I decided to play
A little game
With seeds from
The plantain
I toss them in
To begin
A journey of what
Held within
And there she was
Hair in a truss
Jumping with glee
To see us.
Or is her hair
Long and fair
And aligned into
The pose of Chair?
And seeming tho
To be a float
O’er dark crescent
Hanging low
There once was a con man from Satanta
A son, so to speak, of Fernanda
His mother a whore
He slept on the floor
And for comfort had only Mylanta
There once was a con man from Sublette
Who walked to school soaked in his brow sweat
The bastard, he swore
Would brow sweat no more
Alas, too cool for his doublet
There once was a con man from Missouri
A soldier, married in a hurry
A woman named Gina
Unlike Rose’s cantina
Not a Mexican girl, but it’s blurry
There once was a con man from Minden
Who tortured a poor girl named Cinden
Who under his threat
Was forced to him wed
The abuse, unfortunately, was hidden
There once was a con man from New Hampshire
Who fancied himself quite a dancer
One lesson he took
Or was it out of a book
With a woman named D, he romanced her
There once was a con man from Nashua
Whom pussy he loved, or canned tuna
While skilled at the sword
He practiced no more
And instead barked like a Chihuahua
There once was a con man from Carolina
Who crafted a spell, none more finer
On a northern unicorn
Also known as the Norn
In an attempt to confine her
There once was a con man from Salina
Who strangled the Norn, made a scene-a
He came on vacation
And left on probation
After police issued a subpoena
There once was a con man from St Lucie
Who liked his associates nice and juicy
He stabbed his best friend
Three times, in the end
Insulted he was by Debussy
There once was a con man from Vero
Who purloined some money from a hero
Now he’s serving time
For little more than a dime
In a cell, stuck watching Ben Shapiro
#floridaman
“When I was one day old, I learned how to read. When I was two days old, I started to write. By the time I was three, I had finished 212 short stories, 38 novels, 730 poems, and one very funny limerick, all before breakfast.” Jon Scieszka
“A dozen more questions occurred to me. Not to mention twenty-two possible solutions to each one, sixteen resulting hypotheses and counter-theorems, eight abstract speculations, a quadrilateral equation, two axioms, and a limerick. That’s raw intelligence for you.” ~ Jonathan Stroud
“It’s raining, of course.”
Hauling suitcase, violin, bokken, flower and dog down sixteen stairs (seventeen minus one), with a grocery bag wrapped about my head for good measure, I take three round trips back and forth to Black Beauty. The backseat is of course made up for the golden Goddess, the honey-girl, the lovely lunatic, a Mecca of blankets and treats and stuffies, including the mammoth that’s going on two and a half years now, still one tusk strong. Not that she’ll stay there, however my conscience is relieved knowing that if she wanted comfort, she’d have it. I’ve bottled water and tea and coffee, a bad of cuties and some granola bars, all placed within strategic arms reach.
“You ready Luna?”
Eyes. Snif. Nose wiggle. Tail wagging quickly.
“Ok, let’s do this.”
I’ve always loved road trips. Memories play happily in my mind of being little and riding out to Indiana every other summer or so. The van. Poster board pop had lined the windows with so we would sleep. Signs made with said board “is that your mother in law in the trunk?” held up for followers and passers-by, being confiscated and tossed at the next Stuckey’s. Oh man, Stuckey’s Chicken and the Case of the Violent Diarrhea. Rock Lobster played 20 times in a row and pop beeping the horn in time. Fresh coloring books and the scent of hot crayons. A cooler full of Shasta, exploding as it thawed. And Mom. And M.
We cross the first bridge into Rhode Island, and I’m wishing I had wiper blades for my eyes. “What am I doing?” I ask. “Well, for one thing,” I answer, “you’re traveling for work. And for the other, you’re traveling for you.” My mind stops as the electronic seeing eye clocks my passage and charges a toll.
But tell me you love me, come back and haunt me, Oh and I rush to the start. Running in circles, chasing our tails, Coming back as we are. Nobody said it was easy, oh it’s such a shame for us to part, Nobody said it was easy, no one ever said it would be this hard, oh take me back to the start. -Coldplay
Our first destination is Newport News (Mews, Luna calls it, hoping to find a c.a.t.) a ten hour drive that brings us over new territory. The Chesapeake Bay Bridge, 17 miles of under and over water passage, took my breath away.
“Breathe,” says the Sliph.
Glare off the water strained my eyes as I tried to make form of what might possibly be the other side. I was wrong. It is a good thing I had not prepared myself for this overwater adventure or I may have chosen a more inland route. I’m at my best in situations where confronting fears and challenges is left to chance, embracing the wheel of fortune as it is revealed again and again in my daily draw, and so I adjust the seat a smidge back, and with my hand on the backside of the Pot of Gold, windows rolled down, we embrace the ride.
In music, the bridge is typically where the tone of the song is changed. Lyrically, there’s retrospect and new understanding. In the construct of the chords, there’s typically the introduction of a new progression, using the third, fourth or fifth as tonic, or possibly a change from major to minor or vice versa. In many pop songs there’s often a transition in key, right before the entry to another verse or repetition of chorus. It’s an interval of sorts, that which can change or lend new meaning to words, or even irony in chord choice.
After my initial incredulity passes, I deeply tune in to the feeling of this bridge, how it parallels to the happenings in my life. I’ve left behind what was known and embraced simplicity. I’ve developed a serene rhythm of acceptance. As I know I can’t think of every possible outcome or turn or detour ahead, I’ve learned a quiet acceptance and peace in the chaos of change.
The bridge changes to a tunnel a few times, and Luna’s fur forms a dinosaur-like ridge down her back. She knows when change is happening and is very sensitive to it. I rub her from her neck to tail a few times, and she sits back in the seat. We’ve had each other’s back through many changes in the past few years. I’ve got her back, and I know she has mine.
Upon arrival at the hotel, it’s made abundantly clear that I am no longer the girl I used to be (thankfully). During the short walk to our temporary quarters, I’m aware of my legs are vibrating uncontrollably like an A/C powered Hitachi wand. Heat from the shower and an hour on the mat bring peace to my psoas. Age and use have helped me to understand that I need to take the time I need to care for my body, whether it be eating healthily or exercising or stretching, as much as I need that time for my mind too.
The next day and night pass quickly, and I’m on the road again, due west, diving into the past. Yes, this is a journey of healing. It’s also a yard stick to provide perspective to years of shadow work and trauma therapy. So often I’m bound to the immediate experience, or one from the past, it helps to take a third eye view on just what has actually transpired. The miles tick underneath, and Alan Watts beats in..
The meaning of life is just to be alive. It is so plain and so obvious and so simple. And yet, everybody rushes around in a great panic as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond themselves – Alan Watts
And suddenly again I’m awakened. To identify with healing is also to identify with suffering. I’d become addicted as much to my suffering and the alleviation thereof as I had any drug or sex or hobby du jour. At what point can you say, “that’s it, I’ve healed enough. “ how many times do you check in on a scab and pick at the edges before leaving it alone? If there’s a wound that will not heal, typically there is a sickness feeding it. If there was cocaine in the house, it’d soon be up my nose. So, don’t bring cocaine into the house and even better yet, stop hanging out with the supplier. Stop driving down the street they live on. Move out of town if you have to.
“If thy eye offends thee, pluck it out.” Matthew 5:29
The remainder of my trip is seen through these rose colored glasses, with understanding that everything I am doing is now because I want to, not for some purpose or position. If healing is needed, it will happen naturally. No force needed.
And so, I had a delightful visit with the most beautiful woman in the world. We ate. We cackled. We visited friends and went out in the town. We played with dogs and smoked cloves and dished ideas for creative ventures. We drove downtown into the Crossroads and soaked up art. I made note of how some places change, and others are icons.
What I was most dismayed to see what what I had come for. The Temple. I had built this beast up in my mind as a monolith of magnificence. It was living and breathing, writhing with magic and creative power. Now though, to see it, was as to see a body prepped for embalming- all of the blood, all of the vital energy was gone. And so it was, just another building in a tiny town in the middle of everywhere. All of the meaning, the magic, the life, the power that this structure had was that which I had put into it. Without it, it is merely an organization of limestone and marble.
The journey home is smooth and uneventful. I think of nothing most of the way. I pet the dog. I listen to more Watts, I snack on whatever’s at Love’s and drink black coffee from Starbucks. And really, that’s how this whole business started. A kiss and a black coffee, with a green stopper plugging the steam vent. I started out with a little yellow dog, and ended up with another one.
My life has indeed changed forever. My life would have changed in other ways had I not taken that lunch date extension. And to this I have only to say, I’m okay. I’m okay with what is, whatever it is. People and experiences come and go. Grieve as they come, so that when they go it doesn’t hurt so bad. If you can’t imagine your life without someone or something, that’s hardly romance. It’s addiction, and invitation to suffering.
It is what it is.
You should therefore know the great mantra of Prajnaparamita, the mantra of great magic, the unexcelled mantra, the mantra equal to the unequalled, which heals all suffering and is true, not false, the mantra in Prajnaparamita spoken thus: Gate, Gate, Paragate, Parasangate, Bodhi Svaha. -The Heart Sutra
Through our eyes, the universe is perceiving itself. Through our ears, the universe is listening to its harmonies. We are the witnesses through which the universe becomes conscious of its glory, of its magnificence. -Alan Watts
The future disappears into memory
With only a moment between
Forever dwells in that moment
Hope is what remains to be seen -RUSH
Every day I find new
Ways to look at myself and
Love what I’m seeing
I seek challenges
For the sake of the doing
And conquer each one
Getting comfortable
Seeking the uncomfortable
Until it submits
I marvel in this body
Complexities I’ve taken
For granted before
Now stacking up tall
Head over heart and pelvis
Mind over matter
Reintroducing
Myself to myself. Hello.
This is me. I am.
It all started with a beautiful specimen. Ripe, purple, orange, and red, firm yet delicate skin, ready to burst at the slightest pressure. Oh, it was a beauty, nestled on display screaming, take me home with you and eat me. How could I possibly refuse such an offer?
So, I brought him home and ogled him for a while. He was supple, yet firm to the touch. When cut open, his juices ran, his veining exposed. I felt a sense of deep aching being fulfilled in a way that none has ever been able to match in depth or sensuousness. How did he taste? Like a summer filled with sunshine and warm breezes and thunderstorms and nitrogen rich dirt.
His prolific seed spilled over my cutting board in an array of gelatinous burgundy. How could I possibly waste such potent life force? Scooping them all up, I left them on the windowsill to ferment in a recycled cottage cheese container (Hood, 4%, Large Curd – because I have standards and a reputation to maintain). A film of green and brown appeared within a few days-they were then rinsed and dried, and put into egg crate and hummus beds to sprout. With nearly a quarter of the seeds planted, I stopped, mostly due to the overwhelming thought of whatever could I possibly do with dozens upon dozens of tomato plants.
Within a few short weeks, the seeds grew from ova to infancy, slender purple stems and their green wings sprouting and reaching for the sky. 60 of the very best specimen found their home inside of biodegradable pots, the others nibbled on by Luna and me, or given to the birds and squirrels for afternoon tea.
The early summer sun beat down on my babies, and soon they were ready to move from the nursery to a makeshift raised bed, crafted from a couple of tarps and a few ancient metal shelving units recovered from the basement. With a couple of bags of potting mix, 36 of the very best seedlings were soon nestled in their new beds.
Each morning, the same routine – greet, tousle, water, check for blossoms, and a deep belly breath in through the nose filled with the intoxicating aroma of darkening serrated leaves. Each day, counting and taking note of the delicate yellow flowers forming, developing into a swelling that would soon become fruit. And then it happened.
I named him Jack. In making my rounds one fine Tyrs-Day morning, he appeared on the west-end side of my tiny garden-on-pavement. Shy and quiet, his blossom had given way to a small bright green bulb. Quickly, more followed – The Twins, Dyna, Aristotle, Myrtle, Hermes, and of course, Sunshine. Then, too many to name. Prolific as they were, this variety was slow to ripen.
And so, I continued every morning and evening, greeting, rubbing, huffing, telling stories and singing lullabies to my babies, until it was time for them to leave the nest for the next part of their life’s journey. The Twins were devoured immediately, bent over and drooling into my porcelain farmer’s sink. Others given to my beloved friends, save for one.
Jack had a very special road ahead of him: a 17 hour Sunshine State or Bust highway to heaven. So I packed him whole in a Pyrex container. He was placed lovingly into Black Beauty, along with my violin, swords, knives, dog and clothes, and we hauled ass, bagpipes blaring at 3 AM. If there is any proper method to celebrate the birthday of Bilbo Baggins, it is with an adventure.
Jack’s children are nearly two inches tall now, stretching in the eastern window of my new hobbit hole. Someday, they’ll have children of their own, and so on. I love to think about every Jack Junior, how in that seed is contained all of the future tomato plants to be, and also all of its ancestors. I think of life, and death, and delicious tomato laced kisses on hot summer days. It’s the beautiful mystery of our nature and being, ready to burst with all that life to offer.
Not sure what I’m talking about? Well, that’s because you just don’t know Jack.
“It’s just like eating, you have this hole at the top of your body into which you stuffed dead plants and animals regularly and grind them up with these bones that hang down and glug them down through the tube and you ambulate it by falling one direction and catching yourself and you fall the other side and you catch yourself. I mean, how did you get into this weird thing? You know? So, we’ve lost that sense of mystery. Sleep is one of the great mysteries and we love it. So, when you have that sense that instead of being success or failure, it’s like, oh, you get to see this mystery and realize that it’s connected with everything.” -Jack Kornfield
And so I change.
As cycles of the moon
Or celestial positioning
Or seasons
I change
As hands on the clock
Or highway lanes
Or underwear
I change
As cents out of dollars
Or aging faces
Or sex
I change
As some things never
Or others, always
Or weather
I change
Skuld the Valkyrie
A Walk In Neverland 