Sunday, March 25, 2012

In proportion to your intelligence is your perception of pain

My mother's mother passed away on Friday. The last of the matriarchs to go...
I saw her just a few weeks back, and have no urge to go to funeral services.
However, in a silly twist, in a week or so I'll be taking on an acting gig that involves being a mourner at a mock funeral...
It is there that I intend to do a lot of crying for no good reason.

One day when I was little, I found I could cry on demand. I think I had something in my eye.
My mother was dually impressed with this. She'd say things like: You could go to Hollywood with tears like those.

Now, I simply lower my eyes and try to think of something that makes my nose tingle and my face itch like an allergic reaction, and soon I'm weeping.
But these salty jewels don't come cheap...

A little while back, I watched Wings of Desire. A German film by Wim Wenders, and it made me cry. Or moreso that I cried for watching it. It occurred to me then to make a list of all the things that have ever moved me to tears.
This is a work in progress, of course...
Old Photos, sometimes, like movies.

The love of my mother, and things that have made my mother cry out of sympathy for her.

The death of my father's sister last summer. The death of my grandfather, and his incredible send off.

Often, the plight of others. Lost families during wartime.

Videos of people, kids especially, getting puppies for christmas.

Octavia Butler:
Went to write to her after I saw her at a reading in 2005. That's when I found out she'd passed away.

Mother Teresa, and her confiding to a priest with whom she was close late in life, that she was no longer able to hear the voice of God. And that even if he'd given up on her, she hadn't given up on him.

My brother, singing a song I'd written about love in the hospital.

The short story Girl Pool by Kurt Vonnegut.

The children's story The Velveteen Rabbit.

Every single boyfriend, especially the ones that drove me crazy, and the romantic love they offered.

LAIKA, the first dog (Russian) in space, who did not come back- "We did not gather enough data from the mission to warrant the death of the dog."

I hope you can find a reason to be thankful for your humanity and compassion today, and tomorrow...

Saturday, March 3, 2012

dont you wish you had those nights back? the ones you paid rent for, but didn't stay?

don't mention the fog.
bring silk instead into the bed.
the place where our minds could be.
don't lean against the doors
when you could be under the covers.


coming like a message
hemorrhaging pink under Venus.


From the wide windows, sky.
A view of the high elec cables sine wave.
Cigarette ash in the upturned beer bottle cap.

Clean wide brown
paint brushes dried and
Three in a clear jar with a wide mouth.

Glass tarnish
shimmy the light back toward
crumpled paper and crumb tatters
of gold leaf.

Sunset falls,
long and final
over the worktable.


Those times when
deja vu
doesn't feel like anything
other than a wave
of extreme perfection?

I feel that
every day
around you.

Cloudy Tuesday. Rainy warmth hangs in the air like a deceptive blanket. the threatening insulator.
I went into a tea shop and drank white tea. Slow, and with air. It provided a stillness and a clarity that let me see colors and hear the city sounds with more purpose. As in a film. The cinema of my mind is vast. It makes me smile! It swirls inside me and spreads peace... or maybe it's sloth instead? My movements feel sluggish as if I was just aroused from rest.
The end of December. Already the bright retainer of spring thrusts itself into view. It is about to be deceived but it doesn't care. Even in deference, it is grateful.
People go out to breath heavy. Boys and girls move their bodies to music. Whatever becomes the light in them?

The board. The larder. The pantry. Empty.
Almost completely. I don't mind the look of it, all individually wrapped crackers and box of cereal with one bowl left.
I cannot eat the sound of my drum being played. I cannot unspin a curtain into spaghetti.
Coffee plays an uncertain cadence over my heart.
I dated a caffeine addict whose cum tasted like the coveted roasted cherries of that naughty insurgent bean. The grit and the flower of its taste. Pressed like saliva from bark. Rain run-off juice from a washed city. Burned rebel-drink. A bad substitute for prunes.
It's a thing that makes a tummy feel more empty after awhile. Hungry for grease.
I cannot whip toothpaste into eggs, over hard. I cannot breathe and take in the air like milk. I must fill myself another way.