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. 

little assholes

The holidays made me reflect on how easily influenced we are by the messages we receive from others - coming and going. I found my self wishing I could resist making cracks at Rush Limbaugh, was more enthusiastic about pictures of eagles and hadn't rejected my mother's invitation to submerge my hands in sugar. I love my parents. It continues to strike me how they too can be child-like. Children are sensitive, vulnerable, innocent, completely self-absorbed little assholes who deserve without reserve, my unconditional love. 

caterpillars

we spin a tender wrapping around one another. a golden
chrysalis. all hearts eventually break against.

impotence

snake charmers are said to hypnotize with

song burmese pythons, carpet vipers, egyptian
cobras or some other beast captured

when I found you that's how it was hungry
and wild, writhing in your pot, your beautiful
freckled mouth already sewn shut

winter mussels

in the winter mussels build up on the boardwalk. fisherman pluck them off to use for bait. I love watching their adept fingers work. crabs scuttling in and out. the ecosystem under the pier opening and closing, forced to release its tiny treasures one by one.

these days I dream of vampires 
and hell's only son. please hide me 
in your great red womb. beelzebub

mole baby

how frustrating I must be. I must have always been. such high expectations. so uncompromising. I never seem to see people the way they want to be seen.

I feel sorry for my parents. they didn't ask for this. blind baby. this mole baby, digging relentlessly.

people are often soft where they should be hard and hard where they should be soft. I just want to be like the cookies we baked today. it's what I've always wanted.

shortbread and molasses. three batches, one after the other. I watched my mother roll dough in the palm of her hand. the years, all the history held in

didn't matter. they came out fine. better than fine. you could say they were just right. and everyone enjoyed them.

the truth

the girl in that room never stopped undressing

venice 3

If I could be half as brave as I was as a child,
that would be really something.

men are dogs

People are boring.

Men especially. 

You think you can 

Make me happy? 

Go ahead. 

Grow a tail and 

Wag it for me.

And don't worry,

I'm used to picking 

Up your shit.

You think I'm angry?

Fine then, go lie in it.

wildlife

My little pelican friend had trouble steadying himself in the wind. His left foot kept slipping until he finally had enough and leapt off. It was gorgeous. His wingspan was larger than I imagined it would be. He flew in a circle around the pier and came to perch on the rail opposite me - only to be greeted by an even larger group of cell phone photographers. Oh, well.

not everything is willful

I can see into my bathroom. My contact case and solution are where I left them. My toothpaste and toothbrush too. I forgot to turn the light off. From here my bathroom looks friendly. It looks as loyal as a golden retriever. Today I'm thankful for these. I'm relieved.

charades

If I hadn't seen it my self I wouldn't believe it. And if I tried to tell you my words would be lost. They would be empty. They might not even sound. A silent film. As bad as charades. Or my best impression of a mime. The one where he's trapped in a box and can't get out.

There are no shortcuts here. And it's an uphill climb. But maybe the distance is made bearable if you're holding the hand of someone you love. Everyone else just wonders what the fuck is a mountain or are smart enough to have gone around it in the first place.

coffee house musings

A man standing in line across from me has a leaf stuck to his butt. Should I tell him? Hell no. Cause then he'll think I was LOOKING.

And would someone please explain to me why coffee house proprietors are so head-over-heels in love with huge abstract paintings of faceless, nude females of mangled proportions? I think they're hideous.

I was in Equator Books today. I have a growing affection for one of their employees - he might actually be the owner, I don't know. Flannel-clad and unapologetically surly he paced the floor, smoked and paced some more. My belief is that this individual's pet peeve is people sitting around writing in the cafe section of his bookstore (which I was attempting, of course). How could they introduce/advertise awesome coffee and cafe-style seating and not expect people to want to come in and work. I also fail to understand why someone who supposedly loves books would have such tangible disdain for writers. I wasn't comfortable staying long lest his policing gaze fix upon me. It was like that eye in Lord of the Rings. I actually caved and bought a book as if to say, "look asshole not all writers sit around, taking up space, without buying anything." I'm sure that showed him.

vignettes

I

A woman sits at a wobbly table in an urban cafe. The top of it is covered with post cards from foreign countries. She's waiting for someone. A man on a bicycle rides past wearing a woman's straw hat. It has a large plastic daisy on it which makes her think of Sundays in East Atlanta; black ladies climbing out of shiny Cadillacs on their way to church, everything matching - purple with purple, pink with pink, heels, belts, purses.

She is joined by a quiet companion. Will he remark on his bloody mary, her mimosa? Keys are exchanged. The scene ends simply. Everything left unsaid passes between them in silence, spilling out from their eyes. No one notices. A man at the table beside theirs continues to work on his crossword. Sips his coffee. It's only a moment. She pays the bill, gets up and walks out. There is no bell on the door to mark her exit.

II

Years earlier the same woman, a girl then with shorter hair, undresses hesitantly in an all-but-bare room. There's a mattress on the floor and a man on it in fetal position, wailing. She doesn't know why. Somewhere in her child-head she imagines her sacrifice can relieve his pain. She exists in a world of raw potential - vague notions and possibilities, magic and love. She still believes she can change things; she just doesn't know how.

from the North country

My husband's birthday is tomorrow.
I had a husband. He used to sing to me. I don't understand time. I don't understand time or love. But tomorrow I hope the sun shines in Atlanta or wherever he may be.

the sun

is coming up
everything
washed in
blue in
quiet

who
could have
suspected
in their beds
this much
light?

be a man

Instead of being a woman men want, I'm going to be the man I want.

thanksgiving

my life should be lived. as though it were a meal prepared for those I hold dearest. and so it is. only right that I keep laboring in this hot kitchen. but no bitterness. not for you, darling. for you I offer only sweetness. and salty love. the salt of love. love without weakness.

(for P.S.)

There is no such thing as equal or fair.

This is something children learn early, painfully, only to forget as adults.

it may be too early for a diagnosis doctor,

but it seems as though her heart has stopped beating.

resistance

my hands are two lovers. my hands are two strangers.

my right wants freedom while the left is busy fastening a chain to my ankle.

(it was gold and caught the light. my left couldn't resist, despite my right.)

distance

I'm settling into some remote place - a place of safety where I'm slightly turned off, where I can react to my self more than others.

There is a distance now. I didn't put it there, but am guilty of having noticed. And now that I know I can't pretend otherwise.

gesture in ink

I am tired of living a half-life, afraid. This requires immediate,
drastic action and a little hope.

I've also noticed recently that, regardless of how I envy them,
people who have a lot of friends are often more lonely than I.

prayer 2

I'm going to count to ten.

When I get to ten I'll be strong,

the Strongest.

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

children 3

Like Isabel you want
Cake. Baby, you want
Another milk shake.

What will I say when
I hear you ask me softly
From the back seat if

We can take a break?
"I told you I'd give you
A stomach ache."

pound cake

If I still had a heart, this could easily be lumped into the category of "bad idea" but I don't, so what difference does it make?

with return

Blue skies from Los Angeles to Seattle with return. Stepping into my apartment (it was still there) for the first time since the course I was struck at how luxurious it seemed. I thought I was living quite modestly. I  still have more than I need.

As of today I even have heat. I turned it on only to be greeted by a cloud of smoke - the burning of at least a year's worth of dust. I was, of course, already in the shower when this happened, smoke alarm and all. Curses. I am now at the considerably less warm Cow's End for coffee and clean(er) air.

Though my apartment remains intact everything has changed. I'm resisting the urge to revert to the same habits which made it the place it was before. I have a choice now I didn't when I left to try something different. I'd like to take advantage of that. Today I decide what form these efforts will take.

OCG II Raft Island, WA

Photo by Brad Hogg

I leave for Seattle today. I'm not sure how I feel about seeing the Space Needle again or Pike Place. Standing under the sign at Starbucks without you there to take my picture.

And I can't help but suspect I'll return only to find my home in ashes.

Treasure Hunting

I

Every summer my sister and I rode in the back seat of an old yellow Ford with no air-conditioning and vinyl seats our legs would stick to. Our parents couldn't pass an antique shop without stopping. This was my initiation to treasure hunting. We'd walk up and down rows of clothes, stalls full of tattered books and every kind of nick-knack looking for that one "great catch". Once I found in the corner of an antique mall in Tifton, Georgia (known to be the Reading Capital of the World) a great piece of Van Briggle; the turquoise mug I now drink my morning coffee from. Sometimes it's the small wins that keep us coming back.

II

There's a great love buried in all of us. I've denied it's voice for so long it takes real effort to hear it now: a window slides open in an apartment on the west side. Across the street the whistle of a kettle. Two doors down, a sneeze. Most of our lives go unheard, unseen. Each morning I wade through these. Like a stroll down the aisles of some dusty roadside flea market. I search for your voice through the din. The same which coaxes flowers open at dawn. And in some mysterious corner of my cluttered being was once a small win.

Sasha reminded me of this. And it is beautiful.

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.

work, frustration, joy and sometimes solace

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.