Mariska The Gypsy

I may be able to use this in the written version but not in the version I tell outloud, not yet

 
He traced his fingers
Across my back
In the shape of
The rose and thorns
The tattoo of his ancestors
 
There’s a silence between us
I know what he means
He wants me to be
A Gypsy too

Motions

 not my photo

I woke up neither happy nor sad, just in the middle, merely a state of motion. I know the things I had to do and commenced doing them. No feeling of happy like that child running down the road right now meeting up with a friend after school. Nor sad like a lover leaving the house for a long trip away from home and all she knows. Just motion, forward and due to tiredness, some repetitive motion; going back and forth trying to remember the nothingness that was forgotten.

It was not like university days when there was always an adventure; Like little lanterns floating down the river, each person a light, each light shone like a beacon to new ideas and new adventures; each day a million lanterns in the night.

I woke up from dreams, and nightmares, of doors opening. I woke up a few times after a front door, a hallway door, a door I had never seen before, opened and someone, something began to enter. Each time I woke up. I understood that doors opening were a good thing but so many bad feelings came along with it.

It was not like university when everything was light. Now people have faces and hair and pasts that push them forward and hold them down. So opening a new door is both exhilarating and frightening at the same time. A lover becomes beautiful and evil. There are no beacons, nothing to say this is right or this is wrong, only the present only the movement forward.

I woke up and went to work, there were other people going through the motions, some happy some sad, some so sad they’re happy, some so happy they’re sad. We seemed to meet by the coffee maker and wish each other a good morning, and pump another cup of caffeine into our souls, waiting for five o clock, waiting for that sound of our own swipe tag sending us home to happy.

I came home and had another cup of coffee, and for a moment there was a feeling; I was tired and then happy to be home. I was happy that I had found a place that was so perfect and so wrong at the same time, and like the dreams where doors open, I had seen another door open that day, and enter something both beautiful and evil and began a new phase of my life.

Adventure in Dew

There’s a chill in the air this morning. Can you feel it? It’s early enough that the dew is still fresh on the grass. Breathing makes the widows in the sun room steam up, and I put my favorite wool sweater on over my pj’s.

There’s a little girl who has just learned to open the door on her own. She’s the independent type, she has to reach up a bit over her head to get the door knob. Once or twice gets her morning hair tangled in her hand and around the knob.

She gets herself outside while her mother is making coffee in the kitchen down the hall.

Outside she ran across the grass to a patch of yellow flowers. “Dandelions” she whispered to herself. Her tiny finger reached out and pressed down on one of the Dandelions leaves. The dew, like a diver in a competition jumped off the leaf and splashed her face. She giggled and looks up at her mom.

Her mother is frightened at this new turn of her daughters growing up, and doesn’t know whether or not to set down rules. Should she be allowed to go outside on her own, or should she be punished for not asking permission first?

Mother takes her coffee out on the front step and watches her daughter. The Sunday morning ritual seems to change a bit again as she watches her daughter grow up.

I have given myself permission to write more than journals and morning pages. It’s exciting and frightening at the same time.

60 minutes in B town

not a picture of paris

 

A______ and I were walking across the river. We were each heading to a different grocery store after being at the hug and slug, I needed chocolate and she needed chicken wings. I’m next door to the hug and slug (tavern) and 10 minutes from 3 of the grocery stores.

I may have been a little intoxicated heading across the river.

She said “See Paris we have a river too, and it’s nicer than yours.” That made my heart long for someplace else; anyplace and I would be a different person, a better person.

 A place with more opportunities.

And then I thought about it tonight, it doesn’t matter where you put me, I spend most of my hours by myself writing or talking to cats. A city would have more opportunities but what I need is to sit my butt down and write and read.

So there’s a confession to make. I’m not a vegetarian, or a vegan. I was a vegan for a month and got so hungry I was referred to as a Goth heroin addict. Yep I guess I looked sweet. I did the hemp seed, the brewers yeast the salad the tofu the nuts I have Ellens cook book I have Alicia Silverstones Vegan for intelligent Dummies I have so many things with Neal Bernards  and Sarah Kramers name on it and still I couldn’t do it. SO I broke down and had eggs which led to fish which led to bacon which led to chicken. And you know what, I could get up the next morning and function. And in the past  when I made plans during the weekend “Write an hour every night” I could do it on Monday but after that I was too tired, here it is Wednesday and I have enough focus to spend an hour writing. 

And that was after a bad day.

I’ll still only post vegan food, but I’m not a vegan L

So Now what is my excuse not to sit and write and apply myself and get shit done? I don’t have one. I am able to write every night. And I don’t have to be in Paris to write. I can be in here and apply myself. It’ll start with an hour of writing and lead to an hour of editing and going through books and teaching myself to write better;  Confidence Frosty Confidence and commitment and health.

 

And Hey if I want paris I'll read julia childs life in france.

 

 

The Human Pet

There was a human that showed up outside my door. They are very rare this far out in the ‘verse not only because they nearly obliterated themselves by polluting the planet but because they have so much trouble adapting to life this far out.

I had a human once before as a child. It followed me home, I couldn’t tell if it was male or female, with all it cloths and bashfulness. There’s only one way to tell if a human is male or female they don’t want you to know. They all look so much alike.

Humans are a lot of work. They get stinky so fast and have to be cleaned almost every day. They need utensils to eat and this imagination and worship of the Devine takes up so much time. Plus they get lonely so easily. I had to give mine up because I couldn’t afford to get another one and mine just moped all the time and played with its self. Mom said that meant it needed a friend.

I went out in the back yard to see what this human wanted now. Its cloths were all tattered and it was trying to rip blankets off my clothes line. It had its dirty paws on my clean silk sheets. I tried to chase it away, perhaps it would get on a ship and go to someone else’s planet.

But is sat on the lawn and made a horrible sound, it was what my friend who breeds humans, on a planet with more oxygen, calls sad; such a simple word for such an annoying sound. I just wanted it to stop that noise

I reached for its hand and brought it inside I took it to the dinner room and offered it some human food I had from the time I looked after a friends pair about a month ago. It was a little stale, but humans eat anything. On their own planet they eat animals. Bacon?

This one ate what I gave it and it burped a bit, for a moment I remembered why humans could be so cute, that little burp after they eat. I went over to the neighbours to get some cloths and let the human soak in the tub. This one insisted on bubble bath so the neighbor guessed I had a female on my hands, said they could be moody and gave me and extra box of something.

My neigbour’s human, that just passed away, they have such a short life span, was quite overweight, but she said until we find something better these cloths will do in a pinch.

At home I cracked the door open slightly and threw in the cloths, it squeaked a bit and then made the laughter sound, and started to babble to itself. You either get the really quiet ones or the talkie ones, and I assumed I had a talkie one on my hands.

Our friends and I go out to the bar and spend hours guessing whether or not human chatter means anything. They have a whole world they created cities and towns so their squeaks and hen scratch must mean something.

It came downstairs and looked at the TV. It seemed to have no idea how to turn it on. So I walked over to the wall and pressed a code that picks up old TV signals from earth and it fell asleep on the floor watching a show where they bite each other in the neck. They’re such a violent kind.

There was something cute and simple about it sleeping on the floor so I decided for now that I would keep it and call it Misha.

Always

I must have a daughter
To take my place
As I age
To rule this queendom
 
I must have a daughter to
Teach the world peace
I must have a daughter
To teach the world strength
 
She will be Perseverance

And rather than look for
Any man who breaths
I must look for the father
 Of my daughter

That I dreamed of 
I’ve dismissed her
Until now
 
But she’s always

Meant love

In the dream.

 

Just a little poem I wrote 5 minutes ago, I’m reading Mists of Avalon and they’re going on about having a son. And I thought I’d write about having a daughter. There’s a daughter in my dreams. Maybe I should listen to what she says.

Scattered Pieces

The chairs of the theatre are red. I walk out, it’s another movie I don’t want to watch until the end.

I do that leave movies half way through, especially when I go to see them alone. When I reach the exit sign I turn around to look behind me.

On the screen there is a fire, there is something wrong in the projection room and the fire burns in slow motion and I can see the different lines of the film, each square of picture. Sometimes you I hear the director’s voice end the scene. Cut and Print.

There is dirt and dust on the projector.

No one in the theatre seems to notice, everyone is quiet. A couple in the front row are pointing at what’s in the fire, covering their mouths from the smoke, wiping the heat from their brow. The start to look at me and point at what needs to come be salvaged. I went to university with them, they fell in love there and have been together ever since. I hardly recognized them anymore.

There’s a whole past burning in the fire.

I decide walk back down the aisle. I decide to walk into the fire. I find I can pull up a tray of canapés and have a snack, the catering boss gives me a note that reminds me all that I have learned being there, the people who were my friends. He said it’s ok that you ran away, I forgive you, karma is looking you in the face telling you how it could have been done.

That’s what I did I ran away, rather than stop and see what we could do I ran away. As I realized I ran away a fireman came and put out the fire around the kitchen and there was a kitchen where I could make my own canapés. Do my own cooking.

Beside the kitchen is the bathroom, the same one I cleaned every day for 3 years. My boss and I walk in and look at the fire. He takes a canapé. We are very relaxed. Said it never should have gone down the way it did, it was all backwards, but this is a piece of you, the piece you ran away from.

I ran away.

It’s time to bring these scattered pieces home.

The fire fighters put out the fire, so much of it is ashes, that’s what happens when you let your past burn, but there are scattered pieces to bring home and set in my new house my new life. I clean the tarnish off the copper of the old ship and the artifacts of the old museums. I remember that who I was is part of who I am.

I am catering staff I am an actor a reader a writer a houseperson a museum guide. They are all pieces of me, I need to accept them all in my life so that I can move on with being me.