Monday, April 22, 2013

O, Morel, Where art thou?

A thin layer of earth still clinging to my feet,
and bits of forest lingering in my hair,
I arose from my evening slumber
a shallow shadow of hope,
twisting on the loose tension
of that muddied water's surface.

Smiling, I stretched myself awake
while remembering . . .

the long trek through those budding branches,
the seemingly endless sea of thorned bushes,
the places of new growth,
the places of old growth,
the places of obvious disease
and across the fallen, narrow logs
to cross the cool chatter of water over stone
the place where trust and balance meet.

The catapult jump I was sure I couldn't make,
wherein I summoned every bit of
courage, strength, and steadiness
within and around me
to land on dry land. 

The shoe swallowing swamp hops
in the contrasting heat of the sun through the trees
and the cold breeze beneath the freshly forming canopy of forest.

The occasional flower springing up
through a thick layer
of last year's decaying foliage.

The occasional carcass. 
The scattered bones. 
The birds. 
The silence. 
The not-so-distant gunshots.
The field of wild onions. 
The abundance of mandrake. 
The utter lack of morels. 
The silence.
The circle.
The idea of divinity.

The accomplishment.
The connection.
The joy.

Truth be known
I never looked once
To the earth
for a fungus

I hate mushrooms

and I love the sky.





Friday, April 19, 2013

The ugly truths, the beautiful lies, and everything in between.

So I've compiled a list of my ugly truths, not the least of which includes my hatred of motherhood.
Each truth on the list is countered with its own life-sucking paradox, not the least of which includes the fierce love I have for my children. 
Each paradox contains the beautiful lies I've been living in order to survive the paradoxes. 
Each lie contains a way to get the fuck over it already. 
Though, I can't say that each lie's method of getting the fuck over it is known to me yet.

I've also compiled a list of things I want. A goal list, as it were.

The how-to-get-there list is still in the works.

I really just don't have the first fucking clue.

The foundation phrase for every good agnostic, eh?  But you know what I think? I think, fuck labels.  I do know something.

I do know that I will never, ever under any circumstances (except perhaps starvation) step foot in scrubs, in a nursing home, ever again.  No more corpses to bathe.  No more adult diapers to change.  No more linens to roll, and tuck, and fold, and spread, or wash out.  No more giant hoppers with water pressure so intense you're lucky to walk away from the experience without shit water on at least 25% of your clothing, and/or hair.  Most of all, no more responsibility for people who like to split their heads wide open when you are least expecting it.  Also, no more having the shit beat out of me on the daily, for doing nothing more than trying to help.  No more working 16 hours shifts without a break.  No more expensive, ineffective inserts for my shoes.  No more.  I am done.

That's right.  No more nursing. No more "loving people for a living." 

With a huge chunk of my identity missing, I feel violently afraid and excitingly liberated. (Yeah, that's on the list, too.)  I don't believe the universal-magical-powers-that-be are going to hit me over the head with some super-awesome idea for my next adventure. So... trying to see through my fears and my wounds is all that I have left to figure out what exactly it is that I want out of this next chapter of my life.  A chapter that involves raising, not babies or children, but adolescents.  I don't know if you've met any adolescents lately, but they're a frightening bunch.  And they smell bad, too.

Filtering all the bullshit out of the everything to find the useful parts is exhausting enough, but come Monday I'm either going to have to start churning out some serious fiction, or some serious resumes.  Shame I don't have more time to really get to the bottom of it, but maybe I'm wrong, maybe the bottom will come surging up to greet me somewhere along the way.  Unlikely, but possible, I suppose.  I've always been more of a stuck in the undertow kinda girl.  That's all I'm looking to change.  Really.    ... and maybe reality too but that's another story entirely.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Intensadentically

squashed words
shattered skulls

I did not kill her

I did not even mean to hurt her

but as I washed the last drops
of her blood from my hair that night
it didn't matter in the slightest

terms
coming to them
with stained clothes
and painted face

it wasn't even an accident
and
it wasn't even my fault

but it doesn't matter
in the slightest

Our futures dance on the horizon
Our eyes closed tight

The waves carry away
burning corrosive salts

and the hope
of helping
here:

Dissolved.

unlike the memory
of my crimson arms
around her
round face

Monday, April 15, 2013

Nature, yoga, meditation: In that particular order

Well, nervous breakdown 2013 was avoided happily by a long visit to the lake with my family after a long lunch with some old friends.  The monthly reconnection with my besties from high school is always refreshing, and the much anticipated return to springtime amongst the trees and near the water is always something closer to exhilarating.  Long story short: Yesterday was a really good day.

Today was supposed to be the start of a seven day juice fast.  The intent, to quit smoking.  It didn't happen. 

It all started at the library after my third juice of the day and a trip to purchase my poison.  I can't seem to stop coming out of my skin every time I quit, so I didn't quit, and as a result I found myself back at the library searching for answers.  I took home a few books on the topic and sat down to start gearing myself up all over again.  By the end of the first book I was stiff, and excited to learn that nicotine replacement therapy maybe isn't the devil I'd made it out to be.  I've been operating with a cold-turkey or nothing approach for the last year and a half. 

More than that, though, I discovered something profound.  I caught a glimpse of a most uncomfortable reflection of myself in the many stories offered up by the author, Daniel F. Sidman.  I began to realize what the real problem has been, and will continue to be, until I decide to face these wavering, fun-house mirror images of myself down. 

Enter, yoga.

Now, I've not done yoga in at least two years, but I desperately needed a good stretch after being curled in my armchair for so long, and I remembered well the almost intoxicating centering of self that it brings.  So down I went to the floor, pushing baskets of unfolded laundry and my daughter's very heated cat aside. 
Poses I could once do with a fair amount of ease are now much more difficult, and some are downright impossible, but that did not seem to change the transformation happening within the core of my being.  Opening myself up on that physiological plane did more for me in thirty minutes than a month's worth of juicing ever could.  Giving myself an hour after that to meditate in a way I haven't for a very long time, brought me much closer to some truths I've been avoiding for ages. 

Indeed.  I needed that.  I know that it's going to take a great deal more of the same to get to where I know I can go, where I want to be, where I need to be, where I ought to be.... which is here.  Now.  Not lost in the past, hung up on who I used to be, and not worried about tomorrow, either.  Seems like I used to know this.

In truth, I do know this, but my point is there is so much power in these small practices: In friendship, in nature, in movement, in breathing, in taking in, and letting go.  So much power, and yet seemingly so easy to forget.  Practice is the key.  I've always known that too.  I wrote a thing once that ended "practice hard your finest theories lest you forget them."  Never let it be said that I didn't warn myself first.

I'm breaking through it.  It feels good.  Dreadfully frightening, but good.  :)

Friday, April 12, 2013

Nothing better to do

I have nothing better to do than to sit here and idly allow my thoughts to flow.  Selfish.  Perhaps.  We all have to be a little selfish sometimes.  I have nothing better to do, because nothing could possibly be better than finding myself beneath all this made up make up fairy tale wanna be hopeful bullshit that I keep telling myself the things I need to tell myself to make myself continue. 

Not that I struggle to know who I am, or who I want to be, or anything that might reside somewhere in the midst of all that.  I remember who I used to be.  I don't ever want to be that again.  I remember who I was shortly after that, too.  I miss her sometimes.  She was adventurous.  She was lively.  She was fun.  When she wasn't suicidal anyway.

She unapologetically wrote terrible poetry, and she lived her life to the fullest.  When she wasn't suicidal that is.

Okay, she had her serious downs.  But her ups were incredible.  Much like that Rilo song, though, it does seem fucking cheap now.

Am.

Not that becoming a world class whore would change any of it.  My payment was always regret, and never monetary.  I guess that's the point of the thing.  Tear 'em down to build 'em up.  Not necessary in the slightest.  Just like it wasn't necessary to build me up to tear me down, but it made the fall that much more exhilarating.  And memorable.

I think I fear the depths now, mostly because to tread that blackened water means to face the rocky surfaces where I've built my new home.  Face it, rock foundations crumble just as easily as the sandy ones wash away.  I've seen enough destruction.  I dare not watch the news.  I can't even handle the weather report.

The weather report.  Ha! I prefer to be surprised. 

That's unchanged.  Unchanged, now there's a concept.  Not much doesn't remain.  Fear is the new adventure.  I don't drive much anymore.  I used to road trip all the time.  Every chance I got.

She was fun.  Not that staying home to dehydrate tomatoes isn't fun.  It isn't.

When the fuck did I get so old?  So mundane?  So normal?

I watch tv.  I didn't used to.  There's value there if you look hard enough.  But I stopped looking.  Isn't it enough that I'm still breathing?  That's the premise of my current argument for living. The conclusion is the same, for all of us, without regard to philosophy or belief.  Life's too short to even care at all. WoahoooOoooOooOoOoOoo. 

Change.  Change needs to happen.  Only I can make it happen.  I can't just keep sitting around waiting for it to find me.  It was supposed to happen today, only it didn't, because staying the same was too inviting.  They should invent a coinstar for this sort of thing.

Who knew? No one ever said it was easy.  No one ever said it would be so hard.

How many song lyrics enter my thought process on a given day, I wonder?  Probably hundreds.  It's probably not a problem, except I should probably write my own.

That's where it is, you know.  In the writing of my own damn lyrics, when you say that the lyrics are life and the writing is the ability to make decisions.

I admire the dominatrix.

I'm ready to get off the bottom.

And out from under all this made up make up fairy tale wanna be hopeful bullshit. And perhaps the terrible sex analogies.

I blame the new diet.  Seriously.  It's impossible to eat this way and not face life at it's very core straight on.  It is.  They warned me.  I didn't heed.  Now I'm pushing bat shit crazy AND starving, because fuck salad.

That's right.  I said it.  Fuck. Salad.

Unemployed.  In Ohio.  Not the best situation, not the worst either.

It never ceases to amaze me how tied our identities are with what we do for a living.  Most folks die after they retire because they lose that sense of identity, sense of purpose, their very drive.  How ridiculous?  You must be a slave to something, whether it's work or passion, to live?  I don't know.  Seems reasonable enough in terms of human understanding but completely unreasonable that we don't know how to just be.

Not as if I'm some shining example of knowing how to just be.  I'm clearly not.

I've got to start reading more.  My ability to floralize language is as dead as my desire to seek adventure.  That's to say that it ever lived in the first place. Yup. Lol.

I suppose the root of this heartache comes with the territory of almost having been the cause of someone's death.  That's new.  That's definitely new.  And the weight of it is incredible. 

Circles.  I'm starting to hate them.

Breakage

At what point does the human spirit break?

I don't mean bend.  I mean break. 
At what point is the damage too much to recover? 
At what point do you just stop trying to start over? 
At what point do you just stop trying to do anything but forget? 
At what point do you take your fragmented fleshless self
and bury it deep into the earth,
hoping to never see any semblance of what once was again?

Is it this point? 
Or did you reach that point long ago and are too spiritless to remember?

Is it recoverable?

I imagine not. 
Not if you don't want it to be anyway.
And why would you want it to be anywhere
but nestled in the warm earth
inches away from volcanic destruction?

So far removed from those moments.
Those vital, life-sustaining discourses.
So far removed from myself.  From yourself.  From everything.
Even the trees.

Somewhere between
unreliable knowledge
 moments
theory
 experience
and practice
 breath
there might be an answer
 love

Who are you to tell me I am wrong.
I am not wrong.
There is beauty in that fissure
There is beauty in that split dawn
In those bleeding seeds of life
In our brokenness
In our never togetherness
 but beauty is not an answer
 even if Mr. Lawrence was not wrong

It will all be over soon enough
so we do what we've always done

We carry on

And try to remember when forgetting is easy
And try to forget when remembering won't quit