Friday, November 29, 2013

happy




Happiness. Perhaps it's so elusive beause we ask too much of it. After all, Happy is less of a destination and more of a discovery; more of an ingredient than the entire product. All day long, my hands and soul reach out into the universe, grab at life and stars. I have a collection now, of relationships, ideas, nostalgia, scars, stories. I've gathered them up, and these elements make me who I am. They're each a thread, and somewhere in the tangle sits the Happy.

Happy doesn't get us from place to place, day to night; happy is a breath, a bit of light.

It's the threads that take us along; those loose bits of identity, the rough edges, the solace, the full range of our heart's motion. Stop asking the world for Happy. You've already got it in the mix.













photo: still from Isadora. Vanessa Redgrave. Source.

Thursday, November 21, 2013

it's a 3 laptop kind of night


Anita's on one, I'm on two. Indicative, perhaps, of my inability to focus wholly on a single task, while friends merge ahead of me on their own projects.  I opened my notebook full of ideas and it took me a few minutes, leafing through multiple brainstorm sessions, to find the notes I was looking for. I have so many stories on the go. None are finished. None are in the same 'genre.' Do authors all need a focus? Maybe not. Maybe you can write a futuristic drama, a women's coming of age story, a poetry collection, and a children's book (or two), all at the same time. Will this work? I suppose we'll find out once these things are actually finished.

I worry I won't finish.

Perhaps I should get back to using these two laptops with intention, so we can all find out what happens.






Wednesday, November 20, 2013

I didn't go to the door.

Some time ago, I was accused of shutting the door in someone's face. "I just couldn't believe it," they said, with much disdain and lipcurling. Neither could I believe what was being said. Not only is this action outside my realm of possibility -- I wouldn't do it --  the thing is, I wasn't even at the door. In fact, I wasn't even in that part of the house. How then, could the story be believed as such?

I've learned some people will judge and belittle no matter what the actions are. Some people have constructed a worldview so specific, so self-focused, that truth is what they make it, and not the truth at all. It is easier, perhaps, to believe someone else is wicked, to make up a story, than to question and re-evaluate ourselves.

My initial response to the accusation was anger. Next I was confused, then I battled resignation, and then, I laughed. I laughed a lot. You guys, I didn't even go to the door. And yet, this person Believes I shut the door on them, believes it so fully they told me I did it, even though I am the person they're lying about. There is absolutely, wholly, totally, undeniably nothing I can do about that.

By engaging in relationship, we are essentially opening our doors. What I do when I open my door is my decision; opening my door invites response. I can not control how other people respond to me, I can not control what they say when they're coming up the walk, I can not control who comes to my door, or when. So if someone stands on my front porch, uninvited, builds a mirage wherein I open the door and shut it in their face -- and all the while I'm in my living room, having tea...I can not control this. I can find it sad, wildly pathetic, heartbreaking, insurmountable, unreasonable, and stupid. But I can not change it.

Judgement often comes as a response to our own uncertainty or hurt (clearly, I am responding, here, to my own). We often judge most those we know the least. If someone decides to make a judgement before they know me, I remind myself of the time that I didn't even go to the door. If a person decides to operate in such a dishonest manner, I, and my household, will be unaffected. The door opens to relationship, and closes with mistrust.
 
 
 
photo source: laporterouge

Friday, November 15, 2013

grace, eventually


As it turns out, I don't know how to be gracious. Trust me, I know how to fake the concept; I know how to arrive at grace eventually. But in the moment...ah, that bastardly moment. Outwardly I appear serene, but inwardly I am a bitter stew, standing as a harbinger of defeat. If you happen upon me at the right time, I might even share my words with you, my upheaving words; my disaster of an opinion. Disasterous in this truth: to opine while the wounds are fresh is to perpetuate the wounds. And so I go, boldly, into my secret world of gnashing teeth and rickety high roads, dragging my Reputation Merits in the sand, or in some cases, hucking them aside, to be washed away forever in a giant ocean of THIS IS SOMETHING I MUST DEFEND.

I digress. Humanity is a sandbox and some people choose to shit in it. I keep marking out my lines because this is MY CORNER but there it comes anyway, that giant, line-blurring foot; completely disregarding my crouch, my seething need to be thought of correctly, my lines. It comes along and puts a pedestal right up-on-top of my shoulders and stamps around with clumsy, perfectly pedicured toes. Those standing by are in awe, and reprimand me for getting in the way of such a dance.

As it is, I can not defend myself. So I, and what remains of my merits, move out from underneath that preposterous headache. Another spot is chosen, and I make more lines built of something like concrete, or glass shards, or holy scriptures, or whatever I can reach. My ocean follows me, I make a little fire, and warm my hands. Just a few more minutes 'til I have to build again. Faking grace is hard work.





photo credit: faxed on tumblr

Sunday, November 10, 2013

Flanders' flowers are not white.

I wear red. Not to glorify the fight, but those who fought it,
so my only fight
is this long lineup
in a busy
shopping
season.

I wear red. Not to come against peace, but to show gratitude,
in the tiniest morsel.
A pin-prick on my finger
for the millions who have died
(on all sides)
so my peace,
in mind and body,
can be full.

I wear red. Not to support war or its purposes,
but to remind myself
no argument
is worth that kind of battle.

I wear red because I am ashamed
to be part of a generation
who forgets
who denies
who placates
who whines

who does not know what it means
to wear red.
 

 
 
  
 
 
 
 
writing ©afterthoughtcomposer
 

Sunday, November 3, 2013

a list of all the people I don't like very much






tailgaters, wet road speeders,
blinded wide-eyed trouble seekers,
trust-break-thriving secret leakers,
pompous angry heavy breathers,

those who lust on blood and bleeders,
left-brained hard-lined people eaters,
manic-sweet manipulators,
unabash-ed bottom feeders,

gossip mongrels, gnashing teeth,
those who pray before they cheat,
when they stomp it's as they please;
the hands that carve me will be these.


©afterthoughtcomposer















photo: unknown artist. found via pinterest.