Posts Tagged 'hope'



He slept a few times with an introverted nun, and even once wth a pope. I leave it to you, he said, to decide if a pope is more likely to be an introvert or an extrovert. Cuál?  What kind, flavor, type of temperament wants to change the very earth on its axis, the tides as they approach and recede?  I learned so much about the moon, he continued. Yes, I did. I learned also about discretion, about the stories that need to be told by history, rather than by their immediate narrators. 

He came from a long line of questioners, not quantifiers, and right away, that made him suspect. If you do question, if instead of counting you dance or paint, or live somehow in the world that is spun like a paint mixer or an aerialist, then the question of concrete, linear narrative will sometimes be thin and untenable, thin and burnt like sugar at the state fair, and sometimes the attempt to organize, quantify and justify only makes our aerialists dizzy. Of all the places to be dizzy, hanging from a rope over an unknown abyss is absolutely the most dizzying.

He had a spider once with a thin web and a very tall building and a day that was bright and sunny but with wind. He and spider hung suspended from the question of gravity over a tall building in a clear blue city, and they did not know what to do, only that up there in the air all was high and thin and wild, and that falling would be antithetical, would shock their little spider skeletons long before they ever touched down. Spider and he held hands, held hands and made a web of silk and longing, of silk and human hair, of silk and handprints reaching one to one to one to one down the side of the very tall building, all lit with green and violet lights, and when earth came up to meet them she was gentle as dandelions, soft as kiss, almost as imperceptible as hope itself. 


The Menstrual Chronicles

The Menstrual Chronicles, Part I

Wherein we have a problem, a need for absolution, a problem that drops oh soft and miserable onto the sand. The sand where the pilgrims wandered, the sand where the hoi polloi met in tents and barbecue stands, where the ribs were sucked clean and the fingers were washed in the blood of the lamb and in little bowls of clear water. Absolution shooting out of deep skies in lost cities in continents local and far away, as far away as Obiwan as far away as Moses as far away as Jesus as far away as Osama as close as Jerry as close as Mike as close as election day as close as daybreak, as close as faith.

The Menstrual Chronicles, Part II

We planted snapdragons, we did, one spring and they bloomed. We sang to them in the yard, all of us, with the karaoke machine hooked up to the orange extension cord that we jerryrigged with an adapter that made it foolish dangerous but we’d read in a catalog, a farmer’s almanac, a hippie guide to life on other planets that life on this planet is better when you sing to your flowers. So we did, karaoke Joan Jett and Hannah Montana and Alice Cooper and Louis Armstrong, I see skies of blue red roses too I watch them bloom for me and you and I think to myself what a wonderful world. Those were the best snapdragons and daffodils and bluebells and little wild roses that ever grew in our sucking mud clay. Then one day the plug overheated and the cord melted and there was a little spark in the early morning dew and that was the end of our snadragon concert.

The Menstrual Chronicles, Part III

Wherein we have a problem, the problem of virtue and right living, wherein we have a problem of definition and decay, wherein the blessed is the man that walketh not in the council of the ungodly, but rather becomes the reconstitution of mashed potatoes and purified water and loaves and fishes, wherein amendments play American gladiator with commandments and we all sit down and direct our prayers to several kinds of mecca, where our knees are the worn knees of supplicants and carpet layers, where the marshmallow visions come thick, fast, and suffocating.

The Menstrual Chronicles, Part IV

Cyclic, of course, like gardens and bleeding, like saviours and sinners, the devil is a dog with his tail between his legs. We set aside our discontents, said be grateful for where we live, said thank you sweet Jesus for not making me live in Lubbock or Manchester, thank you for soccer, thank you for my libido and yours, thank you for gratitude, thank you for honest mistakes,  thank you for chicken-fried steak, and once again thank you that I can have chicken-fried steak without having to live in Lubbock, A-men.

The Menstrual Chronicles, Part D

Wherein we change all the regulations and re-write the rules and then hold a few meetings and air some dirty laundry and discover that we’ve all been angry and discontented all this time and that secretly we all knew it would never ever work anyway and then we reconvene to discuss the whole mess later, after the funding’s been approved and then we all go home to watch Indian movies, Bollywood taking us far away from all this. We all go home and dream of frog princes in Bombay, their handsome black-lined eyes, their promises, and when Pavlov calls us, we wake willingly.

The Menstrual Chronicles, Part VI

I sit in the radio silence, there is static but in that moment I am meditative, calm, ecstatic, supraservient and then there is a moment, a moment unlike the others in which we watch the sea change from blue to green to black to gold. Fecundity, fidelity, fear, faith, the heirophant and the rod. It’s looking like a game of Texas hold ‘em from here. Play it close to the vest, watch their eyes and their hands and those little twitching places we’ve all got somewhere that gives away our secrets, for those who are looking.

**Take note: This is a completely improvisational, altogether unedited, 30 minutes timed writing in group. I offer no guarantees of quality or sense, it is just pen to paper, write it and let it go.

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November 2018
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