Super Mo Takes Over the World

the gift

2011-11-17T11:11:00.001-05:00

The velvet ribboned box
Hiding hollow heart
Greeted me in a most demure way
Distracted I thought you a book
A book of which I already possess 5

But leapfrogging timelapsed conversations
Half a day away
Has me relishing my certain quietude
I knew it would come
The weightless feeling again
I can exist in this bubble
Suspended
It has all the air I require
I leave no footprints and I only occasionally
Snap photos
Some say be bold
When I am bold
I am prone to folly
So instead I hide
Hollow inside a festooned box
Three names imprinted upon me
Typewriters are objects for the nostalgic
I like the clickety clack
Clickety clack

But I am of a mind to purchase a fountain pen and a leather bound journal
I wonder would those inspire me more than the beribboned box in which I now hide?

I am a skilled rationer
Rationalizing is an art as well
But I am speaking of chocolates in Buckets’ small supply
The only discipline I possess
I can make it last

But there are times I squander
I engorge to sad result
But my slim-hipped form is still boyish in many ways

And like a stubborn boy
I will not give up my dream of you
The belief that you will never leave
Though you left long ago and sent me away
More times than I can remember
Like a child I lie badly
I remember every time
There were just more than I like to admit

In this you are more the boy
You forget what is least convenient to remember
I go out of my way to record
And perhaps this is precisely why I require a leather bound journal
A fountain pen and a bottomless well of blackest blue

starlet

2011-11-16T23:11:00.002-05:00

I reveal too much to be a mystery
There are scarce few rewards for humility
So I am packing my words in musty old trunks
And sparingly offering them in bite sized chunks
Let them eat petit four and have it too
I am learning what it is that I must do
You can't get to the top in comfortable shoes
Because sometimes I win but most times I lose
It has too much to do with knowing the who’s whose
So I dropped a name and I added a face
But the higher I climb I'm farther from grace
Because there she waits at the lowest rung of the ladder
For my repentant return
Even though I have told her there is still so much
So much more I have yet to learn

beachcomber

2011-02-14T00:02:00.004-05:00

Silent
I walk the shores of my waking
And spend quiet hours
Gathering bits and pieces of once beautiful things
That broke against my barriers in the moonlight

The rock that shattered
And the salt that polished
Have left only fragments
Glittering remains of great worlds and deeds
Ages old

I scoop them up
And spread them on the mantel
Where I hope they will remain
Until I return to them

On my next vacation

Some are lost but a few wait gathering dust
I blow them off and sneeze and sigh
Over my inability to understand what once they were

I carry them to a more scenic setting
With the hope of stirring memories of these
Now meaningless emotions
Their intensity fades under the brilliant scrutiny of the sun
And I know only that though their moment has passed
Still they remain

I pluck a silver strand from my temple
And string them together
The necklace with which I adorn myself
Is heavy

a sort of reconciling

2011-02-10T22:24:00.009-05:00

You prepare your confession online
The only green patch left
There is life here
Stuffed into these vertices
With a razor-edge knife
You can scrape it out
From under the baseboards
Hide it in your cheek pouch
Before anyone notices
And slip quietly out of the box
And into the square
The host is meant to share

You marvel that the squirrels remain so fat
In all this snow!!!
You tried to feed them
But their palate is... selective
And fennel in snow is more suspicious
Than heiresses sunning themselves on the upper deck
But these aren't Riviera squirrels
They need heartier stuff to satisfy
The hunger that leads them to scrape electrical wire
Snow plow-like

And I need more than words
To satisfy

assasin

2011-01-21T00:04:00.011-05:00

There are some whose words stir me:
Mark Helprin my unknowing mentor.
Solomon Grundy my unknown friend.

---
For your words
I still brave space
And find I am not disappointed
To arrive at the dissolution
Of your thoughts to paper
I gather them up
Reading the maps you've drawn
And prepare for myself the second coming
Unholstering my weapons
For once again, I am aware—
A shooting star
In its very failing
Its falleness, its falling
Is far more interesting
Than the brightest, most steadfast point of light
Ever will be
To the naked
Eye of the beholder

I am beholden!

overcome

2011-01-19T13:30:00.012-05:00

Got a bit of a Coen Brothers feeling today.
Revisited and revised an old write.

---
I bought a gun,
A great big one,
To kill the monster beneath my bed.

"Oh! please come!
Let's have some fun!"
Is what the terrible beasty said.

But I was done
With the lying son,
And that's just what I said.

He tried to run
From my great big gun;
So I blew off his head.

(There are some
This may stun—
That I preferred the finality of lead.)

I destroyed all his forms
Till there were none
Then watched him as they bled.

But when it was done,
When I had overcome,
I found I missed the dreams he'd read.

And in the sun
I dropped the gun,
And a shroud about him spread.

Now all alone
I sit and mourn
That all my fears are dead.

a winter's drive in may

2010-05-10T11:54:00.012-04:00

I drive alone in the dark
With the satellites all turned off
Weary treads lie coiled on my shoulders
Stubborn refuse stranded
And the soft whispered swish of tires
Echoes the crush of this empty weight in my chest

Twenty-three hours and counting
I am later than I have ever been
And I imagine you
Clicking at the counter
How is it that you like your Gin

I’ve fallen through more cracks than you’d remember
I can’t recall every window where I’ve stood and listened in
But I keep retracing all the moments that lead to your doorstep
Do you ever regret not inviting me in

Each unbottled bubble
Hisses a satisfied pop
To tinkling teeth like icecubes
As it sizzles to the top
A fraction of a second’s pleasures
Before you quench your thirst in measures
You measure in inches
You measure in miles
But the distance between us
Could be folded closed with a smile

How much litter lines this road
I travelled to get from there to here
"Not worth it" so you say
The things I could lose along the way
But I can do without socks and cap
As long as I keep my soul intact

But the toll is multiplying
The longer I keep driving

Slower than a speeding bullet
I will eventually understand
But for now
I whip my tangerine dream
Through the drizzle and haze
I keep an 18” low profile
And avoid the pitfalls and potholes
More gracefully than the assholes
Because I know a bad penny will keep turning up
Heads up
Chin up
Look up

It is always December

I wish upon my bleeding heart
Before I cross the line one more time

amaranthine imbalance (an exile)

2010-02-23T09:00:00.004-05:00

Yesterday my horoscope read:

Scorpio Horoscope for February 22, 2010

Uncertainty and shifting grounds can mark the day's outcomes, and confidence may retreat in the face of a challenge. Confrontation is the wrong game to play, but pulling out entirely is equally unsuitable. Take judicious compromise now and the resulting situation will improve, but don't chase diminishing returns.

And it couldn't have been more accurate... Oh the shifting surfaces! It is a dance that is difficult to master

---
chasing a diminishing return,
chasing my own stinging tail,
digging a rut in the garden of eden
all to no avail.
I know I'll just keep spinning,
pretending I will prevail,
because the future is uncertain
even as it's happening once again;
and the delusion of asserted will is a comfort
as I dance fight the choreographed end.
and the fruit from the tree is now dropping
on the trembling, shifting sand
while my kisses, more than retreating footsteps,
cause earthquakes where they land.
the forbidden tastes I gather
as I move in vertical lines
are very hard to swallow,
and I am running out of time.
so grab once more for my hand.
take me back to that eternal spring.
let the clocks be smashed and silent.
only let the furrows ring.
flood them with the tears of tomorrow
that my memories may grow
behind the amaranthine angel who guards them
row upon copper row.

monday

2009-04-28T16:36:00.006-04:00

silver crescent

delicate rim

the earth's shadow

caused only to dim

the beauty to grey for a short while

but given the cycles I know I will smile

just as your grin that hangs in the night

things once upside down must be put right

Maundy Maundy

2009-04-09T10:56:00.012-04:00

12 years after the tornado. Holy Week.

I am wishing I could prep St. Elmo Pres for Good Friday. I remember the thorns that I was pulling from my skin for over a month afterwards. This year... Elijah- get in here and take off that slicker and those boots! I need a bit of help preparing... scrambled brain and mashed finger are the only items on the passover menu so far...

---
I can’t forget anything
You remember nothing
Broken finger twisted and swollen
Feeling nothing
Broken heart empty and decaying
Terrible aching
On the night in which our Lord was betrayed
He gave this command...

He was worried about us
The ones who abandoned Him
Me

I would deny you again
I would run away every time
That is why I am here
With my toes chained to the ground
With silver threads
As fine as spider’s silk

She dropped to the ground
But I found her
And caught her up with deadly force
Broken body still and lifeless
Enviously peaceful

There is something beautiful in sleep
I am impressed- exclamation point
Or was it “that’s impressive”
Words I will never see
Words I will never hear
Except where I make them happen
Dreaming of their popping up in my inbox
On my desktop
Well done my good and faithful one
Tell me I am good
Just this once

A foot washer
You cleaned the slate
Tore apart-me-nt from the inside out
Don’t break the glass!
I beg in hurried prayer
So you take the roof
I am feeling light-headed now
Lessons in low pressure
Lesions on our feet

My back was sore
And you kept me awake
I didn’t want to pray that way
I didn’t want to say the things you made me say
But I said them anyway
I waited till the tree was gone
To scream “RUN!”

It is my job to protect
To watch to guard
To get the timing exactly right
I move by intuition
I am not bound by choreography
You speak and I rise or fall
On your command

I am looking for direction
Something more than
“Have you done this before?”
No, I am lost
Can you not tell?
“You show no nervousness”
As I twist the blue cap tightly on the neck
To the point of making it impossible to reopen
This is not my water
It was meant for someone holy
An angel with shining golden hair
That falls smooth and straight
Catching and tossing light

A princess by a pool

Waiting for Jeremiah
I swear she is Southern
Northern girls aren’t blonde

I too am light, yes?
You can pick me up effortlessly
But do I understand your sighs?

Though light

I am mostly shadow
A glacier under half moonlight
I glow on the surface
But there is a depth
Of which you are afraid

Napping
Capturing a simple moment
For such a complex woman
You try to understand
And cage that curled beast in your heart
But don’t you know she will beat those bars
And tear herself against them
Until she once again falls into a peaceful sleep
Brought on by the exhaustion of tears and torments

Rolling
Rolling
The thunder
Rolling
Rolling
The tears
Rolling
Rolling
The rock on which I built my house
Plymouth- ply mouth
And George Washingtons crispy in my mouth
Lightly dressed in an evening vinaigrette
And served after we remember the joy of sacrifice
Surrounded by tears
Hard boiled hippies
Just waiting for a chance to be delivered
And wrapped in the warmth of a scottish pig
And served with frothy beer and a side of tv
But now it is raised cups
And “Baruch atah Adonai”s

I taste the maror
Solomon says it is sweet
He is always contradicting
Pushing buttons
And blowing up the world
Just so he can dig up fossils
And ponder what was once alive

Elephants are endangered
Wrap them in flags
And stuff them till they are cartoonishly large
Listen to them shout
AM preacher-like
But what is it that they are saying?
Where is the Roman Road?
They are blaming the Donkeys
Who carried their belongings out of Egypt
Strike the rock once
And the water will flow
Speak to the rock
But things don’t always go as planned
I left my Britta filter
And the heat is unbearable
And the whining has me broken
Like this crushed finger
And this swirling cloud that destroys
Yet compels me follow
In its wake
We strike a second time
The water flows in mercy
And we strike over and again

Believing the water will never run out

I have seen greater things
I have seen mountains moved
But what had that to do with faith
Today- I cannot be still and know
Today- I do not understand

My assassin name is Deep Sleep
My Bondage uniform is a zip up; one piece; fuzzy

Footed pair of pyjamas
With scarf-wrapped penguins playing in a field the blue of sky
Ironic

Not only because penguins cannot fly

Let me walk to school in my robe
Unbrushed and free
Like Crazy Ball Square Tourettes Man
Let me be free and unjudged
Let me shrug off the mores
The taboos that have me bound
Let me seek you
Wherever you may be found
Find me
And let us dance
Though my feet are pierced
I will drag my cross to you
And I will smile under the burden I bear in love
“Why do you come here if it makes you sad?”
My hands are full of the nothing
That I took from you
And I wish there were a better way to say
Because I love you.

wanderland

2008-11-21T22:47:00.004-05:00

no pictures and no interesting conversation
have left me dumb and my heart's desires moot
now darkness has finally overtaken the sun
and it's time for a painful uproot
I'll pick the corn from my pilgrim's teeth
with splinters of the bones crushed beneath your feet
and I think it is nice how I've learned from you
a most dismal hope in things I never knew
but alice knew as she followed her fate
that though the clock stops time does not wait
and beheadings will happen like it or not
and lovely thoughts tumble into the basket to rot

New Hampshire Haiku

2008-10-29T14:02:00.003-04:00

High tide cold ocean
Visiting and retreating
Blue waves warm goodbye

Dedicated to my dear friend Chyela who knows how to warm even the coldest day.

motorcycle

2008-10-09T23:57:00.013-04:00

fast you fly up mystic ave.
i watch from the safest place I have
and wonder as i desire your speed
if true love really is only a need
a quiet quivering thrill that rumbles my chest
at the thunder of your motor's eager unrest

skeletons separated by leather and skin
hungry to blur the lines between sacred and sin
american crosses, angels from hell
tender beating heart inside a frail shell
denying how very fragile you are
invisible invincible you race through the cars
forgetting those fading memories and scars

body crouched over your bright holy steed
i'd give anything to know just how to read
the mind hidden behind that mysterious mask
surely you have answers to all the questions i ask
but my words are lost in the wind’s rush and roar
and i join the rest of the-motionless in a colourful blur

not the third street washeteria

2008-09-11T12:41:00.004-04:00

I have learnt the secret to staunching the tears
DEHYDRATION

I wait, listening to the drums spinning
I imagine the rhythmic thumping to be a child’s rubber soled shoe
No need to worry
My soul is labelled non-marking
I will leave no trace of where I have rubbed against your empty cask

How small can a heart shrink?

I call it “strength”
But I know the truth
Constant bumping against the Great Wall
Has caused callouses to grow
Hard, protective, disfiguring

My school colours were black and blue
I wear the bruises under my smile
Occasionally they tumble to the surface of my eyes
Bloated and bloody
But the crescent streak of bleach suffices to distract from the stains

It started out the size of my fist.

When the the door bursts open
With a pop
And comforting sigh of hot air
I observe what is left

I stuff my wilted pebbles back into their sockets
And this blackened lump inside my chest

I call my mother
She still cries
She doesn’t know why
She thinks the tears fall because she has lost a daughter
But I was gone long ago

I left to drain the fluids
And I have been spinning ever since

midnight whispers

2008-09-10T19:25:00.004-04:00

Ah, hope, love, hate, deceit
At this time of night
They fade to the shadows
Where they belong
The only things real
Are the electric lights outside my window
And their bulbous reflection in each rain droplet
Thousands of little Bostons
Clinging to the window
They will never get in.
My tears reflect your words.
Sometimes I hate you

raspberry blues

2008-05-24T15:26:00.001-04:00

I usually say too much!
Much more than I should
So lately
I have been holding my tongue
In hands too busy to notice
How it is so heavy and wet
And tied up in so many should nots

disown (migration)

2008-04-08T11:51:00.005-04:00

The words flit through my head
I will not let them land
Letters grasping at the page
For fear that they will nest here
Tearing living things from the ground
Those things which wriggle hidden in my soul
They will scratch
They will pull them into the open
They will devour those small pieces of me
I fear them now
Those winged words whose flights
Delighted my eyes and mind
In their games of diving and soaring
Now I hide beneath umbrellas of immense size
That they may not see me
But more that I may not acknowledge their freedom
I will claim they do not exist
They do not belong to me
They do not belong with me
They are not mine

pocketful of cheer

2008-03-28T00:58:00.008-04:00

The following verse is a tongue in cheek response to a myspace blog post (reposted immediately below) by dodinsky who, by the way, plans on publishing a chapbook of his works. In order to repost his words I added his link which appears at the bottom of this post.

Not Today

I greet my day
with a pocketful
of enthusiasm,
but you come along
with a sprinkling
of your biting sarcasm.

From your nostrils,
dark clouds billow.
Frogs start croaking;
I need to get going.
For today, I don’t intend to ride
your mood swings.

- dodinsky -

I haven't really thought of a title-
perhaps "POCKETFUL OF CHEER" will suffice, eh?

My pockets both had holes
Through which my moods escaped
Scurrying like moles
Like children swinging on a gate

They clattered all around me
I was unsure of what I felt
But you stooped to the ground with me
And gave me a bit of help

So now we've pinned all my moods to my chest
Like a kindergarten teacher's notes home to mothers
And at each interaction I choose the best
Selection of one mood from the others

Anyway, I thought it was about time for a cheery thought in this,
my dark little corner of the universe.

Below is Dodinsky's link...

uncle wick

2008-03-11T02:09:00.007-04:00

the next time I see grandpa
he will not see me
his eyes will be closed
and people will be murmuring "how peaceful he looks"
now that his soul is no longer trapped in his withering frame
rattling the ribs of its cage so that his body curls around the pain

the next time I see grandpa
my eyes will be so clouded with tears
that he will be a still blur
and I will regret sleeping in on cold holidays

the next time I see grandpa
my soul will be so wracked with longing
that it will scream to burst free of my wreck to join him
but he will not beckon me to him
he will not hold my hand and smile
he will not touch my face
or tell me I am a good person
no one will look me in the eye and whisper "beautiful girl"

the next time I see grandpa
I will carry my pain close to my heart
I will greedily guard it
stuffing it into my mouth and swallowing
before anyone can steal it
my belly will ache as the anger twists through my body
I will feint the comfort of others
though I know there is no comforting

the next time I see grandpa
someone will belch a Sunday song
that was meant for a pretty red bird
shot with a rifle in Missouri
or a bald eagle soaring over the sierras
shattered from the sky by so many leaden tears
tell them to turn and run just like those young boys
because I will rip open their throats so that they can not presume to sing

the next time I see grandpa
I will be angry
he will not ask for my kisses as he puckers and sucks the air
puffing little popping sounds
he will not gaze wistfully remembering his sweet bride with black hair
he will not tell me the story again of the first time he saw her
under that revival tent, singing in the choir
"not that old story again" she would say and roll her old eyes
and he would tell undaunted of how he knew she was the one
and she would smile and say how she pointed him out that same night as the man she would marry
long after the gold rush staking their claims in each other
moral of the story: you are never too old to obey your mama

the next time I see grandpa
I will kiss him anyway
I will be close enough to see the unnatural natural flesh tone sitting on the surface of his grey skin
I will feel the rush of nausea as I catch a whiff of a foreign scent on his body
imagining the rubber gloves prepping and fussing over him in a well-lit room
he will look ready to present the evening news
with his mask of uncaring
I will want to wash his face with the tears I spill onto his new make-over
he will be as hard as he is cold
the stove can no longer keep him warm
even if it burned his flesh to ash
even if I cover his body with my own and breathe my breath into him
he will remain silent and still
he will not help me
his last bit of gold was snatched away

the next time I see grandpa
I think I will understand why
treasure is meant to be buried
in quiet
in darkness

trained bird

2008-03-06T14:35:00.009-05:00

The tracks are showing through your skin
Ripped back by years of wear
Callouses grown and faded
The line moves forever forward
Whether you choose to follow or not
They will reach their destination
With or without you

You lay your pennies down
To slip like bullets through the air and clink into the gravel
Scabby fingers burned by the heat in their eagerness to feel the smoothness of honesty’s monument
Elliptical Polished Hungry

Do you follow foolish tripping along a path travelled
By a memory that would threaten to transform you to a distorted image of yourself
The warning in a whoosh and thrill that leave you breathless
Longing for that ghost who kisses you and gives life to the restless bird
Caged inside your breast
She would fly high over the rules that tick away in front of you
But you must trudge carefully picking over the broken back of this forgotten beast

Watch your step
Twisted briars block your way
Roses whose wild heads hang heavy with perfume
Breathing words you almost hear
But still the path moves on
The thorns snatch at you and plead with you to stay here in your pain
To bleed your prayers into the splintered ties
That bind you hands and feet
As the memory rounds the bend and whistles for your attention
The pain hunts you on this trail of tears and drying bones
There is nothing for you here
Except loss and creosote for your wounds

The rushing is only wind
It cannot hurt you
Only what is carried in the wind
Be mindful
The swirl can lift you it is true
But beware what else has been tossed into this blueness with you
You are not alone
How many others have been raptured only to be dropped without a sound
Broken porcelain birds who were never meant to fly
Appropriately reprimanded
Scolded and humiliated
Left to find their way back
Along this road that has been buried in a world of disbelief
And cynicism that it ever existed

But I have the shining pennies as proof
Shot from the train that passed me
It is a wonder those bullets never harmed us
As children
But now I understand the pain they can inflict
As they work to separate heart and soul from body

That bird was shot months ago
These bones are dry as tears

untitled

2008-02-18T12:06:00.004-05:00

Lunacy cries her pearls and diamonds for a city unknowing.
Catch her tears poet and drink deeply.
For beauty and pain-
As read through you-
Are one and the same.

construction worker's radio

2008-02-14T16:22:00.003-05:00

Angst screams outside my window
Broken hearts of men
They wail their indecision
With guitars plugged into pain

drop of blood on the thorn bush

2008-02-10T11:34:00.003-05:00

Red bird
So very small
Does anyone else
Notice you at all
I would not had I not heard
Your repeating repeating your tiny word

I don’t understand the note you pray
Your matins on this the Lord’s Holy Day
But I close my eyes and mouth with you
Breathing out darkness and filling with new
Day, the Sun, the promise of Light
Drawing me out of the troubles of Night
Shadows and screamings
Pain and Fear
Too tired for dreaming
I look up through the clear
Bright new dawn
And search through my windows
For a new sol to wish upon

When did you leave your master's side
To greet the mourning below my eyes
A drop of blood from my saviour’s side
The miracle that I have longed for
A sign, a clue, the fiery orb
St.Elmo sends his final word
Go in peace. Return and find
All you wanted you left behind

Ah, sweet bird
Pray for me
I will repeat that single word
So sweet
Mercy, Mercy, Mercy
On me
Have mercy my lord
Mercy on me

A confession, a profession, a pleading song
Sighing it daily my whole life long
With every action with every breath
Let it flow through me and continue in death

Lord Jesus Christ (breathing You in)
Son of the Living God (profess my faith as I breathe it out)
Have Mercy on me (I breathe it in)
A sinner (Let it go)

Repeat, Repeat
No more than a small bird's
Quiet lonely peep

hellebores (lenten rose)

2008-02-09T02:38:00.001-05:00

These ashes are from the volcano that I have become.
I burn for No One.
He attempts to extinguish me before I escape.
But bits of me roll away
Trickling from my eyes.
Hot, furious, sad, hopeful... all of these.
He closes the cork.
Seals me in.
I cannot escape.
I have vanished; I am invisible.
But I am not vanquished; I am invincible.
I am a tornado.
I whirl.
I would that I could destroy,
But I am trapped with Lucifer
Here in this bottle.
Lucid.
And the tall
Alabaster Japanese man
With his lavender hair standing
Like a flame of knowledge upon his head
Smells of flowers and sweet fruits.
He will slice out the hump from my back
And free me of this pain!
He tells me to have Patience.
He tells me I am crazy.
But I say, "I can do anything- this is the internet."
I am the talking bottle.
The Night Sky does not see me.
She has closed her eye to me.
She will not watch her daughter.
She has disowned me.
But I glow in her darkness.
I will live!
I will fight!
With my bloody knuckles and nose.
He batters me because He knows.
How deep my fiery furnace goes.
How much ash does it take to kill a rose?

let's go to limerick

2008-01-29T10:23:00.001-05:00

There once was a girl who did not care
When the night sky got caught in her hair
The stars all fell down
And poked holes in the ground
She hopped in one
And still lives there

i will sing, sing a new song

2008-01-20T11:34:00.000-05:00

Last night was an IMAX premiere, fundraising night for the Tennessee Aquarium sponsored by Big River and Blue Water. They opened the new show last night U23D, a U2 concert video in 3D! filmed in Buenos Aires! The show also premiered last night at Sundance. It is scheduled to open in select cities across the country on Jan. 23; so this is a fantastic opportunity for Chattanooga!!! It will be here for 3 months. MUCH OBLIGED, BIG RIVER & BLUE WATER!!!

The film is fantastic. Simply amazing how 4 young men could become such a sensation. How many decades are they going on? Incredible how four men can fill a stage with just their bodies, instruments and personalities.

The stadium was huge! How could Bono not feel like a god? He could easily influence the actions of that bobbing sea of humanity present at the concert. Just as Christ could calm a sea of water with a word, Bono can create a sea of synchronized clapping from thousands of waving hands with only a simple gesture! How must that affect his self-perception? Yet, he has not been selfish with the power he wields. He uses stage theatrics so effectively, but at the same time neither music nor ideals have been sacrificed. Their music isn't "all sex and drugs".

I cannot imagine having talked to heads of state, presented at the UN, traveled the world as an ambassador, been an instigator and promoter of products whose sales will go to aid in foreign countries... They are such a phenomenon! I was drawn into the cult of personality... the sense of awe and worship captured in the humble actions of a stage hand, in slow motion and a mysterious cloud of smoke, dressing Bono in a fresh jacket. But at one point the camera pulled back, and the audience could see the set list taped to the floor at Bono's feet. The realization hit, "Wow, they really are still just a group of 4 men. They are a band!" Then there was the confirmation in the mad, hectic changing of guitars between songs to make a smooth musical transition. The Edge is simply amazing in his non-glamorous, simple stage presence. Such a great foil to Bono's over-the-top ego. Adam Clayton still annoys Michael. I think that is funny.

Bono Vox
Really rocks
Reminding us to wonder
When Johnny'll come home
And ponder how long
He must sing his song
Marchin' all alone
But the drunk man dancin' 3 seats down from me
Made me laugh till I wanted to pee
Thinkin' he's gonna get laid
All because he'd paid
For the girl rolling her eyes
As he bulleted the blue skies

HELLO, HELLO (¡HOLA!) THE IMAX GIVES ME VERTIGO!

table (for) two

2008-01-16T19:04:00.000-05:00

Upon opening the door, I was reminded of what had impressed me the first time I visited table 2 back in August: a beautiful, well-designed interior beginning with an enchanting entryway which I have not seen anywhere else here as we do not have cold winters which chill a restaurant each time a customer enters. The draperies, though not necessary for keeping out the draft, create a sense of transition from work-a-day to something special. An exotic welcome in rich tones, the foyer sets the mood and expectations for the rest of the evening.

As we entered and soaked in the bar, kitchen and dining room, I was disappointed to note that the curtained tables along the back wall were all taken. I had hoped that on a Tuesday night we would have run of the restaurant and those magical tables would be clear for a private dinner with command of the entire hall. As it turned out though, I preferred the small square table close to the bar at which we were seated because it afforded us a perfect vantage point to enjoy the jazz trio.

Our server immediately greeted us and presented us with our menus mentioning the special menu additions listed separately as well as the wine lists: by bottle or by glass.

We started the evening with a bottle of Artazuri Grenache Navarre 2003. Throughout the evening, as conversation waxed and waned, we raised 3 toasts: to a good year 36, MLKing Jr., and Macintosh.

The meal:
Scallop cakes made for a mild, warm start. I always try to do a scallop dish or crab cakes wherever we go. This was the best of both worlds.

We followed the cakes with a mixed greens salad topped with walnuts and goat cheese. I appreciated that the salad was not drowning in balsamic vinegar dressing. A few more walnuts and perhaps the server's pouring the dressing over my salad would have made for an even more delightful presentation. The quartet of garlic, herbed drop biscuits were a tasty complement to the salad.

For my entree, I chose the stuffed roasted pork loin. The loin was stuffed with a delicious spinach and pecan filling and was served over a fantastic creamy polenta. The dish was topped with a thin drizzle of a surprisingly delicate blue cheese sauce. The herbs were just right, but there were some bites which surprised me as overly salty. Though the flavors were an interesting and pleasing blend, the meat was dry. I concentrated on the spinach stuffing and the polenta.

The 10oz. Bison loin (rare) over garlic mashed potatoes, however, was ABSOLUTELY FANTASTIC! Perfect texture, soft and flavorful, seared just right with a nice smokiness that permeated the meat but didn't overpower it. Just as polenta complements pork flavors, potatoes make red meat sing. Asparagus and carrots made for pretty accompaniments, but it was the potatoes that carried the vegetables.

To close our meal, we asked for a tasting of the house-made rosemary ice cream drizzled with balsamic vinegar. The ice cream had a taste I can only describe as clean, but it left my mouth with an oily coating. So, my palate sufficiently cleansed and ready to be done with the strange sensation left by the ice cream, I opted for the low-flour brownie (the server described this dessert, when paired with the chocolate ice cream instead of vanilla, as "the perfect man substitute"- I chose vanilla as I had already enjoyed the Jack Daniels Chocolate Ice Cream when I visited in summer). I was gratified by the generous square of dense brownie served with a very light, soft ice cream zigzagged with chocolate sauce... not too sweet... a perfect pairing with my decaf coffee. Mi esposo had an espresso.

I look forward to visit 3 at table 2.

forgive me

2008-01-06T20:15:00.000-05:00

I recently found myself in a conversation regarding forgiveness. The person with whom I was speaking had reprimanded her sister for continuing to be angry with a lousy boyfriend who had called to apologize for acting like a jerk earlier that day. Let me note here, an act of contrition from him is quite remarkable, but currently she is going way beyond the extra mile for him, and I suspect that his apology is a veiled attempt at trapping her more tightly to himself through the confusion of Christian counsel. The given rebuke was, "You must forgive anyone who asks forgiveness." Now this is a tricky situation, and the imperative to forgive becomes a confusing statement as she is also being told she should leave the bad boyfriend. I simply pointed out the confusion created by these contradictory instructions, but that is not what I want to blahg about.

The concept I will address is what I see as a much larger problem with the admonition as a statement, a fundamental misunderstanding of forgiveness (though I left it unstated as this is a tricky situation filled with years of emotional and dogmatic baggage - a "God helps those who help themselves" sort of pioneer concept). It is my understanding that forgiveness is not dependent upon a change of heart by the offender. It is the act of the offended's releasing the transgressor from the perceived debt owed as a result of the affront. Forgiveness has everything to do with the offended's attitude but not the offender's. On the flip side, if we find ourselves in the position of the offender we must not ask forgiveness; we should only express our guilt and sorrow over the offense, deal with/ remark on/ claim only our own actions. To ask forgiveness is to place the responsibility and guilt of our offense on the shoulders of the one whom we have already hurt. It is an attempt to release ourselves from the responsibility of dealing with our crimes. How many times have we said or heard, "I said I was sorry!" or, "It is not my fault if (s)he can't get over it!" As the offender, we then pick up a righteous banner and wage a new war, turning the offended into an offender. By this reversal how much do we add to our offensiveness. We increase our victim's burden by placing our guilt on them to deal with. We cannot insist on forgiveness. It is not ours to claim. It is not our right. Yes, we can expect it in prayer, it has already been promised. We can rest comfortably in the promise given through the blood of Christ, but we mustn't expect the ones we wound here to respond as Christ. They did not volunteer to carry our burden of sin, we forced it on them.

(Let me clarify to anyone who thinks I am creating an argument for holding grudges, I believe that we are to forgive even if no apology is made, but I also believe it is far harder to forgive than it is to sin against another person. My position is that forgiveness has almost nothing to do with its recipient. It is a matter between the one offended and God. We are told to forgive because we have been forgiven. We pray that God will forgive us as we forgive others. Also, once forgiven, the transgressor's job then becomes refraining from wallowing in personal guilt and condemnation and beyond that, forgiving others- a sort of pay it forward, hehe. I will also make note here that the difficulty of forgiveness lies in the fact that though God forgives once and for all, we do not forget. The pain of inflicted wounds always smarts. Forgiveness has to happen over and over again. Just like we are "being saved"- we are not saved at any given point in time until we are released from time; so too forgiveness is a process.)

So anyway, all that to say, "When you cause an affront, just say, 'I am sorry!' "

port-o-jon ponderings

2007-12-18T16:59:00.001-05:00

The tree is shiny, reflecting the rainbow of rotating light. The stockings are slightly swaying over the gas logs which flicker two eerie horns of nearly invisible flame. The multiple advent calendars, caught in the rumpled bed clothes of 2007, have yet to move past an infamous day. The holiday bulls-eyes are up on the doors. The poinsettias are thriving- I thought they would be dead by now. The Christmas music tries cheerfully to push out any thoughts of doubt and fear, whispering between lyrics, "No despair as we look towards a new year." The trash cans are full of Puffs Plus. The mugs are warm with hot cocoa or tea. The star lights glow in the plastic garlands on the mantel and the blessed stair railing on the second floor which keeps the youngsters from quick, painful trips down to the first floor.
The house is cozy except when there is a breeze outside. When it rains we have a river in the basement and a beautiful fountain which trickles from above the dining room picture window - soft tears that play a delicate melancholy rhythm on the sill. There are dust bunnies of flokati and cotton balls from nativity craft lambs- small shearlings scattered on the floor, blowing like fluffy-white tumble weeds, leading us to the small Christ child hiding in the corner. We wait for Jesus to come this year as every year, but somehow it is different. Somewhere something got lost or perhaps found. Is it because I believe it? Is it because I only want to believe? Do I wait only to celebrate his birth? Am I no longer impatient for his speedy return? Eager to raise my glass at his table? That cup for which he has been waiting so long to drink? Do I even believe in that table? Do I long too much to stay in this world, with my tv, wii, and children? Many days I wish to run away, but where would I go?

Perhaps, I could hide in the outhouse until the season passes and there are no reminders left of all my questions until everyone starts pulling out their bunnies and eggs.

just dropping a sounding line

2007-12-12T15:01:00.000-05:00

As I recently walked the realm most call "Reality" I realized I had lost something of myself.

Somewhere between here and the tangible world, I misplaced my ability to reason. Now that I am attempting a return to my head- I am finding these doors as locked to me as the physical doors of my house to which I can never again return. St. Elmo has sent me on my way, drifting down my stream of consciousness. He waves near the shore and bids me, "Khada hafiz, Aloha, Adios, Vaya Con Dios, Bon Voyage, and God Speed you anywhere but back here!"

In this ocean of words swimming on a virtual page- I seem to have lost my imagination. I have gotten the whole thing mixed up. I left reason in here and imagination out there. But even in here, on the glowing page of this book- my lap warmer, my reasoning is shoddy at best.

I feel no depth below this vessel, like I am about to scrape bottom, but I suppose that means I will be landing soon. And now I have to ask, "Where am I? And who’s the skinny guy in the red shirt and floppy white hat? And how does he keep his shoes so clean?"

please don't worry for me....

2007-09-29T09:05:00.000-04:00

When I have a chance I will write a bit more about amaranth...
I will not lie- it is personal expression of... well, I think what it expresses is pretty obvious....

But I will leave you with this- An Amaranth is an undying flower. It was often used in floral arrangements in Victorian homes- I guess because it kept its colour for so long. It has a long, unusual flower that droops like a chenille tail, with the most amazing vibrant colours- think cocks comb. Anyway, I love a particular variety whose common name is "Love Lies Bleeding."

I love myths in which flowers grow out of sadness- drops of blood become... tears become...

So when I have moved and reestablished internet access, I promise I will explain...

There are just too many thoughts running through my mind and they all converged in amaranth.

I hope I hurt no one by expressing my despair.

Thanks for your concern.

amaranth

2007-09-27T13:30:00.000-04:00

The smell of death surrounds me
Stinking in my nostrils
My brothers carry me to the burial grounds
Throw me on the heap of carcasses

We writhe
We are not dead- yet
Our souls are crushed and oozing from our wounds
We are hurting
You would bury us and cover our stench

Will no one wash us and make us clean?
Let us join the living
Let us dance
Let us sing
We have songs
But our throats are choked with sorrows
The pain snaps our chords
Our songs are sad but beautiful
They are True

Do you see us?
We are the invisible
Only known to you by the discomfort we bring you
The stink and the sharp wailings that scrape at your soft mind
Your fragile wall

Toss us aside
Cover your eyes
Try not to hear
Our groans pounding out of rhythm
Our breaking hearts clanging to the ground
Discord
The melody is wrong
The words are mixed up

The maggots are wriggling from your walls
They are coming for us
Will they devour us?
Who will help us?
We are helpless
Our legs are broken and cannot express our hearts
We wave them at you, yet you do not understand
We are the grotesque
We are the depraved
We are the unsaved
We are calling you
Crying your name in the darkness
But our voices are harsh

The dirt is falling on us
You are pouring your pain on us
Covering us in all our sins

We are drowning
We die alone together
We cannot even comfort each other

Have I only imagined these others with me?
Perhaps I am alone
The writhing I feel is my own body
Twitching
Convulsing
I cannot get right
My left breast is crushed under a heavy boot
As a gentle hand tears the cross from my throat

The death rattle in my chest frightens me
The rasping of my breath as I struggle to stay afloat
In this sea of suffering
How can I expect you to understand
You are higher than I am
I thought we were all the same
I thought I was different
Exceptional
I am the dirt
You walk me and I groan under your feet
You kick my brittle bones
They break and scattered like dry leaves

I am the inherently loved
I am the inherently rejected
I am the inherently wrong
I am the inherently dead

No morning
No mourning today
Nothing has been lost
Broken things are to be thrown away

A flower will grow
An amaranth for your table
Dripping soft and red

Love Lies Bleeding

monkey man and me

2007-09-18T22:27:00.000-04:00

Monkey Man in your green tree
Sing so happy, swinging free
Monkey Man, I can see
I can see you see me
Monkey Man, climb on down
No, there's no one else around
Monkey Man, hold my hand
I promise I will understand
Monkey Man, touch my face
No, there's no better place
Monkey Man, kiss my skin
Hold me dear, I'll let you in
Monkey Man, can't you see
Just how sweet it can be
Bananas and termites for all of our days
I love you forever now and always

In 2001 in New Delhi there were several sightings of a strange, hairy Monkey Man. A reward was offered for his capture while state side NRI's called for acceptance of and reconciliation with the mysterious Monkey Man.

Whiny Over Water

2007-09-16T14:56:00.000-04:00

Downtown, that's where the lights are bright.

Friday evening I was finally able to take my sister out for her birthday. It was sort-of last minute. I picked up an Enigma Magazine at the urging of Jessica P. Wallin, and noticed that Milele Roots was playing at R&B. I have been trying to see them for over a year. The last time I had seen them was with my sister. So we made a date for later that evening!

I took her up to the Hunter- she's not been since the addition. I told her how I missed the special hidden spot at the end of the parking lot, behind the dumpsters- a friend had shown me a long time ago. He and I played in the aquarium fountains when they were new and then climbed through the woods to sit there. We watched a few people enjoying the river walk and we listened to the tree frogs. I wish I could remember our conversations... philosophy, religion, our histories. Strange how when we are with a close friend just hanging out we simply expect we will always be enjoying the same rituals for years together? Unfortunately, we lose those ordinary precious experiences if we do not pay close attention; because eventually we are no longer close, and those moments become lost in history existing only as a rich velvety colour in our memories. I no longer remember our conversations, but I do remember how much fun we had. So much laughter mingling with the trickling sounds of the fountains and pools- gurgling. Content as we played on the terrace of the Hunter Mansion, looking out over our home town. There were so few people around downtown at that time. Just our voices echoing against the empty buildings. Splashing out across the river. So many years ago. To be remembered again while I was enjoying anew with my sister. Reminiscing over sitting on the retaining wall and the soft green grass, watching Limpopo take the stage during Riverbend. I still remember the child playing next to us- the father keeping a close eye on him. I still can see how strong and agile Yuri was, dancing like a clown on stage and how large that balilika seemed, thumping out it's melodies. Before the Feists moved to Birmingham. Before life became complicated. Before we made choices that changed all of our directions. Before we all lost each other.

I do not want to forget. I do not want to be forgotten.
But more so- I want to remember. I want to be remembered.

amused

2007-09-12T21:32:00.000-04:00

The muse,
She does refuse.
I call her to come lie next to me.
She used to come so easily;
Now she laughs and tosses her hair.
I cannot help myself: I sit and stare.
Her heart is fickle as she is fair.

My butt hurts from sitting in this chair

serendipitydoodah

2007-09-04T22:41:00.000-04:00

This is a cleaned up, more put together version of a stream of consciousness rant that I wrote earlier this week on MySpace, but then chickened out of posting for public viewing. This is just a better venue for these particular thoughts? Maybe it is the black background. MoSpace is an orange place. My brother called worried about me after reading my original posting- so I will attempt to lighten the moroseness and smarten the moronism of the earlier draft.

Can't sleep. Thinking about Cap'n Kangaroo.

More precisely- the Rabbit who played the piano- he was the best!!! and SIMON!

"Well, y'know my name is Simon, and the things I draw come true. And the pictures take me, take me over. Climb the ladder with you."

I wish I could draw the world as I imagine and then jump into it just like Simon.

I find myself in a place of inexpressible restlessness. When I have recently tried to articulate these inner wrestlings, I get all the advice and answers that I knew I would. All the same things that I have told myself to try to invalidate my thoughts and emotions. I have tried to negate myself. My closest mates don't understand that I am telling them the truth about myself- that I have never been honest with anyone, and now I am trying to be honest. They think I am deluded, that I need counseling... Christian counseling. Problem is I am feeling more in line with Neitzsche at the moment- I guess everyone thought he was crazy too? Ah well, me (Sorry grammar guys and gals, slipping into the vernacular works better)... me and the horse-kissing madman, we'll hang out one day sipping our morning tea or cocoa (no coffee- it "spreads darkness") and talk about how everyone should have just realized that they were all holding themselves back. I wanna be a SuperMan. But...

"Simon, stay within the lines, Love. Don't draw your own reality- that is bad. Look at the mess you've made of things. Here is a colouring book. Mum will wash the fence, now you go play nicely."

Poor Simon and I
Are Going down
Down to the bottom
Of the floor
Just searching for
That enchanted
Chalk line door.

Perhaps I am just bummed 'cause all I really want to do is hop into our tangerine dream and drive- nowhere. Follow the Double Yellow Lines. Wherever those ribbons of moonlit sunshine take me. Are they like a spelunker's ropes that someone rolled out in order to find his way back out of the darkness? Will they lead me in or out? If in, will I find someone at the other end? Someone who understands and says, "You are not crazy, but you are also not normal and going through what everyone else goes through. You are uniquely you finding your own way, though I say, why are you using my guides?! The unusuality of this whole night is like a dream! Where shall we to next?" If it leads me out, will I stumble into the light, and be dazzled? If so, I may go back into the darkness, once again hiding my discontent (without even having to use my super power of invisibility- now you too know my secret). Of course, here I am on a small dark spot of the internet exposing myself. I guess my brother is right, "Blogging is the new exhibitionism." Should I jiggle a bit? ha ha ha. Physically, there's really not much to jiggle, but this brain sure is rattling.

Okay, back up, look up, there are clouds hiding the moon, but she is out there. A cold white eye staring, a giant spotlight glaring, a delicate chalk circle flaking on a blackboard from a time when it was still okay to dream.

I think when I finally implode, when I supernova and finally set off an explosion of self, when I finally do something beautiful, I will have them scatter my ashes in space. I wish they could scatter me on her face, and I could be cold and beautiful too. Unable to feel pain or anything else. No need to be ashamed. No need for anyone to pity me because I am higher than most anyone else has ever been. Just dirt that shines.

I need to find an expression, some form of utterance for this thing I have been living with- this symbiote. I would love to shout so loud that the roof flies away and all I am left with is black sky and at least this one silent wall- holding the chalk drawings of a dreamer.

luv the v-dub

2007-09-02T16:30:00.000-04:00

We replaced the stolen orange buddy scooter
"Little Orange Dragon"

with a VW GTI Fahrenheit
"Pokey" (as in Gumby's orange horse-pal.)

Yeah, got a thing for orange.

Doubtless, I will seem a bit small-minded when I admit:
I LOVE THIS CAR!!!!
Attached? You betcha!!!

Pop the top, and let's go for a drive!

-----

It's not Celsius, Baby!
It's Fahrenheit;
So please, can you try to get it right?!

GTI bring on the speed,
An orange streak of fire!
Give the adrenaline that I need.
A rush is all that I require!

Turn up the temperature!
(Going faster)
Shifting into such sweet rapture-
Flying towards our "...ever after"

Down shifting for the curve,
I feel the confident grab.
No need for us to say a word.
The best time we're ever gonna have
Is in this car- flying,
Smiling, without even trying.
Is this all that we've been denying?

Turn up the temperature!
(Going faster)
Shifting into such sweet rapture-
Flying towards our "...ever after"

i believe jon d is overdue

2007-08-30T09:30:00.000-04:00

Perhaps not the thing to read on a Friday night...
But maybe just the thing?

MY RETIREMENT PLAN:
Since it already happens, why not? Might as well cash in, right?

One day I will open a bar and call it "The Library": The unashamed premise being that you come to check out and pick up "some reading material" for the night. Our job behind the bar? give you enough alcohol that your heart will be numb enough to believe you are happy. Maybe we will even provide a screening service (medical and criminal records), and we will have card carrying members: a clear symbol of status and distinction!

I can't even check a book out of the library because I hate the idea of returning it. When I "loan out" a book, I usually soon afterwards go out and purchase a new copy for myself. I just hope that the "borrower" will like it enough to hang onto it or pass it on to someone else. I am the girl whom publishers love. I once purchased 3 copies of a single title (at various times)- all of them now long since passed on to others. Because of this ridiculous tendency, we purposefully purchased multiple used paperbacks of Walker Percy's writings. Can't give away our first editions. If I like a book, I read it over and over again. I have not read much- the repetition slows me down.

With this obsessive/ possessive nature of mine, I find the picking up and tossing aside of people quite... disturbing but also fascinating... Kind of like watching the twitching of the huge dying cockroaches that, like left over leaves from fall, litter the restroom floor of the UTC library following Christmas break. Grotesque, but I find I am drawn to observing the delicate legs and waving antennae while the creature lies on its back flailing as it tries to right itself. I wonder, "How did it get on its back in the first place? Why don't they die on their feet? Do they have some sort of seizures that flip them over?" They panic when approached but calm to a gentle scraping of air when they find themselves undisturbed in their dying moments. It probably takes days. I remember visiting one particular insect over the period of a week before it finally disappeared. That was the closest I have come to visiting a dying loved one. I remember one day leaving the restroom with tears in my eyes because I could do nothing for that small body- actually quite wonderful in its complexity. The way its legs attached to its body, the armored body segments. The precise oval shape, the delicately veined wings. Perfection, except for a poison that caused it to flip. A poison that made it unable to function- unable to walk or eat or drink. I knew it couldn't survive the toxins in its system, but I would come and squat by it each day just to ponder its beauty and the strength it had to fight every day to hang onto its minuscule life. It was dying all alone. As far as I know, I was the only one who came to visit. A puff of breath to see if my little friend was still alive. If yes, then a fluttering wave of legs to greet me. How sad the Monday I returned to find he'd been swept away like a stray piece of toilet paper. I had become attached even to a large, dying cockroach.

At least in some matters my nature remains consistent. I become attached and place high value on the people and things that cross my path. I gather them and collect them and ponder them; but I suppose at the same time, there is also a perverse fascination in knowing that we are all dying and that most of the time we don't even realize it. We are all lying on our backs waving our legs at each other. I have heard insects don't feel pain; we have to numb with alcohol, chemicals, pleasures... We could lie on the floor of the bathroom for years, tossing our evening's libations into the toilet, smiling because we had so much fun.

Oddly, the ones who realize they are sad and dying become the outcast... Perhaps it is just too undignified the way we don't stop flailing and trying to right ourselves.

Perhaps we will also provide counselling services at The Library
for all those who really meant the things they said and did the night or the week before.

aboard? no, I said, "abort!"

2007-08-28T11:44:00.001-04:00

Sir Richard Branson is making it possible for all of us to travel into space, well... okay, some of us... okay, not many of us at all, but we can all experience Virgin Galactic's outerspace experience through cyberspace. If you've not tried it- you should!!!

Wish I had an extra $200K. Best wishes to all the pioneers!!!

a little ditty for sir dick:

I'm selling my place
And heading for space.
Can't wait to get gone.
It won't be too long...

Hit me with force Mach 3
So I can experience 0G
(Floating free)
All the pressure sliding off from me.

Pushing through the atmosphere;
Punching through this veil of tears.

Don't worry when off I blast
I assume I'm never coming back.
Y'say Major Tom had you sad,
But, Dude, the view! 'tweren't too bad.
Gotta get myself ready to go
Become an astronaut.
Saying "Goodbye" to everyone I know
And selling everything I've got.

Hit me with force Mach 3
So I can experience 0G
(Floating free)
All the pressure sliding off from me.

Pushing through the atmosphere;
Punching through this veil of tears.

Blast me up into space
Far above this human race.
I never seemed to run it well.
I tried, but when I finally fell
I couldn't get my heart to come back 'round.
Ever since, it's been slowin' down.
So I am headed up beyond the sky,
And, at least, if I can't fly,
I'll sure enjoy the way I die.

Hit me with force Mach 3
So I can experience 0G
(Floating free)
All the pressure sliding off from me.
All my troubles scraped off me.

Pushing through the atmosphere;
Punching through this veil of tears.
(Floating free)
All the pressure sliding off from me.
All the pressure sliding off from me.
(Floating free)
(Falling free)

washing all the colours away

2007-08-22T14:50:00.000-04:00

Following is a bit of a rant that will most likely interest no one. Like I said awhile back, who really believes that anyone reads or cares about their thoughts? a bit narcissistic, this whole blogging thing, but I am becoming attached.

I have noticed that many people are afraid of colours. I wonder why that is. As children we love them, the brighter the better- so what happens along the way that makes us suspicious and even afraid of vibrancy in colour?

I wonder how do other people choose colours to fill their homes?

We are selling one of the coolest homes in all of Chattanooga, and I worry the young man who is moving in will not appreciate its flow and its uniqueness in room sizes (kitchen, living, dining, bathrooms and bedrooms are big for stelmo. We even have closets and a laundry as well as a West-facing deck with an incredible view of the mountain). Surprisingly though, I am most distressed that he may lack the imagination to appreciate the colours which make this quite the groovy pad.

His mother says he wants to paint it white!!! Of course, considering the cost to paint this house, and that it was painted within the last 2 years and recently touched up, I doubt he will go to that extreme.

The story of choosing a colour scheme:
I wish I could find a before photo of our house. We used to drive passed it, even after a month of living here. Extremely nondescript, bland. Actually kind of ugly. We purchased for the interior. The garden? there was none. Even the trees were sad. We lived with it for almost 7 years before we could afford to do anything about the paint.

It took a few months to choose a palette. The fall months are the best months to research nature's combinations in Chattanooga. I like for a house to complement its surrounding landscape. Living in St. Elmo, we are surrounded by old trees and antique gardens with beautiful spring flowers, but spring is far more fleeting than fall, and the trees are much stronger elements especially as I had not finished the garden plantings at that time.

When trying to make the decision, I would take long walks through the neighborhood. I would stand in front of the beautifully restored Victorians and take note of the variety of colours and how they were used to highlight and accent. One of my favorite homes has, I think it is, 7 different colours- though many of those are in the same family. I would stare at the birds who visited our garden, the stray dogs, the feral cats, the chickens and roosters. On my walks, I would gather fallen leaves, sticks, and rocks. I created a large catalog of purples, reds, goldens, yellows, greens, taupes, pinks, browns and blues- many colours represented on the same leaf, stick or rock. (I love the way there are no "solids" in nature. Every "solid" we see is only an illusion created from the various colours as seen in harmony.)

Bags of nature later, I finally made a decision. I found a small, beautifully patinous spot on our deck- a spot where the sun did not shine during that fabulous, wet season. The wood had weathered to a fantastic clay/ taupe with touches of aubergine mildew and the loveliest aqua lichen. I selected paint swatches, but was unsure how to apply them- body, base, trim, and accent. Thanks to the job supervisor from Randy Wilson, we came up with a lovely scheme that is both in line with the interior exuberance of our home as well as the historic nature of the 'hood.

To think that all the consideration that created this beautiful spot could be washed clean of colour and made glaring white, bleached and lifeless, a skeleton drying in the sun! SIGH!

Why is it that I want to have control in matters where I have no right even to speak? Too attached am I...

Don't tell me this house is not my home
And that neither is this flesh and bone,
I think I just want to be alone.

appetite for entertainment

2007-08-19T17:44:00.000-04:00

Cheers and Beers!!!

A better Friday night? Perhaps another... same places, same faces- I see a pattern in my smile.

Rhythm & Brews 2 nights in 1 week. empty pockets.

Thursday: David Wilcox- haven't seen him in 12 years! Early on he played a song I like to sing sometimes for the children when things go all wrong but it is all right. (Like my life.) In fact, the room began to fill with children sometime during the show.

Friday: GNR tribute band, Appetite for Destruction!!! There is nothing like getting into costume, dining on scallops and dancing near the man you love while hidden in a crowd of people- easier to dance while invisible. I even saw a Giant Tiger in the crowd. Perhaps Rock and Roll can save my soul... or send me straight to Hades. I am sure when I get there I will see many familiar faces from the show. I also expect that it won't be too much hotter there than it is here in Chattanooga.

Speaking of invisibility: Why are we so worried about what other people think of us? Especially girls. In the restroom, my friend and I met a beautiful woman fussing with her clothing at the mirror. She was quite stylish in her jeans, layered tops and black vest. Perfect hair and makeup, but she wasn't sure she was good enough. Good grief! Hopefully, she heard the truth we spoke to her. She was beautiful!

Anyway, who cares? It seems each one of us is so preoccupied with self that I don't think any of us really sees anyone else- unless looking to... how do I say it politely... score? Is that euphemism still used? A bit ironic, we were there to see a simulation band, and as the night progressed, Love became victim to a sort of shoddy imitation.

Dear Appetite for Destruction,
Your artful act of simulation
Had a strange effect of permeation,
And I watched in consternation
As throughout our congregation
Love underwent a permutation;
And in our desire for titillation
We pulled the goddess down from her station.
----

On a lighter note... if anyone reads this- Patience: is it "sad woman" or "said woman"? The lyrics sites say "said woman", I always thought it was "sad woman". I want it to be "sad" so it refers to a present, instead of past, conversation. Hmmm, perhaps that's part of her having to be patient: She's not heard from him in awhile...? Okay, so maybe this thought wasn't lighter after all.

"I'M STILL ALRIGHT TO SMILE."

just how did puss cat get to london?

2007-08-17T11:33:00.000-04:00

The following rhyme is inspired by true events!
It's a crazy place, but that's part of its charm. I love St. Elmo!
Thanks to MFB for starting me at the very ending.
Colloquial eloquence and wisdom are yours.

Open the door.
Walk the steps.
Make the decision to move
Through space and time.
It's a very fine line,
But you feel in your bones
What you need to do.
The decision seems hard.
It's an awfully big yard
Filled with dangers on left and right.
What needs to be done
You do all alone
When the neighbor kid slips outta sight.

You run 'cross the street
Pavement burning your feet.
You're stealthy and quick as a fox.
Not sure if you oughtta,
But sometimes you gotta
Just get the cat outta the mailbox.

lucky

2007-08-16T13:01:00.000-04:00

As a child I learned
The best place to find
A 4-leaf clover
Is in a patch
Where the sewer is
Bubbling up- seeping over.

Treasure can't be found in a department store
But between the cracks in the floor,
And only when you despair,
"There is no more."

(And only if you can stand the smell.
I learned this lesson very well
When I was just a child.)

bathing in star showers

2007-08-13T23:31:00.000-04:00

It is hard to see the stars from inside.

That says it all, doesn't it? It is hard to see most things when you are surrounded by silent walls and ceilings, both physical and psychological. Ooooo... I think I hear the sonar trying to find a soul! Ping. Ping. Ping.

The night sky has been beautiful for the last few days. Found a spot 5 miles or so past Covenant College, climbed atop the VWEurovan and watched the best show in Chattanooga! The Spheres were performing!!! The Perseid Meteor Shower (St. Lawrence's Tears) peaked this weekend. Fantastic. Perseus was tossing some lovely stars out of the sky. Though from my perspective, it appeared Cassiopeia was doing most of the work. Perseus was kind of lost in the Chattanooga glow. I was actually able to capture Jupiter on my iPhone- nothing else obviously- its a camera on a phone for crying out loud! but I had to prove to my friends just how bright he has been. How bright is he? Insanely so, he is so bright that the van was reflecting his light. Jupiter Victor. He has conquered my heart!!! Quite literally- he was right over it! helping Sagittarius target my (Scorpio's) poor blinking heart. Capricorn- which really looks more like a Big Chicken or Partridge- was trudging along infront of Aquarius who was laboring quite seriously as the twirling Fishes were playing in the tree tops. The Milky Way was extremely bright on Thursday night, but lessened in intensity as the weekend progressed. We could scarcely see it tonight. The moon is on her way back to take over her place in the sky, but she will be eclipsed (by Earth, of course) at the end of this month. Even terra firma wants a piece of the heavenly action, if only just through the casting of her shadow.

The star studded shows we saw this weekend were definitely worth the stiff necks the following mornings.
Speaking of falling stars, cannot wait to see Stardust, the new neil gaiman movie!!!!
Transport me, I am ready to go... anywhere but here.

Random Thought: Do you suppose, if we shot a rocket between us and the moon during the lunar eclipse, we would sever the Earth from her soul?

Hurled by Perseus
To this mad, mad world
The stars were falling
I heard them calling
Calling us to catch them
One by One
We could have made it
If you had run
Guess you were having
Too much fun
Inside

"SURFING ON A ROCKET, SURFING ON A ROCKET, SURFING ON A ROCKET"

hoi polloi

2007-08-05T11:47:00.000-04:00

I have always thought blogs were a bit self indulgent, narcissistic in fact. Are there people out there who really think anyone else cares what they think? But events of last night have pushed me over the edge, and I must enter this world of the outspoken elitists.

Went to Rhythm & Brews last night to see a band named The Breakfest Club, a spin on the title of that great 80's movie by John Hughes, yes? It was packed, not even room to dance. Naively I thought, they must be good! Firstly they were misnamed- I would have named the band Soul Survivor (if that isn't already taken). Opening song- "Eye of the Tiger"- should have known then, not that 80's top 40 is a problem, but I was there to hear the moody music that was featured in the movies- the smiths, psychedelic furs, omd... The seething, drunken crowd was happily singing along to all the songs- they even did a little Devo- I smiled. When they played a hard rock cover of The Cure's "Just Like Heaven", the crowd stopped singing, and began milling about, a bit confused. ARGH! C'mon Chattanooga! They will never play that song again, not that they were doing it justice, but it was the most poetic song we heard the entire 30 minutes we were there. We left during a rendition of Huey Lewis's "The Power of Love".

We are sipping tea and spinning our very own playlist of 80's stuff- good stuff: INXS- would've been a great opening for the band last night, Tears for Fears, Adam Ant, Thomas Dolby, Love and Rockets, Talking Heads, Violent Femmes, New Order...

I have been returned to the sad reality that the masses are content with mediocrity, not only content but delighted.

NO NEW TALE TO TELL