Monday, August 27, 2012
Time is intricate, right? Well, she has the ability to be. She is so natural at trickery. She is lulling, she is comforting, she is terrifying. Time is debatable but fixed. She is a piece of art nailed to a white-washed wall, open to all interpretations but solid in her own state. So really, she is everything and nothing, so, everything. She is as much or as little of a necessity as the wicker canary cage and the Sun-room. Time is a stage, and we can chose to have a hand in her performance, or we can watch, as she dances around us.
At this point in Time, I know less about life then I ever have. I know almost nothing about what things are. Things like time, reality, friends, love, responsibility, loneliness, fears, strength, courage, emotions, sex, pain, elation, family...nothing about what these things are. Of course, I constantly use analogies for all of them, and usually discuss them with some sort of well-shaped opinion, but that is in convenience for everyday conversation. I've known life, at one point. Then I learned a few things, and now, I'm thinking that all of life is no different then myself in that things constantly change, every moment. So, oh! Oh, oh look, there's that--I know change pretty well. But I do not wish to know life, fully. Not now. That seems limiting. What would I have left to discover? To know nothing is so incredibly interesting to me. Fascinating. I strive to be fascinated with everything.
From now on, what I say I know, I know I do not know fully: I know enough to understand. To know is beyond us, but to understand seems incredibly human. To know just enough that we can relate to one another, to the point of knowing each other.
I wish I could know you. You must have so many wonderful caverns in your mind. Simple and straight or curved and dark, light, bright, pale. Thoughts that are caked in the dirt of the past or dreams that gleam brilliant as steel but are equally as unapproachable. Memories in boxes on shelves with candles and musical and antique banks with bears and painted iron because why now--your mind can be anything. I wish I could know you. Instead, I will try and understand you. Your looks and your eyebrow raises. Your hand movements. Your pauses. Your choices. The way you stand up, open a door, look at a note, look at yourself, look out a window, look at me. The way you are curious.
If I do not try to know you, I will not fully know myself. To try and know a person should be more enlightening, more educational then any book or other tool. We meet a different world of experience with every handshake. Every person is an opportunity to know life.
Please, let me know you.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Friday, December 23, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Chewing wax, green cellophane, beats, blue hat and sunglasses, glitter skirt, mustard, spearmint sticky, red lights, white wine, red eyes, blue eyes, brown eyes, what color where his eyes, slow like sighs, fast dancing, the sound waves so loud they vibrated off my lips, elbows, unicorn meat SPAM tin, his necklace, oatmeal sludging, love, goose blue, goose bumps, hurt, pricks, bites, bruises, black carpet and cream tiles, apple trees, apple bags, apple box, click, red hair and north carolina, philadelphia story, white sicks, juniper, brumble, the Caring, I trust only old and warn out bricks, lights, lights that absorb into your body--absorb and affect, moksha, damp wood, lost jacket, cold shoulders, please hold my hand, cold hands, blue hands, plum, bernard, rust, pages, papers, ink, words, things, impermanence, abject, boiled milk, whales, paled trees that we walk on, cube shook, echo. ECHO.
I'm sure you have gone walking in the woods or in green meadows, and passed a clear, flowing brook. And you've tossed a flower into the brook, a red one, a blue one, or a snow-white one. It drifted away, and you followed it with your eyes as far as you could. And it went quietly away with the little waves, farther and farther, all day long and all night too, by the light of the moon or the stars. It didn't need much light, for it knew the way and it didn't get lost. When it had traveled for three days without stopping to rest, another flower came along on another brook. A child like you, but far far away from here, had tossed it into a brook at the same time. The two flowers kissed, and went their way together and stayed together until they both sank to the bottom. You have also seen a little bird flying away over the mountain in the evening. Perhaps you thought it was going to bed, not at all, another little bird was flying over other mountains, and when all was dark on the earth, the two of them met in the last rays of sunshine. The sun shone bright on their feathers, and as they flew back and forth in the light they told each other many things that we on the earth below could not hear. You see, the brooks and the flowers and the birds come together, but people do not; great mountains and rivers, forests and meadows, cities and villages lie in between, and they have their set places and cannot be moved, and humans cannot fly. But one human heart goes out to another, undeterred by what lies between. Thus does my hear go out to you, and though my eyes have not seen you yet, it loves you and thinks it is sitting beside you. And you say: "Tell me a story." And it replies: "Yes, dear Mili, just listen."
Sunday, November 6, 2011
I'm going to now transition into an awkward analogy. Oatmeal. I am swimming in a giant bowl of oatmeal. And not my mother's. Nope. This is unsalted, pasty, watery oatmeal. The kind that sticks to your fingers, dries in crusty patches, and is far from enticing enough to lick off. Hardly napkin worthy oatmeal. Just wash it off, down the sink. It's lame oatmeal. Maybe undercooked, too. No butter, cream, brown sugar, insert favorite oatmeal topping here. This. This is the oatmeal I'm navigating my days through.
I know there are people that can relate out there; oatmeal sludging. That feeling of heaviness, of every movement and intention being weighted by something that glues itself to every exposed piece of you. Many more of you are probably saying "what the hell does oatmeal sludging mean? She feels like she's covered in oatmeal..?" No. I shower. There is no oatmeal on me. What I think I mean ("she... doesn't know? ") is that the older I get, the thicker, stickier, and heavier life, in general, becomes. I think that's common. I really don't know--I only say that to feel a little more sane myself. Maybe not everyone interprets that as Oatmeal Sludging ("oh, she capitalized it. She's serious now") but for me, I needed to identify it. Label it, stamp it, categorize it, define it loosely. "It" being a feeling. See, recently how I interpret things, feel things, process things, has been changing at a chaotic, incomprehensible rate. And I was actually going berserk. Most things I thought I understood I became unsure of. Things I wanted previously, no longer applied. What a hectic mind frenzy, what madness! All sense of self--evaporated before I could even scoop a drop up as proof of my own, grounded, existence. What is going on?! (cough--it's called 'your twenties'--cough). Peanut-gallery-in-my-head aside, what is going on, is the realization of, and experience in, Oatmeal Sludging. Living daily life in that highly viscus, goop that sets in with responsibility and age.
I'm not so okay with that idea. What to do with such an analogy? This, this is where my blogs are handy on a personal level. Because, I can bring it all back around, like a good little writer that is pretending her words are making sense. Bring it to the beginning, tie it all in. Package it all up, stick a bow on top, and left click-it it into to space. Ready?:
I, I love my mother's oatmeal. I love the uniqueness of it. It's like crack for the soul--screw that "Chicken Noodle for the Soul" no, this is Crack-Like Oatmeal for the Soul. ("Wait, how does she know what crack is like--" NO! No. I do NOT, it's another analogy. Go with it. But don't, I mean, just get a bowl of delicious oatmeal, okay?) Ultimately, what makes it so special is not the sugar, or the raisins, or even the amazing butter. It's the love she put into making a delicious bowl of the best oatmeal she knew how to make. She had no 'secret recipe', she simply put in what she thought I'd love. Of course! What if that's the 'secret remedy' to Oatmeal Sludging? Discovering and remembering to add my own ingredients? An appreciation of 'being' and an openness to changing realities--that's the raisins, balance. Butter: acceptance of what is, and what is myself. And sugar, all that sugar! Love! Naturally. SO many cups of love. My mother's oatmeal, flowing through my veins in a rather different way.
Now, Oatmeal Sludging is still there. I think that's life. Life's naturally a bit sticky to get through. But, knowing that maybe all it takes to make that goop a bit tastier, a little sweeter, even wonderful to move through, is remembering a few of those ingredients--well, that's more manageable than the previous chaotic blunder I was swimming through. Don't get me wrong here, life cannot simply be fixed with oatmeal analogies, or brown sugar used as a metaphor for love, with all its complexity. I'm in no way saying that. But I do believe there is something in carrying around little "happiness reminders", silly life analogies, or memories, to just kind of infuse the day with. In this case, I've apparently been really missing oatmeal. But look what I've learned from letting myself explore that!
Oh what a thing, life is so much more than a bowl of cherries. Life's a bowl of the most perfect, unique, oatmeal. I really should inform Quaker Oats. I feel like a new company motto could really help my blog out. I also find the man on the logo oddly handsome. He's got stature. He gets my analogy. He adds butter to his oats, I'm sure....
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Monday, October 11, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Breath. And Waves. And Scar.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Sunday, November 29, 2009
I have a reoccurring experience--I watch the world through a one-sided window. I watch the Other Side. I sit in a small room--everything is dark and out of focus. Vivid and focused are the things I see beyond the window--out of my little box. I watch things move. There are people--I think they're people. They speak words and sometimes I understand these sounds. These people--I can watch them for days and days. Each movement is painted in expression and emotion and thought. I wonder if I look like them. If I live like them. If they can see me behind my window. I can make the scene in front of my window change too. I can create anything I want and put it out into the Other Side. I can make my private world come to life on the Other Side--things they can only see in their dreams. I wonder what Reality means. It's a word I don't fully
understand-it's so limiting. So contained and forced and false. I've come to realize there are two of what is defined as "me"--two of "me". One is here, right now, in this broken-focused, dim tunnel, dim box. Sometimes I close my eyes and then I am in the Other Side. I become movement, and emotion, and thought. I become unaware. I become people. In which state am I free? In which state am I a prisoner of my own nature? Sometimes I meet others when i'm in the Other Side--other's who, like me, have a dimly lit, out of focus box. A window. A blurred sense of the ridiculous meaning of Reality.
I see in montages. A gritty stack of fast flipping scenes that run through my head like an old film strip. I covet that pale light that reveals the face each passing moment--en
abling sight. Look steady out at the Other Side and watch that same light kiss the surface of every thing. Sight--proof of Reality #1. Then, if I were to continue on with proofs--sound, smell, touch, emotions…but even still--all unverifiable. I decide. You decide for you. Which is it. The Other Side--the moment, the movement: the chaos un-separate from our immediate sense of Reality. Maybe it will be the the little box--removed and observant, and still: Reality always questionable. In either state of self, the mind is never truly free of our own doubts, judgments, observations, emotions.
I'm in an old barn.
The structure, neglected, is slowly settling itself back into the earth--decaying naturally, despite it's manmade birth. The walls and beams and glass windows are blanketed in golden, dusty earth. The light breaks through, softly, and leaves warm lacings where thick shadows cannot stifle it. Instead, the darkness feeds off the shadowed corners,
impatiently awaiting the sun to retire. I stand in the midst of all this--choosing the sun's lacings to the heavy embrace of the shadows. Out the windows--the flicker of a filmstrip being projected--the sky becomes the screen and a slideshow begins. The pictures, also covered in golden dust, flash continuously. I watch. There's a drum beat at every flicker--it's deep and round and sounds like the breath of Earth. The dust begins to settle on my skin--it's cool and salty, but warms with the nimble work of the light. The film moves faster across the windows--the images expand across to the walls now. Faster--and the pictures, translucent, dance across ever surface, overlapping and now moving, spinning around me, moving to the floor, to the celling. The barn begins to become translucent with them--fading into what is now a dusk-set sky. The ground, slowly evaporates--the colors of the earth blurring up like paint strokes, fading into the ever darkening sky. Around me, I notice the dust has weaved an intricate, thin veil which is draped over an invisible sphere around me. The images, more like short film clips--now just a steady stream of overlapping motion--of faces and places new and old, recognizable and not. The ground is gone, all for the small patch supporting my body. It is now a deep, dark blue and everything set against this sky is iridescent--silver and wispy, including the images. The drum beat becomes a brilliant, crystal chime--elegant and not sharp. The dust veil is becoming thicker. It's rapidly enclosing me--obscuring my view of the images and of the silver wisps and of the deep blue expanse. The veil has completely enclosed me and I realize I am suspend in a silver nothingness. It's bright. I am nothing but a bright light--my hands, my feet, my entire existence: nothing but a bright, silver light. Pardon my abrupt ending--but I think I'll remain in this silver webbed space for awhile. Have a pleasant day.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
I couldn't sleep. I kicked and turned around my bed, disheveling my blankets and perturbing my cat, who showed his annoyance by swatting at my hair with every position change. I got a text from my mom near 2 a.m. telling me goodnight--a random but perfectly timed gesture. She recommend I make cider tea to help me sleep: "two bags of apple spice, two bags of mulling spice, some sugar-- will calm you down." And so the blogging commenced in an attempt to ease my running thoughts into submission.
Turn my face to the wall
If she's gone I can't go on
Feelin' two-foot small
Everywhere people stare
Each and every day
I can see them laugh at me
And I hear them say
Hey you've got to hide your love away
Hey you've got to hide your love away
How can I even try
I can never win
Hearing them, seeing them
In the state I'm in
How could she say to me
Love will find a way
Gather round all you clowns
Let me hear you say
Hey you've got to hide your love away
Hey you've got to hide your love away