for sarah

So that brings me back to trauma. I thought about the people who "get" to change their identities in a socially acceptable way -- Cat Stevens, Prince, JK Rowling (by name), I think Snoop Dogg is now Snoop Lion (haa)...so mostly artists with loose ties to convention. Successful artists are allowed to experiment with identity under the guise of creating art. But in many cases the creation of artist identity emerged from trauma. Trauma that brought out either an alter ego or the person they were all along or set them on their mystical, spiritual paths.

Why are artists and poets and writers and painters allowed to go off the sanity grid as a symptom of soul evolution and others are not? 

The idea that you have to burn to emerge -- burning to the ground everything that you have been taught is true, to hold onto no matter what, or to preserve at all costs no matter how hard the wind blows, is actually a false construct. And now for a "one time, at Burning Man" story...I went for the first time last year. You probably know that the place is fraught with pyros and anything that is not people, potty, or personal belongings gets incinerated --sometimes ceremoniously, sometimes not. There's always a structure dedicated to letting go, asking for something, remembering someone, etc. called the "temple". Growing up Mormon, "temple" always meant something far different, and you certainly couldn't wander into it naked and covered in alkaline dust. But this temple was open to the angelic and perverse, filthy and innocent -- it was all one and the same. The structure itself was incredibly ornate, built with lacy balsa wood like those 3D dinosaur puzzles. People spent a long time building it, in extreme conditions and then it took on a very powerful energy buzz after more people filled it with words, wishes, scourges, loves, loss, addiction, music...

The natural inclination was to develop an attachment to this structure and what it represented. It was sacred. It was special. It belonged, at least in some way, to everyone. So when they burnt this thing to the ground, I came face to face with the deeply-embedded concept of why we do anything in this life. Do we build and cultivate and define our own structures so that we can keep them intact forever -- (even though we "know" logically that everything is impermanent?) or is the act of building the part that does last -- the experience of creating a place for the communal shedding of emotional weight and expressing desire...or building it just because it's beautiful...for no purpose beyond that... but then I came to a baseline realization that "we" (I'm not sure where "we" begins or ends) aren't taught to value destruction. Even though it happens all the time. Instead, endings and failures and disappointments and disease are all categorized under destruction and labeled bad. I discovered, for the first time, how creative destruction can be. Voluntary, deliberate destruction. I saw value in the act of detachment from form and construct (because the structure itself is not important, the symbolism, experience, community and transformation are because they are impervious to the elements that can destroy structure -- fire, time, wind, neglect). 

So then I thought about the deliberate destruction of identity. Sometimes it happens as a natural response to trauma (memory loss, PTSD, depersonalization disorder) where a person detaches from old constructs and identity becomes more fluid. I think it speaks to the necessity and therapeutic pathways of burning down identity constructs. How does a person do this consciously, willfully and without the red stamp of mental illness and the stigma attached? It happens in nature -- wildfires, menstrual cycles, wind carving out canyons...and we don't think twice. Destruction is an essential ingredient in transformation, fertility, and the evolution of the spirit which doesn't rely on structure but can be stagnated by the belief that old structures must be preserved. And we think about it as a victimizing force when it happens "to" us, but what about using it as a creative force? And when destruction happens, is it a sign of mental illness to dismantle your old identity in favor of a new one or is it more "unwell" to maintain the same old names and constructs that belonged to a person that has died a spiritual death (thereby ignoring what has emerged?) And to do this publicly, would people think you were nuts? 

I think this fear of detachment from form and fear of destruction as the enemy of creativity (rather than its conspirator) creates more of a "split personality" affect than willfully acknowledging that change has occurred. Sometimes this comes through in the form of a radical, post-breakup buzz cut, moving to a new house to make new memories, or experimenting with illicit drugs. But why does it have to be a subtle, awkward crawl away from a burning structure? Why not light the match yourself, invite a few friends to watch it burn, and turn to face the harsh and endless landscape of the unknown, armed with a new name? 

The trauma becomes the fodder for transformation. 

madame

what perch could possibly be better than this electric camelot? driftwood dining room, hot summer wind and baby spiders the color of cornsilk. more mine than anyone else's. you're not free unless you're alone.

artists resent their own children. sit down with them, see how they fail to mind their manners no matter how hard you love them, reminded of their flawed humanity as it argues loudly with your belief in their perfection.

for starters, you can't be afraid of words. you can't be afraid to admit that you see pomelo-breasted african women in the clouds of your own blood or in the pinot noir warshak blot on black cotton. you must also use capital letters, proper nouns, and condemn ladies for being playground traitors. we're playing black metal biker bitches with red lipstick, not laugh-at-all-their-jokes-soft-curls-dinner-is-ready bitches in disguise. you must troll the streets at dawn in 6-inch heels. that's when and where you'll get your clarity. your last cigarette from the night before. your pale reflection in the dark windows of more pious enterprises like bed, bath and beyond. honest work. your body will begin to loosen and blare false advertising. but you must be prepared to shut it up, quietly. investigate, interrogate, entreat your best-friend-turned-enemy to rejoin the cause. or at least, not to leave you shivering alone under hot, angry stars.

saloon doors open inward. they call for a two-handed forceful entry. hesitate and your cover is blown. you cannot doubt/hate/suffer your inner sacred cows to shrivel in the limelight. you must strut that spotted, dairy-producing vessel down a very narrow catwalk. you must be present to win.

notes on a wall depicting scandal. documenting the effects of drinking solo. each stroke can lead you back to the top of your essay. to the top of the wave, the crest, sunny spines, whatever mountainous inspiration you can glean from easy-bake encouragement. break it apart, drop it on a pan, impress your guests and save time. no flour on your nose, no hair out of place.

at least, not in this house.

O

then to now.

 

 that chasm dug by hand. by my hands. my hands scooping up the brains of the man i loved after a bullet tore through his skull and put me out of my mind.

they were my hands, small again, gathering november leaves for confetti. my hands. 

mind had become brain, brain became brains. brains betrayed the infinite space of me, of him.

my own lacey thoughts and teatime notions of what would always be, what was subject to fate and gravity -- all sent wriggling  across the cosmic blackness of the car. a death not unlike the beginnings of life.

if only we had stopped instead of creeping forward into that impossible space. into that bubble where even the brightest stars turn inside out.

stolen. dragged away from ever putting him back together again. if i turned to look at him, he’d dissolve forever.

but it wasn’t his blue remains that I tried desperately to recollect, to re-member him piece by piece.

– this was all so terribly wrong.

it was my hands trying to quickly hide the evidence that this man could fall, that he could break.

because then, nothing was safe.

and the world was suddenly colder. no lighthouse to bring me to shore. nothing to keep.

i could suddenly feel the pearls around my neck, perforating and pure. dressed up for our own funeral, but it was me they were burying.

suddenly remembered the foil dinner I’d left in the microwave for hours. the hot afternoons spent waiting, fanning, pacing. shoes left untied. babies unfed.

if only I had hidden the pieces of him in the folds of my dress. hidden them anywhere, to sort through later, on my own.

but he was trampled under the stampede of legend. and i painted my eyes on every day that.

after seeing his brain, his human matter, scatter as any broken thing would – like any mangled sea star, butchered lamb or mutilated saint would—i saw that my prince was merely mulch. only mortal debris. the champagne firelight, the thrill from middle to middle,  butterfly thrusts, bloodbaths and memos were only there to distract me. red velvet blindfolds to hide the man from the magic, the magic from the man.  

i saw the world differently after that. and the world saw me turn to glass.

i watched my hands, still clutching what was left of him, begin to think and crawl and press onward, even as i looked back.

tides

dropping into the wave. seeing your own shadow rising up, gray against the water. what is frightening? the feeling of riding a roller coaster without rails, the knowledge that your delicate skin and bones can be swallowed up by the froth, jetsam and whim in which you steep.

little tea leaves, go forth. permeate. let your flavors muddle and meld with the heat, the water prepared just for you. your black twining oils rising to the surface to greet the lips that will savor you. forward fold, feel it in the knees, let them bend as your head hangs heavy toward the core of the earth. deep center, deep magma, pendulum swinging ever closer to the pins. one by one, echoing in the massive memorial chambers of france. proving theories as the world spins faster.

we used to hold the shells to one ear, to hear the ocean. we used to drive with tea cups in our hands, and never spilled a drop. laughter, hot tea, swilling and threatening to scald us in our school clothes, our sunday bests. black, green, checker board, the rules were left where they belong. when we got to the water’s edge, we watched little feather heads drop into sneering curls and rip tides. pressing down as they sailed along, gliding down her salty thighs and jumping ship when she noticed them.

shading our eyes wth beveled hands, as if saluting the sea’s consorts — the ones she spared — we smiled with red lips, cat’s eye lenses and cotton blouses tied at the star of our ribs. gingham. bike wheels spinning. bottomless tea cups. jasmine purring in the kettle. watching the brave battle on.

palladium

do you have a roadmap layed out already? do you remember the difference between lay and lie? when to lay, when to lie, when you've lain, lied or laid?

so hard to push everyone out of the room, hold both doors shut with two hands, full weight leaning into the wood, head hanging between parallel arms.

still very lovable. a tree that grows from one room to another, overflow, a crowded foyer leading to a small cafe that only serves st. germaine in various forms - and the lights are always off. for the effect of eating after hours, being somewhere you ought not be, invisible, anonymous.

push them out and lean hard into the door, remembering a song with one lyric throughout the entire four and half minutes: ease iron. you'll keep them out. you and whose army?

the banjo breaks into a crescendo -- heels click on the sidewalk, kerchiefs fly up like puffs of rainbow smoke, throw it all off, leave your rings at the door, my darling.

distracting eyes across the table...it's not enough to be bright. you have to do what you are, you have to display all of the ingredients in your spice cabinet. if it doesn't make sense, you're doing it right. one glance behind, one half smile at the way it was, get out here! you owe us all that you are, an explanation, you can't hide forever.

my dear, my only one, watch me sleep these demands away in a little desert cradle. you were the taker, i was the maker, we met and down came the rain. but you can do what you want. and i can change my dress.


ohhh. man.

buskers on the loose. shoeless, sun setting, golden raisins in the park.

you are what you do. if you want, you can walk the prada belt of the earth counterclockwise, run up the down staircase, malinger on train tracks, shove encyclopedic spines out of place, snap delicate glassware, or watch trees photosynthesize. image and destination versus truth and journey.

harmonize, feel how sound moving through your body can open your heart. how horizontal stripes can make you wider. how pressing pedals on a bike can make your sleeves flap.

i used to think that something great was always around the corner, that some day my life could start when i got these other things out of the way, then i realized these things were my life.

lighting little candles under baskets, desiccants, yucca, purple-veined flora choked, papyrus. no basket shall be spared, each one alights and soon, the whole state is on fire. up in flames, poof goes the ranch. charred doorways where prison bars used to cast piano key shadows. blood still cut off, oxygen rich and lucid, kept there until the curls straightened out and order was once again restored.

 

something good

Something good, oh something good tonight will make me forget about you for now.
Get high, hit the floor before you go.
Matador, estocada, you’re my blood sport.
But something good tonight will make me forget about you for now
Forty-eight thousand seats,bleats
 and roars for my memories of you.

Now that I’m fully clean
the matador is no more and is dragged from view.
Get high, hit the floor before you go.
Matador, estocada, you’re my blood sport.
Forty-eight thousand seats, bleats
and roars for my memories of you,
Now that I am clean
the matador is no more and is dragged from view.
But something good tonight will make me forget about you for now.

-alt j

taro

Flowers in December
Mazzy Star

Before I let you down again
I just want to see you in your eyes
I wouldn't have taken everything out on you
I only thought you could understand
They say every man goes blind in his heart
And they say everybody steals somebody's heart away
And I've got nothing more to say about it
Nothing more than you would need
Send me your flowers of your December
Send me your dreams of your candy wine
I've got just one thing I can't give you
Just one more thing of mine
They say every man goes blind in his heart
They say everybody steals somebody's heart away
And I've been wondering why you let me down
And I've been taking it all for granted

dimension

last night, we built a fort out of old bed sheets -- little rose buds, giant yellow roses, bamboo, retro squares. we sat inside, on a bare mattress with a light between us. we both wore silk kimonos, and sipped red wine from cracked tea cups. i told you about a balloon that i discovered. it looked like an ordinary balloon -- lavender, full of helium, with a dark purple string. but at night, if  i climbed to the top of a black obelisk in the middle of a japanese city (where it waited for me) i could hold the string and fly anywhere. i could fly in and out of cities, into day, into night, even into memories and time. i flew to a farm, where boys were playing marbles on a dusty road. i flew to buenos aires, and watched a boat race.

but then, one day, someone told me that my balloon was dangerous. that night, when i went to fly again, the string disintegrated in my hands, and the balloon flickered and faded like a face i knew but couldn't remember.

i told you my story, about the balloon. you tackled me, wrestled me, my wine spilled all over the mattress. i laughed. you kissed me: i love you. kissed me again: i love you. and again: i love you.

cherry

ingredients.

torridly, recklessly.

leave it unedited, uncensored, unsigned. cold dough, incubating in a straightjacket.

jars and jars of unlabeled matter.

stop abruptly, in the middle, without explanation. leave hanging indents.

stop before the words can catch their breath, before it can relax and sigh and stretch like a cat in the sun. claws catching on curtains. accidental amusement.

it should be over in a flash, a cherry on the highest branch--bird bait--flanked with pie pans to deflect and entice.

it says 'come hither, taste me'. then, when you're close enough to see the lust in your unblinking eyes, eight seconds elapsed, you see yourself: a greedy swallow, pecking holes in perfect cheeks, drawing blood.

let it alone. let it dry. let it crawl back home to a door left wide open, with nothing inside. pin it on a clothesline--page after wet page, great white sails on an urban plot, bleached prayer flags--rising like a hint of infinity and crashing into power lines.





 

the other shore

“Together they had overcome the daily incomprehension, the instantaneous hatred, the reciprocal nastiness, and fabulous flashes of glory in the conjugal conspiracy. It was a time when they both loved each other best, without hurry or excess, when both were most conscious of and grateful for their incredible victories over adversity. Life would still present them with other moral trials, of course, but that no longer mattered: they were on the other shore.” 

 -GGM

happy tea

Hers would be just like the one on Valencia Street. Because the city needed it – a place where single origin coffees and teas could be sipped, where revolutionary minds could be muddled and spiced, where blood-red roses in jam jars could mirror the tattoos of the clientele. Do you belong to the order of the root beer rooibos tea slurpers? Do you play chess on your laptop against the computer, or against your ex who now lives in Ashland? Which table are you drawn to: the porcelain rounder beneath the replica light bulbs, with those excellent push-button switches and single-loop carbon filaments?  Or will you sit by the window, with three ghostly guests, and read Sartre, or A Passage to India, with a double-decker sea green tea pot all set about with fever trees?

Hers would also incorporate jute. Lots of twine. Vintage wallpaper. The snow would fly but so would the paper flock of Japanese cranes under a chicken wire skylight. Salt would be tracked in, swept out, and tracked in again with black mascara stains. Nothing is waterproof these days. Hers was also prone to disorder. Mustaches uncombed, pomade globs unmassaged into the locks of straw-blonde employees, arm hairs unkempt and threatening to garnish the happy tea, a flavor she blended by gloved hand.

Music was another matter entirely. Too old and it was cliché. Too new and it evoked a crowd that clashed with the theme of an ambiguous ‘then’. Hers would play a combination of obscure and oldies but goodies. Subtle, like the cucumbers in the community water jug save but two that rested on her eyes before dawn. Refreshing, refined, and fully retrofitted from a time when shower caps were floral and fabric, when bread was implicitly homemade and soups not warmed by an electric kettle. Hers cheated, sometimes, out of sight.

Hers had a lavatory inside an old elevator shaft. Pull the chain and open the flue, let out the unwanted, lure in the blackbirds. Replace underwear – she preferred knickers –to original position in the honesty of natural light. Return refuse to proper place in iron waste basket. Partake of organic hand soap and wipe hands on pants in the spirit of eco-friendship. Hers wasted not, and wanted only in secret.     

secret ops

we were standing in a hangar, where a helicopter was about to launch indoors. you had been chosen to lead a mission, secret ops, with one other man. i had also been selected to go along as a spy, someone to extrapolate information, find weaknesses, snuff out the enemy. you didn't know i was there until the prop started to turn. when you saw me, i had just looked down and noticed that on the day of the mission launch, i had forgotten to wear shoes. but somehow i had remembered to pack a pair of yours -- old hiking shoes you had retired and then lent to me once, socks too. too big, dusty, burrs in the laces, they would have to do. hopefully this wouldn't involve a lot of running away from the enemy, i thought. you saw me tying the shoes, and i couldn't tell what upset you more -- that i was wearing your shoes or that i had been chosen to go on the same mission.

once we arrived, we were on a deserted college campus. somewhere, someone was hiding, lying in wait. my job was unclear, and i could hardly walk. you seemed to know what you were doing, you had a gun and the other guy listened to you. i wanted to talk to you, ask you what exactly i was supposed to be doing, make sure it was alright if i borrowed your shoes, tell you i was scared.  but i couldn't.

we found ourselves inside a church. gunfire outside. i realized that it was my job to go out and discover the identity of the enemy, but you grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me in the eye: you can't go out there.

why not?

because they'll kill you.

and that would bother you?

stay here, i'll go instead. get up on the roof.

i watched you disappear into the hedge. i could only see leaves, the dark rubber green and lime yellow undersides of leaves.

majestic

when lights fail,

remain in place

until lights resume.

die

stairs

you were standing at the top of the stairs, the ceiling was low and geometric -- you had to turn your head to the side in order to fit in the door frame. a red light was shining on your face, you seemed to gaze at me. i couldn't see the source of the red light behind me, but when it hit your face it turned lemonade pink. you were young, as i remember you, plush and perspiring.

stay with me.

you know i can't.

i felt summoned -- a wistful invitation -- like biting into a hot peach, like melted butter surrendering on toast.

you look like the devil.

i smiled and turned my head to match yours.

you said something under your breath, people rushed up and down the stairs between us -- on their way to the stage -- makeup bright and feathers flying.

ride

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