to be and not to be……..

Sometimes I struggle with presence………presence of mind and presence of being…..desiring something other than….desiring to extinguish desires……(which is in itself a desire and in opposition of the way to obtain that particular state of being)……..I often desire to run away and become a buddhist monk for silence and contemplation…….but there is the opposition…..I am a mother….I have a beautiful four year old son whom I love very much……..so the ascetic aspect of becoming a monk and living a life of contemplation is an impossibility at the moment, at this time in my life……….in this life…….so this was a struggle………until just recently……..I’ve learned not to desire what I am not, but learn to love the moment that I am in …….I chose to be a mother (and not a monk ), this is my role….and I am happy with this…….sure I may become frustrated that I don’t have enough time to myself to write and pursue other goals, or enough silence ( I love my silence time), but this is momentary…..it will not last forever……..things always change……..my son will grow older and not require as much attention from me….(although it is mostly my workplace that leaves me drained and overwhelmed and not wanting to talk to another living soul for a while and thus makes me somewhat frustrated with the demands of motherhood)….I am learning again to love and cherish the moments that I have with him (rekindling that overzealous affection I first felt from the first moment I had held him)………and feeling sad that these moments too shall pass as he will no longer be my baby boy in size….(always my baby boy no matter what, though!)….so I need to seize the moment instead of grasping for delusional straws of another imagined existence……..I just need to be even more adaptable and set priorities (but not deadlines) for things I wish to work on…….and learning acceptance of my roles, in this life and loving it……..

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Regret

I’ve seen her barely there body in the mornings hunting the downtown trash cans. I always tell myself I will bring her something to eat. I always forget. On the sidewalk I am now closer to her than I have ever been. I try not to look directly into her eyes, because I know I would see the abyss; the pain of existence, and orphans crying because they were born and it hurts. But my son’s mittened hand tugs at my gloved one. “Grandmas should always have a coat and gloves when it’s cold outside,” he says. He takes off his mittens and taps her arm. I hand her my gloves. We get into our parked car and start driving home with the heat blasting. Tears well up in my eyes; I feel small. I should have given her my coat.

Two Eskimos

The cocoons that you weaved in the snow, so delicately, made me feel safe. I snuggled into one of them. Warm snow mummies we were, you and I. Our rebirth into the winter’s afterlife was always heralded by our glittering transient walls crashing down around us like infant tidal waves in practice. You took my hand as we walked away from our broken cocoon; non-existent now. Our life was always like this; permanence being a futile feeling.

How I do love Kronos Quartet and Clint Mansell……..The Fountain soundtrack is currently the music I immerse myself in (with headphones to block out the world) when I am writing……I listen to it on repeat…over and over…….

Nepenthes (a short story still in progress)

     She looked up at the sky and laughed. Laughing, laughing, laughing, and then growling. Growling, growling, growling, and then screaming. Screaming, screaming, screaming, and then weeping. No more tears. The hunger won’t wait. Running. Running, running, running; faster than the sun. The sun orbiting this place at the same rate that it takes a mayfly to die on other planets (thirty minutes). Time is a useless concept here. Shadows dancing in circles, mocking stagnation. She must always move if she doesn’t want her shadow to catch her. No place to escape the shadows. No hole in the rocks. No rocks.
Just orange grass licking her legs. She collapsed into it. Sleep again. The shadow of her sleeping body circuiting her twice. She awakens and nurses the babe whom she carries wrapped and tied to her back.
Now, barely enough time to find red berries in the grass. She knows this; ignorant of other possibilities existing. Here, sleep is the timekeeper. Everything revolves around that master.

She woke up. More running. In the distance was the horrifying place she thought she had escaped. Hopelessness sets in.

“The vultures eat our babies here.” Her voice underneath glowing orbs curtained by blood clotted hair.
Tarantula-like arms cling to the babe; alien veins transplanted externally to the infant’s not yet diseased skin, encircling and pulsing with dangerous and ugly rhythm. Somewhere in the stagnant air are scented boulders of burning flesh; sacrifices to a starving landscape that is apathetic to the tortures inflicted upon her inhabitants that were not her daughters or sons anyway.

“Give the baby to me,” I mouthed to this beautifully narcoleptic creature.  It didn’t matter if she refused, as she would soon be dying that revolving dark death that consumed most of her time.  They were all narcoleps here.  A sort of visceral adaptation perhaps.  There was no purpose in being awake here.  She tilted her head back and forth in futile refusal.

Bitter drops of dust had not yet frozen on the tips of the cactus-like vegetation.  I waited.  Her dusty tears carved her grimy face into an asymmetrical pattern.  Five more drops of her encapsulated stoic hatred of me until her untimely collapse. Her deciduous body crumpled painlessly-habitually into suspended animation of a fetal position.  Stasis hacked her into guts of silence and surrender.  The infant rolled out of her betraying limbs into my prepared arms.

She was almost right. Sometimes the vultures do eat the babies here; when the mothers fall into their unfortunate slumbers. I looked up into the burning yellow sky. Already, giant shadows of death circling her; a habit. Sometimes they are disappointed, though; like now.

I start running in the direction she had come. Away from the mocking village of death. I know that I can make it. I chew guarana berries to stay awake, as a preventative for the narcolepsy that has not yet taken me.

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drat…

Main Entry: drat
Pronunciation: \ˈdrat\
Function: verb
Inflected Form(s): drat·ted; drat·ting
Etymology: probably euphemistic alteration of God rot
Date: 1815

I like the word drat more than damn…….drat, which stems from god rot, just sounds more putrid and horrifying……..you are condemning something (or someone) to rot…..you could say “god rot it!” to the piece of furniture that stubbed your toe…..
this brings me to my next thought: why not become more personal with this cursing business……..use an arbitrary name like Bob or Thelma……….then you could say “Thelma rot it!”……..it sounds a little more threatening (like there is a Thelma hiding around the corner ready to rot things)…….or why not use animal power? You could use cats or lemurs……..so then you could say “lemur rot it!”……..which finally brings me to the final point: power in numbers…..why not make it plural?………nothing instills fear more than the masses….you could say “thelmas rot it!” or “lemurs rot it!”…..as you flail your fists to the sky….

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