july
xvii
rain rain warm air;
heat stays in its place
it sings the lullabies of summer
it crashes down
the flowers frown
rain rain clap clap
rumbles in the night-
we're all awake together now
laying down
turning round
it doesn't have to be drunk, this water falling from the sky;
it doesn't have to funnelled into my mouth,
it is inside it is outside, part of me and part of you.
it's about the connectivity it brings.
head rolling about somewhat, wanting to spit some thoughts
out here-hurrying, feeling, moving. the rain and darkness are
comforting, i'm trying to tear myself away
july
xvi
when i find the strength;
i come to me.
when i need to feel;
i come to me.
when i want to know
i come to me
and i write it down
i write it all down.
i make the letters small
like me like me
i make the words tall
like me like me
i ask for others hope
in me in me
and i come i come
i come to me.
everything i know turns around in me
everything i seek has crumbled and fallen
everywhere i turn; i see myself
and eveywhere i go, leads back to me.
all the things which turn-have had a time,
all the truth is found, and all is built again
all the turns around, have left us standing here
with each other a time and time again.
when we find the hope;
we hold it dear;
when we need to share;
we lend an ear
when we find the truth,
we know not why
and when we have the light we shed it clear
we make the subjects small like we
we make the topics tall like we
we ask, we pray, we come we come.
melody can be found in my brain for the next twenty minutes.
a late home from work in the heat of july. rumbling planes cut the evening
sky
where winds pour down on us from the heavens. winds that bring life, warmth,
and a soothing sense of peace. do we like the wind, who can say-do we like
the calm, who can say who can say.
putting myself on this new path, all i know for sure is that i need
the sounding
board which is K. it's not her words, but the clarity and conviction of
her words
and just to look into her eyes and realize that they are speaking directly
to me,
which is enough. of course the words ring true, but that in and of itself
is not
everything. to hear 'i'm ok you're ok', is music to my ears even when it
of course
is not necessarily ok, but to know that the choice is to speak them to
me, therein
lies the true blessing and comfort.
yes i'm juxtaposing the sublime with the inevitable. yes side by side
is the beautiful
wind swarming around the courtyard, framed by trees; and the image of me
sitting
in this hard chair staring at myself in this screen. it forms the balance
which is my
coffee coaster, which i no longer drink on my new path. how the orange
swirls into
the black and the black in the orange. ([picture to come])
when the snow comes, memories of these nights are a veritable haven-unreached,
untouchable, as far from the mind and body as paradise is. if one never
sits to absorb
their fullness, one never has sat and absorbed life.
pity.
july
xiii
writing today unexpected. time at a premium, but the bancha must be
taken. watching other chairs around me, comfortable ones and still wondering
how all these numbers add up.
my head swirls. thoughts going in too many directions, with focus out
of focus. is all of this a natural questioning period, or have i brought
it on myself. i don't know how to push these things out of my headspace.
channel your energy. find a challenge. there are little clearings in the
clouds. through them i see to the other side. but it is not pure, and it
is not holy. and i have no remorse for this, in fact it makes me smile.
my plans go in many directions, yet end up in none. stencils, singing,
dining, hanging, travels, and then someone buys a beautiful home and i
want it. but that cannot be, that cannot be.
hopefully no one will read this.
july
xii
finally, the poster hung. how long did it wait,
too long. symbolic of the many delays
encircling me. the lethargy which is adulthood without clear direction.
a bouncing
off the walls syndrome; a having too much ordeal. wishing for simpler times
for the
first time. really, and truly. listening to extremely intellijgent women
on the telephone -
and not smart by comparison, either. problems in complicated lives which
we choose, somehow in the midst of it all. that is the hardest part to
understand, but i know it is a
process of choosing, one baby-step at a time.
it is late now as i sit to type. the sounds left
on the streets are 'or tired ones' 'or loud ones'. screeched tires leave
a mark on the street as dark as the one in my soul as i wonder might eventually
come of these escapades...they are wrong, from something gone wrong, and
will lead to more wrong. i am helpless but to fret over them. alone in
the night worrying about them. perhaps alone on the planet caring about
them, and that is the scariest part of all.
at night there are different populations on the
street. it is a less safe place,
and one should excercise caution. late on saturday in july,
the reds of the street dance in everyone's eyes.
the parties have not ended.
but i enjoy the night, the seclusion of waiting.
the emptiness is deeper,
the silence maintains the energy of the evening's events. i wait.
i yawn as i feel the sugar in my stomach. will
this distilled water dilute
the 6-carbon saccharides i have ingested? my thighs give a little tremble.
i am in touch because i go deep down. i stop and
think. i feel. i look inside,
and beyond the shells i can see myself. the picture is not always a clear
one,
but i always see it, when i look, and i always feel what it feels like
to look like me.
it is a tableau, a canvas, and what should appear on it is obvious to me.
i don't always know the strokes, and i may be missing a few paints,
but the fact that it needs color is never far from my mind. to find the
colors i need, i must look. without this imagery, the canvas is white.
someone else would paint it for me.
july
iv
i'll stay put now for a while. i am going to stay
put. away from home is away from home.
this is the cuddling place. this is where there is energy leftover for
projects.
the
street is quiet, the trees don't move.
their greens have turned shades of the
depths of summer. let your shoulders down
to dream of the sand, and think of
everything that has happened in the sun.
lately, the tiny ecstatic moments have returned.
the little volcanic spirit from inside that
turns on the happy switch.
energy to put things away,
use a recipe, and scan a newspaper article.
nearly mid july.
perhaps anyone really interested in introspection
is trapped?
july
viii
more news now, of change. not me, thanks God,
i'll stay put for a spell. but watching someone do the contental watuzi,
and i understand the hesitions, fears, and excitement. so this is how it
feels, someone arrives who is different, fresh, vegetarian, and then for
love or money sets sail for distant shores. his animated discussions of
not wanting to ingest disease-ridden animals have been added to the directory,
already containing linda's flaxseed influenced meals, and soon, very soon,
i will have my own verbal arguments. and of course walks around the block
may have to wait a while for some new free soul to understand. be well
my friend, be well.
slowly
my lids rise. fractions of angst behind me, no better reason than delayed-pms.
the bancha has awoken my intellect, but not yet my spirit. more citying
last night was welcomed by thousands, perhaps a hundred thousand. spirits
rose as music filled with peaceful refrains and thousands of white balloons
filled the night sky. for a those moments, not a gap was left unfilled
- nor a note unsung. and when i think of these being the days, a smile.
e-mail invitations, weekends of rock-shoveling,
and looking forward to north-shore mexican food. it's probably getting
late. a last rub of the brow glance to the trees, and as the saying goes,
'i'm outta here'.
july
vii
these summer days wrap one nicely in the other,
forming strings we call weeks.
some, complain of the passing of time - as i might, but refrain.
a certain inner clock tells me there is no time to want for else,
only time to breathe in the days and drink my organic tea.
that which comes, will come. if winter brings seclusion,
spring again after it, the joy of living.
something will be done inside the winter nights, hearty soups spooned
mouthful
by each, reading or stringing beads perhaps. dinners with melting candles
and
sauces steaming by the Decarie, finally making their way to a coagulated
messy
trail from here to there. when there are more friends than which fill a
summer,
the repose which is winter halts much and we pick up the phone.
something i dreamed awoke me from a peaceful slumber into a peaceful
awake.
something i lived sent me into that sleep, and now a sense of calm becomes
me.
a calmness i can feel floating around in my words, tickling my thoughts,
and teasing
me from begnning the day.
something inside of me is still laughing. i felt good about last night
the moment i walked in that place. something about it was inviting, warm.
dagmar sat me down, and eventually at least two familiar faces walked in.
three hours later, seven walked out.
and me, i didn't walk home, but i could have.
off to walk.
july
ii
we're back here again, facing a similar direction.
the dictionary sits in its place, rolls of film have been left many places,
and more are waiting to be born. the kleenex box is handy, the rollar blades
all face east, and i'm trying to tell myself something has changed. the
accumulation of hindsight and foresight are an odd pair. i still get hungry.
the cpu still whirrs.
"i can almost feel you smiling
From beyond those silver skies
As you watch me finding my way
Here without you, in my life
So no one knows but you
How I feel inside
No one knows
No one knows but you
I've come so close to believing
All the echose in the wind
Brushing my hair off my shoulders
I feel you there once again
And if there is some magic
Some way way around these stars
Some road that I can travel
To get to whre you are
I'll cry this empty canyon
An ocean full of tears
And I won't stop believing
That your love is always near
Cause no one knows but you
How I feel inside,
No one knows
But you."
-beth neilson chapman,
Sand and Water 1997
july
i
oh, and if i could paint you words to describe
the glowing half-moon out my bare window.
words to color the sky july-first blue, and phrases to smell the lingering
newness of the greens of summer, this summer. the silence of the city as
gatherings amass elsewhere, to watch our own light shows; spectacular,
but not nearly as marvelous as the one i see. framed by only a bare window,
it's enough of a peaceful world for me to behold.
happy stopping the world for this july first moment,
happy day under clouds with family and friends, happy clean kitchen, and
happy sleeping in my bed.
sorry if
sometimes,