Not one...

Imagine: the start of an extra long holiday weekend—‘summer’s kickoff’ we relish the notion, here in the north.
The icing on the cake… some exquisite quality time spent with a couple of your favorite kids, with the added bonus (their choice as Ab proclaims, “I haven’t had a sub in forever and I JUST LOVE SUBS aunt Jenn!”) an informal dinner from your friendly, neighborhood Subway… the sun, working on setting for the night all golden, bronze and blue-skied.
Having just finished disc three’s Spanish lesson with, ‘soy Northe Americana de Chicago’ we practice and then proclaim with accuracy, ‘soy Northe Americana de Michigan’. We flip to Abby’s favorite song from Rodney Crowell’s album, Fate’s Right Hand. The cute thing is that for years, Crowley’s ballsy lyrical masterpiece was Isaac’s favorite as well. Granted, there are a few, shall we say, ‘choice’ lyrics, a bit more PG-13 than G in the song—but the kids in my life have more soul than they know how to handle.
If you’re like me, you let ‘em take it in deep, in long, slow draws.
So you drive along, headed toward a red traffic light & hear Jack as he busts into his red bag of Dorito’s, too anxious for the two-mile trip to a Friday night retreat on Long Lake. Three seconds later, over the traffic, the music, and Abby’s throaty serenade, auntie-Jenn ear’s perk to hear a devastatingly familiar rattle—Jack’s throat, mid-choke.
You look over your shoulder, swerve into the right lane and onto an extremely conveniently placed, extra-wide sidewalk, rip back the emergency brake, flip the hazards, (somewhere deep fearing police, but not really caring one iota), and hurriedly extract a frightened, slightly overwhelmed, choking four year old Jack from the belt of his booster seat.
Faintly remembering the Heimlich maneuver for adults and then some fragment of ‘what not to do’ with children, you ask Jack to bend over; to try to expel. Rubbing his back, holding his tummy, you notice he is bleeding; panic, but see that he has ‘just’ bitten his lip during the ordeal.
You realize he is no longer choking, just crying. Phew. Hugs. He sips something cold to drink. More hugs.
Afterward kneeling on the sidewalk holding Jack closely—car improperly parked, hazard lights beaking their ‘emergency’ signal, you glance around—watching drivers at the busy Traverse City intersection. As each of them pass by, many pointing, laughing, and making assumptions, you are overwhelmed. You are also, disappointed.
Not one car stopped to ask if we were ok. Not one.

little Red

little red-hot anger,
I see you
all scrunched-eyes
and pendulum swing
volcano-scorch-dirge
you make me sweltery
at my neck
itchy
pin-prickle

seethe in your cave
in the corner
engulf
or
release the
pent-up-mess-of-it
your torrent
[like a kombucho lid]
tell it like it is
just
sayitsayitsayit
one-by-one inch mosaic-tiles-worth-at-a-time

deep breath this time.

your heart won’t race.

your insides shred to mush.

articulate your heart
steadfastly,
and calmly

Instead.

Pitter-Patter (Chapters 1 & 2)

730a
Grey skies loom out my windowed-view, yet the pitter-patter of little bare feet on the hard wood floor tickle my tummy. I’ve been awake for some time although I am snuggled here.
Instead of jolting into the normal routine of the day-to-day, hitting snooze one too many times, I have luxuriated in a fragrant haze, that luscious delicacy of a Saturday morning at home.
I hear the thud-thud as your pads turn the corner, and the sneaky tip-toe as you sneak to see if I am still snoozing. Surprising you from under the heap of down cover, I am ear-to-ear-good-morning-ing you and your eyes, bright as chocolate pie, flicker with a light source all its own.
Looking at your tall, lanky frame this morning, I still see the pig-tailed-toddler and the familiar Saturday morning refrain, during visits north, ‘can we go to the bak-ew-ee jenn?’
Today the same refrain, and a sure smile, I know we are both wondering if the grey skies outside might allow us the added treat of a puddle-jumping tramp to our Main Street haunt.

Roost
Perched atop the leather-topped, padded barstool, swiveling back and forth waiting on a peach smoothie, I listen as you tell me about your friend’s birthday party plans for later today. I like the way you look deeply into my eyes, seeing me listening to you. You are a natural storyteller.
Listening, I am reminded of how lovely your raconteur-skills have evolved. A favorite past time is rifling through the lined-paper-pages of stories, poems, and imagery we have collected since you began school.
I delight in the flowering maturation of your penmanship—your fertile use of phonics to articulate the vocabulary of your painter’s palette. Sometimes we giggle deep, with the cleverly crafted spelling.
I am so proud of how very quickly you went from listener to reader and it sends shivers of joy into my center to know that you are a seven-year-old bibliophile.

Sippy

Canter on out, into the swish and wish of a mid day
sun
rise.

Swirl and whirl
your hips
undulate into the unknown
mercurial
oblivion
of another’s universe.

Make it your own.

Sip it silly (long, sippy draws).
into the deep-belly-depth of your center.
Inhale something wicked fierce.
Let it tickle your fancy.

Colonic Tonic

Just stepped into The Bean, for a cup of hot, black coffee, in hopes of clearing the, what feels like 10 lbs of sediment sitting in my intestines this morning. A whole lot of greens the past few days, and maybe not quite enough water? Like a cigarette in the morning (so I’ve heard from many smoking friends), it is a catalyst I seek.

In addition to the hot, black, java fix, I am greeted with Ani lyrics (it's not just everywhere that you'll hear Ani DiFranco belting some folk). Singing boldy, with zest, I glance out the window into an icy parking lot parked with cars of every size, shape, color and age. Here I am, working at a mix of blue-collar, white-collar facility, in the northern part of a state whose had its fair share of blows to its economic base over the past few years. Lucky for us, we stand tall. For now.

Tacoma

The Pacific Northwest is one of my favorite parts of the United States—Eugene and Florence, Oregon; Corvallis too. I intended to move there in 1999. On dreamy day’s off from my expositorily-unfulfilling retail day-job, I would spend hours at the library, examining topographical maps, creating routes windy and never circuitous; venturing to places like Half Moon and Libby Montana along the way. I wanted to run along ‘Going to the Sun’ road in Glacier. To bed a mountain man. To enjoy the sweet splendor of a western morning, alone, unafraid of what it most certainly would bring to my center.

Tacoma. Seattle. Visited in feb 06. Loved it there.

The day after i arrived, i took the third of three pregnancy tests, and learned i was pregnant for the first time in my life. I spent an hour investigating 'motherhood' sites on the web, while dilas showered. I had gone on an early morning, green-in-winter, run through her neighborhood streets. My sweat hadn't yet dried on my skin. Her boxer, stella, was licking my knee as i sat there, researching.
I remember glancing away from my laptop screen and staring at my hands, typing. Looking up my arm, at the freckles. Contemplating mannerisms and genetics.

When i was a sophomore in college, i experienced my first short bout with the 'biological clock' ticking that can happen to women. I remember talking about it to a friend who was on a PhD track, who was Catholic, and already dating Aaron, the man she intended to marry (and did, although they've been unhappy for years). I remember her shaking her head at me, admonishing it. For me, i was simply sharing something that was going on with me. I hadn't planned for it. I didn't ask for it. I wasn't even dating or having sex at the time. It was just happening with my body.

It happened again when i was 26. Again, i wasn't dating. I was very casually involved with a man who was disinterested in dating me, but was enamored of my heart, and infatuated with my body.
I distracted myself with work. I let go of the noncommittal man who frankly did not deserve my attentions. The biological clock thing ticked herself away.

Since then, it hasn't really happened. I mean kids typically love me. I'm a lot like them. I like playing outside and laughing and i'm not afraid to get dirty. I also collect bouncy balls and wear pony tails or braids a lot, so i guess we're sort of on the same level.

When i learned i was pregnant, i was with someone who was in love with me, and who i was really enjoying the company of. I was enthralled with the fact that he could throw me over his shoulder and that although in our 30's, that we'd met when i was 19--he'd known me when i was just a girl. For a short time, i excited myself with the notion of 'finally' moving on with life--'finally' growing up and 'settling down' as everyone seems to label it. We'd both been engaged before, but had yet to marry. He wanted to marry me. He couldn't wait to get a dog, and have the newspaper delivered to our front yard, and teach our child how to play catch. The enticement of motherhood and 'adulthood' didn't last long. True colors revealed themselves. Both his and my own.

Like a character in a story i had read, that woman's story evolved into something else.
Children. Parenting. For so many years now, it seems, i imagine that 'someday' when my 'adult' life begins, that i will be a borrowed mother. A fill in, when my lover's children are away from their own wonderful mother.
'Step parent' sounds so crass. So empty somehow. At least when borrowed, you are soft, and worn-in a bit; the edges aren't sharp or splintery. You don't have to climb (step) toward it, instead you are wrapped up in it--enveloped in a blanket of additional love...i'm not explaining it well...the point is i guess i wrote childbearing out of my script...somehow, and sometimes i just don't understand it at all, and yet other times, it simply suits me. As i am a caregiver, i am also an aunt. I was born to be an aunt, a borrowed-mom, for a short time, when my sister's are away.

Shoveling this morning, I thought about mountain men, and breadwinners. About how you become your own person-of-the-house one day after another, and eventually it leads you to a life, alone. The piles of white snow are high—surprisingly. The snow is beautiful. Stark. Freezing. There is so much snow this year. This winter reminds me of when i was a child. One year my dad built us this incredible igloo fort in the front yard. It was amazing. I swear we played in it the entire winter...that was the kind of winter's we used to have. Tons of snow and snow that lasted all winter--not just a few weeks at a time, only to melt and turn grey...this area thrives all year, it's been called 'the year round playground" for years, but wacky winters with melting weather really hurt the economy as well as the spirits of the locals.

So far, this year seems to be just the pick-me-up all the curmudgeons needed.

Rain

A dark, puddle-ridden pathway, winding down an October road, I traversed the black night to escape the faraway look glimpsed in the mirror’s reflection…one not erased with the booze of a wedding reception, the champagne toast to a rousing reggae band.
A day of celebration for a childhood friend…an autumnal afternoon and eve, set aside in the history books, for the sake of commitment. An opportunity to reconnect with old friends, teachers, acquaintances; after a long stint ‘away,’ part of another life altogether.
Small talk and talk back and one more glass and a hope to fill the empty gash, bleating like a sick cow across my abdomen, the pain seeping through the dim haze of narcotic.
Wincing the pain, I let my eyelids lightly shut, and upon doing so, a flash of memory reveals the quick tap-tap-tap on the keys of a computer keyboard (while on lunch break at work) which lightning-quick located an answer to my problem. A destination, not as many miles away this time. A solution sought, found, and endured just one day ago.
Opening my eyes, they are hot with tears. I quickly inhale, willing them away stretching my eyes open as to help absorb the extra moisture around the corners. Sniffing, I glance left and right. Take another deep breath, open them a little wider, blink briefly and sniff away the urge to dive into a tidal tumult, the source of which I might never return from. The belly of that beast, one too many riptides away from shore.
Slosh, slosh, slosh, the brown suede and crepe-paper-thin, hand painted cotton accoutrements to my fancy Brazilian slides went; enduring irreversible damage. I was numb to the want to care for the oh-too-expensive splurge.
A chill seeped through the grey black mist, tip-toed down my spine, and rattled me. It was enough to make me consider and then blatantly partake in an awkward high-heeled jog/jaunt the quarter mile to the gravel drive, wooden steps, creaky-hinged screen door and entrance into the remainder of the buzz I was seeking to soak up the bitter au juis of the disastrous finality of the previous day’s decision.

10.21.08 haikus

B A R A C K O B A M A
peaceful passionate leader
prevail with God speed


BARACK me the house
Roe/Wade me my body's RIGHTS
Speak to me of H O P E.


wind whipped sun-licked brow
furrow curse pretend to care
stand blame or just VOTE.

Orange black sky

Survival:
Extant Leftover Remaining Residual Surviving Vestigial Viable Continuation Endurance
Natural Selection Relic Subsist Survive Weather
Survival: of, pertaining to, or for use in surviving, esp. under adverse or unusual circumstances: survival techniques.
Survival: Anthropology. (no longer in technical use) the persistence of a cultural trait, practice, or the like long after it has lost its original meaning or usefulness.

For me, the word ‘survival’ resonates most closely to an experience incurred when an almost teenybopper girl. One cold, wintry morning, I awoke coughing, choking almost, on a grey cloud of smoke. Disoriented in the dim light of a Sunday’s predawn, I turned over in the tossed-sheets of my single bed, in the tiny room of my adolescence, and started screaming. The ceiling of my little bedroom as well as the hallway outside my door was ablaze.
I was not dreaming.
Whereas fight or flight should have kicked-in, for some reason, the proximity of my dad’s beat-up old pick up truck, to what seemed the origination of bright orange flame, had me in a state of panic. Wouldn’t it blow up? Additionally, in my discombobulated state, I was yelling, with a red-hot-with-ache, scratchy from smoke-inhalation sore throat, for my parents, that there was a Fire! Fire! Fire!
Enduring the minutes between my awakenings into the inferno, which was once my family’s home, and the moment I realized I needed to extract myself, I sat there, on my bed, trying to determine whether or not it was safe to stand upright. Wondering if there was any way I could squeeze through the narrow, uniquely house trailer-specific frames of the tri-paned crank-out windows. Disillusioned from the smoke and flame-beset shell of a structure, soon to be emptied into a heap of ash, my actions were leaden.
Although ‘prepared’, in grade school as well as by our parents, for the worst sort of emergency—tornado, fire drill, wind gust or an Alberta clipper snowstorm, there was little familiarity to the seemingly foreign, and most certainly unwelcome, morning scene I had awoken to.
During those drills, you discuss how you might react to ‘emergency’ situations, but I can tell you with the certain truth of a bleary eyed twelve year old girl, that you simply have no way of predicting action of any kind—how exactly, for example, your sleepy body might react? (for me, not nearly as quickly as I likely should have—what, for example, you might think about (Nike hi-tops?). How, for example, you might feel when you see your sister’s stepping to safely out the back door; or to note the color of the sky, a deep black orange, as you glanced backward, as you ran in your bare feet and nightgown, up the snowy hill to an oblivion you had no capacity to imagine.

from 1.1.07

...for me, i guess, today is a perfectly appropriate excuse to take advantage of a number of things:

a dreary, mid-Michigan late morning where the rain, grey and somewhat sad that it escapes from the skye to us in liquid and not ice-laden form...filling puddles in the streets with a seemingly hope-less moisture...a cesspool of sorts, reflecting that global warming is upon us in a frightening way...that winter in the great state of Michigan, may not be as it once was...that the times, they are a changing...evolving into a place where we strivers of goodness, rightness, justness, happiness, light-ness, must remind ourselves, remind each other, to AGAIN rise and shine and dance the dervish of our lives, all of us, here, keeping hope afloat...clearing life's puddles of their muddy cess. i splashed in two large puddles this morning, in my wellie's, after a
lovely time spent with a dear old friend, chomping a hearty breakfast at my very favorite spot in Old Town, Golden Harvest, i splashed some of that cess away...i cleared some of those cobwebs, and darted upstairs, to further the clearing of them, spending time with another dear heart, dreaming into a new year...collaborating for tomorrow's dreams. we ate chocolate cake, i drank my coffee with honey & cream, we danced the cats around the hardwood floors with a laser pointer, and we jammed to 70's disco tunes, tapping away on our respective keyboards...a blooming bouquet of red roses set between us, smiles, on
the insides of our chests, from the laughter & moments spent, watching "whose afraid of virgina woolf" last night, and imbibing with good food and the most delightful kind of company...

the reality that it is the end of another year--a year that has been, for me at least, about challenge and risk; sadness and deep-personal loss, purposeful change and the stall in time between when that change is ready to be embraced and the incubating-time where growth is inevitably on the horizon...it is in sight...it is there and is not lost, i have taken a step back, taken a look, and realized, that all the upheaval is not all for naught. as i mentioned above. it was purposeful change. it wasn't filled with whimsy. it wasn't fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants--proverbial or otherwise...
gee-whiz, that sounds a bit dismal....let me interject...that, in addition, it was a year too, where my creativity was ignited, delved into, branched upon...(for example...i sold a lot of my artwork for starters! i also worked on a few more chapters of 'that book' i've been writing for years it seems...i even decided upon a title for that work, which for me, has been the most exciting part of the autumn that just came to a close. i feel like the title actually is igniting me towards threading all the pieces of this somewhat-dilly-dallying/gallivanting project into focus!!) the positivity in the year centers itself here...where the belief in the center of my self was the one thing i trusted, and although doubt reigned herself in a moment (or maybe a month??!!) or two, for sake of that doubt, i am here today, extending myself to you, in hopes that i can erase her from my world altogether, that i may remind myself that it takes a village. i cannot do it alone. i need the love, the wisdom, the criticism, the double-dog-dares, the cynicism, the light, the grace, the acceptance, the judgment, the charisma, the charm, the beauty of each of you; encouraging me, knowing & accepting me, all idiosyncracies included...thank you to all of you, for that, most of all.

and so, i guess with that, an attempt at a close....
i guess part of the reason i've spent this time, pecking away on this laptop reflecting upon the end of a rather melancholic-expanse-in-time the past week(s) where i've been called-to-the-carpet by one closest to my heart...(thank you wanderingo) where i have realized that in all my attempts to reach out and encourage connectivity, to hasten the depth that i share with so many of you; in my new surroundings; that i have learned a lesson on patience. i have learned a lesson on the responsibilities undertaken when we have a heart of our own to take care of--and that we may have forgotten a bit, about her somehow, busying ourselves with the love and care of others, our family, our dear friends, the new ones who titillate our fancy...in the spontaneity that life sometimes allows, entertains; cajoles our senses with with, we unabashedly become immersed in momentary distraction, that, can be reckless. that can hurtful. that, it is dangerous to let go of that red-hot-muscle of our own. it is irresponsible to trust too quickly. it is fateful to speak without thinking. it is even more fateful to act without thinking; or to take action on something massive, hastily. the turmoil i sometimes feel, living the life i live, comes down to this seeming-warning label in my last paragraph....to live unabashedly, or, to be careful/cautious...

Can we instead carefully live unabashedly, or unabashedly live carefully?

i guess i'll leave you with the idea of living consciously. being unabashedly aware of the beauty of every single moment of life.
whether measured steps, or galloping gallosh-splashing skips, i'll steal an I hope not overly-cliched-phrase...may you LIVE all the days of your life.

for me, life is busied with work, with the details i often put aside, and wait until tomorrow to complete. i can't even manage to get to the post to retrieve appropriate materials to mail all the holiday greetings, new year's wishes, congratulatory & celebratory messages, and birthday woo-hoo's to those of you i left a few short months ago, or those of you who it's been years since i've seen...i think of you, all of you...in the way that i do...my mind is a kaleidoscope of collaged-memory... i am a mixed-media artist in all the various facets of my life...whether it be my diverse and ever-evolving collection of
dear hearts, who i would live and die for; the music compilations i enjoy mailing out; the stream-of-concsious-attempts at explanation or thought-sharing...the words sometimes splayed viscerally, other times abject and simply stated...the actual artwork, i paint or seam together...the dishes i enjoy preparing...it is no wonder that my life is a patchwork quilt of sorts...attempts made, risks thought about, some plunged into head first; others, skeptically awaiting further consideration, fears realized, dreams discussed...hopes dashed and then then zoomed back-into-view...

and so, as i do every year, i'll strive to be a better friend, a better lover if i get the chance; a better sister, a better daughter. i'll hope to travel, to see you and yours; to share immeasurable amounts of laughter...to cry a little less than in 2006!! to seek & find, to risk, to let it all out & sayitsayitsayit, but also know when to keep the lip zipped, breathe deeply, and wander elsewhere. i'll try to mail out those cards and thoughts i have, randomly, for you, when the mood strikes me, instead of months down the road, or more often than not, never, left in a pile of keepsakes for what might have been a connection re-established...

as i am wont to do, i'll wish for all of you, light, grace, hope, and all the love you'll let yourself inhale....deeply, and all the way to your toes.

be well my sweets!!
forever yours,
justadreamer jennryan

white picket fence

i think i busted my cerebellum.
somewhere between yesterday and blablabla.
is there an antidote to the discriminatory way you blink me away into oblivion?
how your cringe, inhalation-deep, makes impressions on the richter scale of
his tor y?

roseanne, you told me to scream out loud, at the top of my lungs all ladylike and polite from the top of the highest building and right down there in the subway too.
and i did.
and i did.
and i did.
some more...

but they STILL don't hear me.
claim i'm a 'low-talker'...
dismissing the sounds for mere drivel.

sometimes, i sing a high falsetto, lachrymose prayer into the great grey-blue-beyond of eternity and forever and the place outside the limits of what i can scientifically prove, justify and disclaim. there are usually tears.
they are sharp and hot at first, and then turn into a deluge.
a waterfall of blathering idiocy.

it makes no sense.
i cannot say for sure.
there are not words for this place in my center.

...filled with every last scrap of what it means to live & breathe & gratefully transcend a life not filled w/ the placebo bullshit of antidepressants.
there are caverns of melancholy i dare not revisit.
the plunge, so deep, black, and hollow; i fear a return to the surface.
as well as billowy cloud-burst heights.

piercing the center of this moment with the sharp pointy edge of a dart into no where
i bleed the epitaph of memory

i remember
i feel it
it permeates every pore
and tomorrow
a bruise will certainly stain the space where light & dark met life & heart

and so i busted my cerebellum somehow, along the way. it's just a broken record reality, so i hope you'll stay & play.


any
way.

an aloe waltz

i winced through the collection of condensation on the doorway glass and glimpsed evening enveloping the long, wet day. whisking into the kitchen, grabbing a heavy-bottomed glass bottle of olive oil, i turned on the burner, bent for the large, flat iron pan, and busied myself collating an array of colorful ingredients on the black of my kitchen's counter top.
a feast of flavor was my want to create. that no invited guests were yet knocking on the door, or for that matter, on their way, was secondary to the want.
a full house, with lively laughter, children? the color and light of personalities at ease in the simple comforts of surroundings which sooth and welcome. my only wish.

and if you build it, they will come, a mantra, i determined to exercise, that day, in my kitchen. with jazz welling in the background, it seemed my jade and aloe plants were swaying, to and fro, imbibing in the splendor of low-key. of good vibe. of the effects of ‘good guys’ on their particular corner of the planet.
and if you cook it, will they come? and if you open that heart, will it fill? and if you nurture that spirit once hungry, will it grow...grow to love?

unalloyed

tonight, i celebrated 40 years with a friend, saw some old friends who i haven't seen for almost 2.5 years, and spilt beer with another dear friend who gave me one of the highest compliments i may have ever known.

'you're an unalloyed joy.'


unalloyed.

Not in mixture with other metals; pure.
Complete; unqualified: unalloyed blessings; unalloyed relief.
this complimentary friend, a well-disciplined and precise writer by trade, who has 10 or more years on me warms my heart in a way, unimaginable.

one-of-a-kind?
true?
pure?
that words, such as these, could be uttered about my humble grace
astounds
and at once
relieves.
i am
good, strong, amazing
enough.

i am.

holiday soliloqoy

what is it about holidays like a new year's arrival or thanksgiving that put me on an e-soapbox of sorts? (go ahead, there are those of you out there who are saying 'as if you needed an excuse')... :)
i suppose the reprieve from the confines of the 8-5 workday allow the freedom to reflect and consider that which may be tabled during the day-to-day.
maybe it has to do with ritual. and the establishing of some newfound variety thereof, as i personally traverse the complexities of getting older, moving away from groups of important friends and confidantes, losing the once foothold-bonds that seemed impossible to forge.
with each holiday's momentous passing, a reminder of what once was rears itself, reminds, cajoles, possibly, with tangles of memory; and then retreats.
the evolution of this ebb and flow smooths the stone-memory, creates anew, wiping old slates clean.
for those of you who've been a part of my email life these past few years, you may remember my wont to reflect and extend somehow.

i suppose electronic communication connects the distant, but also supports a maintenance of distance, too, if you're not careful.
the seeming connective correspondence with a friend or loved one, on a daily or weekly basis can quickly be a seeming thread of life to life, yet, what of face time? of true laughter, and not simply LOL or LMAO. i can think of those friends i work with--in the same building--whom i may pass in the hallway, but, i talk most frequently with over an email, maybe a phone call, and still too, and IM'd chat.
what of those who are miles, states, continents away? making time to reach toward them, feels so necessary. so important. a welcome ritual, a guilty-pleasure, a necessary elixir.

i made a vow, quietly, to myself recently, to slow down. literally. there are people who know me as a blurred enigma of sorts. a doer of myriad 'things' not one of which is very important. but a doer, nontheless. it saddens me when i see these people, and the refrain i hear is 'oh how have you been or what have you been up to, busy, busy, i'm sure, always so busy...you lead such an interesting life' so hurried. so happy.' i can see the expressions of those faces--friends and loved ones, and so many meetings in a row, i would shake my head agreeing, or possibly joking with them over the concept--alluding to my attempt to slow down a bit, and talking briefly over the latest-greatest-story related to one of these busy-life activities, which in & of itself, supported the whole scene--perpetuated it, actually.
so often i have wanted to look one of these dears straight in the eyes and say 'i haven't been doing a thing, and i like it just fine.'

a friend recently said this "I wish, sometimes, that I could simply exist, read and write all day. Wander back and forth. Let ideas come at me in between naps."
i related to this so intensely when i read it. as if i had found a secret treasure. an antidote to the poison of everyday life.

yet i crave activity. i enjoy doing, and sweating, and being.
still this luxurious bit of contrived living seemed as fruitful an arena from which to delve, create, deliver, re-ignite, quell, liberate, and onward and onward. as any i have yet to muster.

ahh, the decadence.

and so a theme (a point you say?)? my 6th grade teacher always corrected my inability to properly outline as well as to structure, positively, a supported major theme, and, as we all know, my stream-of-conscious-style rarely gets herself to a point, yet, a point, i thusly purport, here now.
i wanted to send this to you all, because i was moved to tears today. and it had to do with time. and ritual. and holidays. and family. and life. and the day to day decisions which add to years & years of just, real-life. and had something to do with just "existing" with taking naps, with fitting it in; and making the time.

my family, fairly small these years after tragic loss and sadness, started a ritual years back, and it had to do with the 'adult' gift exchanging at holiday time. instead of spending a bunch of money on a bunch of people, we determined to draw names, name a budget, share lists, and be creative with just one extra special person to spoil.
we all love this ritual. it has been a joy to watch, to receive, and to spoil as well. some years it seems, we're all broke at once, other years, we all have a little extra, and no matter what, everyone has a great time with their hand crafted or hand picked relics.
well, we've taken a few years off of this little ritual, for various reasons, but we returned to it this year, and although it took my coersion of a dear friend to get the names drawn (and disseminated through cyberspace we're all 'so busy' we couldn't remember to do it when we were together, or we just couldn't 'get together'), we finally did it. we all have our respective names, and we've been awaiting lists.
well, most of the lists came in, and they were adorable. there were requests for things like money for plane fare, and socks and lotion; but additionally, there were requests for love, love, and more love; for prayer for the president-elect's family and his huge tasks ahead; for dinner together during the break; for a family-attended service the evening of the 24th... and then present in all, but not articulated nearly as beautifully, was this:

Sorry I was so late on this there simply wasn't anything i really needed. however the one thing most precious to me other than my relationship with the lord and my wonderful bride and my children and my grandchildren and my family, that one thing is time. we are all busy and time management is a big thing.I've been letting the lord manage my time lately, and he does a better job than i do. at sixty years old I've been very blessed, and blessed with around 3120 Saturdays and if i live to be say seventy-five, I've got around 780 more Saturdays. good lord willing. that's just an example. so maybe we can just give a little more time on occasion.
anyhow i love you all
more than you know
bigger than the sky
have a great day
love dad

only 780 more Saturdays? and my dad might not be there for me to stop by & shoot the shit with in the garage on a Saturday morning? or meet up for breakfast with (which I've only asked to do once, in my life, when it was just he and I, and I'm 34 years old), or help haul wood from the pile to the woodshed with?
only 780 more Saturdays that we might attend one of Isaac's basketball games, or get together for a picnic on the back patio and have salmon on the grill?
only 780 more Saturdays to see that my dad has 'taken a long blink' again on the couch, while my mom and i sat bantering--one of her races on in the background.

truth is, as we've all been reminded a hundred thousand times, there's just no telling if i'll get 780 more saturdays or even one more with my dad. or he, with me.
what exactly, then, am i waiting for?
how many times do i have to reflect on the notion of carpe diem? how many reminders will i send out to all of you?
how many of you will see the amount of text in the body of this email and delete it, never to consider?
i haven't said it particularly well, and maybe the heartfelt plea in my dad's body copy, is only felt in my center, because of my own guilt for not taking the time to spend, with so many of you, so many people whom i adore, and learn from, and wonder about.

so with that, i'll end this little holiday soliloqoy with a plea to all of you to give thanks for what you have and what you've had. and to truly live every moment you possibly can.
on purpose.

happy thanksgiving.

my thanks to you for your part in my life.
"i'm so glad i didn't die before i met you." (thanks bright eyes).
love,
me

plunge.

dear diary,

if i had to do it all over again, i would've. i know i would've. and i'd be right here.
maybe.
but maybe this time, it wouldn't have went through.
maybe this time, they could have done the math better.
penciled another line of text and seen that it was impossible.
i was not qualified.
i needed a dual income.

but because i would've.
anyway.
proving some stupid principle of independence.
like hanging a red suede jacket on
a coat rack's hook.
i'd still be right here
in the midst of this big, brown, mud puddle.
wondering how
to escape the
quicksand
of it all.
without drowning.

venture

in the new, red light
of this midnight dawn
i wonder
of star crossed love
and happenstance
of heart crushed blood depths
of
circumstance

of my place in the midst of the shadows which
fall
across the length
of your eyelash

inhale the aroma of my elixir
and breathe
her
cave dwelling
depth

if you know my every
idio
syncracy
is there a better chance
at
introspect?

dance in the dervish of wednesdays marmalade
sun
shine
and whirl
while transcendence
passes
you
by.

i stand on my rooftop
screaming the abysmal gasp of life
here
and there
i spread my eagle
wings
to flight.

proof

of life or death
that it mattered
somehow
in some way
that the reverberation
wasn't merely here to there and
back
again.

let not momentary discord
disenchant
let not the harmony
sung on the wind
as did your whistle
disappear

put forth what you deem
and note there may be no proof
just yet...

yet trust the wind...

soul-supper

what time of year can we harvest soul? it delights me to ponder this. i suppose as we weed and tend, we are fortunate, as are those in the west and southwest--to harbor the luxury of winter gardens.
that we might bare fruit, ripe for the picking just in time for a succulent soul-supper.

stored in vines, tubers, pods and stalk, are the sometimes soul-spice craved when thin with wear, life strains against our seams.

yes, bottom's drop out...

when you can't feel sunlight across your chin
because [it seems] no reason to love
remains
and you want to toss down the heavy-bottomed glass of
whiskey
after tossing it down your throat
and you want to feel empty
instead of so-full of someone Else's balloon-blown-air

when you've walked aimlessly about the city town village metropolis
in your mind
and you've sought what you seek
and you've breathed in deep
and when you've cleared your flow
and that was your cue
and you've spent your wad filling the void

where does it leave you?
why did it take you?
where did you go?
in the duality of non-conformity can't you bend
all hoola-hoop
through it
and mine
the return
on the other side
sorting through the silver-flecked-ashes
for the remnants of
your character
your audacity
of hope
--no more than your
god given
right--
can't you pick your silly head up off that concrete slab
laugh a little laugh
and try again?

Caesura as it pertains to light and dark—

As Dickinson and
Her slant of light or cathedral
tunes
bleak grey dawn
[at first read-through] seems to ooze
out the open-form-syntax
of your verse.
dismal?
not quite.
dismissive?
absolutely antithetical.
dark.
No.
not melancholic-martyrdom.
not sad hurt.
yet
Contemplative.
pain, present.
anger, present.
sadness, present.
at center—beautiful,
Red-Black-Truth—
sticky with marrow.
blood-red-black.
Yes.

Truth.
Headily-carnivorous, its brand-welt
bleeds deeply
seeping across the page.
Look at the soft, raised-edge
scar tissue—
Touch it.
Feel the wince—
Through the bright-pink-healing mound.
Push the pain.
Feel the truth.

Later,
When the scar visibly heals;
Phantom fragments of
Sensory feeling and
Simultaneous
Numbness.
Close your eyes—capture your breath—there.
See even more than truth.
Look beyond.
Past the seeming—oozing bleak grey dawn,
Ahh, there.
Yes. an orange-hot
rim of sun
light.
streams delicately through
curtained-seams.
Amber light
Long vertical streaks
Illuminate the vast landscape of your
Beautiful, precise, mind.