the expected is still unpalatable

•February 2, 2010 • Leave a Comment

i remember sitting on the groovepharm sofa, facing george’s bedroom door. i wore my sunglasses. it was night. the lighting was yellow and dirty. the walls were manky. i wore my pink lace frou frou dress with the pink disco jumper and the fluffy tutu. i was carving up a mess in my sketchbook. i wanted to talk to you so badly, even though our conversations were always the unbearable can of worms.

i scribbled in the book, “this is exactly the moment i have been waiting for my entire life”.

whatever that superior ache was that grew in my esophagus i was mistaking it for love. i was mistaking it regularly, daily, each time i breathed in. i was a p.i. on the trail of loaded phrases. i was a swarthy striped one eyed pirate with a booty of longing glances. i was everything but right there in that stinky black sofa. i ached for the can of worms.

misty, you surprised me. you climbed into his bed with ease and did not want to think of me outside that door. i finally awoke to the suffering of a lazy loss that began somewhere in my bare feet, feet all jaded from dancing as if it mattered, and ending somewhere way beyond the tips of me toward what i would fondly refer to as my leo moon. my loud needy felicitous lazy lost leo moon. i loved him with a longing of years in the making, but my heart was broken by you.

and today, what of it? the stupid night. there it is, my expectations, all laid out like a last supper for conspiring dirty men, and me, the princess of eat-my-words bent over and awaiting my comeuppance. stupid, stupid night.

i remember the long drive home on 1604, still a kid in an 18 year old desperate pile of of unshaved legs and pudgy hips, songs of loss and late beginnings on the stereo, speeding easily. i would wait in that freezing garage all night for josh, some kind of sick hopefulness gluing the minutes together, and the smell of october burning itself into my head so that i could, tonight, dredge it up this 16 years later so i can recall that idiot night when loss and hope fucked themselves silly in my heart, breeding need.

those moments never fucking leave me and here it is like a black cat on my chest, while i lose and lose again, black flaming loss fanned by the whispers of my stupid stupid hopefulness.

claude. robert. veale.

we both know i am not allowed to say your fucking name. you know what? i am emily dickenson’s fly on the wall, and you are her short sweet death. i am moving through, shaking up the invisible silence, waiting for your remarkable momentous earth shattering last breath. i am waiting for you to declare your prizes, one, two and three, and the mother of them all, as that deep portion of you unassignable. the whole time: me on a wall. me hovering. me hanging on. me hell bent on hoping for the big black spider of ridiculous expectations to just fucking put me out of my misery. big black widow with the bleeding heart.

dear seth,

•January 6, 2010 • Leave a Comment

tonight i stumbled on your facebook page. it has only been a couple of weeks and already you state you are interested in women, and dating. it’s actually really silly how painful that was for me to see that. its silly because no matter how cleanly you end it with me, i have still been pathetically hoping that you are just building yourself so that you can win me back. i have also been fantasizing about winning the lottery, and mostly about all the things i would like to send you. like some fancy pants motorcycle… i even told uri about it. i don’t know anything about motorcycles, so i asked him to school me a bit, so that when i fantasize about it, i can imagine buying you the most perfect one for you… and who you are… and who you are becoming.

but i guess i needed to see that whole facebook thing so i could return to realism. i will still want to buy you that motorcycle if i win the lottery. but now i will stop imagining that it would mean anything to you, and i will stop imagining that you will return to me one day.

i guess… this is really it, then. i know its been really it for a few weeks out there in the real world. but my silly heart just wouldn’t let go. i wish there was a way i could communicate to you the truth of what i feel for you. any attempts, in any medium, would be falsehoods. i meant everything i said. in my heart, there will never be anyone for me but you.

to the question of my experiences, as it relates to cosmic meaning: hx 17 –> 55

•March 18, 2009 • Leave a Comment

it used to be a favorite concern of mine– to relate my personal experiences to the whole cosmic meaning of my life as a whole. i have used the i ching in this regard since my beginning with it, since i was 14 years old. in the past few years these questions have fallen to the wayside, since i have been preferring the immediacy of “the moment” and a sense of letting go of meaning in favor of “just because”. i’m returning to it tonight. maybe its the general anxiety of being a single mom who must make bills, dwelling in an unstable work environment. maybe just because its time.

the exact question, as i posed it to the i ching, was “why am i experiencing these things, in a cosmic sense, as it relates to my whole life?”

i have been thinking about hx 17 quite a bit these past few weeks. i dreamt about mist, whom i might always associate with this hexagram. i had previously understood it to relate to particular lessons that surround learning to be a true leader– i do not think that is untrue now, but i do think that there was not enough emphasis put on the whole experience of being led. that is likely my ego. even just before i sat down to write this musing, i was thinking, “i’m just not used to NOT being queen bee.”

a totally absurd thought, given my situation. i actually am queen bee of my life right now, more than i ever have been. and yet i am within the delicate shackles of “no authority” in my work experience. there is no reason why i shouldn’t be experiencing this position– after all, i have practically no work experience which should put me in a position of authority, and i will be the first person to admit that i do not have the general life experiences to lead administratively in the workforce. in practically every way i am pleased to accept this position of following at work, practically being the operative word of course. there is definitely something which causes me to ruffle my feathers a bit at it. i think it is just ego, and i think that i am learning to remove it from my life.

but to receive this hx in conjunction with 55? what a paradox– and it shouldn’t be, i’m almost sure of it. the fact that i cannot yet understand the relatedness is probably the whole jewel of what i am needing to experience right now.

there is an element of quiet listening that is suggested with 17. its a social quietness. not about listening to inner voices or babbling brooks or dusty philosophies. it is about listening to those immediately around you, without any other motive but to allow the experience of listening cause some sort of chemical reaction within, that eventually translates to taking right action. is it possible to be so strapped into this path, and still be able to give a listen? just when the situation seems to suggest that i need to exhibit vigilance, action, movement, proactivity. i don’t want to do those things at all of course. i’d rather do a bit of quiet listening.

ideally i think i would like to come out of this listening with a sense of love for those at work who hold me in this very precarious position. even as i write this, i know it is completely untrue that any being at work could truly hold me to my experience. i know that i am holding myself to any thing i perceive myself holding to. which hx is it that discusses the three ways to hold firm?

holding is similar to attachment. similar, but not the same. i think there is a moral principle to the former and a human principle to the latter. and just as morality can be a human issue, and human-ness can trigger questions of morality, it does not necessarily hold true that the two topics be synonomous.

Protected:

•March 16, 2009 • Enter your password to view comments

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:


Protected: hx 11.6–>26 Questions of equilibrium and effort

•March 8, 2009 • Enter your password to view comments

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:


Protected: Paychecks and Self Worth

•March 8, 2009 • Enter your password to view comments

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:


one of life’s great pleasures: autonomy and an occassional cigarette

•February 8, 2009 • Leave a Comment

it is sunday, and i had gotten caught up in my busy work week– a work week which stretched on into my weekend. i became temporarily consumed in it, in exactly the way i criticize others in this town for doing. i had forgotten to find something small to appreciate.

so this is it, here on my last weekend evening before another harrowing work week, here it is– my something small to celebrate about life.

i am having an alone moment, on my balcony with the new bamboo rug i have purchased, already adorned with bird poopies, the hum of the laundry going in the background, and a great wind rattling the naked trees by my side. i am celebrating autonomy (autonomy!) with my occassional cigarette, and thinking nothing but how great it is to notice a change in season. i’m not enjoying a cup of coffee– i quit that recently, just for a bit. i’m not without sunday chores– i’ve got the toilet cleaner in the potties, awaiting a good scrub, and family laundry rolling about in the rumbly white drum, dinner to be cooked… but i am quite pleased. MY toilets. MY washing machine. MY groceries in the cupboard. MY poopy covered expensive bamboo patio rug. MY choice to not drink coffee. MY happy little family awaiting their clean toilets, and grub, and deliciously clean clothing.

A big thankee kindly to the universe for these gifts. My heart is content.

Protected: thick

•February 5, 2009 • Enter your password to view comments

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:


Protected:

•January 24, 2009 • Enter your password to view comments

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:


Protected: cleave. what a silly appropriate word.

•January 24, 2009 • Enter your password to view comments

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:


Hx 47, 3rd line

•January 21, 2009 • Leave a Comment
A man permits himself to be oppressed by stone,
	And leans on thorns and thistles.
	He enters the house and does not see his wife.
	Misfortune.

This shows a man who is restless and indecisive in times of adversity. At
first he wants to push ahead, then he encounters obstructions that, it is true,
mean oppression only when recklessly dealt with. He butts his head against a
wall and in consequence feels himself oppressed by the wall. Then he leans
on things that have in themselves no stability and that are merely a hazard
for him who leans on them.  Thereupon he turns back irresolutely and
retires into his house, only to find, as a fresh disappointment, that his wife is
not there. Confucius says about this line: 

If a man permits himself to be oppressed by something that ought not to
oppress him, his name will certainly be disgraced. If he leans on things upon
which one cannot lean, his life will certainly be endangered. For him who is
in disgrace and danger, the hour of death draws near; how can he then still
see his wife?

Protected: rolling on the waves of anxiety

•January 20, 2009 • Enter your password to view comments

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:


building up the home

•December 26, 2008 • Leave a Comment

it will take awhile to build up my home– i am needing to choose one thing at a time to purchase, and then save up for it for a few months. for example, in the beginning of january i will be able to purchase my patio set. this past month i bought my sofa. i feel the patio thing is a priority because it will really extend the living spaces of this small apartment. after the patio, the next thing i am saving for until february will be the pet expense. after the pet expense i think i am going to save for my ’studio’– which is sort of a laughable title for it. basically i am going to convert my second patio into my studio space, and i will need an easel. the one i have found that is the most appropriate for what i do at the most appropriate price is a little over $600. i will need to weather proof it if i can, and also figure out a lighting solution– since i will mostly be working at night.

a density of lightness that smothers the surroundings

•December 25, 2008 • Leave a Comment

as far as i can tell (and i know i’ll ruin my whole grasp on the thing as i rely on words) there seems to be some sort of very long linear pass, very long and horizontal, stretching from way before and ending somewhere in the distance, not as long (or lengthy) a stretch ahead as behind, but still, a feeling of stretched longingness. and it is muted atmosphere again, which was obvious from the get, except where before it was this lightness burned into my retinas (in the 5 birds period of time) there is not bursting light i encounter– but more like an oppressive heavy dense light that is applying to the surface of my environment, sort of like an oily painted fog. before, light dissolved the foggy greatness, now it is a density of lightness that smothers the surroundings.

the palette (in my head) is entirely different because of that difference in atmospheric tendencies. there is smudgy grays that smote out the texas brush colors. as if somewhere you are reminded of the harvest golds and purples of the fall, but it cannot be determined if those warm tones are truly present or imposed on the scene from memory– that is how strong the smudgy smoky density of light is.

today i discovered the horizontal oily blackest black being broken into by the above conditions, and also a vertical “itchy” raspy sort of colorless creamy white (if that makes sense). the whole “black and white” thing, the duality, that is, is what sort of pushed me to want to jot down my thoughts in words– and the black even stretched like a signature across the pass in multitudes. that is something i do not remember seeing, but when it emerged, it made quite a bit of sense, even though now in terms of words, there is no way i’ll explain myself very well. the white density was there, both in what i have been seeing, and also in my every intention. the raspy itchiness is not a part of that intention– and actually rather the opposite of my intention– as i am feeling the whiteness as a creamy texture in my head. viscerally, tactilely, though its scratches on the page.

links of waiting

•December 8, 2008 • Leave a Comment