david bowie baby

....all of a sudden I had a baby in my possession. not sure if it was mine, or really where it came from, but i was confronted with the fact that it's face was that of David Bowie's. not a baby that looked like David Bowie, but a baby with David Bowie's face. the baby needed a name. i was at a loss, panicking about not being able to name this baby. there is already one David Bowie out there, what to name this look-alike?

can you be out in the world without a name? something to distinguish you from the other humans in the world and contribute to a sense of individuality. a name attached to ideas and legacy of what you've done and to what kind of person you will/have/want to become.

can you change insinuations attached to your name? can a tiger change is stripes? I think it's all about self-perception. You have to accept who you are, foibles and all. You have to accept the total package, not just what you want to see. When you refuse to see one aspect of yourself because it might be ugly and you're scared, then you're hiding from your full potential. You can't see the arial view, the whole package, and you're lost. You can't find your way through.

Once you see everything, warts and all, and become comfortable, even happy with it, you don't believe in a myth starring a character. You believe the life you create, starring the real you, with full knowledge of your limitations (usually emotional). The doors of perception are fully open. You can control your reactions more easily because you see all and because you know you, you know what you can do, and what you can't control. You know the location of the warts you keep hidden from others and can more easily hide them, or modify to make them less prominent. The story becomes your reaction to the things, people, and situations you come across on the journey. You realize your level of control and make that the driving force of your story. It's not what happened to you; it's how you reacted, modified, rose above in the face of that.

Did you take the chance when it was offered? Did you sulk when you didn't get your way? Did you make lemonade out of lemons? Did you feel helpless and panic in the face of a seemingly solutionless situation? Or did you just ask for help and find a name for that goddamm baby with the David Bowie face?

near death

a harrowing experience skidding out on black ice and thankfully landing on powder lead my racing thoughts many places. i wouldn't say i saw my life flashing before my eyes, but perhaps it's because i wasn't physiologically near death - my brain just thought that was the logical conclusion to the train of events. i did think about:

• wanting to die instantly. had just visited an ICU that morning, and didn't want to end up a vegetable on a ventilator. didn't want my family to have to experience that either.


• the last time I got laid. about a week prior. an impromptu reunion with someone I was with for a long while when I was younger - was intense, passionate, comfortable; nice. I was good with that as a last experience.


• my best friend who's mad at me right now. wondering if she still would be if I died.


• feeling happy that I've lived my life pretty much the way I've wanted to thus far, and never shorted myself on experience or opportunity. sometimes it meant pretending/acting like I was a rock star, but who gives up pretending at any age, it's fun. i was happy i've had fun.

Once we were out of the black, as it were, my nerves were shot and call me an alchoholic, but i just wanted my brain to be numb, and with the preponderance of alchohol purchased for the trip, I figured why not get drunk. Apparently I was the only one with such urges, but thinking that every car that might come around the corner might hit us as we waited for the tow truck was too much for me. You would think that racing thoughts might end once the danger was no longer imminent, but I keep thinking about life in a different way now. I know it makes me see things differently, and I hope my new perspective leads to more positives in my life.

it's been a long winter and spring can't come fast enough

must...be...patient.

old enough to learn?

“Let me begin by telling you that I was in love. An ordinary statement, to be sure, but not an ordinary fact, for so few of us learn that love is tenderness, and tenderness is not, as a fair proporlian suspect, pity; and still fewer know that happiness in love is not the absolute focusing of all emotion in another: one has always to love a good many things which the beloved must come only to symbolize; the true beloveds of this world are in their lover's eyes lilac opening, ship lights, school bells, a landscape, remembered conversations, friends, a child's Sunday, lost voices, one's favourite suit, autumn and all seasons, memory, yes, it being the earth and water of existence, memory."

— Truman Capote (Other Voices, Other Rooms)

is it too late?

I thought I knew what love looked like. I thought it was loud and passionate and exciting. I thought I had to feel it all the time, need it all the time. I thought desire was intermingled with love so intimately that there was no difference. I was wrong. I had the real stuff. It was so steady, so underlying, so subtle, that I didn’t even notice it. I thought it wasn’t love. I didn’t acknowledge it as such, or let it grow. It wasn’t loud enough for me and I didn’t hear it. Maybe I didn’t want to hear, scared; it veered too much from what I had imagined it was. Hiding from reality. But now I see. I was so wrong. I can’t go back in time, so only questions remain. Is it salvageable? Are we too changed, too damaged, too scarred? Or are we enough changed that we can see this time, look it in the face with clarity and see what’s really there?

photo: flickr

illusion

The world is not what it seems. You think status quo? Doesn't exist.
The world exists in how you wrap your brain around it. And if it
changes quickly? You adapt. You have to. And now- what is my reality?
What I created. Regretful or not. It's me. I can hate or love or hate
or love. I need to love. Hate only depletes so I have to accept and
that might grow to love. One can only hope.

Sent from my iPhone

burnt-down town

I'm gonna make it up for all of the nursery rhymes

They never really seem to want to tell the truth…

…Tell me, do you really think you go to hell for having loved?

Tell me, enough of thinking everything that you've done is good…

…Making my own way home, ain't gonna be alone

I'm going to a town

That has already been burnt down.

-Rufus Wainwright

She bit her lip with a wicked smile on her face. She’d done something many would think wicked, heathen; sinful. Where did these moral imperatives come from? It wasn’t like she walked around thinking she was a saint. Not believing in hell, other than it being a state of mind, a place on earth, she knew she’d get hers, she’d gotten it - lived it many times before. She didn’t presume to weave tales, skewing her actions into lovely neat stories with happy endings. She accepted that she was imperfect, that happy endings didn’t exist and that her town had burnt down many times before. She’d survived it, building on the shelled-out remains, so she knew she could do it again. She knew she wasn’t alone either; many people lived in the same town. But were they as honest? Some were. For some, it was harder to face what they really were, where they were really living. Burying themselves in nursery rhymes, fearing hell. She knew hell was her own doing, and sure as hell knew the directions to the burnt-down town. At least she knew she wasn’t alone, and wasn’t afraid to admit she’d been there many times before.

black wedding

The dress had a full black skirt, very old-fashioned looking. The white lace bodice was the only thing indicating it might be a wedding dress. A white spanish veil kept falling, and my hair was black. I snuck a glimpse of the groom as I was escorted through winding passageways and a myriad of doors. Filled with excitement when I recognized him, i realized I couldn't wait till we got married. The image of his face filled with excitement is branded in my memory; I remember it exactly from my youth. It seemed like what I had been waiting for forever. the anticipation was prolonged by what seemed like an eternity for us to get to the red velvet room where it would happen. I snuck into the bathroom to fix my hair right before the ceremony. Looking into the mirror, I couldn't recognize myself. My face with black hair and dark eyes. I most certainly recognized the groom. I most certainly recognized all the feelings from my 16 year old self. I miss being able to feel that way so freely now.

We moved into a house, which I thought was one bedroom at first. It was nicely appointed, and cozy, it felt perfect for us. Some friends came over to visit, and when I gave them a tour, I kept discovering rooms and spaces, filled with furniture. Sprawling spaces with neo-modern sixities furniture; mustard yellow sectionals, a pool table, avocado green walls, brocade pillows, hanging ball light fixtures, brushed metal. I realized I had everything I ever wanted and was only discovering more. And I wanted to share it. Invite all my friends to come live, create a commune, with enough space for us all to have our own space, but be together, to hang out as we pleased. I just wanted us all to share in my happiness. A winding road to get here, lots of waiting and anticipation, lots of convoluted passageways, but a nice place to be.

A lovely dream for this new year.