Prose; Publishing Joy


I feel like my baby is about to go off to college.

I’m about to publish my first book and it’s almost time to let it go,

No longer able to control where it goes in the ethers,

Out into the world, warts and all,

Fresh, innocent, never having smelled a book store (yeah right)

Never having gone through the digital or paper mill…

Does that hurt?

My memories, feelings, occurrences, family secrets, pictures,

losses, dates, intimacies, grandparents, babies lost, tears cried,

Oh my god!!!!  Why did I write this memoir????

Stop the presses!  I can’t do this!!!!

I can’t put all of the truths of my life out into the public for perusal and criticism!

Not that anyone will care…but my life has been interesting hasn’t it?

I wrote it so it sounded interesting….yes I did.

Why did I listen to my FRIEND????  She said, “Lisa, write a memoir”

after hearing me tell stories.

Well, what if no one ELSE is the least bit interested?

This is nail-biting territory if anyone reads it.

I seriously do have many mind-bender stories.

What if people think I’m nuts?

There’s no such thing as bad press.

I’m just…a little nervous I guess.

impublishingmymemoir

 

 

Essay; It’s Better to Have Loved


Susan Bauser, Artist

You know the saying,

“It’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.”-Alfred Lord Tennyson

I have a new sense about it. If I love, anyone, for any length of time for any reason, my heart may break open but that is never a loss. I don’t feel that I’ve lost anything by loving but have gained. My soul is awakened by connection, care, and bonding.

What I lose is what I did not need; belief that I control that which I cannot; others and their feelings in addition to my feelings.  I lose the belief that I can control their movement, coming and going.  I lose ego, loneliness, radical independence, no connection, cynicism, even resentment for humans just because we can be weak!

All there is, in the end, is love. People say that all the time but I really feel I come from love and will eventually return to love. And love is what binds me together with all life forms.

So maybe my perception is that I’ve lost a lot in my life.  That has indeed been my perception. But if I’ve loved and learned in the midst of that I haven’t lost anything at all; I’ve gained the gift of my soul being broken open.

As a writer and an artist, that’s all I’ve ever wanted.  Now I have the rest of my life to tell stories and express how tragically beautiful that brokenness can be and how it’s the only path to wholeness.

No one gets to skate past being broken.  It’s pretty much what happens to everyone on this planet. We’re equal in that.

Prose; Between The Cracks


walking-on-a-piano

Between the cracks of the piano keys, where the quarter and eighth tones lie, invisible gems are to be found.

Whole tones (normal notes) have no business here…no one likes them… they just seem whole, they’re really broken; like a million notes in smudged ink all over the page.

I long for these sounds to break the cacophony around me.  Dissonance? They are consonant to me.  They fill my cup in a parched closet, old wood, dry and brittle, thirsting for moisture.  Dusty, unpopular, unseen, unheard by most human ears…

I love those places.  Ah…let me sleep there.

“Grand Opening Here”, I run the other way.  I’ll come in the middle of the night thank you-when no one is around but the ghost of my Grandpa, and maybe his friend with him.  I can write then. Dusty basements, hidden shops, in-between dimensions, cracks, and mortice hide the doorways.

I long for these places to break up the routine of my day. 

Little antique stores, old forgotten thrift stores where mom & pop still sit in the chair from 1926, gems are to be found.  Patina so thick you can taste the smell of it, musky, soil, brackish dark. Cobwebs everywhere-but it’s all new to me.

I’m looking, for…my friend…a part of my soul that is tragically invisible to the surface dwellers, so odd, so unexpected that it thrashes my back.  So impossible, so inconvenient, so much…so very good!

It feels eternally old and yet new to me; New to me because it doesn’t “fit” in my brain; in my plan.  My well ordered, hip, sharp, cerebral, sassy, punkish, cavalier brain brutishly, insensitively mocked your old stories, your tradition, your nostalgia, your mischief.  I’m not really laughing.  I just really, really like the texture of it all-and you.

It has been said, “Your heart is a fickle leader!”  Then I am the crumbs in the bottom of the toaster-like the host crumbs in “the cup”.  Drink me.  I am altogether undone.  So be it…

Move to the old that is new!

Take a leap…what seems old is new, what seems new is old.  What’s up is down??

It just is.

It aches to feel like a foreigner in my own planet…Always seeking a creative space that is misunderstood, mysterious, and forgotten.

Gorge on my grief and run for cover then…

Nothing is lacking; ever…all of it.  The devil is in the details they say.  His ears shriek when he hears quarter tones and eighth tones between the cracks; and time is no more.  When the notes become whole, he is undone.

2/14/10

 

 

Re-Program; Deportations


My blood was boiling on a rampage today about Trump ordering the ICE to deport people in five states until…

I remembered they called Obama the King of Deportation after he called for 3 million people to be deported.

It’s amazing how easy it is to find fault in your enemy and forget that an ally did exactly the same thing.

Why was I so biased?  Why did I forget Obama did that?

Why are humans so biased for one side against the other when most of the time, they do the same things?

stop_deportations_poster

Prose; Shadow


 

beautiful tree

I obscure my darkness to walk through life content, shadow feelings under the bed.

Convoluted darkness just below my navel only, my prescient dreams adumbrate what my body holds in, refusing to release its undulating grasp like a cranky child crying, needing attention and touch.

Male progenitor, emotional vampire and…ironically, my ally as a bridge to freedom in the face of neglectful, unfeeling, autocratic child-bearer.

Tremulous adolescence, when the course succor so needed is vacuous at best,

Cynical vexation felt so keenly in their insensitivity to my easily affected, young, psychic heart. They didn’t even know what the fuck psychic was because it wasn’t in the bible.

What could I have been?

What happy life could I have had if their crispy, mucous eyes had been open a crack?

That shadow feeling could spiral me down so quickly if I focused on it, so I only do it here

for release…because it’s bullshit, and my life is not bullshit, so I’m not filling it with that.

What is more helical bullshit that parental ignorance with an innocent, lovely child born in light and returning to light?

How twisted and contorted can adults get following societies rules, books, beliefs, and materialistic hysteria when they have in front of them a free soul, their child, needing only love by degrees, free roam by yards, food by weight and expression without limit?

The shadow of light is a contrast as a lesson

I’m using it to soar to the heights,

To rip asunder familial right to the soul of a child.

No more,

Whether in love or delusion

each child belongs to themselves only.

Just as roots do not dictate how far, wide and what direction a tree will grow,

so too, shadow roots deep below the ground only hold it in place while the wind, sky, and sun call us ever higher to dance with all of life above ground, storm and calm, for as long as we wish to live.

I hail from you but I am not you.

Feb. 8, 2017, Yellow 13 Warrior

 

Prose; Skin


pick a tomato

The shell of a turtle, a carapace, guards your continuance of electric water, straight to your brain, pulls your vibration down in by degrees.

Your skin like a husk full of ridges on corn smells sweet,

hard to pull off at the bottom, tassles so soft on my face, the smell of earth.

Your arm was warm and pleasant as the first tomato of summer in my hungry hand.

Let me bite into that luscious fruit, so sweet and tangy

 or a mango stream of juice down my chin.

I’m distracted, clement smells from your back

Why are so sweet yet so smart and severe?

No end to touch makes my breathing peaceful.

I feel happy…oh god I’m doomed.

Indeed, it only lasted one day and you ripped your skin from me again.

At least you can’t take the memory from me.

Words can never erase actions like skin can never cover feelings.

 

Re-Program; Does Resistance Work?


frog

I might be digging into the oracles foundation for 10,000 years.

No, wait, 20,000 years…or

How old are the human species?

6 million years, our ancestors-approximate. 200,000 years, modern humans

Well, the earth is…4.5 billion years old and we have the DNA from every living thing in our cells that ALLOWED itself to evolve on the Earth before we did.

Every living thing, every plant, worm, insect, animal, and cell that came before us flowed with the soil, the water, the mud, the detritus, the sludge, the fire, and ice…it just….was.

and it allowed itself to be on the earth, working synergistically together, no wrangling or fists, it allowed itself to be what it was because it didn’t have a mirror…to EXAMINE….and think…”What…do….I….think?”

We are a moaning, creaking tower of human thinking.  Towering human intellects decide that resistance is the most constructive course and I’m on the wrong side of the pond or the field if I see it differently.

Maybe human thinking is overrated if it cannot LET the living thing NEXT TO IT JUST BE WHAT IT IS.  These Red people are just confused.  They don’t understand.  Wow, how unacceptable and new for a human being to not understand.  They are evil because they are scared and don’t understand?  You’ve never been scared and not understood something? You’re a THINKER and you always understand everything!

Not everybody thinks all the time.  Some people feel, sense, and intuit all the time. People do different things.

Can I please, just be a blade of grass, or a quiescent pool diving deep because I now have gills?

I’ve decided it makes more sense to devolve so I can stop thinking.

When I think, then I decide to resist…breathing, seeing, feeling, intuiting, knowing-everything that ALLOWED NATURE and it’s cooperation to harmonize before I existed, my thinking is just better.  Not.

Because human beings think so much they’ve stopped feeling so much and knowing so much so that now they are this thing call civilized and think they’ll do civil disobedience to procrastinate jumping into the crystal water and having fun, knowing what they want…

they want their gills back.

My oracle said, “Human resistance works!  Look at this example”  And when I go back millions of years to the beginning of evolution, I was able to take a nap in peace next to a frog.

(The frog is an ancient species, far older than humans, as are many animals and plants.)

 

Prose; Gray Day


gray day.jpg

The sky is much grayer lack of light and still prayer.

Tree bark darker wet mud dragged upstairs.

No grayer will be in that Michigan sky, mournful woes sad goodbyes.

Sad goodbyes to the bright sun that shocks eyes in May,

It appears a huge orb high in the sky.

We say “What’s that big orange disc by day?”

Who hides behind clouds that we hate.

Oh please dear sun, we beg for your warmth,

We can’t take one more grate of this fate.

My son says, “I don’t know what is better, gray sky or the snow?”,

His smug face looks at me with a smirk.

He’s eighteen and he’s jibbing his mother so low

But he’s serious, he prefers this to hurt,

The hurt of the sun burning down on his face shining wonderful light in his eyes

He was born in a snowbank at the end of this month

Eighteen short years as I rank.

I’ll forgive him this time as there won’t be much more

Of his smart-alec ways to imbibe

He’s going away, out my front door

And that’s when my heart may just die.

Jan. 30, 2017