dreams coming true

dreams come true and wishes come true and words ring out across minds of minefields, minefields of minds and meaning gets made and stories get told and nothing can untell them. nothing can untell the stories and nothing can undream the dreams and even in this lifetime sometimes the cost benefit analysis of dreaming and seeking spells and casting nets and longing toward whatever comes of whatever comes starts the spinning of the world's words and these are different than the ones never uttered in the mind of their creator. i can dream things and wish things, cast spells and uncover things covered up, expose them to the bright light of what will surely misunderstand them and then what? what about stories spun in such a way that people travel to the space and place in the world where the stories occurred and something random happens to them in that place that was nothing but heaven in the story? something that catches them in a kind of hell they might never have accessed except through the words, the energy, the morphic tale of place? i am caught, forever? in the persephone myth diving deeper toward the truth of my greece, my crete, and knowing that beyond this god damn pomegranate, there is some kind of africa central to the webbing out of dreams remembered. i know from lucy that my oldest human ancestor is from africa--that's the science, and those are the stories, and the ones i've chosen to believe into being with all my well being and now the pomegranate myth continues its echoes through changes reverberating throughout my web of life. dreams come true. even nightmares. cycles live their cyclones. i whirl around in the myth and the story, the reading of other people's books, the writing of my own, the coffee, the coffee, the coffee required to stay up all night and find that vortex? that current? that offers up the words that come when they do from wherever they live before they arrive in the moments of typing. priming the pump of pumping the water up from the underground river of central to life imagery always flowing, flowing, flowing, flowing, flowing in the flow of the river that can't be pushed and the styx that is more than a band and the rush of neal pert drums and the dream of music and following a beat and breaking up an energy of breaking up. how do we stop breaking up? i am called to a path of post post modern deconstructive deconstruction. how to get back to the rubble of what is under the ground? i think about these steps taken in these new boots on sidewalks covered in other people's wanderings. i make my relationships with the things of light post and corner, found sticks and string. i continue making the dream catchers from the circles that fall off in my neighborhood, the "trash" that offers itself as artifact and art making material that falls directly in my path. i will soon make a craig's list offering of thing, thing, thing, thing, thing. we are going to empty the big house now. i am not going to have that lament in the on-going of on-goingness. what to do with all we've accumulated? where does it go? when does it get there? how can the elgin marbles get out of the british museum and back to greece? how can the sacred artifacts of all peoples get returned to the places that know how to care and feed them? this morning, for breakfast, i looked at images of french armor and sacred swords. i thought of metal foundries and artifacts made for the purposes of purposefulness. i considered all that can be considered about what can no longer be considered as useful. how to break the glass that keeps things that are supposed to be together apart? how to move the dream in the direction of the truest truth--the one of love that feels like love--the one that allows for rest in the majesty of a manifestation. rest. rest, rest, rest, rest, rest, rest, rest.
how to make dreams come true without time for dreaming????
i consider the papers left to write.
the miles and miles of papers left to write
in a world that's losing its forests
and an ocean filling up with old computer parts....

the personal is political.
dreams come true.
all of them.
dejavu.

letting go, leaving the past behind, moving on

things are shifting, crossing, moving, going from form to formless, ebbing and flowing. i can't sleep for the news i knew was coming and held on to the saddness, the shock, the desire to be helpful, the generous offers full of strings, strings, strings, strings, strings and expectations. i watch the rituals of movies and trade images for dreams and then read long strings of words that rile me up and spin me round. i am learning from other people's knowing. i am trying on ideas and traditions, gods and witches, spirits and deep sadness and disembodied anger. i notice the place in the movie i couldn't help but watch about the couple that stays together with their children and gives up and wins and gives up and wins and gives up and wins and gives up and wins their way back to the moment when the moment arrives and things come to their natural conclusions in all the ways they do. i am here, in this rolling chair, kissing the cat, taking out the trash, fluffing the pillows, doing the dishes, wiping down the counters. oh, for caressing counter tops and other surfaces. this dream is edging its way back toward a kind of grey reality of in and out, WAKE UP! WAKE UP! the alarm has been ringing for ages and i am here and alive and so many are shouting from the crowd that has left my part of the stands shouting their version of WAKE UP! and i am here, in the crossroads of now, typing words, petting someone else's kitten, longing towards my phone charger which i have left somewhere--plugged in at the poet tree house? and i am here, in this now, without the part of the grid that plugs it in and makes it possible for me to be reached by what reaches for me. what reaches for me? what do i reach for? i am taking back my night. i am giving up the television borrowed for this fix of nothing to do but study and sleep, eat and care for a cat that kisses me and cleans herself. i am happy to have been here. i am happy to have been here in this window of time looking out at what grows in the places no one goes but cats. the great bast of this part of the journey makes for the dreams that come true in the life that comes more fully into view as it shapes the way of the waves. particle and wave. particle and wave. what will come of this chapter when i read it later? write it another time? live into all it allows for its hairpin bend in the bumpy road? this life is what? now? white board, do over, try again, be and believe, show up, live into laughter, make what comes of what comes, begin again at your beginnings, wake up, show up and follow the flow of the fun? i am learning the fun is in the heart and soul and center of what allows itself to bubble up in the turning of the tsunami's tide. this is what we were born for...this moment in this here on this side of this now. i am here. now. i am here in this chair, after fits and starts of sleep, moving through the somehow of this moment. i am here, hearing all the things there are to hear in the sound of the silence and the flow of the water that never stops pumping its pummeling sounds of silence. something is growing in the flow of what comes bubbling up from the ground of this moment. i am here in this moment, looking closely at the journey. i am here in this moment, looking closely at my part of this part of the path. i am here in this moment wondering how and why? i am talking out loud to myself, letting my fingers move across the keyboard, noting the sounds that sing themselves like the ones i remember from the waterfall of what will be will be no matter the curses that fling themselves from story to story in their precise moment of unfolding time. i am here now. i am here now. i am breathing. i am deepening the breath. i am alive. i am looking at this sweet kitten looking out at the ocean of unknown that lives outside her window. i am here in this now. i am here in this moment of time. i am here.

religious observances, sacred ceremony, kittens and phone calls

easter, san francisco, trickster workshop in the buddhist tradition, "fuck that shit" yelled loudly as if it were a sacred chant in a room full of white people, future therapists, same room that held the slavery workshop, brave, bold human beings asking from the front of the long tall room for the people in it to be able to express what they will one day ask their clients to divulge. sacred relationship. sacred relationship. sacred dyad. sacred trust. on easter, i meet a man living in the street who asks me for money and i give him a dollar. then he tells me his name. then he asks me where i'm going and i tell him. then we talk awhile and i tell him i see the people passing out sandwiches coming his way. i consider what it is to be homeless. how many years ago now? was it? the straw that broke my camel back, when we stepped over some homeless people to eat a fancy dinner at a fancy hotel, here at this same city, comped for us because of some room assignment debacle? i am there in that moment as i stand here in this one. i am everywhere at once. i am here in this body, in this time, with this kitten arching her body forward to kiss me while i type and swaying her sweet tail in the screen and arching her head down to the typing hands, asking me to make better use of them by petting her beautiful head and i am there in that moment, stepping over the man in the doorway with my children, there in the moment of the meeting of the man on easter morning, there in the moment of receiving the e-mail messages of easter greetings from my mother, there in the phone call with my friend telling the story of his cats and kittens, there, in the sacred ceremony of women gathered in a circle, singing forth the stories from their books written by sisters on the path, calling in the energy of what is needed for the transition to wherever we're going from wherever we've been, calling in the dance of the sacred, the reading out of names around the statue of the women of oakland, the exuberance of running around the circle planted there for ceremony, the gloriousness of spiralling up the hill, calling the quarters, singing the songs of our moment in time and dancing back, asking for what we need in this moment, arriving to web the magic into the installation installing itself and the long journey back home to this kitten, looking and arching, kissing and laughing, playing and inviting back the play of the plays of the moments now piecing themselves together. i am back, here, in the moment of words and writing, typing, being, priming the pump by expressing, letting the "fuck that shit" out when it is a sacred chant of appropriate in the moment based on what rises up on the inside and spills out in the bright light of here and now, there and then, and honoring, that when that space is not my space, that i can live in the deep enjoyment of kitten love for as long as this kitten is mine to love. the sweet meow mix of this moment--singing its song into this hour of now. i love love more than i love bad memories and as much as i love sacred ceremony. i am teaching this kitten child to type. she lays close to the keyboard and arches forth to kiss. kitten kisses might be my most favorite kisses in the world--in my world--in this moment here and now.

relationship, spirit, cats, books and phd pursuits

i'm going in, again, still, in the spiral of spiraling in. i watch the cat curl around herself--the tail, the enso of the circle of the spirit of her wholeness--the totality of her being one sweet circle of a possibility and joy. i am tired. i notice the tiredness. is it good to write about the tiredness? amazing work week, accomplishments, achievements that will culminate in the sweet reward of a paycheck--and not a very big one--but a habit forming of showing up, learning systems, answering, smiling, being in a place, stationery, regularly, arriving and departing in a totality of what? for what? i learn. i keep learning. i keep learning in circles of spirals that, like the edge of the binder, spiral both up and down. classes are circles. books are circles. chairs in a circle are circular. windows both open and close. possibilities ebb and flow. breathing, in grief filled lungs, is what? where does the melancholy go when it's supposed to go away? i consider the conversations i've been a part of for the past few days--beginning with dr. joy degruy's event on thursday night, where i took money and checked names off lists and smiled and put up tables and easels and took them down and felt happy to have a role that allowed me to be in the space, again, of fascinating architecture and sacred purpose, while still using the pulpit to say things that have not been said from them before. my college boyfriend's mother invited me to church with her from time to time--all the time if i wanted to go--pentacostal, and she got the spirit, and it was a place of firing it up and letting it out and singing it out and being in the rich dance of what it was to be who you were filled with the spirit of what came down upon you and acting it out without acting--releasing it--like a baby throws a temper tantrum when she wants what she wants and can't get it--spirit, like babies, knows what it wants--and so.... empty, lost, head full of other people's ideas about how to breathe and live and sit up straight and wear shoes and mother children and be alive on the first divorced wedding anniversary of the burning of the dress. oh, for the burning of the dress--polyester--polly and esther--i think this is a gorgeous name for a 1970s vintage boutique. i had my mary tyler moore moment after leaving the first unitarian church on the night of the gathering. i was done with work, and i was there in the city, and i had a ticket to ride, and i chose to walk one of the last walks in the shoes i bought in january to wear to school. i chose them. i walked to the brand new ross in alameda from the poet tree house on some january night when i felt like i had $20 to buy a new pair of shoes and i arrived and looked through the racks and thought all about the children in some third world country that were paid, if they were paid, something like $.87/day to work in the factory and glue together the shoes and sew together the clothes that i felt too guilty to buy but bought anyway, too cheap to think about those things--the things like "where does the fabric come from?" and "who looms this shit together?" and "who is on the other side of these industrial stitches?" and "who died to make men free?" it's easter weekend in san francisco. tomorrow, there is the cutest jesus contest in delores park--the sacred ohlone land that was stolen from the native americans to make the missions that turned into their "schools" and "churches" teaching them to hate themselves, to hate their understanding of each other, to move them from territory to out of the way. this land taken over turned mission will now play host to a hoard of homosexuals claiming for themselves what jesus they'd do on the day he is to rise again--and i will be at work, considering the trickster in the buddhist tradtion, at the place i go to learn how to be a phd being so that i might or might not ever get to teach at the institutions of higher learning spread out across this america or europe or africa or continental shifts now causing themselves across the oceans of what will be will be. oh, for the release of this kind of blogged writing again. i am glad i am letting myself--my finger tips dance on the keyboard. there must be release for what a body holds and what a mind fills up with. there must be a letting go. there must be a pissing out. there must be a shitting, and preferably not in the pants kind, of "i don't need to house this stuff in me anymore" and then a careful deposit of the what is ready to be released in the receptacle designed to hold it. i put the shoes in the receptacle yesterday. i put the shoes where they go--in the green metal trash bin on some hill above the place where i bought the new shoes--just learning to walk in them--just learning to pull up the zipper and tie the string--just learning to feel how the feet are held just so-firmly and with structure and support--with a heel, still, a little higher than if it were a pair of boots for a man, with a purplish tint to the leather and stitching just so--a cow's skin? i think? i wear a cow's skin, treated and painted and sewn and slightly larger than my foot with strings that string up, laces that line across the face of the things that climb six or more inches above my ankle. oh, the disappointment of becoming who i am.... oh, for the disappointment. my mother told me to get on welfare the same week i called to say my best friend was sick of my shit and i just wanted to hear something good from her. is it menopause? this kind of eternal, weepy sadness? is it loneliness? is it loss? is it accumulated memory? is it post traumatic slave syndrome? is it post traumatic divorce syndrome? is it post traumatic motherhood system? is it possible to build relationships? is it possible to do something beyond destroying them? is it possible to rest? to sleep for three days? to do nothing? to die, as the great jesus was allowed to do, by cruxifiction, nails in feet and hands, this is the day he's really, really dead--before he sends his spirit body back to his denied lover, magdalene, before she gathers his best friends together, before the rising again of again. this is the day after earth day. this is the hour of this awakening moment of this here and now. this is the day after belvie rooks put together this incredible circle of civil rights heroes and poets and possibility thinkers and did the work to create a moment where cotton fields could be seen and ancestor spirits could come forth and dances and circles and inside and outside and lines and boundaries and doors open and shut and whirling dervish kinds of worlds could open and close and slide and shut and life and death and death and life and living and dead and rising again and spirit and spirituality and religion and crux and church and teaching and learning and allowing and being and believing and self and up against one's self and in the company of one's self and filling up with one's self and emptying out of one's self can spill out onto the floors and down the walkways of whatever this experience in time and place is and isn't in the here and now of this one day. i write to let the writing write itself. i do not own what i say here in these words released. i trust that out of me, they are free to do their thing. i am sorry the language i use is the one english of my american upbringing that has nothing but white privilege splattered in the bloody colors of every other nation of the world to make its black ink with. ink without inking. virtual words. release in all forms. whirling dervishes. post apocalyptic yessssssssssssssss ringing in the totemic passions and pathways of what does and doesn't work. oh, for the joy of joylessness. it is a deep breath in and out. it is taking a shit on the easter saturday of this song. it is a cat, precious, new, baby, lazing in the sunshine from the top of her condo in this palace of home filled with old love and new longings. i am writing again, but what? and why? this narrative thing of my things--spoken powerfully, oppressively, from the fear of fearlessness. this is the way of the ways. i turn back to the pages of the women's lives and their multi-cultural perspectives. i have this one more week's reflection paper to write, a final presentation and three term papers to complete. i am in. i am deep in and needing some release. structure is structural. new boots, i'm wearing now.

skyping paris from earthquake country

3.7 updgraded and downgraded in the same timeframe as ru paul's drag queens, i watch from the comfortable love seat recliners, cuddle with the kitten, consider what it is to be the cat sitter on this side of an anniversary trip to paris. 3 more days, and i'd have been 17 years married--but we stopped in the troubled teens being anything more than obstacles on each others' paths to happiness. when will i stop living in the death of this dead thing? i consider this country of earthquakes and seven hills, learn to ride the j, move up and down the streets i've walked with someone else's clipper pass and notice how fast i like to close the door on the rest of the world now that i am safe inside a space warm with unconditional kinds of aged in the barrel love that manifests in goulash of all levels of spice. i watch mistress of spices, the black hut classes i've been gifted with now remaking themselves as phd courses that allow for feminist creation theory to make itself up all over them. what is it to be alive in the aftermath of math? i consider the journey to the universe, the learned speakers speaking from their place behind podiums of northern california think tanks exposed. i have been swimming in one for awhile, and now, deeper under the waters of obscurity, i continue to dive to the places where the electricity runs inside the creatures that can only live in the blackest depths. diamonds. eels. long slow descents into quiet enough to hear yourself think your own thoughts countryless countries of under the world. where the oil is? i was offered the opportunity to sell the oil rights on land that had been given to a man who sat down opposite me on the bart and guessed i was from kansas. me, in my knitted plastic bags bursting with feminist theory readers, my stuffed overfull red barrel of a pleather zip without its tail pulled carefully across the straining to stay closed teeth of other people's clothes given as offering to the over privileged set of experiences that combines to congregate in my form, and what else was i carrying? a half colored germany bag brought home by my boychild from his excursion--oh, yes, and a damaged old computer bag now gaping with the overstuffedness of still more books. still more books. still more books. still. i write them, books. i write them, words. i am forever beading them together with silence, standing them up as some kind of string, moving through the world with what they do not offer as offering--my offering. what is wanted with these? another shift, another move, another moment offering its crossroads in the here and now of time, i will take to the kitchen and make coffee? or pour tea from the stained plastic standing next to its fruit punch lover on the top shelf? there is something of kansas in this place. there is something of 17. there is something of who we were when we were first deciding who we would be. his happy marriage shining from across the atlantic, i bask in the glow of what works. love feels like love. it always feels like love. underneath the words and disappointment and frustration and rising and falling barometer of weathers, the whether or not i love you part drops out of spaces that sustain themselves. love. love. love. love. love. it is the silence that sews together the spaces behind, under, between all the words. kisses are like punctuation. they are the both cheeks kinds of symbolic affection offered by custom and spread out over time. i think of the ru paul straight boys--the metro boy who fell in love with himself as a girl--the kind of deep, rich, stunningly beautiful vulnerability involved in getting free enough to be real. who could withstand transformation without falling? so terribly in love? with life? this moment meets this moment meets this moment. i look up to the images of places having been traveled by my dear friend. i look up at the words carefully penned as lists. i look up at the ideas of the stories now telling themselves out loud in the object collections of the still lives here assembled. i consider what charges the air and light, the dreary surround, the drizzle of rain after earthquake on this day of opening days in this now. i consider the park on the corner, the dream of this day now waking up in itself. i go to find the warrior princess and let this moment's awareness fall to my feet. all these stories of shoes unfolding in pictures shared through mobile uploads. projects of everyday reality. projects of the everyday, the temporal reality tested over time, the truth of what gets made up between the words and spaces. i consider the virtual worlds of what is not alive and rooted and growing in the ground. i consider the bedoin romance of a traveling life. i consider the comforts of what feels like home. i consider that it is possible to always take it with you.... the real ones, where you are always safe and deeply loved, these don't hold you in them forever--but there is something in them you can plant, can root inside the heart, can believe and breathe into as true, can take form in the formlessness of time, and bend and break open and continue to co-create more spaciously as roots expand and grow, push their way out of things that attempt to contain them--trees grow, forever, in the connection to water and each other. i feel the roots sprout out of my feet--moving wide in circles of reaching. i consider what it is to have them spread under the ground ahead of me--making the path on which i can wear down the heels of my plastic shoes.

oh, for the who knows where this is goingness of word journeys...
i lay down the track. i put in the miles.

oh god of new beginnings, hear my prayer

i show up again at this page. i am writing, a lot, reading, a lot, in this PhD pursuit of one more lifetime achievement award whose journey offers the twists and turns of unimagined detours. i have been avoiding my confessional, choosing instead to try and channel my angst in more academic directions, but they are separate forms of writing. they are different kinds of magic. they are prayers to different gods, best kept separate. but, in the pursuit of unifying theories of oneness consciousness and recognition for the myriad ways that things begin to make and remake themselves, i continue to weave my webs, quite literally, and need a place now for all these words. this kind of freedom writing, that often gets my actual life intertwined with my pursuits webs into one big ball of everything. i am an all or nothing kind of girl. i am on the edge of 45 still calling myself some kind of girl. girl. girl. girl. girl pursuits of marriage and children, lipstick and lesbians, longing and lunch, friendship and menopause...what are all these? i begin to untangle the hairball of what has been coughed up by someone else's cats. i consider the journey of longing and loneliness lined up on library shelves and the hard facts required in managing time.
busy is the fundamental of business.
it is, according to eastern ways of being i have been trying in my way to learn, by way of the tao and other morphic field resonances reverberating in my fountain of knowledge, essentially this:
do without doing and everything gets done.
i continue on this path toward discernment.
worthy path, discernment.
i pull my runes.
i begin, again, at my beginning.
i keep talking out loud in words on virtual screens.
i am talking to myself by letting the words that come rise up from the center of my being, up from the ground my feet firmly plant on,
up from their travel through the soles of my feet,
up through the legs, bending through the knees,
up toward my sacrum,
up into my tan tien,
up into my heart,
out, filling every part of my chest,
up, into my lungs,
up, into my throat,
up, into my swirling brain,
around, and around,
and down, past my mouth
that forms the words
tastes each one before it travels back
down my throat
down, into my heart
that pumps them out into my arms
down into my fingers
tips of which put themselves here
press to these keys
and form what comes
to this virtual page

i let them out

this is my job

i give it to myself

i do without doing
anything
but show up
and let what comes
out

the fountain continues
the phone rings
the prayer is answered
communication
re-establishes itself
i am here
inside myself

and life
continues