from the horse's mouth.

round two... soon. very soon.

I haven't written for ... awhile. Reasons being:

One, a potential employer, I am hesitant to write truthfully about my life. I sit down to write and a biting self consciousness seeps into my words... I write whatever I want to say, but when it comes time to cross that finish line - well, I can't bear to press "PUBLISH POST" for fear it will crop up in a future interview.... !!!! HELP!

... and two, I've had some stalker issues. Restraining order might be on the horizon...

... however, I refuse to be ruled by some fear or some concern or some worry.

in short, I apologize for my absence.

I am soliciting your advice-

how do you manage to tread that line between privacy and publication? How do you know if you are being "real" and "honest," or merely arrogant and exhibitionist?

other news:

- I GOT A JOB!

- Omar is here, in town, raising hell.

- Move into the new apartment tomorrow.

- Sir Sampson is hanging out with his dad this weekend, enjoying a few nights with the boys.

Have a wonderful weekend, everyone!

Eckhart Tolle, A New Earth - Evan's suggestion.

Jackie and I.

Evan originally got me this book... I take what I like and leave the rest.

When you recognize the unconsciousness in you, that which makes the recognition possible is the arising consciousness, is awakening. You cannot fight against the ego and win, just as you cannot fight against darkness. The light of consciousness is all that is necessary. You are that light (8).

They realize that how “spiritual” you are has nothing to do with what you believe but everything to do with your state of consciousness. This, in turn, determines how you act in the world and interact with others (18, 19).

Tomorrow Jackie, Dad and I begin our road trip back to Orange County... I plan to milk every moment! This is the last event of my last summer. I'll report more from the road : )

Ayn Rand.

I am currently reading The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand... I want to save my comments for when I finish, but for now here are some quotes related to abundance.

A house can have integrity, just like a person, and just as seldom.

I don't build in order to have clients. I have clients in order to build.

To say "I love you" one must first be able to say the "I."

Worry is a waste of emotional reserve.

I have come here to say that I do not recognize anyone's right to one minute of my life. . . . It had to be said. The world is perishing from an orgy of self-sacrificing.

task: unwarranted Fears.

When I am writing I am often struck still. I am unable to move, I am rigid with panic and doubt. “Everything has been said!” the committee screams. There aren’t enough words, you are drowning! No air!

This is a fear I rarely give voice to… why? I am terrified that if I say it, just speaking of it will render it true. And real.

So I neatly sweep it under the rug – hide it beneath some pressing thought about boyfriends, girlfriends, dinner, whatever.

To silence this scream I am paying it mind.

What are your unwarranted fears?

last day in Curacao...

Before I left for Curacao, a physic informed me that “on an island surrounded by water,” my “third eye” would open. At the time I imagined a dramatic flourishing, a lightening bolt from the sky and striking me religious.

But of course, what happened was unexpected, and what was expected never happened. As is the way of the world. The awakening was more subtle, more graceful – like the slow and delicate opening of a flower.

Every morning I wake up and the slate has been cleared by someone nameless, someone who slips through my window and kisses me calm. I can’t hold the emotions from the previous day. I awake before my eyes open, when my body is tense with the idea of awakening. I know I must rise, but I let myself drift in darkness a little longer – I am on vacation, I have the time.

I brush my teeth, I brush my hair, I pull on a tee shirt and shorts. I walk onto the white washed porch and watch rays of sun slash green water. My friend tinkers with something indoors, but I ignore him. I am obsessed with the clean slate: who and what is the cause?

Sometimes I make breakfast, most of the time I do not. I wait until my body informs me of hunger, then I eat. I write for thirty minutes to shake the night’s dreams from my head to the page. I sip coffee and wait for the sun to stand at it’s full height, yellow and burning in a blue arch of sky. I undress and lay on a porch chair, absorbing the heat with my burning body.

The day moves on, with and with out our knowing. We move to an internal rhythm. When we feel like drinking, we drink. When we feel like singing, we sing. Dancing, cooking, swimming, laughing.

Often we jump in our start-and-stop car for a drive through the country. We wave at passers-by and stick out our tongues at children in buses. We lose track of where we are and lose track of ourselves in the island city of mazes and nameless streets.

We always find our way back.

Every night ends with a feast we prepare in celebration of the day. Seltzer chills in the ice box while my friend strings shiskabobs and I chop vegetables. We eat outside on the porch. We light candles only to watch the island winds blow them out. My friend plays with his music until he settles on a playlist that always includes Van Morrison.

This island is a place for extremes. The rugged earth and charging ocean intensify once mundane affairs. Each moment the past and the future fade to gray, and I am left with the primary colors- the here, the now, and the breath.

****

rut.

I apologize  beforehand – please feel free to skip! I need to vent:

We’ve hit a rut. An “island living” slump.

To start, Omar got in a fight with B, an argument which I want to know NOTHING about – it’s not my biz. But it's bugging him, and B keeps sending me emails, and I don't want anything do with with any of it! I'm staying way out of this one, but it still weighs heavy on my mind.

Tropical Storm Bertha rained us out of our snorkeling, and quarantined us inside this tiny, albeit beautiful, house. We watched a movie and chewed bubble gum. I ate too much sugar and suffered a massive stomach ache, which I can tell you did not help my mood.

I really miss Jackie and Sampson. I have so much to tell my little sister, and I want to talk to her all the time, and phone cards are so damn expensive, AH! 

everything is going to fix itself -

- But before optimism strikes, let me say that I sorely miss working internet, my cell phone, my email - I REALLY miss reading all of your blogs – I want to catch up with everybody, I feel out of the loop!

I don't like this "scheduled post" thing, but unfortunately it's the only option. 

More tomorrow, now I’m going to walk in the rain to cool my hot temper. 

Bon Day, all <3>

dipping and diving.

Today we went snorkeling. I can now see why this place is called a diver’s hotspot!

Multicolored reef rings the banana shaped island. Purple, blue and magenta fish dip and duck through orange and yellow rock… black sea urchins crouch below jagged coral, schools of fish scatter like leaves, rusted canons and barnacle covered boats from the 18th century hide half submerged in the sand.

---- Well, to clarify, Omar SAID he saw a cannon when we were swimming from the beach. Supposedly there was “like a twenty foot one” near the shore, but upon returning we tried to find it – for thirty minutes – and we couldn’t. Mysterious canons! I told him maybe he was imagining it, a tropical form of p*nis envy… he didn’t like that too much. -----

The sand is white, so white I pretend its snow as I swim along the ocean floor. The water can’t be less than 75 degrees, and waves are nearly non-existent. Curacao sees perfect weather almost year round, yet tourists are known to flock to the other AåBC islands, especially Aruba, due to the semi desert landscape. The advantages for tourists, then, is seclusion and great preservation of the natural domain.

I am quickly falling head over heels for this enigmatic, hidden place… I can remember every moment, feel every second, and understand the brilliant purity that surrounds me!

More later : ) Off to search for that canon.

Kon ta bai? Mi ta bon.

Sky(Water?) Line

at Hook's Hut

Willemstad Colors

in honor of the Jackster, so far away : (

WINNING in paradise : )

Willemstad is the one and only city on the island of Curacao. We went there today, thinking we were headed to the infamous “CENTRUM” market. We can’t find it ANYwhere, and I want to go!! ARG!

On the way to Willemstad we got lost and loved it. We stopped at an out of the way restaurant called “Hooks Hut,” loved by locals and tourists alike (as our slightly rude waitress told us).

Afterwards we headed to the capital city in our stick shift vehicle. I can’t drive stick, so Omar has to… I like to snap photos out the window though : )

The best way I can describe Willemstad is a tropical Amsterdam with out rain and sexed up window ladies. The colonial buildings are extraordinarily preserved, and are washed with vibrant blues, greens, pinks and yellow. The people are nice, everyone sounds like they are singing… shopping was like taking a time machine back to the 80’s.

Tonight we are making shish kabobs and Omar doesn’t know it, but I bought some marshmallows, chocolate and graham crackers – S’MORE time!! Yet another childhood treat.

I have been writing every day, and feeling more clear than ever. I think I am finally letting go of the past, my recent break up especially, and embracing the present.

more later, now it's chow time <3

Curacao, first few days...

from the plane,

our private beach-

Omar's sandy feet-

losing (mini putt) in paradise!

bon appetit : )

Curacao is unbelievable! I am writing this in my air conditioned house-for-two-weeks, looking over a turquoise cove Curacao is unbelievable!

This is an island of rugged juxtapositions. Cacti line the white beaches, pink and orange bougainvillea colors the sparse grey landscape. Rocky hills nudge the calm Atlantic coast. Even the language, Papiamento, is a bizarre mix: Spanish, English, French, and “something else.”

Synopsis of today’s adventure:

… We awoke after a 12-hour sleep. I felt incredibly refreshed, having slept off my plane weariness. For breakfast I ate stolen miniwheats and wrote morning pages in the “outside living area,” what Omar calls his “naked place” (he has delusions about nudist living, NO they aren’t realized). I wrote, I read, I photographed our surroundings. He jogged the rocky hills.

Later we reconvened to hit the beach and float on fraying rafts in the clear Caribbean water. Nobody is here; we have the place to ourselves. Down the road there’s a hotel, and we are permitted to use their facilities for $5. They have a charming staff whose language sounds like a song. Combined with the crashing waves and whistling winds, this place is absolutely paradise.

After baking for hours we played mini-putt-putt and guess who won? Moi. Victory is sweet : ) but the pina colodas we drank afterwards were sweeter.

Hope you all are having a great July!

zzzz

AM flight tomorrow morning

It's no coincidence that in no known language does the phrase "As pretty as an airport" appear - Douglas Adams

Why have I always loved airports?

Hundreds of thousands of people congregate in one spot before departing for hundreds of thousands of places.

We join one another in line, on escalators, in the high speed trams zipping from terminal to terminal– We eat $20 burgers and sip $5 Starbucks, click clack our laptops, wearily scan crowds for that maybe-terrorist.

A fusion occurs. You become one with the crowd - you are a worker among workers, a patron among patrons.

I find this comforting.

I am watching a young Mom try to control three kids under the age of four. Deep circles sit like dark puddles below her eyes. Hairline cracks crease the thin skin around her mouth. She orders “Sandra” to pull up her pants and “Ian” to sit down, all the while bouncing a red-faced baby on her knee. I think, where is her husband? Where is the father?

So I repeat: why do I love airports, this den of germs, confusion and chaos?

Transit. Mass transit. The crowd is constantly changing, never static – only the airport employees stay put, those shadowy figures ringing up our magazines, our trailmix, our cashew shaped pillows.

Airports contain the best and the worst of humanity. Nothing beats it. Except maybe the gym.

I arrived in Miami safely, and have been hanging out with Omar's family the entire night... we watched the show "Wipeout," has anyone seen it? It is HILARIOUS, but prepared to feel seriously guilty.

more later. sweet dreams, mundobello.

tonight,

I am watching Sex and the City with Jackie and Max, making s'mores, drinking La Croix.

Tomorrow I'm headed to Miami!! And then sunny Curacao : ) 

things are looking up.

today I got my nails did at a grungy frisco salon. bright "big apple" red in honor of my sister's new residence. then mums and I went shopping at Wallmart like true americanas, went a bit nuts and bought our two "kids" (dogs) matching bandanas. oh and i had a diet coke/rootbeer combo from mickey d's. finished off the evening eating at a five star restaurant and playing nintendo wii.

going, going, gone.

steady posting on this blog restores my sense of routine and stability. so blog on, little bird, blog on! 

i have yet another poem to share with you all, one i hold close to my heart. this recent death has resurrected my feelings of love and adoration for a certain man in my life and despite efforts to keep my heart silent, the love is loud. 

and with this? i am spent. 


I Have Five Things To Say

The wakened lover speaks directly to the beloved,
"You are the sky my spirit circles in,
the love inside of love, the resurrection-place.

Let this window be your ear.
I have lost consciousness many times
with longing for your listening silence,
and your life-quickening smile.

You give attention to the smallest matters,
my suspicious doubts, and to the greatest.

You know my coins are counterfeit,
but you accept them anyway,
my impudence and my pretending!

I have five things to say,
five fingers to give
into your grace.

First, 

when I was apart from you,
this world did not exist,
nor any other.

Second, 

whatever I was looking for
was always you.

Third, 

why did I ever learn to count to three?

Fourth, 

my cornfield is burning!

Fifth, this finger stands for Rabia,
and this is for someone else.

Is there a difference?

Are these words or tears?
Is weeping speech?
What shall I do, my love?

So he speaks, and everyone around
begins to cry with him, laughing crazily,
moaning in the spreading union
of lover and beloved.

This is the true religion. All others
are thrown-away bandages beside it.

This is the sema of slavery and mastery
dancing together. This is not-being.

Neither words, nor any natural fact
can express this.

I know these dancers.
Day and night I sing their songs
in this phenomenal cage.

My soul, don't try to answer now!
Find a friend, and hide.

But what can stay hidden?


Love's secret is always lifting its head
out from under the covers,


"Here I am!"

Rumi 

hope you all are taking care of yourselves and your loved ones <3 

There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief.

Dad's Mum, my grandmother, died this morning. She was a beautiful woman who exuded strength, humor, and quiet grace. She will be missed by the entire family and many, many more. I know she is in a better place, a more peaceful place. Other than that, I am stunned silent. 

Death XXVII

Then Almitra spoke, saying, "We would ask now of Death."

And he said:

You would know the secret of death.

But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life?

The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light.

If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life.

For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.

In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;

And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.

Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.

Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour.

Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king?

Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?

And what is to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.

And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.

And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

Khalil Gibran

We see things not as they are, but as we are.

What is the recipe for a perfect day?

A hike through the mountains - romping above the tree line with my Pops, Jackie, Sampson and Sophie... waiting for Jack’s adrenalized boyfriend to get in from Conneticut. No makeup, no nice clothing, my Dad's old socks. Reading and writing in the evening. Then a burger joint with the fam, my Mum included, laughing over french fries and sparkling water.

I feel at peace with my family, and I am lucky, because it wasn’t always that way. The recipe for a perfect family? Beyond me. But for a day, for a day, maybe.

definitions.

my last summer as an unemployed, college student bum.

I am in Colorado, and I am T I R E D. But happy to be with my parents and my sister. The drive was strange - to be alone for 16 hours on the road. Finally I am working on my relationship with myself. It took getting out of a relationship to learn how to be in one.

an evening with Muriel Rukeyser

I listened to this beautiful poem as I traversed the jade and purple mountains of Utah. Along the way I kept my eye out for polygamists and child brides, but I didn't see any... damn.

I am staying in a quaint inn on the side of I-70. The halls are littered with signs warning, "NO PETS" and "$250 FINE FOR PETS AND CIGARETTES." Thank God for boho purses! I stuffed poor Sampson in my oversized bag, and made sure to pocket my ciggs.

They're gonna run me out of town! but hopefully not before I steal a few rolls at tomorrow's complimentary breakfast : )

The Speed Of Darkness

1

Whoever despises the clitoris despises the penis
Whoever despises the penis despises the cunt
Whoever despises the cunt despises the life of the child.

Resurrection music, silence, and surf.

2

No longer skeaking
Listening with the whole body
And with every drop of blood
Overtaken by silence
But this same silence is become speech
With the speed of darkness.

3

Stillness during war, the lake.
The unmoving spruces.
Glints over the water.
Faces, voices. You are far away.
A tree that trembles and trembles.

4

After the lifting of the mist
after the heavy rains
the sky stands clear
and the cries of the city risen in day
I remember the buildings are space
walled, to let space be used for living
I mind this room is space
whose boundary of glass
lets me give you drink and space to drink
your hand, my hand being space
containing skies and constellations
your face carries the reaches of air
I know I am space
my words are the air.

5

Between between
the man : act exact
woman : in curve senses in their maze
frail orbits, green tries, games of stars
shar of the body speaking its evidence

6

I look across at the real
vulnerable involved naked
devoted to the present of all I care for
the world of history leading to this moment.

7

Life is the announcer.
I assure you
there are many ways to have a child.
I bastard mother
promise you
there are many ways to be born.
They all come forth
in their own grace.

8

Ends of the earth join tonight
with blazing stars upon thier meeting.

These sons, these sons
fall burning into Asia.

9

Time comes into it.
Say it. Say it.
The universe is made of stories,
not of atoms.


10

Lying
blazing beside me
you rear beautifully up—
your thinking face—
erotic body reaching
in all its colors and lights—
your erotic face
colored and lit—
not colored body-and-face
but now entire,
colors lights the world of thinking and reaching.


11

The river flows past the city.

Water goes down to tomorrow
making its children I hear their unborn voices
I am working out the vocabulary of my silence.


12

Big-boned man young and of my dream
Struggles to get the live brid out of his throat.
I am he am I? Dreaming?
I am the bird am I? I am the throat?

A brid with a curved beak.
It could slit anything, the throat-bird.

Drawn up slowly. The curved blades, not large.
Bird emerges wet being born
Begins to sing.


13

My night awake
staring at the broad rough jewel
the copper roof across the way
thinking of the poet
yet unborn in this dark
who will be the throat of these hours.
No. Of those hours.
Who will speak these days,
if not I,
if not you?