i buckle into a window seat of flight 2252. thirst wrinkles my skin. 48 hours of talking love in reno has me pickled and cumbersome. i'm verging on airborne, which no amount of booze or physics can remedy. there is a big man on my left wielding a book: "liberty defined." we are taxiing toward take off. sweat, like a desert spring, licks my barren faceland.
we leave earth on a head wind and she is blowing hard. i am about to come, undone. wings wobble and i look down upon my thighs cemented to the seat. spread thin, i recite: "i believe, i love, i am." ascending and above the sagebrush and single wides, i rise. up and down like passionate breath and body, i want to scream - to revel in this turbulent ride.
"remain buckled until the plane reaches altitude" reaching climax, i find relief in her vantage point. we are fucking held above the clouds, bumps, and humps.
they roll out the cart with wine, beer, and coca-cola. i celebrate with a shot of merlot.
love is the only thing i can comprehend high. past and present. child and lover. i am consumed.
"love is my greatest strength."
yes it is. my hand holds me whole. and the big man smiles.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Saturday, May 17, 2014
headline haiku
old men, young wine
desert dog, worm hole, underpants
neighbor's nuts, bittersweet
lover's quarrel, quarantined
stolen bra, pistol whipped, red
unidentified man, invades skirt, imprisoned
burning man, eczema
wizard sleeve soliloquies
northbound numb nuts
eat halloween
desert dog, worm hole, underpants
neighbor's nuts, bittersweet
lover's quarrel, quarantined
stolen bra, pistol whipped, red
unidentified man, invades skirt, imprisoned
burning man, eczema
wizard sleeve soliloquies
northbound numb nuts
eat halloween
Friday, December 13, 2013
a one woman act
what would happen if you gave one woman
a bottle of wine and internet access?
first, she will go into the bathroom
and meticulously cut her hair
(she has no hair)
so perhaps she is seeking a sense of control and
hair manipulation is her domain.
nonetheless, she will settle into the kitchen table
and start to write.
she might remember that she was eager for this
evening time alone.
that she tucked her children into bed
and was looking forward to a sense of freedom of
self.
but when it came time, it brought a friend named
alone.
there are times to be.
she is not afraid of being.
but there are times she yearned
for connection.
for the night at the neighborhood bar. the dinner party.
the person on the train rubbing her feet.
instead, she was staring at a tree full of lights,
a dishwasher running, and Facebook
remembering when there were adults
(or kids playing adults) available
for wining, dining, and (shhh...)
playful debate.
there are moments like this
when she thinks about waking
her children from slumber and declaring
"oops, i was wrong. let's keep screaming,
singing, throwing food, and getting frustrated
at what we can't do yet."
please come back.
but that has never happened.
she is smart enough to write instead.
sometimes she calls and leaves you a
wacky voicemail (insert laughter)
but for now, she fills her glass and smiles.
sometimes there isn't an answer.
but there always is something.
a bottle of wine and internet access?
first, she will go into the bathroom
and meticulously cut her hair
(she has no hair)
so perhaps she is seeking a sense of control and
hair manipulation is her domain.
nonetheless, she will settle into the kitchen table
and start to write.
she might remember that she was eager for this
evening time alone.
that she tucked her children into bed
and was looking forward to a sense of freedom of
self.
but when it came time, it brought a friend named
alone.
there are times to be.
she is not afraid of being.
but there are times she yearned
for connection.
for the night at the neighborhood bar. the dinner party.
the person on the train rubbing her feet.
instead, she was staring at a tree full of lights,
a dishwasher running, and Facebook
remembering when there were adults
(or kids playing adults) available
for wining, dining, and (shhh...)
playful debate.
there are moments like this
when she thinks about waking
her children from slumber and declaring
"oops, i was wrong. let's keep screaming,
singing, throwing food, and getting frustrated
at what we can't do yet."
please come back.
but that has never happened.
she is smart enough to write instead.
sometimes she calls and leaves you a
wacky voicemail (insert laughter)
but for now, she fills her glass and smiles.
sometimes there isn't an answer.
but there always is something.
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
undertaking
careening across portland,
a light found me
he kneeled in cigarette butts
and held a sign
"No work. No hope. Help."
with 54 cents, i rolled down the window
but he took a buck from a bmw
good. i figured
and then i remembered something.
the love i've felt
for friends, lovers, a job, a thing
was a choice.
was this love worth the work?
being in love is showing up to work
and there is hope in work.
i hope that helps.
a light found me
he kneeled in cigarette butts
and held a sign
"No work. No hope. Help."
with 54 cents, i rolled down the window
but he took a buck from a bmw
good. i figured
and then i remembered something.
the love i've felt
for friends, lovers, a job, a thing
was a choice.
was this love worth the work?
being in love is showing up to work
and there is hope in work.
i hope that helps.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
29 days
i've spent 29 days not knowing what to do.
like the bee sting burrowed in my summer's foot,
the unknown festers.
no teacher said, "thank you for remaining silent in class. oh, and thank you for not answering that question. not to mention, thank you, truly, for all you haven't comprehended here today."
but why?
why does me knowing or not matter? to me or you.
i've spent my whole life acting, taking action, executing action plans, and acting without knowing
for the simple reason that i had to keep moving, keep answering, keep making choices to earn the gold star.
choose a or b or c or d or all of the above or none of the above. do it. now. answer the question whether you know, you cheat, you guess. just fucking answer the question.
because if i didn't, i would lose. i would fail. me. you. the big talking head. game over.
perhaps, me not knowing was the best thing that ever happened to me.
and it scared you.
i don't know.
like the bee sting burrowed in my summer's foot,
the unknown festers.
no teacher said, "thank you for remaining silent in class. oh, and thank you for not answering that question. not to mention, thank you, truly, for all you haven't comprehended here today."
but why?
why does me knowing or not matter? to me or you.
i've spent my whole life acting, taking action, executing action plans, and acting without knowing
for the simple reason that i had to keep moving, keep answering, keep making choices to earn the gold star.
choose a or b or c or d or all of the above or none of the above. do it. now. answer the question whether you know, you cheat, you guess. just fucking answer the question.
because if i didn't, i would lose. i would fail. me. you. the big talking head. game over.
perhaps, me not knowing was the best thing that ever happened to me.
and it scared you.
i don't know.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Chang-ing
It's noon and I'm at a bar scribbling about "change."
You know, that kind of uncertainty that inspires us to practice yoga in too tight sweatpants, to fuck strangers with good teeth, and to meditate on a splintered bench next to the bird lady.
Professional lives are built upon our inability to cope with change. Talk about job security.
Bartender, can I get another?
As autonomous adults, we build fences, stilts, ball fields, and water parks to contain and regulate lady luck. But when we morph into adult PARENT persons, all boundaries are decimated. A mighty Oz wind howls our sexy theme park to shambles. Damn all.
Kids move quicker than hip. "I got this" quickly flips into "SOS." Vulnerability becomes our shaky vehicle to shore. On we go, with love, humor, and folly. Follied.
So what can be done if all we have is a bartender, a compass, and a pen plus paper?
Write. No one else will save us. And we can't afford the therapist.
You know, that kind of uncertainty that inspires us to practice yoga in too tight sweatpants, to fuck strangers with good teeth, and to meditate on a splintered bench next to the bird lady.
Professional lives are built upon our inability to cope with change. Talk about job security.
Bartender, can I get another?
As autonomous adults, we build fences, stilts, ball fields, and water parks to contain and regulate lady luck. But when we morph into adult PARENT persons, all boundaries are decimated. A mighty Oz wind howls our sexy theme park to shambles. Damn all.
Kids move quicker than hip. "I got this" quickly flips into "SOS." Vulnerability becomes our shaky vehicle to shore. On we go, with love, humor, and folly. Follied.
So what can be done if all we have is a bartender, a compass, and a pen plus paper?
Write. No one else will save us. And we can't afford the therapist.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Mother superhero
As a kid, I tuned in to the local news every night. I took pride in knowing the happenings, the politics, and the weather of the region I called home. But damn, if it didn't terrify me. I would pee on the carpet near my bed just so I wouldn't have to walk around a blind corner to the bathroom at night. The boyfriend strangling his lady, the car wrecks at 2am, the fear, violence, murder, perversion, violence, fear...after 10 years of committed viewing, I knew the geography of the Pacific Northwest (seriously, ask me the name of any town in WA and I know where it is) and that humans are cruel violent beasts, running around passionately ruining each others lives. And the environment. And the planet.
Last night I errored in looking at CNN.com and there was a horrifying story about 2 men who butchered a British soldier in broad daylight. A monstrous photo of one of the killers greeted me upon opening the site. His hands were red, and he held a meat cleaver. Oddly, it comes forth that a woman, a single mom in her fifties, approached the killer seconds after he took life. She said she did so to save others and to calm the situation. What the fuck? Then I sat on it for minute. Of course she did. She's a mother.
When Mirabelle was little I took her in the backpack everywhere. We lived in suburbia as she neared age 2, a charming cottage filled neighborhood in Portland. One day, while we walked to the ice cream shop I noticed an odd duck waiting at a bus stop. I always said hi to passerbyes but this fella stared at his feet. I marched on with Belle bouncing and humming behind me like the most beautiful musical I couldn't see. Suddenly, nothing was ok. Moms and dads, you know what I'm talking about. The sixth sense that you are about to kick the shit out of something that might hurt your baby. Electrical pulses shot my hand to the knife I always carried (I am my father's girl) and with Belle riding high and heavy on my back, I spun 180' like Bruce Lee to face the man from the bus stop. I could smell his chewing gum and pulled the knife to my side. "No, get back! Get the fuck away from me now!" He about shit his pants. A woman with curly hair drove up and he ran like he was on the beaches of Normandy into a vacant lot. She chased him down the best she could in her car but he disappeared.
It is terrifying to love like a mother. To allow your heart to dangle from your chest exposed every second, even as you sleep. To know that the world is insane and that there is nothing that you can do to control the madness. Life is vulnerable. And you love your child like nothing you could ever emulate with a lover, partner, or friend. God damn tornados, molesters, speeding drunks, bicycle crashes, choking on raisins, diseases, mental illness, bullies, fucking death. death. death. All of it has crossed our minds. Yet we love and live on.
When I make the mistake of revisiting the news I remind myself of this: love, Julia, like you don't know how. Love Mirabelle and Dockton so fiercely that no matter what happens today or in 60 years they know, feel, smell that love so god damn strong that when you are gone it's there. Play fairies one more time (after playing 6 times already), stop and laugh spontaneously, say I love you in the grocery store even when they are driving you insane, stop and look at them in awe over and over. As a mother, the legacy I want to leave my children is that no matter how fucked up the world gets, they have so much love, from me and of themselves, that they can prevail and dance, even through total darkness. When I don't know what else to say, I repeat, "I believe, I love, I am." Yes. That is right. And I hope you sleep well tonite.
Last night I errored in looking at CNN.com and there was a horrifying story about 2 men who butchered a British soldier in broad daylight. A monstrous photo of one of the killers greeted me upon opening the site. His hands were red, and he held a meat cleaver. Oddly, it comes forth that a woman, a single mom in her fifties, approached the killer seconds after he took life. She said she did so to save others and to calm the situation. What the fuck? Then I sat on it for minute. Of course she did. She's a mother.
When Mirabelle was little I took her in the backpack everywhere. We lived in suburbia as she neared age 2, a charming cottage filled neighborhood in Portland. One day, while we walked to the ice cream shop I noticed an odd duck waiting at a bus stop. I always said hi to passerbyes but this fella stared at his feet. I marched on with Belle bouncing and humming behind me like the most beautiful musical I couldn't see. Suddenly, nothing was ok. Moms and dads, you know what I'm talking about. The sixth sense that you are about to kick the shit out of something that might hurt your baby. Electrical pulses shot my hand to the knife I always carried (I am my father's girl) and with Belle riding high and heavy on my back, I spun 180' like Bruce Lee to face the man from the bus stop. I could smell his chewing gum and pulled the knife to my side. "No, get back! Get the fuck away from me now!" He about shit his pants. A woman with curly hair drove up and he ran like he was on the beaches of Normandy into a vacant lot. She chased him down the best she could in her car but he disappeared.
It is terrifying to love like a mother. To allow your heart to dangle from your chest exposed every second, even as you sleep. To know that the world is insane and that there is nothing that you can do to control the madness. Life is vulnerable. And you love your child like nothing you could ever emulate with a lover, partner, or friend. God damn tornados, molesters, speeding drunks, bicycle crashes, choking on raisins, diseases, mental illness, bullies, fucking death. death. death. All of it has crossed our minds. Yet we love and live on.
When I make the mistake of revisiting the news I remind myself of this: love, Julia, like you don't know how. Love Mirabelle and Dockton so fiercely that no matter what happens today or in 60 years they know, feel, smell that love so god damn strong that when you are gone it's there. Play fairies one more time (after playing 6 times already), stop and laugh spontaneously, say I love you in the grocery store even when they are driving you insane, stop and look at them in awe over and over. As a mother, the legacy I want to leave my children is that no matter how fucked up the world gets, they have so much love, from me and of themselves, that they can prevail and dance, even through total darkness. When I don't know what else to say, I repeat, "I believe, I love, I am." Yes. That is right. And I hope you sleep well tonite.
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