you arrived at just the right moment.

so i hope

your departure is as auspicious,

blessed, monumental, needed,

inspiring, inspired, serendipitous,

divine, necessary, abbreviated

and quick

as your presence.

that is to say, you never were close by

for long. so double your efforts this time

and make your absence as brief.

or better yet,

best yet,

figure it out and find

a way to stay.

do i love myself ?

truth be told, i've learned to.

and to tell another truth,

i love you more.

cotton candy shapes

not sure if i mentioned the smaller

things that make you us and make

the boats sail. that one time i drove home

by the river after a long day and i saw you there,

enormous, resting on your side, head propped in

hand, watching my tiny ego dash by from

your bathtub. you were halfway submerged,

stretched the length of the river straight,

like a giant in low tide watching a children's toy

traffic jam. what a smile on your face,

bemused wisdom, seeing my path from a far

vantage point, loving and gentle and strong and

i thought, that's just how i imagine god. too many lives to juggle,

imperfect, adoring, watching, guiding, always confident

in me.

still here

with fewer words.

more will come, i hope.

please don't go.

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.