"Comme'er money; I wanna spend you!"

Inspirational words from a three-year-old send me out into the universe. "Comme'er money; I wanna spend you!" he says while shaking a pink bicycle-shaped piggy bank. Shake, shake. Rattle. Shake, shake. Bang, bang, bang. Shake, rattle, bang, shake-shake. Young Thatcher speaks wisdom, or rather puts words to a cultural craving, or our human core, gone global. He channels the cosmic voice while speaking to the coins inside. Shake, Shake, rattle-bang. The power of his words scatters out onto the kitchen table and tumbles to the floor. and silently a coin slides backwards out of the slot and onto his hand. A miracle. "Papa, Do it again!" He clutches the booty recently rescued from the abstinent piggy-bank. "What are you going to buy?" I ask. And like with any hard-won prize, the joy is in the effort, he says, "I don't know."

Waking Sleeping Dragons.

Standing on the precipice. Ready, or not quite, for the plunge, the next step, the leap into the unknown the abyss, the known abyss. Years of preparation for this moment and moments of thought and the a sporadic rash decision... that is the culmination of a life ... and there are the consequences, there below in little shards, scattered on the beach below in and amongst the rocks. In mid-breath, the rumble of future ramifications and then it is done, no turning back-- it has begun and ended in the same moment. Will the world shake?

As luck would have it

As luck would have it, it takes the end of the world for me to crawl out from under the rock I have been dwelling in. The sun is out and tanning my ankles. The tunes are softly blaring. The neighbors barbecue whits through he air and dances in the wind.
The fresh air recently washed by heavy rain storms danced through the spoon wind-chime. Flower vines slowly creep up the wall by the kitchen window and tomatoes ripen in the sun. the perfume from the plants feeds me.
The words tumble awkwardly from my lips like rocks from a landslide prone cliff. Precariously perched only held by insignificant particles of sand until the wind blows or a bird perches just so, and then sometimes one at a time, or all together, tumble, crash roar… the one that takes down the hillside, no matter what trees or houses may be in the path.
My words, when they are held too long are not smoothly eroding. When they are held in they fester and grow into disastrous , rapid monologues that can wipe out villages. For this reason I have begun to write… to ease the process and hopefully prevent tragedy.
As luck would have it, it takes the end of the world to revive me. Even if this is the only day, or the last day it should be a good one. Every day should be a good one. I have forgotten that. And that is a slippery slope, one that I was on the wrong end of… either top or bottom, it is the wrong end.
So here I sit. Clean, fresh, walked, accomplished. The dog has been walked, the cat has been to the vet, The shower has been taken and lunch has been had.
As luck would have it the confession turns into a realization, more profound than the thing most longed for. So unexpected. And so right. As luck would have it, when a routine is broken new seeds spring up everywhere. I can see them sprouting already and in so many corners that have been neglected. It is like the dust there has nourished them and with a little like and rain they are blooming into rich plants.
Soon they will nourish me and shade me. I will rest in the soft grass below these new plants. Much better than being under a rock, especially one of my own making.
As luck would have it, the last day before the end of the world is my first in ages.

In. Out.

not for long.
Tik-tock.
In. out.
Tik-tock.
Another moment. Tik-tock.
Another day.
Tik-tock.
Another breath. Tik-tock.
And then another year.
Not for long.
Tik-tock.
In. out.

Estranged.

Estranged.
Strange.
It is more than being strange or feeling strange, it is about feeling something removed, out of place or missing. Unhinged. Unpinned. Undermined. Unbelieveable how the anima can, in one moment, be there, and in another moment be gone—to nowhere.
Something is strange. Something is missing. The tangible sensation of something out of place it biting. But what it is, or where it went is, at this moment, unthinkable. Like the souring of milk. It happens subtely, but once it has passed it is undeniable.
So my anima has slipped off, like a sheet in the night and this morning I rolled over without pulling back over me. I left the house bare and immediately noticed the difference, without knowing the cause. It is evening, as it always is when I settle down to write, and I have returned to look for what has been lost. But without knowing its dimensions, shape, color or origin, it is difficult to begin searching for it. I am also not sure where or when exactly I lost it. Yet I assume I must have lost it all at once; or at least that is what I am hoping. I fear any alternative—that maybe I have been letting it go, bit by bit, leaving fragments of myself, threads to blow in the gusts of wind and then get tangled on the bushes as I walk by. And so intent on my destination, or the act of getting there, or simply the ideas bouncing like atoms in my head, that I simply didn’t notice.
Like a gingerbread trail. Maybe I have been leaving myself a path backwards, just now to turn and see the crow who has been following me cleaning up my crumbs.
I am not cold, like my sheets have fallen off. I am not humgry as if I have run out of bread. But there is a bare, naked feeling. Voulnerable and imposible to cover, hide or envelop.
There is an empty feeling. It sounds better in spanish, because that is truly how I feel- vacio. Like my stiching has come out, like I am fraying. Like I am only a shell and the light from within shines somewhere else. Yes. Like a lantern, without the candle.
Nothing has changed. No more than usual. Everything has changed and continues to do so. That is always. But the change hasn’t changed. The change just keeps on changing and usually I do to, right along in step with the times.
But something has slipped off.
I want to find it, but I am not sure I wan to look for it.
Maybe this is what it means to be estranged.

Life in the Shadows.

The fabric of life ... sometimes frays at the edges
and it is all the little threads that slip away from us without even being missed
are the threads that hold us together.
when there are only a few, they go unmissed.
but then there is the one that makes all the difference.

1.11.11

1.11.2011
numerologist must see something I don’t
1.11.11 must mean something. And I have been so much in my own head today that I can barely get out of it. I feel that my soul might be leaking out of my ears at some moments soon so I have retreated to the solice (is sounds corny, but it is true) of my balcony. My cat has accompanied me, as she does now, not leaving my side since I went on vacation without her. Since my return she has lots to say and we carry on lengthy, if not intellectual, conversations. But I like her company. I thrive on it ,in truth. Her subtle companionship offers more to me than I am sure she knows. And in return I feed her, although lately that seems unnecessay. She is no longer the lithe kitten of her former youth, she and her stomach have settled in to her middle age. I suppose the same could be said for me. We were made for eachother.
The dusk comes quickly after the sun touches the hills, and the air is fresh. The song of a lone insect competes with the comforting constance of the river below. Some times it rages and some times it trickles, but it is always there. I wonder what the insect wants? I can’t seem to understand them. Sex probably, what else is there? Companionship? Food? He is probably not longing for a pension plan or a higher yield investment. Nor a bigger car, a companion insect with wing implants…
Colombia is an interesting place. And it feels more like home now than any place has in a long time. I was happy in San Franciasco, but really only remember it after I stopped working. I don’t think I was healthy there, and I wasn’t happy the way that I am here. The “manana” spirit that often drives westerners crazyis medicinal. I need an injection daily of that relaxed manner of this place. I seem to be the only person I have encountered in the last two years who has ever been in a hurry.
And so the light is gone, only the glowing screen, leading my fingers to the keys they know so well. In the nightly rhythm, The chant. The church that I alone worship in, the church that I create. A barking dog. A child’s distant laugh, the horny, hungry insect drowns out the rest. I cant hear the road a ways off. I can’t hear the car alarms; I can only hear the river if I listen for it. So we are alone. The cat, the insect and I.
Night has brought me to a better place. My ears will no longer leak, my head can hold its own and my breath has returned without my even noticing its absence.
I wish I knew what that insect wanted to say.
And I wonder how long I will be content with this life.
Right now there is no where else I would rather be, but I have given up so much to be here. So much that I will never get back. And I suppose that is the nature of life and choice. I can only hope that in 20 years I can sit with this same feeling of contentedness, maybe on a different balcony and feel the night air on my skin, and look around at all that I have chosen with confidence and comfort.
1.11.23 I will be a bit older, I supose we all wil be. I wonder where I will be, who I will be. I will be 44. What a concept. Time to make dinner.
Photo credit: Marissa Hutter Cartagena, Colombia.