soaked

turned the lights on and found you in the (empty)
bathtub sitting on your knees, next to the faucet.
arms at your sides, you played thoughtlessly with the edges of your
feet, not wanting to look up.
you were asking without asking.
i sat down to pee, watching you, wondering whether it was
my place and wondering whether, considering all the lonely
baths i had taken, waiting for you to not arrive, it would be smart of
me --or fair, really. i guess that was the issue - my preoccupation with
justice. you kept your gaze downward, and seemed nervous.
i took a deep breath and blew it out through tight lips, leaned over and
opened the faucet. let the water heat up, plugged the drain, pulled off your clothes.
while the tub slowly filled i got towels, brought them to the edge of the tub, rolled up my pants.
you sat on the floor of the tub and as the water rose i watched the tension leak out of you...
i could see it in the water, glistening, floating on the surface like oil. i sat on the
edge of the tub and swung my feet over, getting wet up to the shins. you still didn't see
my face. i attended to this job with the
immense and grounded love that holds families upright like umbrellas
in the sand. with my hands i cupped water,
lifted it and released it above your head. this
was no time for soap or excess; this was about cleansing, this was about releasing,
this was about protection and permission and the weight of obligation. i brought
handfuls
of water to your shoulders, your ears, the back of your neck, your belly.
the muscles in my arms said
Love, the seriousness in my jaw said
Love, my feet planted in the water said
Love, and stability, hard work, effort, spoke of the fruits of hard labor.
the water covered you, lined your body in a thick layer of liquid. i ran my thumbs over your eyes, down your nose, across your throat, pressed your lips,
put my palm against your chest, against your belly. i
told you the secret, the One Thing you needed to know, and your body relaxed completely
and you breathed again, safe in the knowledge that you would not be judged, you
would not be held accountable for those things, you could be honest without fear of
yourself. and
yet, you did not look up. you looked lost, with a flame in your eyes. i couldn't help myself; i'm sorry for my selfishness -- i took your face in my hands, and turned your eyes towards me.
i looked into them and slid off the edge of the tub onto your lap. as my clothes soaked through
and my hips warmed in the water i wrapped my arms around your neck, and my legs around your waist, and hoped that we could stay that way forever.

not really, no

thank you but i'm not especially interested in what you have to offer, through a clear but thin filmy veneer i watch you, life, and feel removed. i wake with full intention of sleeping anew and walk with every intention of sitting down, once again, upon an aged rock with a sweet view of your lake, the depth of which is satisfyingly unknown. i'd rather not know, thank you, i'd rather wait here twisted up tightly within the confines of my polka-dot imagination, imagining you, imagining us, effortlessly and endlessly hopeful. the footsteps before me are muddy, sloppy, chewy, unappetizing, but the pristine green of unexplored terra offers nothing, fails to impress, without your presence. i recognize my right to self-annihilation via psychological meltdown as just one more drop in this god-forsaken bucket. god whistles as she walks down the street, one hand in her coat pocket, the other grasping the handle of our holy mother bucket, sloshing the wet contents about, spilling a bit here and there, careless. she goes home to wash her feet in the bucket; splash her floors for a good mopping; douse wandering flames; scrub her radiant, oblivious face with all of us. to what end to what end to what end do we scramble do we stumble and run do we reach and strain on our knees and then sit back on our heels, shake our heads, and have a good cry? how unbecoming it is to become something less-than, other-than, to fragment yourself into shapes, great triangles of upright citizenship, rhombuses of righteousness, spheres of schedules and tasks and expectations, pyramids postulating over nothing, like walking, talking picasso-esque jumbles of flesh and ego and hardened calcium deposits, fervently claiming dust. how unbecoming to ride death's train toward the inevitable, nodding as the scenery reflects your Grand Progress, counting the cows as you pass, wondering when the dining car opens, yawning, scratching your belly, wishing for an extra pair of socks, making room for new passengers, winking over firm handshakes to those about to depart, nodding at signs that indicate your final approach. No, that's not for me, not really, no. i prefer the insane and gratifying style of the whirling dervish, spinning as a great storm with no track to run, no "one way," picking up and spitting out whatever crosses my path, neatly destructive, ruining one avenue while preserving another completely, frivolous, ignorant, open, skirt blown up, hair tangled as the thickest knot of pine trees, eyes closed, hands open, wandering aimlessly in pursuit of pure joy until i tumble, unexpectedly, over life's final cliff.

bits + pieces

lying on the floor, i turned my head to the right and noticed my hand lying palm up, fingers slightly curled as muscles loosened. i wondered to myself if this is what my wrist, palm and fingers will look like just after i die. i expanded the thought and considered myself seriously dead, wondering about body position - will i be horizontal? will i be curled up? will i lie on my back, belly up, fierce toward the world? then i considered my death in action, and imagined myself taking my sharpest knife to my stomach, here on the floor.
then i stopped. who has thoughts like these? this is dangerous. or is it just taboo? let's keep going and find out. i was too tired to get off the floor and go to the kitchen to find the knife anyway, so i figured my laziness would win over my imagination, and keep me safe.
knife tip into stomach, right side. what would i find inside? could i reach in and pull anything out before i lost consciousness? could i have a look at my liver, my kidney, my heart before i go? what if i engineered this well and dissected my body before i died? could i chop myself up before i lost enough blood to have the strength to go on? next thought: i would tear up pieces of paper and write the names of loved ones. i would line the pieces of paper up across the floor and deposit the appropriate body part next to each piece, like an offering. or a museum exhibit. to whom would i give which part of me? i'd have to start at the bottom, i suppose. one toe per friend; hopefully no one would take offense to the implication of size differential between toes. who gets my heart? who gets my stomach? does any one person deserve my whole brain? could i divide it in half? that would have to be the final stroke before lights out, so i'd angle the fall just in front of the papers.
what struck me most about this process was not that fact that i was chopping myself up or offering my body to the people around me; rather, that i was considering who might take offense at the body part they were offered. would my mom be jealous if my father got my right brain? would more than one person expect my heart? what does an eyeball represent? protection? wisdom? humour? (who wants an eye, anyway?) i was concerned with whether or not people would be pleased with a portion of my decaying flesh, as an extension of myself. all i can do is laugh, and keep my knives in their drawer.

14th & pennsylvania

you wouldn't believe it - i caught a glimpse. a real live show from someday, a concrete example of the possible, although no indication of likelihood or lack thereof. in the fading evening, a fountain glowed, spilling over wet with joy, at a city intersection, and like toys wound up for a musical play, couples twirled about the plaza to beautiful music. i was struck silent, near tears, it was such an amazing sight. no cameras, no judges, no dress code - just people dancing for the sake of dancing, for the pleasure itself. some were self-conscious, others blissfully unaware, some focused and others lost. and i saw us, just on the edge of the group, moving a bit slower than the rest, though in rhythm, more frail and fragile-looking in our old age. we danced with smiles, sometimes with eyes closed, sometimes acknowledging this small urban miracle around us, sometimes wrapped up in our own synchronized bodies. at times like these people inevitably reflect, and we reflected with peace on our past. that peace was a gift but also a reward for hard work, and we had done our time. i tried to remember what it felt like to miss you, but couldn't escape the joy of having you close, all to myself for another few moments, and i was grateful. you were my peace, you were my gift, and in my old age i let go of the long struggle between convincing myself i deserved you and working towards earning you simultaneously, because both sides of that struggle were reconciled with one solution: honoring you, respecting you, loving you as much as i possibly could for as long as god and mother nature agreed upon. i knew our allotted number of breaths in this lifetime were drawing to a close, and the serenity i found in my love for you kept most fears of death at bay. you had always been my inspiration, in this life and in preparation for whatever lay beyond. a sweet slow ballroom dance al fresco with you was big enough to fit all these thoughts, and small enough to help me understand them. it was lovely, and so are you.

reflection

hello again. it's been a while but i know your scream, and i heard it. i know your fears and i see you sleep and i wonder the same questions you do, but from a safe place. i am proof that we made it, that you will make it, as doubtful as you may be at times. the unknown hangs in your peripheral vision, creeping in from time to time, blotting out the view like wet ink, reminding you that you only see a portion of the picture, that you only know what is available to you, but there is more, beyond. remember when you dive in that if you go down, it's only worth it if you go all the way down and touch bottom, hover for a moment, relax into the darkness, let yourself go. then look up at the reflected light, walking lightly across the surface above you, remember it, crave it, and return to it. one day when you dive down, you may find that you can bring the light with you, and find comfort at the bottom, seeing it more clearly for what it is.
those people that you keep seeing on the black side the road at the edge of your headlights, i know they scare you. if not for their presence, then for their unknown intentions. are they lost? do they want you? will they hurt you? will they keep you? can they see you? why do they follow you? they are your questions, the hardest ones, and they thrive in dark places, behind trees, flickers in the night. you don't have to know everything about them, or be frightened, but you should acknowledge them, because they belong to you and they will stay with you until their answers become more visible.
i watch your body sleep at night, and you look nearly as contorted and misshapen as you do during the day. why do you stretch so far? what are you straining for? there may be things beyond the bed, beyond your dreams, that are of use to you, but you cannot spend your resting time reaching unless you spend wakeful time sleeping soundly. and we both know you do not. our back arches from fear of the next blow; our elbows and knees ache from the blood trapped in their bends; our hands are sore from holding fingers tightly in a ball; our forehead is tense with worry. this is unnecessary. you will solve no more problems in your sleep by being anxious than the number you solve during the day in the same state.
you don't always have to be ready for the next worst thing. i know this is how it's always been, that if you're ready for the pain it may hurt slightly less. that if others see you bracing yourself, perhaps they'll think twice before delivering the blow. but you know the bad thing always comes, without fail. and it hasn't killed us yet. the truth is that the bad is out there, and that it's a waste of life to spend your time preparing for it. or rather, the best way to prepare is to accumulate goodness, to barricade yourself with happiness, to build an arsenal of honesty and compassion. this is the only way to be properly prepared, it will not fail you, and it will be enriching in practice. and, as always, it is not easy.
go to bed tonight without worry. there are things you did not do today that you wish you had; things you did that you wish you hadn't; expectations for tomorrow both dreadful and anticipated; assumptions about next week and worry about next spring, or autumn or lifetime. all of those things are real, present, and waiting for you. they will surely be there tomorrow morning, you need not attend to them tonight. seek peace in your dreams, i'm here for you, i'm watching you, i will not leave you.

party of 3-7

is it active, survival? or is it a passive weathering of
storms? i do my best to convince lolo and lola
a.k.a. mohamed and khadija, a.k.a. frances and
ferdinand a.k.a. the most stable figures in my
everyday, my towering plants, that i'm independent,
and strong. i strut, i cook, i clean, i get angry at the
leaks and smile at the sunshine, keeping my
box in order, lest anyone question my capacity
for box-building and framework-maintenance. but
l and l, m and k, f and f... they know my secrets, they live
inside this box with me, they know what makes me
cry and which songs turn the mop into a microphone,
they know the secrets i spill to flesh and blood and the ones
i only offer to thin air, they see the real smiles and the puppet ones,
they feel my energy and remind me to water them, and to
water myself. so i ask them, the audience to my grand show:
am i surviving? am i thriving?
am i doing this right? if i stop and ask myself all the existential
questions, if i take on the stress inherent to the pursuit of
happiness, if i ask myself "are you welcoming the struggle or
running from the pain?," then have i canceled out the question?
what does it mean to doubt yourself when you are your only judge?
then there is no doubt, there is nothing to doubt, there is nothing.
just me and khadija and frances, and lolo and mohamed,
ferdinand and lola, we make a fine party. i asked those questions of them,
a mad woman pacing a wooden floor, making a mess of my brain as i floss
my teeth before bed, and although they don't answer outright,
i notice they lean in towards each other, only slightly,
and i imagine they're discussing my condition and
i hope they love me regardless.

a bed alone

it's important to have enjoyed a bed with another,
and to have suffered a bed with another, as well,
to enjoy a bed alone.
splaying arms and legs wide, to the cold frontiers of the mattress,
is appreciable only if one has clung to one side in the past,
loathe to roll over and face an oblivious, snoring log.
a bounty of cottony pillows most delights those who
have settled for the half-stuffed, the rough-seamed,
the foam-block reject before, jealously eying the club
sandwich-triple stack cushioning another's neck.
wrapping oneself twice, thrice, four times 'round
with delicious layers of sheet and blankets and feather-stuffed
duvets is a pleasure understood by those who have shivered
down the hallway to pull a stiff extra blanket from the
bottom of a closet, indignant and now with socks.
a bed to oneself means a chance to be the tosser, the turner,
the sleep-talker, the restless thumper, the thoughtless
roller, the rude rear-bumper ... all the things one never had a chance to be
because the post was already taken.
of course, it can be tiresome, a bed alone, it can be
a bit forlorn. some mornings a familiar face is greatly
missed, some evenings a good spoon would make all the
difference between a good night's sleep and a stretch of
lonely nightmares. but it's important to take the opportunity to
slurp soup, watch movies, spill popcorn, converse with
imaginary friends, love oneself and watch the sun rise from
a quiet, still, soft foundation, before you let another share
your dreams again.

tea bag wisdom, early september

"appreciate yourself and honor your soul"
over soothing chamomile.

why do we choose the paths
that we do?
what is cause? and
effect? ... when time is a joke and
consequence is man-made.
why obsess over befores and
afters, over actions and
choices? life is a giant knot,
a messy tangle, an unadulterated
mass of happenstances. we push and pull
and yank threads, turning away and regrouping
for a new perspective, considering alternate
messes, weaving in foreign strings, hoping
to make sense of it all, only to come to terms, much
later, with the mess, and be satisfied
with the opportunity for mess alone, without
kicking ourselves for not making enough sense of it.
if it's ashes to ashes and dust to dust, and lonely dust
at that, in the end ... enjoy the mess. be not discouraged if it makes no sense.
how could it?

táctica y estrategia [mario benedetti]

mi táctica es
mirarte
aprender como sos
quererte como sos

mi táctica es
hablarte
y escucharte
construir con palabras
un puente indestructible

mi táctica es
quedarme en tu recuerdo
no sé cómo ni sé
con qué pretexto
pero quedarme en vos

mi táctica es ser franco
y saber que sos franca
y que no nos vendamos
simulacros
para que entre los dos

no haya telon
ni abismos

mi estrategia es
en cambio
más profunda y más
simple
mi estrategia es
que un día cualquiera
no sé cómo ni sé
con qué pretexto
por fin me necesites

yoga chapters

i. tadasana: giving myself permission to relax. i cannot force, persuade, instruct, direct, insist that my muscles loosen, hang freely around my bones; rather, i give permission, a polite suggestion, i stop trying so hard.

ii. restorative savasana: some thoughts fly freely through my mind, gently passing by with
a nod, perhaps a wink, on their way elsewhere. others kick my chest from the inside, with a POP.
they startle me, shock my eyes open, make my heart think twice. i named them sparks, and asked that they return later to motivate me, to guide my path, but that they not disturb this moment

iii. side-supported savasana: i fished for love in my mind. at the edge of the sea, i waited for a fish - a love - to come to me. i grabbed it, pulled it close to me and held it tight, knowing all the joy, sorrow and fullness that comes with love. but the longer i clung to it, the more violently it thrashed in my arms, desperate to return to the water. i considered for a moment the risk to keep this fish for myself forever, to know that joy, sorrow and fullness indefinitely, but i knew the fish needed the water, that individual love is only a fleeting flash of a great ocean of love that exists among us. i bent over towards the water and threw the fish back in. i looked to my right at another woman, cradling a fish in her arms, and found peace and satisfaction in her experience, in her happiness, knowing it was part of mine. beyond her, a long line of people stretched one by one as far as the coast did, each in different stages of fishing - some searching, some welcoming, some rejecting, some gazing lovingly at their fish, some in horrible pain at the thought of letting go, others smiling as they released, none aware of the others, thinking their fish was the only fish in the sea

iv. i see you in my home, covered in a thick layer of my fears, my hesitance, my ignorance, my worries. i look at you and say i cannot, i just can't live and love you with my fears between us; i have to believe what i know to be true about you and step with a cautious confidence forward, trusting you completely. i come close to you and peel back the rubbery, gray coating from your face, push it off your head, down past your ears, pull the layer across your shoulders and push it down your body to the floor. i guide you to step away from it. you are golden, and lovely, and smiling

a trip

that emptiness chased me down the road again and
hovered just behind me, whipping through the
wind like a flag eager to claim victory.
i couldn't help but acknowledge it, and
just before a turn in the road, i took
a deep breath in, and i felt
emptiness's dark spot growing in my belly.
at the bottom of the curve
i considered filling the void with
other people, outside thoughts,
vague distractions, and then my cowardice
occurred to me. so i came out of the turn with
an intention
to push myself into that blank space,
to fill the gap with my own wholeness,
my own attention, my own love.
it worked, in a way: i do have wholeness,
i can be attentive to myself, i have
love to offer me. but at the end of the road,
it turns out that me,
my wholeness, attention and love ... we
get awfully lonely.

ode to another, via the yamas

1. ahimsa: in thought, in body, in words, in energy, i hold you with compassion and protect you from violence
2. satya: we honor the truths that exist between us and for each of us separately, absolving our truth of moral judgment, acknowledging trust as the foundation of truth
3. asteya: i seek to take nothing from you; but rather enrich your life abundantly
4. brahmacharya: the foundation of our connection is rooted in soulful respect, complimented, deepened, but not spoiled, by pleasures of the flesh
5. aparigraha: we seek not to exploit one another, but rather have faith in our capacities and desires to provide for each other

i intend to

be devastated by my blessings; weep at the magnitude of my wealth; honor my footsteps across a wooden floor; caress each bathroom tile; kiss the windows, open, close them and kiss them anew like old friends; shock my body with each bite i take; savor every single dollar that's mine to spend; hold a vigil of silence and then a vigil of raucousness; long for my own skin and then, realizing that i've had it all along, hold a joyous celebration for its unexpected return; wait anxiously to see if night falls and, if it does, wonder curiously if dawn will break again; consider every moment in aching love to be a miracle wrapped as a precious gift in brown paper with silk ribbon, open each with unbelieving wonder and accumulate them with loving tenderness; push my body against bubbly molecules of air, swimming, floating, riding them down the sidewalk; consider whether god prefers my conversation over eggs and toast at the table or as midnight pee break soliloquies in a darkened bathroom; sit gently, open my body, move slowly, see beauty and trust life as much as i trust my red lamp

god for breakfast

ESTEBAN: pero tu no vas para la iglesia ke haces en casa?

ME: recuperando

me dio una migraña dura en esta semana

por eso que no salgo de la casa

pero aquí tengo a dios a mi lado compartiendo el desayuno

preparé huevos y a dios le gusta sus huevos revueltos

ESTEBAN: ajajajajajajajaa

paper towels

in my days i have sought names, categories, personages,
habits, hobbies ...at the very least tendencies to call
upon when defining myself to myself,
or explaining myself to others.

i believe in _____. i'm an ____ -ist.
i'm an early riser.
a vegetarian.
i only drink red wine, for the antioxidants.
i'm really a very independent person.
i like to take photographs.
i woke up at 2 today. pm.
a city girl, at heart.
god is questionable.
i'm quite eco-conscious.
i will cross town for a good chicken empanada with olives.
i don't do that.
i spoke with my mother 7 times this week.
those are paint brushes in my closet.
i have a penchant for paper towels and fast cars.
a chardonnay with lunch sounds lovely, thank you.
fresh air does my body good.
everything is questionable but god.
i do this.
i meditate.
i can't sit still.
i love to cook from scratch, you should see me in the kitchen, and yes
i'll take that pad thai to go.

turns out i love experience, turns out my vocation of choice is Professional
Dabbler

the only consistent labels, trends, statistics i can muster
have to do with change and a love of burnt toast

i love the many stretches that go into a lazy morning

or so i was told

to the one i find when i rip all the layers, to the one who gave breathing a new purpose and taste, to the one who modified my perspective i say..... .... .... .... ..... .... Hi

when god takes a nap, i steal a kiss. your salty tear. seals our lips, seals our bliss, god wakes up, smiles and says "i'm not surprised" turns his cheek and goes back to sleep

bed body

i can stand
on my own two feet
but sleeping is
a different story

took me years to find the peace
of mind and ease
of self to rest on my back,
nap with my arms above my head,

but to deep sleep i must
return to my stomach, limbs coiled
beneath my body, torso a bit
contorted, neck arched to pillow,
blood clotted in my joints,
safely, peacefully distorted.

cotton candy soup

i talked to god
she said she would do her best to find our family
between This World and the Not Yet
no promises, though, these things are tricky
i said i appreciated her effort and honesty

anticip-

the clouds say you're coming

but the wind changed direction and that indicates an unknown variable

four out of nine leaves on my tree are leaning towards the door - perhaps they know something i don't

three boxes of animal crackers say i was expecting you
the wrinkles in my sheets feign indifference - "we don't care, either way"

the forty-five thousand thoughts that crossed my mind on the elevator
between the second and third floors suggest
that i care about you, and whether or not you
show up

the nonchalant fork left dirty in the sink is my method of
convincing myself that it doesn't matter, and
the breeze through the window reminds me that i have
no say, no right, no part,

and yet
and yet
and yet the pace of my breath, the flush in my face, the jam in my throat, the thrill in my hands betray my logic

and i am overjoyed at the prospect of you
for a few minutes, just you --
overjoyed at the prospect alone

salted kisses

but this, this is a new animal.
this is a different kind of
bittersweet. this is
new.

before, my yearnings had been
obscured, vague,
yearnings to get away
instead of yearnings toward,
to name that which ill-suited me,
and to grasp, indelicately, at
what I imagined my desires to be.

now, as the tide turns, comes in,
I throw myself towards the things
I want, knowing now what they are,
because they've taken reality's form.
And they haunt me, those things I want,
because though I see them, though I lap
at them, drink them in through
words and voice and starbursts of the heart,
I know I cannot have, I cannot truly
know.

I will be beckoned, once again,
towards the weary, worldly sea, I'll ebb out
and away, pulled by the moon, dragging
myself slowly, gently releasing my
grasp of each grain of sand, leaving salted
kisses where they lay.

At least, at very least, I'll have tasted.