I ache for numbness;
then miss another, deeper aching
for beauty…poetry,
challenge and responsibility.
I want a nice, cozy cell, from which to desire escape.
My irony surrounds and defines me,
shows me freedom.
This is another very old journal entry
Since I’m out of town a few days I dug up these little thoughts to post. This is a journal entry from 15 years ago. Fragments for comment.
The experience of beauty shared is a sculpture carved out of the breath we all share. Meaning is created from trust between people, not be each, alone.
Organic grains
of ancient, stained wood
reach across centuries
to meet the touch of my fingers
as I stroll through the Rococo cathedral.
Inlaid resplendent patterns,
curled and coiled,
dark wood against light-
each was carved painstakingly,
intuitively pieced
by ancestors’ calloused hands,
building on the work of
innumerable, hard earned lives.
I inherit their laborious fruits
and also their faults,
their joys and their agony-
tenacious, storied histories,
days and decades gnawed into
multi-faceted pellucid geometries,
habits and rumors
spawning Divine doctrine,
layered traditions, living myths-
all, perhaps, governed by
a beauteous, grand design, a sublime plan-
yet, a monkey’s puzzle in the end,
forever alluring, forever a dream,
inlaid within this wooden pew.
Princess Sonya will be heading East with me tomorrow. I’m taking her to Mom, where she will, hopefully, make her home. We’ve grown closer the past two weeks. She’s finally starting to relax and not panic every time I get up from the computer or go to the bathroom, as if I were leaving her forever.
We have some games now. She plays fetch with her favorite raw hide bone. It’s so cute watching her, all perky and puppy like, racing the whole 6 feet distance to the bone, pouncing, fur flopping, like it’s a huge accomplishment. And she likes to dance, twinkle toes, around my feet when I dance around her.
I gave her a bath today, and brushed the wet hair out, while she stood perfectly still. Then, as she dried, her silky hair shone, and I swear she knew how good she looked! She just pranced around showing off. Goodness, what a ham.
But I think she’s really a quiet, lap loving, regular schedule kind of princess, and that’s what Mom will provide her. Let’s hope the chemistry clicks.
Night brings out the muse, usually late.
Last night I went to bed early, giving in to deep relaxed fatigue, layered weights dragging me down the more I relaxed. I awoke way too early, 4:30 AM, not happy about sleepus interruptus, while ruminating mind began planning chores. NO, not now! In a rare appearance these days, my old friend spontaneity came to the rescue. “Get up” s’he said. “Go out and listen to the dawn. Follow the Robins dream. Spiral through the shift from night to day.” So, I got up an went out back to sit on the step and feel the dawn.
Sing robins, sing-
Gossip of angels,
lone voices call
across treetops
(lofty reaches)
in jazzy, lilting riffs.
Each outdoes the other-
point, counterpoint
development, refrain, repeat.
(chorus spinning)
Each answers gurgling trills
in telephonic circulation,
answers and calls,
(leave a message)
conversations which
rise in pitch
to feverish conniptions.
Sing, robins, sing-
thrilling chorus,
bid the light appear as
still air chills and flows in whispers.
The page begins to turn
(huge and gentle)
nudging oceans of molecules to dance.
Shadows barely hint as
the garden broaches the dark pitch.
Bones of structure
rise to the surface,
pale ghost forms
of architecture,
soon to be resurrected,
as night acquiesces.
Sing, robins, sing
for me, when I am gone.
Tell me how the book began
how the story will end.
Tell me why I fear to hear
what you can only sing,
a truth I will never understand.
But tell me yet, for perhaps
I can know as you know,
know in the singing.
I hear, I hear and it’s gone.