Graceland

She said losing love is like a window in your heart.  Everybody sees you’re blown apart.  Everyone sees the wind blow. 

blue-mosque

Hearing a beloved song from the past is like a surprise visit from a dear old friend.  And if that friend were carrying a suitcase filled with dusty souvenirs and decrepit childhood memories….I would curl up at her feet, slowly open the case and look inside.

The Red Balloon by Albert Lamorisse-1956iii2

I am thinking of the new year.  We all want to hit the reset button, start fresh, start clean.  I have to be a bit different about this one, however.  If I waited until January to reboot, there would be no me to work from.  Everyday has to be that new day.

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There have been so many moments lately where I am so aware of my/our/your loneliness.  How badly we want to connect.  How desperately hard it is to do so.  We just want to be seen and chosen by the person who will fill the crevices in our hearts.  My friend put it perfectly when she said, ‘all I want is for someone to say, you, I want you.’  I see so many empty souls robbing the hope from those who dare to place themselves in the path of love.  If you happen upon me, thumb out, on the lonely highway towards love, don’t pullover unless there’s room for two.  These hyenas disguised as Lyons are ruining all the fun.  Just as I have often wished that peoples insides matched their outsides, I long for honesty in this pursuit of love.

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And if you offer to me the truth, I will offer to you the vastness of my heart.  Nothing less.

beercan

 

On my walk to the post office today I heard “Graceland” by Paul Simon.  A door in my mind flew open and all of the worlds weather rushed in.  I felt the chill of time gone by.  I was burnt by the heat of teenage silliness.  I was lulled to sleep by the quiet blues of rainy days, so many.

Maggie Rizer in Jean Paul Gaultier Paris Couture Bride by Craig McDean-Vogue-October-2002

 

And my traveling companions, Are ghosts and empty sockets, I’m looking at ghosts and empties, But I’ve reason to believe, We all will be received, In Graceland

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Dear Diary…..

As I moved from one mountain cottage (aka shanty) to the next, an old journal was unearthed.  I was an avid journalist up until fairly recently and, for the most part, consider it to be a healthy and fascinating thing to engage in.  There is a certain level of embarrassment/awe that comes up when I revisit the older ones.  In the ’95-’96 book I was head over heals for Ayn Rand and her “Objectivism”.  And my words reflect it.  Clearly I had ready access to a thesaurus, I’ll just leave it at that.  I’m sure I was a real joy to be around.  Holy, holy.

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So, this particular volume that I found was solely based on my first grown up love affair.  It starts around 1998, somewhere between high school and the real world.  I took it to the bar last night, lurked in the corner booth, drank vodka, and hopped on the time machine.  Below are a few of the entries that brought me the deepest moments of pause.  There is a rawness and hope that I barely remember.  I look back on that time as a hazy story that happened to somebody else.  It felt real nice to be reminded.

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July 9th ’98

Determined sunshine, strange inconceivable perfection between us.  Once given to the dance, always slated to being the dancer.  Quietly following the dreams in my head, while joyously living out his.  Trying to build a crystal hallway around his mind, where within, his fantasies can hold feasts.
Today I am lurching, swinging high and swaying low.  I am becoming my own heroine by defeating our snarl-toothed demons.
Took his picture under the cherry tree with sun and wet grass- his imperfect perfection, my heart saturated with awe.
I’ve often looked upon you with interest beyond adoration.  I’ve dissected your beauty until I found the center.  I have many times watched you sleep, felt your night cloak setting in.  Seen your muscles twitch and your lips form dream words.  I’ve looked when others turn away.

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Sept. 30th ’98           I am waiting patiently for him.  Earlier I searched frantically for him, scratching at my eyes and making vows of wicked medicine.  It’s vanity, mania, loneliness, this hunger for a man.  It moves me to starvation of Ethiopian proportions.  I miss him in my days, minutes like holes in the sky.  Our nights go quickly, spent boldly by lovers rich with love.  Our days, the ones we wrench from duties greedy hands, are captured by sunlight and burnt into the sand.  I want so much from this.  I am a woman ablaze.

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Nov. 12th ’98          When I think about love, images of death defying acts for the cause fill my head.  Tall men in coat and tails balancing on distant peaks, howling at the moon for love!  Pale addicts injecting lawless love into a thirsty vein!  The weather worn faces of loves flit through my mind in militant succession.  I dazzle at what lengths the imagination bounds, all in the fury of love.  In real life, love is a secret, my fears, the closet that contains it.  I love like a rich man with cancer, spending dollar upon dollar on precious life.  Yet the canyon between what I feel and what I expose contains a river as wide and fierce as winter.  So odd, the picture of me on one side and him on the other, the rivers path carving into the sides.
Sometimes I hold him and think about our love, our canyon.  And that speaks the pain I cannot.  I wonder whether my imagined definition of love is as fearless as I had thought.

bugheart

And much later….

Jan. 12th ’00

Good bye my love.  I’ll remember the whisper.

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And much, much later….

Nov. 27th ’12            To look back on these pages is a bit heartbreaking.  How deeply I believed in love!  How flowery my musings!  And now there is an older, more complex women in her place.  I wish I was sitting across the table from that girl.  I imagine her knee taps and her fingers drum an antsy cadence on the Formica.  She would probably be peeling the label off her beer.  I’d ask her about her day and maybe she’d tell of Short Sands, red wine, salty surf bodies, and a dog, then a puppy, now long dead.  And constantly buzzing around her, the three most important girls in the world, Mandy, Elisha, and Camille.  And one boy, _____.   If I were to ask of the girls, she’d flare up, “Deeper than blood!” “A love that will last forever,” She’d say.  “No stronger bond!”  And the boy?  She’d blush and burn.  Squirm in her seat.  “Him.”
So much has gone and come since then.  The love that came after was, in fact, much deeper, in a way.  But this first love had such a hold on my heart.  So much so that when the hand was removed, the heart went with it.  How I loved then was so ravenous.  I wanted to eat him alive.  I wanted his soul in my stomach.  And I did it.  I ate him.
There is no real reason to look back with regret.  That girl was vibrant and full of love.  And this woman is strong and smart.  Comparing the two will leave you wanting.  I do wish I could go back.  Be less angry.  Be in less of a hurry.  Be more mindful of how perfect it all was.  But at least now, I can remember.  And that feels wonderful.

Battle Cry

I have been meaning to do a little something on here about our political scene at the moment.  Every time I log on with the intention to do so I realize that I really don’t have anything new or unique to say on the topic.  The outlandish amount of ‘memes’ and the like concerning our presidential candidates are suffocating.   The Romney/Ryan ticket is, well, a one way ticket back in time.  The Obama/Biden ticket is weather worn and riddled with disenfranchised head bowing.  Neither have much a leg to stand on at best and at worst, both have a nearly insurmountable pile shit waiting like a bloated dead body in the oval office.  I am at the point where I just hope that I don’t loose my right to choose what I do with my vagina.  The bar on our civil liberties is so low at this point that I can only hope to be able to slip one unruly pubic hair underneath it.   It is an alien feeling, this hemming in of collective social and intellectual growth.  The country that I was raised in was racing towards racial and sexual equality, higher education, and freedoms aplenty.  And though I am loathe to hop on the fear bandwagon, I won’t deny an icky feeling of worry is setting in.  I know how powerful our country is when united on a topic.  I also know that we are being fed so many tasty bits of distraction so as to prevent any kind of oneness amongst us.  It is hard to not think that there is a bigger animal orchestrating a coup of not only our government proper but of our humanity as well.  It used to be live and let live.  Now we feast on each others differences, using the carnage as a reason to withdraw further in the splinter cells of ignorance.  Why in this day do we even speak of marriage as some sacred union under god?  It was a shame that our parents barely suffered through, like theirs before them.  My generation is trying to take a broken, empty hearted institution and give it some new life.  Shake off all of the detritus of yore and marry the person you love.  What a miracle of life that this crusty, almost meaningless idea has been given a second chance by a group of people who are willing to fight for the right to marry?  It is this battle that has reminded me why someday I want to walk the isle.  Because god knows I wasn’t inspired to marriage by the lack luster shams that I grew up witness to.

We go forward with technologies that cleave us from our fellow man, we rocket untold monies into space while the future cosmonauts sit in stuffed classrooms with ancient books and one harried teacher, we sit by while talking puppets convince us to hate the hillbillies in the south or the liberal faggots in the north,  we turn off our compassion because we are told it will do no good.  When I close my eyes and the veil falls I way I am reminded that through us runs a common thread.  We as women fought for our freedoms, we as men armed ourselves and died to preserve our freedoms, we as the young generations pushed and pushed until our music rang out, our sexuality ran sweetly through the streets, our dreams were allowed to burn so bright that the sound of freedom heated up every breath.  I am tired of fighting but that doesn’t mean that the battle is won.  We are all tired.  But this is when it matters the most.  We have got to keep pushing or every inch will be taken by back by the angry lonely souls who see nothing but silver and gold.  This is our battlefield, this is our fucking house, and I will not sit by, sedated by rhetoric, and watch it burn.  You don’t need to grab a pitchfork and march on city hall, though the sight would bring me joy.  What you need to do is pick a fight with any motherfucker out there that even thinks of messing with your humanity or the humanity of your neighbor.  We have been fighting for our rights since the first ship hit the shores of America.  Nothing has changed.  And we will keep fighting.  Because our freedoms were, are, and always will be worth it.  Get off your computers, go outside, and show some kindness to someone who needs it.  Especially if that someone is not like you.

The Elements

Some small thing inside me, a probe or a hand, reach, looking for the other part.  The part that holds answers.  The missing piece that wants and gives with the same kind of energy.  It seeks the blanket that keeps out the cold and perks up its ears for the sounds that make this place seem less lonely.  A pot crashing or a toilet flushing.  In this life our journey is marked by the elements that move throughout the years, changing who we are and defining what we need.

I can’t explain how it feels to be the rock but I know for sure what it means to be the water.  Carving through time with an imperceptible gravity, eating earth with a mercilessly lazy grind.  Youthful eyes tell you that the course is within your power to alter.  Time will show you otherwise.  This path was here long before me.  These hungers were carved into my gut by cave men with rocks for weapons and grass for a bed.  Since I cannot be the earth, I am too young to fight, I will be the water.  I will know the flow and I will follow.

And when the water runs my blood cold and I become the force who has no heart, I will seek the fire.  I will run across the earth and leave ash where once was wood and civil life.  Everyone that sees me arrive will reach to touch and recoil in pain.  The good pain.  The kind that cleanses and releases seeds.  Dark scars will remain long beyond times desire to remember.  People will speak of my wretched war path until they die and then their children will tell the stories that soon become the myths that teach the young ones to revere the fire, to run at the sight of a blaze.  But we know how that story ends. Do we not?  What you fear you need to touch and what you touch will burn you.

 

The only antidote to a burn so ancient is the green blue heaven of water.  Submerge the wounded limb far into a pool and there you will find forgetting.  Pain will leave and rise as a steam, now you can sweetly join the wind.  Freedom is here, movement is here, forever is here.  On the wind there is no time or body and now you are truly married to everything.  What you seek is found here and though it gives no true knowledge, there is no need of it any how.   What is left of you, the one who knows nothing and is marked by everything?

The body held behind is the root.  It is the earth that bears the marks, the seeds, the gulleys.  Time runs through you and for that you are made immortal.  You are a part of the we and the hand you reach for is your own.  The getting home was hard but there is comfort in trial, strength in battle.   And the snake works its way around so as to bite its own tail.  At this place we begin again.

Shoots and Ladders

Before some fool let me know that you boys have dicks, I thought the only thing you carried was a stick, and me, a doll.

It was then or shortly after that I knew we where never going to be on the same side.

There was never again to be balance.  However slight the difference, one side would always be raised by the weight of the other.

When I was on top…

He would be at the bottom.  Climbing up.

I stand there, looking down at you, looking up.  And I can’t help but think, will we ever stand on even ground.  Play by the same rules.  Fight for the same prize.

We know that a game requires two or more, must be 8 years to play, must be this tall to ride.  What the instructions neglected to impart is how bad it feels to win and how glorious loosing will be.

And like age and like our childhood boardgames and like all things ancient and profane, we tire of paying it any mind.  This love game. So the rules change.  Our actions cloud with the residue of time.  We become opaque.  And again, the game is renewed.

Now I find that the rules bend just like my back.  Real or a lie, the word is only a sound made by people who sadly believe they have mastered a game created by gods who crave folly like humans crave love.

What fools we mortals be.  The pawns in a war of our own making.  Slaves to an invisible master.

Deferred

Today we discuss what happens when you put your dreams behind all the other earthly duties.  What happens when ones art takes a back seat to money, public opinion, convenience?  Right now I can tell you exactly what happens.  Every second that isn’t spent at some job or imagined duty is spent in sheer terror. That’s what.  Every slight or wasted minute stacks up and waits in the back of the mind.  And then, like an infestation, you become aware of this heaping pile chilling in your psyche.  It’s in every nook, the foundation is riddled, and you are sitting on a massive liability.  The time it will take to go back and reclaim yourself is almost too daunting to calculate.  Where has all this time and energy gone?  Who is getting the rewards?  One guess…..the person who is winning is the one who stopped following other peoples orders and started following their own.

I am not going to tie any of this post up with optimistic musings on how to reclaim ones dreams.  To be honest, I am not sure how.  I imagine that it involves letting go of your regrets and whittling away at that list of passions and creative hungers.  But at this moment all I want is my life back.  How to do this is a small mystery to me.  Every unsatisfied moment seems like evidence of my own failure to launch.  So, now, I am looking to you.  Find that fire, stoke it, share it, use it to burn down to walls that keep out the light.  Imagine me, now, huddling over the smallest of flames, blowing, praying, adding wood.  Lets hope that it is enough.

Touch

To be open, in tune, in touch, receptive, is a wondrous and strange state.  All of the things race at you like warp speed stars, starting as dots, becoming comets,  In and out, some click and stay, others rush towards a place that you will never visit, a world for other people who you will never meet.  Today I feel like a skinned rabbit, in danger of everything sticking to my body, nothing sent away.  The barrage of information can overwhelm on days like this.  This nakedness is like a spot light, if I venture out it will turn in on me and everyone will know how vulnerable I am.  And as I fear, I also hope that within the mob is an answer, a friend, my love, my muse.

Home

Shelter, the surrounding walls of safety and warmth.  I found you in this wooden structure.  As if every brick is only a skin that holds us together.

There is no way up and in except on foot.  The narrow pebbled path will bring you right to the front door.  Our house will seem modest, small, from the out.  Yet inside are lifetimes of love and laughter.  So big, so full.  The roof is peppered with moss, the eaves home to wild life and years of weather.  I found us here.  Our castle.

Open the door,  feel the smokey heat of a smoldering hearth.  Smell the whispers of a feast fit for my king.  The kitchen will never be barren, the stove never unlit.  Our friends will settle into the chairs, eating, drinking, knowing they are home.  We will grow old here, feeding each other, celebrating every day.

Sanctuary.

This is our kingdom.  Our rules.  No one will ever be turned back, we will make love in every nook, fill with memories every cranny.  I found you here.  I found myself.  I was surprised how easy it was.  To fill a space with us.

No night will end in crisis.  We will tear into crisp linens and build a fortress out of pillows.  You will sleep so deep that the night time will envy your starry eyes.  Our bed will float above it all.  Nothing can touch us here.

Wrinkled toes, hot water gone tepid while the days rinse away.  I will wash your back, get behind your ears.  You will brush the tangles from my hair.  It hurts but I let you.  Home.  Here with you.

This garden, wild, tenacious, ours.  We belong to each other.  Every shy crocus, a reminder that one season gives up to the next.  Every day a rebel cry.  It is ours.   The lights will always burn.  Home.

Love Stories

Oh faithful, intrepid readers!  Oh how I love thee!  Oh how I want to smother thee in kisses, juices, blue words, baubles, and cougar furs!  Its V-day and though I loathe the idea that love in America gets only one lousy day, I am honoring this holiday with a post.  Start it off by activating the song below….now slowly work your way down the page….stopping when the mood suits to, um, linger over that special spot.  Give it all the time you need.  Love takes time.  Except when it rushes in.  And when it does, let it take over mother fucker.  Don’t try to stop what the Gods clearly gave us in lieu of immortality and wings.

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I fall in love every single day.  I used to fall in love at least twice on every Bart ride to and from school.  He would be sitting a seat or two away across from me.  I couldn’t just stare but I would glance, side long, when the rules permitted.  My imagination would carve out a long and humid story line, one that ended in a tear soaked parting.  My train route took me, for a thrilling 14 minutes, under the Bay.  It was then that our tale would unfold.  My stop always came to soon and with tattered hearts we would part ways.

The first time I fell in love….head first.  In a club, 16.  I walked up to him, informed him that he was about to get kissed, and he did.  I spent the next year growing up, fast, and loving him, deep.  That was a turbulent time in my life.  I nearly lost a parent, I spent some time homeless, I was acrimoniously divorced from my high school life.  And yet I remember that time as love soaked and exciting.  Love can color your life in the most wonderful of shades.  It fortified me against the devils of the world.

Love two- In eyeliner I scratched out my number, left it lodged in his door jam.  He called.  6 years later, two states, one dog, one cat, lots of love, lots of fights, we separated in a Hawaii airport.  His body scarred, my soul healed, calmed.  He held my hand as I fought off the demons of many lifetimes, he rubbed balm on my wounded heart, and as I won the battles, he lost the war.  The biggest tragedy of love is that we do the work so the next lover can reap the benefits.  He will always be the biggest hero of my life and I dream of him still.  I dream of a man that slams the breaks on just because he sees a dirt road that we haven’t been down yet.  Punches it down the path and lands us in the most beautiful, untouched grove of alders, even though we are late, and I am flipping, begging him to turn around.  There is always time for a new adventure.  Thank you….you know who you are.  You changed my life.

The love that came down the pike next was a bit, how do you say?, tumultuous? It was shrouded in a haze of unrequited, jealous, and strange love.  An ill fit.  I learned that square does not fit in circle.  I learned that just because you have love doesn’t mean you have friendship.  Lust is dangerous when you refuse to mine it for anything but sex.  But at least I learned.

What came after….my reward and my punishment.  All that was good in the world and all that would prove too heavy to bare.  Love is a powerful thing.  It will wake you up before the sun and keep you hungry long past the moon.  I would never seek a refund on what was so generously given, but the pain still gives me pause, years later.  My first true heartbreak, I never knew such agony.  His removal of love was like an amputation without anesthesia.  Surgical and brutal.  Bloody.   A topic commonly broached here is fear.  I never knew fear until this.  I was the one who thrust without thought, living for the thrill of love and longing.  Now…well…love left its marks all over me.  And now I run at the sight of it.  Like a survivor, I know that we will meet again, but I fear you.  I know that you can/will bring me to my knees.  In the back of my mind I remember that only the strong can bend knee and remain aloft.  Still I quiver at the thought.  My heart is a hibernating bear in spring, squinting at the sun, hungry, skinny.  Please be kind to me love.  I will give you more than everything.  But I will shake with fear as I do.

Let the idea of love rule all 365 days, let it ride you like a mustang, let it tame you, let it set you free!

Slippery When Wet

Fucking. Sexual relations, intimacy, coupling, mating, copulation, penetration, nookie, whoopee, coitus, coition, fornication, carnal knowledge. Doing it….not doing it.  You ask for it, you beg for it, you pretend you don’t want it, you need it, you don’t need it.  What you do to get it, what you do once you finally do get it.  What they say when they know you love it, that you will drop the act and just request it.  How you look after….hair like a tornado, panties far flung, sheets marred, blood under the skin.  How you feel after…divorced from artifice, emboldened, bare.  What you give up when you fuck….power, fear, dignity, loneliness.  What you get when you fuck…pleasure, release, peace, fear.  Age brings you closer to the source.  You know that making love is tied only to the moment that you make it.  You also know that semen is not the only residue left behind.  The price you pay for soothing the ache…the going rate.

I love that you are naked.  Even when you’re not.