shhhh

•January 20, 2012 • Leave a Comment

I doubt the scarcity of wisdom
In a world so full of bottomless words, opinions, false meanings, gods and brands
Wisdom became wise
It learned, like a bug evolving
By trial and error
By punishment
By pain
Wisdom learned to stay quite
So while you beg for reason to enter our world
Know you plead for silence from a race that only knows the sound of its own chatter
The Chitti Vritti isn’t only in you
We have it in common
And if by chance those Christians are right and we are all of one body
Then
Let
Us
Be

silent

Chapter One: Dumbing Down

•January 19, 2012 • Leave a Comment

I was walking home today thinking about what I would call my great novel. I do this often, mind you; walking around with these sorts of delusions of grandeur, neglecting to realize they are just that, perhaps because I tend create from those mind musings a reality that mirrors that circus I call a consciousness.

“If Truth is Truly a Virtue, then Call me Virtuous!”

At the time, I thought it was genius. I accepted a Pulitzer Prize for my memoir of being such a soul baring white woman of privilege penning tales of how she felt.
That didn’t last long. The genius that is.
This is fortunate.
It would have been a shitty book.

So I kept walking and I kept daydreaming. What is it that I want to say, to share, to give, that hasn’t been done before.
Or rather.
If it has been done before, how can I make it so delicious you still want more? Seconds. Heck you’ll even ask your neighbor how I did it, HOPEING they know and will make more for you.
(Did you get that food symbolism? I know right, I am a goddamn genius. Such prose, such imagination, such-)

I did it again.
I have nothing new for you. No insights. No wisdom. No life changing phrases that will echo in the hallways of high schools and community colleges. No professor will ever quote me, hell my friends barely read me.

So I guess that frees me.
I can say whatever I want.

You. Aren’t. There.

I fall in love all the time. It’s sad really. Such naivety that has been slapped in the face so often, continues to be naïve, to be open, to marvel at the beauty that surrounds. I fell in love four times last year, all different, and considering the odds, they all ended fairly well. Falling in love doesn’t mean that person must be you only high five partner. Now, I am not advocating polygamy or dis-advocating it. I am just saying that, sometimes its nice to fall in love with someone and be able to let them go. Love them enough in that moment to really see they are a like a breeze. Or perhaps the timing is just awful. Or maybe it is all just another delusion that you have yet to be aware of. Or maybe they were amazing liars.

I suppose if someone was reading, this would be the part they would think to themselves, “Oh, its gonna get juicy now! She’s set us up for a story, she’s gonna tell us about one of those gents! Maybe it will be heartbreaking! Maybe it will be awful! Maybe she sneezed all over herself!”

Well, I didn’t sneeze all over myself. He did.

Not really. It wasn’t a sneeze as much as he laughed and spit his drink all over himself and I thought it was the cutest thing ever.
That’s not right either. It was worse then that. It was a slow dribble down his lips and chin that we both knew was coming and there was no stopping it.
It had begun.
Slowly it came.
Inch by inch.
A.
Dribble.
A nightmare most men would have talking to a girl who dressed up as the Doctor. (Please note: if you ever happen to meet a girl dressed as the Doctor, know you’ve found a wonderful geekie dream). Most men, such as this, I would expect would write a rage comic about such a flirting faux pa.
Back to that dribble.

Now, perhaps if there were a superhero with the power to stop boys from dribbling mojito down their face, we’d have a chance. But I’m not sure what sort of radioactivity would be needed to create a hero like that. And in all honesty, I don’t know if I would advocate for a superhero to have such a power. I mean, that dribble was super cute.

He was embarrassed, and rightly so. There are women that would be horrified and quickly create an excuse to leave such a man.
Not me.
I spill shit all the time and I have no excuse for it. I am clumsy and awkward.
It’s charming.
It’s human.
I just so happen to be human.
(Note: this makes mating much, much easier when you are attracted to other humans. If I was a bear, that would make my past relationships with men, very strange indeed.)

So I did what any reasonable woman would do, I giggled. I offered my condolences to his drink, (which was delicious by the way. Maori gods make the best mojitos!) And offered some sort of Reader’s Digest-like anecdote about how I too, a funny cute girl, dribbles things down my face as well.

Now, for the sake of all honestly, I don’t really dribble drinks on myself.
No. I do.
Not really.
Sometimes.
I more often fall over for no apparent reason.
I should see a doctor about that.
Honestly, what I really do is this:
When I laugh too hard, a bit of snot flies out and lands somewhere.
I don’t know where it goes.
I am sorry.

But I didn’t tell him that.
I dumbed down the truth.
I made it less embarrassing for me.

And that gentle reader, who really doesn’t exist, that’s why things don’t work out.
That’s why falling in love happens in brief spurts.
Because when you have the chance to fully be yourself, you dumb it down.

prove

•December 28, 2011 • Leave a Comment

That ain’t no shag whag potent proclamation of prize personal prerogative
That my dear was near to some scripted out romantic ordeal
Oh, all night time streets, all lamp light mellow brushes back my hair, speaking calm as if I was a frightened pony who has yet to be broken, yet to feel a reign, yet wear a saddle

I ran, push back stool, December air, rain falling from my face and sky
No time for taming, garden digging to create fruit I will never eat from
But I like fruit and I like gardens and I like plowing fields, but I am no leaser, no heart-sharecropper, no squatter looking into pretty homes and sleeping on the floor while the homeowner is out

What god traced ink to paper, whose hand and leg and torso you have become
How did you pass the gates, the guards, the riddles, and the illusions- you must have stumbled upon some map that was meant for someone else, you thief in the night ignorant of the power of your actions and a vehicle for something greater then you

The suit you wear cannot abide to stand side by side to an ivory gown made of moonlight and other rather fanciful things; that the mind you choose to think cannot grasp the soul that you evidently and surprisingly keep- yet I understand its hunger, I hear its cry of lamentation at the remembrance of whose hand and leg and torso that I have become

Do I see a trace of Alice, wandering through the looking glass into a world that you’ve dreamt yet realize is different then you, a place you don’t belong, a place that is not home
Transform, click your heels Dorothy, do that strange little dance of normality and over-the-counter prescribed personality predicting the perfect pachyderm of passivity

eight on ice

•December 20, 2011 • Leave a Comment

Once
I drank a cup of tea
Twice
I recalled the face of a certain life
A dozen times I day dreamed a particular dream where a new player spoke an old role
Once
It was a new story
Twice
I realized it wasn’t
A million lives I’ve lived in what seems to appear as one and you would never know, unless you could look me in the eye
Once
I drank a cup of tea
Twice
I washed the same words over
A dozen times I’ll journey to the great deep dark, if only because I like the light

From the Proprietary Instances that Must Be, written by Monks of Wichita.

•December 8, 2011 • Leave a Comment

“For it shall be known, that in the days of tall things lit by sun jars, the words of the Great Festivus will be recited by the box that is not fire, yet is fire, but is confusing because it neither is or isn’t fire, yet is created with similar attributes that fire may be associated with under circumstances concerning modes of energy transmission that has yet to be understood without the guidance of God.”

“Then shall the words of Festivus be kindled upon the coming snows, amidst the frozen and bleak unknown that has called upon us to run away wearing wool. But nay! The song of Festivus urges the remittance of demons, reminds us we are covered and we are warm. That we have enough in our leather sacks to trudge the tundra and look into the great large dark things with eyes that are kind, full of wonder, and wisdom.
Kind for we’ve felt the sting of slaps upon our souls.
Wonder for the world she holds mysteries in her curves.
Wisdom because we have danced in the fires and heard the true song of Festivus.”

“A great day it shall be! The skies will light with colours unknown! Lives will reincarnate as days pass into eves! The people will rejoice with buffoonery, for they shall know the greatest gifts are in the laughter of a simple soul. When the true song of Festivus permeates the atmosphere and fertilizes the inner ear, know that it is the signal of the birth of something new.”

moments, a leaf

•November 20, 2011 • Leave a Comment

the seasons here are subtle, you must have a careful eye
for when they change
there’s no ready made
manual for the sky

so when leaves turn a thoughtful cheek,
take time to follow their gaze
perhaps they’ll face a direction
you dared not hoped to traipse

we worry about our crinkle, we sigh for when we die
yet isn’t this all a moment
a breath
a well turned sigh

so if you have an eye for detail
an eye for the divine
take the time to wonder
the subtle of our time

questions, an ode to

•November 16, 2011 • Leave a Comment

must I really know?
prefer to ponder, wonder
exploring all fates