public and private

the doors were open. were dusty.

you had already squeaked your way back through the mud.
with the others. with your instruments.

lamp-light from the street outside. a lone chair.
a cello. I closed my eyes.

whatever you heard, you heard from the proper distance -
(perhaps walking away) and it was me as I am. 

not everything else.

all women

maybe the last time you saw that friend was on a tuesday.

today is wednesday and I have sparkles on my hands from playing with children. clay too. we made coil bowls. one for the office.

you and you and you. wouldn't play well together. in a room. my head.

but good news. i've met a few brave ones lately. sorry, they were all women.

and these,

though they were not mine,
became Mt. Tam and every
other lost landscape.

belly talk

Yours in the accent of a Swedish (not French) chef and

mine in the monotone drone of a wall-street reporter.

Dancing at the Righteous Room

Somewhere it is written, people are supposed to be sad when something breaks. If you accept this without question, you're missing out. There is some utility and joy to be found, even in broken things, if one is only open to it. Loss is a poor excuse for sadness, and an even poorer excuse for lack of creativity and imagination.

This is how, despite our great loss, we found ourselves dancing to the Smiths in an almost-empty bar in the middle of the day. How appropriate, how phoenix-like, how poetic - our voices rising in unison to the chorus, "why do I give valuable time to people who don't care if I live or die."

Together we can stamp out world hunger, trigger events that will eventually lead to world peace, tip the scales of unhappiness in the universe and replace thousands of haters with lovers. Together we can do all this. You and I. Cannot be replaced, dear. Not with sadness.

every time I close my heart I make a purchase

in my faith there is

a crack large enough to fit
any peddlers boot.

I went to the circus

and was ashamed.

There was this one act -
a couple who dangled from silks;

I couldn't watch their
love-making.

Suspended, they kept each other
from what I could not.

Apology for Want

I can't accept I

had nothing to do with it,
therefore, I apologize
for having been loved.

I slow down to look 
at wrecks on the interstate.
Some I even love.

Squirrels

I saw Benjamin play for the first time in years tonight. He was absolutely brilliant. What I want to note from this evening, however, was an acute desire I had (while peeing) to rifle through a purse which happened to be left on the floor of the bathroom (wide open beside me). My impulse didn't involve theft in any way, but a longing to know its contents secretly, intimately - like looking in lighted windows at night time, or squirrels.

Squirrels you ask? I wanted to be one as a kid. There's no such thing as private property to a squirrel. I could trounce around in everyone else's yard, peer through their windows and eat their vegetables (our neighbors had a garden). I would have total freedom to roam and observe, unobtrusively, these very peculiar humans and no one would be the least perturbed by my presence - save the Reeds, whose tomatoes I would have stolen.

what's on the menu

First course: toasted bagel with melted Camembert and slices of avocado.

I thought I might be having an anxiety attack when I realized I hadn't had anything to eat all day but coffee and espresso.

Second course: cookie dough. When I bought it I told myself I would have it to bake in the event I had a friend over. At last, the truth comes out (of the can by the spoonful). Motives are slippery little things, even when absolutely nothing is riding on it.

Third course: not yet, but it's cooking. I've practically written an essay on it; how D. is an arrogant, disrespectful, patronizing dick-head who doesn't know how to treat people, least of all me.

Strange thing. I only get upset about it at night before sleep. I lie there blinking, arguing, then finally turning on the light and jotting down a few fresh insults. My latest recipe for trouble.

Left

there was this one time. yes, we were in the mountains. that old antebellum bed and breakfast with the two great oaks out front. it was damp the evening we drove in. and cold. I could see your breath and you could see mine. we brought up your cd player. mississippi john hurt in the low-light. candy man. stepping on each-other's feet. we woke that morning. two mugs of coffee settled into rocking chairs. drops of water on the tin roof. looking out, we sensed a rightness. in everything. accepted what it offered. the left hand of the future not yet having pointed us away.

D.

at some point he stopped seeing me, if he saw me at all, and I stopped understanding how one could be both caring and uncaring at the same time. to me it was clear how one prevailed over the other.

his show was last Friday. I was there, but not there. ghost-like. a trail grown cold. a memory one goes to less and less. his affection was perfunctory, without recognition. as though we had shared nothing. this is what hurts and what I can't understand, what makes the whole thing feel eerily unreal. imaginary. worthless, yet hard to put down. had it been anything, guilt maybe convenience. want. all in passing.

testing for green belt

This semester ended much the same way my green-belt test ended when I was eleven or twelve taking karate lessons. The test involved performing a series of complicated sparring combinations in front of a panel of teachers. I lost my concentration half-way through and made a few bad mistakes. The more upset I got the worse it went but, instead of dropping out, which would have been natural and less embarrassing (I was red-faced and teary), I stubbornly persisted through to the end. They awarded me my belt not so much for my performance, but for not giving up.

Not giving up has its rewards - artistically, spiritually, etc. Just when you think you can go no further, a door opens. A few days ago I spent the night on the fifth floor of the art and music building at Georgia State. It was just me, three bare white walls and floor-to-ceiling windows. I swept, spread out my work, hung it up, arranged and rearranged it, communed. Alone with my drawings, I was surprised to find I was okay with them, proud even, where before I had felt embarrassed and incompetent.

There's something special about staying up all night - a peaceful quality to the city you can't experience any other time. A quietness. Solitude. Not scary at all. When the streets are empty, what does it matter if I swerve, if I cry, dance and scream? Alone, I draw closer to myself. I remember to listen. I've needed waking lately. I'm too in love with sleep, with fiction and fabrication, expectation, the past. It seemed right to fast from it. And the place and moment were correct, were purposeful. It's hard to find places that are self-reflective rather than imposing but that night, that studio, the walls, the art, everything was me - even the blood red sun as it rose from it's sleep.

sometimes dreams express reality better than we can, explicitly

I had a dream a couple nights ago. I had sought out a famous painter and commissioned a portrait of myself, staying with him for months while he worked. One day I woke to find my hair, which was long, dyed black with vinegar and the portrait finished. I hurried to see it. Unveiled, I was surprised to find it was a picture of a cherry-blossom tree. A tree and an emptiness also, where it looked unfinished. I wasn't in it. The painter, after much personal struggle, admitted defeat; he couldn't capture me - though he had thought he could. I wrote a check and sealed it to the painting, which I let him keep. In this way he'd received payment, but would be unable to cash it without destroying his own creation.

archeology

He produced a rock from his pocket.
He, his wife and two children each got one -
to show that they're still a family.

I understood at once.

At home, two rings are knotted together
one on top of the other -
to show that we're still a couple.

I ran into an old customer at the Perk today. Pain is unmistakable. We recognized it in each other. Our meeting wasn't comfortable, but it was comforting - not to be scorned for being ourselves, for not pretending. I wanted to hug him. Sometimes when you need a hug the most, it's practically impossible to get. People treat sadness as though it were contagious. They see it in you and run the other way. They're protective, scared, stingy, accusatory. God help you if you show your feelings in public. Well, I don't care. I'm strong and sad. I'm alive. I'm not ashamed.

cackling uncontrollably I am the mad woman who sits alone at the blues bar, writes, amuses herself.

Sitting by the door, I noticed a woman carrying a handbag trimmed with fur come in. She seated herself at a table close to me. Her accessory struck me as being a kind of grotesque display of modern fashion. I later rescued it from being consumed/destroyed by Northside's resident mutt (a half-blind English Bulldog), but not without hesitation (he was clearly enjoying himself). It was hard to hold back the laughter after that. It was so absurd - and oddly romantic - I had trouble distracting myself from the image. Intimate, solo blues music..... dog ravaging woman's gaudy purse (guffaw)..... blues..... purse (cackle)..... blues..... purse (snicker).....

tattoo for both palms

We were introduced in tulip fall,
in tulips, after all.
We were introduced
at a salmon cannery
in Scotland. Our hands
were numb and we wanted to die.
You wouldn’t stop talking.

The Viewing

His nose hadn’t been that big. His face had been round,
not sallow and oval. His hands alone were recognizable;
their rough strength had known the way of the soil

And also the Gardener’s secret: casement broken,
the seed is the sapling is the tree is the blossom is the apple
is a glass of spiced cider or Nana’s last jar of preserves.

Of these nothing is lost but, it’s not understood.
We step forward, unsure, are unconvinced by the makeup.
Of the two, death is the greater deceit.

the thirteenth

I have a token in my pocket worth three mints or three packets of hi-c in the psychiatric ward of Grady Hospital. Five days ago that building was just part of the skyline to me. Atlanta keeps offering up new views. I'll only thank it for the privilege if it keeps my friend off the streets.

I've always believed, stubbornly, that my love could change things - that it's strong enough, pure enough. I must be either extremely naive, egotistical, or weak.

shutters on the fifth floor

Out the window a man sits on the roof of a tall building in downtown Atlanta. He smokes a cigarette, fidgets, stands up, puts his hands in his pockets, sits back down again. A MARTA train slides past in the distance. Grady Hospital. Clouds in the sky. He looks around.

What does the heart see?
What does it tell itself?

It paces. Shifts its weight, listlessly, from one foot to the other. Believes itself alone.

graphite or charcoal

The need to vent my depression is asserting itself.

Don't hate me because I'm avoiding.
Two and half cups of coffee later: a blank page and I need to pee.

I'm frustrated. I want to create something beautiful but it's just not in me. Bills are in me. The past is in me. The question-mark future. I've spent the last few days looking and am dissatisfied. I've tried to become fascinated by the weather, by my lower lip, tendrils of hair, the circles and triangles of the face, but it's no use; I'm tired of looking. What I really want is to be touched. Rendered. Kissed by graphite or charcoal (lightly then heavily). The closest I get are black smears where I unconsciously swept hair away from my face or set my palm down on a self-portrait. I thought drawing would fulfill some tactile need of mine. Surprise! It's created one instead.

memories

come and go on the air. smell of oyster water or jasmine. ripen and rot. are fluid and sometimes dissolvable. broken down with the body. grown from the mind as weeds, as holly and oak. are cut down and recycled. shaved off. swept away or let go of. a ring tost into the ocean. a handkerchief. are crippling. chronic. meaningless and undesirable. are electric. holographic. stacks of yellowed newspapers and teacup collections. are alcoholic. addictive. fuel burnt for warmth, for knowledge. for regret. are movies we've seen before and know the ending to. cast us as heroes, villains, scapegoats, revolutionaries, romanticists, whores, great and poor musicians. wear khakis and have hair like your mother. reek of mothballs. of Chanel #1. are dizzying. explosive and unexpected as land-mines. attach as appendages. obstructions. apply makeup before going out. allow the fingers to remember where second position is on the cello and all ten digits of my first love's phone number.

being laughed at

Happiness is being laughed at by your instructor because you showed up at 6:00 a.m. instead of 6:00 p.m. to practice your cello in the garden. Happiness is knowing that you chose to come earlier because it was harder.

for my cousin, Sarah

Remember the time we, stumbling, brought out Nana's 70th birthday cake (on fire) drunk on a cocktail of disgusting liquors we stole from the adults? Laughed devilishly for hours on the beach because Ann's spoon broke off in our pint of Ben & Jerry's? Our conspiracy tree and all the plans we hatched there? The time in St. Paul when I fell off the front steps (we were dancing and lip-syncing to Billy Joel's "We didn't start the fire", if that wasn't funny enough)? Skipping stones on Lake Seneca? Your curry dinner in New York. Case of You on guitar. Dakota told me my fortune that night while your mother ran her fingers through Ann's hair. We both had the same cursed front teeth. Tried our hands at cello. Blistered our feet on the bottom of Nana's swimming pool year after year. Our laugh is the same even. I recorded myself laughing on accident the other day. It reminded me of you. Our donkey gasps and witch's cackle. Just thinking about it makes me smile.

relief

I must submit myself to living. I've been struggling against it and nothing could be clearer; I'm losing. I question too much, feel too much. just give me a hammer and a nail. some wood. a sleeve that has neither snot nor blood on it. maybe sweat. you can lose yourself in work or find yourself. either of these would mean relief right now.

not the peacock I think I am

I've been lacking Humility lately. It's no wonder my drawings are falling short, my prayer as well. Paul's looking for artwork that poses more questions than it answers; art that looks and listens, keeps its own mouth shut, leaves its images unsolved, searches for a constant despite the wiseacreing of the eyes. An admission of ignorance is, perhaps, simply more honest. Lines that move (on paper) are beautiful in their honesty. They resist self-satisfaction, the fixedness of dogmatism and the false certainty of subjective perspective. I used to take off all my jewelry before entering Khanegah. I wouldn't wear makeup there either. I didn't want adornment. I wanted to come as a babe would come, naked and uncontrived. The more you try to hide your ignorance, the more naked you feel revealed. I keep thinking I can draw my own face and am consistently embarrassed with the results. Is it possible something I've seen/studied almost every day of my life could still hold its mysteries? Yes, of course.

for touching:

I'm a prickle pear. a pineapple. a caterpillar with feelers all extended. I feel everything and you can't stop me. abuse me if you must but feeling I keep on. the fingers of my heart open to receive. chest bleeding. is heaving. my stomach hurts like hell. all is well and I hurt. all is well and I keep keeping. all is well.

touching: your mouth opened. your heart and nothing broke that wasn't built to break. let us not be afraid. release our untouchables. to touch each other. even though they walk our streets disguised as fears. masquerade as our fathers. wreak havoc. set us to spinning. to building. to hiding.

slippers

People say that living with others involves a lot of compromise. I learned recently that living with myself involves compromise too. There's a certain amount of self-acceptance I haven't allowed myself to engage in until now. my faults my particular challenges I've tried to gloss over with faith. I've been looking at faith as a panacea for all my other problems Maybe it's not maybe these have to work themselves out in their own particular spheres of existence. the editor. the analyst. the emotional girl-child the crone my ticking brain and its corresponding muscles and joints. wedges of flesh. bones in dresses and highest heels

all these
the shoes I fill

maybe one day I'll glance down and see only one pair. they'll be encrusted with rubies. that'll be the day I go home.

living itself is a compromise

Wet the page.

My pen lifted its leg. I trail behind it with a zip-lock and a spatula. My mouth really is the worst though (with my brain as its accomplice). I'm catching it all the time. It opens and turds come out, weightless and floating, like smoke stacks - except they don't disappear. I'll step in one down the road some other year and try not to curse another one out. And they're contagious too. As contagious, in fact, as yawns. It's a turd epidemic passing from one mouth to the next, especially in large groups.