I love the thought of frightening an alligator:
I will ROAR!!
I will watch its leather-face open & 504 teeth glisten with bits of flesh
And I will chase it right back into the pond
with a kick at the water
And a flourish of a hand gesture.
The alligator will lizard home to mommy & daddy
to tell of its awful human experience
and cry crocodile tears.
Wellness is my right: completion is my goal. Up until very recently, my life was girded by the need to consider others’ lives. I understood rules & restrictions, yet yearned for the freedom to once more make my own decisions free from considerations for others.
This might be called selfishness; is it such to desire my music around me when I wake & sometimes when I sleep? To decorate as I please according to my whimsy & ideals?
I longed for the freedom I had in New Mexico – my spacious apartment – my big kitchen – my upstairs rooms, private & quiet. Now I am living this on a miniaturized scale, a compressed life where there is still opportunity for great expansion.
The changes are swifter & sharper. What were revelations have grown into habits that insist on more learning & practice.
In Florida, few thought like me. I was bursting with hoarded thoughts & stockpiled speeches. I sought acceptance & community of thought, response, attitude.
Work was more constrictive than constructive. I didn’t mind so much answering to the many so long as I was able to interpret & identify with them. Their filters & mine were so different! Theirs would not change, tho mine were compelled to.
My power comes in being myself in an expanding Reality. My sense of personal power outgrew boundaries & my efforts to squelch into their viewpoints proved exhausting. I slept a lot.
Now I feel traveled from constricted to constructive, even without 50 restaurants to choose from tonight. This is the place my thinking can expand to the sky, the place where rivers are dry, so I need to create my own landboats to carry me away.
What grows in me now is more full than it was before. this feeling, knowing, has visited me but turned from my door, unwilling to force my beliefs or engage with my diminished vitality.
In truth, I was not ready. This me is ready for change & I pray for the strength of an ideal to lean upon, to lead me through any perception of restrictions.
My life is back: my colors, my comforts, my habits, I have overcome many rigors. In truth, it is not even about where I do from here. It’s just about here itself.
A card reader once told me I would be world-famous for my writing. He turned over the something-of-Swords when I asked my barely-breathed question about fame & fortune & said, “Yes!! Your name will be a household word!” To which reply, I settled back in my seat at his table & simply kvelled. I was so much younger then. I had room under my arm to cuddle up this little friend who would do so much for my life. If I were famous, I …
He smiled gently, stroked his overlarge kitty, then pulled another card. His face changed, as he said, “However, Carol, this fame is posthumous.” Several words flashed through my mind at that moment, the least offensive with four letters being “drat!”
I could feel myself deflate. While I didn’t begin to sniffle, there was a ball of disappointment gathering in my gut. The phrase “WTH” was not popular then, tho what it stands for was well-known & expressed in initial caps…in full. I think that fiery little emotional ball had the letters forming larger than my life right then. I clamped down & smiled & hugged & farewelled. I went to the car & let go of the ideas of Fame & Fortune in this lifetime. I have kept these at bay since.
Christopher had offered (upon seeing my dismay): “You were totally famous in a past life, do you want to know who you were?” Nope! I replied. Doesn’t matter now, does it? Hey, I only have this unique assemblage of cells to work with. What good will it do me to find out I was Voltaire, or Shakespeare, or Jane Austen? I’d never read Voltaire tho I understand he was a renowned wit; I found Shakespeare a rough go language-wise; Austen was all about unrequited-until-it-was-not love affairs which aggravated me to the measure it reflected my own life. Just no.
I do always LOVE when someone compliments my writing tho . But it’s a controlled thing. I’m not tossing a rope onto any chandeliers to swing around the ballroom, yeh? I figure I’ll just kvell in the afterlife. “Nothing is lost,” say the science wags. “No energy escapes the system.” I figure I’ll be strumming my acoustic harp on some cloud & a little spark will flash by, singing praises of phrases I wrote in this life. I’ll smile then & flash on the who I was – or am – now. (Not quite sure how to phrase that one.)
The next sentence I hear the most is, “You need to write a book!”
Why?
It seems folks are fixated on books being the ultimate expression for any writer. Words are the most flexible springboard into another universe that we have. Exploration is the most expressive leadership there can be. Where one goes, all have the option & opportunity to follow. I’d be pleased if my gift came through in bursts of more the number of words these ideas comprise at a time, or if they followed a full-on string of Story. But I’m a sprinter when it comes to language. I have a circular expression cycle. As you’ll see, this item will likely end up exactly where it started, just a few commas over.
I have over 400 essays on this blog alone to prove my point. That’s impressive, even to my uninflated ego. I am not a distance writer. I am hugely impressed by Gone With the Wind but more likely to use it as a doorstop than an example to follow. If I sewed, I’d make doilies, not duvets.
I have a lot of writing about writing. I have finally begun describing myself as “Writer” when someone asks what I do. (Another fallacy, we are not what we do in this life, but so, so much more!)
It tickles me when another says what I’ve written is “good.” Often it doesn’t fit that definition, because good in & of itself doesn’t cut the mustard. Outstanding writing drives the nail home, hammers it solidly in, & then one can use it to build a structure. It takes a mind someplace beyond where that mind has been. It takes a “turn of phrase” which explores a topic in such a descriptive turn, one must sit back to take a breath & reconsider framework, structure, appearance, and quite more. That mustard suddenly stings the eyes, causes a sneeze, burns the tongue. It makes a point to inveigle the thought process & redefine a concept. This is also what humor does, if you think about it: taking a topic clear through another lens where the activity of sight is redefined.
I want to say thank you to all my readers out there in the blogosphere, whether you’ve just come across this arrangement of word/thought, or whether you’ve had your mental toes tickled before by my arrangements. Thanks for taking my unpainted hand & being brave enough to allow me to lead you here.
I pray your journey with me brought you into a heretofore unexpressed & unmanifest destiny. I hope the new thought I brought forth in this arrangement made you mentally sneeze.
In any case, God Bless You All Over!
The landscape is the same – pecan groves
standing tall & surprisingly green in still water.
Behind their military lines, an uncombed rockfield tumbles toward mountains.
While I cannot paint you a picture, I can grant you this 1,000 words …
= = = = =
I am eating the burrito with a silver teaspoon
To better take in the smother of green.
My tongue burns on both sides tho deep breaths help
There is laughter coming from the cafe
Where no sparrows have arrived to beg at table
= = = = = =
The napkin across the plate
waves white surrender
my lips tingle with heat
The sparrows arrive to begin their search
but I assure you there are no flakes from my plate!
(Aren’t we all searching something?
Even one crumb?)
A Monarch arrives, testing the marigolds,
accompanied by his court, two white tinies
performing at his pleasure, a twining dance.
In the presence of this royalty I write.
Among couples intent on each other, I sit alone
at the only red-clothed table.
I write, forgotten, as I so love to be,
I write.
Relaxing under the honeysuckle vine at a favorite cafe in Hatch. This is an old haunt for weekend breakfast with great food & a wonderful patio.
I bought some Mexican trinkets, 3 shot glasses for my now-not-colorless tiny shelf, a replacement light switch cover for the one that cracked off the wall after two weeks in my energy field, a napkin holder which I’ll use for outgoing mail.
The coffee is terrible but this goes unnoticed after the first sips when it becomes an inward sun complementing the outward one all around.
I postpone ordering breakfast, feeling very Euro…sitting with a journal. The only rush seems to be among the touch-down flies sampling my arm hairs before zipping off. It’s maybe 10:00 with deep shadows outlined in brilliant sunshine. One tiny blossom has come loose from the garden & I claim it for my table.
I sat here years ago in the same light, drinking awful coffee, writing. The grandchildren then wait tables now, the newest littles asking boldly, “What’s your name?” (His is Buddy.)
I use the floppy menu as a backer for the floppy journal My leg sweats against its plastic. A train horn slices the morning light & echoes it back as sound, somewhere chile is on the move from the Chile Capital of the World. Red or green or Christmas? (You’ll understand that question when you come here.)
I review the last week & decide I have had enough of fear. Fear of job rejection, fear of not enough, fear itself. I made an egregious error last Saturday & my conscience rides me like a crown of thorns. Basta!
I decide to be my feral self, my unsocialized. self-aggrandizing self, to make my own way again in the world which knows no shame at trying to shame me. I open an imaginary chest & pack the quivering mass in there, catching drippy spills to include it all. I mentally bring it to the nearest church, the closest municipal building & dump it unceremoniously at the curb in front.
Finally hungry, I order a chorizo burrito smothered green.
When it arrives, I will eat it with my coffee-stir teaspoon, missing not a flake of pepper or a drop of the sauce. And so I do! My tongue burns on both sides. I swallow a cough which is also tasty.
Laughter comes from inside the cafe. The flickers fly above while the sparrows arrive, sidling unde the fence for crumbs. None here, guys, not on my plate!
With no compass, I wander
All points look north
or south
or maybe east?
The needle spins
I am footstore & seeking home,
A place to shut the door & simply dwell
Independent & unearned
Well-fed & indefatigable
An open book turned over, spine up
I build the fire
I tuck my shoes under the table
I pick up the pen.
Once upon a time, when I was not single, having opted for the dubious commitment of a relationship (which benefits we shall not elaborate upon here…), my husband du jour sent me balloons on my birthday – one dozen shiny silver Mylar balloons braided on long ribbons into a fist-sized knot.
My daughter called these “blayloons.” She also called matches “magics,” which seemed quite correct to me at the time.
I was working at 2500 Market Street in Nashville, across from Parthenon Park for CGFNS, an organization certifying foreign nurses to work in the USA. An enterprising co-worker tied the balloons to my chair & at 5:30, I untied them, wrapped the ribbon around my wrist & headed for the elevator. We had spent the day together. I had squelched my propensity to name all of them. We were heading home.
Have you ever attempted getting twelve Mylar balloons into an elevator during rush hour? If you do, you will find it a study in the absurd & the initial smiles of co-workers did not last as I managed to somehow corral all of them for the downward trip.
I found the lobby doors locked except for the revolving door in the center. Ah! Another challenge! I saw people on Market Street stop to watch. I saw money exchanging hands. But I was much younger then & braver by far, so, totally surrounded by silvery shine, we exited the building, the balloons exhaling out the open space forcefully only to be choked back by the ribbon I had wrapped around my wrist.
It was about 6:30 by that time. On full exit, a round of applause & commentary awaited from the passers-by who obviously did not have to get home to prepare dinner. Or better yet, have the treat of eating out for their birthday!
I marched bravely on towards my compact car in the parking lot nearby. Another hour passed by the time I got Fritz, Bessie, Blue, Jordan, Charles, Amber, Clarissa, Ant’ony, Ed, Buzz, Rocky & Bing into the car.
We had learned much about each other in the interim: I learned how the longing to fly can continue far beyond restraint. They learned how to fit together in one place several times over. I’m not sure who came out tops on any of it at all, but the memory lasted far beyond the wedding vows!
If worry is a foe to rest, I will declare I need my rest & do without the worry. Still, the 2 a.m. cuppa is good, the tiny fan alongside hums to me gently in the harsh Florida humidity.
I walk along the river of concern gingerly, testing it to measure as I level up my faith. I know second sleep will bring consent & capability. I worry about a future so dim in daily mists as to be ephemeral, I am a year away from making decisions. The world today does not lend well to a year off…days can be like small, potent pills, thoughts carry flood, famine, fear, madness.
I worry about others’ displeasure with me: I can be wrong, forgetful, careless & the list extends beyond my vocabulary. Yet I am also the right action to dispel all of these & surface above this ocean – a bright creature breathing grace before plunging once more below.
I know one day I will fly – continuing this upward momentum of escape potential – all of this as well as the essence (not askance) of my divinity. God has promised me governance over my life & my nature & none may gainsay me.
I celebrate my mastery! My momentum lifts everyone around. I am only encapsulated in a belief, not within this reality any longer. I can & indeed have already, overcome all except the bald physicality of it. Life can be many things to many selves. It’s a minefield to walk, a city to lay waste, a planet to heal. It’s a choice most of all, one which triumphs & trumpets in sheer overcoming. Life holds me like deep salt water, head upright. It possesses a gravity my physical self knows all about & conforms within.
I begged, bargained & borrowed to get where I am today with full knowledge I’d be somewhere else tomorrow. I pushed every button, moved every piece on the game board before deciding on this story: I seem to be still to it, except for when I do not, am not.
It happens that life is not a fixed star, an immovable object, a pain-filled parallel to nonphysical being. The reasons are still mostly hidden, yet I feel them surfacing slowy from depths just discovered & needing to be plumbed. Why am I here? How many times shall I ask that question? Why does dropping that needle in the same groove now play another song? I will find out. I will to know. The metronomic movement repeats in endless arcs until it no longer does: until the lesson learned is realized as unavoidable Truth & can be cast ashore when I’m able to leave the water. Emotion tugs at me like some erratic prankster, lifting a flap to expose iteself, sometimes indecently! Emotional embarrassment is redolent with shame, blame, lack & unfilfillment.
However, Mastery awaits!
Change must follow the, “I cannot take this anymore!” detours. But the change has already taken place on unseen levels & must only be made manifest, bubbling up slowly from the depths. Change displaces what is with what can be. Everything I have ever wanted has turned out to be ephemeral – even houses & husbands. For me, these are carry-on luggage, stowed beneath the thrones where I sit. For me, there’s not much more than to live my life entire.
Regret carries no charge, pays no dividents. Marriages end, houses decay, fortunes spin with fair market value roulette … All things thought stable can be pried loose, lifted on invisible wind & the solid suddenly seems gossamer.
Therefore I declare the solid to be change alone. Illusion gives way quicly to intangible & is without foundation. Rivers disappear to surface elsewwhere. Oceans leave seashells later found in deserts. Stars align & dance simultaneously.
The nature of change itself is erratic, uncontrollable, unmanageable and also not so.
Think about that!
Live the hell out of your life
Dwell in joy & overabundance
don’t hold back from good-deeding & indulging humanity
& yourself in the best.
Find a great coffee shop where folks are happy to see you
and servers know you by name & brand.
life didn’t sting you, so don’t be a stranger in it!
Give as you live.
be ever curious & stay in love with
something
someone
somewhere
at all times!
For all the flow of the road, for all the words that camped behind my brain while I was driving, then wrote when I was still – where are they now?
I’ve landed on my feet in T or C. I have a job. I have an organized apartment with some unexpected special surprises. I have a dear new friend who is staying at my initial Landing Space, one who is also a writer. We exchange words & readings – a dream come true for me who stayed so many places where people were noncommital beyond a “how do you do that?”
I have pulled the goathead plants in front & alongside my place. A neighbor has given me a quite-neat cactus for my front step. I have driven a total of 13 miles this week after 1800+ two weeks back.
I may be in a kind of “stop-shock.” Holding still is causing a bit of anxiety, the free-floating kind. I am popping Hyland’s Calm & Rescue Remedy steadily. I’ve worked four & a half shifts & am getting familiar with the program & the duties.
I feel estranged, I feel beside myself. I am reconsidering all the promises I made to myself of what I would do when I arrived. About half of these are getting done. I cling to that half with a hand & two fingers.
I am finding acquaintances wherever I go. I have signed on for senior lunches – something I promised never to do. I lied to get on the list & feel quite guilty: they asked “Do you live in poverty?” My mouth said “yes” before my brain could rock far enough back in my skull to essay a “no.”
I live in an abundance I have never experienced before & I don’t know quite what to do with all of it. I write funny stuff for my group writes on Monday & Tuesday. I have a class in A Course of Love on Sundays with others who share the inquiry of heart over mind over matter. I dream of rooms without walls where children come to play with my stuff.
This coming Sunday I will read at Black Cat Poets for the first time in four years, followed by a special reading at the Fiesta T or C Poets in our local El Cortez theatre. Five minutes to read for a wider audience than just other poets on a kickoff event for an annual celebration ongoing for decades.
I have both hands on the wheel & need a direction.
Today I resumed hikes at the Fish Hatchery, setting up a Tuesday Regular Event. Friday evenings I go to dinner with others where we discuss the politics no one else will speak on, flowing in & out of agreement seamlessly.
This is all I wanted. I savor every bit of it.
I surrender to the anxiety with old coping mechs, knowing change is straight ahead.
It’s as tho I have too many choices. I am at a crossroads with an octopus giving me directions.
But this a beginning. I will take one step forward, only then finding my Way.
Riding the Light - 