melting into me

Does too much to say make the saying harder to come by? Have you consigned your will to create with the words that entice you or are they challenging you to do more and better, forcing you to feel deeper and stronger? You don’t know how to write yourself out of what you have fallen into so you simply stop writing because, maybe, if you don’t write then you don’t feel each moment as though it has permeated your soul.

You could fastidiously gather the words you love and compile them to write your story, punctiliously fashioning each chapter. But through trial and error you have learned that designing the chapters is not nearly as exciting as letting the chapters bring you to life. So you have an experience and define what it means to you; minute by minute, day by day, month by month, and you take pause with each temptation to formulate the words that will make perfect your sermon to self. Trusting and living with intention provides words abundant with which you can tell your story. 

The words that are so much a part of you are simultaneously screaming to speak and begging silence. There are lessons learned you want to share; perhaps in hopes of precluding collective travels down the same path you have found to be lackluster by comparison. You are learning to welcome love and pain, to let raw emotion consume you as it provides the truest form of living you have experienced. You have feelings so intense that they threaten the pillars of strength you have built, brick by brick, which ground you. And as each step and misstep petitions for grace as it dissolves into your melting pot of growth, you see your authentic self with increasing clarity. 

There are so many questions but you don’t know where to begin. What path led you to this leg of the journey; which choice or un-choice to this outcome. And as you think about your life and attempt orderliness of the pictures and flashbacks, of the note cards and summaries and dissertations, your omniscient core knows that the questions are not yours to have, to beg, to postulate. Journeys happen and they take you where they may and you tiptoe, run, walk and sometimes crawl as best you can in the moment. 

Meanings are myriad depending on what you choose to believe in that moment and from that experience; to where you let it guide you, to what ensuing experience you let it lead. Life has many serendipitous happenings if your mind is open to receiving them. The relational nature of life becomes vivid when you seize what presents itself along the journey. Open-minded living is joyous because the surprise of the next serendipitous moment is looming… another opportunity to make a connection on your journey of here and now. 

Life is education on your terms: you hold the power to decide how you will let each opportunity color, change, mold and improve you. Life is an auspicious exploration of self; an offer to learn, grow and attempt to understand you. One day at a time. And one day at a time really means one moment at a time, one experience and then another to form an existence, to create a story, to live a life. 

Be in love with you. Be in love with life. Be.

taxi cab from monterey

i want to tic with kerouac in the shiveringest of places.

mind does not matter if mind is over matter.

that place.

i see him.  i feel me there.  i sense him beside me; red wine exhales and musty clothing.

he is my breath, my thoughts, my words.

i understand; no explanation extended.

i just simply do.

interior monologue

Art in various forms.  Warm rosemary bread and coffee; Vanilla Nut.  Drumsticks and earphones.  Dirty socks on the floor.  Stuffed Animals.  Beach artifacts.  Fresh herbs and scented candles of the real-wick type.  A swinging chair in which to sit and ponder life.  Palm trees and brightly colored, freshly planted flowers.  Painted Terra Cotta pots of twelve-year-old girls.

A B-B-Q pit; our first major purchase together.  Books and books and books and music. Always music.  Peak eared puppy scampering by.  Overflowing laundry baskets and unflushed toilets.  Jingling dog tags.  Cuts and scrapes on my hands boast labors of love.  Dog toys, pencils, discarded food wrappers breaking free from their under-couch resting place.  Basketball hoop, deflated balls, no air pump in sight for years.  Paint where it should not be and slightly unsightly hedges; both requiring too much attention to be addressed.

Voicemail messages from my long-distance love, saved and savored.  Empty propane tanks and price tags still stuck to their owners.  Teenage cologne and brightly colored hair.  A subtle stench in bedrooms that do not get cleaned to my liking.  Pilot pens.  Sunshine rays that reach past the umbrella novella shine brightly on dog leashes.  Breeze.  Stairs piled with belongings needing to be ushered away by those who belong to them.  Lives changing almost before my very eyes.

Ice cream and puppy treats.  Music.  Always music.  Drum kit, crafting, art supplies.  Sparkling water infused with joy and happiness.  Friends and sleep-not overs; cereal stuck to bowls not properly rinsed.  Dirty finger smudges, travel souvenirs; another string cheese wrapper.  Journals piled atop one another in hopes of becoming a book.  Hostage math text (remnants of someone’s fifth grade).  Coat closet bursting at the seams minus any actual coats.

Tortillas, cheese, and sour cream.  Elementary school recess loudness competes with the din of skydiving plane zooming overhead.  Magnolia trees promising eventual shade and privacy and waterfall-turned-herb-garden amid various grasses, plants, palms and neglected dog poop.  Warm sunny places to nestle and shady spots in which to nap.

Transformation.  Always transformation.  Grandma Tena’s too-small china cup and daddy’s ashes in a tin I once gifted him.  Discarded school papers, a painted starfish, and two dozen tulips blooming in matching vases.  Love.  Always love.  Sent by my love with love.  Music in the backdrop; music in the foreground.  Open and trusting bonds.  Acne and stinky feet and elusive showers.  Vans aside sparkly golden flats, both pair in need of replacement.  Broken ear buds left by the discarder and trash trucks taking entirely too long to complete their missions.  Cacophony of sound ripping through my silence; home entirely too close to the main thoroughfare.

Puppy kisses with stinky puppy breath.  iPhone chargers abound.  Shattered screens replaced with hard-earned money and vivid dreams that make no sense.  A drawer full of his clothing and lip gloss he always kisses off.  Puppy nose peeking from behind potted flowers; restlessness desiring of a walk.  Taylor GS Mini, rosemary bread with butter, and an end to deliciosly satisfying contemplative thought….

Memories to cherish and last a lifetime.

my .07

please words
will words
piano words
pencil words
story words
my words
freeing words
leave my mind words
piano run
leave me
speak free
speak proud
speak strong
more run more
write play speak your
own words
own keys
own .07
own me
fight me
thrill me
run words
tell me
in time
words mine
my black
my white
my .07
my life

my world in words

Today I feel pressured because I am short on time and long on tired.  Brain-drained from my day I try desperately to float into my creative space and will something to happen.  Well not just something, but something worthy of my time.  And yours.

Reflective.  Chasing shadows – of memories – of evenings – when there existed an hour, or maybe two, during which I sat alone in my living room while children slumbered in the other room.  And I wrote.  I wrote from the base of my raw heart.

I knew me most in those moments.  And I was able to learn me more with every passing day.  Each memory had its own space and freedom to pass from my mind, to my heart, through my soul, and culminate upon words and paper.  I don’t know me so much these days.  Not like that.

If I had known then that those years would be my most delicious writing moments, I may have done things differently.  I may not have traded two hours to ruminate upon and re-live a day in the life of my ever changing children, for separate bedrooms.  I may not have exchanged the chronicle of our lives for the house that became our home.

Maybe I would have done it all just the same.  Maybe I just need to figure out how to be better in my now.  Perhaps I am subconsciously hiding from the emotion I so easily feel because the rawness is unfamiliar now.  Years have passed since my soul has bared so openly.  Hard days have hardened me.  Strength comes with a caveat of skin I am not always comfortable living in.

I would float all day in my head if allowed.  Thought and word allure and tempt me constantly.  They know, as I do, the craving that satiates me…and they will win one day.

promise they will.

the house of emil white

Big Sur trees and seemingly angry ocean waves.  Kerouac in a cabin trying desperately to save his life. The air exudes literature and the struggle that is writing – (and living) – at least for me it does.

My mind is full of wonderings about those who wrote me here with their words and made it feel like home.  I cannot help but spill with the joy that is no longer buried under a fog of mediocre existence.  Constantly evolving mind and soul you never give up.  Endlessly searching cycles of you repeat themselves with variations in bravery and grace.

I could stare for hours at your froths of icy blue while fondling the books of my mentors and stepping lightly on creaky wooden floors.

more than

Tears well up and will their salty selves to fall from my eyes as I fight to hold them back.  Insecurity washes over me, and I mourn me as the corners of my eyes pull and sting with pain.  Sadness consumes my being.  Tears beg now to crash and fall hard and fully.  Wash me clean and allow me to begin again.

I hold my own hand.  I feel my strength and resolve attempting a return to me.  I search for a place that is larger and more powerful than my sadness.

I am worthy to me.

newport & nothing

Free-write to stimulate.  We are struggling – the both of us.  I laugh as we try, desperatlely, to recreate the temptress of words.  Fruitless we are in this dingy beach ‘paradise’ god forsaken excuse of a retreat for the writers within us.  Not without Big Sur.  Not without Jack and Henry.  Not upon this balcony that forces our attention to the dirty mayhem beneath our perch.

I call truce on myself.

The timer ticks.  I try to ink something of use from my pen.  All I want to do is look at her in mental anguish and laugh.  She seems to be really writing now though.  What if she has transcended our cavernous word game?  I still want to laugh.

Timer has not buzzed.  Longest ten minutes of my life.

hey, is that you?

Rays of sunshine are angling their presence through fronds of palm and dancing on my cheeks.  Warmed.  I don’t enjoy when the dance becomes too intense though.  The heat turns my focus to feelings of discomfort and away from the real thoughts prattling around in my head – the ones that aren’t even truly known to me until, somehow, they make their way onto the pages I write to find me.

I think that words and paper became my solace around twelve or thirteen.  Maybe even earlier but I have no physical proof of my heart smeared into journals prior to that age.  That was back when we were all sleeping on waterbeds and rollerskating under disco balls and we didn’t know that we should have been sleeping on Posturepedic mattresses all along to prepare us for the aches and pains that show up and linger as we age.

I was a professional wallflower in my younger days.  I always assumed it was just a personality deficiency that had been gifted to me… or perhaps a symptom of undiagnosed Asperger’s… but I am typically most comfortable when I am alone inside my head.  Writing my truth has always been easier than actually speaking it.

I feel the warmth of your kind heart and tender soul enveloping me.  There must be a goldfinch nearby.  Either that, or you have woven yourself into these rays of sun shining down on me.  It would be like you to do that in spirit – (you never were one to exhibit force or neediness) – peacefully inserting yourself into my words as they assume the persona of your sloppy-bordering-on-unreadable scroll.  You chose this perfectly reflective moment in which to rest your hand with the light touch on my shoulder, adorning me with that familiar pat-pat of yours.

I think you’re telling me it’s all OK.  You were always good at that.

dear jack, et al

vanilla nut warmth and contemplation

tentacles searching to answer me

that which is my contemplation

lost in the words of great writers the

contemplative state of mind begs answers

that elude and allow me to think upon

the very act of thinking

i am my sea and ocean

my waves of knowing and

unknowing wash me in thought

and leave me there

to wonder upon my wonderings

and enjoy the existence

of being in thought

space of alone is beauty

given from within

a gift i offer and see, only when

i allow the aloneness

of my contemplation

to lose me in myself

and the words of

great writers