Thursday, April 16, 2015

this took some time...

I spent most of my time yesterday trying to write about how caught up in time I am right now, and when I looked at the clock the day was almost over. My coffee from breakfast was cold beside me. I had, ironically, completely lost track of time. Nothing was written; I had wasted my day.

But that was exactly the lesson, and I am more prepared now to write about what I wanted to write about then.

Lets start from the beginning. I am feeling completely saturated by the idea of time--or rather the lack of it; its intangibility--and have been wanting to write about how moved I am by the idea that time has less to do with hours, minutes, days and so much more to do with frequency, with the intensity of emotions, the finality of decisions, a willingness, fearlessness, trust, knowing. The illusiveness of time is an idea that has been seeping through my actions and thoughts even in planning to move to Marseille, and though I have done what I came to do (eat, drink, smoke, all pants free and all while writing more often), I hardly feel as though I have had enough time to do so, despite hardly believing that I have been here for as long as I have. In other words, I am feeling like I haven't used the time away as best as I could. Like I still have too many questions that, as time runs short, I am trying to prove I have the answers to. Like there could have been more. Like yesterdays lack of productivity was a lost precious French day.

You see, I've been waiting for these certain kinds of moments. You know the ones: those moments where you just stop. Like eating. You take a bite of the best goddamn lemon tart you have ever had and stop. Set your fork down on the plate and stare at the pastry like: whoah. Better yet, moments that you get to stare at yourself and your decisions and wisdom and be like whoah. There is no more intelligent way that I can say this. Set your pen down and pause, because it is sometimes in stillness that we grow exponentially; when we take the time to digest the sweetness we have tasted, reap the nourishment and energy from it, salivate again for life. It's moments like these where there seems to be silence, like time actually stops, because it really truly can. It can stop in all of the right moments. Not because of its own timing, because of yours. Because right here right now is right.

Sure I have had a couple of these moments here, some have involved tarts, others have involved wine, most all were not the moments I set out to have. Yesterday, or rather, this morning, was one of them. I thought that after sleeping off yesterday's emptiness that I would come to understand what I was trying to find in the power of the immediacy of such moments. Instead I realized that they aren't as immediate as I supposed. They are in fact gradual revelations; the compilation of all those lapses of time that seem like lost space. Those times you felt like you were bashing your head against the wall? They were for now. And now is for what is next. It is a continuum of presence.

Every "aha" moment is but a part of a much grander process; nothing we experience is lost or wasted, everything is gained. Even when we feel as though we are regressing, it is as Pema Chodron says:

"nothing ever goes away until it has taught us what we need to know;"

regression then, is simply that we haven't fully understood the lesson we thought we already learned--aren't ready to be where we want to. That's what familiarity is. When one situation seems to evoke the same emotional response in us as another, we feel like we have gotten nowhere with our reactions or choices. Really, though, acknowledging the familiarity and our responses is a part of being present in more moments than one; we were then, and we are now. Allowing any amount of back and forth or full circle occasions to occur is part of the process of living. Living consciously is the challenge then, being aware of how much and how little time we have and not devaluing our "mistakes" our losses, our regrets; not getting caught up in where the time went or how it could have been better spent. You can never know that. The more you free your spirit to take everything as it comes as a product of where you have been, the more you allow the universe to pull and push you, the more you become able to see at once the rapidity of new and old shaping now, and the spaciousness for experience and change.

Every little detail is significant; every bit of time is spent learning, opening, closing, lifting, releasing, meeting people, saying goodbye, exploring, experimenting, knowing intuitively. That's a lot! So as important as it is to welcome the intensity of moments where you make a sure or fearless decision, have a sudden understanding, a letting go, it is just as integral to recognize the vastness of your knowledge, wisdom, and experience, the compilation of all the seemingly insignificant things that these inherent moments get their force from. Allow yourself to lose track of time-- and live.

Immense love to my soul sister C--the woman who can put my thoughts into words with me barely saying a thing, and to my uncle for the words of another when I had none--your timing was perfect. 

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

my words

The words of others
have been far too distracting.
I cant right my own.


Overwhelmed. Its a word I would like to talk about. That, and satiate--but only because it is one of my favorite words. Satiate, voracious, ephemeral, stoic--because I just learned how to pronounce it--tangible, Coeur--"heart" in French, except the e and the u are written all squished about against eachother; I don't like the word squished--and precocious. I adore precocious! And adore; adore is a lovely little word. I digress....which is yet another word I like to use.

Overwhelmed. That last paragraph is a testimony to how scattered my mind is. So is the list of unedited bits of writing I have yet to post, and wont, because the thought of editing them is overwhelming. I am, just now, reminded of the particularly stressful and tired time in my life that one morning I turned on the coffee machine without putting the pot underneath and took a shower. I came back to a percolated mess--percolate; another favorite--and rather than get upset or even clean it up, I simply turned around and went right back to bed; rather than clean up my over-caffeinated messy bits of writing, I press save instead of publish and spend some time in a forward fold.

If you are reading this, then, it is because I am trying to deal with my overwhelmedness--not a word at all, but you get it. You see, this is where I process all that is going on in my head and Coeur, and try to make it into something tangible that people might empathize with. Something more than ephemeral, not at all stoic, that could satiate the most voracious of word appetites (hmmm, couldn't quite squish precocious in there...). As I explained to a friend earlier this morning, words are what I use to encapsulate--what a word!-- what I am thinking/feeling/learning/trying to understand about the world through my head and heart. Basically, writing is my way of sorting out what I believe to be true, and my voice to express it.

And that's where the overwhelmed bit occurs.

I just spent the last two weeks all up in my head. Everything that is up there is at once terrifying and magical, and everything that was making me ache was in fact joyful; everything that made me want so so badly to cry was so so beautiful. These dichotomies existed because as a dear friend's young daughter once said

"you can imagination anything."
and that is all that anything is: our interpretations--what we make something out to be. And while manipulating words to create stories out of thoughts can be delightful, when we forget that they are just stories, we get stuck in trying to sort through what is true and what is not. But all of it is both.

Time and circumstance change the truth behind things. We can only do our best to feel something in a moment and then let the world hear it. In the form of music or art or simply telling someone, including yourself how you feel without the use of a delete key; without being able to choose between save or publish.
The only way we can feel the truth of our stories is to be in the immediacy of our reactions to them. We cannot save our emotions for later. They show up in the most cunning of ways; the inexplicable dramatic outburst, the fatigue, the clumsiness, the dis-ease in the body. The inability to make a decision could perhaps simply be because you do not want to have to choose. The inability to explain what you are feeling could be because nothing you feel needs an explanation. The inability to make sense of your thoughts could simply be because they don't make any sense. That's allowed. Feeling overwhelmed is allowed.
Overwhelmed is not a word that I like. I don't even know what "whelmed" means to know if I am over or under it*. I do know that to use it means to admit that you cannot handle something; that you are not in control. That something, whether it is a thought or action or the permeating--mmm, love permeate--energy of someone near you is just too much. Our stories can be overwhelming when we are not allowing them to pertain to what is happening presently, but instead connect them to ideals, to a person we have been or whom we want to be. What is really happening is we are getting lost in all that is possible...which is actually quite a beautiful thing to be overwhelmed by.
So I am writing to tell you something that I have been thinking/learning/feeling/taking a bit of a guess at: feeling overwhelmed correlates with our perspective. We see a puddle of enough coffee for eight people and think of all the towels it will take to sop it up, the time, the waste, our lack of caffeine induced energy, how all we want is a damn moment to recalibrate with a cup and some cornflakes, we notice the spill as an indication of our lack of self care, our mindlessness--and it is fucking overwhelming. Is it though? Or is it an opportunity to change how we see the world in one moment that is as significant as it is insignificant--as over as it is under-whelming. Most things are not something that "happened to you" nor are they something you "need". Moments do not need to be dealt with, edited, made perfect for publication. They are simply reminders that you are alive within it: everything is an opportunity to simply feel.

So feel overwhelmed. I do. And it feels good.


Thank you for being a part of this creative process; of getting to that good feeling.
Only love.

Also, these are some of the other words that have been distracting me from my own lately.
AW quote via MC
thanks J
*Well, I do now, because in writing that I realized that I should know it, so I looked it up. Whelmed means to come up with a force, like a gust of wind or an ocean wave smacking at a boat or a surge of joy; over whelmed, then, would surpass that. Though I should note that, interestingly, whelmed can be to be engulfed or submerged; so at once your forceful comeuppance and plunge you deep into your feelings so that you feel trapped. Ooh lala. 



Sunday, March 29, 2015


Love; love my darling,
like you know only how to

love. Love as if the remnants of your shattered heart
have created more room for

love. Love in a way that vibrates
from the very essence of your being.

Love without limitations, without conditions,
do not make contracts with

love--instead let it take you
away from what holds you in stagnant tepidity. Let

love hold you instead. Let it have you,
move you and permeate everything you create; everyone you touch.

Love should coat your warm skin like water--
as it dries, prickling you with the chill of being alive.

Love is life.
And love, love is what lives on.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

stop and smell the roses


so much music lately: the Biggie track on the last post, then today's thoughts on creating the song you dance to for life, finally tonight's soundtrack as provided by OutKast.

Remember OutKast? Im glad I did. Because tonight I needed the reminder that "roses smell like poo." I needed the reminder that my shit stinks. Just like everyone else's. *

Truth is, we all have our shit. We all have our bad habits, and our good ones that we insist people acknowledge and love and admire us for--the good habits that often are the true source of the problem. At times our so called good habits get the best of us. They become a source of justifying our actions, avoiding our truth, pretending we are ok when we are straight up not ok. They transform into our love languages, our cover ups, our control mechanisms. Sound dark and heavy? It was, until I played this song:

ms Jackson

"im sorry". Big words. Biggest words. Bigger than "I love you." Because they say "I love you" at the same time. They say that you care more about the person you are apologizing to more then you do about your so called good habits. It doesn't need to mean you are wrong, that you are awful, and especially does not need to be an easy escape: "im sorry", (can we just have sex now?) ...y'know what I mean...all it means're sorry.

Tonight I am sorry that my habit of avoiding confrontation got in the way of clearing the air between a good friend and I. When I could have had the love for this person, I chose to walk away and uttanasana--forward fold--in the other room. I did it to clear my head....only to come back and say nothing. Saying nothing got me to making pasta on my own and feeling like I had a thousand things to say. Most of which were questions for myself: how did my avoidance of confrontation contribute to the confrontation? How does my sponge like absorption of other peoples energy permeate my being so that I am no longer clear on how I, personally, truly feel? How does my desire for people to be in their own truth no matter how shitty it is stop me from taking a whiff of myself? Tonight, I smelled pretty bad.

How often do we let our comfortable ways of being get in the way of our being present? Avoiding confrontation has served me (admittedly only to some extent) as I was growing up, and while working in the false stress of the hierarchy of a kitchen; now avoiding confrontation only serves me to avoid being real.

Being real, being honest, showing our bad habits along with our good and recognizing both as integral parts of every human being that we love (and even those we don't**) takes courage. As much courage as it takes to apologize. But if we are to exist in any medium that allows us to be free, compassionate, genuine beings, than we need to be willing to be a light when others are not ok, and acknowledge openly when we are not being one.

So tonight was a bit dark and heavy. Only because I let it be. And then I let it not be, because as much as what I could have would have should have said might have changed the encounter, only we can change our ways of being, seeing, and feeling: our moods so to speak. An apology, no matter how late, will help with that. So will some good music.

Because I know you want to hear it

and the one that made me dance


*paula Abdul?! And yes, this vid gets cheesy with the last little commentary, but "one last look at the past"?--that's some good shit;)

**only love, c'mon.

***I don't know if this vid will work, but you can find it here

Monday, March 16, 2015

Soul finding: the essay

In about four different ways i have written about the last couple of days in a series of very non-descript ways. This will be the fifth.

In other words, vague generalizations, bits of wisdom without the bits of detailed experience from which they came from, perhaps a few metaphors, and overall an estranged roundabout tale are to follow. Read at your discretion.

First note a couple of details that most of you already know:

1: i am currently living in Marseille, thousands of miles away from home and life as i have known it, gratefully taking some time to figure out just what it is i know about life and what it is i want to know once i have lived it.

2: i am a terribly (sometimes i like to think wonderfully) impulsive being. Hence Marseille.

So Marseille. Perhaps you know. Perhaps we had the chance to talk before i left. Likely you asked why i was coming here, and likely i shrugged, smiled, and replied, to eat/drink/smoke/write and generally live without pants for awhile. Likely now, having seen the photos, you know i just eat and do yoga. Well, i also think too much.

And one of the things i have been thinking about is how much we can never know about ourselves no matter how much thinking we do. There are some things we only discover when we stop searching our souls, and watch oursoulves (note: that was a typing error that i think is quite perfect...) respond to circumstance.

There has been much searching of my soul since this whole adventure began, and long before that. This past weekend, though, was less about searching and more about finding; i have been forced to see things i didnt want to see. Perhaps feel is the better word: felt things i didnt want to feel. Le sigh. It is humbling how the universe grants you the circumstances or the people that take you right to that place of uncomfortable acknowledgement of self, or give you the answer that works for every one of your questions and then you try to pretend like you didnt ask--but you cant.

As this happened, i watched myself receive these answers, and tried not--as a wise friend once guided me--to confuse being critical with being observant. Criticism comes from the ego; observation comes from a place of love. I pass on her words to you now, that even if you are left confused about who you are being, it is only a part of the process of unfolding into a deeper sense of self. Sometimes we know what is within each layer, but choose to keep ourselves folded up tight; other times we had no idea what was waiting to be unravelled. This weekend as my impulsive side took over, and i was taken away from the search and right into reality, i chose to see what was there for me. And feel what was there for me. I learned the difference between justification and acceptance--that excusing behaviour is not the same as seeing its purpose--a lesson, admittedly, i will likely find myself relearning. I sat still with the discomfort. And i moved my body through it. And let sleep dissolve some ideas. And let some understandings keep me awake. And i wrote the shit out of all i came to know.

And if you dont know, now you know--as a wise rapper once said.

Well, actually. You still dont really know--but i warned you of that. I wrote more openly to myself, because in the end, the only one who needs to see and know every intimate truth, to be in accepting observation and willing growth, is oursoulves. (i love that!)

Soul finding: the poem

"Hows the soul searching going?"
He asked.
He asked without me telling him
that is what I was doing.

He knew.
Who puts their life on p a u s e
to do anything but go searching?

Only, when he asked,
I realized I was not searching at all--
I was finding.

I am finding.

Without even looking
I am finding
exactly what I was looking for.
Answers to questions that are all the same.

Who am I?
Who am I and where do I stand:
creating boundaries and l e a p i n g past them?

What am I willing
to see when I look back
and how far can I look a h e a d

Without losing me here; now?

I am not lost.
I am finding. Bits of truth
in the way that you might learn a lesson
the hard way;

by seeing what is hard to look at
and feeling e v e r y t h i n g.
And instead of trying to change

what I find,
I am learning to love
every part of my soul.

Love every part of your soul.

Be willing to let go
of the search.
Allow yourself to observe without criticism.
Feel without judgement.

What is there to judge?
You are a changing,
growing human

Who lives to learn
and learns to love
e v e r y bit of your soul

by letting it show you

that you are not lost.
You are not wrong.
Your greatest self is waiting there
to be understood

and expressed.
Waiting to set roots in truth
and grow freely.

What is f r e e d o m?
It is what is there for you
when you love everything you find.

Love, your soul.

Monday, February 23, 2015

i wrote one

I want to write poems.

I want to write poems,
but not just a series of lines
that weave in syllabic time with each other;
With all do respect to iambic pentameter,
5-7-5 haikus,
and the intelligence behind rhyme,
I want to write with less concern,
and a freer voice.

I want to write poems
that do not give a shit about what the last stanza
the last line
even the last thought
counted for.
I mean literally counted.
1-2-3-4, punctuated pauses
and "sounds like" details can fuck off.

I want to write poems
that count for something
more than rhythm.
That count for thoughts.
Emotions. Tender and raw because they are universal.
Everyone feels something.

I want to write poems
that know that to feel,
to feel (anything at all),
is beautiful--
B.K.S Iyengar.
I want you to feel the freedom to feel.
And then,

I want to write poems
that ask you to feel even more.
That move you to move.
That blast your heart open like a blown
dandelion: seeds scattered everywhere so that what you feel
might touch an infinite number of spaces.

I want to write poems
that do not require a dandelion wish to be made
but a possibility to become a reality.
Poems so that you are not alone.
Poems of humanness.

I want to write poems
that make humans realize they need poetry,
to write or to read;
they need relativity.
They need words to make them run so hard in the direction of nothingness
and trust--TRUST for fuck sakes
that there is never nothing.

I want to write poems
that show how much something there is.
How our emotions are beautiful as they are,
no amount of kerosene can ignite them any further.
That allow us to see, as Ginsberg wanted us to see,
that the only weight we carry is love.

I want to write poems
about love.