there are few things I have less patience for than people who pretend or presume to have experienced something pure or sacred when truly they have not. This is evident in those of us who label ourselves artists and poets when we have nothing to say (having been present so infrequently as to be unable to bear witness even to our own lives) and no craft with which to say it other than what we graft or imitate from others (which is no craft at all, but mimicry. And toddlers do this with more zeal and accuracy than most adults). 

I include myself in this category. I have, at various points in my life, considered myself a musician when I was and am not. I may not even be a poet. But I do aspire to poetry. And to music. And to honoring those whose contributions to these arts have been real - even if the only honorable contribution I can make is silence.

Free from envy.

For a couple days at least. I am enough.

mission accomplished

.

thrift

where all lost, unwanted, ill-fitting or out-of-fashion things go. someone, someday, will pull my love for you out from under a pile of "Virginia is for Lovers" t-shirts and have found a treasure and a great bargain. 

short report

I'm going to Rome on Tuesday. I'll see beautiful things there. Maybe even be one of them.

relationships

When I was younger I fancied these hiking boots. They were suede and laced up from the toe. I found a pair on discount and bought them - despite the fact that I was broke and they were the wrong size. Sometimes I just want something, usefulness be damned. I was the proud owner of a pair of hiking boots that never took me anywhere, least of all a hike. Now I ask my self, however little I paid, was it worth it?

if you take me

for god's sake take everything. use everything. fill each corner of your room with my ornament. wrap my skin around you like a blanket. fill your stomach with my muscle. my fat. until there's nothing left to taste. until I'm empty and there's nothing left to waste. nothing to spill. I want to be part of life, damn you, not just another reckless driver's road kill.

I was a huntress.

I was an arrow. I was a deer on the floor wailing. My cries shook the walls. They cracked the ceiling. They ricocheted off buildings. All our neighbors beer in hand coughing up their addictions began weeping. The sound echoed through the streets. Through the scent of potatoes roasting in butter and laundry steaming sweetly in the dryer, the dark musky odor of marijuana and nag champa burning together, as in a chorus. I was a huntress. I was a deer. Next time you shoot, shoot to kill. Gut and eat me. Don't just leave me on the floor of your apartment bleeding.