Soundless Thoughts

To bed with me, and that wild soundlessness in my head.
A mental rinse cycle agitating in its canister, silent, and voracious,
An abstract blender of subconscious unknown to the clueless bystander world.

I’m gone far, in the vacuum of thought, dreams
Where screams don’t echo
and whispers don’t float

But light, and idea, yes
They are quick and direct,
shifting, racing
intersecting
everything coalescing,
grids and planes,
bright eyes and laser beams
paisleys in cream
revolving, rotating
floatating

Thought does not make a sound
And the deaf world does not understand
why I am damned:

All night, I slumber
headlong full
of a psychedelic circus
buzzing circuits
and to no wonder,
wake exhausted

Random ideas that never became poetry

Going to the flea market and observing all the impoverished people scooping up shiny objects reminds me of birds that collect foil scraps and other bits for their nests. Apparently you need trash in your home.

The subdivision houses show me false moons in the round windows of the dormers. It’s a disappointing double take.

When I look in the rear view all I see are cars going fast in multiple freeway lanes even though I am on a deserted country road. Weird as that may be, the music in this car is really good.

We lit a match and held it up to our chest, revealing our scars. We laughed about it. And then the wind snuffed the match.

Learning to be a competant breather

Life is as hard as diamonds and cuts like them too. But if you slice a diamond just right, that rock can sparkle. For most, life is a longing for that sparkle.

We spend long hours in dusky air-choked mine-shafts looking for that glimmer of hope. Statistically, it eludes us and we settle for some nicely polished granite stones engraved with our names.

Then, there are the few who see the sparkle within themselves. There is no longing or searching. They have dumped the contents of their soul onto the proverbial floor, surveyed the goods and have determined that what they see is everything they’ll ever need.

They exist in the moment. When life gets hard and cuts, they take a cue from time, knowing they can only live in each second. They understand their enigmatic human body is designed to heal from the inside out. Living isn’t any easier for them as it is for anybody else, but their realization carries them a long way. Such a person hardly cares about polished granite stones.

I surmise those who search don’t think too fondly of those who just exist. Perhaps someone who is content to merely exist has actions, motives and words that are foreign to the Searchers. The Searchers must think, “What fool can be happy with so little? They should be trying as hard as I am. You haven’t found anything and shouldn’t stop now.” A frantic person does not appreciate a person who is still. Ask a person who is about to be late and has lost their keys if they think they will still be alive in 45 minutes.

I know a woman. She has the good sense to know she had that sparkle inside. Searchers pull her like taffy and guilt her into their dank lair, not for the sake of appreciated company, but to rid themselves of their own misgivings about their fruitless quest.

I try to understand the Searchers motives:

“To be okay with myself, I must validate that the way I live is right. Therefore, if someone is doing it differently, they must be doing it wrong. I will feel better about myself if I point this out and save them from their erroneous ways. I cannot bear the thought that they might be living the right way, let alone better than me. Because I am showing them the way life ought to be, in a way, it will be like saving them. I am a hero for having tried.”

It’s another fruitless pursuit, Searchers. Once an Exister has discovered the art of being, that awareness cannot be undone, only forgotten. The most vanquished soul is an Exister who has lost their way. They have resigned to searching but are unconsciously awaiting instructions as to what the prize actually is. It is absolute unnerving futility and it leads to inexplicable madness.

The woman I know will remember the sparkle. Unfortunately, it may require an earthquake that ruins the very foundation that supports her, reducing it to smithereens.

Buildings will crash around her like plaster waves, scattering their pulverant debris in the typewriter ribbon streets; sin sitting in knots in the pits of the bellies of all the victims- merely lost souls who never found their gem. She’s never willfully brought harm to anyone, but she will initially feel like a roach- alive and despised.

She is not a heroine.

But alas! She is! She breathes!

When she rises like a phoenix from the disheveled mess around her, bewildered and distressed, her clothes, strips of muslin hanging loosely from her frame, ragged and mangled like a ship’s sails; she will not be remembered for valor and fortitude. She did not perform a feat of incredible strength or save a fellow man’s life, let alone a kitten. She will be momentarily regarded simply because she clawed her way from the rubble and chose to stand up. Her victory will be in the modest effort she made to continue breathing when she could have sacrificed herself to despair.

“Fall seven times, stand up eight.” ~Japanese Proverb

Mom on Strike

It’s that time of year, I guess.

It seems like every year, this time, something in my family falls apart. The kids quit picking up after themselves, they look at me as if I speak Greek, blatantly disobey me and some sort of Spring bickering settles in. Inevitably, after several days of their disrespect for everything and having exhausted all usual corrective measures, Mom goes on strike.

It usually also involves a degree of Dad not pitching in as well, being too consumed with work or other civic duties, or not. All of a sudden, I find myself barely able to keep up with my load, and I refuse to pick up the load for the 3 lazy bodies who have seemed to check into their own little worlds.

Typically, I can step over a thing or two. I have a sane threshold for temporarily unkept things. A pair of shoes or a pile of toys can sit for 3 days, hell, even a week before I get my panties in a wad. Spring hasn’t busied them with sports, or anything of the sort. The messes accumulate into unbearable proportions while they sit on their lily-white asses. The honey-do list swells with miscellaneous fix-its. The kids fail to acknowledge the importance of hygiene, let alone punctuality. They can’t seem to get out the door with combed hair, weather appropriate clothes and all their stuff. Every minute as a household manager becomes a horrible struggle. They’ve done okay in the past with all this. Why trouble now? Why every year? The last two years  Mom on Strike was in it’s infancy. This year, the mere mention of it to my husband made him quiver and launched him steadfast into preventative action.

So what happens when Mom goes on strike? Mom decides to get caught up on that book she never quite finished. Ditto on the paintings and unfinished poetry. She goes into her bedroom and turns up her music so as to drown out the ensuing insanity and crank up the pleasure while she reads and writes. She sits gleefully in the backyard and watches birdies perch on the fence. She leaves Dad with the brood and goes to the coffeehouse for tea. She retreats to the bathroom and gives herself a much needed pedicure.

If you can’t beat’m, join’m.

partially executed bravery ususally results in painful failure

examples:

the time when I thought I could spring up very high on a diving board and curve my body up and over like a rainbow, to get in to the water pin straight and diagonal, hands pointed above my head. The classic dive. Whilst midair I realized it was not going to work or I got scared. Whatever the reason was, I belly flopped HARD! It jolted my neck like sedan whiplash. That plane of water slapped me hard and taught me a lesson. That lesson is the title of this blog.

One time I thought about making a snappy comeback in jest by using the voice and words of Eric Cartman. I chickened out on the voice, and what I said didn’t come across as being a quote from a foul mouthed cartoon character, but rather as my own feeling about the situation. That lead to a big misundestanding later, and a great deal of awkwardness.

I was in the spelling bee when I was in sixth grade. I studied my ass off. I was so sure that I was going to do great. So many times I had stood on the stage at church and sang, my knees quivering, and would go cry after I was done. Not because I had done poorly, but just from the sheer terror of being watched by so many people made my nerves fray. When I went to the spelling bee, I had unusual courage. I bombed. I was the third one out. The word that was the nail in my coffin was one that my mom gave me a pneumonic device to remember. It was wrong though, so I had memorized it wrong. I wasn’t mad at my mom. I was mad at myself for having been so bold, brave and confident. Never again, I vowed, would I ever be so sure of myself.

If you ever feel like putting yourself on the line, make sure you go full balls out and see it through, or have the wills or skills to do it in the first place. Otherwise, it’s gonna hurt. Have you ever seen a tattoo where the person chickened out half way through?

Happy Blogaversary

Today is the one year anniversary of my blog. I’ve stuck my first post up on the top for the occasion. Last Halloween, I had thoughts coursing through my head like nobody’s business there was so much to do as there is every Halloween. I needed a place for overflow. I wanted a place to explore provocative themes; experiences both tender and contemptuous; variations on meter, alliteration, adjective use, tone; to dump all the gobbledy gook that clutters my thoughts. I basically set this thing up for me. I didn’t expect too many visitors, and really, haven’t had tons. That’s okay.

I’ve been writing poetry since 1991. I would doodle pictures in spiral bound books to go along with the poems. I felt it was time to centralize all (almost all) of my material, keep it better organized and move it into the 21st century. I’ve never essayed to publish them. I do not care about being famous or recognized. My only hopes are to meet people who may understand it, or who write in a way that I appreciate and understand. I used to show my work to people I thought might appreciate it. Only a few have. I really don’t show it to anyone anymore.

My local circle of influence is shallow, and I really don’t want to expose what I consider my best talent for fear of rejection…or worse, indifference. I am content to be perceived as a mediocre hack who doesn’t do much of anything talent-wise. When asked what I am up to lately, there isn’t much to report aside from the daily chores of life. What I put here represents one of my very few hobbies. If I were to continue announcing what I do to people around me, I would continue to get their eyes glazing over, or if they are interested, perhaps it’s not the type of work they find inspiring to them. There is good writing out there that bores me. It’s still good and skillful, but not of interest to me. So I fear that if someone is actually genuinely interested at first, they may ultimately be let down. In a way, the last year writing here has been cathartic.

I am finally learning to keep my mouth shut, and keep parts of myself hidden, whereas, usually, I am an open book, honest and shamelessly revealing. I’ve learned that people don’t appreciate honesty, even if it’s me being honest about myself good or bad. I’ve learned that social graces require a level of superficiality that I cannot muster. But it’s gotta go somewhere outside of me, and if there is an audience for that, cool. But I hadn’t intended this blog to be a platform for anything but a shelf for my brain.

I appreciate all the people who check in regularly, leave comments, or even silently read, enjoy and leave. I appreciate all the good work I have managed to find on WordPress. I wish I had the time to sort through everything more thoroughly to find the diamonds in the rough. I love referrals to good work if you have them. I love it when people drop in for some healthy discourse, even if we don’t agree. As a toast to the anniversary I had thought about writing a macabre Halloween type poem, but there’s too much to do at the moment. Perhaps tonight…. perhaps.

The Sunday Blahg-Crush Trends

No poetry today-

Below is a chronology of my celebrity crushes. I can see the uncanny trends. Of course, I’ve already figured out what I like by now.I hooked one of the good ones.

Everyone has to root for the quarterback…right? I was about 6 yrs. old.

My favorite teacher from 5th grade bought a dynamite magazine and left it in my desk (when I was in 6th grade and he wasn’t even my teacher anymore) with a note as if Kirk himself had left it for me. He was on the cover, and my former teacher knew i had the hots for him. I liked Leo even better once he came on the show. I liked him up until Titanic and still respect his work, except for Titanic. But I guess an actor’s gotta concede to get a little bankroll to fund projects.

Joe Elliott, of Def Leppard, was a short lived crush. He winked at me during the “Pour Some Sugar on Me” video. He looked old to me then. He looks horrible now.

I always like the underdogs and nerds. Brian Austin Green was off my list when he started getting ghetto.

I still think Dave Gahan is pretty cool. I mean, Depeche Mode’s music is timeless is it not? But I only liked him during his goatee sporting “Songs of Faith and Devotion” era. That skinny, rough bad boy look gets me revved. Any rail-thin guy who rocks the Jesus look gets a second look from me. I had the hots for just such a guy while in college. We spent a little time together, and he turned out to be a gross, dirty, almost bum-like slacker. Ew.

Jon Stewart was a big crush for a long time. Kinda still is. Except he is too liberal for my taste. But, nonetheless, he is ruthlessly funny, and I still do like him. I liked him since the good ol’ days when he was on MTV. Smart funny nerd. Veddy nize. 🙂

Then there was the nerdy kid from Mars Attacks. Yum.

It’s not so much James Spader’s looks, as it is his presence. As I saw films with him in it, I began to see a trend in what I think is his real life behavior crossing over into his work. I love his teasing, perverted, defiling nature. All the while he is not loud or domineering, but rather quiet and commanding with his body language.

I know just about everybody loves Johnny. I appreciate him as an actor just like Leo. He’s got amazing range! His stuff with Tim Burton are some of my hands down favorite movies! His looks, since they change so drastically, are not always sexy. I mostly dig the Jack Sparrow thing. Debauchery? Check. Quirkiness? Yeah baby! And there’s something about how he said “Watch the goods, darlin'”. Mmmmmm…

Speaking of Johnny- When Willy Wonka was remade, all I heard for months was how I look like Johnny as Mr. Wonka.

of course, usually, I was not smiling so much. This picture is a rare exception. Probably because it was nearing Halloween.

Mike Rowe is an unusual pick for me. He’s got dreamy blue eyes and a ripped middle age working guy physique. That is not usually what I pine for. He seems to have a respectable personality, his butt looks good in jeans and he does some dirty, dirty work. Maybe he satisfies my farm girl need for a strengthy provider.

All in all, I like the skinny nerds, tall and geeky as possible. I’ve even threatened to lock one in my basement, just to borrow his tech skills at my whim. I also like a rogue bad ass, tattoos and facial hair either resembling a devilish goatee or jesus style black locks. I won a nerd minus the tech skills. He’s a classy Stephen Colbert type conservative, with a wit to match.

Which brings me to the latest. Colbert’s hair is awesome. Shiny, suave and classic. He doesn’t get me hot, but he’s damn handsome to look at. And dare I say he’s funnier than Stewart?

Dumpers and Intruders

These long, hot days, at the back door of summer, make for an altered landscape that mystifies me. The corn gets so tall that country roads, normally open with vast views of the smoggy horizon and distant subdivisions, become halls, decked in emerald paint, with only a view of the sapphire sky and the onyx mirage of carpet.

I can see why corn is such a fulcrum for a great horror movie. A farmer only has to water it until it’s time to tear it down. God only knows what can be going on inside that dense, short forest during that time.

When I was passing by a field the other day, I saw a dirty, run-down, brick colored Taurus parked along side of the road. The man was forcing down the trunk lid, and some eerie thoughts crept into my mind. I suppose farmers find a lot of freaky shit in those corn fields once harvest comes. And I’ll bet over the decades many a bloated body has been found within . If I were a killer, I suppose a corn field might buy me some time. So I guess one could say this is their favorite time of year.

There’s never been a body found on my father’s farm that I know of. There’s been trash dumped, some vandalism, theft, drunk drivers running into things, and a few break-ins. It’s a mystery how the drunk drivers got there (more than once). The farm is situated on a road that no one would travel unless they lived thereabouts. It is not a thoroughfare by any means.

Strange how a country home can be broken into more than a few times, but I have never once experienced a burglary for myself. We never lived on that farm. We’ve always lived in a neighborhood. I can imagine the sense of violation that occurs when somebody has had their home invaded.

But I am stepping outside of conventional thinking to wonder why it feels so bad to be violated.

Is it privacy boundaries? Is it fear of bodily harm?

I  understand a loss of possessions causes a disturbance and inconvenience, but what I am scrutinizing is the feeling as if someone has crawled inside and ripped out your confidence. Or the feeling that someone is still watching you.

How is the feeling different if a family member sneaks into your room and goes through your things, or if a stranger goes through your things? The first elicits anger and betrayal, the second, a foreign feeling akin to rape emerges simply because you don’t know them and they don’t know you.

Chances are, they were not looking into your stuff as a means to know you better or gather information to plan a character attack. No, they just wanted your “stuff”.

So why does it feel so weird? It is merely an uninvited guest, who helped themselves to all your most expensive things.

Does anyone care to explain with great precision and more excellent wording than I can muster, the feeling when your home has been burglarized?

The Coming…

Now that things have settled down in my little crumb of the universe, I am back in total control of my thoughts. No longer am I consumed by the robotic motions and seemingly endless stream of preparative thoughts that have cycled through my brain all summer. There has simply been too much to do, and now I’ve hit the brakes. It’s my time.

I am back to having my usual cacophony of random thoughts in poetic tones. Between the megastores’ removal of school supplies and replacing of Halloween props and the changing of the seasons, the giddy antsiness is welling up deep down within me. Already, the air is thick with the farmer’s harvest dust, which brings on the grand, red magnified moons. I have 3 ripe pumpkins. We had our first break from the sun today. Folks, I am hatching plans of my own accord. The sense of contentedness is washing over me like a rogue wave.

Don’t be harsh with your stoner brother

Most claim to have aim and purpose

but how many fail

due to chance, and some to luck

when circumstances beyond control

mangle best laid plans

and a retrospect proves

a life of fruitless trying

was more a waste than a difference

 

And then there are those, with

the purpose of finding something better,

ignoring the treasure they have

stuffed in musky closets, under couch cushions

and in old wedding photo albums

These are the starving animals

who search for fresh meat, but

look only in bear traps.

 

And, woe, to those that only aim to please

anyone who stops for a mere minute to give attention

These are the ones, giving themselves wholly

and tossing themselves at the feet of oblivious self-worshippers;

who are not complete until someone will accept their smothering affection and return it with a pat on the head.

 

And forget not those that are gracious and strong

but still do wrong, reluctantly, but gladly

who say one thing but do another without thought

and are wrought with guilt and deflect the love of others

feeling unworthy but put on the face that makes their troubles invisible

 

And last, the indifferent, who let chance guide them

doing only what must be done and whittle hours paying

attention to nothing, themselves, or anyone entertaining enough

who have little to show for their lives, but have made an impact on things that matter to them, in whatever small way, unintentionally

but with the greatest fervor they could muster.

Movie Idea #2

So the timing is off on this one, but it still seems like a good movie idea to me, and this one didn’t come to me in my sleep.

There is a group of American Terrorists. (no I don’t always think of terrorists) They have different ideals than the rest of us, and are committed long term to their cause much like Extremist Muslim terrorists. They have other resources, technology and are willing to take it slow to get it right. They believe their cause is a noble one (Who wouldn’t? It helps one sleep at night) They have developed a toxin that has been injected into a committed member (hehe). He has received this toxin over time in gradual innoculating doses. He has a clean record, and behaves as an upstanding gentleman. He is the weapon. The victim is a female who happens to be running for president. Although she is married, and an ice cold bitch, she is in a staged marriage. It’s more for show than love. This gentleman courts her, and melts her ice cold heart with intent to “inject” his toxin into her. (you know how) Imagine scenes of his personal torment when during the years upon years while he is being innoculated and loaded with this toxin, that he is unable to be intimate with anybody. Although he may be tough, cold, calculating, committed to his cause, and cerebral about the whole thing, he is essentially human. Everything is going according to plan, and his mob of hi-tech cronies couldn’t be happier. He does get excited about the prospect of making love again. He actually gets to know the ice cold bitch in a way no one ever has, and although his mind struggles with his deep seated hatred for what she represents, who she is and what she does, he begins to fall for her. Of course none of his cronies realize this, because charming her is part of the plan. But now he is torn. If he makes love to her, she will die. If he offs his cronies, and tries to get with her, he will never be able to make love to her or anyone. EVER. He is a martyr after all. Also, she’s running to be the freakin’ president. He can’t just swoop in and be with her quite so easily. UNLESS she doesn’t win and slips out of the public’s eye. Is there a way to film someone who expresses that they are so fucked they look like their eyes are bugging out and their head will explode?

Here’s a fun idea. Suggest potential actors. Who would be the gentleman, and who the stone cold politician bitch?

Movie idea #1

This one came to me in a dream. It scares me that good ideas are possible in dreams, because, well, aren’t we all accustomed to things that don’t make sense while slumbering?

So here goes:

Al Qaeda has scientists on their payroll, who have discovered how to take microscopic atomic particles and launch them into the atmosphere. The particles hitch a ride with a particular weather system. At first the world is dumbfounded, but through time and a series of discoveries finds out that Al Qaeda did it. The particles swirl around with the jet stream and travel the globe affecting one region after the other. It leaves the vegatation and crops burned, people who are exposed get radiation or horrific skin burns. It takes years upon years for humankind to adjust, until mainstream science discovers a way to get rid of the problem. Many lives were lost in the process, many disfigured, and bouts of famine and panic ensued. What AlQaeda didn’t realize is that by assaulting the entire world’s population, it caused the people, who care to not to die for holy causes, the ability to come together and adapt to maintain life. Roofs were changed in material, different textiles, hats, clothes were adapted to repel the radiation. Sensitive groups had to remain in at all times during this ‘passover’, and hydroponics were the best way to keep feeding our population. To the weather person on the news, it became commonplace to report that the atomic jet stream is here again for it’s (how ever many times a year it came around) bi annual visit, and it would be indicated on the satellite map showing red streaks in the jet stream.  

I haven’t considered characters, dialogue, how it ends, or any of those important details. Just the concept. The thing with sci-fi and suspense movies/books is that, to act as filler, there always has to be some interpersonal drama or issue with the main character that is aside from the actual main point in the movie. I’d like to leave huge back story lines out of this and just use a series of random people as characters and describe the emotions and natural human nature that occurs when problems of this magnitude occur. If you want to write the book/screenplay, let me know. I’m too busy. But don’t steal my ideas. After all, this was a dream I had! I’ll work with you on it.

Hope

Hope is a funny thing

Even though I am not laughing

Hope is the food that dangles before the animal

But even when the food is finally devoured

Hunger soon returns

And when all hope is achieved

What is left to anticipate? We are constantly hoping for something

When we have everything wished for

What purpose is there in existing?