Circular Spirals of Soggy Contemplative Contemplation

I'm in a contemplative sort of mood. It might be the rain. We haven't really seen rain in a while. Suddenly the sky opened. I think Jimmy Hoffa's body floated down my street yesterday. This is a reminder of what is yet to come. Not Jimmy Hoffa, the rain. Soon. Very soon.

So now the wheels are turning. And getting a bit rusty.

Maybe I should contemplate more. Maybe I should contemplate less. Maybe I should set my alarm clock. I am reminded of a Zen koan that is something to the effect of, "if you've eaten your rice, then wash your bowl." The idea is that we should live in the present moment. Right here. No here. This moment. This one. Now. This little tiny moment. Oops, no this one. Even more specifically, it could be said that we should let go of all of the other moments that we simultaneously live and re-live in our mind.

We need to let go of living and re-living and just live. This moment. Right here. Nope, this one. Right now. This little teeny tiny moment. This delicious little piece of a moment. Here. Now.

I don't think that we -- and of course I am using the collective we -- are very good at living in the present moment. It's damn hard. The moment keeps shifting. Changing. Moving. Changing again. We have expectations and fears and creepy crawly bump in the night ideology. However I do believe we -- here we go again -- are very good at living in every single solitary other moment, including moments that do not now, never have, and never will exist. These non-existent moments tease us. Tantalize us. Draw us into their non-existent existence. Like a spiral. And we like it. Hate it. Simultaneously. And there is something beautiful about the realization of the liking and the hating and the contradiction. The journey. No, I'm not talking about the band or Steve Perry. That would be a capital J, but I'm not sure they deserve it.

And I must confess, I love using the proverbial we. The collective we. I won't put we in quotes. It would seem too pretentious. I love this collective we because it depersonalizes whatever I happen to be saying in any given moment. It is philosophical rather than actual. I can detach from the words. The moment. I can hide behind the tangent. Maybe within the tangent. It is mathematical. Sinusoidal. I am outside of the words. The moment. I remain anonymous.

And maybe this is why I write. And maybe this is where I want to remain. But as I have said, I am a contradiction. Long ago a friend of mine once told me that he had spent years trying to get to know me. He spent years trying to get inside some space that he felt was closed. I laughed and told him I was an entry way without a door, but rather consisting of an open space for one to easily walk through, unobstructed. Okay, I know I've never been good at metaphor. If you have a better one, I'm open to hearing it. But I digress. He told me the walls were stone and the guard at the opening was fierce. I guess he wasn't very good at metaphor either. And I disagreed. Even now, I disagree. In actuality, I feel there is often far too much on the page. But that may be because I am rather verbose. Hey, you over there, I heard that!

And what I find most interesting at this moment is the fact that I am relaying this tale on this page. I spread the words out onto the universe like Veganise on whole wheat bread from Great Harvest bakery. Damn they have fine bread. I am rambling like rain water dragging dirt and leaves and the occasional piece of polished glass down uneven alley streets. Completely aware of the fact that I have no point. But having a point, I believe, is completely overrated.

Although I am always curious to hear your point. Well, not you over there, but the rest of you, most definitely.

Revolutionary Ramblings on Restless Rhythm

"If I lose the light of the sun, I will write by candlelight, moonlight, no light. If I lose paper and ink, I will write in blood on forgotten walls. I will write always. I will capture nights all over the world and bring them to you." Henry Rollins


Words. Syllables strung together forming melody like whispers. I am intrigued, entranced, perhaps even a bit obsessed. The written word. The spoken word. Rhythm. Rhythm. Rhythm. I am verbose. It has always been this way. However the sound of words strategically placed. Listening. Listening. Obsession. The sound of words placed forward and backward and sideways gleaning meaning, or not. Yes, I may very well require a twelve step program.

And in this beautiful world of word, language, rhythm, sound, I find a pretense that creates a distortion. An inaccessibility that divides us. I want to unite us through words, through language, melody, rhythm. I write specifically about this with respect to poetry, although I could most certainly argue that that are individuals working in a variety of artistic mediums that carry the same pretense of the "highbrown/lowbrow" debate that I find preposterous and limiting. Please feel free to apply these meanderings to various forms of artist expression. I will not specifically discuss other art forms in this post, although I could. It saddens me that there is a debate about what poetry (and art, see above or have you forgotten already) is and isn't, as if we could or should define and structure language, communication, syllables in this way.

I want all words, all expression, valued and visible. We are gloriously, beautifully flawed as human beings. For one moment, let us embrace this. Value it in ourselves. Value it in others. Listen. Listen. Learn something from our stories. Different. Similar. Our imperfections shining brightly. Embrace the perfection of our imperfection. Laugh at our contradictions. Breathe in and out. For a moment, let us stop being so fucking frightened all of the time. Let us let go of "what if" and simply do, live, be present, accept the beauty in small moments.

Poetry is not meant merely for the printing of words on pages of ground up pressed and polished former trees, to be lost in dusty literary journals, but rather, we should post our words on government buildings, display phrases in bathroom stalls, plant ideas at the corner bus stop. I want to find words on parking meters, phrases on fire hydrants. Let us write our words in chalk on sidewalks, and write new words when the rain washes them away.

This can begin with you.

Bitch Slappin' Negativity

I am finding that I have been meeting a lot of negative people lately. Where do they come from anyway? I used to think it was the abundance of rain in Seattle, but we haven't had much rain as of late. It must be something else. Maybe it's me, because it is, afterall, ALL about ME isn't it?

Seriously though, what is up with the negativity? This is not a rhetorical question people. Now this is not to imply that my middle name is Pollyanna. It isn't. I am quite skilled at complaining about this or that or the other thing. I am also prone to exaggeration, but that is merely for my own amusement. It seems that everyone I have been meeting as of late is not only always complaining, but they are downright miserable "oh woe is me-ing" all over the shitdamnmotherfucking place.

I mean really, just because I don't have any other color in my wardrobe except black, doesn't mean I'm a negative person. I'm not. Quite the contrary. I'm perky. I'm fun. I'm pretty damn cool if I do say so myself. I am also empathetic, but a grrl has got to draw the line at some point. This constant negativity shit is not attractive.

The bizarre thing is that some of these miserable fucks don't really seem to have that much to be miserable about. The one person who has gone through utter hell for the past few years, who SHOULD be fucking miserable, isn't. In fact, she's pretty damn positive under the circumstances. However these other folks, geesh! At least try to fake some happiness people.

Why are people so miserable? Now you know I love you all in Seattle, but I have never met a larger group of miserable and pretentious folks. I'll save further comment about the pretentiousness of Seattle for another post, before Seattelites hunt me down and whip me with some wheatgrass or pho noodles. I'm sure you will all tell me to stop whining, bitch slap a few of these people, and get over it myself. Well before you can even type out the "b" in bitch slap, I assure you, the point has already been noted.

So you all know who you are. I am not your psychotherapist. If you wish me to be, please be advised that my fee is $85/hour, and I require a non-refundable minimum retainer. This is tough love baby.

Exhibitionist Exhibit Eschews Excitement

Today I was riding the bus. Route 18 to be exact. I was just minding my own business. When it happened. Again.

I must be a lucky person, because this is not the first time I have had the pleasure of witnessing a detailed unveiling of the male anatomy in a public place. Just in case there might be any confusion regarding the above statement, I am being sarcastic. I could go into great detail as to why I don't particularly want to view the typically covered nether regions of the male anatomy on the bus, but for the sake of brevity, which I do not normally possess an ounce of, I will focus on one, and only one reason as to why I find this...problematic.

But first, let me tell you what I witnessed.

So I'm sitting at the front of the bus. I am sitting in one of two rows of seats that face each other. As I said, I am minding my own business. A man enters the bus and takes the seat opposite mine. He is wearing a hooded sweatshirt, with the hood up covering his head and part of his face, sunglasses, and very short nylon running shorts. I take note of the glowing white legs and proceed to look out the window across from me.

I feel as if someone is staring at me, so I look up. Then, I see it.

Yes. It.

It is no longer enclosed in the aforementioned running shorts. It is now out, on the seat of the bus. So I did the only thing I could do.

I laughed. Loud. People looked in my direction.

I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't, but I found it amusing. Apparently this wasn't the reaction running short man wanted, because he stood up and moved closer to the front of the bus.

Now, let's get to the point. The reason that I laughed. While I certainly do not appreciate being flashed on the bus...isn't it bad enough I am on the bus to begin with people...but if you are going to be an exhibitionist, I feel strongly that you should, at the very least, have something worth exhibiting. Running short man did not.

Did I mention it appeared to be er, fully extended? Maybe I'm wrong about that. At least I hope I am, for his sake.

So here is my tip for the day. Don't expose yourself on the bus. This should be a given, but obviously it isn't. However, if you feel the need to get your exhibitionist fix while riding Metro, please take my words of wisdom to heart. Simply put, if you're going to take it out, be sure it's something to brag about.

The State of this Disillusioned Union

So can I just rant and ramble for a moment. Notice, although this appears to be a question, I have not added the proper question punctuation. This is not an oversight. Since this forum is under my soul control, I really don't need to ask permission to rant, do I. Again, note the punctuation. So let us begin. And of course by "us" I really mean me. However, as always, feel free to comment. I would enjoy a comment. However, be prepared for me to flip you shit if you are going to dish it out.

Where was I? Notice this is a proper question. Pardon the tangential nature of my meanderings, but I am, after all, a Gemini. Ah yes, ranting. Now given the state of the universe, the world, this country, state and city, my neighborhood and so on, and so forth, there is certainly a significant amount of material about which I could rant. For example, I could vent my anger at the disproportionate number of persons of color arrested, convicted, incarcerated and executed in this country, on a daily basis. The ways in which our government continues, as it always has, to spread misleading propaganda, creating a nation of fear and distrust, rather than attempting to rebuild communities that have become so fragmented due to said fear and distrust. The fact that there are human beings, in our cities, municipalities and townships, that are living in conditions identical to those in third world countries.

I could wax poetically and express my rage regarding any one of these matters, or any one of a multitude of other equally frustrating scenarios. And perhaps in a future post I will do just that. But this post is not about any of this. This post is not about the inequities, inequalities, brutalities, or apathies that exist in our time, or any other time for that matter.

I don't want you to have to think about these atrocities. I imagine you have had a long day. Perhaps a long week. And you're tired. You just want to put your feet up and turn on the television. You're tired of hearing about young men and women dying in places you can't pronounce, let alone attempt to spell accurately. You've heard far too much about the plight of the homeless. After all, you bought a copy of Real Change today, didn't you? It's okay that you don't have the energy to read it right now. And last week you dropped all of the change from your pocket into a cup on First and Jackson. Understandably, taking extreme care not to actually touch the cup, or the hand of the...was it a man or a woman? Rule number forty-two, don't make eye contact with the homeless.

I don't need to talk with you about these things, because after all, you are a card carrying member of the ACLU. You know all about racism, sexism, classism, homophobia. You know all about your rights and my rights, and his rights over there. You know, that guy standing at the far end of the street. You're a leftie, a liberal, progressive, a communist. You know all about this. You have read the Marx-Engels Reader. You have read James Baldwin. You have a gay friend.

If I seem angry, it's because I am angry. It's one of those days. You know, those days when people, who have expressed their sense of "getting it" say or do something, or many things that cause you to discover that they don't really "get it" at all. That they never actually "got it" in the first place. And every once in a while, I get tired. Not because I am perfect; I'm not. I am flawed and I recognize new flaws that appear daily. I am a constant work in progress, as are we all. But sometimes I get tired and I just need to walk away, because I cannot fight every single battle, and it appears that the reserves I called so long ago, got lost along the way and never made it here.

By the way, if you are one of the reservists that I have called so long ago, and you have not been captured, I may have to kick your ass, 'cause I've been waiting a long time. I am putting on my steel toed boots as I type. This of course slows my typing down considerably, but I feel I need to be prepared.

Nevertheless, my glass will remain half full. My sense of humor will see me through this challenging time in history, when it appears that the backlash is causing a severe backslide. The question now is, what exactly is in my half full glass?