originally hers

I was recently messing about with my new gmail account, an attempt to micro conglomerate POP servers, when I came across a long lost blog.  Musings and misunderstandings.  Clearly there were some issues at hand when I wrote the two meager postings…sometimes, I scare myself a little.

a girl

Sometimes all a girl needs is a little sleep. What is considered a little sleep is sometimes dangerous. What is considered dangerous is sometimes a girl. This girl, she doesn’t live here anymore. Sometimes happened to her. Some times. Those times when your guts have hit the floor and you vomit your feet through your nose. Some of those times. Some times when you have to disengage. Times are just a story. A story we tell ourselves to cause. To be cause. Just because. An evolution of theory. A manipulation of our senses. Danger! This girl – all she needs is a little sleep.

cat or mouse

In her sleep she caught a mouse. Between her teeth. She clenched. She doesn’t want to play cat and mouse, it’s the blood. Fear and blood. She should rip that mouses head off and hammer it into the wood panels. But instead she coddles the pulsing mouse. It’s her baby. Fat tears fall from her eyes. She can feel herself heaving in her bed. What she hears is a small voice squeaking down the hall. Like Poe’s beating heart it drives her mad. Paralyzed with sleep her dream self stares at her. Blood pours down her cheeks and soaks her gown. Squeak squeak. Squeak squeak. The headless mouse cries for home.

The rain again. Shots of light aimed at my face, licking the air I breathe. The hair in my nose curls from the ozone so defiantly close. That light lashes out again, barely grazing my cheek. a scar.

the thunder comes, holding my head to the ground. punishment. the rain my tears, humming against the building surrounding me. Lightning teases, fancy in the sky as that thunder puts his knee to my cheek. The hair from my head flows out, reaching for the soil so close by. I can feel the roses, bowing to touch my head. Thunder rages, rain … melting me more into the hard ground. A careless wind blows the drops across my face, moving the storm further on. Thunder releases his stranglehold but kicks my feet as he leaves. laying in my puddle the rain is all that is left. Androgynous. cleansing what torment just came over that storm. the timbre on the metal, the resonance of the drops falling so near my face. My trance. A curious mind to follow the storm away, west.

yellow daisy mantle love

I can’t say this day has been particularly great but it hasn’t been horrible either.  Most of the time I tried to write but all this negativity came out.  Complaining about this or bitching about that.  Not my usual style.  Work wasn’t flowing, the weather is beautiful and rainy and moody.  Perhaps that is all it takes to get me too inside my head.  Perhaps I need to disengage for a while.  Hard to say really because so often there is a pull for connection concocted with adversity. So what came out of that conundrum was watching CocoRosie on YouTube.  What I stumbled upon was this lovely documentary directed by David Kleijwegt called The Eternal Children.  This film highlights the reality of this generations hippie movement.  But in a light not much different from that of the 60’s. You see people who love freely, without judgment or expectation.  feel free energy, souls who absorb innocence and create a vibration that envelops you.  They sustain life and love at a rudimentary and childlike level.  Lovely and divination to what constitutes in ‘normal’ peoples eyes as pathetic and lowly.  I myself have been deemed a hippiemama more than once in my day but I don’t think it is entirely true.  Too many pieces of me have fractured into trying to be a piece of everything.  Is that fractured or is it diverse?  Deeply I would like to be a part of some kind of community but whether that be something much larger than myself or something micro, that I create has yet to be determined.

At times I miss that person, that pre-sexuality innocence that was full of life.  That protective barrier we had – our safety.  Sierra explains toward the end of the film that her artistic character is so child-like because it hides or takes away the despair of adulthood and responsibility.

There are yellow daisies on my mantle.

please enjoy this next piece called El Camino Real by William Basinski – he describes his music as “amniotic”.  He is right – it takes me away into a little bubble that floats high in my room, watching as words tumble by…

starfish

she sits in the rain waiting for something sitting in the middle of the sidewalk her head lowered she can’t distinguish the tears from the rain drops in her palpable lap sadness consumes her world already fell away eyes capture passing shoes as they flick tiny showers and her mind chants Aadays Tisai Aadays Aad Aneel Anaad Anaahat Jug Jug Ayko Vays as the saddened eyes fill up within her soul body lies on the wet concrete now that small wet hand hovers above the shallow puddle presented to her eyes close as she rolls her face into the puddle quietly chanting

she wears a raincoat

pppprose

I never know if I want to walk out the door. It opens and closes
as I stare at it. Same with the window. Sometimes I stop and feel
the cold breeze splash my face. It leaves me, taking away that
breath I was saving for something else. Something less important.
I turn my back to walk down the stairs, my tongue finding a tear
drop on my lips. The air took my fear and left me open. Open to
my ego. Open to my shame. I close my eyes again and see darkness.
See peace. See balance.