Reasons to go on...
It seems I have come to live...
Reach For Hope:
Saturday, August 07, 2010
Turning To Seed
Shorts of life take but a second to assume. They can be crumbled in the pocket, tossed, left for others to find. They serve numerous purposes. They can represent so many different things. And their original symbolism can be immortalized - but only within the mortal hearts of those who knew them first. Thus their essence waxes and wanes over the course of history. Some disappear completely, only to be re-discovered centuries later.
The moment gained can become a moment lost. What is given must never be taken for granted, only shared, and shared honestly. In the breath of an evening, a whole day is remembered. The hope for a rising morning is always there. Yet the call to an authentic presence remains - live the moment as if it were your last. Nothing will follow you when you leave this world, only the ways in which you have loved the world.
The moment gained can become a moment lost. What is given must never be taken for granted, only shared, and shared honestly. In the breath of an evening, a whole day is remembered. The hope for a rising morning is always there. Yet the call to an authentic presence remains - live the moment as if it were your last. Nothing will follow you when you leave this world, only the ways in which you have loved the world.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Etchings
The sketches from the last few days can't really describe what this pain feels like. Curled inward, red and puffed, an angry roll against the edges of my stomach. The fever rises from below and steams in my temple. Outside people are running and talking high scores; in my home, I am waiting for the temperatures to melt away.
Cold? Sinus infections? Residual stomach bug complaints? Or a cacophony of mild ailments speaking a language of chronic frustration at the expectations of modern life?
Cold? Sinus infections? Residual stomach bug complaints? Or a cacophony of mild ailments speaking a language of chronic frustration at the expectations of modern life?
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Eaves of the Evening
Half open lids in the green grass .
I see the sandals above my whispered hair. He looks down on me and his eyes are asking for nothing but for my patience. In the hand of this Shadow, I take my new steps into the world.
In a place among the stones, the fog sips. There is nothing left to shield the moon from her own nakedness; the wind blows the voices of my thoughts into the trees behind me. In my hands lay the bulbs of my own imagination - freshly born, longing for life.
I see the sandals above my whispered hair. He looks down on me and his eyes are asking for nothing but for my patience. In the hand of this Shadow, I take my new steps into the world.
In a place among the stones, the fog sips. There is nothing left to shield the moon from her own nakedness; the wind blows the voices of my thoughts into the trees behind me. In my hands lay the bulbs of my own imagination - freshly born, longing for life.
Friday, November 13, 2009
First Mark
"To make it feel more real --"
Dent's words cut off as a single hand movement slammed the book shut into the table and left a cloud of dust hanging in the air. The ringing in DEnt's ears did not subside for another minute as his lungs burned in oxygen and he struggled to stay on his feet. As the cloud subsided, Dent grasped the desk with both his hands and accustomed his eyes to the face in front of him. The sharp, linear stoic smile of Mr. Garthen's face opened to swallow in Dent's skull. His unblinking green eyes were fixated on the heads of the crowd below them, and he was leaning forward, his knees bent as if ready to jump. Dent smelled the sweet stench of Mr. Garthen's cigar butts as well as the crimson kerchief underneath his coat. As Mr. Garthen sneered in the crowds direction, Dent turned to see horror paralyzing his classmates' faces and the sympathy in his teacher's eyes turning into a heaviness that dragged him into their wake.
After what seemed like an hour, Dent broke out of his hypnotic stare and turned his head towards the stiff gray tie on Mr. Garther's chest. The old man was bending over him like a tree, so in order to avoid crashing into him, Dent slowly maneuvered his way to the edge of the table. Grasping the corner of the desk, Dent took one last look at Marr's Book of Poetry, and ran off towards stage right. The subsequent gasps from the crowd continued even after Mr. Garthe had left surprise for anger and with fist raised, called the assembly to order. As whispers lessened, a trail of comments and questions carried over the students into the lobby outside the hall, and reverberated their echoes through the walls of the building - in classrooms, dorm rooms and teacher conference areas. Dent's voice was never amongst them, though. Dent's voice was never heard at all.
Dent's words cut off as a single hand movement slammed the book shut into the table and left a cloud of dust hanging in the air. The ringing in DEnt's ears did not subside for another minute as his lungs burned in oxygen and he struggled to stay on his feet. As the cloud subsided, Dent grasped the desk with both his hands and accustomed his eyes to the face in front of him. The sharp, linear stoic smile of Mr. Garthen's face opened to swallow in Dent's skull. His unblinking green eyes were fixated on the heads of the crowd below them, and he was leaning forward, his knees bent as if ready to jump. Dent smelled the sweet stench of Mr. Garthen's cigar butts as well as the crimson kerchief underneath his coat. As Mr. Garthen sneered in the crowds direction, Dent turned to see horror paralyzing his classmates' faces and the sympathy in his teacher's eyes turning into a heaviness that dragged him into their wake.
After what seemed like an hour, Dent broke out of his hypnotic stare and turned his head towards the stiff gray tie on Mr. Garther's chest. The old man was bending over him like a tree, so in order to avoid crashing into him, Dent slowly maneuvered his way to the edge of the table. Grasping the corner of the desk, Dent took one last look at Marr's Book of Poetry, and ran off towards stage right. The subsequent gasps from the crowd continued even after Mr. Garthe had left surprise for anger and with fist raised, called the assembly to order. As whispers lessened, a trail of comments and questions carried over the students into the lobby outside the hall, and reverberated their echoes through the walls of the building - in classrooms, dorm rooms and teacher conference areas. Dent's voice was never amongst them, though. Dent's voice was never heard at all.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Slam Jam
I got off the bus today and walked home. Again.
They say that this winter might be colder and snowi(er?) Than it has been in a few years. I hardly notice the cold, though, and I refuse to put on my mittens. An elderly woman dressed in a sari and head shawl swaps the bitter wind away from her chin. But I just bite the current, and make my way down the busy street regardless of what my skin tells me.
I went to the HR office in Medford with a hopeful heart about the future. I showed up early, promptly dressed and pruned for the occasion, and I carried my head high. I expected nothing but a positive, albeit lengthy, afternoon.
Deb McGavern was friendly and adequately distant in her adminstrative presence. She sat me down, gave me the paperwork and CORI questions, and assisted me with the staff quiz I had to complete. I was centered and able and for the most part expecting smooth sails through the entire thing.
What I got instead was a fast ball.
Before I could be left alone to fill out the pages of endless questions, Deb decided that she didn’t have all the information she needed. Glancing over my application, she casually ignored the fact that my references had been left out of the pile, and simply stated, “These are references, right?” I looked up to see her finger pointing towards my Work Experience list, and in particular, to the most current place of employment, Community Work Services.
Inside my head screamed NO. On the outside, though, I explained that I had presented my list of references to Toni when I arrived at the interview. The most proper list of reference names would be found in that document, I told her. I’d asked them NOT to contact CWS, but Deb seemed to think it was a good idea to speak to my Supervisor. I eventually found myself explaining my current litigation status once more, without showing my upset at the sudden change of events. Apparently Jim did not pay attention on the phone that day when I told him about my termination, and Toni was not really in her office when she was telling me about my offer letter going into the mail a few days ago. I’d been congratulated twice already about earning this position but Deb in her haste was asking me for the name of my Supervisor.
I gave it to her. And I gave her the name of another manager who’d also witnessed my hard work.
The rest of the day is a blur. It somehow took me forever to fill out what were exact replicas of the documents my former participants filled out, time and time again, when they came to work at my agency. I was having a hard time with the quiz because a sock was cuddling my brain and in between pages I was sending frantic text messages to anyone who’d answer me. My tear ducts wanted to get busy and I was avoiding looking at the rest of the room, or at my watch. I made it to my physical 15 minutes after schedule and learned, to my consternation, that the fact that I was on medications would delay analysis of my contribution and push my physical exam back at least until next week.
They say that this winter might be colder and snowi(er?) Than it has been in a few years. I hardly notice the cold, though, and I refuse to put on my mittens. An elderly woman dressed in a sari and head shawl swaps the bitter wind away from her chin. But I just bite the current, and make my way down the busy street regardless of what my skin tells me.
I went to the HR office in Medford with a hopeful heart about the future. I showed up early, promptly dressed and pruned for the occasion, and I carried my head high. I expected nothing but a positive, albeit lengthy, afternoon.
Deb McGavern was friendly and adequately distant in her adminstrative presence. She sat me down, gave me the paperwork and CORI questions, and assisted me with the staff quiz I had to complete. I was centered and able and for the most part expecting smooth sails through the entire thing.
What I got instead was a fast ball.
Before I could be left alone to fill out the pages of endless questions, Deb decided that she didn’t have all the information she needed. Glancing over my application, she casually ignored the fact that my references had been left out of the pile, and simply stated, “These are references, right?” I looked up to see her finger pointing towards my Work Experience list, and in particular, to the most current place of employment, Community Work Services.
Inside my head screamed NO. On the outside, though, I explained that I had presented my list of references to Toni when I arrived at the interview. The most proper list of reference names would be found in that document, I told her. I’d asked them NOT to contact CWS, but Deb seemed to think it was a good idea to speak to my Supervisor. I eventually found myself explaining my current litigation status once more, without showing my upset at the sudden change of events. Apparently Jim did not pay attention on the phone that day when I told him about my termination, and Toni was not really in her office when she was telling me about my offer letter going into the mail a few days ago. I’d been congratulated twice already about earning this position but Deb in her haste was asking me for the name of my Supervisor.
I gave it to her. And I gave her the name of another manager who’d also witnessed my hard work.
The rest of the day is a blur. It somehow took me forever to fill out what were exact replicas of the documents my former participants filled out, time and time again, when they came to work at my agency. I was having a hard time with the quiz because a sock was cuddling my brain and in between pages I was sending frantic text messages to anyone who’d answer me. My tear ducts wanted to get busy and I was avoiding looking at the rest of the room, or at my watch. I made it to my physical 15 minutes after schedule and learned, to my consternation, that the fact that I was on medications would delay analysis of my contribution and push my physical exam back at least until next week.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Sojourner's Malady
The Sojourner wishes peace on the Child.
The Woman lies beaten and torn, the Child at her side, always tending to her injuries, not knowing the why or how of the wet warmth upon her hands.
The Child will grow up with this memory intact -- of the blood on her fingers, the muffled screams as the Woman died slowly on the grass. The rush as another shadow whisks the Child away from the only home she had, and knows, and will ever know. This splintered scene from a wakeless dream she knows nothing beyond.
There are ways to get past the pain, they tell her, as another injection pricks her arm.
She is older, her hair no longer in pigtails, the hospital gown covering her on the cold bed. Then she is tucked away into her memories again and the curtains are drawn. The silent tears that fall from her eyes become stone the minute they touch her cheeks. They collect below her bed like a bed of rocks carrying an invisible river into the grounds beyond the hospital on which the Child, a Girl now, sheds her skins for the surfaces of her kind.
She knows that to reach the place her kind hails from, she must first give up this existence. The Girl reaches for the wooden paddle at the shore and begins the journey into calmer tributaries. As she moves the boat through the waters she hears the laughter of the Children, the voice of the Woman watching over them from the distance, the Dogs, barking. Life is all around her in the ghosts from her past, and she leans in to see a brown house reflected in the water. The smell of chopped wood fills her nostrils with excitement. He has come home.
But no sooner does she bear the boat to shore that the house is gone, the ashes burnt an ancient fireplace into the ground, and the crows announcing a new lair. She has come too late, as always. And so on she goes towards the sun. In the background, a shotgun lands one proud eagle into the river. Canine packs splash to rescue their Master's kill. But this Girl's Father is not among the men in that group. Her brothers have never been, and her friends have all but on and left her. She honors the memory of her shattered petals for one moment, and then digs into the river further, forcefully, till nightfall.
The Whyle contains the bearing seal of all that was once powerful and dominant in the Child's imagination. The cross hugs the crest with Krishna's smile at the front, laundered by the shadowing trees that hold it like a French Door to the mountains behind it. The Girl removes her sandals and lets them sink into the bog. Her dress sparkles in the star light, but she has not come here to jewel herself for the next stranger on the road. She has only come here to die, to make real the blood upon her hands, upon her face, and to bury the Woman's screams in her own pain.
Underneath the wet soils of the dogwood tree an ancient rose is still wilting shades of blue. The Girl touches the rose, avoiding the thorns, wishing life into this beautiful flower. As the wrinkled leaves give way to the Girl's warmth, the flower begins to open and the earth smiles, revealing its roots. Nestled against them a silver dagger gleams in anticipation. The old handle has been wiped clean somehow, devoid of history and past deaths in this court of memories. The mountains remember nothing.
The Girl removes the dagger with both hands holding the flat of the blade, and she closes the edge to her wool-covered chest. Her heart is pumping silently as it has always done. And the Girl staggers as wetness reaches her chin, and unfamiliar rocking drops her to the grass. She crawls her way to the stone circle, widening its scope with her extremities, however, and she drags the blade across her left wrist, then the right. It is done. The wind collects the stream of red in its wake as a storm descends upon this calm riverbed. The shield howls a battle once more to the skies, and the world responds.
Inside the mountain, an old man forces an anvil to stone. The Girl, once flesh, has left the Earth in body. Next to the rock, a silver pool hosts a laughing parade of seahorses. Above the streams there is no joy, the Old Man thinks to himself. A clocks strikes midnight and the Old Man marks another day's work upon his wall. When the wall has been filled he will make his way to the marsh as well, and seek the relief from the dagger's blade.
The Woman lies beaten and torn, the Child at her side, always tending to her injuries, not knowing the why or how of the wet warmth upon her hands.
The Child will grow up with this memory intact -- of the blood on her fingers, the muffled screams as the Woman died slowly on the grass. The rush as another shadow whisks the Child away from the only home she had, and knows, and will ever know. This splintered scene from a wakeless dream she knows nothing beyond.
There are ways to get past the pain, they tell her, as another injection pricks her arm.
She is older, her hair no longer in pigtails, the hospital gown covering her on the cold bed. Then she is tucked away into her memories again and the curtains are drawn. The silent tears that fall from her eyes become stone the minute they touch her cheeks. They collect below her bed like a bed of rocks carrying an invisible river into the grounds beyond the hospital on which the Child, a Girl now, sheds her skins for the surfaces of her kind.
She knows that to reach the place her kind hails from, she must first give up this existence. The Girl reaches for the wooden paddle at the shore and begins the journey into calmer tributaries. As she moves the boat through the waters she hears the laughter of the Children, the voice of the Woman watching over them from the distance, the Dogs, barking. Life is all around her in the ghosts from her past, and she leans in to see a brown house reflected in the water. The smell of chopped wood fills her nostrils with excitement. He has come home.
But no sooner does she bear the boat to shore that the house is gone, the ashes burnt an ancient fireplace into the ground, and the crows announcing a new lair. She has come too late, as always. And so on she goes towards the sun. In the background, a shotgun lands one proud eagle into the river. Canine packs splash to rescue their Master's kill. But this Girl's Father is not among the men in that group. Her brothers have never been, and her friends have all but on and left her. She honors the memory of her shattered petals for one moment, and then digs into the river further, forcefully, till nightfall.
The Whyle contains the bearing seal of all that was once powerful and dominant in the Child's imagination. The cross hugs the crest with Krishna's smile at the front, laundered by the shadowing trees that hold it like a French Door to the mountains behind it. The Girl removes her sandals and lets them sink into the bog. Her dress sparkles in the star light, but she has not come here to jewel herself for the next stranger on the road. She has only come here to die, to make real the blood upon her hands, upon her face, and to bury the Woman's screams in her own pain.
Underneath the wet soils of the dogwood tree an ancient rose is still wilting shades of blue. The Girl touches the rose, avoiding the thorns, wishing life into this beautiful flower. As the wrinkled leaves give way to the Girl's warmth, the flower begins to open and the earth smiles, revealing its roots. Nestled against them a silver dagger gleams in anticipation. The old handle has been wiped clean somehow, devoid of history and past deaths in this court of memories. The mountains remember nothing.
The Girl removes the dagger with both hands holding the flat of the blade, and she closes the edge to her wool-covered chest. Her heart is pumping silently as it has always done. And the Girl staggers as wetness reaches her chin, and unfamiliar rocking drops her to the grass. She crawls her way to the stone circle, widening its scope with her extremities, however, and she drags the blade across her left wrist, then the right. It is done. The wind collects the stream of red in its wake as a storm descends upon this calm riverbed. The shield howls a battle once more to the skies, and the world responds.
Inside the mountain, an old man forces an anvil to stone. The Girl, once flesh, has left the Earth in body. Next to the rock, a silver pool hosts a laughing parade of seahorses. Above the streams there is no joy, the Old Man thinks to himself. A clocks strikes midnight and the Old Man marks another day's work upon his wall. When the wall has been filled he will make his way to the marsh as well, and seek the relief from the dagger's blade.
Friday, September 11, 2009
The latest craze
Not sure what to say here. Things seem to fly by me very quickly -- I catch leeflets of the messages I feel drawn to, only to watch as they melt away into my open palms.
I am naked in a pool of water and the darkness and sunlight around me changes throughout the day,
but the temperature around me remains continuous.
The Milky Way lengthens her arm and I stretch to follow, but my feet remain rooted in the mud as my fingers glow in the moonlight.
A fog crawls over my eyes, and I awaken once again to the languid, ever- sauntering lagoon.
That is the rhythm of my days on many levels.
The elemental takes over, and the structures I once relied on disintegrate as I seek a more primal response to the envoironment around me.
Nothing holds fix, and my life, on many levels, seems to flow out of synch with the rest of the world around me.
I breach the tall grasses once or twice, but I come back, mostly for respite, to that safe space in the marshes.
I feel disconnected from the world I used to push myself through.
What pressures I accepted once as necessary feel foreign to me,
alien and toxic to my own survival.
I attempt to build on what remains from that time, but the remnants stay dry and mangled in their original places.
Their shadows slowly decay as the soils beneath them petrify and swallow the shoots into the ground,
bit by bit,
along the distant shores.
My visits to these points have decreased in frequency because the thorns do not hold back the pain when I wait in their presence.
They bleed the past into the water around me as my reddened fingers cradle the flower that once was,
and release her into the mud.
These poignant deaths are the tears that I could never cry and yet have let loose in therapy,
the words that once had no origin and now reverberate from my core.
In that velvet flux of cathartic release I see the ice caps begin to melt, and the mountain walls recede in the distance.
I hear whispers of beloved marshes that remain well known to others.
I experience a momentary panic as a part of me fears an eternity lived in this tropical post of swamps, hidden fruits and unknown dangers.
I admire the wings of the birds above me, but I do not prune any feathers.
I wonder about the journeys the old man takes beyond the forest edge,
but I neglect the kerosene lamp he left nestled among the rocks last summer.
I have no currency,
no identification,
no acquired knowledge that I can apply and over-emphasize in my hopes of reaching a newer landscape,
only the reality of my own experience.
In it I notice camels lower their heads to the water holes,
children grow and prosper,
and parents mask pain behind the sincerity of their smiles.
I sink away to where the lily pads flourish.
The berries do not judge me for using them at will in the summertime.
The sun does not set because I have not planted any seeds in the fields that day.
I am naked in a pool of water and the darkness and sunlight around me changes throughout the day,
but the temperature around me remains continuous.
The Milky Way lengthens her arm and I stretch to follow, but my feet remain rooted in the mud as my fingers glow in the moonlight.
A fog crawls over my eyes, and I awaken once again to the languid, ever- sauntering lagoon.
That is the rhythm of my days on many levels.
The elemental takes over, and the structures I once relied on disintegrate as I seek a more primal response to the envoironment around me.
Nothing holds fix, and my life, on many levels, seems to flow out of synch with the rest of the world around me.
I breach the tall grasses once or twice, but I come back, mostly for respite, to that safe space in the marshes.
I feel disconnected from the world I used to push myself through.
What pressures I accepted once as necessary feel foreign to me,
alien and toxic to my own survival.
I attempt to build on what remains from that time, but the remnants stay dry and mangled in their original places.
Their shadows slowly decay as the soils beneath them petrify and swallow the shoots into the ground,
bit by bit,
along the distant shores.
My visits to these points have decreased in frequency because the thorns do not hold back the pain when I wait in their presence.
They bleed the past into the water around me as my reddened fingers cradle the flower that once was,
and release her into the mud.
These poignant deaths are the tears that I could never cry and yet have let loose in therapy,
the words that once had no origin and now reverberate from my core.
In that velvet flux of cathartic release I see the ice caps begin to melt, and the mountain walls recede in the distance.
I hear whispers of beloved marshes that remain well known to others.
I experience a momentary panic as a part of me fears an eternity lived in this tropical post of swamps, hidden fruits and unknown dangers.
I admire the wings of the birds above me, but I do not prune any feathers.
I wonder about the journeys the old man takes beyond the forest edge,
but I neglect the kerosene lamp he left nestled among the rocks last summer.
I have no currency,
no identification,
no acquired knowledge that I can apply and over-emphasize in my hopes of reaching a newer landscape,
only the reality of my own experience.
In it I notice camels lower their heads to the water holes,
children grow and prosper,
and parents mask pain behind the sincerity of their smiles.
I sink away to where the lily pads flourish.
The berries do not judge me for using them at will in the summertime.
The sun does not set because I have not planted any seeds in the fields that day.
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