..."I Think You Dropped Something".
It Doesn't matter from whence you came,
or how by who for what you're named,
how cool you look, or sharp you dress
in tidy order or uncouth mess.
In the know, without a clue
with hearts in love with what we do,
no wrong is wrought, or life untrue.
dear friends I bid you all adieu.
"Oh yeah, all right
Are you going to be in my dreams
And in the end
The love you take
Is equal to the love you make."-P.M.
The sun is setting here now. I was just hanging out in the garden here at Casa Libre where there is a newly constructed arbor covered in a grape vine. The sky is less pink tonight than it has been in recent weeks, but no less beautiful. I was thinking of how I wanted to end this project for myself and for you.
I am thinking about the cycle of things. I am thinking about the sun rising and setting, the grape vine that grew from a 3 foot seedling into a massive cape of green, about the dark that tuns into light and back into dark. About coming together and pulling apart of people and lives and bodies, of chances, changing seasons, what papa used to say, smooth flights, heartmind music, drifting, gold coins, trains, glove boxes, prisoner of war camps, car wrecks, other selves, lovers, Alchemy, Mexico, birthdays, dancing, elk hyde drums, "beast" pumps, psychography, job hunting, making out in orchards, teeth, hobos, exile, witnesses, daydreams, good news, language, sacrifice, naming animals, bike rides, hot dogs, days, nights, sunsets, memories of house parties, sex, irish whiskey, libraries, poetry, warriors, classes, dancing again, wolves, excess, overflow, promises, bumper stickers, kids, tough girls, apples, houses, parks, music, babies, questions, suffering, burning embers, 20 dollar bills, ice, kitchens, power, the Miss Fantastics, Lacey, black books, wind, wanderlust, cans of fresca, breakfast, dads, godparents, migrations, boardwalks, work, perros, set lists, excerpts, earth, apologies, notes, fiber, fish, birds, pleases and squeezes, death, bedrooms, villages, here, magic stuff, luminous events, haircuts, lottery, motorcycles, bike lanes, Clairvoyance, Logic, summer nights, eavesdropping, rising creeks, truth, mornings, dismemberment, teasing, Alabama, references, hearts, bangs, paint, rabbits, missives...
Beginnings and Endings. All of the things that have made up our last twenty days together. I am grateful to have shared this space with all of you. I appreciate the attempts to push how this shared community exists in space. To seek/destroy definition. To collaborate/communicate/connect. To balance rawness and craft.
Thank you, Bo.
Thank you, Camille.
Thank you, Malcolm.
Thank you, Melissa.
Thank you, Selah.
Thank you, Kristen.
Thank you, Mickey.
Thank you, Thirza.
Thank you, Sharon.
Thank you, Logan.
Thank you, Deborah.
Thank you, Adam.
Thank you, JenMarie.
Thank you, me.
Thank you, Travis.
Thank you, Angela.
Thank you, Kate.
Thank you, Soham.
Thank you, Rick.
"We have come into the presence of the one
who was never apart from us. When someone chews
sugarcane, he is wanting this sweetness.
Inside the globe the sound roars like thunder.
And now silence, my strict tutor." ~Rumi (from Meadowsounds)
With Love in All Directions,
This space will remain private for a few more weeks. On October 1st, I will send you an email to let you know that it is going public again. Feel free to delete anything you've shared here, that you don't want to go public. Then I hope you visit this space like a photo album. A memory of a shared journey. For me, my people, this has been one fantastic ride.
just looked the sun right in the sunset and stared until it was gone. I still have spots where my sight should be. Gold and fuchsia ringlets.
We were really here, weren't we?
(gratitude and blessings to Kristen for organizing and contributing and all of you for sharing)
thanks, everyone, for screaming into the chasm and bridging the divide and having discourse.
Are your seasons changing, too?
yo! where can I score some I-Dose?
You have to download that shit!
How do I take it?
Put it in your ear!
....Just rocked I-doser "hand of God" and um.... well... I took some aspirin. and I feel numb to the world.
hmmmm. ..kids getting high on music...hmmm...what a novel idea...
WTF---- the new gateway drug! "How my second life high became a real world drug problem"
That's right folks!..DIGITAL DRUGS!!!!!!
SOMEBODY CALL HUEY LEWIS!!!!!!!
In the tiny upstate city where we lived, no businesses were shuttered, including her and I’s. The war-boom left no empty windows. His house situated at the back of the thriving shoe shop we ran when he was away. The store front near brand new. Still some broken glass. Through the angled windows, coming back from the market, I saw them reunited. First dusk, he came to me on the couch. He held one arm around me, the other across the front of me. This hand innocently tucked in skirt’s waistband. We slept like siblings, sitting up. In his sleep, he moaned in what seemed another language. We never asked what he saw from the sea. I slipped back into dreams. Just above my knee, a worm the color of my skin, mouth like a lamprey. Or was the worm simply my skin? Mouth a quarter inch wide. I was afraid but started to pull. Round balls of skin, connected like little sausages, one after another after another after another. The strand seemed endless. Finally what I pulled out was a string of beads on fishing line. I woke again, they stood at the bedroom door. Her blue dress with wide skirt, a pinafore, covered in white polka dots. Why was she dressed like this in the middle of the night? Call me The Sailor, he said. Do you know how many times I got on that ship?
Note: point of departure: http://flashfiction.net/2010/09/friday-flash-prompt-carol-guess.php.
Found in mail today: a gift from the sea fairy (oh oh oh! thank you, Poe!)
Found in class today: Kate's poem "2 of Swords" brings tears to eyes (not just mine) and promotes sincerity in the classroom:
2 of Swords
He tells her he thinks she should write her mother. “Explain to her how you feel,” he says. “If you do it in writing,” he says, “she won’t have the chance to cut you off.” She doesn’t want to hear about her mother or what he thinks. She walks away.
He passes her in the kitchen and she says, “You are to blame for a lot of what has happened.” He calls her a cunt. She’s used to being called a cunt. She’s doesn’t care what he says, he’d never admit a wrong. He says he’s not to blame, “That stupid cunt bitch astrology loving mother of yours is a no good asshole. I’ve said from the beginning that she’s a stupid cunt bitch. I hate that fucking cunt.”
Her mother is no longer a part of her life.
When her father died earlier this summer, she began stripping away parts of her life that no longer needed to be.
She’s cleaning the toilet, their toilet, when he places the box that needs a shipping label on the desk, her desk. He stops to watch her clean the toilet. He leaves and she hears him sit on the couch and watch tv. He’s watching Home Improvement. She thinks to herself that he needs a personal improvement and for the first time that day, smiles. She finishes scrubbing the toilet and takes the gloves to the kitchen. She notices he is drinking a beer. It is 11 am.
She prints a shipping label, places it inside the box that needs to be shipped, and carries the box to the kitchen table. He has placed a roll of scotch tape inside the box that needs to be shipped. The label is ½ the size of a piece of loose leaf paper and the top of the box still needs to be sealed, too. There is not enough tape to do everything and they are out of packaging tape, so she leaves the box and the label on the kitchen table. She goes back to what she was doing.
She’s dusting the office when he yells from the living room over the tv that the box needs to go out in today’s mail. She says they are out of packaging tape. He does not reply.
She has finished cleaning the bathroom, kitchen, office and living room. She has changed the sheets, did the laundry, ran the dishwasher, de-pooped the back yard, and is now creating cover letters for various jobs. He comes into the office and asks her what she is doing. She says she is writing cover letters. “Why?” he asks. “You are a stupid lazy bitch with no work ethic. I told you that package needed to go out in today’s mail. The mail man just pulled up outside and you still don’t have the fucking package on the front step.” “I told you we were out of packaging tape hours ago,” she says. “Well then, stupid, you should have gone to get some,” he says.
He watches the mail man drive away from the front porch and yells inside, “Way to go stupid retard!” Inside he says, “The package didn’t go out.” She tells him that in the time he has spent bitching at her while watching tv and drinking beer he could have went and got packaging tape, sealed up the box, and put it in today’s mail. He says he has to do everything.
He takes the car somewhere. She feels like she needs to get out. She gets on her bike. She ends up at the library. She goes inside, turns around, and leaves. She sits on a bench. She people watches. She wonders what a stupid fat lazy dumb cunt bitch looks like. She takes a picture of herself with her phone’s camera.
When she arrives home he is there. He asks where she was. She says she was riding her bike. He tells her she’s a whore.
That night he is still bitching at her about the box and her laziness when she opens a can of Chef Boyardee ravioli for dinner. He says she is a dumb lazy stupid fat cunt bitch. He asks her why the roast is not ready for dinner and she tells him that tonight she is too stupid fat lazy and dumb to make him dinner. He says she is all those things every night. “Fucking bitch,” he spits. The ravioli swells in her stomach and she feels ill.
She gets ready for bed and from the bathroom she can hear him telling the dogs that their mother is a stupid bitch. She thinks, yes, I am.
A walk from Colonia Roma Sur to Bellas Artes, Col. Centro, on the night of el grito, 15 september 2010, during the celebration of Mexico's independence bicentennial. (The cumbia starts about 6 minutes in, don't miss it. Classic tracks recorded in front of a blown-out speaker with el puebo ahí gozando.)
Adam, speaking of gunshots,
Arrived to studio, ants invaded trash and were crawling in pages of Black Book. Many ants, every day, have to slap and sweep away.
"what if i get married and have babies?" she wrote in her last letter. "would you be my best man? would you be my midwife? i would be so honored. would you help me build my home? i need your capricorn hands."
we are soulmates. i ache missing her today but it feels good to love someone like this.
Then the country turned 200 and some went out into the streets and bought beer and tequila and drank it. Others bought beer and tequila and stayed in their houses and drank it. Some sang the national anthem with tears in their eyes. Others criticized the country until there were tears in their eyes. The point is that most everyone drank and walked the tightrope of laughter and tears that has been this country's acrobatics from the beginning. 200 years is nothing; the city has 489 years in this.
Everyone knows that 489 years ago this city was a lake. Not filled with metaphor, filled with water. The university scientists could explain how it is that a lake turned into a city, but I can't. Chinampas into milpas, capitalist human thirst, destruction of cosmovision, etc. Along those lines. The point is that the city and its monuments were constructed on a slushed mix of sand and water. This is why the earthquakes with their distant epicenters cause so much fear. Hardly any solid ground.
In the centro, the conquerors built one cultural palace out of solid marble. Now their grandchildren measure how many centimeters it has sunk into the sand this year.
The ska band started to play in the old centro. So many pairs of feet began to jump in unison that the whole centro began to shake on the beat. A human earthquake. Small by earth's standards.
200 years of human history, the entire formation of a modern political state. 489 years of mestizaje and laughter and tears. Small by earth's standards. A big deal for the humans here at the moment.
Why is possession so frightening? I encounter a demon on the page. Just seeing the words arranged in a way that suggests evil, I become anxious. I am, in fact, ever so slightly afraid to keep reading. As though taking the works into me invite the demon, too (are the words the spirit? Is language the spirit or vibration?). I read on and there are two stories at work—that of the unseen and that of the physical world. The unseen are where the demons live, the physical is where the effects occur. What does a demon do in the unseen world when he is not possessing a body? One can only communicate a demon (the presence of) with language.