scarcrossedlove

40wkssunset

it's something of a rococo. a hot pink, over the top sort of thing. i swim the gathering of all the feelings. you are my near death.

you. are. mine.

it took until the dark early morning quiet, baby breathing, four months to the day, both unslept to say something.

at sixty days we were flooded in early afternoon light. we stood in the center of my dear friend's brand new store. something about the glass, brick and sunlight made the sound of my voice crest like a wave. wearing baby, squirming. just under 2 months old, in a front carrier.

the words, like an olympian, charged out of my body, "i thought i knew what love was," they seemed cheap, already used, sloppy. they rattled onto the floor. i needed a shapeshifter. a game changer. i needed something to gallop on the beach with. other than a word. perhaps a pantomime.

i needed to be greek. they have more words. better words. they have four kinds of love.

i followed up with,"i almost died." my body leased an echo. the room filled with everything and then went back to being a room. i began to sweat, still unsure of my own breast feeding. it had all become the most wonderful and most awful at once. what was that word? it had been a death to reason. until then, i searched other's stories for familiarity. lost in the sleepless string of days spent giving what was left of my body.

a robot. a flower in full bloom, browning.

before her, the last time i had been outside as my former self it was oakland and it was an overcast day surrounded by unseasonably warm days--even for our Indian Summer. i kept singing the same lines to a song from my childhood:

"we were married on a rainy day, the sky was yellow and the grass way gray." and changed them to," you were born..."

i kept. waiting. holding. aching.

and everything they say about paradise is true.

we slipped away in tandem and were brought back apart. the minutes became hours, and the hours became days. and when the gurney became a sea cave, the other side of a curtain announced the inside of my body.

it was a girl. my girl. we all cried.

rafiblkwhtiphone

i met her in a dream 21 days earlier. the dark of the morning note i wrote myself read:

"dreamt that i woke up with cholostrum on my shirt. i had had the baby. i was home in bed. Fonz and mom were there. i asked what happened, they told me that the labor took an hour. i slept through it. my whole body hurt, i was so tired. asked mom if the baby was a boy or a girl, she paused. it was a girl she said and took me to her in another room. i picked her up an she smiled and we fell in love. we named her rafi (rafaela) right then. chubby cheeks. she looked like fonzy."

I don't know how this middle of the night got me to write again or in the throes of its hot-quiet-baby-breathing-still-nothing-else-in-the-world-lightless-fog, how there is any room to feel anything else, let alone feel so much more. It has a sensible desperation to it, a forgiveness I had yet to feel when it comes to writing. It rained today, a brief delight against this dry and warm winter, and every song makes me want to cry. They say it's the hormones and while I know now to step aside when they come racing, mouth open, poised to swallow, I can't give them all the credit. I had a baby. A baby girl for that matter. She is everything they tell you about having a baby and more. The way the heart opens a new valve. How my body's room for her while growing was a small and slight shadow against the space I now need to hold the tremendous love I feel for her. So much love that I don't recognize myself sometimes. She lies in front of me discovering the world in small pieces, so small that I can't even see them. I read something and then i read something else that helped me to recognize those separate yet symbiotic feelings I have for her and the feelings I have for my body. How they can coexist. Still unharmonious, but less shrill. They put in the place of my scattered, erratic, overwrought, conflicting, and often fragmented feelings, actual words. I held them with both hands and rolled them around in my fingers until they became so familiar that I thought they were my own. They are not my own. I'm finding my own. Like anyone that has given birth, when put together, the story, makes for a long, hard, sometimes sad and then so beautiful mosaic. I haven't been able to find all those words yet. Something about sleep deprivation has left me with just a handful of language that I spin around and over and back again. I expect that one day my brain might grow back and then I might sit down and find that my very own birthscape floats within reach, not just dust suspended, drifting above us, unnoticed in my baby's sunlit room. and then maybe I'll find a way to set it free back into my body, and then up into the sky.

and to my southern scar, i will no longer avert my eyes.

i am a writer because i have stories to tell.

and, we're back...

it's been a long time since i first got down...

grayblkwht

so, i was deep in the quiet, trying to string together the right letters, a little washed ashore on words. there's always material, in surround or muffled beneath the pillow trying to catch some air. but it's hard to write about an ocean while you're learning how to swim. so i decided to keep quiet, to be in the field collecting data and not at my desk telling stories. but then the radio silence got pretty loud. i set a few writing goals. unmet. i kept thinking, if i write, what's it going to be about? i thought some more and then realized i had thought too much.

last year there was a clear path to the narrative. a lighthouse guided me through each anecdote. i worked at working and worked at understanding why and then i wrote. i drew from the immediate and felt that i could write my way through anything.

cacti

this year i checked my pockets and they were empty. i looked to places i had gone to before for inspiration but they had been ravaged by a huge party or some natural disaster. i felt like i woke up in someone else's city and there were no lights. i broke out my bag of tricks but the locks had been changed.

i could see that i was more adrift than lonely, and more watchful than engaged.

i have decided to share a little secret i've been keeping:

poppyfield

i like to tell my version of stories. i like to take my clothes off and dance around the room. i like to not have to care who sees.

i am a writer because i am an artist and sometimes   that means there are no rules.

i've missed you, it's good to be back.

hematoma galactica

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i didn't realize until i was heading into the shower the next morning that the middling pain i felt was coming from a huge heliotropic bruise in the center of my belly. i stood in the mirror and in the same instant i remembered how my shoulders had been earnestly painted in light blue by a woman in a black afro wig who gave me psychic reassurance about my future. i let my eyes follow the blue toward the white vine-like and sparkling design that spread to my collar bone. my hair was slightly pressed against the side of my head that i had slept on and my lips were still stained pink.  i'll be 35 in a few months and it's been awhile since i had to go around my bedroom collecting clues from the night before, the morning after; nothing important had gone missing. there were other centers of pain. i had a bruise on my knee, one on my shin, and on my left hip, the other hip, on the bone, an unfortunate location; one that reaches outward more than you would think. i could have drawn lines connecting these points, a constellation mapping one of those nights that line up ahead of you, instead of you, before the main event. a perfect little resource, like an alarm clock or a fossil.

a couple of months ago when getting married mostly felt like planning a wedding, someone asked me what i was looking forward to most in the process. without a breath i said that it was spending time with the women in my life that i love most. i had been getting lost in the details, all the facts, and what i couldn't change or dress up around or over. it was getting messy, if only beneath my own hair.

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i use being a poet as an excuse, a lot. i use it to explain how i feel when i'd rather be writing. i say that i am just being, "poety," as an act of diffusion when i can see the reflection of my own emotions getting the better of me on someone else's face. if i really could act, i don't think i would ever have to write.

i sat at the head of a long table this past saturday lined with certain key faces of women that i share my life with. i knew that this would be one of the more fortunate moments i've ever had. i was overcome. every time i tried to address the group i stumbled across my own words. i tried to tell a story about mixing up names and i mixed the names up so that they weren't mixed at all, the point getting lost in my own confusion. i think i feel that way a lot. earlier that day i had been shuttling my thoughts through the maze and was lovingly told by a dear friend to talk less and write more.

so when i tripped over something later that evening and sailed downward in my four inch heels i found myself remembering that moment slowly while so many others were let go. as i hit everything on the way down, i wished that instead of feeling the corner of the chair, the edge of the table and the floor--i could have stayed slowly in those moments that, for whatever science, seem harder to hold onto. how my slipping is bigger than my constant falling and why all those other moments that compete for center stage, can drain each space, flatten the light, and turn rooms into ruins, have ever had even temporary residency at all.

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and now that the planning has evolved past stressing, i am planted firmly in excitement for this next phase. i can't wait to take these next steps with the man i love. still, there is no shortage of material these days, and it still remains a tricky balance between writing and talking. knowing that i am less apt at the latter and not particularly gifted at holding it in, we'll see what makes it onto the page.

i am a writer because there are volumes and i don't believe in hoarding...

fevercakes

photo-32

i'm blogging from bed with a cold/flu. terrible timing and all, since inception, it's only gotten worse. it started while grocery shopping. i was losing it, overwhelmed. i wanted to make soup but i was already hungry. i wanted a cupcake, but it was 10am. i cried on the way home about the largeness of wedding planning. my body was cinching my capacity for dailyness way in. since then i've managed to accomplish a few things in the haze, things i can hide inside my computer while doing. my attitude about being sick has never been healthy. i tend to push myself, or question the validity of my symptoms, usually finding myself shattered, in a rugged and avoidable collection of ailments.

actually, i'm categorically awful at being sick.  i tried to exercise twice yesterday and it took me at least the whole morning to admit to myself that i wasn't going to be able to do any good work until today, maybe. i hadn't planned on this, so it doesn't fit into my schedule.

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but mostly, i've been split by the part of me that needs a respite and the part of me that naturally goes full steam. and already, the cherry blossoms have been winking at me. they bloom two weeks each year, and i have loved them always. i hate to miss a moment of their breezy shine. it's desperate and irrational. their uneven loveliness lining the streets, anywhere, as though it is now spring, just because they've arrived. those twisted branches: dark, knotty, and then that full pink reaching into the sun.  they've always had my heart. i keep thinking the word: glorious. i want a better one. they are goddess like and hopeful, they are complicated, elusive, and slightly untrustworthy. they make everything an atrium, blushing, magical, and bright.

i am off the charts, emotionally. always grateful, but one minute defeated by what i cannot control (a fruitless effort) and another filled with certainty for what is here now and what lies ahead. meanwhile the word perspective and i are in a very fiery relationship. it's reactive, immediate, and pretty passionate. i always thought of myself as an optimistic, upbeat, and dust yourself off and go, type of person. as i hold more, i have sensed a paradigm shift with my attitude. it's heavier and thicker and i have a harder time freeing myself from my brand new go-to negative view.

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it's an act of mindfulness for me to undo. a rewriting of each story that burdens my usual enthusiasm or fearlessness with the anchors of "what if," "i can't," or, "this or that won't work." i am in the salt mines with my own panorama right now, building alternate pathways to my own beliefs. as i write this from bed on a beautiful morning, not sure if my hip is healed, how sick i am, or if my heart broke a little along the way, i am changing my story, rewriting, revisioning, and shifting perspective every moment i can wrangle myself around. i am a writer because i will always try to.

come join ariana of simply living coaching and i on march 4th for a re-writing workshop. we'll be fixing our stories up together!