tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11591067026997691832024-02-07T16:24:21.505-08:00Just thoughts, poetry and rantsLooking for approval, again. Somehow I need to fill this need for the approval of others. It may not make any sense to most, but if I'm to keep up this facade of confidence, then someone has to let me know I'm doing OK.Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-4028395637755486662022-10-24T05:39:00.001-07:002022-10-24T05:39:43.078-07:00If you had just slowed down,<div>You would have felt the first orgasm you gave to me.</div><div>Felt the pulse wrapped round you</div><div>Felt the heated flush</div><div>Felt hips reach for you</div><div>Felt the pull</div><div>Felt the depths</div><div>Felt</div><div>So many more </div>Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-83922178660101992382022-10-17T21:28:00.001-07:002022-10-17T21:28:45.622-07:00I've been thinking Wondering on sexuality. I'm not young. Goes without saying. But I have desires influenced by experience. My body remembers and misses love, touch; the pleasure of being explored and in the discovery. I wonder on the society that religates the aging body to celibacy. As if the pleasures once felt can be felt no more. That somehow we become numb, dead before our death. I wonder if death is but a side effect of this depravation. That the will to live is missing, when the pleasures of the body and mind are neglected. <div><br></div><div>I plan to test this theory; see how long I can live. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-78095934084622334582021-01-02T20:54:00.001-08:002021-01-02T20:54:04.377-08:00weakI'm weak today.<div><br><div>Every weepy thought </div><div>Keeps seeping in.</div><div>Lonely thoughts </div><div>Of loss. Grama, friend,</div><div>Husband.</div><div>Tears catch up</div><div>Months apart,</div><div><br></div><div>Tears catch up.</div><div><br></div><div>Scream, cry, scream again<br></div><div>and nothing</div><div>Sooths</div></div><div>Life's plan.</div><div><br></div><div>Not my plan.</div><div><br></div><div>My plan sees those things possible</div><div>But not lived.</div><div>My boys grown</div><div>Like their dad.</div><div>Dad as the grandpa I so briefly knew.</div><div>Babies sleeping on his chest</div><div>Filled with love and pride.</div><div><br></div><div>My dream to see what life</div><div>Could be.</div><div><br></div><div>But not now.</div><div><br></div><div>So nothing but loss.</div><div><br></div><div>Not ready to see anything else</div><div><br></div><div>But tears</div>Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-32781662559735974042018-01-07T20:49:00.001-08:002022-09-28T07:17:08.158-07:00I died<p dir="ltr">Fridays, our time.<br>
Sunday afternoons.<br>
I missed none by choice.<br>
A hug, embrace, <br>
The weeks longing held<br>
For a moment. Loved. Needed. <br>
Heard. <br>
The end and beginning.</p>
<p dir="ltr">You died. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I wonder my week.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The light is beyond my sight.<br>
There is no end or beginning. <br>
My days marked by our time<br>
lost.</p>
<p dir="ltr">A blind child </p>
<p dir="ltr">Stars, moon, sun, <br>
Black and White missing<br>
The kaleidoscope of you.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Back to my shell, my mask. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Alone</p>
<p dir="ltr">Lost<br></p>
Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-47411254250328553962017-02-05T22:05:00.001-08:002017-02-05T22:05:18.784-08:00For him<p dir="ltr">I miss you my friend. </p>
<p dir="ltr">My son is 13. </p>
<p dir="ltr">5 years from adult.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Stable till the end.</p>
<p dir="ltr">His life.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Not mine.</p>
Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-570145888844149012013-03-05T12:20:00.001-08:002013-03-05T21:51:30.220-08:00Sometimes<p>I need someone I can share my secret heart to. No judgment. <br>
When the obsession comes,<br>
Thoughts to run. To get away<br>
From the isolation. Funny<br>
Run<br>
BEcause I feel alone.<br>
Get away from those who know<br>
Find someone<br>
That understands the isolation<br>
Of standing in a crowded room<br>
Seeing all the eyes, flit over me, through me, <br>
Breaking <br>
Through the mask <br>
And dismissing.<br>
Rushing to the next thing<br>
Without me. Past me. </p>
<p>I am not the center of your world,<br>
Just mine.</p>
<p>What do you know?<br>
How did you become so<br>
Important? To</p>
<p>Me</p>
<p>That's what this really is.<br>
An obsession.</p>
<p>Again</p>
<p>It'll pass. </p>
<p>You did. </p>
<p>I don't even think of you</p>
<p>Anymore<br></p>
<p>Much.<br>
</p>
Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-91305960617419670522013-03-04T22:22:00.001-08:002017-02-05T21:48:12.277-08:00I remeber<p>When I loved you.<br>
</p>
Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-40059263896017175172013-03-04T22:16:00.001-08:002013-03-04T22:16:43.612-08:00I'm on my own.<p>I made the decision to stay, work it out, try harder. <br>
He said he'd try. Try listening. Try respecting. Try supporting.<br>
He did.<br>
For...It's March now, so 4 months. <br>
That's a long time.<br>
I mention 25 years<br>
And he rolls his eyes <br>
An stops.<br>
Listening, respecting, supporting.</p>
<p>No one to call and tell. I'm on my own.</p>
<p>Again. </p>
Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-25387973005354668582011-11-04T23:24:00.000-07:002011-11-05T00:10:11.247-07:00my man is tryin' to understand<br /><br />tequila is my friend<br />numb<br />is my way<br />h0w can I move<br /><br /><br />I can't move<br />just dance my<br />way through<br />one numb<br />day and another.<br /><br />lost in my numb drink<br />on the verg of<br />puke<br /><br />supported by marriage<br /><br />don't ever mix<br />tequila<br />and vodkaHopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-66110750102654562802011-11-04T22:50:00.000-07:002011-11-04T23:23:31.325-07:00todayfuckfuckuckHopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-41321675316961763862011-09-02T18:09:00.000-07:002011-09-02T18:12:35.068-07:00Country boySweet country boy swagger
<br />the rise and fall of each hip
<br />hung
<br />in tight jeans
<br />talkin' of hayin'
<br />and horses
<br />and beer
<br />and I don't care
<br />so long as I can watch him walk.
<br />Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-67666044770979651902011-08-07T21:03:00.000-07:002011-08-07T21:06:38.597-07:00To Begin AgainSo a friend and I decided I've been away too long.Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-29027016591942124292011-02-18T12:37:00.000-08:002017-02-05T22:00:47.085-08:00For granted<div>Tell me your story. What is it that makes you who you are? What life experiences have made you so intriging? I think that its all about how one plays hard to get. Someone seems intriging because he might be quiet and mysterious, when in reality he doesn't really have anything to say. Not much going on in his life, so not much to say. It may not be the case here but I have to wonder. </div>
<br><div> </div>
<br><div>Maybe it's me. I may be the uninteresting one. I'm the ungrateful stupid woman that can't seem to understand the gifts she has.</div>
<br><div> </div>
<br><div>I don't really think I'd be unfaithful to my husband, but it would be nice to know that I have some attractive qualities. I'm not young or thin anymore, I can't just walk suggestively across the street and stop traffic, or give a man a deep look that has him falling over himself. As a female I do understand the effect, one can have over the male of the species, assuming her features are agreeable and moderately attractive. Being not a young woman however, and having an husband not know for his overt demonstrations of attraction or public affection, I'm left with doubt about my own features and attractiveness. You might wonder what it would matter whether I'm physically attractive to anyone but my husband. As I said, his demonstrations are few and we have moved to a less passionate interaction over the years. I'm just beginning to understand how necessary it is for me to feel attractive. Sex is more enjoyable, my self asteem is better, I feel more confident in my work. There are many benefits to have a woman feel attractive, beautiful, desired... To my husbands credit we have talked some about this need I have and he is trying, but it is so foreign to him that it comes accross as awkward. He is fighting his nature. It isn't my intention to disturb his peace I just want to feel again. It isn't like he never found me attractive, even now I believe he does, it's just that he's out of practice. He doesn't have to work for me anymore, not that he had to work that hard in the first place. </div>
<br><div> </div>
<br><div>Perhaps that is the problem. Having had such a poor childhood that did nothing to build my self esteem, his attentions were well received. That does assume he was the aggressor which of course wasn't the case. I sought him out. Not to repeat story I've already told, I'll just say I chose him. Gave him the attention that showed my attraction, perhaps because I thought he might return the favor, as he did. </div>
<br><div> </div>
<br><div>Over time and after 4 children our mutual attractions seem to have cooled. I suppose it all started when I went back to school a few years ago. The world started to expand for me. As it expanded, I tried to bring him along and share what I'd learned. Instead I got much the same response as I did when sharing with my mother my first experiences of first grade; more interested in the drama of soaps, daytime television, or NASCAR as it were, than in my expanding world. He took for granted that it was all a passing moment, that nothing would or could upset his ordered world. </div><div><br></div><div>How little he has understood. </div><div> </div>
<br><div> </div>
<br><div> </div>
<br><div> </div>
<br><div> </div>Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-21567936224305625692008-01-08T10:48:00.000-08:002008-01-08T11:02:09.935-08:00Inspired by a fiction - An assignment for class.Two worlds, inside and out. <br /><br />Bach plays background <br />for Shakespeare’s mid summers night and last nights movie. <br />He says “Ok, so you get to pick the movies more often”. <br />Chosen for a story of inspiration; <br />How one artist may have been inspired. <br /><br />No guns or violence; fuel scented, <br />metal twisting, broken body bloody, <br />fiery crashes, <br /><br />just a maybe story of what could have happened <br />in one woman’s journey within <br />to find her talent, her unedited self. <br /><br />Those that take the journey <br />see it for what it is; a waking dream, <br />a wandering through dim rooms, <br />when something opens a door or window; <br />illumination, awakening, inspiration, a muse. <br /><br />That piece is born real out of clouds. <br />Transformed from wisps of fleeting thoughts, <br />phantasmal dreams, so hard to hold. <br />Made solid by pen, paper, paint, canvas. <br />Music for eyes, ears, mind; <br />Fuel to fire life.<br /><br />I feel so dizzy, <br />an ache at the temples and down the jaw. <br /><br />Waiting for a call or visit to define my worth at work, <br /><br />listening to Bach to relax and inspirer, <br />a conduit of learning, <br />Develop those synapses that reach <br />into the folds of my storehouse <br />to deposit more or extract some. <br /><br />Thinking of Shakespeare, <br />dreaming of a mid summers night – Wanting to get lost in it.<br />Writing instead. <br /> <br /><br />I’m not a writer. It’s insane to imagine myself as someone who has mastered written communication. Far from mastery, I stumble about in the dark dreaming of being understood. I have been fortunate in that, those few excursions into writing I’ve taken, I have been encouraged by trusted friends, but how close is that to truth? Self doubt is poison to the creation of any art and I’m sick with it. I want so much to be understood to a depth that only writing or art can communicate but I lack the skill or talent to be a writer or an artist. <br /> <br />Stacks of poems and short prose fill a file of Me in my computer, much of it read only by me. Unfulfilled by the act of creation without recognition, using a pseudonym, I started a blog to see if others would understand my writing and “feel” something from it. Those first few postings were like boulders lifted from my soul. I felt lighter and freer. I had no idea that so much anchored me to self pity or that I could see so much beauty. My thoughts put to paper without the internal self editing we do when we speak, expressed a part of me that feared expression and yet lived in me. For awhile I felt dual. PTA mom, wife of twenty years, and this other person that wrote horrid pieces of tormented doubt and longing for “something” but still unable to put it all solid and whole. I wrote more. Still searching for some understanding of what was happening to me. Through this writing process I was transforming. I’d like to say that I’ve discovered the secret to a joyous life and fulfillment; found what I’ve been looking for, but my journey is not over and maybe it never will be. <br /> <br />My mother went through something like this when I was very young. Interestingly, I always thought she lost her mind at about thirty. She seemed to be searching in her own way. Where my journey was facilitated by learning, starting back to school, hers was less focused. She searched men for fulfillment and drugs for inspiration. By the time she arrived at painting as a form of expression she didn’t trust herself anymore and her paintings were flat scenes of nature that she never connected to. She didn’t have any stake in them. There was nothing of her in her paintings they were merely reproductions of photos people gave her to paint. She never wandered through a forest, felt the rough deep crevasses of bark that blankets a tree, or watched the path of the sun silhouette their branches and discovered life at her feet, took in the fragrance of earth with her eyes closed, sat and listened to the ache of loneliness that lives in a hundred year old tree caressed by the wind. Never tried to connect to her subject to give her paintings life and breathe. Ultimately she gave it all up, went back to an abusive husband she’d divorced thirty years before, to live out her life, existing. <br /><br />I had some vague remembrance of Diane Arbus even before I saw the movie “Fur” based loosely on her life and work. I had some idea who she was but… I didn’t really. She photographed freaks, but not. She searched people to see the hidden self. Even in her photos of the famous there is something revealing in them. A scrap of personality, something real revealed from under the mask of the famous persona. When she talked about the “freaks” (Diane – pg 3) she photographed she eludes to this phenomenon. In her description I get the impression that her “freaks” have no mask to hide behind, that their real selves are closer to the surface, more accessible to her camera where as the famous subject, in her eyes, are “terribly blank”, (Diane – pg 3) well hidden. <br /><br />I somehow identified with both art and artist. The only brown child in my family, I have an understanding of what it feels like to be the “freak”. Questions of adoption seem ridiculous to me now, knowing the poverty of my childhood, however at the time, as a child, wondering about my difference – maybe. Doubt is a powerful virus that I’ve struggled with; doubt of who I am and what my place is. Sometimes I think I’ve beat it, finally found the cure, but doubt returns to knock me down again. <br /><br />The interesting thing about life is how long it takes for some of us to recognize the roles we play. Diane’s role was imposed on her, as it is for most people, from her birth. Born to wealth, she had opportunities that helped to nurture her strengths, and at the same time her wealth and family life contributed to the role of the isolated princess, held above and out of reach, that she carried with her always. Beyond the analysis of the psychological aspects of her childhood; her creative, work-a-holic father, distant mother, the governesses that kept her, the private progressive school that trained her, all these things helped to create her role as a child and later her need to search for her meaning to the world when she started training herself to be an artist of photography. Taking her craft as the conduit of her search she set off to know more about the world she was sheltered from and to discover that her secret desires, fantasies, are not so unusual in the context of the world’s diversity. <br /><br />The peak of her career spanned the sixties from 1960 to her death in 1971, a time fraught with change and individualism. Diane Arbus began her search of life at a time in photography when artist were experimenting not just with the elements of a photo graph; structure, line, contrast, light, and also the technical advancements, but also with the art itself. Her time followed artists that told stories with their work or created moods in still life or studies of nature. Now artists were looking within to create. Aaron Siskind is quoted as saying “I’m not interested in nature, I’m interested in my own nature” (Great - pg 222). Whether she knew him or even knew of him, I couldn’t tell you however, that was much the theme of the time and represented the nature of her search. Not so much a subject that expressed a political view or told a story on the depravity of humanity but a search into her nature and where she fit in, in the vastness of human beings. <br /><br />She couldn’t define that place. Money had defined her place as a child and maturing woman, but once separated from it, she could no longer place herself in the world of the wealthy and yet she didn’t fit into the rest of the world. She was unprepared for the reality of life and working for a living, and her training and education had given her, what she thought was a false sense of her abilities. She felt inadequate or at least uncertain of her having any talent, not able to trust the teachers at her Ethical Culture School, having told her that everything she did was “genius” (Bosworth – 130). Earning a living meant adapting her interests and search to a somewhat mainstream audience of popular magazines which challenged her vision but increased her technical skills. <br /><br />Artists are all looking for something. I can’t believe that art is created by artists just for the sake of the process. There is a studied search for something in the work we’ve studied in class. And to some extent the search is much the same, and yet individual. Guillermo Gomez-Pena is searching for a forum for his voice, loud and forceful is his vision and his work to give voice to those not heard. Kevin Bott used his creative and artistic thinking to adapt his work in American prisons, to work in a Ugandan prison. His search is to prove that his work has purpose in the rehabilitation of these men. Both these artists, and others we have studied, search for the sweet humanity within us in the hope of bringing it to the surface. As I study the photos of Diane Arbus, her search feels like a secret. The secret self of those she photographed and maybe some better understanding of her own mysteries; the opposite of the clean, perfect façade of her upbringing.<br /><br />Over the course of her professional career she worked for approximately 18 different publications. Esquire, Harpers Bazaar, The Sunday Times Magazine London, topped the list with other famous publications like Time Life Books, The New York Times, and Glamour magazine making the list. She captured images that people could either relate to or just couldn’t take their eyes from. Many where published during her life but many more not until the years after her death. She clicked so many photos, and when I looked at them I saw in print what I have been going through for these last few years; the incessant search that all the recognition of publication could not satisfy for her. <br /><br />She committed suicide July 26th, 1971; one year three months after I was born. Her work is in a world of art beyond the narrow boundaries of my life, and still, when I read the movie box I felt some draw to the character described. The secret life or hidden self portrayed, felt very familiar. Her tortured ending reminded me of my mothers own ending. Giving up life or hope; giving up the struggled search for that wisp of understanding. A mixture of joy, confusion and fear came in that small box, that slim disk of shimmering rainbows. The joy of finding a lost sister, a connection to what I could be, the discovery of the path I am on. Confusion at the comparison to a tortured dead woman and what that means for me. What does my future hold? Will I give up too? Am I really like my mother? Fear at seeing my own reflection in a fiction. Seeing my mothers own struggle as my own, never wanting to be like her, struggling my whole life to not be like her and yet there she is. <br /><br />I had imagined that writing this paper would be an easy process of reading about Diane Arbus and then writing something about her life and art. What I struggled with from the beginning is the reasons I found her art and life so compelling. Perhaps I’m just projecting or being too presumptuous as to compare myself to any artist but I identified with her art and her as an artist. I saw parallels to her life but for different reasons. Her life was sheltered by wealth and mine by poverty and yet our search was very similar. Finding our place in a foreign world that is life; not being satisfied with the roles we were given at birth. Wanting more but not being able to define what that “more” is. And then there is the doubt; is this all really so unusual? Perhaps this “struggle”, is just common and ordinary. Perhaps I am making too much of it all and none of the parallels I see exist. Am I no different than any other woman nearing forty, questioning my life and direction? <br /><br />I am not a writer any more than Diane Arbus was a photographer. I am not what I do. What I do does not define who I am. I want to learn about life and find pieces to add to who I am to build a me that is satisfied and whole. I will never stop learning. Life will always be a mystery to be discovered and that will not torment me. There does not have to be a resolution or an ending to reach satisfaction, just the continued growth of mind and spirit. I will not punish myself for my imaginations and my imaginations will not rule my life. I will always strive for balance between all the things I love; family, work, writing, and learning. I will never give up.<br /><br /><br />Bibliography<br /><br />Arbus, Diane, “.diane arbus.”, An Aperture Monograph, Copyright 1972 The Estate of Diane Arbus, published by Aperture Foundation, Inc. New York, 1972.<br /><br />Arbus, Doon & Israel, Marvin, “Diane Arbus Magazine Work”, Aperture, Silver Mountain Foundation, Inc., New York 1984.<br /><br />Bosworth, Patricia, “Diane Arbus, a Biography”, Alfred A, Knoph, Inc., New York, 1984.<br /><br />Donovan, Hedley, “Great Photographers (1840-1960)”, Time Life Books, New York, 1971<br /><br />Oppenheimer, Daniel, Jewish Virtual Library, 10/11/2007 http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/biography/arbus.html<br /> <br />Prokopoff, Stephen S., “The Presence of Walker Evans”, Copyright 1978 The institute of Contemporary Art, Isabelle Storey & Alan Trachtenberg, Boston.<br /><br />Tucker, Anne, “The Woman’s Eye”, Collins Associates book, Alfred A. Knopf, New York 1973.Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-13900697491090486962007-12-26T20:48:00.000-08:002007-12-29T22:32:56.719-08:00Just a short revisit to fear for a friend.I read once, a memory is powered by remembrance. When we actively remember something over and over again we re-enforce the memory, establishing more neural connections, giving it more power over us; our character, personality, fears... and most of what we remember tends to be our traumas and failures. We relive those moments that hurt the most. Why do we willingly give up so much power to our pain? <br /><br />I don't know that I want to completely forget the past; I'd like to think I've learned from it, like the time we sat through the 4 hour time share presentation, all day, just to get the free hibachi. There are however many places in my memory I don't live in anymore. I've burned pages to clear the monsters and ghosts that haunt. There was a time when the fire was blinding-consuming; my efforts to cleanse were so intense. I wanted to purge, throw everything out. I only helped strengthen those terrible fears that paralyzed my growth. <br /><br />Like smoke from a campfire that clings, in my hair, clothes, skin; part of my essence, ghosts of my existence. I'm haunted by the impressions of my past if not the memories. <br /><br />The way a man walks, will give a chill that crosses the street. I wonder what expression my face holds. Does he see the loathing that rises from some rotten core? The seeds of fear and hate that didn’t burn in my purge. All my senses betray me. <br /><br />Cologne, a little too strong, and a fearful nauseous wave will leave me curled on the couch watching Perry Mason; soothing drone of black and white, good guy always wins; my savior if I could only find him. I could be happy to not leave the house again. <br /><br />Short angry men frighten me. The smell of stale alcohol paired with clouded red veined eyes repulses me, and I dream of killing a stranger that breaks into my house. The baseball bat under the bed cracks his head and I'm finally free. <br /><br />No real memory just primal responses to unseen fears, clouded figments, monsters without form. <br /><br />The real fear is of me. What monster lives within? What am I capable of? <br /><br />I’ve often thought of what I would do if faced with a violent attack. How many people do that? How many of us wonder what we’d do if we were being raped or burglarized, or what we’d do if someone molested our children? I’ve not only thought of it in my conscious mind but I’ve dreamt of horrifying experiences. Screaming and crying, no relief, just fear of what I could do if provoked. Does that monster live in me? Would I become that animal of fear and hate? <br /><br />I might worry too much though. Most of the time I work very hard to be the person I want to be; good to everyone, hopeful of the future, generous, loyal, happy and kind, the kind of person that is “normal” by the definition of Perry Mason, Star Trek, and Leave it to Beaver. The point is I work at it. Everyday I can slip into that place of fear and everyday I face those haunts that make me who I am. Sometimes it’s easier than others but everyday I must look at who I am and choose to be who I want to be.Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-71543620590087985112007-11-30T16:07:00.000-08:002007-12-29T22:39:00.388-08:00My Dark NightUpstairs room<br />Past the fright<br />Tiptoe quiet on this hungry night<br />Three small heads find their way without light<br />Down to the kitchen<br />into the fridge<br />Black is bright<br />Bathed in light<br />Toddle as they do<br />They make do<br />Cherry pie tonight.<br /><br /><br />All of us tight,<br />bunk bed sized room <br />blocking the only window light<br />string pulled tooth for her tonight.<br />Will she come,<br />‘Fraid not, she won’t fit.<br />Shelf in the kitchen will have to be it.<br /><br /><br />Bedtime is at eight<br />on every school night.<br />Hum of the TV and its glowing light<br />call us from our dreams<br />quiet as we might,<br />to sleep in the hall <br />just out of sight.<br /><br /><br />In between the kitchen <br />the living room <br />the hall and the laundry room, <br />is the Dinning room corner.<br />I spent most of my 11th summer there.<br />I don’t remember why<br />but the choice was clear,<br />busted rear<br />or the dinning room corner.<br /><br />I used to gaze out the back door<br />at the yard sunshine bright<br />glimpses of brothers running with delight.<br />So entranced I was by the heavenly sight,<br />I didn’t notice my kid sister, stage right.<br />Her mouth opened wide <br />and the sound that ensued <br />shattered dreams of tomorrows <br />joining the brood.<br /><br /><br />Brothers<br />I had two.<br />As 9 came they were gone.<br />First one - then the other.<br />The first went to friends.<br />They treated him like a guest.<br />The second went to strangers.<br />They treated him like he was. <br />Dispatched like the creatures they were.<br />Mourned by the only heart that cared.<br /><br /><br />Just kids,<br />To know what’s right.<br />I promise, not to fight.<br />I’ll be good<br />I can stay out of sight.<br />Don’t send me away<br />Into that dark night.<br /><br /><br />Tears are full <br />And my chest is tight.<br />I’m very old now <br />And not afraid of the night.<br />Sometimes I wish<br />I had gone too.<br />Then I might not miss <br />The both of you.Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-70517941701844443892007-11-30T16:01:00.000-08:002007-11-30T16:05:52.227-08:00LaundryHow did we beat the rock <br />to rinse from our skins <br />the days toils <br />to hunt and stretch more skins, <br />wanderer of lands, hunters <br />of the means of existence <br />aside brother, mother, son, or not, <br />all family of survival?<br /><br />How did we scrub the cloth that clothed us; <br />in tubs on boards, <br />stretched out on glowing days<br />to catch sweet breezes <br />kissed by lavender and rose, <br />the same day as our neighbor, <br />shared baskets of time and space, <br />gossip and companionship?<br /><br />A lost hour and a half, <br />forced by comforters and blankets <br />to stand alone <br />in a crowded laundry mat. <br />Machines horded with<br />hampers standing sentinel, <br />ancient rituals forgotten <br />to our invisible bubbles <br />that never touch.<br /> <br />Private worlds crammed <br />into front loading washers, <br />slaves to necessity, <br />woolen grime of poverty, <br />heavy blankets of shame,<br />baked in glass ovens, <br />sanitizing autoclaves. <br /><br />Eyes that never rise <br />above the turning worlds within <br />to see our world around.Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-87865759961423348972007-11-30T15:59:00.000-08:002007-11-30T16:01:29.971-08:00FallSo beautiful <br />are those distant hills, <br />washed red <br />and orange, pale patches of yellow, dark veins <br />of green, bristle <br /><br />like a mans <br />unshaven face. Curves <br /><br />softened by the damp <br />haze of clouds and mist, cool <br />air, quiet - the soft touch <br />of rain drops finding <br />the path to their very own <br />leaf; difficult in this crowd of arms <br />twisted together in knots, <br />older crowding out younger. <br />Young ones reaching thin bodies <br />higher to see the light, feel <br />the air, taste <br />the rain.<br /><br />How many drops touch <br />my tongue <br />before I’m blinded <br />by the rain. <br /><br />All I want to do is feel <br />the touch <br />on my face, <br />imagine each as a kiss, moist <br />lips follow a joyful tear, <br /><br />But they’re cold,<br />And I’m old.<br />I can’t see those summer clouds anymore, <br />wonder about their softness.<br />what they’d feel like wrapped around my shoulders.<br /><br />So I sit under an eve and ponder the hills. <br />Could I fit them between my breasts?Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-74147435557438337622007-11-30T15:47:00.000-08:002007-11-30T15:53:01.453-08:00The Shave“Relax.”<br /><br />When they were first married,<br />she sat on the counter as he lathered, <br />and made faces in the mirror,<br /><br />She watched -<br />curious, <br />interested, wanting <br />to be part of it. Watched <br />as he piled thick cream in his hand, spread <br />with fingertips down his jaw, across <br />his chin, as he buried the weekend’s passion <br />beneath the purity of white. <br /><br />She watched – <br />As he folded <br />lips together; sensitive explorers that travel softly <br />over hills and valleys, backed by blades, <br />tenuous threats, <br />mounting tension. <br /><br />She watched – <br />As he warmed his razor beneath the stream of hot <br />water. Mourned each whisker <br />as it washed down the drain, gently caressed<br />his face; <br />the smooth skin,<br />the occasional errant whisker, <br />stretched up to take in his clean scent <br />hand studied against his chest,<br /><br />his soul drawn to the radiant warmth <br />spread <br />past the bonds of time, as he searches <br />her wondering eyes. <br />Resonance of remembrance reaches deep. <br /><br />“It might be fun.”<br />Eyes closed, <br /><br />Her warm hands test, <br />light touch fondles the stubble of growth, <br />gently massages the skin. <br />Her shadow circles his chair; <br />to be at her mercy, <br />the echo of her touch clings like a warm breeze. <br /><br /><br />“shhhhhh”, water in the sink; her breathy <br />whisper, <br />she holds a warm moist <br />cloth to his face, <br />cradling him between her hands, <br />As she has always held him;<br /> between breaths. <br /><br />he can feel the press of her legs <br />at his knees <br />and opens <br />to give her more room, breathes <br />in the moist <br />air with the scent of her hair - <br />so close. <br /><br />his hands <br />pat nervously on his thighs <br />feeling their own mind, a strand of her hair <br />tickles his cheek as she leans in, her lips <br />soft and delicate, still holding his face. <br /><br />His hands find themselves on the back of her thighs, <br />still reaching as she backs away. <br /><br />“Relax”.Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-72627669584283500882007-09-29T17:10:00.000-07:002007-09-29T17:15:05.803-07:00He shouldn’t have been there.His dark haired body <br />stretched out on the folding counter, <br />languid against the fluorescent brightness, <br />reflecting off the glass the sightless <br />night; passed closing time. <br /><br />His shirt was open <br />waiting for the dryer to finish; <br />I couldn’t take my eyes off the dark stripe of curly hair <br />that spread from the center across his relaxed belly. <br />He was watching me sweep <br />from under the arm resting across his forehead, <br />while I watched him. <br /><br />I’d never seen hair there, <br />only heard the whispered giggles <br />of what was found at the end. <br /><br />Curiosity, wondered the feeling of it, <br />the timid hand’s sensitive touch, <br />lightly discover the curled texture <br />and the sudden jump of surprised abs; <br />but he doesn’t move, only the breath <br />sounds change, faster with strained <br />control not to gasp. <br /><br />I told him a secret, <br />whispered it in his ear, so close to his neck, <br />his scent mine for a moment, <br />listened to his groan at the hearing; <br />my fantasy his now. <br />Lips just touch his cheek as he leaves.Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-48668664923367542332007-09-28T23:39:00.000-07:002007-09-29T00:22:21.035-07:00Power<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2XcmMCvPkmySb0EtjxvWOJp4939Ta9lVFl-Cx98s1-Dk-YFx9KWEyFI-t4iG8Su567g76Dr3yFBubquGkM5S0CfYYQ59puDDanimFCgppcodWD_Smr6IlaANOR-ErRXh8XmgUxQQa0AQ/s1600-h/my+eclipsed+moon3.bmp"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2XcmMCvPkmySb0EtjxvWOJp4939Ta9lVFl-Cx98s1-Dk-YFx9KWEyFI-t4iG8Su567g76Dr3yFBubquGkM5S0CfYYQ59puDDanimFCgppcodWD_Smr6IlaANOR-ErRXh8XmgUxQQa0AQ/s200/my+eclipsed+moon3.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115523040359946626" /></a><br />A distant sun <br />with no one to see it rise. <br /><br />The ocean has the power <br />to crush a ship, <br />throw a survivor on shore, <br />or burry him deep. <br /><br />Do clouds have power? <br />Insubstantial wisps of white fluff <br />carried on a sigh, <br />but when they turn gray and dark <br />and crowd the sky fighting with flashes for space; <br />then we see their power. <br /><br />Where do you keep your power? <br />It seems small and frail <br />tucked away deep <br />in a quiet space. <br /><br />It’s been slapped down <br />too many times to come out aggressively <br />and claim what it wants, <br />so it is timid and unsure. <br />Waiting for certainty, <br />the slightest bit of encouragement <br />to stretch out just a little bit more. <br /><br />But a scattering wind can blow out a storm <br />before it has a chance to gain its potential. <br />And so your power builds just a little, <br />testing the breeze, <br />wondering if this will be the moment.Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-13039687312173482262007-09-27T17:27:00.000-07:002007-09-27T17:36:20.751-07:00My name is Uncertainty. (thoughts and a poem reprint)At sixteen I went through the “ Who am I?” phase, smoking, drinking, sleeping around, trying to identify the life I would lead. When I met you I became the complement to you, enjoying those things that you enjoy, racing, shooting pool, drinking…<br /><br />When our children came, I became the image of mom as close as I could come to perfect, a composite of yours and not mine and borrowed from the TV ideal; PTA, parks and play dates, coffee and shopping, making ends meet. <br /><br />Today as the cloud of second hand smoke wafts by and I consider bumming one from the young man in shades, as he takes lengthy draws from the end, I realize I’m again in the “who am I?” phase. Twenty years from the last smoke of my own, waiting for class to start. The first time around I had an idea where my path would lead me. Now – I just don’t know.<br /><br />At seventeen<br />No thought was clean,<br />So close to purity of thought.<br /><br />At eighteen<br />stuck in between,<br />never understood what she had wrought.<br /><br />At twenty-one<br />So much fun<br />Oh, he really is the one!<br /><br />At twenty-three,<br />Does he love me?<br /><br />At twenty five,<br />Again -<br />Does he love me?<br /><br />At twenty-seven,<br />Does it matter?<br /><br />At thirty-four,<br />Not any more.<br /><br />At nearly forty,<br />What will I do?<br />So filled with doubt.<br />Uncertain – Fool!Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-81024854264577472822007-09-25T17:39:00.000-07:002007-10-01T20:37:01.460-07:00I thought of you at lunch today.Alone at my outdoor table for one,<br />Half in the sun,<br /><br />The tangy flavor of the sun dried tomatoes <br />basil and mozzarella, on my burger, <br />red olive oil staining the grilled bread.<br /><br />The sheen of buttered crumbs, dust my fingers<br />and beg to be licked;<br /><br />too exotic and busy for your simple,<br />greasy spoon, hometown tastes.<br /><br />Heat and vinegar of Tabasco firing the ketchup<br />For my salty fries.<br /><br />Long given up <br /><br />flavor, of a hard pear cider, crisp and dry, <br />with its lingering tartness <br /><br />clinging to my lips.<br /><br />Could be sharedHopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-51660344937977235612007-09-22T12:31:00.000-07:002007-09-22T12:45:53.708-07:00Power failureThe source of all goodness and joy in my world of work and play is having serious technical difficulties. The AC adapter has a short. It always seemed to get hot after an hour or so, of intense concentration on what ever writing project I'd been working on, but today it spit at me. Flares of "fuck off" shot from some exposed wires just past the rectangular adapter, with no power reaching my poor computer. I've used the last of its battery power to pen this fearful note and to order the replacement adapter, which had better arrive on Monday! Tragically this means no Sunday Scribblings entry this weekend however I may figure out how to use this other, less complicated instrument I've found, pen and paper, to write out my entry and post on Monday!! Or maybe Tuesday. <br /><br />While I wait I've picked up some light reading. "The Age Of Turbulence, Adventures in a New World", by Alan Greenspan.Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159106702699769183.post-11122060286701447752007-09-20T22:34:00.000-07:002007-09-20T22:53:04.048-07:00Take your own test <a href="http://www.personaldna.com/tests.php">just for fun!</a><br /><br /><div style="position: relative;overflow: hidden;width: 200px;height: 200px;"><div title=" Very High Trust" style="position: absolute;overflow: hidden;left: 0px;top:0px;height:69px;width:70px;background-color:#1818f5"></div><div title=" Very High Extroversion" style="position: absolute;overflow: hidden;left: 70px;top:0px;height:69px;width:65px;background-color:#ed18ed"></div><div title=" Very High Masculinity" style="position: absolute;overflow: hidden;left: 135px;top:0px;height:69px;width:65px;background-color:#1882ed"></div><div title=" Very High Empathy" style="position: absolute;overflow: hidden;left: 0px;top:69px;height:45px;width:96px;background-color:#e81780"></div><div title=" Very High Agency" style="position: absolute;overflow: hidden;left: 0px;top:114px;height:45px;width:96px;background-color:#17e817"></div><div title=" Very Functional" style="position: absolute;overflow: hidden;left: 0px;top:159px;height:41px;width:96px;background-color:#7be016"></div><div title=" Slightly High Confidence" style="position: absolute;overflow: hidden;left: 96px;top:69px;height:60px;width:53px;background-color:#cc1414"></div><div title=" Average Femininity" style="position: absolute;overflow: hidden;left: 149px;top:69px;height:60px;width:51px;background-color:#c9c914"></div><div title=" Average Spontenaiety" style="position: absolute;overflow: hidden;left: 96px;top:129px;height:49px;width:62px;background-color:#14c9c9"></div><div title=" Slightly Low Openness" style="position: absolute;overflow: hidden;left: 96px;top:178px;height:22px;width:62px;background-color:#10a158"></div><div title=" Slightly Earthy" style="position: absolute;overflow: hidden;left: 159px;top:129px;height:58px;width:22px;background-color:#e07b16"></div><div title=" Slightly Low Authoritarianism" style="position: absolute;overflow: hidden;left: 181px;top:129px;height:58px;width:19px;background-color:#56109c"></div><div title=" Low Attention to Style" style="position: absolute;overflow: hidden;left: 159px;top:187px;height:13px;width:41px;background-color:#878787"></div></div><div style="position:relative; text-align:center; width:200px;"><a href="http://www.personaldna.com">Benevolent Idealist</a></div><br /><br /><br /><br />Check out <a href="http://www.personaldna.com/report.php?k=eNrpuprddFLfGaQ-EO-DAACD-fb48"> My personalDNA Report</a><br /><br />How close is it for you!Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734740706179101100noreply@blogger.com1