nowhere = now here

10 tunes for Friday

Puff the Magic Dragon - Peter Paul & Mary -
Now they make pipes in a dragon shape - called - you guessed it ...
All Blues - John Coltrane & Miles Davis
Hard to have the blues on such a spectacular spring morning but still...
Pulp Fiction theme - "I love you honeybunny"
Now jump up on the table brandishing your weapon!
Whiskey in the Jar - Metallica
A sing-along song...
Rosalita - Bruce & EStreet live
Dance dance dance!
Shaking the Tree - Peter Gabriel
Keep dancing!
At Last - Neko Case
Added Neko to my lists last year - I love her voice.
The Boys Are Back - Thin Lizzy
Reclaimed from radio overplay - it's a great song. (And - Metallica was covering Thin Lizzy's version of Whiskey in the Jar).
The Chain - Fleetwood Mac
Remember junior high?
Guitar Town - Emmylou at the Ryman
Emmylou rocks!

6 secrets (redux)

1: I'm not a natural blogger.
Course right now I'm not even journaling. Bringing me back to that age old (old age?) question - can we only write when we're experiencing drama?
Can I only blog when I have a polished facet of myself to present?
I suspect it is partly the tyranny of expectation - second child / triple Capricorn syndrome. If I should do it I don't want to - if I said I would I regret it - oppositional defiant meets goat stubborn.
2: I want to live as if I'm dying.
Now I could spread this declaration over the metaphysical landscape but I'm thinking of housework, spring cleaning. We're not living in filth, just living in stuff - TOO MUCH STUFF. There are two mantras filling our space - "I can use it" and "it came from someone I love". Right now I have a mess in every room, the porch and the garden, slowly recreating the spaces, reconsidering everything. Cause isn't it about decisions? Point being, I would hate dying with this mess passing out of my hands...
Impaired decision making and a sense of foreshortened future are two effects of PTSD - I read that recently and copied it down.
3: I love mini oreos (not a secret to anyone who's been around me lately) - BigSis calls 'em "crack in a bag."
4: Getting back to STUFF - part of what keeps stuff here is the belief that there is no "throwing it away." Where is away? Yet - sometimes after hanging onto stuff, worrying about how to dispose of it - off it goes to the big green can in the yard, off to the landfill.
5: I don't know the answer.
A friend asked me recently, "Don't you want to be in love?" Boyfriend or girlfriend? Where do poems come from? What is success?  Where do I want to be in five years? Next year? (next month...week...day?) Hilary or Obama?
Is there a limit to now here?
Just as manners are a way of creating distance, habits are a way of simplifying.
6: I'd rather read a book than just about anything.
I'm reading my way through May Sarton's novels - what fun! Most recent trash - The Immortals. Recent obsession - Our Father by Marilyn French - I want to make a play out of it - write a play from it? I've been listening to Jane Austen on Project Gutenburg, which led to listening to Jane Eyre - which gave me a whole new appreciation for it, probably because it forces me to slow down.

April is National Poetry Month

X111     (Dedications)            Adrienne Rich

I know you are reading this poem
later, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour.   I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains’ enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet.   I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
                    up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age.   I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
                     hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
                     between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
                     left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

most of all - thanks

It's almost full moon, almost Aries, almost equinox. Here in our mountain home, it's almost sunny, almost warm, almost time to get clean and get out of the house.
Al-most - so close - I can see it and smell it and - almost - feel it.
Though when I'm down about where I am, it's not where I almost am cheering me onward - it's where I've been. "Last year this time," I whisper to myself, "last year this time Be still loved Scrub and Scrub still lived here and so did LilSis and I had just quit my day job and BigSis was in the dark end of the tunnel."
Now? All changed.
BigSis is in - thank all the goddesses and gods - remission. LilSis has her own place, Be grew up some and Scrub got evicted and dumped, and I've made it through a year of self-employment. Not evicted, car not repossessed, and if, financially, it was not the right decision, spiritually it sure was.
All - most - even some of what we want / need / expect - I say: thank you.

lunar lupercalia

20 Feb 08
lunar eclipse

lupercalian moon
(first full moon after Lupercalia)

Lupercalia was the Roman fertility and sexuality festival held on the Ides (15th) of February, later Christianized into St Valentine's Day. After Imbolg (1 Feb), we can feel the quickening - not to mention cabin fever! Little wonder the ancestors celebrated the idea of spring weeks ahead of the vernal equinox. As the sun moves into Pisces, we dream - of warm breezes, green seedlings, longer days and sweeter nights.

I Be Done

Today is Be's 21st birthday.
I'm done.
I know - parents are never done. But - still - I'm done.
I've been practicing keeping my mouth shut, mostly. As parents we repeat ourselves endlessly. It's the essence of teaching - saying the same thing over and over - and doing what you're telling them to do. A variation on Be the change you want to see.
As I write this, Willie sings "it's been rough and rocky traveling" - and it's the damn truth. I am occasionally sad, or bitter, or ashamed of the years now stretching behind us. Well, maybe more than occasionally. But the good - nothing was ever better, or meant more, or is a bigger comfort now, than - being Be's mom.
Any advice for single moms? Just one thing:
PUT THEM FIRST. Ahead of the man, the work, the rest of the family. Cause before you know it - you'll be the proud and worn out parent of a 21 year old, learning how to let go.

multitasking

Writers must write: we get this itch in our fingers; our minds wander; we feel as if there is something just beyond our vision, something we keep forgetting. I have all the symptoms, and with no poem yet crawling it's way up my throat, I suppose I must blog.

Welcome to the busy blogger edition of Thursday 13 and Friday's Random ipod 10.

Clap Hands by Tom Waits   New moon in Gemini
New moons are the beginnings of things - cut your hair on new moon if you want it to grow, plant in the garden, start new spells. This song always makes me drum the table and sing along. Drumming sets the spell. So does clapping 3 times.

Too Much by the Dave Matthews Band   Live simply, blah blah blah
Sunday morning at my sister's house, the coffee maker wouldn't start. Let me say that again: 8am Sunday morning, the coffee maker would not start. I tried all the tricks, plugged and unplugged and replugged, and still no magic green light, no water stealing through. Exhausted by sleep interrupted and traveling, I (honestly) wept, hands over my face, elbows on the kitchen counter. "All I want is a cup of coffee!" One of my little voices said, "Yeah and as soon as you get your coffee you're gonna want something else!" - and the coffee maker turned on.

Blowin in the Wind by Bob Dylan   The rains are here.
Our mountains are cool and green and afternoon thunderstorms help keep us that way. The pressure builds all day; the heat and humidity seem unbearable; then we feel that cool breeze, hear the rumble of thunder as it is tossed from one mountaintop to another. A total change - like altitude, atmosphere affects attitude.

I Wanna Be Sedated by the Ramones   Walking & dancing keep me calm.
I have been leading a high-stress life lately, and it doesn't particularly suit me. Those lines in my forehead, those veins in my neck, those twinges in my chest - time to walk - must dance.

Hey Joe by Jimi Hendrix   Am I still cool?
Due to a recent car accident, I have been cruising in my rental grand prix, dubbed Jezebella by me and Favorite Nephew, and - let's just say, Jezebella doesn't drive as well as my beloved Subaru Sophie B True, but she does have a helluva sound system. Zeppelin and Eminem sound equally raw, and I feel as cool as my battered purple chuck taylor keds.

Time Warp from Rocky Horror Picture Show   Is Typepad psychic? (Excuse me, intuitive...)

You Can Drive My Car by the Beatles   or is it itunes??????????????????

Roy Rodgers by Elton John   For me, it's Bette Davis.
I love certain old movies, and movies made from favorite old books, so while hanging out at BigSis' place with cable, I got to see part of The Group, based on Mary McCarthy's novel, and Portrait of a Lady, with Nicole Kiddman. I always loved this song, and have been listening to this record by Elton John (GoodBye Yellow Brick Road) since I was in eighth grade. Of course, back then I swore I would never be so dull....

Way Over Yonder by Carole King   Years from now...
I want this played at my funeral, so everyone can sing along and cry.

Time Waits by Widespread Panic   Someday, there'll be nothing more to say.
I love this song - it's full of quirky metaphors and has a jamming bass line just begging me to juke. Life is the dance of the seven veils - She just keeps revealing Herself in all Her benevolent simplicity.

Here For Now by Ani Difranco   Rule 1 for Life in Hell: everything's temporary.
I've realized lately how much my courage or stamina or focus depends on this idea, how much I can tolerate by telling myself it will be over soon, it's almost done. I have been turning it sideways too, by reminding myself how temporary everything really is - so - BE HERE NOW.

the summer of 68

the summer bobby kennedy died

the summer bobby kennedy died
barefoot hippies invaded city lake
to us they seemed as harmless
as the fishing we did there
with our pillsbury biscuit dough bait

i was seven

the summer bobby kennedy died
i almost drowned at the beach
my daddy moved out
it was the summer before the second grade
and i learned to swim

father’s day, first day of vacation
when daddy hauled me out
i was blue and he was damn near dead
aunt dot fetched the lifeguard
everybody thought i was dead too
til i bit his finger

i wasn’t allowed in the ocean again that year
and when we went home
it was to a new house
and my daddy didn’t live there

he saved my life
and later all he would talk about
was that sonofabitch standing near me
as the wave lifted me up
pointing and saying there she is
but not lifting another finger
to help

nobody saved bobby’s life

and when we asked mommy
when daddy would be home
for dinner
she said
he’s not coming home

she was lying on the couch crying
just a little pregnant
with the little sister
who would bring daddy back

by then
i was in a new school
bobby was dead
and buried with his brother
peace
and the democrats

we couldn’t afford the county fair that fall
had to buy a new refrigerator
we blamed it on johnson and high taxes
and we elected nixon
and my daddy got pneumonia
and fell headfirst into the bathtub
gave himself a concussion

one rainy groundhog sunday
after the inauguration
granny took us to see
The Horse In the Grey Flannel Suit
while my sister was being born
by then i was eight
and i could swim

and granny brought over our first phonograph
and 45s of Harper Valley PTA
and Last Train to Clarksville
and i dreamed i was gidget
or a boxcar child
or ben franklin

we moved to a bigger house
and lost a second cousin in Vietnam
and daddy’s daddy died
three years
after turning the firehoses on
civil rights marchers

he outlived bobby
and saw johnson fall
and voted for nixon
the first republican
he ever voted for
and the last

they made me kiss him in the casket
and we sang for the love of jesus
in his white baptist church
and we pledged allegiance
to our almost all white schools
liberty and justice for all like us

and the summer after the summer
bobby kennedy died
i swam in the whites only pool
and my daddy taught us to bodysurf the ocean
then moved out again

the summer after the summer bobby died
it was the summer before the third grade
and i was eight
and i could swim

(originally posted 5 Feb 07)

never complain, never explain

What an interesting month it's been - interesting as in may you live in these times. I can't flog myself that I haven't blogged - this is called now here as a prayer, a path, an exercise - unbelievable how hard it is. I know females are trained to be tuned in to the needs of others but the end result can be the silence from within. Walking now here is about hearing  / feeling / acting from the moment - within and without, to ride the flow between those.
Bodysurfing.
So - I find certain times of the Wheel of the Year strong for writing - certain times not. I've been walking the neighborhood, walking to a client's office downtown, walking up and down my back steps to water my garden. Since Mother's Day I've been re/reading Her Mother's Daughter by Marilyn French - a difficult read, as you can imagine, but so profound. I've started the Monday poem group, where some friends near and far find a poem in their email box on Monday mornings. I've been buddy blogging a great artist, Fran Welch, a beautiful soul who can now teach me a few things about typepad. I have a steady five clients and a monthly math puzzle from friend Anne.
But mostly this month has been about BigSis, who had surgery 4 May and is now home. WHAT AN AMAZING WOMAN!!! Two major surgeries in five months, with chemo in between. And this surgery was nine hours and multitasking - removing part of her liver and reversing the colostomy she had. She's as exhausted as she should be, and I was able to be with her truly terrific son, my favorite nephew (FN), the weekend of the surgery and with both of them for a week after she got home. And let's give a shoutout to my Mom, another AMAZING WOMAN, who was with BigSis from the admit desk to check out fourteen days later, then at home with her and active eight year old diabetic grandson til I got there six days later, who's been the mainstay for BigSis during this whole tunnel she's in.
I see the light - I feel strong she's on the road to clear scans and cancer free years. White light, white light, white light.
My clients have been so very kind - it's hard to have your bookkeeper gone two weeks out of the month. And Suzee the laptop is the bomb. She now holds my poetry files as well as client files and a growing music and photo library. Yay iBook.
This month we look forward to Be's 21st birthday bash at friend Shay's farm - family / friends coming from near and far.

here's FN at Fun Day at his school - no more Field Day!

our lovely city, photo by my lovely daughter

And a moment of overwhelming magick in a magickal time - before taking myself to the neighborhood 5 Points diner for breakfast and needing an easy-to-carry read, I pulled a paperback copy of To Be Young, Gifted & Black by Lorraine Hansberry from the shelves for re/reading. Hansberry's birth certificate is reproduced in the book - and Sat 19 May was her 77th birthday - and I sat there with her autobiography in my hands on 19 May.
Readers, I put the book down. It has been with me since, and I'm re/reading it slowly, but mostly I love the photo on the front, the title, the feeling it gives me to remember the gift that was that moment.

Now here to be here now.

in the garden

from Meditations                Hildegarde of Bingen

I am one whose praise
echoes on high.

I adorn all the earth.

I am the breeze
that nutures all things
green.

I encourage blossoms to flourish with ripening fruit.

I am led by the spirit to feed
the purest streams.

I am the rain
coming from the dew
that causes the grasses to laugh
with the joy of life.

I call forth tears,
the aroma of holy work.

I am the yearning for good.