In my head. It is all in my head.

Tell me it is in my head.
It is all in my head.
Everything is in my head. That is it.
That is the only place it all resides.
I could live a thousand lifetimes and travel a million continents in my head.
I could explore the universe and another lifetime all in my head.
I could make this mean anything and everything.
I could pivot my entire existence around this one moment
And this one choice,
And maybe it does,
And certainly it doesn’t.
In my head I can make anything out of nothing and nothing into anything and everything into nothing at all. I can make and destroy lifetimes, life forms and imaginations. I can live and die a hundred times in my mind, in my dreams and in my wanderings.

But can I make one thing real.
One good choice,
One honest thought,
When it counts,
To whom it counts?
I can make a mountain of a molehill
And water into wine…
But I no longer drink and can hardly climb a mountain.
So it seems I can’t fully appreciate either.

Tell me it is all in my head…
I dare you!
And I will make a molehill out of you.

Maybe it is all in my head.
But this time it really might be in my body too.
Something more. Something less. An answer. A reason.
And the explanation that takes everything away.
That ridiculous obnoxious phrase, “You don’t know what you want until you can’t have it…" Or something like it is obnoxious for precisely the reason that it is so accurate. But it doesn’t help you when you come to learn you can’t have it.
And I can’t or so it seems.
Now or ever--
Even in my head.

So what is all in my head now?
The possibility,
Or the
Impossibility?

The dread and fear that the prognosis is right makes me hungry.
The resolute and ambivalent optimism makes me dizzy.

Faith and trust have given way to science.
And yet I still feel like I have some sort of choice to make.
I know the right one.
And hate it
For its promise and for its futility.

What if you can’t have that thing you want most in the world that you never knew you wanted?

Impotence

Impotent. Infertile. Futile. Ineffectual. Barren.
These words really are wielded with such heavy weight.
Insults and diagnoses, condemnations.

Nothing vindicating.

Impotence: piercing sharp insult, emasculating and demoralizing
Infertile: like a field, like one thing over used, or in this case fallow, or Shepard without a flock a hive without a queen, a planet without an orbit.
Futile: pointless, useless, hopeless (consult thesaurus for more synonyms).
Ineffectual: previously the worst thing you could call me; the one I would take most offense to as a teacher, a knife to the heart.
Barren: Not like a duke or a count, but more like a desert, without oasis. A camel without a hump, a cat without claws… barren like an unpollinated flower, never to seed.

Masticating, just chewing on a concept, not wallowing despite the potential airs of self-loathing and occasional wallowing. Masticating and other private sins of the like. Weekends were made for just the occasion. Movies, popcorn, poolside lounges and private balconies, dark and solitary moments dug from peaceful sun drenched alcoves.

Masticating impotence—if that is possible. And if it is not slippery enough to confuse even the keenest. Conniving. Assumptive and now merely making up words.

Prognosis.

Image: a close up scan of the Contagion.

How come diseases and syndromes sound more gruesome and painful than some of the symptoms? The sensation can only be described as relief and horror: the magic bullet – without a cure. The explanation. The release. The liberation. And the crashing walls. There is safety in the unknown. There is destruction in discovery.

Even the word prognosis sounds like an affliction.
"I have prognosis."
"Oh, no, I am so sorry. Is it contagious, fatal, painful?"
I have been diagnosed and it makes less sense in English than it does in Spanish. It sounds more like a funk song lyric than a physical malady. I have “hyperbolicsyllabicsesquedalymistic;” it is not fatal but it is the root of everything I have wrong with me except receding gums. Isaac Hayes is the diagnostic lyrical genius. Maybe I should feel more relief and clarity, but really it feels a bit like slow melodramatic drowning… compartmentalized and in slow motion. I want to reflect my anxiety off of someone else, but it is more like throwing trash into space-- everything just goes off into the void: inertia and lack of resistance. Polycystic-hyperbolic-fatalmistic-ism. It is certainly a syndrome… not contagious –mostly because no one can pronounce it. And, sadly, there is no outright cure. They don’t know the cause, despite how common it is.
And yet, nothing has changed.
Information is insidious and delicate for this reason.
Maybe the greatest affliction is merely the prognosis… and as soon as I recover from that maybe I will be cured.

All it has to be is real.

I have written a manual, a document that servers as an introduction to my eccentricities, my life, my heart and as best as a 30-page document can, an introduction to my soul. It has been a process that has unwrapped some things for me, that has allowed me to plunge, dive deep into some of my unexplored waters and most of all it is the first place where I have admitted certain things – all things that I know to be true and often make extraordinary efforts to conceal.

I enjoyed this process in all aspects: the writing and visioning, the jokes and the truth, the moments of doubt and hesitation and the moments of complete forgiveness where I could just be without judgment (if only to myself); I enjoyed the laughing and the crying and maybe most of all the terror I felt as I prepared to share it. I often guard against these strong feelings, any strong feelings, but this was delicious-ridiculousness and I savored every drop of anxiety.

I have shared myself completely with someone. I have removed all barriers and exposed all wounds. I have admitted faults and weakness and perhaps celebrated some strengths as well. I have embraced the beauty that is me, that makes me this perfectly strong, tender mess of affection and fear. I have been real with another person, and in doing so I have permitted myself to become more of who I am. It is nice to trust.

I have the trust that has been lacking for so long. I have trust in myself. With that I can share; from trust in myself I can explore and expand, wander and invite others in to explore the life I live.

The manual (and the process of writing it) has given me a new direction and a new faith in movement. If I had always kept it safe and only written it for myself it would have been a treasure, but it increases in value when shared.

It does not have to be comprehensive,
It does not have to fit a formula or mold,
It does not have to be anything--
Except honest
And true.
It has to be you as best you can.

Nightmarish morning BLISS

I HAD A DREAM LAST NIGHT, A NIGHTmarish sort of dream… where you know how things should be, but nothing is… When you go back to a familiar place, maybe the most familiar and don’t recognize anything. When paths are blocked and you feel lost. When you know where you are, but everything has changed in your absence. When you are faced with a challenge that seems impossible, guarding a treasure, climbing a treacherously steep hill, when things only seem to get worse; that is the dream I had last night.

But I wake to a pristine morning. The light is spilling, just so, on the white wall of my balcony. A friendly soccer game sends cheerful shouts and grunts up from the dry earth below my bamboo forest and my plants bask in the morning warmth. It has been raining and so the air is fresh, the plants are breathing everywhere; the birds seem happier and the sky is a new season. The richness in color cannot be exaggerated, nor ignored. Clouds have been erupting from the valley edge to then drift nonchalantly North.

The sun is up and I am up and the world is better than it was when I went to sleep.

The Midas Touch

Has the well dried up; have the cows gone home; has the fat lady sung? Did I miss it? Do I have the Midas touch?

Is everything around me turning to gold and then leaving me surrounded by treasure and loneliness? Rhetorical question.
How many clichés can one girl use in a matter of minutes? Do they allow her to get any closer to her point? (Not a rhetorical question.)

4:44 4.12.10

4:44 4.12.10
Could I break my life down into numbers? 31. 26. 1. 79. 7. 5. 80,000. 98. Age, birth day, month, year, favorite number, lucky number, number of travel miles it took to get me around the world for free this summer. It is 4:44 on 4.12.10 and no moment is like the next. The national debt is in the trillions and is rising at rate I can’t write to keep up with or believe; my students are more numerous (98+) and more wonderful than they were 2 weeks ago; the rainy season has begun in Colombia, two down pours in three days and the soccer game across the river goes on despite the billions of raindrops; the score remains steady 5 - 2.
Now it is 4:52. And one little boy just rang my doorbell. He needed help translating a song from English; it was about a monkey that eats 33 bananas for breakfast, 33 bananas for lunch and 33 bananas for dinner. His favorite number is 99, mine is seven. Every instant tallied and counted, calculated and different. Like each raindrop and each little boy, a universe in itself gets lost in the crowd. The moments, when they fall like rain, become a torrent, a raging river that drowns out the sound of even the jet plane overhead. But each raindrop still floats, bouncing and darting down the canyon, part of the whole, a new creature, like people in a crowd, they swell and push as if one. Each moment, delicate as a flower and powerful enough to sweep you off your feet.

Valleys and Peaks

In the mapping of my life and my character I have been thorough in my cartography of the valleys, yet have neglected, for the most part, the peaks.
I have shown the light more brightly on the dark hidden corners and deep crevasses of my soul and have ignored the giant peaks that all can see. The parts that are reaching skyward are just as vast, pinnacles of my character show the potential of the human spirit. From there the view is quiet breathtaking.

The two mountain chains Self-awareness and Strength of character run parallel and intertwine. Among them, some notable peaks are: Sense of Responsibility, Compassion and Tenderness, Diligence, Honesty and Forthrightness.

Each mountain has its own unique terrain and geography. No two masses share the exact same geology; these features each derive their heights from a distinctive combination of elements. They each are in plain view and can be seen with the naked eye from anywhere in the region. Whereas much of the valley floor is often obscured in darkness. The peak are constant, remain strong and visible.

For the purpose of cartography both must be equally referenced and charted. It is interesting that in this mapping process I focused almost exclusively on the valleys and lowest points of elevation, where the air is stagnant and there are rarely travelers. People from all around have come to scale the peaks of this region and have walked away with tales of their own or tokens from the rich elements that form theses rock outcroppings. Gems and jewels are often believed to be scattered among the rocks along the assent. But, remember that climbers tend to exaggerate from time to time; the air is thin and they forget themselves.

But maybe all the stories are true. Come discover the riches and take in the views. Like all mountains, you can’t reach the top without dedication, a good guide, supplies and patience, but this is one mountaineer (cartographer, geologist) recommending this one.

Cut Down

Spilled coffee in a mall somewhere,
Like a car accident,
It’s essence dripping from the counter into a lifeless pool on the floor,
So young, so innocent,
Yet untouched by the lips of life.

A violent crime
Such a senseless act
Something so young, cut down in the spring of life.

Punctuation

My students use punctuation more for decoration than function, but like all the great painters you must master the technique before you can expand, improvise and break all the rules… or so I tell them.

Oh, Honey, Where have you been?

I have rediscovered my love for tea, but I have also realized that it is not so much the tea itself that I crave. It is something in the ritual. I am a creature of habit and this habit, although lost for some time, has come back with a vengeance, out of nowhere. More than the tea, the smell, the flavor, the comfort or the sound of the spoon stirring and clinking the mug (which is great, by the way); it is the honey.

The ritual is clear; while the water is heating on the stove, in the pot- because we still don’t have a kettle, I gather the supplies, the same mug (because there is only one big enough in this house) and then the goodness starts. From the drawer I rescue a silver spoon (a real silver spoon from some great-grandmother, AJO carved into the handle). Into the spoon, from the glass jar on the counter I pour honey from a distant valley of dry hills and grapevines. I tell myself that honey has medicinal properties and take a bit extra to savor. The spoon rests in the empty mug, add the tea bag and lick the dripping honey from the mouth of the jar and replace it for tomorrow. The water is ready and so tea is made. It is often too hot to deal with so I bring it with me to relish or abandon it. Sometimes, like last night for example that is where the ritual ends. I drank the cold tea when I woke up this morning.

Manual Day

Today is undoubtedly a manual day.
Once with the sunrise and again with the sunset.
Familiarity and patience.
It is like recognizing myself in another body with another story but with so many similar traits
Comforting and creepy,
Reassuring and making me wary.

How hypersensitive am I too. So.


I am a good student, I wasn’t when I was young. I couldn’t see the point in it and it seemed impossibly hard for me.  But now with a purpose and a context I have become a fierce student. I take notes; write in the margins, underline, star and point. I ask questions of the text; I comment on the text for later reflection and absorption.

With any certainty comes uncertainty. Cierto?

The poet in me pales at the words of nearly every song written and turns to revise myself. With a kiss and a caress. Time to reexamine the source and the destination.

I am my own

I prefer wood to plastic
Cloth to paper
Glass to rubber
Cast-iron to aluminum
And old to new.
I am a hippy, but not the Trustafarian (make your own clothes, pedigree dog on hemp leash, white, dreadlocks, driving daddy’s SUV hippy); and not free-love and drugs 1960’s hippy, not the Haight street, methadone hippy, not the weed-harvesting migrant labor California hippy, not the skater hippy, the surfer hippy or the vegan-raw-food hippy, not even the urban revolution –dumpster diving anti-government radical hippy.
I am my own hippy.
I am the garden and the woods, living in the city, traveling the world on jet fuel robbed from the Middle East, apocalyptic and then everything will be ok hippy, the breathe deeply, yoga & steak hippy, the home birth- midwife, no TV for kids hippy, the candles and horoscopes and philosophical (without being hokey) hippy. I am my father’s daughter, buyers beware, mothers daughter but different hippy.
I like things handmade. And preferably free-trade, but I am not willing to pay outrageous prices for it or wanting to increase my social capital by doing something that is so trendy hippy. I am not the simplify your life by subscribing to one more magazine that tells you what to buy to organize and ‘simplify’ your life hippy. I am the burn it all in a field or smash it against a wall and walk away with what you can carry hippy. I am the give it all away at a spontaneous dinner party hippy.
I am the hypocrite-hippy, the faux-hippy, the used clothes and pearl earrings hippy, the grandmother’s silver spoons and 5 for 99 cents dishware hippy.
I am my own hippy.
I shave my legs on Fridays… or Sundays, I can’t remember which. I condition my hair bi-annually. I feed my cat canned tuna and let her kill the cockroaches and moths but not the lizards and when I can help it, not the birds either. I drink water from glass jars because it tastes better and I am convinced it won’t leech creepy chemicals into my body, but then I will drink soda and eat movie theater popcorn which might be the worst kind of ‘food’ ever.
I am my own hippy, maybe not even a hippy any more, maybe just a revolutionary, a blue-collar professional, stand-up citizen trapped in the body of an ideological rebel using my job to stir a slow pot of urban upper-class mutiny. Maybe I am just my parents child and the resulting compilation of my experiences, circumstance and opportunities.

What are you?

Itch

Where Mosquitoes come to die.
In a halo above my head
In a ring around the light they dance,
Elongated shadows form an insect chandelier
And then one at a time they tinkle to the floor
Like silent tears, like diamonds of laughter.
From the halo of heaven dengue rains to the floor
A minefield of little delicate involuntary corpses decorates my floor and commemorates the nights.
I dread the rainy season.
Siempre unbitten, I itch.