stream of consciousness

When the sun and moon meet.

Friday April 14th, 2017

3:34 p.m.

 

I checked-off one of my four-year goals this morning when I opened the Northwest Guardian. My article about the Gladiator Challenge was published.

Another milestone crossed.

I’m a journalist, and now I finally feel like one. I’m a storyteller. I get paid to write.

Okay, okay. I’ll stop bragging. But I’m that woman! I am making a living off of my writing. Not rich, no. Money isn’t the best thing in the world, but my resume is pretty impressive as it builds, as the stories pile up and as I have the pleasure of writing them.

There are so many untold ones.

But what’s so satisfactory about telling? Why must a something go somewhere and do a thing? Why can’t it just be internal and unshared?

Connection.

We all want something to connect with, to connect to. Right? In a world where many find solace and sanctuary in disconnect, I find satisfaction and strength in connecting. In building relationships. In knowing.

My mentor once said, “The reason I know something is because I wrote about it.”

I feel the same way. I know things because I heard the story, transcribed it and shared it.

Why must I know? What’s the power in knowledge as the cliche goes? Is it dangerous to be knowledgeable and aware?  

Maybe there’s respectability in knowing and passing it along to someone else. To someone who has never known or never seen or never heard.

You tell me. And I tell you. Who tells someone else. It goes round and round and round, like the sun and moon chasing each other; one day they’ll meet and that is when it all begins

The story begins when the sun and moon finally meet.

 

California Confusion

September beneath blazing illumination

Trees green with height, frail and brittle.

Stubborn to drop leaves in absolution

this is the Fall of California.

The unseen autumn, or most of it little.

Constricted oxygen.

No cold crisp of sunrise

Scarecrows hang with looks of doubt

No piles of leaves to jump about

Only sweat and heavy sighs.

Dear California, Confused and Insane

Close away the light

The burning seasons of migraine.

Don’t make me travel to Maine

All I ask for is raging rain.

 

Inspired by Robert Frost’s poem, “My November Guest”

Mental block

Cold classroom

distorted agenda,

the unknown feared.

your loaded bag –

let’s expose the

grogginess and gurgles

inside a box,

no windows

no one knows

that we’re stressed out

we’re busy inside this

chilly classroom

spiraling off walls

strumming the base

of this place

and waltzing down the halls.

That sweet night

French fry napkins on dark jeans,

I’m the messiest eater you’ll ever meet.

Could always use more coffee,

massages, dark chocolate, and retail therapy.

Wish I knew more about art,

but art museums are boring.

I aspire to collect typewriters;

but only for admiring.

Candid and frozen

like a sunset of trees,

well lit and learning

to not grow gently

into that sweet night.

Green Apron

Green Apron

Wanted: pure humans

To tie on the green apron. Spotless

Greet with cheery faces.

Wanted: pure humans

Shirt tucked in, tattoos hidden.

Espresso intoxicating your hands. Rush

Spill scorching coffee

Smile. You’re faultless

Serve Muffins. Extra Caramel Frappuccinos. Add shots.

50 Cent Refills. Caffeine. Sugar. Addiction

The homeless sleep on the patio.

Bathe in the bathroom. Beg for money.

Wanted: pure humans

Starbucks beckons you.

Where I’m From

I’m from cartoons

and hair clips,

dog leashes and recycled trash bags.

Crumpled tightly; a bag within a bag.

I am from wide green lawns

where I cartwheeled on.

I come from arguments with

my brother and mother Switzerland.

I’m from hot summers and foot rubs,

smelly and soft.

Books and French vanilla creamer.

I don’t come from a rabbit hole,

only Bugs Bunny and

“What’s up Doc?”

I’m from Oz and ruby slippers,

weird socks and boxing gloves.

jab-jab-jab

I’m from the mailman,

cards and cash,

delivered in a dirty white satchel

from my grandma and her excessive kisses

that smell like cigarettes.

Sent from generations of women

who built me, colored me,

and stayed within the lines.

I come from jump rope competitions,

challenged to cross a line.