Monday, September 28, 2009
I dreamed a shore
where the waves did not go out
the waves did not come in
crests frozen white
sand beneath captured in chaos
not asking to be swept up
not asking to be brought home
or brought anywhere
eternal and hidden
not having known the difference between the surface and the deep
the surface and the darkness
now dancing in the infinite tide that has ceased
pressed upon by the sheer will of the Moon
released now, in a havoc not understood
and the waves return to where they were first conceived
when I believed
that the tide would rock me gently
and keep the promise of that first rythym
Coming to me
Leaving from me
Coming to me
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Heart and arms open wide
Leaping from that mountainside
We landed, wild, in waters calm
And though it hurt, there was a balm.
For in this pool, so strange and new,
You had me and I had you.
I had the moon, you had the sun
One dream ending, one begun
For treading where the water’s deep
The love goes with us when we sleep.
And though swept up in currents strong
We were not alone – but not for long.
For rapids lead to oceans wide
And each of us can feel the tide
That pulls us to a distant shore
Far apart, we swim no more.
Back up the stream-there is no way
And so begins a sadder day.
No climbing up that mountainside
Where once we leapt, arms open wide.
Your absence shall not break my heart
For it was broken from the start
And like a breath, I took you in
Knowing I’d breathe out again.
Best to rest here on the beach
And watch beginnings – out of reach
The endings are so swift, and yet
The start is harder to forget.
For tomorrow can not take away
The feeling we had yesterday.
And now for us I’m hoping for
The courage to still leap once more
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
I see your head above the surface
in the sun’s frenzied rain
that dances on the sea
Moving toward me?
And beyond, a sailboat –like a ghost
Longing for a shore. Like us.
The Ocean is too big
But still I feel you
The Ocean is too big
And yet I dare to cross each night
Hopeful and exhausted
Drenched in longing
Strengthened and Weakened all at once
I will paint this.
Drip my brush in mercury
Dip my brush in mist
Some rays of night and sun and summer rain
Dip my brush in all the words that are yet formed
Dip my brush in longing
Then dip again.
I ran out of matches this morning and I haven’t been able to uncover the secret hiding spot for my lighter—or anything else for that matter – being the perfect poster child for adults who Twitter with ADD. My list of lost items is expanding and now includes my purse, car keys, three shoes, clean clothes, my favorite coat, certain sections of my floor, and on a regular basis – my bed. But back to the matches.
I had none. But I had a toaster. As I leaned my face dangerously close to the pink-hot elements to light my cigarette, I began to ponder this appliance – REALLY ponder-- asking myself just how I felt about it. (This has become a recent and bizarre habit of mine – examining objects to see if I have an opinion about them that can be expressed in 140 characters or less. And one way or another, I usually do.)
But, I digress. Back to the toaster. As I peered down into the slightly-scorching slot, I recalled that the sales clerk offered me an extended warranty on this little sucker. Should I have bought an extended warranty?
The toaster is called a “Perfect Toast Moulinex” -- not a bad name in the world of small appliances, even if it is a little heavy-handed with the promises. “Guru of toasters! Toaster Wizard! Expert at Toasting! Toasting Media Sensation!” You’ve seen it all before. This “perfect-toast” four-slicer is wide and white – which not only makes for a nice alliteration but describes me quite nicely, as well. Into these spacious slots one can fit shamelessly thick bagels and homemade slices of bread. It also saves energy by turning off the elements you are not using. Imagine! Why, that one environmentally friendly feature alone could probably save you enough energy to leave the water on while brushing your teeth – once.
But there is a problem with this little baby. It toasts so very slowly that I find I am transported back in time trying to recall a science project I did so I can hook the thing up to a couple of potatoes and really see some action. Unless I have something important to do -- like edit a four page essay down to a 140 character tweet-- I wouldn't even think about popping in a doughy treat like an English muffin, which must be cooked to a golden brown before that little starchy carbohydrate can be soaked in butter. And talk about lighting cigarettes! Well that simple event can take all day. Never mind the occasional cigar.
Yes, I admit I smoke. It’s a horrible habit and one which I plan to give up as soon as I have the desire to gain 15 more pounds, which will also deter me from devouring those thick-sliced doughy things smothered in fat. But back to the toaster.
I had owned this toaster for three years before I discovered you could remove the crumb tray. Let me describe:
There are two little slots at the bottom of the toaster which I thought were for carrying the thing around, if one was so inclined. But lo and behold, I recently discover while taking the toaster for a brief stroll around my kitchen, that it is NOT in fact equipped with handles but rather with crumb-tray removers! (This experiment in toaster-toting, by the way, left me pondering how I felt about my broom – but that for another day.)
Well, you can imagine how heaping with sludge this crumb tray was. And not just filled with crumbs! I found a cigarette in there too! I was so excited, I searched the inner workings of other appliances for my lighter, car keys, and purse, my smallest child — but to no avail.
The whole point is that modern toasters are not like the ones I remember from my youth. Back in the day, you could roll up some newspaper, stick it in and watch it catch fire when you ran out of matches. All in all, it’s a disappointing owner-appliance relationship.
Would I recommend buying an extended warranty for the Perfect Toast Toaster? No. You would never want the recalcitrant thing to last a day beyond what is absolutely essential. I am heading this very moment to dumpster-dive for a really efficient cigarette-lighting toaster. Now, if I could just find my car.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Zig and Zag were such a drag;
She would sing & he would nag.
And no matter what Zig did,
Zag would always flip his lid.
And no matter where Zag went
Zig showed up so she could vent.
They trudged through life, through highs and lows;
Zig and Zag – strange bed-fellows.
Stranger, still, you must agree
Was when Boredom joined them, ménage-a-three!
Zig would dance upon a grave!
Zag would never be so brave.
Zig danced upon a table top!
Zag begged and prayed that she would stop.
Yes Zig and Zag were quite the drag;
She loved to speed but he would lag.
So Zig and Zag just led their life-
He going left, her faking right.
Never was there worse a match
Than Mr. This and Mrs. That.
This and That could not agree;
She’d order wine- he’d bring her tea.
And This, so dull, could take no more
Of That entering through the exit door.
And taking off the mattress tag!!
Life on the edge was not his bag.
Zag digged This and that was that.
Poor Zig was stunned but there she sat,
‘Til she was face to face with That
Thinking “This” was tit for tat!
Zag fell for This and made his pledge.
Zig and That live on the edge.
That loved Zig so gave a ring ….
But then, walked in Another Thing!
Friday, September 11, 2009
Originally written September 19, 2001
Can our children be soldiers of peace?
We reach for new words; we have beheld and endured an unprecedented level of horror, and the old words are inadequate to honour our sorrow and sense of unspeakable loss and fear. We have been compelled to acknowledge, not only the tangibility of evil, but its capability and unmerciful force. That members of our own human family could feel and act upon such immeasurable hatred is incomprehensible and unbearably heartbreaking.
It is unbearable to contemplate the agony and deaths, the terror felt so keenly; it is unbearable to ponder the desolation of orphans and widows and widowers...friends and lovers lost. The regrets, the guilt, the hardships. Yes, even from such a distance from which I sit, it is unbearable.
On September 11th, my small town in North Eastern Canada lay as still as a country night as people sat stunned in homes and business, witnessing second-hand the terror in the United States. I broke down upon reflecting on the massive consequence of the losses and suffering. But I felt embarrassed by my tears...as though I had no right to mourn so deeply for losses that are not my own. How can I feel so much, so intensely? I didn't understand, and hid my tears from others. How could I help my children understand?
Within hours of the tragedy, Canadians across the country sought for ways to help, inquiring about blood contributions to the Red Cross and relief-fund donations. Many folks went to airports to be with the thousands of passengers who were diverted there; we offered solace and company, food, blankets and whatever comfort that could be shared. A group of musicians gave an impromptu concert to passengers, singing songs to lift spirits or help tears flow --mostly to share in the best way they knew. Businesses and individuals have made monetary donations. Vigils held; Prayers spoken; Silence observed. American flags fly half-mast alongside our Canadian flag. And many cry.
The counter-action to the depravity and inhumanity has been human compassion and strength it its full might. Just as joy and sorrow are twins, so, too, it seems are tragedy and triumph. Who cannot be moved by, and proud of, the large and small acts of courage, bravery, leadership, kindness and caring that highlight the aftermath of this abomination? Just as the dead are countless, so, too, are the heroes.
But one distressing result has been the increase in racially motivated assaults on individuals across Canada and the United States. Aside from speaking of the attackers’ moral bankruptcy, these crimes also speak of the attackers ignorance and their willingness to be puppets to the hate-mongers who would see their destruction. If we allow terrorists to turn us against one another, against peaceful members of our North American "melting pot", who, in the end should we fear more? We mustn't assist the evil that yearns to see us butchered!
But how do we combat an enemy that is more an idea than a party? More deaths are to follow as we practice "an eye for an eye" and soon the whole world will be blind with hatred. We are at a crossroads in our human history, and all paths seem washed in blood! Surely this cannot be the outcome. We are living in a new world, seeking sense and new words...and we cannot go back in time no matter how much we yearn for lost loved ones, security and innocence. But surely more blood cannot be the outcome!
I will soon bring a new baby into our world, and my fresh understanding of the globe made me panicked ! How could I bring another innocent into this insanity? . But now I welcome the opportunity to add one more citizen who will be part of a generation who will seek peace and sense in the shadow of this madness that stretches across the planet.
No--I should not be uncomfortable with my tears. Tragedy has no borders; borders cannot not arrest the sweep of sadness. Our compassion is not only rightful but essential to the other war which must be fought: a war against hatred itself. Globally we are moved and we share the loss. Our interpretation of the world may never heal -- but we are bound to one another even more strongly today. We are bound in defiance to the murderous assault on the human spirit.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Can that be so?
Small Stone Treasure
Long Grass Kissing
Can that be so?
Waiting for the next word
Clandestine or sweet
Plain and lovely
Brave, bold nonsense.
Love in a lantern?
Water is my favorite
too wild too deep
The darling of all metaphors.
Ancient and ever
Thoughts too heavy
and dreams that skip
and end up on dresser bureaus.
Have you see the wind teasing leaves on the pavement?
Right there. That's life.
The whole of it.
The color of fire.
Then dried and fallen...
Swept up nuisance
Taken by surprise
Beauty and waste
Time and forgotten
Overpowered whirlwind of decay
The whole of it.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Just this morning, it seemed like a good time to write. The sun hadn’t yet blazed its trail through the clouds. The familiar sounds of a new day were mysteriously mute – except for the cheerful babble of coffee perking. (I had never before noticed how merry and wholesome is that sound ). Soon the refrigerator joined the chorus, humming and vibrating, declaring a rare moment of dominance in a world so often occupied with clamor. And words -- wonderful, melodious words -- streamed easily and pleasingly through my mind. But they had no reservoir in which to settle and sadly, with all the futility of one trying to grasp running water, I was left dry. The sun at once announced itself in my room, placing gray shadows on my chilly walls. The neighbors arose. I turned on my computer.
That computer. I surrender once again to its whirlwind mediocrity, a frantic monument to my impotence, a cacophonic testimony to my ineffectiveness.
I once felt alive with activity and performance, believing my success had to do with lists which I kept on my fridge. Lists that ordered me around. I was obedient to their blunt and brief commands and begrudgingly or happily, the jobs were done, leaving me feeling light on my feet – the same feeling I get standing at the foot of the ocean.
But now I feel weak. Heavy.
Why does my art escape me? I make lists everyday, lists of things to do, ideas, projects, insights and images. Lists of ways to better myself and my life. Lists that lead down the pathway to perfection. And each one is written with more resolve than the last (as if a thick, black marker could ensure more success than a spineless number 10 pencil). Yet still, some small but mighty part of me has been holding back, telling myself to be wary of effort, convincing me to feed my diminishing discipline and at all costs, do not clutter an empty page with new words. Turn on the computer.
Perhaps, instead of finding more to add to my lists, I should find ones to scratch off. Simple? Yes. But unless someone is accustomed to turning things over for a fresh look, even the most simple of ideas won’t come.
I used to think like that. I turned everything upside down and shook the nonsense out of it. There’s nothing terrible clever about that, but it is a most helpful habit, one which I seemed to have fallen out. But, today I will make a new list. A very short list:
At one time, my lists were bridges between my thought and my action. Then, they became a means by which I could avoid action and pay more heed to dissatisfaction instead. Each item I added to the list was like a boulder I could not lift. They no longer contained goals, but shortcomings. They were no longer instructions, but accusations. In my effort to become better, to become myself, I had beaten myself down. I would be wise, now, to clear the ground of those heavy stones so something fresh can surface.
Many of us suffer from the strange self-imposed affliction of trying to become what we already are. We re-discover small fragments of ourselves that have been sleepy since childhood –and we’d like to awaken them. We sense an urge, a view, an image that we have been dismissing or concealing. We hide our writings, our paintings, our voices. We hide out art – then ultimately, ourselves. And why?
We forget that we live only at this moment, our time has been allotted, and our art is the most we have to offer. We cannot bottle moments nor damn up time, for it is a fierce rapid; we do well to tread through it fearlessly.
I suspect that if we really grasped that notion – really understood the finite nature of our existence, we would fear nothing! We would not know hesitation. We would dive headlong into the fall. And sorrow would be a stranger, for sorrow is surely caused by the desire to possess the moment, hold it safe in our hands, and our ultimate inability to do so. Just like those words I tried to grasp this morning that gushed away like running water, trickling madly over the heavy stones that are my self-doubts.