lovers

a short poem from one stranger to another. handwritten, it was there then it was gone. in some pant pocket. set accidentally free amongst the keys or digging for the phone some grow in depth, in dimension. some are just an apparition. they flash then disappear. some hang shamelessly in there. words of smoke, of an early morning mist that burns off slowly. it was the sun on our last tuesday.

christmas in venice

The holiday season has finally caught up with Venice. It's raining and cold outside. I'm sitting on a bar stool at Hinano's listening to live blues, waiting for the moment when I'll have to get up and dance. I've seen Satin Blue perform before. They're usually on fire by the end of the first set. Until then, I nurse my Guinness and take stock of my surroundings. Christmas lights dangle from the awning across the street. People coming in have wet hair, pause to brush off their shoulders and take in the warmth. In the corner a couple are locked in an open-mouthed kiss. They have a small, protective entourage of beautiful people with them. At the table beside them two regulars in dirty jeans and plaid flannel shirts play pool. One of them bobs his head approvingly to the music while the other, taking a shot, exposes his fuzzy plumber's crack. I appreciate the juxtaposition. At the end of the bar a woman with braided hair, grinning madly, looks up from her notebook as the white-haired musician to her close right bends a note plaintively on his guitar...

coins

I woke up feeling a little raw this morning. I've been trying to place myself within the scheme of things. I suppose there's some big picture I'm in. Sort of a Where's Waldo type scenario where I can't seem to locate my self. I walked down to my local Starbucks, where everything and nothing takes place all day every day. An opportunity for kindness presented itself. A clear moment in which to act. But kindness is not the right word. It is too big of a word. To give and receive simultaneously. So it was also his gift to me, both of us recipients.  

I've been reflecting these last few days on my motivations. Specifically the ones behind efforts I make to improve or better my self. It seems there are two wells from which this impulse springs. One is inwardly arising, a voice of compassion and command. The other a reactionary ripple from my childhood. A habit. A hole in the development of my world view I'm still trying to fill or give meaning.

I must have always believed in the existence of unconditional love because I've spent a lifetime torturing my self for not being "good" enough to receive it. My desire to become worthy of love is paralleled only by my distrust of it. At some point we're all told something we believed existed doesn't, like Santa Claus. Love can be like this.

Interesting how two impulses to do something at least outwardly similar completely threaten to unseat each other. If I learn to trust my self and my impulse towards compassionate self-acceptance and growth I necessarily have to let go of the one centered solely around my belief that I am undeserving of said love. If I keep holding on to my distrust and need to "become" worthy I will always have a vested interest in my own failure - proving to myself once and for all there is no such thing as god. I mean love. Interesting how these are two sides of the same coin.

Everything you touch touches you back.

Amendment to the Prostitution

What I mean to say is that, in my view, sex and the process which results in sex (whether it be for recreation, for love, or procreation) should never be dehumanizing. And if it is, something has gone not just a little, but terribly wrong - for everyone.

alpha FAIL

A guy who needs to make other guys look bad in order to impress a girl or who thinks trying to make a girl feel stupid is going to raise the likelihood of him getting laid is a common, over-inflated, blowhard who needs lessons in self-respect. A woman who beds this kind of man is either actually stupid, comprehensively naive, or desperately attached to the act of sex as a means for personal validation. I don't know which is worse.

venice 5

blind spots

People seem quick to point out that others have not shared the same unique experiences as they... when trying to prove their own argument but tend to overlook the fact that, for this very reason, probably 95% of all their other opinions are completely baseless or taken on some authority other than their own direct experience, experimentation, or knowledge.

I am continuously surprised at how impressive other people find even the smallest acts of authenticity.

This blog has, lately, become a place for notes. So, okay.

my apartment is a den of illness. my relationship to this singular room changes by the day. before it was quite rosy. a sanctuary in fact. now it is yellowed by its feverish occupant. this is like the difference between a stream which is flowing and one which is blocked.

today I long for atlanta. things don't seem so far away there. roads traversed many times become shortened by familiarity.

There is frequently something very real and worthwhile in that which I dismiss automatically. This is especially true when it comes to people. Today I saw how easily snobbery can turn into bigotry. How violent and inhumane sides are when taken. It was terrible. I haven't enough tears to shed for this poverty of perspective, for black and white, us and them. These days I feel I exist, more and more, in shades of grey.

Sitting at the window of Cow's End, coffee in hand, looking out the window. A man runs his fingers through his white/yellow hair seven times. He's not facing me, but I can tell he must be a few pounds overweight. Behind me a tupperware container holding loose tea scrapes against wood as it's removed then replaced on the top shelf. Outside a chubby toddler reaches out to touch a rainbow-colored macaw. He reaches with his right while holding a red plastic rake somewhat threateningly in his left. The owner of the bird, wearing khaki cargo pants, loafers with ankle socks, a Son of a Son of a Sailor Jimmy Buffet shirt and one large, gold-colored eagle buckle, rises from his chair and returns the bird, protectively, back to its perch on his shoulder.

That my clearest moments of perceiving tend to underline my error in perceiving itself. That these observations somehow reveal the nature of my particular obstructions. Walls over which I climb only to encounter another which I in turn mistake for reality.

what's required

On Friday Michael gave a brief description of Marge Barstow's certain kind of presence. It stood in clear contrast with my desire to feel Alexanderish, as though I've already "got" it. She must have worked long and hard on her self - far past someone only interested in looking or feeling knowledgeable. I suspect it's the same with any undertaking. Those of us who seek knowledge in order to gain attention, security or power don't get very far though we might think we have. I can't imagine anything less than a truly brave show of repeated, sincere, steadfast, commitment to love and selflessness could ever get anyone anywhere, really. And this cannot be faked. Remorse for undue cockiness and for being chronically self-involved. Horror. More horror. But somewhere past my egotism, narcissism and self-love, I have reason to believe there lies a world yet unknown to me. A world of subtlety, possibility and everlasting, indefatigable hope.

on want

Want has a voice and language all its own. It sounds like a capitalist, an auctioneer, a dealer. Want wants me to rationalize, to paint, to gloss-over. Want is irresponsibility. It tells me it is better to buy and sell (now!) than to know and be free. Want, you are a peddler, a carpetbagger, a taxman. Want, you are the ultimate salesman. There's nothing I bought from you I didn't already have. 

A tangible and immediate result of my first few weeks in Alexander training is that I am reminded more regularly that I have a choice. This new and sporadic freedom has made me feel braver emotionally. And I have undertaken a new commitment - one that may not last forever, but which feels authentic nonetheless. This commitment is to myself, to be as honest with myself as I would be with a trusted and impartial friend. It's an invitation to learn and to decide, more actively, the course of my life.

notes on like and dislike

Lately I've noticed how my observations of others turn immediately into like and dislike. This is automatic. How limited and incomplete my perceptions are when viewed through this lens. Like and dislike bar the door to my experience of empathy and compassion, and from taking the flaws of others impersonally, as they should be. That they cease being flaws. That they were never flaws. That this may be a sort of automatic degradation of the energy created from observation. That this degradation is due to my using the energy generated from observation to fuel my ego. How I use it to serve my sense of separateness and superiority. That this is self-serving and ego-protective. That this is not self-serving in its truest sense but degrading, literally.

I'm afraid to think about you. 
I lapse so easily into fantasy.
The fingers of my imagination
have no place in your feather
hair, plucking at your soft, perfect
ears or stroking the divot gently
concealed between your protrusion
of lower lip and plateau of chin.

my sister is beautiful

 

I found this video my sister took of her feet while going through wedding photos the other day.

Love is what got me through my 5 straight years of fasting for Ramadan working at a restaurant where chunks of brownie, vegetables and various kinds of fruit were literally at my fingertips and being called un-American by my family the time it happened to fall on Thanksgiving. I am sad to say the love that carried me through in the past has, over time, slipped into obligation. Sadder still is that I find myself incapable of carrying out this month-long commitment without it.

Today I performed for the first time since Italy.  It went better than I expected and certainly better than I deserved. As a result I am, again, a member of an Orchestra in which I play cello.

Today I am exceedingly common.

objectification

You used to actually
care for me or at least
I thought you did.

Now you only call
when you need to
take a shit... and 

I know you don't
want to have to
hear about it.

Well, I'm sorry
but you can't flush
this one down or

simply close the lid -
because I'm a person
not a toilet.

invertebrates

like a worm, or a mollusk, like a jellyfish or squid
like a beetle, praying mantis or an eight-legged arachnid
like a knight who hunts a dragon, troll, elf, unicorn or gnome
you're Karkinos on a quest to find his mythical backbone

night fishing

The tide was high tonight. I could feel the waves break against the bottom of the pier and almost touch the surf. I often stop short of walking out to the end. There are always fisherman down there with smelly bait. Pieces of dried seaweed and white bird splatter line the railing. Every corner is a leaky trash can and the smell of piss. Tonight the fisherman had edged inland. I suppose it's natural that they should follow the water. They intrigue me. I've never seen any of them catch anything, but they must.

I swear to God!

I will not
be afraid
to be alone,
to be a maid.
I will not
compromise -
until I've met
a heart made
of the same stuff
roughly the
same size
as mine.

angel food

I've been having insatiable cravings for high calorie treats lately. I stopped by the grocery store to buy toilet paper on my home from a work meeting - a bad idea because I like to snack after work (I was a latchkey kid growing up and would make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, religiously, every day after school). But, on my way in I passed by an angel food cake display and then ran into some blueberries and the combination of those two topped with Haagen-Dazs vanilla ice cream sounded so good.... and I never indulge like this...  and buying these items here, now, would support the responsible consumption of only somewhat junkie food (it does say "all-natural" on the Haagen-Dazs carton) rather than binging on unhealthier sweets at worse times (like a brick of carrot cake before bedtime). Makes sense, right? 

The first day and a half of having these items in the house went off without a hitch. Yesterday I got home from work and immediately went for my treat. I pull the ice cream out of the freezer and start digging away at what is a very solid block of ice cream, totally sleepwalking through this. Suddenly the large scoop I've been working on frees itself from the rest and pops me in the face before landing on the floor. This still doesn't wake me. I pick it up, throw it in the sink, wipe my face off and keep going. I eat my treat and continue with my day, having a light salad for dinner (which I was proud of).

So last night on my way out the door (on a date in fact) I slipped my right foot into a shoe and felt it slide inside. Something was not right here. In fact something was downright slimy. In a flash I knew what this mysterious substance was - none other than a congealed puddle of Haagen-Dazs vanilla ice cream which had been overlooked in my dessert-eating mid-afternoon fervor.  I don't know if what I've written here can fully convey how truly poetic and humorous this experience struck me as, in the moment, but before I had even withdrawn my foot from said slimy apparatus I knew I had to try. Commentary on healthy salad-making practices and chaste visits to the o' holy shopping mart to follow at a later date.

monkey wishes

I was humbled and quieted today looking out at the ocean from the pier. I noticed my shoulders had crept up to my ears. What would happen if I allowed them to ease away slowly, toward the railing? The thought produced a full-body release up my spine, neck, out through my arms, behind my knees, to my feet and I felt human again, suddenly. I felt more available, more free. Silence can be experienced inwardly - even amidst of the bustle and clamor of the Venice Pier. The scene comes to my eyes gently. Swathes of pink clouds in the sky. Surfers. Swimmers. People on bikes whizzing behind. The coastline with it's arms outstretched. I don't have to wonder if I am worthy (my fist still tightly closed around the cherry). I ask it to stay. I ask it not to forget me as I continue to age. I beg it to teach me how to love before I pass away.