Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Gratitude and Collage and a Poe=m

Who Are You, Who Are You, Strange Human, Who?

A list of my day's gratitudes.
But it's not gonna happen right now.
Right now my brother is singing, "blogsicle, blogsicle, i want write my blog," so he's taking all the light and airy and spiritual element out of all this. Now he's talking about the new movie "Blades of Glory" with the strangely brilliant Will Ferrel and everyone's favorite weirdo loser Ben Stiller. "Doin Situps." "I'm gonna get you drunk, get you drunk with my lady hump." What? And now he's talking to Tala the dog in the kitchen while he makes pasta at midnight.
So. We'll have to save this deep, meaningful list for another time, another place.

A Picture from My Collage Journal

Now An Old Poem About My Mother
I wrote this for her in my signed copy of Connie May Fowler's Before Women Had Wings, riding in the car from Tallahassee to Jacksonville, watching the trees and sky go by, 10 years ago or more. I was still in the college then, so definitely more. Without, as they say, further adieu, here 'tis.

Mama My Bones

Mama My Bones
they are spun from yours

And grown.

Mama these eyes of mine,
they are yours, yours,
And I see what you have seen.
know the same stories, I know
The same rolling hills--

The words and the feel,
They shed from my skin
Like the lives of snakes—

This all ours to share,
All the years, all my years—
They are yours, too.

And I kneel to the earth
for the love of this.

Mama who lies
That I am prettier than she was,

Mama whose face
stopped a racing
dead in its Souherthern tracks.

We are falling oh
square and light
into the east ocean.

What am I now if not
a child anymore,

Where have I been
if not circling
One single, lovely space
Under the fluttering shelter
Of those bird-like wings
That have sprung
From your shoulders,
sudden as birth?

--April 1996

So, some attempts at sacred gratitude, some songs about humps, a picture of one of my collages, and an old poem about my mama.

Saturday, March 10, 2007


February Winter. Time to eat fat and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat, a black fur sausage with yellow Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries to get onto my head. It's his way of telling whether or not I'm dead. If I'm not, he wants to be scratched; if I am He'll think of something. He settles on my chest, breathing his breath of burped-up meat and musty sofas, purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat, not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door, declaring war. It's all about sex and territory, which are what will finish us off in the long run. Some cat owners around here should snip a few testicles. If we wise hominids were sensible, we'd do that too, or eat our young, like sharks. But it's love that does us in. Over and over Again, He shoots, he scores! and famine crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits thirty below, and the pollution pours out of our chimneys to keep us warm. February, month of despair, with a skewered heart in the centre. I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries with a splash of vinegar. Cat, enough of your greedy whining and your small pink bumhole. Off my face! You're the life principle, more or less, so get going on a little optimism around here. Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring. (Margaret Atwood).

And so it is, almost. Spring. Kittehs. Sun. O that magic breeze like cotton and childhood and unnameable hope. And, a year almost, since my new living began.

It's been a little while since I've been on here. Because logins and passwords still trip me up a bit. Like Matt Kane says, "I just make the internet. I don't know how to use it."

I've finally woken up. A couple of diet cokes and some camel no. 9s and I am ready to roll! Waiting for a friend to meet me for a late breakfast, and then to my Grandma's to watch her till my Mama gets home. Not too many thoughts right now, other than the promise of spring, and a word to loved ones that I'm still alive, even though I'm woefully out of touch. And hungry. And love kittehs. The end.


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