As a child, I was never picked first for kick-ball, or bombardment, or any other sport. It wasn't that I was a bad athlete; but rather, it was because I was a girl. The fact that May picked me first for her team is an absolute dream come true. Now if only I'd wake up a millionaire with great hair, and a nice slender, eat-whatever-I-want-and-don't-gain-a-pound body.......
Carrie
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Monday, January 23, 2006
Early Poem
This is an old poem, from a time of freedom.
WALL
Were you there the day the wall came down?
Oh, not that wall.
Any wall.
Nothing of historical significance, perhaps.
Merely an accession of riches
to the underground playground.
between the dream
and the imagination
the song
and the silence
the skin
and the shadow
we dance in supplication
to the god of nothing
that the world between
might not be our undoing.
You fight hard for your icons;
I, for my nocturnal ramblings.
Between them
we forge
something with a name we can trust.
Funny, now I'm the one with the icons, though they represent dream states as much as myth states.
More tomorrow.
WALL
Were you there the day the wall came down?
Oh, not that wall.
Any wall.
Nothing of historical significance, perhaps.
Merely an accession of riches
to the underground playground.
between the dream
and the imagination
the song
and the silence
the skin
and the shadow
we dance in supplication
to the god of nothing
that the world between
might not be our undoing.
You fight hard for your icons;
I, for my nocturnal ramblings.
Between them
we forge
something with a name we can trust.
Funny, now I'm the one with the icons, though they represent dream states as much as myth states.
More tomorrow.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
The Myth of Myself
A couple of years ago, after I moved in with John, a bunch of my stuff got put in storage, in a rather haphazard way. When we moved to where we live now, boxes were piled about four-high in the "family room" (that phrase always seems like wishful thinking to me) and the garage...along with garbage, other people's furniture, that sort of thing. I assumed I'd never see most of it again.
A couple of days ago, I unearthed a Rubbermaid box, the kind that's supposed to keep things from being destroyed in basements. It turned out to have my old soap-making equipment, a lot of interesting rocks and shells, and a badly mildewed folder. The folder contained most of the poetry I'd ever written.
In my quest to know myself better as I move toward the ripeness that is the theme of this blog, I thought I'd post some of it. Some poems have very terrible parts, but most have good parts as well. If it's too embarrassing, I won't post it of course.
I'll start with one I rather like. It's called 'mrmrs Professor gives a talk on the writing of poetry'.
one must enter
one must straddle the fence, as it were,
dance with the devil and don't turn back
see the light beyond the tunnel
one must not run from final lines
and if you look closely
I barely remember writing this. But I stand behind my words.
A couple of days ago, I unearthed a Rubbermaid box, the kind that's supposed to keep things from being destroyed in basements. It turned out to have my old soap-making equipment, a lot of interesting rocks and shells, and a badly mildewed folder. The folder contained most of the poetry I'd ever written.
In my quest to know myself better as I move toward the ripeness that is the theme of this blog, I thought I'd post some of it. Some poems have very terrible parts, but most have good parts as well. If it's too embarrassing, I won't post it of course.
I'll start with one I rather like. It's called 'mrmrs Professor gives a talk on the writing of poetry'.
one must enter
said the Professor
a persistent meditative state
not unlike
a ripe eggplant.
one must straddle the fence, as it were,
between the here and now, over and above,
hither and yon
dance with the devil and don't turn back
see the light beyond the tunnel
one must not run from final lines
said the Professor
and as (s)he spoke
there was a gleam from the inner door.
and if you look closely
out of the corner of one eye
the forked smiles are visible
beyond the studded halo.
I barely remember writing this. But I stand behind my words.
Happy one-month-post-solstice,
May
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Yesterday was a notable day for me.
Friday, January 6th, was the second anniversary of my breast cancer surgery and diagnosis.
The abnormal mammogram was on Halloween, over two months before. It took a couple of weeks to get an appointment with a surgeon, and then the surgery couldn't be scheduled until after the holidays because all the necessary people were on vacation. Since the tumor was only 9mm, no doubt they all thought it wouldn't matter. But breast cancer's a tricky thing, and it doesn't pay to assume anything about it.
Thank--somebody, Goddess maybe--I had an appointment with my therapist. Pat is retired, but still does therapy for practically no money for those who need her. The sessions are sort of a combination of Gestalt therapy and spirituality, for which I'm very grateful. The last half dozen or so therapists I had were so predictable that there was no point in going. Write the script, read it over to get the main points, save the gas and the money. But Pat is different. I never know what she's going to say. So she leads me places I don't ordinarily go by myself.
We talked about death, of course. I fear I'm a hypocrite because I experience ecstasy when I read poetry about death, and because I sometimes feel that death is a transformation, rather than an ending. When it gets right down to the nitty-gritty, however, I feel fear, anger, resentment, bitterness--all because my little life will most likely end a couple of decades short of threescore and ten.
I'm human, as Pat pointed out. It's all true, it's all right...none of it's a lie. Our cosmos and our lives are paradox, as I used to know, and I hope will know again.
Namaste.
Friday, January 6th, was the second anniversary of my breast cancer surgery and diagnosis.
The abnormal mammogram was on Halloween, over two months before. It took a couple of weeks to get an appointment with a surgeon, and then the surgery couldn't be scheduled until after the holidays because all the necessary people were on vacation. Since the tumor was only 9mm, no doubt they all thought it wouldn't matter. But breast cancer's a tricky thing, and it doesn't pay to assume anything about it.
Thank--somebody, Goddess maybe--I had an appointment with my therapist. Pat is retired, but still does therapy for practically no money for those who need her. The sessions are sort of a combination of Gestalt therapy and spirituality, for which I'm very grateful. The last half dozen or so therapists I had were so predictable that there was no point in going. Write the script, read it over to get the main points, save the gas and the money. But Pat is different. I never know what she's going to say. So she leads me places I don't ordinarily go by myself.
We talked about death, of course. I fear I'm a hypocrite because I experience ecstasy when I read poetry about death, and because I sometimes feel that death is a transformation, rather than an ending. When it gets right down to the nitty-gritty, however, I feel fear, anger, resentment, bitterness--all because my little life will most likely end a couple of decades short of threescore and ten.
I'm human, as Pat pointed out. It's all true, it's all right...none of it's a lie. Our cosmos and our lives are paradox, as I used to know, and I hope will know again.
Namaste.
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