plumblood

A new home in the making

2011-05-02T12:08:00.000-07:00

This is something new because I want to try to use their rooms/separate pages. Please visit if you feel so inclined. Love

http://darknessblossoms.wordpress.com/

It is time

2011-02-20T22:00:00.000-08:00

mmmmmm. Mulder. do my homework for me.

something is happening

2011-02-17T11:58:00.000-08:00

Well. Today yoga class that I left feeling wholly activated in negativity. This happens with warrior poses, and we spent the mega time in warrior 2. I can't even begin to explain all the levels and facets and depth of growth realization that this physical practice induces. That's not what I'm writing about. What I am writing about is the fact that when Paul saw me approximately 25 minutes after class ended and asked me how I was I said, "Yoga was so intense. I am so triggered by warrior 2 poses." At this point I realized I am a Boulder person. No matter what I retain of my own true essence, what innate qualities and characteristics persist, I am wearing yoga pants, and I have stepped, moved, glided beyond the threshold of anything I'd ever thought I'd be. How did I get here? Where am I going? What is happening?

Seriously though, I recently drew hexagram 12, a healthy wake-up call on stagnation. 12 obstruction, heaven over earth. "Being blocked or interfered with...emphasizes that accepting the hindrances that temporarily interrupt the flow of life and thwart communication is the adequate way to handle it...to be in accord with the time you are told to: accept obstruction." (trans. Ritsema/Karcher)

Yoga teacher (Nataraja) instructs in diving into third chakra land this is about will power, confidence, hearing actual calling/path somehow(?)- touching the belly button and soft spot above- so letting in this light letting the fire shine and eat obstructions (!) of whatever kind. And throughout the shouting skins I realize it is okay to slip over pain's threshold and melt, it (pain) houses another function if practiced through and rightly.

So lying on floor in senior year of school now. And two and a half months from 30. So this has been pressure this whole trip. When I first got to Boulder I was so sensitive in JP's car. In new high altitude west obstructed by mother mountains now. And I could feel my organs in my abdomen as well like a finger on skin. Ready for change, for life to be healthier and like the brushed out air here. Not quite sure how I would proceed. I believe I jumped forward fast without thinking. I considered the cold spring flowers as if they were myself. Before I knew it I had gone too far in school to not go on. Momentum almost had me (lost).

There are acrid women who need tending to. They have me bound in trudging thick mud and putrid smelling moss of stagnant water. Let's do it ladies.

2011-02-14T21:15:00.000-08:00

red tulip heart beats across room but spreading through my chest as questioning the content of everything the dreams peruse the leftover bruise and bright pink ditches where needles were placed to bring skin to warmth

what are the nightmares saying? you are trapped and pursued

lay body as a blanket now child

Something from three years ago

2011-01-30T21:09:00.000-08:00

Surprising Display

Soft leaves of lips hover above fire. These pronounced curves I’ve always denied. They are the cure of a resting vessel, pale modena of secret sails that keep me afloat when I claim a hapless repose. Ever thankless as I’ve been toward them, I wonder, how could I be a woman? This small beast, creature in the mirror I see? Work to let tension dissipate, the regular tension the mirror calls forth. Cracked bell of smile. There is now no smile here. Lips wiped clean of mirth. Beneath saturation of shell smudge, of clumped blood, there is a sense of knowledge. How can lips be knowing?

This jangle of bones I know, but of which I am regularly unconscious. Every moment cells retrace a step, a blueprint, a pattern, so to hold shawl of skin into a body form, so that I may dance the vertical project of living. Chest heaves wondrously, cavern untapped. What are we mining for? What is the mystery that lies therein? Clouds of breath hit the summit, a thick disgrace. The breath breaks before it has a chance to pass the highest crags. Is the answer to try to breathe up and past these high cliffs? Or should we be breathing into caves?

Back to lips. I am enamored of them. Or perhaps, more appropriately, of the uncharted red they cherish to their shape. How can I be new to myself after all these years? These years have been looking but not seeing. I’ve been reading the hard text of hairdo, appropriate outfit, jewelry, smiles, a frequent unveiling of mustache and thick brows. But between those lines I miss the poetry of grace. Now by this votive fire a gratitude of sight reads between the lines. I am nervous, more nervous than I’ve ever been looking into the gaze of a new lover.

Fidget, work to disrupt attention toward this meager population, the hut just discovered. Enclosed in the woods, the hut of sleeping women. Their service renders rest. They sleep in a lake of unknown language. Beneath my skin their hair grows wildly, eyes blink with my heartbeat. Is it fair to mention their will toward violets, their meals of thick twilight? Because I am looking in the mirror now. But I can see them. Shifting, rummaging, running the length of frozen miles, hiding behind the constructions of mind. The silt of my body encased in a glance.

I close my eyes to try to see myself. Displeasure is mounting, howling hard against a static foundation of wellbeing. Why does it disconcert me so, challenge my composure to look into the mirror, to look and not think, to drop the contaminant silhouette of assumption? Register smooth essence of skin, astonishing youth found in black lake eyes. What lies beneath? A vault of challenge. Amazonian tides, neroli, jasmine, pungent flock of datura.

I see my grandmother in the shadows beneath each eye. And why Johnny has always called me Birdface. It’s my nose. Small and childish beak quality to the vertical lines, something I have never witnessed in any known blood relative. Tired, I am ready to retire from this activity. End on lips. The new moon sheds a piece of me.

collapsed into his own

2011-01-24T19:07:00.000-08:00

acupuncture. needle drunk skin. wondering if upon leaving and arrival body look rolling forest of needle. wanting to be getting suck-ed in to earth body gravity make leak as ribbons phase where nodes leak is the length of

gangue immured in rabbit skin matrix of equi vocal radiation

a short piece, a centering point hung from the edge

valance

a flag leaks out of her into dark earth kept intact by many violets

(purple black green)

crow beak into liver and upon root hut

inn space warm-lit small wait room

larger space last home a baby century groaned pressed against

hogback foothills flat iron peaks

ponderosa pines creak in wind as well

heat funneling from the center of the house up cold hard wood stairs

bare floor into reverse down dreaming

something skeletal and skillful wakes before dawn

there is support in the sand there

you'll get rid of the spaces

2011-01-20T20:35:00.000-08:00

unable to move motion make toward outward productivity. make moving inward. of hot sunset, pink marrow fading behind peaks. but it is cold drawn toward coast. a hook and thread pulls me saggy then taught humbly over land over divide canyons and narrows to sandy region of birth. and fleshes here tremble daily, the shaking the shaking. I saw the face of a western mountain known well from wake, but this is dream. shivering beneath her lanced by morning whispering in morning. said yes that mountain those mountains this she could be the most beautiful thing I have seen each time I see her. but I want to drive west. how many times have I done this? really, more than the fingers on both hands. so much commotion outer doing always leaves me with the heart aspiration when told to find that- of just curiosity. curiosity at it. all.

architecture (of) vastness insert a bind and

an animal can die of shock, they mentioned humans do this too. a heart fluttering or lump cold on the ground beneath the sleekness of highly reflective window. not the sky thud. loud music loud voices commotion will make the shock worse, food may as well

the way allen ginsberg writes about his mother's vagina made me sick hours later when I thought about eating. at first I felt offended. then I realize how I understand too well. I guess it's good I work in his library.

this is as close as I have gotten to writing about that past.

sooner or later moving my body I'll feel her. and you

a threat leaks forth upon expansion of skin fascia muscles fibers, bones all a glimmer (let them )

shriek them in to whorl, rapidly decline abbreviated lilly (could not whisper).

ivy thirstier than weapons. take

when I bend my tongue against your morse no longer member own mouth if it's pinched

quietly

2011-01-17T18:05:00.000-08:00

"The most important fractal property is the self-similarity. A fractal object is self – similar if it has undergone a transformation whereby the dimensions of the structure were all modified by the same scaling factor. The new shape may be smaller, larger, translated, and/or rotated, but its shape remains similar [Sala and Cappellato, 2003]."

In the forest

2010-12-30T12:57:00.000-08:00

The mountain lion invited her cousin over from africa. That means in the pine tree a sun maned king tears gazelle apart, eats innards eats her. The bear in the tree as well. There were hikers whom I meant to warn about a congregation of wild animals in the park, but I figured they weren't as doomed as I am afraid to use the restroom at night, instead pee on the threshold where carpet meets hardwood, drawing a line a boundary with my water. The insides of my wrists, the coyotes at the base of the pine. Wolves could climb the trees, the tree did not even sway. On screen the image of a girl with snakes. They meant to keep us in grey swaths, hornets nests of wool and cotton, thin enough to smoke through. The wool scratches skin on a great plain, creating a hide of rough residue. When the rabbits smuggle licorice between your legs, they will recognize you by the smell of urine streaked with blood. Even when blood came then, the clots were bright pink and rosy. As rosy as the last garden we walked through, in Brooklyn. Our teacher told us she buried her book there, three months later. Next year, when I smell those flowers there will be letters burnt to the underside of sepal, post pollen.

It is possible...

2010-12-02T19:17:00.000-08:00

Come to terms with what you are. I am. To feed the beast apples and red velvet. Well, let yourself be taken to dinner. Someone tells you it is possible. To enjoy life in the midst of it, this is part of living it. Plan to eat deserts when it is all done, weeks of hard work. Plan to share something with someone, something you really like but think they may not. Unfold your despair in a room full of writers, and realize that it's not so bad to be not so good. Revel in appreciation. Add a bit of admiration to the fire. This might be enough.

2010-11-15T20:45:00.001-08:00

THE CONVERSATION YOU REQUESTED NO LONGER EXISTS

An Installment for ghost

2010-11-05T15:08:00.000-07:00

Word Origin & History

Ghost :

The gh- spelling appeared c.1425 in Caxton, influenced by Flem. and M.Du. gheest, but was rare in Eng. before c.1550. Sense of "slight suggestion" (in ghost image, ghost of a chance, etc.) is first recorded 1613; that in ghost writing is from 1884, but that term is not found until 1927. Ghost town is from 1931. Ghost in the machine was Gilbert Ryle's term (1949) for "the mind viewed as separate from the body." Missouri.

Synonyms & Varieties

Can I make you some ghost soup:

I don’t want to be the guy that lets you go hungry. Old man, take a look at my life. Primary senses seem to be connected with the idea of tearing a hole in your shoulder, or maybe ripping your ear off your head. Really, if you need me to, I will just lean over and bite you, hard, you won’t believe for a second that these are human teeth. This of course is a euphemism.

Engraving:

To lighten the background. Let’s say I carry all the grief I feel, or don’t feel, high in my shoulders. When I cry it leaks lakes down into my toes, jing reservoirs a rare floral vessel would help circumnavigate. But we left those skeleton ships west of here. Your blood smells like guitar strings and the sun setting west of the Rockies. There are many rolls of film I have not developed yet. I hope you get a haircut before the supernatural being returns, she was a little upset at your disheveled appearance. To move when there is no perceptible wind. Those are demons though, always wanting to mortally wound you, always wanting to consume your soul. Keep fit, just point her toward the church down the street. That steeple is bloody, has eviscerated many magpies. Yet, the corvids laugh. Eating magpie meat when we first entered the valley, our original sin. We emptied the valley of natives, once again this is a euphemism. Back then all the spectres were in corsets and all the bitches were belting the songs of Satan. The books written at that time shone in the dark, their own accord. We tried to burn them, but they hovered on the flame like Isis’ ward. That’s when we decided to zaesha, you know, become really frightful.

A diffraction grating:

With unevenly spaced lines. This is connected to the wind blowing the cries of the slaughtered into the ears of visitors who know to listen.

Double reception:

Or by a defect in the receiver. The ghost of chance was rare, dressed in rags, raging down dirt roads, tipping cows with the point of one finger, out on the edge of town. My mind was viewing yours at that time, rather often and from afar. Remote viewing. A remote possibility. My heart was in tatters, and more fierce than the ghost of chance. The floral vessel cracked in her own whumun. To pay people for work not performed. Reiterate, violence was done to those innocent of everything but touching earth. The body viewed as back-comer. I’m pledging your appearance to the widmo and the aptr-ganga. Gast me hard again. The apparitions we went to the mall with, they wore napkins as skirts. Many of them showed up on film. If you want to see who you’ve been hanging out with snap a couple pictures, but prepare yourself.

Optics:

A series of false spectral lines. They are surviving a beat or coastly utterance, washing the tide to erase your high altitude. If you take your skin off. Mega bloody. I’m asking you to dismember. Let’s see some tendon. Come on, I thought you wanted to be haunted. This is pop-rock, nothing compared to superstitious apparitions. Let’s get to the heart of your matter. A red blood having no hemoglobin. I want to eat it. We won’t miss a beat here. That heart of yours is the last to burn. Takes a bit longer to smother arterial remnant, aortic tattoo. To be frightened is something pretty. You sport a sparkle and little bit of sweat above a frilled collar, even if you’re looking back. Geist hedah. Wrath inflicted on the selfs. To shine from your red welt floral, curls. To shine whitely after falling down the wall. The wane of the widmo, the mane of night child.

A streak:

Appearing on a freshly machined piece. Ride it. The primary sense seems to be connected to the idea of "to wound, tear, pull to pieces.”

Phantom:

A faint secondary or out-of-focus image. Last night we dreamt of women hanging, the light of the future. The photographer believes they are much younger than when they left the earth. They were leaking something dark, a thick black substance was draining into the museum, sludge. Shining strand, girl on a gravestone. Your face has been smeared to the point of loss of consciousness. I want to wake you up, paint your face back on you. A mere shadow or semblance, a trace of being born.

2010-11-04T21:35:00.000-07:00

lordy

2010-11-03T12:18:00.000-07:00

Lordy lordy. My dream the night before last contained that word repeated and thickened by a high voice harmony, shrill and beautiful as a tendril(passiflora). On the way to work this morning my little shuffle machine played me three songs in a role that somehow had to do with god, lordy, or heavenly imagery. Nina Simone, Bonnie Prince Billy, and Cocorosie. This seemed incredible- incredulous! What was the message?
What I can't get out of my head- reasons I couldn't sleep: I watched a film called American Outrage before bed. Ended up crying for a good hour. The film tells the story in documentary form of the Western Shoshone people's land being taken from them, and the huge gaping wounds of gold mines that have been dug on that land. This has taken place in central Nevada, in the past four decades, and is still happening. Images of horses being stolen and run into barbed wire fences are haunting my skin. The sorrow that ensues after being exposed to such knowledge is deep and overwhelming, and makes me wonder if I exist simply to feel the pain of what happens on and to our earth and the people. Otherwise, I honestly feel so hopeless. It doesn't mean I won't act, I will write letters, show that I do not support such theft, destruction, murder. But I see actions made against the destruction, and it still happens, goes unnoticed by so many, right now they happen. And then there are people rioting over (fucking) sports in San Francisco? I don't understand. I feel very full of sorrow and I feel hopeless that it will be resolved or change before it is too too late. It feels like it is already too late. Horses being run into barbed wire fences, by helicopters, these actions leave behind empty skeletons and hides, holes where the eyes were. Forever empty mouths. Relating this to class yesterday, relating this to the monster. Loss of self control- the repression of desire leaves an entire culture bleeding at the seams with greed for gold. A monster hungry for something rich and dusty. A translucent monster, something hard to track, with many full mouths. Forever empty mouths of horses, drying on the floor of the high desert, emaciated hides flattened on the ground, provoke a course of abnegation, a space of discard.

2010-11-01T23:15:00.000-07:00

canescent

sympatric your white ways we are the same

last time

we collided

you looked a ghost.

directly at me.

but

my blood is

not

ashen as

yours

the car stops

I lurch and topple out, force myself onto the dirt road

to relieve the nausea

I notice you watching some distance off curious and waiting for me

to relieve myself

of the force and fury

of my stomach

governing official. Retching vessel

this desert is higher than even I am used to. I baited myself with the ascent, three hours straight up accompanied by 80 degree sun on my dark and dark,

hatless head

what do you call your grassland? will you name my sprit if I die here?

your demeanor

the shape of my next life

grey fur a circuitous path

we overlap

I had not seen you in some time. Leaving the river, on the path to the plains I yelled out, “I would love to see a coyote.” As if synchronized, to the right a swaggering promptly acknowledges the request. Easy going, proud, unconcerned. This animal wears a full coat of hues I have never seen so close or vivid. colors range from mild to high saturation, grey and brown to match the underbrush and other anatomy of the ravine. auburn as contribution to the rusty dock of the autumn landscape. You walk with me down the path, staying on the other side of the ravine as we keep pace together. The thickness of that coat I crave to rub to my bare skin, especially my breasts. The small dark hairs at the center of my chest would love to migrate as I frequently consider last night he was here. I did my best to circumnavigate the bakery in which he works, to no avail. I passed the block that borders the rear of the building as he emerged from my periphery. painful as it was, I did not turn away. he saw me tuck my feathers into my long sleeves. his tale was tied up inside his trousers. he wore a long coat, not his usual style. I wondered where he’d been, whose coat did he need to borrow as he rushed out to work the next morning? as he neared I backed away, slower than I would need to actually escape a firm hold. enough I could not help it his hot breath melting my neck skin. I rubbed his ribs beneath his coat and shirt. firm and unrelenting my hands become warm with his rigid chest beginning drip. his around my waist pull me close. this will never work we imbricate even by distance stops the borrowed car. high desert, higher than I’m used to. almost falling. I lunge to the dirt road and begin to vomit. it feels like the very road to salvation, the upheaval of all I have ever eaten. heat deranged, I look at the towering landscape, the alien mountain range. Sangre De Christos. too ironic of a name to get into at this time. In the flat grasslands, not far off I see movement, someone watching. lone

we overlap

2010-10-31T18:17:00.001-07:00

going crazeeeee

2010-10-27T18:35:00.000-07:00

I have excess energy due to my new improved enhanced diet, and from spending long hours in front of the books and computers always and in classes too. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! The wind having come and gone the last few days, then leaving a sparkly little light behind that I reveled in all day. Ingrid, Iggy gave me a ride from Paramita to Arapahoe and her energy infused me with softness, curiosity, and all around joy in living. Then in class I got rowdy and yelled- or used my voice loudly as I was impassioned about the word "Fuck." I left class still fiery and feeling happy to have gotten all riled over language. But, on the walk home I started wondering if I was too rude, dismissive in my loudness- as I often do. This is where I trip a lot. I never want to hurt other people, I always freak out if I think I have. But I get so impassioned, it is a weakness I have- and a strength. Anyway, I have so much energy I can't even make dinner. But for some weird reason I can write this. Well, on to homework- responding to the conceptual writing of fellow classmates.

Thinking about

2010-10-20T09:22:00.000-07:00

Leonora Carrington- I will fashion myself after her on Halloween if I do anything that night or day. Or something from one of her paintings. Oh, check this out!

ghosts

2010-10-18T19:11:00.000-07:00

yes again. well, they are what you feel when you feel haunted. they are the past colliding with the present. their shape does not fit the hole. they are what wakes you at 4am. they do not feel quite right with the body, they whisper the body- they become sticky in the bright honey light of day here. golden golden. but not ghosts, rather something drained, forsaken by the conscious mind. there is no sense to make of them. tongues made of lace. a flap of lace rolls out the mouth when opened to speak. shriveled dark or pallid. it is the ignorance that feeds the haunting. hooves may offer solace. put hooves on, go about your day. but at night they come again. they migrate to your sleep. a half figured equation. the bottom half is in the ground.

2010-10-16T16:57:00.000-07:00

(A lady cyborg who grows green sprout pubes in the spring. This is getting naughty.)

Okay. Went to Dr. Janine Malcolm yesterday. She is a naturopath. I have wanted to see her for a long time, but never had the $. Since I was recently told that I need to get my guts cut open to see what is the matter exactly in there, I thought it sounded like a smart idea to put financial concerns aside and get a holistic perspective. I was in her office for three and a half hours. It was nice to talk with her. After a long conversation about my health/emotional history she gave me a TCM acupuncture treatment. I have only ever had Five Elements treatments, so this was a very different experience. She left the needles in for almost half an hour. Some of my points were sore and shocking when needled. On the way out she gave me a chinese herbal formula in tincture form called "Relaxed Wanderer", and pulsatilla homeopathic remedy. This summer, when I had the very spiritual heat-exhaustion puking in front of coyote and feeling my life-force drain out of me experience I woke in a meadow of these amazing flowers. They are so special. Also known as anemones and pasque flowers, they are the namesake of the Anemone trail in west Boulder. So I took some of this homeopathic remedy excitedly and left the office not yet feeling the full healing effects of the experience. I went to the Trident to do homework with Paul. I took some of my Relaxed Wanderer tincture. In about a half hour I felt extremely euphoric and liking to be touched- and so relaxed that I was smiling largely with no intention to. I am not used to feeling relaxed so first the sensations overwhelmed me. But the goodness just increased, and I realized that the name of the tincture meant was so perfectly accurate. Well, all in all this I would call a very real form of healing- very personalized and specific to my needs. There are many complexities of my situation I learned of that I won't go into here, but in short, I wish everyone could get this kind of care. I feel really lucky to be able to. Janine Malcolm is highly recommended by this newly relaxed wanderer.

2010-10-13T20:23:00.000-07:00

no homework getting done. brain off wondering things, the plains. i ate the dindins already, but i hungry again. my cat loves me i think. she sits right beside me as there is no homework getting done.
last night i was in the the school house again. i woke feeling new and refreshed. i am under inspired as far as writing goes. i felt so overwhelmed by seeing all of those people in salt lake, a little breathless surely. and i heard from paul my partner that a man in white named paul from louisiana spooned him on the couch at the wedding, just when he needed it most. it didn't last very long, but long enough to help him. i feel that this man was/is his guardian angel. i think i saw him, he had a mustache. he was a catch. if it were in my authority i'd say we should have a polygamist marriage with the angel, and in this fantasy world the angel could strum a guitar and sing us to sleep every night and paul #1 would tickle my hair. but if this were to happen, i would really want another woman in the picture, cause that would be nice. yum.
i saw a person who looks like a baby hawk or a really rather that baby vulture that plopped out of my womb, they are white when they are young. and this person's face was so white. he looked down or to the side a lot, and i told myself that he hated me. he didn't necessarily, but this is what is easy to assume when looked at coldly from such a white face. this person i wouldn't consider a friend or anything but something in between, or nothing, perhaps forever. there were pangs of sad running through because there was the species recognition in my gut. but what are you gonna do?
in salt lake there was grieving because time, or cells, move and retract and dance and dissipate and flourish new salt spaces. friendships i would like to have with

research questions

2010-10-02T11:48:00.000-07:00

please answer one, some, or all of these questions in a comment :)
(if you want to answer privately, send me a message to sherrimarilena@gmail.com -- it is research for a writing project)
1) have you ever experienced divine wrath? please explain. 2) what is the most superb living environment you can imagine for yourself? 3) where/what are your limits? 4) what and/or where is the commentary that lies throughout your body? 5) how do you experience the world as real and/or unreal? 6) what appears every summer? 7) what are your most nagging and doubting thoughts? 8) what plant would you be and why? 9) what other animal do you experience yourself as? 10) whom do you resemble? 11) what is the coldest thing you can imagine? 12) what are your shortcomings?

Ashes and Grandma and Grandpa Dispersal

2010-10-01T11:55:00.000-07:00

I think of you now as you move your household, and apart from one another. I love you very much. The Grands going to Arizona, a hot and politically terrifying place. The Ashes will stay in LA, to begin a life on her own somewhat, but not alone... I am excited to visit all.
Here are some pictures Johnny let me steal, all from the past year.
Oh by the way Ashley, yo have to send me the pictures from when I saw you two weeks ago, k.

Ghost Prompts

2010-09-29T09:32:00.000-07:00

I have been watching ghost videos on youtube. This one is good. I am trying to post more than one at a time, but I don't understand the basics still I guess of the 21st century. Maybe that's why I feel so tired all the time, this century. Anyway, I have an idea for a project based on these videos. :) There is an endless array and variety. They are really taking my attention and focus for some reason right now. I will translate that to: something deep. HA!

lost dads and ghosts galore

2010-09-27T08:36:00.001-07:00

as always I should be doing my homework. yesterday though was a record breaking bad feeling day, so I thought I'd take a breather to express something. some thing. what? I don't know. sometimes there are these waterfalls of hardship that flood in me. they are not evident from the outside. but they are so deep and surprising. when this happens I look at my life and wonder how I could feel so disrupted. I have a very good life with good people and a good school. but the shadow/memory/imprint of the past is threaded to me tightly I suppose. weird things happen, or unexpected more appropriately. my friend Tristan left for grand adventures in the world. just writing that sentence makes me want to use like three of these!!! here's the thing though- his leaving, unexpectedly, sparked some weird abandonment stuff. it took me a few days to realize. and you know, we are not even best friends or anything. but he was a constant presence in my life pretty consistently for almost three years now (boss and friend). but I've seen this before with myself. it happened when Sean left Salt Lake one time, and Dustin also. something to do with the warmth-demeanor of said males. I think that maybe certain people I project the papa-ness on to more than others, these guys are them I guess. when I was a small lass of three and one half, I was left/taken away by/from my biological father. never consciously or sensibly have I felt that loss- in fact I always have taken it as a privilege not having a father because of a certain freedom I have had, and because of authority/respect issues I have with/for men (yes I realize that said issues may indeed actually come from the lack of male parent, auroboros). but every great while this grand loss, pain, confusion, and seemingly unfulfillable yearning for support is triggered by outer events and overtakes me- and from there- sets in motion so many other serious sadnesses I keep locked up so to function in the world like a regular/functional person. they all come tumbling out, now, whether I have homework, classes, responsibilities, or not. overwhelmed and far too sensitive I roam the world half able to stand, wanting something to shift. dreams have been haunting, gross, and disturbing. I am always amazed at the depth, layers, and complexity of the psyche, the conscious and unconscious, linear and fragmented, webs all pulsing and swirling their strange and disturbing synchronicities at just the right time. ugg. I crave the ocean deeply. to sit by the sea and just hear her breathing. the autumn creek is a fair sight as well. the light flickers now no matter the time of day, there is always a golden tilt, so this is what will do for now.
one funny thing though- I was attempting to get some homework done last night- the annotation on part of Selah Saterstrom's The Pink Institution for Bhanu's class, which is a book highly recommended, and I came across said author's blog here. There is a video of Jaques Derrida talking about ghosts and other Derrida-ish things. I was happy, because I'd never heard the man or seen him, and he reminds me a lot of that cute Antoine Doinel Truffaut character, in a more mature setting. but anyway, this ghost link led to numerous youtube links to other ghost videos- only a few were actually scary. probably none real- whatever that means. but most of them are just straight-up hilarious. I laughed so hard that Paul, annoyed, slammed the bedroom door closed. a needed respite of mucho laughter in the midst of sad- and I awoke feeling a little better today. Thanks you weird sub-culture of "ghost hunters"!

sleepy ville at autumn

2010-09-22T09:26:00.000-07:00

oooooooo. I do not sleep well. maybe because of the full moon leaking light where there should be none. or the build-up of the let-go of the equinox that is today. or the many things that remain hidden and lurking in heart awaiting regurgitation. what is it, you, mysterious insomnia? at least I dreamt last night. a body tattooed on mine. an outline of a body of a woman's body- in black, a thin line beginning with her head at my heart, her upturned nose in profile, upturned breasts, the bottom of her body fizzled out into a decorative motif, maybe something art nouveau-esque, and thick black there. the person who gave me the tattoo was a woman. I was really half conscious- Tristan pulled me off the chair, as in- look at what you've done! To turn me conscious. I looked down then and had a long moment of regard at the art on my body. I thought- she is not so bad, the line is thin and unfinished looking, a style I appreciate. recently I spoke to someone about vikings and anime. was it Ali? anyway, I really think she (the tattoo) was meant to be a viking princess, this figure on my body, but in a style inspired by art in the current issue of Bitch I bought for the plane ride. (It's a good issue. Makes me want to buy a subscription. I guess I'm officially a bitch- HA!) this is pertinent information for the fact that we (me and mystery person) were talking about the vikings in regard to their violence, raping, and pillaging, and the articles I read in the magazine were in the mode of illuminating seething and violent rhetoric and ideals in pop-culture and politics. so the mix is really odd. Paul was on my right. This is the second dream I remember recently with Paul and Tristan. As I became more conscious that this dark figure would be with me, on my body forever I actually considered getting it removed- I became more conscious of the consequences of these unconscious actions...
Yesterday as I cleaned Tristan's pantry I sang my odd song, the ongoing endless one that arises in small and secluded places, out in nature, and while praying. it is the always my prayer song, and it is the really my breath song and mostly blood song. often when I sing this it releases so much energy that I cry. but last night it just massaged the inside of my skin AND brought forth visceral body rememberings of dreams. all dreams' origins are in this bodyme I realize, and the steam is released through certain actions and wafts up to brain and language. oh yeah!

This is for Megan

2010-09-15T21:46:00.001-07:00

a bunny is a poopy beast pet who caters to necrophiliacs that live in the basement

psychotropic bunny holler screamed hard as bunny hightails it across the road, in the evening

all cosmos live in the bunny bitch’s embryo in her grey belly

bunny embryo is squooshy and not that hairy and slimy, and a bastard by definition, as am I

a bunny bastard will poop too, and pop if you squeeze it too hard too, so don’t

bunny aeroplanes are mythical things best thought of when flying at high altitudes say tens of thousands of miles above the solid topsoil part of the earth encapsulated in a long thin flammable tube- yes think instead of you as bunny embryo with wings

bunnies are magicians because they appear and disappear and reappear frequently

bunny spaketh of riches in the desert and high plains

bunny swirl shine brightly at night drink up oh chalice of moon’s vein

no such thing as a bunny funny casino ‘cause when bunny calls the shots and throws the dice they take it real serious

bunny arm unlike human’s, as in, humans is not as furry bunny get lot o fur

I saw you squished on the road not liking to say that

not all bunnies get across safe so, yet not all bunnies get squoosh

bunny shine brightly

a little squalid place to put your beast piece

bunny friend

The bear in the subaru, a year later

2010-09-13T20:10:00.000-07:00

Google searching the name Avery Burns for the hell of it for homework annotation for Bhanu's class led me to a blog entry by Bhanu. That is weird. The interweb is so weird. Anyway, the fire is about done in those Boulder hills, but now there is a new one on the north, and Paul's grandfather died last night. It was a strange feeling night indeed, and my regular inability to sleep, or rather put differently, ability to wake up at least once an hour and kind of freak out was inhabited by the movement/shift of relations to other plains. I could almost hear it, but it happened more in the wind on the window. My cat has a small bald spot on the back of her head where there a sap induced dreadlock had formed weeks prior. But now mysterious has taken the dreadlock away and there is a magical place where clumps of kitty locks go. I think I'll be going to San Diego this coming weekend, instead of helping Tristan clean his studio apartment after emptying it of belongings and inserting them into the shed in the backyard.

fire walking by herself

2010-09-07T16:48:00.000-07:00

claws of cold seeming flame illumine an upper ridge sanitas
we drive high to witness who pulls up
orange by night relieving itself of smaller smoke
all the stars are visible
tied together by two dream sequences
and later to follow what is drenched in white down

later we hugged

2010-08-29T16:34:00.000-07:00

so he was a little blind in the end, and moistly surrendered to very silence. shaking the thicker stringent
coverlace off in the morning. not mourning for my own small pouch as doctor wants to cut open my belly button and scrape suck some things out.
he was hunched and haunched in the grasses. with a scar power like the rim of labia. why do i always want to say twilight? it's in my blood
your slippers glow with the willing dusk, yet the man is still on my lap with his camera. there is more than enough room on this bus and he's twice my size
my best friend wants to punch me when i laugh sometimes
upon the pad i take off of my underwear to throw in the waste bin is a pattern so similar to his scar, it is striking and i note
reproach the past me memorializing the future me, for when i die i wonder if i'll be reborn in the 1800's.

Summer writing program sweetness. Jack Hirschman:

2010-07-03T09:42:00.000-07:00

This don't give upping for the whole world. And oh Kate I love thee.

2010-06-15T20:34:00.000-07:00

if I wear yoga pants casually will you still be my friend?

2010-06-12T10:50:00.000-07:00

What was last night? If a strange frigid pillow layers under skin taunting me with restlessness. but I'm so tired. dreams of really wondering do I need to paint white over those painted designs and gouges in the wall? I don't think that should happen. I miss dear friends I lie on my back with tears falling from corners of eyes for this. the summer here brings loneliness, it has, it does, will it? I consider it a healthy emotional succession from the full to over-brimming workaholic school months where it is possible to never directly associate with or inhabit so much of my internal landscape. such a large body urge to escape this patterned life in these summer months. raining for 24 hours. I yearn for a receptacle of deep honesty. if it's raining will we walk in black tomorrow? yesterday I went to the summer writing program faculty liaison training meeting. the SWP staff are such awesome people, and the other worker/students got me excited for the program. the reminder of focused work to come lightened my strange mood.

what I found

2010-06-09T16:09:00.000-07:00

I wrote this like two years ago. Going through lots of stuff to find gems. This not one of them, but something the gems are buried in- most definitely- a leaf mold:

Writing informs my life with a life of its own, leaves my palms & fingertips as a reaction to breath. In poetry I am housed and allowed to transfer life into shelters of ink and pages. My relationship with poetry and writing I thrive to explore and cultivate, and am somehow committed to from a place in my birth. Writing as a physical and biological act continually exhumes grace from the charred remains of years, a grace long thought dead by my habit stricken mind. Every now cells commit to the mysterious act that is my being and the world. Writing reawakens me (again and again, for I am prone to sleep) to the cells that usher scores of light to words, and to the process of pulse filtering wind through ink helping along the bowel of a pen to release a sullen or elemental phrase. Trenches of eyelashes pound against heart's refrain, I can smell my youth by the sweet decay of leaf and loam, my body's rhythmic and subtle vibration- through writing I am initiated into the particular languages of these realms, I am invited to translate the seaweed husk of bones, light, and flesh of her. I am allowed to call her me. There is a gift of continual breath, a recurrent dreaming that illumines a certain house. An empty house, my voice leaks through the wall's paint, crawls through the cracks in the ceiling and floorboards where an ancient night lets in vines and howls. Poetry is the memory of the inhabitant of this house. Is she really gone? Was she ever here? What to do with residue or a filament unfurled, something we lick from the vessel found in the cellar, some kind of dark hair we find on the top of our tongue after licking every inch of this forgotten piece of ware. Made of alabaster, abalone, chiding time for contamination and age. We have licked age off our tongue, we find our plates graced with the fondness of all the hairs we've ever lost, a pile of forgotten cells. From this one plate and this one chalice, this one vessel where we spent to eliminate rest, we tried to put her into decay’s child. In boundaries we try to challenge her. She thrived in the darkness. She is dark matter, that means she shines through everything. Light gets in to retrace her. Sometimes we see her silvering image in the decades dripping off the window pains. She shivers in the porridge we eradicate, shove into our mouth, let us mutter, all the smooth slug muscles take shelter in this process, we are being fed. She takes shape in the vaporous song of the train's distant call as it shakes the house's frames. Foundations are affected. We remember when we forgot the house. Memory as the foundation. Memory is the way cells house themselves. Each structure is encoded with the vibrational pull to itself, the telling of its complete. Cells' function is memory. It's an oral telling, a disambiguation at the level of foundation. The evocation of regeneration. Generations. The physical force of creation, the biological statement of memory-cells- these are houses of history, these are functions of poetry. A cell remembers itself, death is a remembering- somewhere between cadence, shaking, and phosphorescence lies writing, the memory chain, the ancestral hive of the cell, the organism the structure and house.

2010-06-07T08:19:00.000-07:00

wake at seven to the sound of tree slaughter. men cutting down. limbed arbor. vital living things. and my clothes hanging to dry beneath all of this noise and plunder.
spent night looking at photos, which I do lately, which I throw down and then dispose of, simply to live less congested. less locked and light.
it works. I have some things to tell about a sudden adventure. recent. but not until I get a dose of sleep.

2010-06-01T15:59:00.000-07:00

Alice Walker

my cat is dreaming i see her paws move

2010-04-18T20:39:00.001-07:00

before i forget the greatness if it all through the putrid glaze of paper writing:
this weekend I got electro(cuted) for the first time ever. I believe I am misspelling that word, as in mis-appelling, or mis-appropriating, or misreporting, or apropos. but anyway I'm also digesting. so, it's bedtime and: today I danced with Amy's ass, literally, ass to ass like two hot dog buns without a wiener in between. I call it "the pin cushion dance". and we fumbled a lot on the lawn as if we contacted improvisation with little grace and mainly open to mischief. in soft grass. and before this she altered my reality by stretching my spine as if i were an eagleangel. but other people call it partner yoga.
i slept close to none for fear of being abducted by aliens / by coyotes my goat bell wearing self in the night. trickster pan krishna whatever wafer. serious coyotes singing to sleep me thinking about a rebirth and the incarnation demised just fifteen months prior.
and the dream with tori amos, the puppy and the nasty art couple.
re awak en ing to the unlies in me. as if i have to repress instead of just being silent. is it fair to myself to explain the thing that sleeps beneath the pillowcase? (azure tide)
okay. oh eagle angel you are my night
then two goats follow me and so much blood falls out after the sweet release. i look down and it is a red gorge.
and liquid lush
if i dream i find my source. considering the choice of literary criticism to be a selfish calling in light of my listening abilities, my abilities to care for and forth. wanting to elucidate more movement for myself and less panic still, more close to animals and soil, face in it, ass in air.
(oh yes and the blessings of earth/fire messages by post of adam, not rocking, offering the reminder of re-emergence/trace of grace, as- write a storm, what you need and want. this sends one pillaging red caverns that are still hot, and realizing the dissected pearl. can you fill red tents with her heart?)

colonists' rapids, a message from violet

2010-04-06T09:37:00.001-07:00

thinking of repressing the memory of those dreams. wondering if you were awoken by the sudden thick rain at two am. considering words like drippy, smooth, wet, dry, tense, rubbery, mistake. hastening toward the alien in the corridor of my body's train. watching as this plump headed figure returns to a more readily acknowledged human form. isn't humanoid enough? why chase a memory, a haggard and pale reminiscence through multiple cars, looking for the turn in perspective, the end of a sequence, the change in shot when we return to something black and white. staying too long until the train hits a breaker, transforming to a boat in, predictably, very rough water. working hard to escape, to retrieve a password or a key from this embodiment of self (dis)regard. praying, why not be enamored of the indescribable beauty of this world? escaping finally out the door after using enough might to dislodge locked metal. spying tall thin conductor, blue midnight suit, head drenched in a black cloth, black felt gloves holding a small silver key on a string. wondering what is that key for? re-collecting words like drippy, smooth, wet, tense rubbery, mistake. lowering down down to earth and roots. feeling the burden dislodge and melt into cold hard dirt. warming ground with silt of this body breathing. hearing invitations from the coast. seeing him bend down as he places the key in my hand, "I've been looking for you but I could not see a thing." "I ran from you. Your head is covered in a black sheath."

2010-03-20T17:25:00.000-07:00

snowy day

2010-03-19T12:30:00.000-07:00

A link to info and photos of old stuff. So nice.

Today I am able to listen more to the quiet that skin heard especially while moving in class (authentic movement) yesterday. I did not bring up this hearing, because it's hard to explain. And today, as blood begins to fall out of me, shedding and letting go- ahhhh finally- the hearing is combined with that place where desire extends its self to fulfillment without me having to do anything. And then the slowness of the falling snow makes traces under skin, and there are many stories being told in air that I witness in many ways.
Somehow I can feel connection with those who are far away today, more than usual. Though the weather doesn't seem to prove it, the season's shift is real and opening the world a bit more each day. Even the way the cedar's green speaks to the snowwhite in the alley is more vibrant, and the birds are as busy as they were a few days ago. There is a squirrel that has an apartment right across the window from mine. A perfect hole in a tree, a maple. It may be different squirrels, but last year we watched the squirrel raise a little family, starting around now in the season. I hope there are babies in there, just waiting to get strong enough to venture their little mini-squirrel legs out into the world/tree!
dreamt of seth.

Thanks Monica!!! (click for cuteness)

2010-03-10T12:17:00.000-08:00

Cute Stuff

2010-03-08T20:47:00.000-08:00

Today I thought: people are always offering the answers to your questions. What if someone offered the questions to your answers? I think I will soon create a space for this. Amen.

withe

2010-03-07T20:47:00.000-08:00

I get hot. I close eyes. I loose lakes, under remains of breath and listening. Do you ever feel that you are plagiarizing yourself? I do. The many younger mothers, lacking minutes multiplied to this current purpose, pure recipe of seed and pulse. I wont and haunt steam, pray to death and listening. Pray to sleep, and gentle recitations of skins sloughed off to pasts that birth me, between book-stacks always light refracting pages and shining liquid letters of text a telegram of alternate interpretations upon my countenance. Alternative shadows, or holograms to retell the trance of how many buckets of ink spilled into kiln. The fire blazing. Because I get hot. Become entranced by new moon's hook cast into black knot flesh, the socket that I touch to become wise again, refresh. Like black mothers spaced out upon a green plain, crouched furrowing some crawling lucidly others digging morrows, bone sorrow. A deity's indecent candescent pledge: you will never be safe from fire. When he felt need as if bound in a glance. If you are limp you cannot dig in this soil, in this I have chosen to risk the label of immodest immoderate. Precluding your lean retina, blue spit at the horizon. Finding your organs downstream, the sickle spaced them kindly for your pieces were scattered and covered in the red dirt spaced just so as the Pythia plants you tomorrow. Otherwise drink lakes and ask for the sea to deplete your imprint. Ask for ashes and occlusion. Ask for immolation.

where is my mind???

2010-02-16T19:10:00.000-08:00

Saturday I woke to Paul letting me know it was around 7am. Dawn had not yet fully bloomed. Here the flat is the east, and we are elevated with an eastern view from our room, so the bloody colors of new day's birth are always welcome.
No breakfast, just clothes on and into the red truck to get kitty a little container. She, the small black Sparrow, did not know what we planned for her. Pet Smart, the only pet supply store open at 7am on a saturday morning (???)- Paul arrives with the little plastic dungeon. But she rides on my lap the whole way to Denver. Beyond train tracks, off the side of the freeway somewhere we find the "Meow Mobile" in the cold morn, with many other financially challenged crazy cat people. All the kitties in their little plastic carriers, but one poor creature who was being handled like luggage- in a freaking duffel bag! Sparrow was calm as we handed her off to the nice seeming gentleman standing in the door of the Meow Mobile. Little did she know they were going to cut her stomach open and take her organs out. This is called spaying. It is the humane thing to do, but more traumatic than they make it out to be. In return for not producing litters of kittens that could potentially suffer, who knows, endlessly- my poor little girl gave up some of her guts. I had no idea they take the actual entire uterus and ovaries out until afterward, when the man handed back a terrified and drugged out hallucinating beast around 2:30 pm. And he told me- she had a deformed uterus, so we had to poke around a little more than is common to make sure everything else is okay.
It took her a good 24 hours to become herself again, relieved of whatever drugs they gave her. What a strange experience. Being responsible for a little beautiful life form is crazy.
Paul and I got to explore Denver in a way that neither of us ever had. Every other time I go there I detest it, swearing I would never live there in the mist of that weird dog food smell. But this day was sunny, with jubilant spring-like clouds sailing across the sky. We drove around, looked for a coffee shop we'd never been to, thought of going to see a movie. Decided to hang in the car making valentine's with glue and construction paper. Then we went to eat at a place called The Mercury Cafe. The place was very dark, with a lot of stuff hanging around, which caused disorientation. Red beads, hearts, roses, flowers. Good food. This is the place he asked Diane Cluck to play. I walked past the room she played in, the red velvet curtains, heard for a moment maybe some warm remnant of that evening. Maybe again someday...
Valentine's Day I felt a cold coming in. My magnificent immune system giving in to current trends. So I took it easy, but still went to the Trident for tea and bee-essing with Ryan, Paul, Amit. Jack stopped by for an update on potential concert tickets, and to slip me a beautiful Flowery Jacket of her adolescence! Then later Paul and I went to the Radda restaurant. He ate a huge piece of lamb (eeeekkk!) and I slurped soup, munched pizza, gulped une cafe. Then we got some flowers for a friend and some chocolate goop for a crazy man, and marched up Maxwell delivering the treats. When we arrived to the final port, Ryan's, after the chocolate and berry laden mess, we watched I'm Your Man. I don't think Ryan and I have ever pissed Paul off more. Not that we tried, but he was sorely upset at our ultra-critical take on some of those horrendous interpretations/mutations of L. Cohen songs. Sorry Pauliana. Everything wound down smoothly though.
Well, Paul leaves tomorrow to the bay. He will see his family, and many wonderful friends of he and I. We won't see one another for a week. I feel the underlying anxiety this fact causes, and the conscious excitement. I plan to visit SLC, and then he and I will drive back together in a car gifted to him.
This week it is very hard for me to read for school. I don't know where my mind is. I haven't been conscious of my dreams for weeks. I intend to remember them every morning, and yet, they slip away. I wonder when that happens, what is the anchor that pulls me to some other realm, though I intend something so different?
Maybe tonight.

2010-02-05T13:23:00.001-08:00

how you dress your ear.

what excites me right now:

2010-01-29T07:37:00.000-08:00

stunt cocks.
once again, leprechauns who hate green.
yoga metal heads.
my imaginary past life as a great poet.
not having menstrual cramps.

2010-01-19T12:18:00.000-08:00

the water rising. and trembling as waves trace the pathway to the doorway/threshold to the house. in the north. the queen. or the priestess knows me. but i leave. because of the nightly water. because i am afraid.

pleasure as

2009-12-17T12:55:00.000-08:00

what the body means. or dreams.
what the body means. layers of placid remembering. hands on a cliff.
hands in hair and storage.
hands through my hair is hair at sea, the stripped waves chiming skull to rest. fullness.
behind the heart she migrated.
pulling up and out
by supporting. support marrow-bone-blood remainder.
pulling on me to open a wideness. and blood.
we always speak of blood in sheaths. but here in time she sewed a stitch.
an intervention, telling two sides to mend. and ice proclaimed the left
the right all sparse in warmth, as roots and woods.
excavating space. in the statue there are many layers.
of lives to remember.
the statue has a life. we pleat bird calls, and layers of wave
then lake smoked into pulse.
but do not catch up. staying child.

ugg. gulp. almost...

2009-12-09T14:29:00.000-08:00

well it's two years of school completed. in two days. but already i feel a shift. something changes within me as a result of some kind of half-way point. i have taken this new boulder experience so scared and harsh in a way since i've been here. i'm re-opening my approach to now. things change. as they always will. johnny will be finished with school next semester, and jenni. and nathan. old friends will not accompany me in my little buddhist inspired academic adventure any longer. maybe noah. the support of having old friends in this place has been nice and a gift. i feel something spreading. i feel a reemergence of relationship with myself. honesty much more gentle, less volatile when taken in small steps and doses as opposed to holding it back unconsciously for long periods of time. i have learned more about relating with my body, literally. being in touch with others. filling with breath to face the present. reestablish throat approach.

considering dream life. no notepad. so:
a flat i used to live in, around third ave and b st with johnny in slc. i was a wreck at that time, dissociating frequently girl. in this flat, locked. something like cu planned a huge festival concert type thing all around our neighborhood. i say, "the city let them do this?" paul answers, "yes". i imagine so many cu bros all over my area. when paul leaves i do lock myself in. but somehow two men get in, who are out to get me into bed, with this lady who looks like a godard actress, dark hair, long lashes, light skin, young, silent. she's already in bed, the guys remind me of tres parker and matt stone, but they are more sinister. but they dress in funnyish swanky 70's pimp bathrobe style. i keep sneaking out the back door of the house. i make it into a downstairs neighbor woman's house, like in amelie, and tell her what is happening. she's sympathetic, wants to help. but they find me there, and i think they might stab me with a knife, so i go back with them. i see the girl in the bed, tucked under clean white sheets, waiting, bare shoulders. she doesn't seem to care. i feel bad for her, like- i have to save her because she doesn't know to save herself. maybe they have sex with us. i get out and down into the front of the building which is the third east side of the slc library. megan dibello rides off on a bike with a knife to save us. later someone tells me that allen ginsberg is around. i think, now is my opportunity to ask him to be my creative partner. i talk it over with a friend, maybe shanty. later when i go to attempt to ask allen, the person i spoke to about it had already done it, surreptitiously. i'm pissed and amazed by such a blatant lack of regard. chris bradshaw walks with me as if to protect. he may have been the one to deliver the news. becoming creative partners with allen was an attempt to hold off the silly/villainous two in my apartment. now what will i do?
interesting. very interesting.

2009-12-02T10:04:00.001-08:00

It is snowing. Paul brought me to Lucille's this morning. I didn't eat a huge amount, but their Louisiana food makes persons surely full. And chicory coffee. Arriving to work at Paramita library desk, check the bookdrop. Nothing, no books. Open the bookshelf. Stacey hands me a mug, says here, have some coffee. So kind Stacey. Thank you. It is snowing, and it is warm inside. Last night I dreamt of a blue volcano spewing. Actually an old factory about to explode with blue liquid, very volcano-like. This connects synchronistically to the strange chopped up faerie tale life myth I wrote for three and a half hours in the Trident last night as John worked (moved books around, bought a journal, disputed with his co-workers about which record to play next). I wrote that the man in the other/underworld held her head in his lap, just as Artemis had. Only he cried blue tears and did not turn black. We might assume that when she lost consciousness he carried her to the liminal space, that hole in the poppy field where she entered his realm in the first place. He inserted her back to where sun touches, closer to where she was born. And then filled in the hole, accidentally burying half her left foot and leaving her quite disheveled.These are details left unspoken, untold. Left to a reader to assume? There is not much about depth regions, cellular transmissions or breath of notochord in this piece. More details to be subsumed. But it is arguable that this is all cellular regression.

sparrow, still dark, next to her bee friend

2009-10-13T19:34:00.000-07:00

in dream she could mean an image of the birthplace. as diverged from saviors, the great orb. right now, if you can look far enough away you will actually see the past. the starlight it shifts and refrains, retrains itself to come in waves digestible to your iris.

in dream you may mean that we hallow the same crane from our necks. something i believe. i mean the sound of the past falling out of my throat-small generations, petals uplifted. in dream you may mean there will be a flood, and this is what feeds the earth for spring. there have always been apples to feed with. awaiting a knock, and a cottage friend.

tribute to monica and aaron

2009-10-11T16:08:00.000-07:00

2009-09-23T11:09:00.000-07:00

weather is greyer. blood's function to warm, properties extend. to wealth of blanket skin, and
weather is wet. wetter.
there is a warmth let in. searching for a structure punctuated by the hidden vessel. duct, emerges. warmth. regress. looking for fire on the first day turned, turning. the wall is
peeled back like skin. the wall is
peeled back like skin. regenerative arrival. arrival under breath.
submission. or extension
to the hidden palace
what can I give you? what you need me to burn. be precise beneath rain. what can i be rid of? do ghosts of ships remain after
feather, ragged, crow message slathered
feather frost-like, soft and refrain
one feather after another drifting into the south
one feather with the color of sound, the call at three am
the baby bird was asleep when she hit the ground

2009-08-28T17:30:00.000-07:00

what a coincidence. coin. ci. dence. I looked at the facebook for the first time in a while and found a message to myself in a blog that had been written an hour or so ago. coin. cidence.

well shants, I'm glad you wished me near. it's nice to hear. because i feel bad. maybe even almost sorry for myself. for how bad i feel. and for how long i have. felt. that something is not just. quite right.

honestly.

this is the first week of a new semester that finally ended today at 3pm after three hours of jung and one point five hours of contact improv. yes worn out, because i actually started school three weeks ago before everyone else with a class to learn how to orientate the incoming students.

i have made a decision, at this point i think i'll not do the writing program, but probably somatic psychology. i dropped a really amazing writing class taught by a really amazing writing teacher whom i look up to very much, because my bodyself says to. so i do. and in the dark and feeling confused and half frightened or all the way frightened at least half the time.

winter water. frozen. and what does it do deep? it's moving somewhere down there. and it's rising and covering land and trees. and trying to tell me.

juniper humbles. the way the vibrancy detracts, or subtracts deepness to forge a new will with desire.

yeah, mount eerie is still a constant. as is blood and breath if i let it. be.

become very shadowed from the self. as though. like. as if. some bright light came flickering and thriving from space. a nova wrestling my sight.

any time i have ever felt i don't belong somewhere i have gone. so the simple challenge now of hovering where the plains begin.

right now it is painful.

i've heard of shattering, because a container is too small...

An found forgotten recurring sentiment

2009-08-07T12:32:00.000-07:00

I remember when we were eighteen- we planned a life of madness for ourselves. Of silent shadows that softly intruded on the grace of a western night- shadows are wise. What if we follow our shadows? Instead of them following us? Where will we end up?

We were strange girls. Small and wrought of pure energy and laughter. That was eight years ago. Before the plagues of mind. Before the gutter of certain neurosis- eating disorders, anxiety, codependency, and the most charming of them all….true love. But what happened to the showers of stars raining down? Well, the waves caught them and hold them close still, as a coin purse, and forever I will make way to the sea to clearly see myself, to laugh with guileless abandon, then hectic glee as salt takes the fever from me. "I shall not fear, fear is the tiny death that causes total obliteration…"

The coin purse of love. The coin purse of laughter. When the season sheds her skin we are exhaled, left naked and secret to pad our way around. There are humans everywhere, little crowd pushing into each other, crushing one another like small violets, like blue velvet. The street smells of onions and hotdogs. Years later we find our plan still unfolding. Not even we know how deeply we embedded the Diamond. Diamonds are forever. Diamonds are a girl's best friend. We smoke them and sing. We were strange girls. I gather from side glances we may still be. They do not believe in our age. We hold it under our skirts, small petticoat of years to fall back on and breathe. But not a clutter, never overwhelming, grace sheds our skin for us. There are many people in the world. I let go of my shield and now I see the fragile parts, and more of the strength in all. Playing, laughing, tap on cement. I am so happy the dream stayed with us. Love Love Love. (Wavey Wilma)

2009-07-28T14:31:00.001-07:00

I must contact that place where the moon sips your eye.

fuck this.

2009-07-02T16:04:00.000-07:00

there is something about this place. wondering downstairs deafly, and harrowing where a new blood might go if lent some rest.
"how long have you lived here?"
"twenty years."
"oh to have a home..."
"and then to live in it."
yes. you were right.
how long have you been here? how long? how long you have been here.
they listened close, to the underside of cross and brush.
does she want to be in the cellar under the basement, closer to smoke and water? there is not much space in the dark, but the smooth crawl of mothers. black mothers flick and tickle. she chose to go into the cellar beneath the basement, through the faded red wood doors. they closed so easily on top of her.
madame I'm calling you.

there was wool, then water. the wool fit her to form. the wool, you can imagine the color of blood mixed with dirt, of course. dusk dried her. dusk made her a spindle, a calling card. this body wrapped so tightly.

from the existent discard of aural blooms, in the father, shed.
"talk to me
underneath me"

and now an actual current rendering of image and memory

2009-06-12T09:28:00.000-07:00

Ryan hired me as a gardening farmer. So this week I met: one baby rabbit, so close it pooed its pants. two cute frogs. lots of birds, including red tailed hawks. one: cat eating a rabbit. two sheeps. one sad bat dying but so beautiful. I puked and dug a lot of dirt. amen.

2009-04-30T08:16:00.000-07:00

dream:
I had testicles hidden inside my vulva!!!!!!!

night before:
blue birds (brilliant blue dancer) going at it!!!!

fertility? fecundity? self-fertilized creation?.....

you knew a mild hut, supine in the violets

2009-04-24T18:38:00.000-07:00

when we were in safe. tell me about the prairie. swallowing smoke of piano, hearing you in sleep. don't take lightshift because of me. you inhabit a shift of light, a virgin fold, saturated migration falling off one eyelash. this is the call on hold, and what it takes to send a breath across the continent. one birth from a bird's throat. and he looks up, "awh-awh," squawks out one-year-old throat- his word for bird is huddled good. in my longing I find a private apple tree, and there are actually lilacs resuscitating seed- a palpable lineage of birthscent hardening, hardly. redolent, radiancey. ray de ehns eieie.
ray mor, tohn her. sihn, feryor-torh.
we are calming.
what is safe? what is healthy? when one has spent a violent meandering on skin, i look around in marriage. what about pronouncing some vibration. as smoke, or ribbon. smash a constellation from your sight, and fancier cigarettes than you can afford. brother, you are ship-wrecked, you are migrant, you are wealthy. when we walk in safety sleep evades us. we find you mother. yes, we found the proudest link and access to the sky. he is like a father, whiskey, and one inflorescence of the lilac. one suggestible silence captured us in terms, of when he wept us good.
my lovely daughter.
when he wept us god. an apparent struggle for his rib back. i am gaining horns.
i'd like to burn your house.
something, if you get in a ship in a shift and get it salty take it off. if your shift is sweaty ring it onto me. i'd like to taste skin. i do not know what is healthy, something untranslating. taking the silt out of the sunset and blanketing your blood.
i remember margaritas, salty, iced or blended, because there was a sap that let in darkness. now she is prone to rest. no crew, it is retreat.
smother your recipe lyre: a suggestion for the dawn
let its sound seep into your blood. if you were born again there is room for licorice and roots of slight gold, slight shifts and
let its sound seep into your blood mercy
if you are born there the liquid sleep let in will have you propped against the bones
let its sound sleep, set into you mercy
if you are born now its blue, save a tiny mistranslation
when the eye opens it is the slight of twilight. we hear the twilight. it is her womb that brings your body out into the dark. you imagine the tissue as red, this small space hollowed saved for your mistransiency. my harp. donate to the dark. give it what is told. it lies asleep within your belly.
the one thing i have heard is a bird's call. the one thing i have heard is dawn.

a dream

2009-03-12T07:59:00.000-07:00

dream: I go to peru to find my father. in an airport I find three men with his name, two of which are a father and son, and the son has a daughter. the last is a sleeping man with long dark hair. I know this sleeping man is him, I recognize him from a deep place. we go (we may be paul and I, maybe johnny- a man I am close to) to a mansion we are staying in. I wait for him to come, we are having dinner and have invited him. many friends are there. the first two men with his name show up, and they and I know they are not him, but they feel sympathetic toward me, and want to be supportive. The younger man's little daughter, about five years old, looks like me. I light the mansion up with spot lights from the outside. It is much bigger than I realized, huge, old and new, cathedral and new hotel mixed. the snow is there, swirling and coming in gusts of wind. The man who is my real father comes. He is a beautiful native american man of about twenty years old. His face is like mine, he has the long dark hair, no shirt or pants. I ask him how old he is, how he could be my father. he knows he is, I know he is, and we just know it happened.

what does this have to do with Ishtar, Innana, Artemis(IA), ISIS mother, Mary, TARA, Sara, Sophia? HA!

Dear Shanty,

2009-03-08T07:33:00.000-07:00

if it were, that we kept shedding. how she went to get away. if you want sleep, go to the frequented cafe. at our school we give clothes away. to each other. sometimes I see a person with a bag or a shirt of mine. it seems familiar. how am I familiar. she seems familiar, at least the green color, and her longish hair. squirrels bark from trees, and then the crows, ravens, sparrows.

and the neighborhood tea is made strong, incomprehensibly weak. sleep evades.

when we went to kept going. sometimes it's like trying to hard. but then you can picture a good cigar, and isaac in his sweater. installations of a palm talking needles, markings on the skin. whispering to subsequent admission, and depth and harness. hardness. there is no hardness in.

love, sherri

2008-09-28T12:03:00.000-07:00

2008-09-28T11:46:00.000-07:00

2008-09-28T11:44:00.000-07:00