Sunday, January 23, 2011
we drank the bass nectar and danced threw the reverbarations of the proud florida moonshine.
mouths wide full of words not meant to be said to strangers...at this time of the evenings!? do we strike you as gentleman who enjoy cannibus!?
I cried as i laid in her lap,if only because of her pharamones
or how soft her leg hair was
I groaned around the campfire as the cars on the other side of camp burned
I would ask her to marry me if I wasnt in jedi/beast mode
Insted I watched her hoola hoopp move,the cruves of her body become one with the wind
fuck that,I opened every hole and consumed more drugs than the local cvs could support,i was so dirty and stinking I was ready to beat brains into oblivious mush,let me work for a second,sell my soul,every thing will be fine if im not arrested or od'd in these the otts! shit weve made it this far
smoke pours from my lungs until the next bacongreencheeser calms my soul
and the jug of water saves my body from unceartinty,its a travesy how calamities are common place an uppercut of music sounds and free love..no more sluts...their all at the camp with the cute dogs and grand narcotics,soul searching and laid back like a pillow on a sofa.
only rolled cigarettes and a woman to share the benzos with the next morning.
assasination of charecter is overblown
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
In late 2002, I began trying to rid myself of a twenty year collection of material acquistions in the form of beautiful furniture, rugs, art, glass work, and books. There were three hundred pairs of carefully purchased shoes, countless jackets, trousers, and ties. My wife's vintage slips and dresses.
My plan in the midst of grief: put everything out on the front lawn, one collection at a time, with a sign that said, free.
People came from all over and took my belongings away. I cried, but weekend after weekend, the stuff went out onto the front lawn. I had a deep need be free from the memories I associated with these tangible manifestations of the love of my life, our life together.
I was down to a bed, a television, a couch, and a rug. I moved to an apartment. I sat and cried off and on for another year. I grieved the loss of our things. I beat myself up emotionally; called myself stupid for giving everything away.
During that second year, there were those whom saw my desire to be separated from my belongings as a pre-suicidal act. They maintained those whom want to divest are wanting to take their own lives. How unfortunate the memes that filter down from the psychiatric community and are incorrectly used by the well meaning. I had one friend whom did not agree with this. She called it the beginning of becoming a Bodhisattva. Her lone voice in the wilderness was not enough and the suggestion I was suicidal found it's way into my mind, my soul. It nested there, a festering wound.
Eventually, I would become convinced suicide was indeed at the root of my psyche. The reality is, I had never thought of taking my own life before then. I did not make an attempt; I took myself to the hospital and asked for help. There was a person in my life whose pressure was unwavering. We rarely had a conversation which did not include his insistance I was damaged beyond repair; that I would be better off dead. He took every opportunity to deride me for my spiritual inclination. I was at the time I met him, desperate for the kind of intellectual approval he could offer, desperate to matter. I allowed myself to be infiltrated by his ideas. By way of good therapy, we no longer communicate, but I do have compassion for him. One does not need to interact with someone to experience that feeling toward them.
Between 2003 and last year, I collected things and got rid of them again. I have done this a few times. Just recently, given the choice to keep my things, or rid myself of them, I chose to keep them. My simple things began to make sense to me. I had exactly what I needed for this stretch of the walk, and I knew the journey was far from over. This is not about poverty, this is about the distraction of the material.
When my spiritual adventure took me onto the path of Buddhism five years ago, I was still deep in the process of grief. I began a sitting practice to calm my mind. That was the only reason. Enlightenment, compassion, nirvana, were of no meaning to me. I didn't have the energy to pursue those things. I had just enough lack of energy to sit down and breathe. It started with a few minutes that turned into an hour, over time. I could sit with my eyes closed for an hour and just breathe. I belong to no organization, my sitting practice learned originally from a man of many years practice in the Vadryana tradition. This has been a lone, internal struggle. I have deep gratitude for the help I have received. Ultimately, the blessing comes from within.
In the last year, I was faced with great obstacles. Among other pressures, the political landscape loomed in front of me. It beckoned, I followed, away from what I knew was true. The excitement, the fervor, the power, all hooked me with a shiny lure. It became a place for my anger, an easy escape from addressing the origin of that feeling. Even arguing against the very idea of politics gave me that temporal satisfaction. Those experiences regarding world events, including an interview I did of a Congressional candidate in Chicago, shocked and awed me to the point of finding myself awakened and on my given path once again.
Spiritual roads are not easy. Far from the stereotype of the new age airy fairy belief junkies, those with determination and surety of direction, can find themselves in treacherous internal landscapes beset by external influence. I was born a Jew. In my thirties, I served for seven years as a lay priest in the Episcopal Church. I lost my faith in the spiritually concave and revealing world of striking loss. The simplification of my soul has been hard earned. The falling down and standing again, the unwillingness to get up at times, the rough, incredibly rocky path I had to trudge in the last year are all part of the best kind of divestiture. The shedding of the manufactured self, the invented person, for the real thing.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
love the way the light hits
my way of doing things is
son daughter catcher momma
and if you read between the
i can prove to you your
miss the mark, take the
long way home for
him, for her, for everyone
very murky roads ahead
much like swimming in
Thursday, January 6, 2011
i just want to be still
and be in the quiet, just close my eyes and let the quiet in
to NOT want to just sleep for days and write and smoke
it is hard now
beyond my next fix waiting for me in the corners to come out and play
it is hard now
it all slips away
leaving the swollen eyed girl that can't cry
this is the hard part to move and be beyond just a few fragmented words that mean
beyond the shell of my own head
to leave this place and do more than just sit with you and type and drink and forget to eat
and forget to love my husband
and loose my children
to not want it
to not let it completely swallow me
to not stroke the keys and loose it all here
give of it freely ..... to you
the price to pay is to high
the longing to much
Blood, “blood!, that is bad that is very bad”,
where was i, search the faces, the street signs for a familiar name.
“There! three blocks from home thank god, i hate this, i hate this, and the blood, that is so bad, so so bad”.
Shaking, and cold I ran most of the three blocks, but i could not ignore the pain in my belly, the nausea creeping up in my throat. The door to the apartment was open and the warmth from within pushed up against my damp skin with pins and needles. The tears welled up in my eyes, it was only 11:41 and Jason would not be home until 3am. His nights on as bar tender at the local watering hole where locals bellied up to wash away there discontent, always left me antsy. The time alone was never good and though I baked, i knitted, i cleaned, i surfed the web and reached out to any soul that would fill the void, the overwhelming loneliness was sometimes to much to keep in the shadows and sometimes it would blanket over me covering my eyes in a shroud that was often called by some other name. Who was here tonight, i needed to clean this up before he got home before he saw the blood and what had been done. what had been done?
On the sink in my tiny pink bathroom with it's Fifties tiles, lay the wrapper for that pill, the one i could here Samantha talking about taking, the one she almost convinced me to take, the one that gets rid of that beautiful life growing and rooting deep in my womb. All week I knew how upset Sam was over the news. Jason didn't even know yet, I was going to tell him tomorrow night when he had off and we could go to our spot on the roof and i could hold his hands and feel the strength of his shoulders. He didn't even know yet, but Samantha knew and she did not want this for us. It would ruin everything.
She protested holding up my fears, "the sex would suck, the writing would suck even more".
"Who can write with a kid" she yelled in my ear and whispered while i was asleep, "writers, write what they know", she told me.
"how can i write when all i will know are play dates, diapers, laundry and baby fucking Einstein"
" who will read that shit"
" no one of any interest anyway".
Part of me knew she was right, but Jason wanted this, he wanted it so badly, this bond that he and i would have. Something that he thought would plant my feet on the floor and maybe he would not have to worry so much about the nights he was gone if I had something bigger than myself to focus on.
go bigger/ go harder.
this movielife is never THAT tiresome!
living life threw credit cards and rolled up 50 federal reserve note dollars
bridging lines of MDMA off the tips of butterfly knives above the kitchen counter
puffing cigars in the haze of the new year,smoke washed down by mimosas
we chased every breathe with whiskey and cigarettes
joints became as routine as flushing the toilet
soundtracked by nothing but illmatic and Wu Tangs enter the 36
gamecube.playstation.wes anderson&david fincher.amphedamine after knife hits
salvia gets cannonballed by olde english
and suddenly wileys entranced by the panda,crushed in the hallway with his foot turning the frame into the doorway
rainbows on top of the coffee table staring threw space
as good shit mumbles any and every thing he thinks.
denver is magical these days.
weary traveler challenges me to another hit,I take that challenge,I redirect a similar one at him
we push each other to our limits,talk about how stupid it is,and contiune
were seeing what new plateau we can get to,a new level that weve never been on before
weve spoken as if words were words,and nothing hurt.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Monday, January 3, 2011
You think you know yourself, you think you have it sorted out. Can't know a thing more. Then someone shows you something about yourself you didn't know. That you are beautiful, undamaged; the scars simply the ornamentation of life. Pretty to look at, difficult to remember. Sometimes someone comes along and sees all of that, sees what's behind your eyes, and says, "I love that; you have worthy dents and scratches. You are extraordinary."
And for a minute, the anxiety fades, the fear subsides. You stop apologizing for the humanness of your own life, for what you have suffered. You begin to lift the yoke around your shoulders.