i see you in the sun and surf as if fourteen years ago is now. your joy has changed me forever.

my sweet friend you are loved and loving. i am washing sheets and towels tonight hoping that the brush of soft, dryer warmed cottons will save me from this heartbreak. i know i shouldn't be sad - i have seen you dancing in my mind and heart, laughing and free since 4 a.m. this morning. i wonder if you will emerge with messages from the deep. i love you with all of my heart. i want what is best.

Desire: A birthday meditation for dancing.

V: Blind

as a child i knew that the stars
could only get brighter
that we could closer, get closer
as a child i knew that the stars
could only get brighter
that we could get closer,
leaving this darkness behind

now that i'm older, the stars shine
light upon my face
but when i find myself alone,
find myself alone now that i'm older,
the stars shine light upon my face
but when i find myself alone
i feel like i am blind.

i feel it, like i am blind.

i wish the stars could shine now,
for they are closer they are near
but they will not present my present,

they will not present my present
i wish the stars could shine now,
for they are closer they are near
but they will not present my present,
they make my past and future
painfully clear.

to hear you now, to see you now,
i can't look outside myself
i must examine my breath and
look inside,
to see you now, to hear you now
i can't look outside myself
i must examine my breath and
look inside

because i feel blind.

i feel it, like i am blind.


*lyrics: Hercules and Love Affair

The Prayer Tree: 1

Love is born
With a dark and troubled face
When hope is dead
And in the most unlikely place
Love is born:
Love is always born.

We were young when I knew you last.

This photo holds most of my childhood. From left: my cousin Edith, me, my older brother Shannon, my younger brother Larry and my cousin Carmen. Not pictured are two cousins, Barbara and Bryon. I spent the bulk of childhood in the company of these six people.

I distinctly recall wondering what "work" was and why it was so necessary for the adults, otherwise I would have spent much more time with my mom. This, along with the sensations of summer sun and scent, are pronounced aspects of my current awareness.

Grade School, Larry & Me

Liddy's Orange

from The Gold Cell by Sharon Olds

The rind lies on the table where Liddy has left it
torn into pieces the size of petals and
curved like petals, rayed out like a
full-blown rose, one touch will make it come apart.
The lining of the rind is wet and chalky as
Devonshire cream, rich as the glaucous
lining of a boiled egg, all that protein
cupped in the rich shell. And the navel,
torn out carefully,
lies there like a fat gold
bouquet, the scar of the stem, picked out
with her nails, and still attached to the white
thorn of the central integument,
lies on the careful heap, a tool laid
down at the end of a ceremony.
All here speaks of ceremony,
the sheen of acrid juice, which is all that is
left of the flesh, the pieces lying in
profound order like natural order,
as if this simply happened, the way her
life at 13 looks like something that's just
happening, unless you see her
standing over it, delicately clawing it open.

Now that I have tangerines on the brain, here's a stellar photograph. (be sure to click on the image)

image found at The Breakaway Cook

Even though I 've just finished it, I would read this book based soley off of this quotation:

Our holiday food splurge was a small crate of tangerines, which we found ridiculously thrilling after an eight-month abstinence from citrus. No matter where I was in the house, that vividly resinous orangey scent woke up my nose whenever anyone peeled one in the kitchen. Lily hugged each one to her chest before undressing it as gently as a doll. Watching her do that as she sat cross-legged on the floor one morning in pink pajamas, with bliss lighting her cheeks, I thought: Lucky is this world, to receive this grateful child.

Value is not made of money, but a tender balance of expectation and longing.


from: Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver pg. 287

Feelin' chatty I guess:))

At work today I attempted to make a new recipe called Hungarian Shortbread.

This particular recipe claims that it is the easiest, butter-iest perfectest shortbread because it combines - in my eyes also - beauty and practicality. Easy shortbread? Surely you jest. But lo, silly me. The shortbread is exactly what the recipe promised.

However.

I did not read the first part of this recipe which concerned the making of a jam filling for the shortbread. I presumed I would just smear some of our house blackberry jam between the layers (before today I had never actually tasted our jam) and this would at minimum tell me if the recipe was worth making twice.

And.

I put about 3 cups worth of filling into the shortbread when the recipe in fact called for 3/4 of a cup of jam.

Oops.

But do not fret, my pet:
When I realized my mistake I knew I had to sink or swim - this had to get served tonight! I set it all up; everything looked and tasted right. But you just never know how somethings are going to keep through the night.

So I took two pieces home like gerbils in a shoebox that I would eat later.

Mwa ha ha haaa haaaa!! I made Hungarian Shortbread totally wrong, but it's so good to eat!

Ha! Ha! Ha!!!

ImprovEverywhere

It's time for that big ol' party!!!

* * *
When:
Saturday January 16th
8-ish 'til whenever-ish
Where:
My apartamente
* * *
pPLEASE bring some
music that you like
'cuz i need to boogie down
wich'ya'll!

i am not technologically advanced at this time; assume that burned cd's may not play at my house;)

With Crowded Thoughts Of The Tree Of Life

There's been some crazy big love stuff happening in my version of this world. I've been meaning to post since early last month when the seed for many of these thoughts was planted during a simple ritual called decorating the Christmas tree in which I participated unknowingly on my grandmothers birthday. (I tend to lose track of most birthdays.)

Having come to the tail end of a year that a friend refers to as the most-magical-mind- alteringly-wonderful-birthday-year-ever, my mind has been overrun with thoughts about my family, my desire to open a business, my health, the health of family and friends, the health of this earth, my love of artmaking, the work of relationships, the ease of relationships...

I've been asking myself all year what I want to do with my life; I thought the least of my interests lay in Belvidere with my family but this last trip home for Christmas clued me in to the depth and breadth of my desire.

I want to go home.

Many years ago on a drive from Iowa City, IA to Morris, MN my lover and I stopped to refuel and stretch our legs. The Midwestern plains of winter had definitely entered a state of grace, sparkling in the headlights they burned brightly in my eyes and the hum of the road lifted me even as I stood still. I looked at AB across the roof of my car and said that I wanted to go home. "Where is that?" she asked. I bowed my head, "I don't know," was all I could say.

Somehow my notions about friendship, family, worthiness, happiness, value and purpose are all wrapped into my hopes for a home.

I believe it's less about an actual place than about my state of mind and an ability to live my life as only I can, but the way home can be so curiously varied.