Sunday, July 26, 2015

Visit to self. It has been too long. Only you can answer why. Maybe it is the voices.

The morning was full of rain. My mental response was positive, almost as if I had been liberated. A bouncy buzz, "It's a new day, a new dawn" hovered almost audibly above my brow. Yes, I was definitely still tired but awkwardly energized. I absolutely knew I wanted to ride this feeling into a new place and leave a knotted mess of pulleys and chains behind. Naming them would contaminate the mood. I focused again on the moment.

Already showered, in simple attire and a few chores done: the backyard cats welcomed my late arrival, the newspapers yesterday's wet and today's bagged were gathered up in the driveway. No dog walking as the rain was starting up again.

It is Sunday Morning. I prepare to watch the same with tea. My voices ask "Will you pick up the right clicker, will you enter the right code?" Then the statement voice: Living as you is a roll of dice in all things. 

I push remote control buttons intending to enter 1-0-0-3. I land on 1-0-3. I stay. OWN is the channel bug. Oprah is speaking to Jean Houston. My frazzled brain tries to make connections. Words that have been in my ethos surface before me in competition with an annoying large fly: Heroes Journey, Joseph Campbell, "Finding Your Bliss" 

My shallows, that in charge part of me that puts boxes around all things, classifies incoming content as "new age". My gut says "listen". My brains says "listen with a pencil". Another disconnected voice in my head begins with the self questioning. "Are you with this? Where do you stand?" 

Then statements: You owned the books? Did you read them? You did watch the television series. It was like Cosmos, Connections and once the smartest man in TV Steven Allen's brilliant show "Meeting of the Minds". A PBS quick fix, each a vain attempt to engage with a world larger than the one you inhabited. Late seventies, early eighties and you land on the timeline: Campbell Mythology surfaced in the late eighties. You were a mom then. You knew you had dragons and a priest. You also had large secrets. 

The fly is now dead as is most of your memory.

You fill a pad illogically. Incomplete statements like "Passion4Possible", 'the lure of common', 'midwife of souls', 'provocateur of possible' each barely legible catalog your grasp of now for later. Insightful. Clever. Curious. No time to dissect merely transcribe.

You remember you too admire Eleanor Roosevelt. It is a feeling, not a knowing. They (Jean and Oprah) quote Eleanor. It is familiar. "Women are like teabags, put them in hot water and they just gets stronger." She will be quoted again "The future belongs to those who believe in their dream's".  She would be a great conversation but you know you could never hold up your end.

Jean Houston tells the story of being six and praying in a closet; after asking nuns "Did Ezekiel see the wheel, when he was drunk?" You feel dumb not knowing of this wheel. A shallow voice says:prophecy but not with the knowing of google, a scholar or even a good catholic.

She describes leaving the closet and feeling a sense of awareness; not bliss. Oprah asked if this new awareness remains throughout her life? I lose track of the conversation, lost in my own recurring memory that surfaces in response to child-god-calling connections. I am now in a large Catholic Church. My son age five walks through masses of people in dark heavily wooden pews to the alter. He is radiant. He is already a master the microphone, He takes it to his lips and says "I commit myself to priestly knowing". I see this scene often. Maybe it is out of guilt. His voice is so calm and precise and clear for a person of five. Maybe it his the phrase.  Not the priesthood; not the ways of priest but to knowing. Then I recoil. I never want to stay in that amplified memory too long. I shake it off. The dragons were already on his shoulders. Am I guilty? I wanted then to believe it was a blissful calling what do I want now. A good story, a fairy tale  ending a son set free from those particular dragons and any others gathered in his journey.

A poem title comes to me "calling, heed it!" and I try to catch up with the conversation and its current meaning for me. The next scribbled note is '2nd Genesis, there is more to me than that'. The context is women of a certain age, which includes me, have an expanded inner capacity for radical empathy. Do I believe this? Do I know it? There is no longer an emphasis on how one is seen but rather a focus on service. At this point the voices in my head are confused and disagreeing with each other, questioning the authenticity of both of these women each with means and public personas. I wonder are selfies by grandmas different than selfies of others, I think not.

There is a book to be sold, or read, The wizard of us? I am captivated by the question "What is your tornado?" The metaphorical allegory of the dis-empowered characters and red shoes again seems familiar. But I've lost focus and have not kept up with the television personalities conversation. 

I make another note for a poem title "Either/Or". My A-D-D brain has me thinking about a recent family photo of my niece and her new son. It is captioned "Until you have a child you don't know all the places in your heart". It is all connected. I regroup and wonder if those parts of the heart get the reallocated when your child is grown or if they merely mature to be more embracing of others in the world?

I'm now writing around the edges of the notepad instead of going to the second sheet of paper. I have no idea why I do that. Maybe some latent fear of using too much paper.

The next note on the edge of the paper is "Think Quotes: collect moments one by one." I follow it with a quote which was the cornerstone of my son's essay to a college in California that did not accept him: Gandhi's "Be the change you wish to see in the world".  I have no quote of my own. Irony. My childhood dream was to become quotable, to someday have a quote of mine in Reader's Digest or fortune cookies or chocolate wrappers or tea bags - all places of ordinary inspiration.

I'm not familiar with this channel 1-0-3. I don't know if "THINK" is some sort of a public service or arts project similar to "Before I die". There are people writing quotes on large yellow and blue post-it note cards and putting them on a very large wall. The wall spells out in robin's egg blue "think". The video captures what seems to be random ordinary people are telling stories about why they picked their quotes. All the quotes were good and reasons for picking them even better. Right now I could not repeat one quote that I heard from this particular experience merely that it seemed really cool and authentic and that it was 'experiential' art.

During the TV ad, I clicked to the originally intended cable TV station: 1-0-0-3. I hear a story concluding. The topic is 'passionate kissing'. The the take-a-way is 'passionate kissing' burns 2 calories. Eating a Hersey Kiss adds 22.2 calories. Reading the quote leaves as much to the understanding of kissing as this video story.

More ads. More clicks. One mistakenly on my smartphone. 

My attention is drawn back to the Super Soul Sunday show. I hear both women claim to pray daily. Oprah's prayer is simple: use me.  They seem consumed with changing the universe, my universe is hyper-local. I can not remember when I last looked up to the stars but I do make sure NASA stories are redistributed as educational TV. What does that say about me, I wonder with a loud voice in my head?

My smartphone beeps me to its attention. The seq-way is to mass killings and media. My voices declare: More to watch, read see and try to remember. David Harris-Gershon and a Newswipe by Charlie Brooker. The next note attempts to quote the commentator describing media's mishandling of crimes committed by those seeking fame: do not use images so pix-elated that it looks like reports from a Lego convention. Echoes. Yes. I agree. The beast must be fed. Why?  Media does enable terror and commercialism. The right thing is elusive as we write today's history. My bliss is now in an overcrowded closet. Opening the door will likely suffocate me. I can not answer simple questions: Your favorite quote, movie, book is.  I can not remember but somewhere inside is a voice and a note that fails to follow the lines.

As I get on with my day: my shallows posit a question "Will you follow-up on either of these things? your personal spirituality journey or the role of media and the saturation of insanity in today's culture. 

This blog post is far from the poem that my morning wanted. 

I feel good about 'a better knowing' of 75 year old Jean Houston. The mystical question causing a news burst @1996 simply being "Who would you love to have a conversation with? And Hillary's logical answer: Eleanor Roosevelt hearkens back to Steve Allen. What I have come to understand is that Ms. Houston is about transformation not mysticism: the closest she is to a GURU is the embodiment of this caricatured phrase is her approach to life: Gee, yoU aRyoU!  

In conclusion it was an informed if not fruitful day and in 3 minutes it will be tomorrow.





Friday, April 17, 2015

Prompts: Poetry tells us what cannot be said

lost
more poems
than penned
near-claim
absent oneself
a poet.
for what of
if undocumented
be
effort-
less with words
PROMPTS
let them open
me,my self
If for no other
reason than
to be
~ adele


Friday, April 10, 2015

Trust & lying connection ...

Some days invoke Charlie (Papa):  
He drew very black & white lines which ultimately cost him relationships. Trust & lying were intricately entwined in his philosophy on life. Some rules he put before relationships. 

I am grateful knowing that when he died he trusted me. 

He had thought I broke his trust when we moved him from Florida to CT. He was certain that I had lied to him about some aspect of cleaning his place because he could not find a small bag of valuables after he was relocated. 
More than 5 years later he found that bag. It was a few days before he died. It included medical grade gold that was once his tooth filling. He became eager to turn these missing valuables into cash. I prioritized getting it done with him. The tooth gold yielded $70. 

I asked what he wanted to do with this windfall and he said "I want you to have it, to use it for you". Here is where my recall fails me. I probably said in a snarky tone "Sure Charlie, I will do something special, got any suggestions." I can recall driving thru town toward home but can not remember doing something special with the $70. 

Maybe it is more important that I remember what he said next "I am sorry that I thought you lied to me about carefully cleaning out the trailer, it was happening so fast." I do remember my two part response to that: Fast, that was Curt's doing. I was careful as I could be and I learned not to lie to you a very long time ago, Dad because I never wanted to lose you. I am so much like you that is impossible to do now, right." 

And he snarkily replied, 'sometime you are right.' We both smiled with the fullness of love.

Sunday, April 5, 2015

88 ~



Maybe a stretch, horizon, or illusion
My head no longer calculates without aid, the years implied, 27 btw, at this gestational arc of an idea

When she said it, I too wanted to own it. Before 
that moment 
I was busily hapless or hopelessly busy, yet inert.

This suddenly seemed infinitely better.
Ah, to what end the will.