Just give me a tree with enough shade for two, an acoustic guitar, and five hours that pass as a lifetime, and I'll play along to the serenading birds building a nest for our dreams to find truth in.
You think Valentines Day is not for you, you don’t think it…you know it. And in a world of fast in and out’s and where goodbye tears are more memorable than hello’s, it’s almost justifiable. Almost.
I’ve shared my opinion on Valentines Day several times before. I hold it very close to my heart, though not for romantic purposes. I’ve never celebrated a Valentines Day with a “significant other,” not with past boyfriends, not with my ex-husband, not with flings or possibilities. It was one of my stepfather’s favorite holidays; it was one that bonded us while I was growing up, and while life was getting tougher. For me, it was one of those days that I could always look forward to being filled with – no strings attached, no worries, no heartache - kind of love. But this Valentines Day is very different, in a much more evolved way.
We’re living in a time where connections are fragile, and our ability to nurture them relies heavily on our juggling skills. For some of us, our parents bought us Valentines cards to share with our classmates. For some of us, our parents were the ones that would write the names on the envelopes. And now those same parents are vanishing from those safe places we’ve taken for granted. And if they haven’t vanished, they’re on their way. Not to mention our friends, the ones under 40 years old we’ve been losing, painfully and unnecessarily. This year, one of our loved ones will be one of the estimated 1,665,540 diagnosed with cancer, and someone we know will be 1 of the 4 to succumb to it. And every single day 680 people die of Sudden Cardiac Death, half of them are under 65 years of age.
On our birthdays and those special occasions we often make promises to ourselves to breathe, relax, appreciate each other a little more. And we seldom follow through. Today is that day when we are allowed, without fear of rejection or abandonment, without embarrassment, we are allowed to tell ourselves, our friends, our parents, our loved ones… “I love you” ...and we’re allowed to mean it. And maybe my perspective is unique because of the love and loss I experienced way back when, he was taken far too early, before he or I had a chance to grow up, together or apart. Fast forward fifteen or so years and one marriage later, I find myself looking at everything differently. Looking with my heart, spine, and deepest part of my soul, because the man who is sharing his heart with me, and who I’m falling in love with, lost his beloved wife way too early, and right after committing to each other that they’d spend the rest of their long lives together. Yet, he’s shown me a level of resilience, strength and compassion that has me seeing with eyes of an adult, rather than that kid looking forward to the perfect day.
And of course, there are those friends, pets, family members, lovers, and companions whom we cherish and loved, and have lost because of circumstance, not death. It’s quite possible that circumstance can get in the way tomorrow, so today is the day of love. Today is that day to show the people we love, that we love them. It’s as simple as that. And if we honor that love today, what could get in our way of doing the same tomorrow?
A Field in England
Kind of exactly like Field of Dreams, only they're nightmares and this Kevin Costner of another dimension finds redemption through alchemy instead of baseball. And while at war he's suddenly forced to find a treasure hidden somewhere in a landscape sprinkled with magic mushrooms that have thankfully replaced boring sand-dusted bases. But don't worry, the tried and true magic of our beloved Field of Dreams is captured in this Field of heavenly nightmares. Because in life, we all need to fight our demons to see light...sometimes with a little help from our "friends", sometimes not. And thankfully, movies like this are made...so we can freak out all over again, at no cost to our health!
Oh and the music/sound is way better in this field, way better!
the wind draws fast,
our desires onto us.
we say hello to yesterday,
sleep on my pillow,
to wake in our bed
your skin on my back,
with pleasure to follow.
the wind draws fast,
our memories from us.
hello, my morning.
The longing for a memory
of a voice, the sound of your name echoing in enunciated emotions
when all is lost,
will never be answered with a text messaged hello or I love you.
Voice speaks louder
than what we hear.
Her lungs are scarred by a life in transit. Constant breaths, with out holding in. By evening she rushes to conquer life with thought, movement...living,
before time conquers her with, "I can't."
The notes play, as a winter wind to an autumn leaf my ears breathe in brightly painted oceans, sometimes not so bright. Orange and Blue in hues of C & E briefly move me, until the note vanishes and I anticipate the next, and the next, and the last. This is precisely how I discovered gold. And even before listening to colors, I learned that at the softest enunciated whisper, or at minds glance of an enunciated movement, euphoria sets in; a temporary nirvana tip toes through the spine. Angels disguised as feathers disappear into the edges of my skin, awakening follicles. Orgasmic embraces - I've convinced myself - is all they are. When the hand slowly readies itself to play the orange key, I realize that the two can sometimes overlap. Tone, mood, movement, hearing; shades of outside become inside, through hearing. The mind creates a body of heaven from a temporary hell. And all of this is not all that I have been since childhood but it’s half of me, it’s usual, while the other half of me concludes that finally everything now makes sense.
So I have these two things about me that are kinda weird but kinda not, since I’ve experienced them since I can remember. One I’ve known for some time, it’s called sound to color synesthesia, which means I basically hear colors. The other has baffled me since childhood and I’ve lived in secret with until a couple of weeks ago. I just found out that it has a name, it’s called Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response. I use to figure it was just a sensitive nerve thing, that crazy almost constant tingling sensation at the back of the neck and spine, triggered by sounds and particular movements. Some of you may have it, and I’m realizing that it’s not so rare for some to have both of these (if you already experiencing one, that is). It can be annoying or fun, but is just mostly interesting. I’ll be writing something about this in the near future. If you’d like to share stories of your experiences with either of these, or if you have an idea for collaborations, write me a note – I’d love to hear from you!
Two Thousand Thirteen 2 0 1 3
what can I say…it was a wonderful year. Here’s a year in review, photo style.
(and if you click on the photos, it should take you to more photos)
The Bluebird Reading Series started off strong in '13 with the first reading of the year featuring Corrie Greathouse, Melissa Alvarado, Peggy Dobreer, and Bonnie S. Kaplan!!
We then welcomed guest hosts Hinchas de Poesia who brought in Billy Burgos, Bojan Luis, Yago Cura and Annette Cruz.
- an excerpt, in progress
The deepest shades of her white, with translucent eyes and longish wheat blonde hair. The richest shades of his black, with soft masculine curls and eyes to stare forever into. This is half of me, the other half taken from the sands of faraway make believe lands, with distant languages that have no use for simple new-world letters but that we still study so as to never forget. These worlds melt into shades of my brown. Of their brown, of our brown. A shade of brown that makes up fifty-seven percent of this cities population. A brown that another fifteen percent of this cities population considers white...but will always be brown. But brown is not a color, unless we've been forced to wonder who we are and where we're from...and when we're from. Brown is not a color, unless the black, white and gold disappear into shame. Brown is not a color, unless we choose to let those other shades of white eclipse any remnants of our courage and life rooted in this lands history. Brown is not a color, unless they tell us it is.
I wish he would have told me that to learn his language would require a tongue wet with a certain desire to love those who will one day leave us behind. I wish he would have told me, before today became too late.