For *those that have just lost their keys *those that are well-versed *inebriated ones *wanderers *mermaids *those that belong elsewhere *whippersnappers *marvelous ones *those that are not included in this classification *those that flutter because the moment is fleeting *boundless ones *those colored with slippery fingerpaint *others *those that resemble someone I know from a distance

Thursday, November 15, 2007

My lovely metaphova

Lately I've been carrying around bits of poetry like a secret. An unfinished secret I can't share because I don't know where the edges are. Scrawly scrawls, testaments, and pictograms tucked away into books I haven't read, mixed in with notes about pointless meetings, hovering behind the creases on my forehead. The sense of burgeoning returns. The sense of coalescing.

Perhaps it started as I drove away at dusk, asking myself "What I am doing?" Of course, I am always asking myself that, over and over again, with every breath and every unexpected shift in energy. But this time the words were clear and crisp in my mind. Like autumn. "It is just autumn, it is just autumn, it is just autumn" beats something inside me, something looking for reassurance. And when I got to the coffee shop there was a picture of a woman who looked like me on the Dia de los Muertos altar. I tried not to stare at her too much as I attempted to read. Her picture, at the back of the altar, was underneath a sign that read, "Do not light a candle too close to the wall." I can't even light a candle for my doppelganger.

But wait. That is not really where it all began. I want to tell the story of the beginning; I want to find its pulse. I want to feel the beat of the beginning under my fingertips, under the curve of flesh over bone, skin on skin. The shimmery movement. Except the pulse that I feel doesn't seem to be the right one. Perhaps it is a question of beginnings. The human desire for a starting point. My desire for this to be a story, and I, presumably, to be the protagonist. Or the narrator. Maybe it is simply the power of narration that the postmodernists and the neuroscientists blink at, somewhat blinded, pupils tightened, mesmerized by the glare.

What it really comes down to is that I cannot settle on a metaphor. Hell, even "settle" is a metaphor. The verb has 32 different uses, didya know that? Including "to become pregnant; conceive." So, I cannot conceive of a metaphor. I have been carrying around my scribbles, my metaphors like ova, awaiting fertilization. Carrying metaphova around like a secret. Waiting for something to germinate. But it appears that I am not, metaphorically speaking, getting any. So my lovely metaphova can only wait in the mottled light of my ribcage, curled in on themselves like a fist. They can't implant themselves in anything fleshy or bloody or smelling of the earth.

My metaphova. I have been thinking about the stillness near the ground. I have been thinking about tectonic plates. Of things slowly shifting beneath my feet, even though I am standing still. Of things carried by currents. Of currents. Of sea ice breaking free from the Arctic shelf. Of the movement of icebergs. Of icy landscapes bearing silent witness to the sky.

I have been thinking about all the things with wings. All the things with wings. All the things with wings. I have been thinking of birds nesting along my spine, once at each chakra. The hummingbird at my sacrum, the bluebird in my heart, and so on. And the tiniest bird in my mouth, nestled in the curve of my tongue. Breaking stems off my words for bedding. Being fed with each kiss.

I have been thinking about the people I buy birthday presents for. How I want them to nest along my spine, too. I guess in some way they already do; that is where the dreams of them reside. The dream of Chris curled up with the bluebird, the dream of my mother curled up with an egret. The mixing of the material with the immaterial. The mixing of metaphor.

I mean metaphova.

Whatova. This took so long to write that I don't even really feel this way anymore. Except, maybe, for the bird on my tongue part.

This blog entry brought to you by my current song obsessions.


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Sunday, November 04, 2007

I can't think about this too much or I will have endless orgasms

From an interview with David Abrams

"Everything is animate. Everything moves. It's just that some things move slower than other things, like the mountains or the ground itself. But everything has its movement, has its life."

"There is nothing that is not in some way magic, because the fact that the world exists is already quite a wonder. That it stays existing, that it continually keeps holding itself in existence, this is the mystery of mysteries. Magic is the way of the world. It's that sense of being in contact with so many other shapes of awareness, most of which are so different from our own, that is the basic experience of magic from which all other forms of magic derive."

And as if that were not enough...

"That's why we need to pay so much attention to the ways in which we speak, and to the beauty of our words and our ways of putting words together — so that we speak to each other not as disembodied minds but as embodied, feeling-ful, animal-beings. I think it's so important that we realize we are animals — an extraordinary animal, no doubt, but an animal nonetheless — and, hence, one of the various beings that live in and on this world."


Friday, November 02, 2007

Damn. Maybe I am much more of an Aries than I thought.

"Aries speaks the truth often without thinking first. Mars energy causes them to feel things so intensely that nothing else matters to them except to express it in the moment.

"They are known to be brutally honest and quite blunt which can disturb others. Most people do not want to hear anything negative even if it is true. Aries is not trying to tick you off, trust me; they are trying to express who they are. What they think and feel comes directly out of their mouth in a direct, straightforward way. They do not have time to wait around and find the right word to make others feel better because they feel that time is of the essence.

"They have an enormous amount of physical energy that needs to be expressed.

"They... do not like to be told what to do because they like to act on their own instincts. Sometimes this behavior can get them into trouble but they do not care. It is their natural tendency to react in the moment. They will think about the consequences later and most of the time they really do not care.... They want to be self-reliant and hate to feel dependent on anyone. The good thing about Aries is that they get over things quickly. It is hard for them to stay angry at anyone or any situation because it ties them down. They quickly forgive and forget.

"One of the hardest things for individuals to understand about Aries is that their spiritual mission is to be Self-Centered. They are meant to learn how to express self concern verbally. They are forced to always ask how things affect them first....

"Aries key word is 'I AM'. Other personality traits of Aries include enthusiastic, honest, passionate, independent, self-reliant, blunt and dynamic. Aries is friendly, confident, physically strong, aggressive, energetic and loves to keep moving. In many situations Aries must learn patience. Sometimes in life we cannot immediately act. We are forced to wait patiently and this is very hard for Aries to tolerate. Work situations can be extremely hard for Aries if they have a supervisor who is more laid back and controlling. Aries can perceive this as slow and that they are being held back. Aries wants to find the solution, problem, and way to go and then act on it! They do not want to wait around and think about it. This causes great inner frustration and conflict with others in the environment. They want to get the job done and that is good but sometimes others do not have the same idealistic nature. They are constantly tested with learning to be patient with others."

From A Deeper Look at the Sun Signs: Aries the Warrior by Carmen Turner-Schott, MSW