Sunday, February 28, 2016

Fall Asleep


It’s February’s last full night
The weather is April 1
The heater is turned down
As low as it can go
Hoping the sun
Will break though the windows
And keep the house warm
While the wind whisks the
World like eggs in copper pots.

I’ll write until my fingers get cold
I’ll write until my eyes fall in love with sleep

The days fall over
Into march
The days of fingerless gloves
Are numbered like
A weather station abacus
I’m digging deep
Into the darkness
That is my dreams
My memories my cold heart

I’ll write until my heart is unbroken
I write until loves comes from my words
                                                                         
I went out to play
In the hammocks of the mountains
Into the gravity of the
Roaring seas
I had nothing to
hold me down
I had nothing to live for
SO I found a home
And filled it with anchors

I’ll write until my freedom is in front of me
I’ll write until I feel blessed by my choices

But there’s a storm coming
Through all this spring sun
We have to go back to the shovels
The heaters on high
The words dripping with icicles
Not even the pad thai
Can keep you warm
When the words
Fall asleep

Friday, February 26, 2016

Ha Hap Happ Happy

SO I’m doing happy things; meeting up with some happy people and doing what I love to do. It’s been a while since I wanted to tell people the great time I had last night at a book rally or having people over to my house to talk about writing.
There’s a guilty feeling I have when talking to people who aren’t used to me being happy. People who are used to me sighing and complaining with them. 
I’m afraid of being too happy and getting the silence when I said I made a great writing discovery or the “oh” when I say I’m looking forward to "tonight."

I’ve always done it, you see, when my friends were sad I always thought I had to be sad too, so I could be there for them so I wasn’t in their face with happiness. I remember “p” saying just because she was sad didn’t mean I needed to be sad too. That was the only time I ever had some one say that to me.
I’ve always made myself happy, no matter how sad, depressed or alone I was. A dance on valentines with a bottle of wine and a candle. A night out at the movies, a night out to listen to the sounds of the jazz festival. I didn’t lock myself away, but I couldn’t tell people I was having fun.
I’ve had people came to my side, if I’m sad or broken hearted. But people don’t want to hear when happiness sneaks in.
Or maybe I still have trouble talking about it. I get called a social butterfly and people sigh and say that they’re not doing anything. But I am. And want people to be happy, I want to talk about the happy things.


So I’m looking forward to the days ahead, the creativity and the laughter and the music. And I didn’t feel depressed about February like I have for the past 30 some years. 


Monday, February 22, 2016

The Pianist

The pianist visited the court yard before his performance. He was here to play that piece pulled from the dust of the attic. No one had heard this piece except for his six-month old son.

The pianist looked around him at this unattended lament, the untouched statues holding up the notes like clefs. The gargoyles begin to sing, pianissimo at first and when the pianist closes his eyes and really listened Fortissimo.

The beautiful notes emerged the more he realized this place is a symphony, The green moss the flutes the scattered domestic flowers, now wild, the horn sections. His fingers become the string section over the branches and limbs. His feet percussion on the stone walk way.

The notes become, like, an abacus and he counts them, keeps the beat, the wind a metronome on the eye lashes. Music begins to overgrow in this overgrowth.

The king and queen clear the way their children dancing to this piece I‘ve written in the sky. The boy who smiles when the music is right and dances along with the beat I, I create. That is music.

I return to the concert hall, the courtyard still in my eyes, in my soul, and play and play until the baby cries and it is time to go home. Time to feed him.


The concert hall turns into the court yard, and dreams and fancies do come true and we wake up alone in the hermitage another day another set of scales on a piano that must be tuned daily.

Music. The breathing of statues. Perhaps:
The quiet of images. You, language where
languages end. You, time
standing straight from the direction
of transpiring hearts.

Feelings, for whom? O, you of the feelings
changing into what?— into an audible landscape.
You stranger: music. You chamber of our heart
which has outgrown us. Our inner most self,
transcending, squeezed out,—
holy farewell:
now that the interior surrounds us
the most practiced of distances, as the other
side of the air:
pure,
enormous
no longer habitable.

Rainer Maria RilkeAn die Musik (Munich, Jan. 11-12, 1918) from Gedichte aus dem Nachlaß in Sämtliche Werke, vol. 2, p. 111 (E. Zinn ed. 1956)(S.H. transl.)

Saturday, February 13, 2016

Riff It

SO I needed a writing exercise and I think I’ve found one by combining three; the window (bird by bird),the thing I did today; Take your whole day of nothingness and choose one simple thing, and take one simple sentence.  Then riff it.

I went to the mall Today.

It was cold. I spent a lot of money. I walked across the bridge to get there. And it was cold. Small pieces of snow falling from the sky. The sun hid behind the gray clouds in the sky. It didn’t pump any extra vitamin D into these veins. I'm waiting for summer. 

There were many steps. I wore a brown pair of boots that zippered up. They’re not any pair of boots, they’re my payless size 11’s. Big and warm and on their second B’ town winter. Although I don’t wear them every day, but I wore them today.

I wore a purple jacket. I found 50 cents in the pocket, in the other pocket were my house keys and a cell phone. I had mittens on for a while but they made my hands too hot. The purple jacket is good for minus twenty, so It kept me warm, even today.

I talked to the neighbour when I left and when I came back. Reminded him I lived here.

I only went to the stores where I needed things. I needed bananas and honey and peanut butter. I went to the computer store to buy a writing program, and it was a little more than I thought but that was OK I needed to get my poems back.

SO I needed a writing game because I’ve worked and slept all week. And needed to get back into the groove. “Maybe the hardest thing in writing is simply to tell the truth about things as we see them.”-John Steinbeck


That’s the truth of the moment, that’s what really happened, nothing happened inside my head only that it was quiet and I lived in the moment.

Monday, February 8, 2016

Normal Folks

http://criminalminds.wikia.com/wiki/Dana_Seavers


SO i Watched this killer on Criminal Minds. The last time I watched criminal minds was in their first season? When the guy made Wind Chimes out of killed peoples bones. I can watch just about anything, Zero Dark Thirty, Eastern Promises, but the way this show twists it's plots-- well I don't watch tv at all. let alone this show, and Criminal Minds is when I realized I couldn't trust tv any more.

But, as the story goes, I was at the laundry mat, and happened to get there in time to catch the killer and her fantasy's.

She's depressed and makes up fantasy about men and kills women who she sees as threats. And as is the case when I see a show about depression or psychotic people, I connect. Now I'm no Dana Seavers and have control over my imagination and in some sense my depression and am well medicated for both, although the Dr thought it would be fun to lower the anti psychotic. I objected, and I know I did the right thing. (Remember to stand up for yourselves)

But the fantasies, I guess now I need some back ground in what a natural fantasy is vs what is not. If I like a boy or think he likes me I have huge fantasies and dreams but a relationship never happens it's all in my mind, it's great (and no one dies,) but there's great disappointment when I find he's with someone or I find out what he's really like.

I just thought this is what all woman do, have fantasies, there was nothing like this in any depression, multiple personalty, abused woman etc. etc. Literature.
I also don't believe he's there with me, i know when we talk to each other it's in my mind, but, man, I'm really invested in these imaginary relationships. Why does no Dr ask me these questions, am I supposed to know to bring it up? No obviously i didn't, or I would have been a little more concerned and understanding of what my imagination does. I have a dr's appointment next month SO...


Have a good nite normal folks.


Saturday, February 6, 2016

Saturday Nite

Saturday nite
with two cats
and a pen

Saturday nite
You and I
wonder when

Will we ever meet up again
maybe never maybe never
But we were so important
in those years but whatever

We'll even try to write a letter
but it will never be sent
We just talk to ourselves
Until we find where we went

on a

Saturday nite
the piano
and cinnamon

Saturday nite
When decisions
are real and become

The path that leads to tomorrow
one day never one day never
But now is so important
and tomorrow is left, like, whatever

We'll even try to manipulate
the past the present and future
But we still spend Saturday night
With a cat as a cure.


Saturday nite
with two cats
and a pen

Saturday nite
You and I
wonder
; we wonder when