A body in motion

Blog

  • The fun house

    I am four and my grandparents have an object in their yard that looks like a spaceship. It is made of wood and wire with a pointed roof and stilted legs. I often climb inside, shut the door, peer out the wire and wait for take off. My grandparents have confirmed with me that it is most certainly a spaceship but my parents think it’s a birdcage.

    I am a teenager. My grandparents sell their house and with it their mysterious ship. I don’t notice. I am occupied by thoughts of boys and grunge music and coffee shops. I am plagued by spirits and ghosts. I have so many frights in the day and in the night. When my chore is to shut in our chickens after sundown, I run and scream down the path through the woods to their cage, lock their door and run with breath held all the way back up. During the day I take walks though my parent’s property and surrounding areas. A dirt road and a creak run side by side through the yard. There are redwood trees and, under them, clover ground cover and thick cushions of redwood needles.

    I wonder about spirits in the woods and worry why I can never spot a four leaf clover. One day, while walking through the dry creekbed, I see something moving out of the corner of my eye. I am so startled that I let out a blood curdling scream into the culvert that carries water but mostly just my feet from one side of the road to the other. I turn around and around, surprised at my voice, but nothing is there.  

    My parents have not taught me any particular religion or spiritual belief or practice and so my fears do not have a particular shape, but they are still very real. I eventually leave home for college, where I learn the difference between the old and new testament, the allegory of the cave and zen buddhism. I am hollow and hungry and lost. My sense of self is as easy to find as a ghost hovering in another dimension. My mind searches around the classrooms, in the library and on public transportation, intent to find what is missing.

    I am a new college graduate and have decided that boys are the answer. I admire their minds, I tell myself.  It is so much easier to connect with them than with girls my age. I occupy my time, which turns into countless years, shaping myself into what I think they want me to be. To what they see in me. I center their intelligence, interests and passions over mine. I stuff down my passions when I realize that my talents are mediocre and dull in the shadow of their more important ones. I tell myself that I am progressive and smart because I am able to be friends with boys and then men and they want me because I am special. I believe that I have a special power over them that most women don’t.

    I am an adult now, there is no getting around it. I focus on every piece of evidence I can find to remind myself that men think that I am special and different and worthy of their company. I think that my mind is that of a man and not that of a woman. Women are uninteresting and just not relatable. Boring. I roll my eyes at the art of women and prefer male authors and song writers. My boyfriends always have very particular interests and are happy when I mirror them. I do a lot of listening and happily wear the lingerie and heels given to me for valentines day because nothing says love like a plastic thong and blood filled heels.

    I still believe that I am on course for a special place. I will know it when I arrive, I think. 

    I am no longer young and, now in midlife, catch myself in a window and see my mom. I jump head first into relationships with no idea why, resulting in years of being used, manipulated and lied to. Wait, wasn’t I supposed to be the one in control? I am  the one with the power over men and I have the upper hand, right? This illusion begins to crumble after the final and crushing end to a years-long secret and destructive relationship with an unavailable and manipulative man. I break open. All of my badges and trinkets and knowledge and tangled up wire and rusty nails, come pouring out and are absorbed into the earth.  

    I am on long drive with my son. I begin to hear something. I ignore the sound but it returns a few minutes later. It sounds like a song. I pick up the phone and hear a sharp and low man’s voice introducing himself as a cop. His interrogation takes me all the way to a bank. I am holding my son’s hand and my daughter is behind us. The bank employees are all wearing ugly Christmas sweaters as they stand around an open vault.  I see this and everything around me through a fun house mirror. I think that this must be a nightmare. Again, I notice a sound. It’s that cop voice. It has me like a hook. How did this happen? 

    My daughter shoves her phone into my face and I read: THIS IS A SCAM. The illusion melts. I end the call. 

    The ship has crashed and the pieces are scattered across the universe, each of them alone on a planet or moon. A rattlesnake slithers across the thirsty ground until I grab it and hang it from one remaining rusty nail. 

    I walked past the open vault, holding my son’s hand while following my daughter, who guides us past the vault and into the day.

  • Curfew

    The lightbulbs in my house are covered in dust.

    I slip boots over sweatpant legs for a night walk.

    Dry wood stuck to a chain link fence.

    Why are there lights in the park when there is a curfew?

    Mundane daytime obsessions flicker 

    The stars are piercing. 

    A dipper, an ice cream truck and an arrow slow my heart.

    Waves of insignificance take me back inside where

    Cave paintings fill my dreams.

  • Elements, part 2

    Air

    The air is warm and full of plum tree petals. I am taking a circular walk around and around the blocks of my son’s elementary school. My headphones are in, the sky is bright and my mind consumed by a storyteller. In the middle of my second lap I realize that there is a person walking on the sidewalk about a half of a block behind me, neither gaining nor retreating and definitely not walking a dog. I notice myself noticing them. What is that feeling? It is familiar. I turn around and do a double take because it is him. He sees me see him and calls my name. I turn back around and yell,

    leave me alone!

    He responds,

    please, I want to talk to you. Please stop. Stop, I want to talk to you.

    I know this trick. He has done this so many times and, in the past, I fell for it. 

    In the past I would say,

    fine, okay, what do you want to tell me?

    I’d stop and look at him and he would look at me and he would say,

    I just want to talk to you. I miss you.

    I’d say,

    what else is new? Didn’t I tell you that I am not interested in your tiresome story?

    I am finally immune.  I’d say,

    unless you are going to tell me that you have stopped lying, that you are finally taking responsibility for your actions and will stop ruining my life?  

    Water

    When I succumbed in the past and stopped to listen he would always say,

    what do you want me to say? What do you want me to do? Why are you so mean?

    Sometimes he would cry, like that time in the pouring rain when he cried and cried and I felt sorry for him, hugged him and couldn’t let go, stuck on to the tentacles protruding from his raincoat and drunk on poison. He would take my hand and tell me again that we have a special connection. I’d agree and smile, the rain turning into small rivers under our feet. 

    Fire

    This time I started walking faster and shouting,

    stop following me! What are you doing here? How did you find me? For fucks sake. Why are you following me? Leave me alone, go away, go away.

    I faintly heard him call out that he happened to be driving by and spotted me and decided to stop. My chest is on fire and my face is burning with rage.  I begin to run, find  my car and hide inside until my son is done with basketball practice and we go home. I lock the door, make dinner and play legos with my son. 

    Earth

    In my dream I walk down the carpeted stairs to my basement. The new floor is gone. In its place, a grave. A terrifying monster climbs out of the grave and into my basement and I scream like it is my last breath. I think,

    how I could have built my house on the grave of such an evil spirit? I think about this as the monster reaches out for me.

  • Elements. part 1

    Air

    I enjoy my walk to work each morning. I think that I am lucky to have such a nice walk from my car, down a path, over a cloud bridge and across a beautiful lawn before entering my workspace. 

    This is the time to be fully present before starting my day. I take in the air, which is sometimes thick with rain, or thin with summer heat or piercing with cold. I blow it out and my phone stays in my pocket. I notice the state of the trees – sometimes full of leaves of green or red and yellow and other times, like today, naked with bejeweled rain drop branches. The geese may be around, or maybe just some ducks. The water below is clear and calm or filled with birds or a perfect reflection of the sky or full of the force of raindrops and wind. I notice my mind. It is calm. I feel the radiant energy of Earth. 

    Earth

    As the hours pass my body is a collector. It does things and it cannot stop. Now I am friendly but not too friendly. Oh no, did I say that wrong? Should I shut up or change my voice? I am too loud. I am too quiet. Do I look more professional with my hair up or down? I am excited about tackling a project. I do a task  that nobody will remember next year or even tomorrow. I wonder, am I good at my job or just okay. I wonder, should I still be working here? Why do I have to work? I am sick of work. I wonder,  how much older do I  look now than I did before I started this job. Indeed, I am older. Should I quit now or wait to be fired?

    Fire

    Eight or nine hours later, when I cross the bridge again, my world has changed. The bridge is no longer a cloud but a dark flame. I move faster. As fast as my legs can go while holding the remains of the workday. Thoughts of beauty are replaced by anxious hammers. I must leave now. I must get out of here and do anything else. I could have handled that meeting better.  What am I going to make for dinner? I am looking, craving, seeking, running away from. I am lost.  I am spinning. Who am I? I cross the bridge and do not look at the shape of the water.

    Water

    It is the weekend and I have a rare date. I am anxious and worried but also excited because maybe it will be great? We meet up at a restaurant of his choosing. He is waiting for me at the counter and has me order and pay for my own food before he orders and pays for his.  We sit down and begin to talk. It is easy to talk with this man. To share basic information and light philosophy. I wonder if he likes me. What do I think about him? Leading up to this date he has texted me a bunch. I think: this guy likes to communicate a lot. He likes to exchange words. We like some of the same things and we get a drink after. He seems excited to be in the moment with me but I wonder if he will ever stop talking and take action. He seems kind of cute, maybe? Mostly, though, I look for signs that he may like me. When it gets very late and my eyes are closing I tell him that I need to go to bed. He walks me to my car, gives me a hug and says goodbye. No attempt is made to kiss me. No excitement do I feel. In fact, I am absolutely freezing. I go home and get into bed and pile on extra blankets. I wonder if I am getting the flu. Why am I so fucking cold? I realize it is because my body has been clenched tight like a vice all night. I reach down to feel my thighs and they are ice. Slick and cold and without feeling. I turn the light on, flip back the blankets and yes, my legs are long spikes of pure blue ice. I start to panic and hit my legs hard to wake myself up. Instead, my left leg, brittle and cold, breaks at the knee and the lower half rolls off of the bed and onto the floor. My cat jumps down to investigate. I decided to put the blankets on and think about something else. Sleep comes while my lower left leg melts in the warmth of the bedroom air. 

    Air

    I awake in the middle of a dream in which I had just purchased an igloo shaped cat bed. I was laying in it with a handful of tuna, attempting to get my cat to come join me but now I am awake. My legs seem fine. I make  coffee, do my weekend cleaning and head out for a walk. It is a beautiful winter day. The kind when the sun is out and the mountains are clear and the first bulbs are bursting above the frozen soil. 

  • WAITING

    Waiting

    for the girl to invite you to play

    for the boy to look at you

    For your parents to see you

    for the man to invite you into his circle 

    for the professor to select you as their favorite

    for something to take you to the place where it will all begin 

    for another man to see you

    for a better man to see you

    for your talents to be realized 

    For someone to recognize your dreams

    to make money 

    for a proposal

    for your real life 

    for him to show up because he says you are his favorite person 

    again, to be seen

    to start writing in your journal and to start writing your blog 

    to start writing your novel

    for the results 

    for the signal that you have made it to your real life 

    Waiting for life while meeting death

  • cinnamon rolls

    I wake up to the sound of my cat breathing loudly. How does she make that noise? Is that normal? No. No way is that a normal cat sound.  What a strange snorting bed hog, curled up contentedly snuggling in the exact middle of the mattress. 

    I realize all of the sudden that I am craving a cinnamon roll. Ah,it was one of those nights. Once again I traveled the lit up highway of my brain to the smaller world that reflects inside my eyes.  For what feels  like all night I inhabited the familiar place I visit while my body rests. This one is on the other side of my eyes and inside my cells. A smaller but equally cyclical world full of repetitive problems and sweet treats. 

    For some reason I have the belief  from others or movies or books that dreams are metaphors providing one with clues about what they should do next. As a child my mom had a dream book on the family bookshelf. It was like a mysterious dictionary where the words translated into ghost-like apparitions that pointed in a direction that seemed solid but then crumbled upon a good solid stare. In my memory many of the definitions insinuated that my dream had something to do with sex, which I did not understand. Are my nightly cinnamon rolls trying to tell me something?

    This dream book and countless friends and influences tell me that the mind is the all knowing wizard laying down artsy hints in the form of dreams for the dumb consciousness to follow. Or it’s like the super computer inside that is secretly optimized for happiness but is playing coy and holding back like an evil narrator. 

    At some point my mind decided that it would serve me up a world complete with a sometimes haunted, sometimes perfect home and a city full of secret bakeries. A few years ago I realized that it was as real of a place as this is and I have since spent countless nights on a break from my literal dream job looking for the most amazing underground bakery that my dream city has to offer. It is always the same, complete with a long line and a selection of yeasty treats waiting to be decided upon.

  • walking meditation

    You walk down the street and the cold air is all that you feel and the moon is all that you see. You look to the right and into an open window with a nice mid-century lamp and a fireplace in view. You become an orange glow.

    You float down to the next block and realize that this night walk is the only time you feel present all day. You took this walk in order to look for yourself. Until a few blocks in you have been surrounded by what you can only describe as a terrible sand storm shaped like your own head. You start to wonder if senses and feelings are the same thing. The cold on your face is an antidote to the hot heat of that earlier flash of anger and the moon a bright antidote to shrink the feeling of hopelessness you felt when brushing your teeth this morning. 

    It was only yesterday that you noticed the sandstorm that has been following you, getting stronger every day. You finally caught it in the mirror when you looked upside down and backwards. It is sneaky but you are learning. You wonder if this is what will kill you. You wonder if you should call your mom and ask her if she has one. If so, what the hell does she do to keep it from growing?

    Your storm is comfortable on most days but it clouds your vision from seeing anything new. Everything yesterday and the day before you already did. You thought it already and you took those steps already and thought those things about that person already and made that judgment already and forgot your dreams already,  just as always. 

    Your walk becomes longer and longer as you realize you can’t stop without risking death. You walk most of the night. Until your shoes rub your toes into blisters and the feeling of pain in your legs replaces the fear of stopping. You go home and get into bed and you do not wake up in the morning.