Sometime it feels like I have lived forever. Life stratifying year on top of year. The core events have all crumbled to the sea and washed over me just a saline brine of forgotten events. Soon my mitochondrial remains will all become star dust plasma of the universe and I will have morphed to the next adventure seeing new with the eyes of the freshly born.
So my poet is back. Two years have passed and for me it is like heaven again. He reads me stories and poems, takes me on hikes in search of all things native American. He spends a few nights, bliss. Even better then I remembered. but things are different for him. Two years gave him time to think or not think, whatever. I hear you can't go back, but I just don't compute that into reality as I slip into my own dream time.
I'll settle for crumbs, small moments of his time...it's that good. Two years gave me time to think too. Like how much I really really enjoyed his company, his style, his attention. Even crumbs are better than most of my relationships of never ending love. But he is more elusive than ever. When he is here he is so here and when he's gone he is so gone. He worries that I am sad. He doesn't want me to be sad but he doesn't want me either accept for a nibble here and there. But he doesn't really want anyone else. Just his writing...his personal dream time is spent tapping out story's, one after another.
so here I am, back to my faithful little blog. Still welcomes me in even though I haven't dropped in for years. Not a single word. Quietly waiting, not being coy for a moment when I do drop off a line or two. Maybe flowers would be nice.
So another boyfriend has come and gone since I was last here and I have written a poem to commemorate the blessed event. One poem a every couple of years does not make me a poet. so either I have to speed up the broken heart thing or get a new muse:)
the troubadour spit out the scramble of words
frivolously penned from a voice
of the forgotten dreamer
peices of your promises will remain
etched in their infancy
with the abortionists knife...
...hemorrhaging the brutal desire to be loved
the jesus 's were late to the curtain call
caught napping in the wings
and the burial box had left for Albany
the last bell certainly will ring
before the ice will melts and freezes again
Just say it isn't so...just say it isn't so
the blue shift remains in full swing
love just some forgotten thing
My birthday. For me 58 hasn't been something I really want to celebrate. I think this is the first birthday I have felt truly old. I think I'm missing the magic. So I googled it. Looking for the beauty of getting old. The first page I found have great stuff, a bit cliche, like "even at 80 I got things to do" and "you just have to grow old gracefully, like cheese and wine." but then these women are in their 80's and 90's. So maybe I'm not old.
And I found this lovely little truth, "But society doesn't hand this glory to us when we get older -- we have to give it to ourselves. I'd say in America it's even a bigger problem. Everybody thinks women are so "equal" now, but talk to anyone over age 35 and see if they agree with that." Glory being the ability of feeling special and attractive in spite of wrinkles and jiggles.
...and from Forbes magazine, "We can buy into the promises our culture offers to magically remove the changes we see on our faces and bodies. We can yearn to revive images of old selves and try to slow down the changes we see. Or we can accept reality. Aging does not stop. So, it's time to say good-bye, shed some tears and then optimistically embrace our ever-evolving selves." easy for them to say...hey when did they become experts on ageing.
This was a uplifting article from the daily OM, http://www.dailyom.com/articles/2006/3224.html
And I think I'll leave it at that upbeat link:)
Traveling on Miles of ugly
She wiped away the endless drizzle
Boots of fear kicked at the likelihood
of unexpected disaster.
Her story no more torrid than some
But faithlessness produces little hope.
Dark in belief
Spirited in a godless sort of way
How could one more romance
Quickened from invetro
unhinge her so
the door of unlikelihood
creaks painstaking open
tightly tucked military corners
frame romance
daylight cracks through venetion blinds
slits of soul splatter across undulating flesh
where love is just another bingo number
and luck is just a word
she moans the joy of surrender
to the child of hope
Lucy left about a month ago. My cat gone again. I miss her but she has many generations of feral cat in coursing thru her mostly blue point Siamese veins. I believe she is happier living on the wilder side of life. Sounds like a david allen coe song. I miss my dog too, but I know he would rather be hang'n with his dog buddy then being my side kick.
So I go to Sedona today for 3 haircuts ($) always a good thing for my always over budget life. And I will go to my poetry group up there that has morphed into a prose thing. I will see my poetry man. Gez, I am crazy about him but he lives up there and I live here. He so dedicated to his writing, so eccentrically self absorbed.
sounds like a torch song bubbling up like champagne. and if I couldn't sully up to a bottle of Don Perion I could always rely on so dry white. So, metaphorically speaking, I sullied up to a young white Chardonnay the other night. Now I feel like I aways did after a night of white chards of the past, hung over and looking for the morning fix.
and I do believe the end of the infatuation with the poetry man must come to a halt. darn. and much like the cheap metaphor this tacky little dog eared tail this story has become, needs to be reworked. and my phone is ringing, a message is left from a former co-worker(male)(married) wanting to get together and show me his photos of his last trip to Sturgis. Ahh the tale getting more tawdry by the moment.
so here I am, back at the blog, my faithful companion, never lets me down, asks nothing from me, its reciprocal, I love my blog, never runs off, doesn't want to be with some other dog, and is married to ME. Who could ask for more.
This is a night I would call my friend Micky. I feel out of wak, out of sorts. He always knew like nobody else what was up with me. I miss that and that alone sets me on edge. I don't believe I've ever felt that way about someone who died. Not even my Mother. What the fuck is up with that. So I called, text messaged, e-mailed, face booked, my spaced, ect... everyone is busy. I'd get drunk if I thought it would even remotely alleviate this feeling. this lack of being able to what, I don't know.
So I thought writing about this nonspiritual hole in my universe might help. And the ability to share this shit with someone might give it some edge of truth. Although I'm not usually so forth coming on the net theres a bit of desperation hanging around. So not that any of this makes much sense, but here it is anyway. This blog feels as about as intimate as everything else in my life. So there the dilemma is like a big red paint ball lobbed at the wall. The godlessness of lonely.
so tomorrow this will just be another one of those nights and like child birth I will barely remember how excruciating it can be. I won't even be able to identify.
In the last week I've scrapped 2 jobs (but kept the week-end one), moved to Paradise Valley (5 miles from the other place), had my car break down twice (to the tune of $150 ish), oh gee, it goes on and on. But really other than living on the financial fringe, life is amusing to say the least. The weather is beginning to take on the perfect luxurious desert fair, Nights being cooler and days are almost bike ridable. So today I am enjoying the end of my 5 day week end and getting ready for my 2 day work week. I won't get rich that way but it does keep me in glycolic peels and axle seals.
