trying to appreciate the inconsistencies of life, and myself.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Leaves are starting to fall
I miss so many things that are attached to this one silly photograph.
To begin, I miss living in Portland.
I miss using my body and two wheels to get around town.
I miss getting out of the shower, or waking from a night's rest, splitting my hairs in two sections and tying them back, without worries or cares.
I miss feeling energized from by bike rides, my long and rare conversations and from being so busy and challenged.
I miss wearing layers of clothing.
I miss that simple necklace that snapped in two not long ago.
I miss feeling satisfied, even if I wasn't aware of it then.
I miss worrying less and living one step at a time.
I miss my eucalyptus plant.
I miss living in a house.
To begin, I miss living in Portland.
I miss using my body and two wheels to get around town.
I miss getting out of the shower, or waking from a night's rest, splitting my hairs in two sections and tying them back, without worries or cares.
I miss feeling energized from by bike rides, my long and rare conversations and from being so busy and challenged.
I miss wearing layers of clothing.
I miss that simple necklace that snapped in two not long ago.
I miss feeling satisfied, even if I wasn't aware of it then.
I miss worrying less and living one step at a time.
I miss my eucalyptus plant.
I miss living in a house.
I am very hopeful for my near future.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Ode To The Dictionary
Back like an ox, beast of
burden, orderly
thick book: as a youth
I ignored you,
wrapped in my smugness,
I thought I knew it all,
and as puffed up as a melancholy toad
I proclaimed: "I receive
my words in a loud, clear voice
directly from Mt. Sinai.
I shall convert
forms to alchemy.
I am the Magus."
The Great Magus said nothing.
The Dictionary
old and heavy in its scruffy
leather jacket,
sat in silence,
its resources unrevealed.
But one day,
after I'd used it
and abused it,
after
I'd called it
useless, an anachronistic camel,
when for months, without protest,
it had served me as a chair
and a pillow,
it rebelled and planting its feet
firmly in my doorway,
expanded, shook its leaves
and nests,
and spread its foliage:
it was
a tree,
a natural,
bountiful
apple blossom, apple orchard, apple tree,
and words
glittered in its infinite branches,
opaque or sonorous,
fertile in the fronds of language,
charged with truth and sound.
I
turn
its
pages:
caporal,
caopte,
what a marvel
to pronounce these plosive
syllables,
and further on,
capsule,
unfilled, awaiting ambrosia or oil
and others,
capsicum, caption, capture, comparison, capricorn,
words
as slippery as smooth grapes,
words exploding in the light
like dormant seeds waiting
in the vaults of vocabulary,
alive again, and giving life:
once again the heart distills them.
Dictionary, you are not a
tomb, sepulcher, grave,
tumulus, mausoleum,
but guard and keeper,
hidden fire,
groves of rubies,
living eternity
of essence,
depository of language.
How wonderful
to read in your columns
ancestral
words,
the severe and
long-forgotten
maxim,
daughter of Spain,
petrified
as a plow blade,
as limited in use
as an antiquated tool,
but preserved
in the precise beauty and
immutability of a medallion.
Or another
word
we find hiding
between the lines
that suddenly seems
as delicious and smooth on the tongue
as an almond,
or tender as a fig.
Dictionary, let one hand
of your thousand hands, one
of your thousand emeralds,
a
single
drop
of your virginal springs,
one grain
from
your
magnanimous granaries,
fall
at the perfect moment
upon my lips,
onto the tip of my pen,
into my inkwell.
From the depths of your
dense and reverberating jungle
grant me,
at the moment it is needed,
a single birdsong, the luxury
of one bee,
one splinter
of your ancient wood perfumed
by an eternity of jasmine,
one
syllable,
one tremor, one sound,
one seed:
I am of the earth and with words I sing.
--Pablo Neruda
Back like an ox, beast of
burden, orderly
thick book: as a youth
I ignored you,
wrapped in my smugness,
I thought I knew it all,
and as puffed up as a melancholy toad
I proclaimed: "I receive
my words in a loud, clear voice
directly from Mt. Sinai.
I shall convert
forms to alchemy.
I am the Magus."
The Great Magus said nothing.
The Dictionary
old and heavy in its scruffy
leather jacket,
sat in silence,
its resources unrevealed.
But one day,
after I'd used it
and abused it,
after
I'd called it
useless, an anachronistic camel,
when for months, without protest,
it had served me as a chair
and a pillow,
it rebelled and planting its feet
firmly in my doorway,
expanded, shook its leaves
and nests,
and spread its foliage:
it was
a tree,
a natural,
bountiful
apple blossom, apple orchard, apple tree,
and words
glittered in its infinite branches,
opaque or sonorous,
fertile in the fronds of language,
charged with truth and sound.
I
turn
its
pages:
caporal,
caopte,
what a marvel
to pronounce these plosive
syllables,
and further on,
capsule,
unfilled, awaiting ambrosia or oil
and others,
capsicum, caption, capture, comparison, capricorn,
words
as slippery as smooth grapes,
words exploding in the light
like dormant seeds waiting
in the vaults of vocabulary,
alive again, and giving life:
once again the heart distills them.
Dictionary, you are not a
tomb, sepulcher, grave,
tumulus, mausoleum,
but guard and keeper,
hidden fire,
groves of rubies,
living eternity
of essence,
depository of language.
How wonderful
to read in your columns
ancestral
words,
the severe and
long-forgotten
maxim,
daughter of Spain,
petrified
as a plow blade,
as limited in use
as an antiquated tool,
but preserved
in the precise beauty and
immutability of a medallion.
Or another
word
we find hiding
between the lines
that suddenly seems
as delicious and smooth on the tongue
as an almond,
or tender as a fig.
Dictionary, let one hand
of your thousand hands, one
of your thousand emeralds,
a
single
drop
of your virginal springs,
one grain
from
your
magnanimous granaries,
fall
at the perfect moment
upon my lips,
onto the tip of my pen,
into my inkwell.
From the depths of your
dense and reverberating jungle
grant me,
at the moment it is needed,
a single birdsong, the luxury
of one bee,
one splinter
of your ancient wood perfumed
by an eternity of jasmine,
one
syllable,
one tremor, one sound,
one seed:
I am of the earth and with words I sing.
--Pablo Neruda
Monday, July 13, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
This is an old picture from the first winter I spent in Oregon.
I am trying to get organized, going through hundred of files, which are all photos, trying to decide where to organize them online, if I should even fully venture into the virtual realm. I think I am already there but deciding to go full force has been a hard decision to make. I am going to try it for a while, delete everything and start again after I have changed my mind a few several times. No, maybe I will stop being such a roller coaster and just embrace what it is and enjoy it for that. Seems simple; seems nice.
And this is an older self-portrait from Texas, probably 2005, I think.
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