Dark Blue Funk

No its not the name of a band, rather it is my state of being.

I am confused and feeling lost.  I had it all together for all of 48 hours back in August.

I can do this.

My brain has gone utterly backwards in time.

Here is my skull that back there, oh no worries, its just my brain.

Is having sex really sinful?  Is falling in love a sin?

This must be my karma.

That is all it is.

And do I wait?  What is it exactly I am waiting for?

Should I?

What else is there.

I just want to feel the stabilized feeling in my mind.

I guess God, or The sacred universe or whatever name it is given is not really wanting me to have this at all.

Maybe to having nothing at all ever.

I give the universe an ultimatum, but I set it too far forward.

I think I am done.

Like blackened salmon.

cook me anymore and I will be bitter and dry.

I yearn. oh god how I yearn.  is this not what you want from me?  this pitiable wreckage?

fuck it all.

fuck.

and fuck.

I am in a dark blue funk

And there is no one there to ease my sorrow, or yearning.

Once again.

I am alone.

It is all funk.

funk

and funk.

Housewarm Birthday

In my kitchen is the man I called my boyfriend until recently.  He has come extra early I do not know why, he informs me that he doesn’t miss me much, that he will be leaving early and that he is happy alone in his man cave.  Ok.

At my door is a friend I have not seen in eight years.  He reminds me of this later, the last time I saw him he was doing Tai Chi in the park, I had walked six miles in the park that morning and had spent the next hour or two huddled under a blanket before braving a cold wind to pick up my daughter at a friend’s house.  I saw his car and stopped.   We talked, I was freezing.

And later in my kitchen are people I have been friends with for 20 years, and a month.  People who are in their twenties and people in their seventies, we are quoting Monty Python, acting out charades, telling the wife of one not to shush her husband he is fitting right in with our obnoxious antics.

I sleep late, and wait for the dew to dry off the back steps, it is time to paint them.  I waited all summer for more than two days of drying sun.  The light is bright, the sky that special October blue.  The shadows criss cross across the sunshine yellow back porch of my neighbors house.

He told me he stopped coming by because he had a falling out due to an insignificant comment to the ex, that the ex excised him from his life, just like that.  That is his, and we both say MO at the same time.

He plays my guitar a pick in his pocket like any good guitarist.  I tell him his playing has improved and he smiles with a small pride.  He promises to visit to help me learn to play.

The man I am seeing, texts me, and I feel a deep uncertainty about it all.  He in the harrowing place I was in six years ago.  I practicing excision as I learnt it.  It is easier to push people away than to face fear, to face rejection.  But I am surrounded by friends, people who love and adore me.  Near and far.  And I am waving that shy little wave, hello my friend, do you see me as the kind and gentle, wild and wacky, generous and loving soul that I am?

He is cautious with me, and I think it must be because he is uncertain.  Maybe he doesn’t trust me?  Maybe because of something unspoken.  I do not know, but he came and that was a giant clue.  I think.

I do not know.

I spend this day in quiet contemplation, watching a movie about transcendence that I had watched once before.  Scraping, painting, reading, writing.  And I am tired in a way, a deep feeling of having my edges worn.

I watch the tender way he takes her hand and helps her down the steps, carrying a flashlight so she can see with her one good eye in the dark.  The gentle way he urges her that it is time to go, the way she and I talk and talk.  I value this friendship so deeply.  I value all of these friendships.

And I will not excise these people from my life.

What a shallow existence.  To let go of others for small indiscretions.

And maybe even for big ones.

The deepest friendships survive being forged in the fire.

As has my soul.

Connection

This woman and I are talking, I stand at my post by the back door for several extra minutes, one day, two days, three days.  We are discussing art, religion, public radio, love, lyme disease, we stand holding hands for several minutes, standing very close to one another, she married with children, me as straight as they come.  It is all very natural.  We discuss alternative medicine and healing herbs, and we exchange phone numbers.  Lets have lunch together sometime.

I tell her, I don’t what it is about you, she says, I know I feel the same way, that there is this connection.  Exactly, I say as we stand holding hands firmly.  Before we hug and she goes back home, before I go back to work.

I go into a tattoo shop to discuss the tattoo I have been saving my pennies for for several months.  I am not finding the exact ideas I have in my head, so I show him several things.  I like the way he looks straight into my eyes as we talk, his clear pale blue ones in my dark sea blue ones.  As he is talking I remember why I liked him so much last time, I am struck by his intelligence, and his je ne sais quoi.  I show him my doodles and he says Why aren’t you drawing your own tattoo?  I know I say, I would love to be a tattoo artist, it has to be so much cooler than teaching little kids.  He looks through several of my doodles, cool he says, we are on the same page here.  This is great stuff.

Tell me, he says what words go with the image.  Sacred feminine, Wisdom, Transcendence, Abundance, Matriarch, Growth, Growth from difficult circumstances.  Good he says.  Good.

And then he says, he is in the same frame, he says that this kind of consciousness and conscious thought are uncommon in this world, I begin to disagree and then say, yeah you are right, he says that the suffering, the pain, the hardship the difficulty the scariness of the world is what shows us the beauty, and that this world is a beautiful place.  It is he says kind of juvenile to want to be happy all the time, it is not what life is all about.  And the dichotomy between joy and hardship is what fuels the abundance inside, where all things flow out of this abundance.  I am nodding my head, learning from this tattooed and bearded zen master.

I go to shake his hand firm and he steps in for a hug, just as I do.  It is not cursory, it is a hug of connection, a hug of likeness, of the open heart in a difficult world, of like minded consciousness.  After a moment we both squeeze hard and separate.

See you soon he says.

I am giddy already I say as I leave.

Connection is beautiful.

I ain’t nothing really.

The vice principal stops me in the hall, can you go and talk to B. in the office, she asked if she could come to your room.  I kneel down beside her and talk to her whats going on kiddo.  The counselling begins.  I show her the sign language for friends.  At the end of the day she comes to my room and we walk hand in hand to the buses.

I take a line of kids out to the buses, all clamouring to hold my hands.  I have four children two in each.  As I turn to go back in children stop to hug me, the ones I am feeding, who went without food all summer, the one who told me her two mom’s got married and I showed her a picture of my best friends on my desk, they just got married too I say.

Why do so many kids in this school love you.

There are plenty that don’t those who are the hardest to love sometimes, the ones who break doors and wad up their papers and play catch with them through the whole class, the ones who threaten to punch me in my fucking face, and swing into my unflinching face.  Hit me.  Lets see what happens next.

This is a compassionate classroom, I say, we treat each other with kindness here.

All thoughts to take me off the utter failure in my life to find love.

utter failure.

in the cold autumn morning i wake with the dogs body pressed under the covers against mine.  I put my hand out and bump her leg she stretches and i pet her hind quarters, she turns and rests her snout on my hand.  I can feel the breath coming from her nose, wet and warm on my arm.  She licks my hand until i pull it away.

I recall my dreams, I am in a bathroom and there is the smell of shit everywhere.  I am shitting, the bathroom is a mess, people are collecting shit to test for some disease, it is all shit.

But then I wake and in the throes of joy from the taste of my daily banana (soy milk, peanut butter and banana smoothie) I find myself wanting to write.

All is good with me, all is right.  I am writing, I want to make art, i sleep like a beast.

Is this what the universe wants from me?  To live alone, to be alone so I can do all of this?  I do not know.

But oh my goodness, a man would be so lucky to have a woman like me.

The great chasm

We stand, don’t we, on the edges of chasms and marvel at their beauty.  Here where rivers have cut deep and long scars in the land.  When man makes these scars we call them ugly, but when nature makes them we call them stunning, glorious marvelous.  I stand here now on the edge of my own chasm.  There are no clear bottomed overlooked where you feet seem to stand on air.  There are no park rangers describing the way the earth has been carved over a millennium or three.  There is no people snapping selfies and snapshots and not taking the time to pay attention to the beauty that is here in front.  There are no burros carrying endless caravans of strangers into the depths.  And there are no bridges to carry you across from one side to the other.  You cannot leave it behind.

I once watched a show about people who survived being lost in the wilderness.  There was one where a woman unprepared and a novice, decided to go off hiking by herself in a desert region of the grand canyon.  She became lost, left behind her back pack, stumbled over hills and cliffs drinking tiny trickles of water to survive from one day to the next.  Eventually on her last breath she was saved by Indians who followed her footprints, knowing it was dangerous territory.

I kind of need those Indians right now.  I keep coming back again and again, dragged through circumstances, choices and my own wound pulls me again and again to the ground, air knocked out of me.  Suffering alone, in the great vast chasm, this rift in my life.

I ask for guidance now.  Because I think today I need it more than ever.  Not oh honey it isn’t you guidance.  I just don’t know what to do next.  And I am scared, scarred, broken.  I am admitting it.  I know I am wonderful, amazing, I know all about who I am, what I am and how I am.

But I just don’t understand any of this.   And I am so tired of this chasm, this rift shredding my insides.

I said I would never do this again, and this is why.  I cannot bear the heart broken feelings anymore.

I cannot bear ripping the scar off this wound anymore.

It isn’t even this one person, it is all utterly internal, all me.

I ask for guidance.  I am utterly done.

My mom joked and said maybe you should become a nun.

The truth is, today, I want to spend the rest of my life in meditation and prayer.

Because this chasm is insurmountable.

Insurmountable.

And digging in, only makes it worse.

cat and mouse.

The thing is…

the thing is…

its all good.

and it isn’t.

What i mean is, do you realize the irony of being left on the anniversary of being left?  yes folks six or is it seven years to the day.

i need space from this.

its a cosmic joke really.

leave me alone i cry

while all i want is the warmth of embrace.

i know i am loved.

i recommit to myself.

insanity begets insanity and all i have left to hold onto is that.

i need no ones approval and that drives my happiness.

i wake refreshed.  i wake new.  i face the day with a smile on my face.  because that is all i have left.  that is all i have left.

that and the dog pressing her head hard against mine, loving me.

that and watching the other dog slowly die

that and the friends who adore me, who can say they have this kind of love.

i earn it.

i do not earn it at all.

and when i feel better about all this, do i call and say hello i can now be your friend

or do i lay down the weight of it and leave it.

i realize in an instant there is one thing i forgot to return.

it is a small piece of him, sitting here in my kitchen.

and it must be returned.

and it must be returned.

god you sure are funny sometimes.

a lantern.  a sign post.

please i beg of you, stop toying with me.

i cannot bear it anymore.

Namaste

Camping

Camping

But for this one day.

I choose joy.

I choose to revel

in those who cherish and adore me

in those who would choose me despite the circumstances life offers them.

I choose serenity and peace.

And I choose to depend on the muscles God has helped make in me.

I am here if you awake.

And if you don’t.

For I know I am a rock.

I know that despite the worn and cracked places.

I stand firm and bright,

for I am a gem.

A treasure invaluable.

I choose the love of those who have come to see and depend on the light within me.

And Namaste,

I bow to the light within you.

If you wake I pray you see it.

If you don’t I pray for you to have what I have.

For I have love.

I have light.

I have all the treasure I can want, and need.

And it comes from inside of me.

Oasis

A mouth will drink at any muddied puddle, to quench its thirst.

a throat will drink poison, to slake its craving 

the salted water of the sea never tasted so good in the heat of a desert.

And in the shining distance, a mirage shimmers, 

you crawl, you drag yourself forward, hoping for peace from the torment of wanting water.

And when you have given up,

a minstrels shadow falls on your wretched body

a hand reaches out and is taken

he plays his instrument, 

not as some banging rhythm guitar

not with inexpert hands 

not shoving you down into the sweet well water that awaits.

you aren’t thirsty, you are not wanted, you disgust me,

would you were a camel,

or a fine boned mare,

or a virginal maiden

this minstrel though he caresses his lute with fine fingers,

as though the curve of its body were an exstention of his own

the strings tremble and sing under his hands

it is the spring from which the waters flow, out of his body, into his lute 

a waterfall of music 

you drench yourself in the fine cool waters,

the heat of the sun tempered by the shadows of the wind swept palms

it is as though there is a psalm being echoed in the fronds

or a poem by rumi being uttered by the shifting sands.

and from your mouth the melody pours 

and you have become a song.

Committed to my sheer stupidity.

I will admit it, I have lost my mind.

I made a promise to myself that I could not keep and now

…now I am practicing the same insanity that I always have.

And I don’t want to anymore.

I want off the merry-go-round.

Because I am feeling nauseous again.

I am in a place of wanting to push it all away.

somehow because I believe,

somehow because I don’t.

Hunker down.

Hide.

Like a turtle pulling into my shell.

Its all so tragic.

The choices I seem to make again and again.

All so tragic.

And here I am again.

 

Outside I hear an explosion.

Inside my room I am frightened.

And alone.

and this is just exactly what I want to be.

Too scared to try.

too scared to want.

too scared to expect.

too scared to do this again.

 

I don’t even want it.

 

But I do.