Who am I writing to if not ever to me? It’s been a hell of a year. A hell of one. A long one, one that negates any prior necessity of predisposed positioning (there it is again, that garble tongue defense mechanism keep them in circles and you can get out before they even know they’ve been spun) and just tells you one day: there you are, here I am, and most of all: Forget it all. How the hell did this happen.
I don’t know what I want to say. Poetry comes out used to only to him. The ovulatory time gets here and I am caught up on some man, every time, and all my thirsty creative energy goes out the door in long timeless bouts of headtrip and daydream. This is better than it going out on Adult Ed? I tell myself. But it is true, I am only third cycle in to my new life…had to get him out of my system last go round and it worked, it really did he is not even with no power now but simple and straight, not there, and that is the first time I ever wrote that scared as I always was that it would jinx things. That somehow without him the ovulatory release wouldn’t come again? And yet it did, it does…and it scares me the difference it really does. And makes me smile because, what else can I do? And chill Kel you are the one of all who always has to tell others—so this time just tell yourself: accept yourself all of yourself for where you are this moment and do not judge. It’s ok if there is always some man. I just remembered a dream I had last night, a large house in the woods on a corner of the ocean, on an island it reminds me in my aftersight of Vinyl Haven. It reminds me of Todd. I’ve been drinking coffee like mad not for all the work I am doing but for the late night fun I’m keeping, so even my sleep feels buzzed and sort of live-wired. It is light on the back porch, light air, light noise in the trees. One time a long time ago I used to sneak out from here out the side window of Tim and Mary’s bedroom and sneak through the secret patterned paths through the woods. Todd’s house Kohuts Lemers and more. Even longer time ago before that I used to go bikeriding just before night in the dusk to explore all the different side roads that led to more and more undiscovered parts of Ocean Pines. I hate it when things don’t make sense, a month ago they did, I was on fire, I had a book to write and so much poetry and little projects and pictures to make and send to friends. Now I am confused again, so much unknown, it is retrograde time before the equinox, time of the great review and rest before the shift. And what is happening to me is hard to pin down I hate it, hate it when I am not in control. Witness witness that is all there is right now to do… That is the great secret of me, the one that only the truest friends know. My free spirit is only free because it's the result of the last great opposition inside me. I WANT TO BE IN CONTROL. So I challenge myself, even, especially, finally, with that….
The other thing is that to be honest scares people. People exist and function in their categorized boxes: to say I am confused, equivalent of this in people’s head she is not happy. That is funny, lacks the process and any semblance of the grand picture, so myopic all about meeeeeee! Reflex reflexivity. Shows zero intuitive capacity, no real sense of the mystery or even a thumbprint idea of the design. I am more than happy, so happy it makes me giggle to think about my life and also makes me smile. I am an ace the ace and the wild card, able to be happy in whatever circumstance I am given to roll in because that is life and I want to live all I can while I’m here. Center in the moment and open to exactly what is in front of you happening right now. What else is there than that? It’s just that living sometimes, living the moment is being full of unanswers, and that is hard, but hard only means process, not bad. She tells herself. If that doesn’t work get some sleep. Sunshine, or water. Ahhh this very long year I don’t even remember who it was I used to be…Mercury retro scrolls like this it is tough to contain, it is tough because you are in limbo hanging there in the water and the water is a ripcurrent and you’re afraid if you go under there is no air. On Sept 12 we will come out, the quickening will occur then and then—equinox onthesamedayexactly as the full moon!!!! O people, if you only understood. If only you took a minute, looked over your own order to the Ordered Nature of things, easiest way to it just go sit outside a moment on the lawn. Listen, listen to the noise, elemental, of the days. Listen to the trees sway, listen to feel the airbreathbreeze. Warm your blood in the sun. The answers are there, nothing else, no need to run. It’s been a long year, PS, I love you, says the moon, the sun, the trees. And me.
August 27, 2010
August 24, 2010
BBH confessions. A topic I dont share about very often...
So, maybe I'm not so good at relationships.
I dont mean all relationships. I'm pretty good at being a family member among family members. I have incredible girlfriends, the best you can imagine for real. And everywhere I go I make friends easily. I am social, I enjoy people, I enjoy getting to know them and hear about them and understand a little about their funny intricacies like why they like ketchup on popcorn or cant fall asleep if they watch horror movies before bed or about that miserable time that the neighbor hit a squirrel and how all these years later in the fall they buy seed just to see the squirrels gnarl away and get fat fat fat. I think people are so cool, you know? Every person has this universe of life inside them so ready to unfold. I've said it before: I fall in love a little with everyone that I know.
Which could in fact be the reason I have such a god damn time with the men.
Or boys. At my age, 33, it's a relative term.
I had someone tell me last night that he wanted to see if we could just kick it, just hang out and watch tv instead of making out all night. Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? (Yea yea I'm 33 and I still make out. O goddess bless, may it continue!!)
And therein, the problem. I am too passionate about everyone, everything. I get too bored, too settled, too without the fire of newness to keep me alive inside...and baby, I'm ready to roll....
I wrote a poem once, when I lived in Oregon. The first line I was 16 my vagina ready to swallow the world. A little context people: they say young grrrls confuse sex for love. It's true, I did, but what I really believe I was busy learning about was sex for power. I dont know what's gotten in to me today to write so blatantly about this, especially now that my blog's back up on facebook for crying the fuck out loud, but hey. Past is past. I didn't sleep with a lot of guys, dont mis-read me here. What I am saying is that I was fascinated, and still am, by the twinkle concept. The life inside that brimmed out of people, and sexuality was it's easiest means of translation. Slippery kissing in the August heat outside of houseparty air and breath all mixed up as one big heat, styrofoam Eddie's cup full of pink wine and sprite. Sneaking out the basement and getting picked up by my high school sweetheart to go to the church parking lot and get in the back of his jeep. Kissing Kevin for the first time after nights and nights of all that thick context in the air. Allure and mystery rolled in to one, and the more it stays permanently uncatchable, the more fun.
I never wanted to be a man-eater I for real was just trying to live my life, to learn and be in the moment and have fun...
When you're young like that and a woman it's possible to be naive to the identity issues this can cause, the societal blame and shame people are going to expect you to carry. That kind of thing stores up, and it did for me, too. I demonized myself, loathed who I'd been as a young woman because of someone else's idea that it was wrong. When I got clean I had this backlog of guilt for my behavior, for my sexuality, for being passionate which does not mean the same thing as sexual, but for also being sexually alive, an organic and healthy, rhythmically wild and open creature. I got this new idea that commitment was the only "right" way and further, that love and marriage were the only "right" natural next steps. I twisted and contorted myself in to said form.
Six-years. I was in a six year relationship (marriage-free, he couldn't have that discussion and the truth is, for reasons I didn't then understand, neither could I) that ended because despite the fact that he was kind, funny, adorable, loyal, hard-working AND that we had lots in common, the last year and a half of life that I spent with him I was stuck in a low-grade depression. It colored everything I did. In hindsight, maybe I looked too much for him to fix me, looked too much for satisfaction in my own life through him and when those expectations didn't pan out I got harder and harder on him and on myself. Who knows? It's not escaped my awareness that I am hard to please. But a person can fall deep and forever trying to exhume what often should just lie still and let settle, so after a while I gained great peace in the fact that the freedom of leaving, regardless how bloody and painful it was, lightened me in ways I needed the same way one needs and takes for granted air.
There were other factors that led to our end, too. Emotional affair is a term that's come up lately in several conversations the past few days and the general consensus was that this can be worse than the real thing. Yea, so I had one of those. It's hard to say how that starts, where the line gets blurred between love-connection and friend. It's risky business, for sure, but perhaps this, this line blur is the one best illustrating the heart of my relationship commotion...as said: I. Dig. People. The fact that a single little glimmer of originality in someone's spirit can hook me on to them is in direct contrast to the idea that there is one, and one only, man out there for me. Not to say that there's not, and not, by any means at all, to say that I dont crave that. The soul mate... Sometimes I crave it so bad that it is a physical ache. But I've been there! I know how the whole fall in love make a life together thing works. There are a million little moments, a million and a half that you get the chance to look the other way...and or to re-take the chance of re-committing to your love, to the power of the connection that you initially had with the person. You have to make choices, again and again day after day that confirm the chance you're willing to take. To confirm the decision to stay connected. That fire dies, it can die. It dies slowly long work shift after shift and dinner in front of the tv. It dies quickly over a miscommunication when you finally try to talk but the words come out wrong and too late. It dies and so too does the passion for your self, for your very life, go with it. Maybe some people are contented, maybe lots are, with companionship and small talk. But that's not me, will never be. I am hungry, you know? Voraciously. It's part of my nature, how and who I am and fighting it only brings misery. I also know that love, love between partners, boyfriend/girlfriend or husband/wife or any other coupling one has can be flamed again, it can be fanned, rekindled and grown. There are choices, there are and I know this, I know about it, I believe in it. But for real, last week two of my cousins, TWO MORE OF MY twenty-something cousins got engaged. And all I can think is it will take a special man, a hell of a man, match the size and strength of my passion and spirit, to be big and bold and broad enough, not to mention mature enough, to recognize and make those choices again and again, year after year, with me.
So until then, society, what the hell's so wrong with a girl just having some fun, going dancing, and wanting to make out a lot in front of the TV?
I dont mean all relationships. I'm pretty good at being a family member among family members. I have incredible girlfriends, the best you can imagine for real. And everywhere I go I make friends easily. I am social, I enjoy people, I enjoy getting to know them and hear about them and understand a little about their funny intricacies like why they like ketchup on popcorn or cant fall asleep if they watch horror movies before bed or about that miserable time that the neighbor hit a squirrel and how all these years later in the fall they buy seed just to see the squirrels gnarl away and get fat fat fat. I think people are so cool, you know? Every person has this universe of life inside them so ready to unfold. I've said it before: I fall in love a little with everyone that I know.
Which could in fact be the reason I have such a god damn time with the men.
Or boys. At my age, 33, it's a relative term.
I had someone tell me last night that he wanted to see if we could just kick it, just hang out and watch tv instead of making out all night. Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? (Yea yea I'm 33 and I still make out. O goddess bless, may it continue!!)
And therein, the problem. I am too passionate about everyone, everything. I get too bored, too settled, too without the fire of newness to keep me alive inside...and baby, I'm ready to roll....
I wrote a poem once, when I lived in Oregon. The first line I was 16 my vagina ready to swallow the world. A little context people: they say young grrrls confuse sex for love. It's true, I did, but what I really believe I was busy learning about was sex for power. I dont know what's gotten in to me today to write so blatantly about this, especially now that my blog's back up on facebook for crying the fuck out loud, but hey. Past is past. I didn't sleep with a lot of guys, dont mis-read me here. What I am saying is that I was fascinated, and still am, by the twinkle concept. The life inside that brimmed out of people, and sexuality was it's easiest means of translation. Slippery kissing in the August heat outside of houseparty air and breath all mixed up as one big heat, styrofoam Eddie's cup full of pink wine and sprite. Sneaking out the basement and getting picked up by my high school sweetheart to go to the church parking lot and get in the back of his jeep. Kissing Kevin for the first time after nights and nights of all that thick context in the air. Allure and mystery rolled in to one, and the more it stays permanently uncatchable, the more fun.
I never wanted to be a man-eater I for real was just trying to live my life, to learn and be in the moment and have fun...
When you're young like that and a woman it's possible to be naive to the identity issues this can cause, the societal blame and shame people are going to expect you to carry. That kind of thing stores up, and it did for me, too. I demonized myself, loathed who I'd been as a young woman because of someone else's idea that it was wrong. When I got clean I had this backlog of guilt for my behavior, for my sexuality, for being passionate which does not mean the same thing as sexual, but for also being sexually alive, an organic and healthy, rhythmically wild and open creature. I got this new idea that commitment was the only "right" way and further, that love and marriage were the only "right" natural next steps. I twisted and contorted myself in to said form.
Six-years. I was in a six year relationship (marriage-free, he couldn't have that discussion and the truth is, for reasons I didn't then understand, neither could I) that ended because despite the fact that he was kind, funny, adorable, loyal, hard-working AND that we had lots in common, the last year and a half of life that I spent with him I was stuck in a low-grade depression. It colored everything I did. In hindsight, maybe I looked too much for him to fix me, looked too much for satisfaction in my own life through him and when those expectations didn't pan out I got harder and harder on him and on myself. Who knows? It's not escaped my awareness that I am hard to please. But a person can fall deep and forever trying to exhume what often should just lie still and let settle, so after a while I gained great peace in the fact that the freedom of leaving, regardless how bloody and painful it was, lightened me in ways I needed the same way one needs and takes for granted air.
There were other factors that led to our end, too. Emotional affair is a term that's come up lately in several conversations the past few days and the general consensus was that this can be worse than the real thing. Yea, so I had one of those. It's hard to say how that starts, where the line gets blurred between love-connection and friend. It's risky business, for sure, but perhaps this, this line blur is the one best illustrating the heart of my relationship commotion...as said: I. Dig. People. The fact that a single little glimmer of originality in someone's spirit can hook me on to them is in direct contrast to the idea that there is one, and one only, man out there for me. Not to say that there's not, and not, by any means at all, to say that I dont crave that. The soul mate... Sometimes I crave it so bad that it is a physical ache. But I've been there! I know how the whole fall in love make a life together thing works. There are a million little moments, a million and a half that you get the chance to look the other way...and or to re-take the chance of re-committing to your love, to the power of the connection that you initially had with the person. You have to make choices, again and again day after day that confirm the chance you're willing to take. To confirm the decision to stay connected. That fire dies, it can die. It dies slowly long work shift after shift and dinner in front of the tv. It dies quickly over a miscommunication when you finally try to talk but the words come out wrong and too late. It dies and so too does the passion for your self, for your very life, go with it. Maybe some people are contented, maybe lots are, with companionship and small talk. But that's not me, will never be. I am hungry, you know? Voraciously. It's part of my nature, how and who I am and fighting it only brings misery. I also know that love, love between partners, boyfriend/girlfriend or husband/wife or any other coupling one has can be flamed again, it can be fanned, rekindled and grown. There are choices, there are and I know this, I know about it, I believe in it. But for real, last week two of my cousins, TWO MORE OF MY twenty-something cousins got engaged. And all I can think is it will take a special man, a hell of a man, match the size and strength of my passion and spirit, to be big and bold and broad enough, not to mention mature enough, to recognize and make those choices again and again, year after year, with me.
So until then, society, what the hell's so wrong with a girl just having some fun, going dancing, and wanting to make out a lot in front of the TV?
August 21, 2010
Be Kind, Plato said
I was so dark and gnarly yesterday.
It was hella hot out, and I only got maybe an hour of complete sleep Thursday night. I had errands to run and other little life things I told a friend I'd help with yesterday morning, then lunch with mom and there's nothing that disappoints me more than paid-for bad food. Next was work at 3 and by the time I got in there I thought I'd fall over I was so miserable. Of course I got my period. Sometimes even the thought of PMA (choosing the positive mental) just pisses me the fuck off.
I have learned, however, to take myself--especially at my most foul--lightly. Be kind, Plato said, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. To practice this most effectively I have begun at home: compassion for my self.
There is a Sanskrit word for the Western understanding of Changing. It is Anicha. Anicha is the Buddhist quality of human nature: the flowing whimsy of the unswept mind.
Liken Anicha as a concept to a stream. You're chilling waterside, in the woods, watching the water go by. Ah it's so mellow, the air feels like dancing, the trees are sighing you can hear them. The stream sounds like a hushhh. The water is one body, but keep your eyes on one singular spot. Watch there goes a leaf floating on top. There goes a funny rivulet of bubbles....Now nothing but water but even it fuses and blends and seems to change forms, now a water bug floats along followed by a thin brown branch. Changing, changing. Anicha. The water surface changes and yet. It's always the same. This is the mind, the ego self. There too is the watcher by the stream. Quiet witnesser, where breathing lives.
And so this is the alchemy of magical thinking, Anicha. What 12-step rooms teach as This Too Shall Pass. (And come again, too) There was a time, a long time for me, that hopelessness of thought or emotion or physical slug trapped me, like Chinese handcuffs the harder I'd yank to get away the worse it'd take hold. Samsara is Sanskrit, too, and basically means those little mental loops we get stuck in, the ego with its roughian bloody jawgrip it takes hold, clamps down and causes the resistancy to growwww. Maybe your little loop of samsara is about paying a bill. Ah there it floats on by oh crap it's due next week... but that's when I was going to get my oil change too...Here's where you loosen up, you watch the thought without chomping down, ahhh there it goes. Or where the deathgrip grabs it, ego ego human control, takes hold. The looping intensifies. The loop track gets bigger. More and more fear and loathsomeness...What the fuck's the point? My always final absolute last bad thought in that miserable loop.
Somewhere in the center is compassion. For ourselves, our sick twisted imperfectly perfect little human minds. And oh the great joy of laughing at it, not taking any of it too seriously because why? If heaviness is just going to increase the misery flow? This is first axiom of those Eastern Wisdom Teachings: Life is suffering, because of addiction to the ego's flow. Detachment just means the wisdom of Anicha. And compassion is an action word, love and gentleness with ourselves....
What if all life was just about enjoying the flow, being open as possible to the nutty updown of the ever present moment?
What if Anicha gave you the power to choose for it to be so?
What if?
Or better~why not?
Mercury went Retrograde yesterday, nows a great time to practice lightening up on your self. Read all about here.
It was hella hot out, and I only got maybe an hour of complete sleep Thursday night. I had errands to run and other little life things I told a friend I'd help with yesterday morning, then lunch with mom and there's nothing that disappoints me more than paid-for bad food. Next was work at 3 and by the time I got in there I thought I'd fall over I was so miserable. Of course I got my period. Sometimes even the thought of PMA (choosing the positive mental) just pisses me the fuck off.
I have learned, however, to take myself--especially at my most foul--lightly. Be kind, Plato said, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. To practice this most effectively I have begun at home: compassion for my self.
There is a Sanskrit word for the Western understanding of Changing. It is Anicha. Anicha is the Buddhist quality of human nature: the flowing whimsy of the unswept mind.
Liken Anicha as a concept to a stream. You're chilling waterside, in the woods, watching the water go by. Ah it's so mellow, the air feels like dancing, the trees are sighing you can hear them. The stream sounds like a hushhh. The water is one body, but keep your eyes on one singular spot. Watch there goes a leaf floating on top. There goes a funny rivulet of bubbles....Now nothing but water but even it fuses and blends and seems to change forms, now a water bug floats along followed by a thin brown branch. Changing, changing. Anicha. The water surface changes and yet. It's always the same. This is the mind, the ego self. There too is the watcher by the stream. Quiet witnesser, where breathing lives.
And so this is the alchemy of magical thinking, Anicha. What 12-step rooms teach as This Too Shall Pass. (And come again, too) There was a time, a long time for me, that hopelessness of thought or emotion or physical slug trapped me, like Chinese handcuffs the harder I'd yank to get away the worse it'd take hold. Samsara is Sanskrit, too, and basically means those little mental loops we get stuck in, the ego with its roughian bloody jawgrip it takes hold, clamps down and causes the resistancy to growwww. Maybe your little loop of samsara is about paying a bill. Ah there it floats on by oh crap it's due next week... but that's when I was going to get my oil change too...Here's where you loosen up, you watch the thought without chomping down, ahhh there it goes. Or where the deathgrip grabs it, ego ego human control, takes hold. The looping intensifies. The loop track gets bigger. More and more fear and loathsomeness...What the fuck's the point? My always final absolute last bad thought in that miserable loop.
Somewhere in the center is compassion. For ourselves, our sick twisted imperfectly perfect little human minds. And oh the great joy of laughing at it, not taking any of it too seriously because why? If heaviness is just going to increase the misery flow? This is first axiom of those Eastern Wisdom Teachings: Life is suffering, because of addiction to the ego's flow. Detachment just means the wisdom of Anicha. And compassion is an action word, love and gentleness with ourselves....
What if all life was just about enjoying the flow, being open as possible to the nutty updown of the ever present moment?
What if Anicha gave you the power to choose for it to be so?
What if?
Or better~why not?
Mercury went Retrograde yesterday, nows a great time to practice lightening up on your self. Read all about here.
August 13, 2010
Sammy and the boys
In my Book of Awesomeness kept meticulously in my fabulous imagination, one of the most recent gold-scripted entries is that Sammy and the boys played Falcon Ridge.
Just writing that fills me with Oregon dreams and gypsy wisdom and barefeet secrets....
But this post isn't about the guys, or at least not in total, it's also about a funny-ass blogger. Read all about Spencer in the City's report of her tender heart getting Sammed....Then go check out the Chester River Runoff, the coolest fucking guys around xoxoxo
Why haven't you heard of these guys yet?
August 7, 2010
Island culture & the tribe of cool
Patrick my cousin was laughing this morning at breakfast. He's still a little drunk I think, and so it's that glowy slap happiness that is funniest of all.
When he laughs his voice distinctly reminds me of a ladder, this ascending quality that in my cousin Ryan sounds like ringing bells.
You know what Chris told me? Patrick laughs out, stepping up with each word and giggle breath.
Chris is Jackie's soon to be husband in the Carharts and rubber boots with the thick sandwich of New England mouthed around every word he says.
What?
That if you want to find someone here on the island the best thing to do is to just go sit in there house and wait for them to show up. Resounding steps of chortle and coffee gulps after this. It is true tho, Pat and Chris are right, and the B&B owner comes in and tells a story of coming home from errands this week to find the friend of her teenage son lounging around on the third floor of the house, waiting for her son to return. I didn't know this was island culture, she adds, til I got a teenage son.
Not being connected--no cell service and many without even a phone as over 70% of the residents here are just summer folk--is so, so nice. You forget what it means, how easy it is, to just be out and about. To not wait for life to happen, but to make for it yourself...
It reminds me of 1995, living at the beach, pre-cell phone and none of us had landlines. You went on a whim, and let shit happen. In The New York Years diPrima writes wistfully about this, about the tribe of cool to whom I've always sought after, the existence of which predates written history and is, indeed, the reason for expansion, poetry, artistry and all forms of adrenaline~those on the subversive edge of things~how in Manhattan in the 40's this tribe was so in tune with one another and the undercurrent of pure Life imbibing them each that they actually called it swinging, how they lived. Swinging meant get your work done: the clean white line of purity which so tapped in to this force, then allow for, submit to the natural movement of the day. Regular encounters with one another were natural and occurred by virtue of this discipline: wrestling the creative spirit to its hard line, then releasing its energy to throttle the crew back together somewhere on the lower streets say of the Bowery and beyond.
As if something magic, something big, something at times so shadowed and at others glowing in illustriousness so much so the whiteness may burn you apart, was webbing us all together no matter what. Wrestled in to its course, or hugely enormous and pushing us along...
What McClure meant by Writ in Eternity~and what I find most sacred among us mad genius'~the fine alchemy of grabbing for that eternity in a harnessed moment of transcendence and union, in which we get to write, at odds til it blends perfect in to the the mystery, fine, alluring, terrifying, of being written equally by the reverb of our own personal movement of the quill.... The conflicting dual, within the mass whole.
Island culture, no doubt, has been very very good for me....
When he laughs his voice distinctly reminds me of a ladder, this ascending quality that in my cousin Ryan sounds like ringing bells.
You know what Chris told me? Patrick laughs out, stepping up with each word and giggle breath.
Chris is Jackie's soon to be husband in the Carharts and rubber boots with the thick sandwich of New England mouthed around every word he says.
What?
That if you want to find someone here on the island the best thing to do is to just go sit in there house and wait for them to show up. Resounding steps of chortle and coffee gulps after this. It is true tho, Pat and Chris are right, and the B&B owner comes in and tells a story of coming home from errands this week to find the friend of her teenage son lounging around on the third floor of the house, waiting for her son to return. I didn't know this was island culture, she adds, til I got a teenage son.
Not being connected--no cell service and many without even a phone as over 70% of the residents here are just summer folk--is so, so nice. You forget what it means, how easy it is, to just be out and about. To not wait for life to happen, but to make for it yourself...
It reminds me of 1995, living at the beach, pre-cell phone and none of us had landlines. You went on a whim, and let shit happen. In The New York Years diPrima writes wistfully about this, about the tribe of cool to whom I've always sought after, the existence of which predates written history and is, indeed, the reason for expansion, poetry, artistry and all forms of adrenaline~those on the subversive edge of things~how in Manhattan in the 40's this tribe was so in tune with one another and the undercurrent of pure Life imbibing them each that they actually called it swinging, how they lived. Swinging meant get your work done: the clean white line of purity which so tapped in to this force, then allow for, submit to the natural movement of the day. Regular encounters with one another were natural and occurred by virtue of this discipline: wrestling the creative spirit to its hard line, then releasing its energy to throttle the crew back together somewhere on the lower streets say of the Bowery and beyond.
As if something magic, something big, something at times so shadowed and at others glowing in illustriousness so much so the whiteness may burn you apart, was webbing us all together no matter what. Wrestled in to its course, or hugely enormous and pushing us along...
What McClure meant by Writ in Eternity~and what I find most sacred among us mad genius'~the fine alchemy of grabbing for that eternity in a harnessed moment of transcendence and union, in which we get to write, at odds til it blends perfect in to the the mystery, fine, alluring, terrifying, of being written equally by the reverb of our own personal movement of the quill.... The conflicting dual, within the mass whole.
Island culture, no doubt, has been very very good for me....
August 5, 2010
Wowed, again. Postcard from Vinyl Haven
Maybe it's getting old, if so I apologize, but this whole being-at-ground-zero getting to re-invent myself experience is just such a constantly enjoyable pleasure...
Right when I get to the siege part of over-shooting my range, right when I get to that overconfidence place that crashes me in to feeling like I blew it and have landed blindly in the forest again, right when I get baffled and anxious, full of totally not-trusting in the wild instinct and new treasury of openness, Life kicks in and doses me with inscrutable evidence of self-love and newness, gentleness and aha serendipity grace.
I love travelling, even when at first it totally stresses me out. Monday night I was up until 6am. Which was hella fun... But then I got up three hours later to work a double, the night time part of which included god-awful taco tuesday. After that I had to pack and drive over two hours to outside Baltimore from the beach. I was so resistant to the trip that I actually had to stop at a gas station on Kent Island and nap for 45 minutes at 1:30 in the morning. I got 3 hours of sleep that night at my cousin's house. Then we caught a plane to Boston, then we caught a scary much littler plane to the coast of Maine, then we caught a ferry to the Island where I am now chilling, in a Bed and Breakfast, three doors down from my cousin Jackie who's marrying a local lobsterman on Sunday. A lot has happened in my life since I was last here at Jackie's in July 2008, and I am comfied in my room here with my sister-cousin Erin, with whom I share the gift of never-feeling-judged-by, which is perhaps the most tender and invaluable gift of all. We slept 10 hours last night, stumbled out of bed for french toast by our host, then returned to bed and snuggled and talked til noon today, the Vinyl Haven fog out the window foraging more air more air more air to overtake and decidedly against burning off. At some point we dressed, listened to hip-hop, and walked the island with no agenda but to let the day greet us as it wished, and later met one of Jackie's bridesmaids-who-happens-to-be-a-guy at the dock when the 3:30 ferry came in. And then, can you say Lobstahrolls!?
The serendipity since we've been here has been endless, right in line with how I started off my week, my Monday-mantra, : Look ahead, for the Greatest Adventures are yet to come...True that. I found two books in the used bookstore today for a dollar each, one of them I just told the World over the weekend that I wanted to acquire. Mark Twain is following us around. I found two more books right in line with two original theosophy/social therories I am trying to intertwine in to my novel. My book (started fresh, no more memoir, now a fiction novel) keeps getting more and more vivid in my head. I am in the den of our B&B about to start writing. Brooks and Kirsten and Mildred all got in Baldamore touch within 24 hours of each other... Out my window there is Atlantic chilled and salty wind.
Hey blogoworld, can you feel me, my contagious smile?
Just wondering.
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