Saturday, March 29, 2008
In Time We Will Heal
I forget and forget and forget. My qualude days burn away my recesses memories. And in time we will forget. Once I was a child.
Dreams
My brother Ambrose, 24, left this world a month ago today. Katlor followed him three weeks later. I thought I would take it better then I have been, but I have moments of life in me. I have the choice, I can go towards the light or rot away. Ambrose would want me to live. As would Katlor. What is God doing? I think maybe, because of those rare bursts of life, that he is guiding me. There still is beauty. There still is that underlying beauty that blueprints the universe. I saw it a few times. I am going to live to see more of it in my lifetime.
Friday, March 28, 2008
My Metaphysical Zen Daughter
Her eyes were so vibrant in this picture. I'm a terrible photographer; you can't even see her piercing eyes. She's looking at the sky, living with my grand mother and me in Maryland.
The Mormon Rubber Chicken Conspiracy
Yep, I'm hot on the trail. The picture is blurry, but
that's me holding my very own rubber chicken. Before
I explain (and blow your mind) about the connection
between Mormons and Rubber Chickens (the evidence can
not be disputed) I have to preface it with a
completely unrelated story about how I acquired this
particular rubber chicken.
After dating a mountain man for two and a half years
he went on a six month vacation to Thailand, and I
stayed in Arcata with the world on my shoulders. I
quit drugs, and we set out to create a life for
ourselves beginning by both meeting at the San
Francisco Airport: him from Thailand, me from a month
of detox in Nebraska.
We moved to the middle of nowhere. A town with a
population of less then 100. If the locals had
personal issues with other locals, they just did not
allow them in the only grocery store for thirty miles.
We rented a small cabin and I got a job at a gorgeous
coffee shop overlooking the Trinity River. But our
relationship crumbed in a week. One morning, he
packed my stuff and locked me out. I ended up going
to Redding, to heal with the help of my best friend
and her lovely family.
They fed me, bought me gifts, gave me support, and let
me get drunk often. I got so drunk that I left half
of my belongings at their house before I caught the
Greyhound back to Nebraska for another 8 months of
pure peace and quiet. Anyway, they sent me all my
stuff with a rubber chicken placed strategically on
the top of the box. My heart just melted.
Now in a non sequitur jump I will begin to explain
the connection between Mormons and Rubber Chickens.
Salt Lake City Utah is the world's leader in Rubber
Chicken Production. But since it's heavily influenced
by the Mormon religion, they slip a tape in each bulk
shipment of Rubber Chickens that aims at converting
whatever prankster ordering the shipment into
Mormonism. It's true. I am not sure if it's secretly
because Mormons know religion is funny and so are
rubber chickens, but I promise, I'm on the case. If
you want to further investigate (I sometimes allow
detectives to work with me on these conspiracy
theories), check out this link below. Who is laughing
now?
http://slice.utah.edu/sol/aboutus/chicken.html
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Zen Night
Here we are on March 26th, 2008. Even though we are broke right now, we still live as well as possible. Daryl got some fire wood from a scrap bin at the local lumber yard (he makes his painting canvases there). We downloaded some movies, and had a cocktail. Here we are late at night, each holding a lily that my father bought me for Easter, happy.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
A Journey into the Mind of Yusuf Islam
Also know as Cat Stevens. At a concert he confessed that he actually wrote the song "Peace Train" while on a train. And what was he thinking: "I was thinking of Alfred Hitchock at the time, and his lovely chin. And if everyone could, you know, love Alfred Hitchcock I think it would be a better world, don't you?"
I would love to know more about what brought him to be in the life he is currently. Or we can dissect his heart.
I would love to know more about what brought him to be in the life he is currently. Or we can dissect his heart.
Monday, March 24, 2008
"And There Will Always Be Some People Here To Wonder Why.....
....And for Every Happy Hello, There will Be Good-bye, Then There Will Be Time To Start All Over"-Authur Lee and Love.
I really could not think of anything positive today but a thought did come to me:
I don't believe in God- not like they do-but I believe in something. However I loath organized religion. All those people kneeing in prayer (everyone has a prayer in them), with their hands pointed to the sky; as if their folded hands were an antenna that channeled God. All those people bent in prayer in positions of desperation, frailty, need, and they believe that gesture will protect them. Point your hands up to the sky and you will be heard and attended to in love and compassion. This erroneous belief has killed loved ones.
I really could not think of anything positive today but a thought did come to me:
I don't believe in God- not like they do-but I believe in something. However I loath organized religion. All those people kneeing in prayer (everyone has a prayer in them), with their hands pointed to the sky; as if their folded hands were an antenna that channeled God. All those people bent in prayer in positions of desperation, frailty, need, and they believe that gesture will protect them. Point your hands up to the sky and you will be heard and attended to in love and compassion. This erroneous belief has killed loved ones.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Bedside Table Living
March 22nd, 2008. There is nothing more romantic and self expressive for a lazy person like me (someone who spends much time in bed, dreaming, lounging, talking, and relaxing), then to have the perfectly glamorous bedside table. Here I am with water in my hand, a red velvet pillow and nightgown; next to the carefully selected objects on my bedside table. A sandalwood candle. A pure white vanilla candle (I like sandalwood, Daryl likes the vanilla scent). All light illuminates a glass vase of pink tulips, a vibrant blue tissue box (I also sneeze these days), my new contacts, white sage (for a future purification burning ritual), a perfect red rose in a tiny white vase, a bees wax candle holding a special finch feather my Aunt Grace sent me for good luck, and an oak box filled with glass blue rosary beads, Valium, and sleeping pills. The green lamp shine against our rainbow Christmas lights. And after dreams I wake up to the man I love.
Get a job, you know, a career...
....then maybe you can afford some teeth.-Sarah Lees (she is brilliant).
I was fired from my good friend and her French immigrant husband's company when I was 23. It was one of the most adventurous days of my life.
They co-owned a gourmet French catering service & I sometimes helped them cater events. The event I was fired from was a three hour drive away from Baltimore (the company, as well as my former life, took place in Annapolis, not Baltimore, but no one knows about east coast cities...not many in California at least.)
The event was decked out like a scene from Lord of the Rings- when they go into the forest with the elves. A blue lake, with fire tortuous and fireflies, overlooked the gazebo bar. It was the middle of a summer evening during an east coast July. The catch: the husband was the son of the French ambassador, the wife, from Brazil. Hardly any guests spoke anything but French and Portuguese.
Both parties of the guests showed the most gracious and wonderful party-hosting generosity I have yet to see again. Even though I kept getting the service wrong (mixing the wine in the water chalice by mistake), they never cared. The French were the funniest: all the French tables kept telling me, "Young lady, we are French! Stop bringing the water pitcher and just leave us two bottles of wine. Only wine!"
The single most adorable site was seeing four year old children in white dresses running around this surreal atmosphere speaking Portuguese and French.
But the actual job was work. Lots of running around. I could not pronounce the name of the food that was being constantly rearranged and changed for me to serve. I don't speak any other language (an embarrassing fact), so I could barely communicate. I understood, "We are French...wine please." and that's about it.
I had been catering this event from 6 in the morning (including driving time and preparation), and it was nearly midnight.
The party seemed so interesting- a one time cultural event tide together by a wedding- that I decided to join. Actually the groom's bestman came without a girlfriend, and he was flirting with me all night, so I broke down and accepted a dance and to retreat away from the noise. He took a bottle of expensive Champagne and we sat next to the fire tortuous and talked, just talked, for about 45 minutes. He was a gorgeous 26 year old French pilot with a choppy, almost indecipherable accent, that I knew I would never met again. That's what made it all the more beautiful. He said it was like a dream. We drank champagne, talked about me skipping out of work, "So do you want to work at places serving people when you are older?" was one of his questions. He stole a rose bouquet and placed it on my lap, then gave me one French kiss good-bye. I never even knew his name.
I ran up the hill to find my co-workers, tipsy on champagne, with the bouquet of roses my friend had made for the wedding in my hands. The car ride home was almost 3 hours. I was in the dog house. The next morning her husband fired me, after giving me a one hundred dollar tip that went solely to me for entertaining the girl-friendless best man. The wedding was a hit regardless.
---------
The following day I met up with my eccentric Uncle Mark and told him I was fired. I played dumb and acted like I did not know that you could not just skip out on work (although it was freakin 45 minutes after well over 12 hours of solid work!) My drunk Uncle laughed: "Rosie, I would like to live on an island were beautiful women feed me grapes, but that will never happen!" He then went on to give me a speech (a mad rant really), in front of a friend I brought over, about how when he was in the Merchant Marines he was not allowed to sleep with prostitutes, even though the temptation was always there.
My point is, that in a drunk or sober rant I always get from family, friends, neighbors, and strangers, I constantly hear the, "Get a job" speech. It sounds like fingernails running over chalk at this point, nearly 30 years old. No! How about them apples? How about I lay around, write my friends snail mails, write in my journal, jog in the park, expand my mind, and do whatever my heart tells me to do? I have a violent physical reaction to Time cards, sexualy domination by bosses and co-workers on the higher ladder of the totum pole, and really don't like to listen to that stinging top 40 music while slaving away in a kitchen, or a clothing store, or whatever.
That day I was fired was one of the best days of my life, simply because I skirted my bullshit responsibility to do something that could never be repeated in my short lifetime. It felt so glorious to be a fuck up. Let them label me that way. Who is having more fun?
I was fired from my good friend and her French immigrant husband's company when I was 23. It was one of the most adventurous days of my life.
They co-owned a gourmet French catering service & I sometimes helped them cater events. The event I was fired from was a three hour drive away from Baltimore (the company, as well as my former life, took place in Annapolis, not Baltimore, but no one knows about east coast cities...not many in California at least.)
The event was decked out like a scene from Lord of the Rings- when they go into the forest with the elves. A blue lake, with fire tortuous and fireflies, overlooked the gazebo bar. It was the middle of a summer evening during an east coast July. The catch: the husband was the son of the French ambassador, the wife, from Brazil. Hardly any guests spoke anything but French and Portuguese.
Both parties of the guests showed the most gracious and wonderful party-hosting generosity I have yet to see again. Even though I kept getting the service wrong (mixing the wine in the water chalice by mistake), they never cared. The French were the funniest: all the French tables kept telling me, "Young lady, we are French! Stop bringing the water pitcher and just leave us two bottles of wine. Only wine!"
The single most adorable site was seeing four year old children in white dresses running around this surreal atmosphere speaking Portuguese and French.
But the actual job was work. Lots of running around. I could not pronounce the name of the food that was being constantly rearranged and changed for me to serve. I don't speak any other language (an embarrassing fact), so I could barely communicate. I understood, "We are French...wine please." and that's about it.
I had been catering this event from 6 in the morning (including driving time and preparation), and it was nearly midnight.
The party seemed so interesting- a one time cultural event tide together by a wedding- that I decided to join. Actually the groom's bestman came without a girlfriend, and he was flirting with me all night, so I broke down and accepted a dance and to retreat away from the noise. He took a bottle of expensive Champagne and we sat next to the fire tortuous and talked, just talked, for about 45 minutes. He was a gorgeous 26 year old French pilot with a choppy, almost indecipherable accent, that I knew I would never met again. That's what made it all the more beautiful. He said it was like a dream. We drank champagne, talked about me skipping out of work, "So do you want to work at places serving people when you are older?" was one of his questions. He stole a rose bouquet and placed it on my lap, then gave me one French kiss good-bye. I never even knew his name.
I ran up the hill to find my co-workers, tipsy on champagne, with the bouquet of roses my friend had made for the wedding in my hands. The car ride home was almost 3 hours. I was in the dog house. The next morning her husband fired me, after giving me a one hundred dollar tip that went solely to me for entertaining the girl-friendless best man. The wedding was a hit regardless.
---------
The following day I met up with my eccentric Uncle Mark and told him I was fired. I played dumb and acted like I did not know that you could not just skip out on work (although it was freakin 45 minutes after well over 12 hours of solid work!) My drunk Uncle laughed: "Rosie, I would like to live on an island were beautiful women feed me grapes, but that will never happen!" He then went on to give me a speech (a mad rant really), in front of a friend I brought over, about how when he was in the Merchant Marines he was not allowed to sleep with prostitutes, even though the temptation was always there.
My point is, that in a drunk or sober rant I always get from family, friends, neighbors, and strangers, I constantly hear the, "Get a job" speech. It sounds like fingernails running over chalk at this point, nearly 30 years old. No! How about them apples? How about I lay around, write my friends snail mails, write in my journal, jog in the park, expand my mind, and do whatever my heart tells me to do? I have a violent physical reaction to Time cards, sexualy domination by bosses and co-workers on the higher ladder of the totum pole, and really don't like to listen to that stinging top 40 music while slaving away in a kitchen, or a clothing store, or whatever.
That day I was fired was one of the best days of my life, simply because I skirted my bullshit responsibility to do something that could never be repeated in my short lifetime. It felt so glorious to be a fuck up. Let them label me that way. Who is having more fun?
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Eavesdropping at an Arcata Coffee Shop
I overheard parts of a conversation between a blond dread-locked man and a hippie woman today:
Dread-lock man: "See, the government may have put you in a physical jail, but the government is putting us all in a physiological prison.
Later...
Woman: "Yeah, she is so petty, like, there is so much more to talk about"
Dread-locked Man: "Ah, yes, I know, like eternity!
Dread-lock man: "See, the government may have put you in a physical jail, but the government is putting us all in a physiological prison.
Later...
Woman: "Yeah, she is so petty, like, there is so much more to talk about"
Dread-locked Man: "Ah, yes, I know, like eternity!
Friday, March 21, 2008
Best of Craig's List again- this womans mother just died. Reminds me of the airport terminal I was in two days ago.
best of craigslist > new york > I will apologize because I don't feel like going to jail. Originally Posted: Thu, 22 Feb 18:48 EST
Date: 2007-02-22, 6:48PM EST
I’m in the subway in New York city and it’s rush hour. I’m in a torture chamber. I’m crammed between a mans slimy perspiring arm pit, a woman with a stroller and an older lady who keeps looking over at me and saying...
"Don’t fucking touch me, bitch."
...every time the train slows or jolts and I accidentally brush her sleeve with mine. I’m trying to ignore her. I’m trying to be calm. I’m trying really, really hard. I’m concentrating on my shoes, the logo on some guys shirt, a billboard advertising English lessons...
"Next stop is 103th st. stand clear of closing doors please."...
I brush against the angry women’s arm as the train takes off and she gives me the kind of look one might give to a person they were about to destroy...
"If you fucking touch me again, I’m gonna scream. I fucking mean it, you stupid white ho"...
"Sorry."...
is what I say, although what I really want to say is...
"I know martial arts and if you curse at me again I with put you in a headlock and cut off your goddamn air supply."...
But I don’t because I’m polite and I’m patient and I don’t let my emotions control my life. My life, no. My imagination, oh yes.
As the woman continues to rant at me I imagine pushing her up against the subway doors, lifting her frail twisted body off the floor. I’m holding her neck with one hand because I have super strength. I tell her politely and patiently that she’s not the only one with problems. I tell her that all humans suffer, I tell her that’s she’s a complete cliche. I tell her that yes, on the surface I look like a privileged white girl who deserves to be shat on emotionally by those less fortunate, but in reality my mother died a few days ago and I just lost my job and my cat is sick and I have 13 dollars in my bank account, and sometimes I start crying on the street, in a café, at dinner, and all and any inappropriate places for absolutely no reason. And in my mind she’s listening to me and nodding and understanding. and she's saying...
"I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.I had no idea, i never think of anyone but myself, but you have shown me the light."...
"It’s okay."...
I say like I'm some sort of saint or demon or guru who has giving her this gift of empathy. So I put her back on the floor and then we hug or some shit and everyone in the train is teary eyed. And we all start singing Cat Stevens ’Freedom train." And we join hands and we are all one community of people, just people, different people, the same people, flawed people, pissed people, happy people, distracted people, dying people, living people and we all understand this and accept this. But of course this isn't’t happening. This would never happen. The mans armpit it still inches from my face. The baby in the stroller is crying. The baby's mother is ignoring her. And the woman who I have forgiven and who had forgiven me is telling me I’m a fucking cunt. And I’m saying...
"I’m sorry."...
I will apologize because I don't feel like going to jail.
Date: 2007-02-22, 6:48PM EST
I’m in the subway in New York city and it’s rush hour. I’m in a torture chamber. I’m crammed between a mans slimy perspiring arm pit, a woman with a stroller and an older lady who keeps looking over at me and saying...
"Don’t fucking touch me, bitch."
...every time the train slows or jolts and I accidentally brush her sleeve with mine. I’m trying to ignore her. I’m trying to be calm. I’m trying really, really hard. I’m concentrating on my shoes, the logo on some guys shirt, a billboard advertising English lessons...
"Next stop is 103th st. stand clear of closing doors please."...
I brush against the angry women’s arm as the train takes off and she gives me the kind of look one might give to a person they were about to destroy...
"If you fucking touch me again, I’m gonna scream. I fucking mean it, you stupid white ho"...
"Sorry."...
is what I say, although what I really want to say is...
"I know martial arts and if you curse at me again I with put you in a headlock and cut off your goddamn air supply."...
But I don’t because I’m polite and I’m patient and I don’t let my emotions control my life. My life, no. My imagination, oh yes.
As the woman continues to rant at me I imagine pushing her up against the subway doors, lifting her frail twisted body off the floor. I’m holding her neck with one hand because I have super strength. I tell her politely and patiently that she’s not the only one with problems. I tell her that all humans suffer, I tell her that’s she’s a complete cliche. I tell her that yes, on the surface I look like a privileged white girl who deserves to be shat on emotionally by those less fortunate, but in reality my mother died a few days ago and I just lost my job and my cat is sick and I have 13 dollars in my bank account, and sometimes I start crying on the street, in a café, at dinner, and all and any inappropriate places for absolutely no reason. And in my mind she’s listening to me and nodding and understanding. and she's saying...
"I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.I had no idea, i never think of anyone but myself, but you have shown me the light."...
"It’s okay."...
I say like I'm some sort of saint or demon or guru who has giving her this gift of empathy. So I put her back on the floor and then we hug or some shit and everyone in the train is teary eyed. And we all start singing Cat Stevens ’Freedom train." And we join hands and we are all one community of people, just people, different people, the same people, flawed people, pissed people, happy people, distracted people, dying people, living people and we all understand this and accept this. But of course this isn't’t happening. This would never happen. The mans armpit it still inches from my face. The baby in the stroller is crying. The baby's mother is ignoring her. And the woman who I have forgiven and who had forgiven me is telling me I’m a fucking cunt. And I’m saying...
"I’m sorry."...
March 20th 2008
Here is Daryl, in our living room, the day before Spring. The daffodils next to him took about a half an hour to acquire. We had lunch at my favorite spot in Trinidad, "The Beachcomber". Every time we go there I remember how much I want to move to that small town. The citizens are foggies (mostly retired), and always seem very benevolent and eccentric. Especially at, "The Beachcomber". We go there about once a month to eat toasted focaccia bread with avacado and (when I'm not feeling guilty about dairy) cheddar cheese with some kind of stimulate (a mocca yesterday) so I can have a clear mind for chess. Yesterday he won.
Side note: He has such a good spirit about competition: even when he loses (he's only won a few games so far because he's just now learning to play) he never gets angry. Instead he asks what he could have done better, and tries again. He has a better heart in that respect then me.
Then we drove home to scavenge for those daffodils that are next to him in the picture. We drove to a cow pasture, I jumped a stream, landed in mud and jumped a fence barefoot into jaggar bushes. I picked about twenty, ran like a mad woman just in case someone said, "what the heck?" and jumped the fence again in victory.
Life goes on. I'm trying to fill the house with as many flowers as possible. I had to insist that we take this picture (I'm being honest) because I want to record the good parts of my life. I've known for quite some time that I love people but have no social intelligence what so ever. Always saying the wrong thing, always nervous, so I want to record the positive things in my life in the hopes that someone can relate. My hope is that someone will catch something I'm saying and write their own story to celebrate life. We are all in it together. Or if I'm doing something wrong correct me. I want to connect better with others but I'm always putting my foot in my mouth.
Two days ago I got off a plane, took a GreyHound from the plane, and all in all it was a 24 hour trip. I was coming home from my worst fear. I was wrecked. But there were signs that helped me. An 18 year old girl sat next to me on the bus. She was a pianist and for four hours she just studied music for a big rehearsal she had the next day. She showed me a pamphlet of a competition she was in regarding music. At 18 she was the oldest contestant. The pamphlet had stories about all the contestants: some eleven years old, some two years older, but all with these amazing paragraphs on their accomplishments. People in motion.
On the way to Nebraska I did not know Katlor was that sick. But on the bus I sat next to an older woman who spoke for an hour about losing her husband to Parkinson's disease. She said for an entire year she watched her husband of 30 years slowly decline from a strong, vibrate man and deteriorate right in front of her. She said her body was wrecked from having to pick him up, bath him. All the while I felt terrible for her but I could not really understand what it was like to go through that. She gave me a kiss good-bye. We also survived the beep popper who rapped the entire way to San Raphel who was sitting behind us, "Oh I can make it ran...all aboard the bus...guns, yeah fool I told you..." That's how her and I got to talking in the first place- to drown out Mr. Undiscovered Vanilla Ice.
Katlor spent just a few month in pain. Then I was reminded of the woman who said she spent a year watching her husband die. These people we love are gone, they are somewhere else now. But we are here and we need to get into motion. I don't have a terminal disease (except that I will die one day). I am so blessed with the few amazing souls I hope to know for the rest of my life. I wish them peace and positive movement, and to have love and be in love for the duration of their existence. Life is so flimsy.
I put all my love into Katlor because she deserved it first off, and also she was my little love generator. I spent 22 and a half years thanking whatever force controls who lives and dies, and all the random actions in between. I had a love generator for that long. And it hurts, and I want her back, I want my brother back, but it's selfish because they are no longer in pain. I just want to see them again. But we are here still, so I am going to try to be thankful every day that I still have my two beautiful brothers, my sister, the coolest best friend God could create (I am blessed).
My purpose is to find as much good as I can and to share it, and celebrate together. My disposition sinks to gossip, pettiness, sometimes aggression. Correct me when I need it.
When I got home some thought came into my head that the human spirit is alway there, and we want light. We are in it together. Life is so hard and so mean sometimes, and I always ask why these things happen. But we are the living, so that is what I'm trying to do, day by day.
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