Posts Tagged Safe Places
You say I don’t say bad things about others.
I have fear, I don’t know anyone so how can I
say bad things? You want me to get mad. You
want me to be okay. With myself. But others
are always right. Never good enough. I’m not.
You want me to think over my noise. You say
I’m a good guy, Others tell me differently. You
are on my side. Of course you say. I’m good.
You say I don’t say bad things about things,
but how can I when it means I think I’m better
than things? I can’t be better than things. You
say I need new speeches when I face bad
people. I need voices that say I’m okay. I say.
I listened carefully. Parish. They have reunions. He said helacious drinking. It was 50 years. When 68, do some drink helacious? Helaciously. I drank helacious(ly) 15 to 41, a brilliant downhill stretch. Glorious – I don’t remember much.
Go, don’t go. Purpose: laugh and watch grand pianos swim in the pool with giant bottles of vodka. Don’t go, but what about sister? Go see sister. Stay home on couch with a book – Imagine the whole world doing butterfly inside your head. Nothing outside of your home means a fucking thing. That’s what I like. Stay home. Read. Pray.
You were in your typical pose, slouching dreadfully on the leather couch with your laptop, drearily reading one muddling thing after another, some very good but too good for your consciousness. The TV was on, playing DVR’s of various temporal shit, so you couldn’t concentrate on the websites, and you had a wonderful novel by your side. It was past midnight, but it was Saturday so you had even less regard for the necessary benefits of sleep.
Gracie was lying with eyes back in her head, dreaming, her paws shaking, and the two Dachshunds, Buddy and Jazzy, were lying next to you. Buddy was a brutally tough dog who was always happy, and Jazzy was a fierce, bitter, old witch who was rarely happy unless you rubbed her tummy. Gracie was your favorite. She was a silky Golden Retriever with overflowing barrels of love. Everyone else was asleep long ago and there was a certain chaotic peace to the night. The peace was meant to be disturbed.
A big man, perhaps six-and-a-half feet tall, though not too heavy, Read the rest of this entry »
stories of music
penetrating deepest cracks of
holes in self made from Beethoven’s most ugly temper
simmering in baby blue bed.
Mother tears apart
Patience hides in deep creeks,
humans dull, slow and undaunted by frustration,
design sharp but not challenging,
dichotomy of greens in trees and grasses,
pairs of contrasting greens everywhere but up high,
Really peace, but the mind is searching for some other truth.
Condo towers surround the course like white fences from god.
We are in a jar, being judged, but we also look out to judge.
Do they work? Do they love?
How do they find enough to fill all of these places?
From where do they come? What do they do?
All of these questions and I feel so stupid,
trying to imagine that I can catch on
with the flow of life.
I can sense how it is
to ride with the flow of life,
and when the flow is there,
everything should go right.
I work the flow on my ten-foot putt.
The putt goes way wide and long by ten feet.
Searching for vents
to crawl into.
Today, I was counting my closing moments at work when the lady with the fuzzy, bushy, brown hair, who thinks she is a sexy devil but is better described as being overweight in a way that creates an appearance of a grandly-unappreciative attitude toward life, who is frustrated with a life that is later in the game than it should be, who enjoys commercial television to a tremendous fault and is full of related conversation on the garbage that comes on nightly, got really pissed off when someone didn’t fill the paper tray in the printer, started slamming trays and bits and pieces of the copier, slammed the door to the paper supply cabinet so hard, I was sure it disintegrated , the crash making the ears ring in dour representations of hell.
I crouched down. I was afraid of being at work, afraid of staying in the room, but I had no choice.
My brother and I have a big square basement which allows us to go furious with our hobby that has turned magical. We have 16 carpentry horses and 16 4-by-4 pieces of cheap, one-inch plywood that splinters when we don’t watch the animated way it participates in our creation work.
We create paper houses, paper towns, paper rivers, paper mountains, and paper people. We build other things out of paper and work our tricky Medicine World. You don’t need Medicine World, but we do. We’re not fit for your world so we create a world like yours but our Medicine World likes who we are and how we live in spirit. It’s been our miracle cure, but even better lately as the paper has been literally animated, and we are sure that the magic of god hangs in our basement. We don’t know why.
I narrate my potent, latent fears to my brother and he creates the brown-haired lady from two pieces of construction paper. He sets her down, and she waves her arm at the copier made brilliantly by my brother out of the testy pink paper. She fills the copier in the most compassionate fashion and there is not one crash or bang. I am made to feel more peaceful in Medicine World, and the end of the day in our special world brought me to the opposing type of mood, an endearing mood of an angelic peace.
Another Inspiration Monday, InMon XII! I am not familiar with the book by the name, but I used the prompt Paper towns. I had hundreds of scenes that kept coming to mind, and I’m not certain I picked a good one.
Other places don’t have the stairs, so how do they, the stairs, become so powerful for us?
The first time, I used the front stair case. It was dusty and I wondered if I happened into an abandoned property, but when I opened the door, there were a great many people in the two rooms that I could see. It was casual, peaceful, non-confrontational, and people were smiling oddly. Honestly, it looked like a group of people who would never voluntarily gather together, quietly sitting in their Saturday rags. Later I learned that the rags disguise gentle and hopeful wisdom.
I learned no one uses the front staircase except people there for their first time and some old folks who might prefer parking on the small town street with gentle sidewalks but no grass.
I go there a lot, and one of our powerful sayings is, “I might not make it up those stairs again.” I hear this washing, repetitive rhetoric, and I hear us trying to install a phony gratitude being that today, indeed, we did make it up those stairs. But that’s not what they mean by “might not make it up those stairs again.”
The back stairs are treacherous in the winter. They are either slick with ice or so overwhelmed with salt pellets, they act as pans filled with uncontrollable marbles.
The stairs are powerful, and I wonder what the others do without stairs. “I might not make it in that door again” does not inspire as well.
Each time up the stairs, I grip a certain brilliance that floats on the outside of my life, knocking hard, wanting to barge in. I let parts of it in, and when I walk down the stairs, the freedom strikes me like a lightning bolt filled with streaking blue roses.
I study anyone who is climbing the back stairs. They’re exposed to the back lot. You might not put any credence in this, but I know it’s true: Almost every time a person climbs the stairs, a protective halo gathers around the person, not really an angel’s halo, but certainly a halo of powerful and beautiful love, and this regardless of how beautiful you might think the person is on the outside. These are non-discriminatory halos, perhaps only denying those who climb the stairs carrying evil motives.
Underneath all that I am conscious of during my entire day, on each day, I am sure there is this rummaging, perfectly rational fear of not making it back up the stairs. If I couldn’t make it up the stairs again, I’d hang myself from a sturdy oak tree.
The first time up the stairs, even though it was the front stairs, that was the beginning of my life, so as you might imagine, I love those freakin’ ugly, dangerous stairs.
My pieces swim around mirthlessly. I say I am homeless, but really, my life is in a box, my home is in a box. My home is a box.
I hear of those in prison cells. Every person is left inside a box. Each of us makes his own box. Mine is cardboard, yours is brick, hers is padding, his is cinderblock, and hers is a cow hide tent that loves to act like a box. All of us are restrained by our boxes. Our boxes keep us from doing what our spirit wants us to do.
One time I was in a room with many people and I felt my box literally disappear. I thought I might be leaving earth, perhaps dying. But I didn’t die. My box came back. My box is consistent and my box always comes back.
Today, I will look for a special blanket. I’m looking for forest green, or perhaps army green. When I find it, I’ll know it. It will soften the box so much, the box will fly away as dust.
I need a home, something like a pine box with a mattress. I see the box every day, but I never see a home. With a home, I might recover.
If I walk alone, down the haunting, overbearing hallway, with my hands clasped and my head bowed, will all of the shit fly above my head and swirl around like tornadoes in the high-peaking, diamonded ceilings with little receptacles? The hallway is my home where my gods speak loudly and tell me to be me. It is a special box. They tell me there is value to living. I need no bed in my hallway. I need no sleep. The portals in my hallway have no windows, so I breathe in the good of the world and as I exhale, I share it with the gods who help me live today. I see beautiful flowers in thousands of colors and gentle pathways when I look out of a portal, and when I smile, I can feel my gods smile. They do – They smile. I float about my box and I wait for someone who might need my help.
It’s Inspiration Monday IX at BeKindRewrite. Lots of great work over there and I love the prompts.