A salvo of magic into the world.

I’ve been sleeping terribly the last few days.
(or do I feel that way every day?)

I just realized why.
(and it’s a good reason why)

🙂

There are so many creative project ideas in my head.
(thatIwanttothrust a salvo of magic into the world!)

I want to do it all.  (I feel good)
and that makes me happy.

{that’s not a hyperlink, #beeteedubz.
#bluetext
#iwonderhowmanypeopleclickedon”good?”}         anyway

That’s why
I’ve been getting
terrible
sleep.

[HASHTAG]nightynight

Image128

Inside and inside out.

I fucked up. I made mistakes. I regret them. I am learning from them. I am losing from them. I am dying inside from them. Inside and inside out.

I thought I had figured out more about myself than I have. I thought I had figured out more about you than I have. All of you. But mostly you.

I look for the silver lining without getting carried away. There are shiny things to reach for and hold onto. Forgivenesses wrapped in all the things you don’t want done to you, all the things you don’t want to do to others.

I wade in the sludge of the black inside the silver lines. Before any changes can be made.

Persipacious.

Coaster poetry for Christi, who provided the inspirational word:

Persipacious.

You say blue, I say gray. You see the sun, I see turbulence, vitriol, and mangled decay. You always wanted to live then. French Revolution. In your sodded petticoat and shaved matted hair, swept down cobblestone streets in this week’s ferment. Will you regret that you pushed me out the window? or do you just like the sound of “defenestration”, the way it rolls off your forked tongue? You use to scrub your eyeballs clean.

Sublime.

Coaster poetry for Rachel, who provided the inspirational word:

Sublime.

wait. yell my name in to the ceiling. I’ll do it too, with yours. but you have to look up. up up up up. they watch us through the rafters and let them go. the sounds. if. we push just perfectly. Do you hear them laugh when we pretend? Winks are echoed through eyelashes. eyelashes dance upon cheeks like trees on breezes. You are my favorite tree. I don’t give words to the truths I carry. They’re just for us. just for us and scream when I scream.

Homeopropriostasis

Coaster poem for Natasha Livesly, who provided the inspirational (and homegrown!) word:

Homeopropriostasis.

place the stone. you place the stone. it balances. the way the tufts do to the core before you blow. they dance as newborns before they walk. they dance to words they don’t yet know. to be words or other things. a garbage truck. an ice cream truck. they smile anyway. pick your nose like you pick flowers. with care and calm. craft your moments. share your wishes. crawl to allow mute to speak. Frankenstein your life. freezer pop your lips. look at all this bliss. it’s an old country buffet. cake bits mixed in with everything. everything. go on. pick up a spoon.

Petrichor.

my clothes were 5 lbs. from soggy sidewalk to garbage bag. I pretended it was normal stuff. I always fold laundry on the sidewalk. in the rain. And I cry. It makes me happy. Brings me joy. to do this. with an audience. spontaneous performance of raw moments. Only people like me are able to experience. I had no ring leader. No rehearsals. No music sheet. Just a nose. eyes. a mouth. The ability to see the rain. and smell it perfume the street. eau du realité. I relish the taste. of you. leaving me.

Appropriate shapes. at apropos times.

I don’t have the luxury of knowing I’ll feel OK today.

I’m not assured that my confidence won’t waver
to an adolescent level tomorrow.
or that I’ll cancel plans tonight

because I feel like I can’t get up.
because showering and picking out clothes.
and seeing my image in the mirror
all sound so exhaustingly exhausting.

socializing would be frightful.
and I would be the plastic wall flower
on the fringes again.
bench pressing smiles on my face.
desperately lighting synapse wicks in my brain
trying to keep up with

what’s going on around me.

around all of these smiling faces
and laughy laughs.
listening for cues
to scrunch and stretch my cheeks.
lips.nose.forehead.chin.eyelids.

into appropriate shapes.
at apropos times.


– Written Friday, March 21st, 2014.

Teal i imagined.

teal. i imagined a teal skirt.
twirled over tile.
cold tile under bare feet. 2 pairs.
one pair up in the air.
plucked by tickling fingers.
tickled by a tug.
a tug of teal. a tug of
a twirled teal skirt.

Written Sunday, May 12th, 2013 @ 4:19pm waiting for the ferry in Kingston.

Through the pages.

I thought I had lost a leather-bound journal given to me by a friend in 2002. I thought I had lost it in a fire. but I didn’t. It was in one of the boxes of things I stored at my parents’ house. I probably stowed it away because it was too painful to keep around. It was given to me during one of the most difficult times in my life. And here it is. spine ready for a backbend. to show me its insides. and remember. This is the last piece I wrote before tucking it away. on a page marking a third of the way through the pages.

nothing for the weak at heart
pastel walls to soothe the nerves in blues
watch out for the claw traps
when you’ve just kicked off your shoes
powder puff in muscle tees
shined up shoes with wounded knees
try the chicken Bolognese
and listen for the wake-up call tomorrow
desert winds on parched skin
the babies snooze in tuxes
and momma in her sequined evening gown
strolls him around the slot machines.

Written Sunday, May 25th, 2003.

Leave little gifts for you.

My parents are moving into a smaller house so they’ve started the process of going through their things. Things they’ve accumulated over the past 40 years or so. As a lot of children do, I’ve stored things of mine at their place over the years so I’ve started looking through them. Some I’ve packed and unpacked between multiple countries from the time I was in elementary school. One treasured item I thought I’d lost in a house fire almost 10 years ago was in one of the boxes – a leather-bound journal given to me by a friend. I probably hid it away in a box because at the time I’d had it, I made some very poor decisions and treated friends (and myself) terribly. I needed to store it away for a while, to keep the writings at a distance, I suppose.

I am so glad and thankful that I still have it. I read through it quickly last night. Some powerful stuff in there. Painful. Painful and beautiful. I can see my determination to ‘sort things out’ and overcome in the words. I had this journal at a time when I ended up in an ambulance to the hospital because I’d taken an overdose of medication at home alone during a workday. I remember laying on my bed. Staring at the door and imaging my mom finding me there. I cried. And pounded on the mattress a bit, I’m sure. I became frightened as I imagined the strength of my heart beating in my ears weaken and slow. I leapt up to call 911. I didn’t want to die.

Most people who attempt and commit suicide do not want to end their lives. But consequence and impulsiveness oftentimes brings people to kill themselves. It’s an impulsive act. One that happens at a time when a person feels hopeless, overwhelmed, worthless, and perhaps many more terrible things. Or numb. But these, as all emotions on the spectrum, are fleeting. As are impulsive actions. But suicide is irreversible. It’s a permanent decision if succeeded. It’s important that that you or someone you know reaches out when feeling this way. If experiencing suicidal ideation, please please PLEASE reach out. If someone talks about thinking of taking their life, take it seriously. It’s a serious thing regardless of how they tell you. It may seem non-challant. They may bring it up jokingly. Take it seriously. Ask straight up if they have an idea of how they’ll take their life and whether they have the means. Assess their safety. Call 911 if you must to keep them safe and keep them on the line until help arrives. Do the same for yourself. Help someone or yourself get through those horribly painful times.

I’ve shared this video before, a TED talk given by a man, JD Schramm, who attempted suicide and miraculously survived a jump from the Manhattan Bridge. His words are beyond powerful and provide a unique insight. After committing himself to following through and surpassing suicidal ideation to action, he survived. He survived and had the rare opportunity to commit to rebuilding his life. His message to those who may feel suicidal is simple and true, “It gets better. It gets way better.” Take it from him.

I wasn’t planning for this to be a heavy post, but here it is. The unearthing of things. stuff. from years past does that sometimes. You realize that your body and mind have moved past or forgotten the reasons behind the associated sentimentalities. You realize that those difficult times when you felt that your situation wouldn’t get better, or the pain you felt has seeped in to your bones and won’t go away – you realize that those experiences leave little gifts for you. All it takes is getting through. These are some little gifts I found:

why does hair look so beautiful
when it’s carried by the wind.
trees fluttering leaves
like butterfly wings.
I want to go somewhere
naked and pure
that’s never been seen
I want to feel the earth with my toes
close my eyes when the wind blows.
I want to smell it on my skin
when I’ve returned home.
bring that feeling back.
the vision in colors and shapes.
I want to listen to the birds for a while.
share smiles with the sky.

Written Sunday, September 15th, 2002 @ ~12:30pm in Port Townsend on the hammock in my parents’ backyard.
*

you love me
because you want to.
esteem is found in self.
not eyes or kisses.
it makes sense
when you stop looking for things
that you’ve taught yourself to need.
you have to pull those thoughts like weeds.

Written Wednesday, September 18th, 2002 @ ~4:30pm, Metro #105 home.
*

Mom can’t find me
like this
fresh cuts and a belly full of loathing
wine and veggies in a grocery bag
dirty sheets, snowstorm on the t.v.
music playing in the background.
what would she have found?
broken, withered, silent.
sing me a lullaby, momma
sing yourself to sleep.
rubber kisses
icicle fingers and shiny rings.

Written Tuesday, December 24th, 2002 @ ~5:15pm on the Kingston ferry.