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May. 20th, 2010 | 03:06 pm

She made the transition with little effort.

One moment we’re twenty, comparing dreams and lovers;

the next moment a two-year old in the park with a scraped knee

is calling her “mother,” expecting her to wipe his tears,

falling into the groove between her hip and her breast,

as if he has always belonged there; even before he existed.

She tends to us both; stroking his head to calm his fears

and nodding at me with the hint of a distracted smile

as I tell my story – another story – of love and loss

and the burning desire I have to create things, to mark

the world with my breath.

The boy wonders if his mother had ever been like me, her flighty friend,

who lives in rented studio apartments

with temporary men and temporary furniture

and roots as shallow and spindly as a desert cactus.

“Don’t you want to settle down?” she asks me

one morning over muffins while the boy plays with his train.

“You can have all this, you know. There is nothing more than this,

you know.”

Her eyes reflect the kind of love that makes me

want to break things, to smash vases against the walls, to

rip pieces of paper into millions, to weep

for all the inarticulate utterances

I am unable to communicate in defense of my weak roots


So I just say


“Maybe someday.”


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May. 18th, 2010 | 05:21 pm



We hated god because mother became devoted

after spending several days in the tub, naked,

she emerged like a drunk angel and created

shrines to ridiculous gods, spraying marigolds

and sugar treats, as if inanimate idols can taste

or feel. We wished we were made of metal, or stone.


We invented games where I would play a stone

and he a river, running around my still-life, devoted

to trying to move me. In those moments I would have a taste

of how beautiful death must be, when everything is naked.

That was another game – funeral procession – gleaning marigolds

that had fallen from the many shrines she had created


and because we were the children that she had created

we couldn’t argue with logic. Once I threw a stone

at a shrine. Like dominoes, everything fell, marigolds

scattered the carpet like soldiers, devoted

to a foolish general who leaves them naked

and wounded. No victory. They won’t know the taste.


In the kitchen. In the bedroom. The skylines of coconut. I can taste

The bitterness of my brother’s tears. She had created

a holy mess of ritualistic disorder. My world was naked

and I hated the idea of god or gods – those stone

stoned caricatures reminding us of the devoted

Mother, and even now I cannot look at marigolds


without remembering the smell of the marigolds

that distracted me from homework and games, the taste

of daily disappointment, so much that I would become devoted

to hating all things they said god had created,

like the world, and myself, everything of water and stone.

I can remember life before god, when all was naked


not falsely clothed with prayer, but naked

ravenous planet, beasts and flora, even marigolds

clambering towards the sun, which falls upon the stone

walls of prehistory, pre-Deus, like the simple taste

of rain, of things happening for no reason. Nothing created

anything. Everything just is. You can be devoted


to the still-life of a stone, as the naked light

is devoted to the growth of marigolds

and to the taste of all the things that are yet to be created.


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May. 17th, 2010 | 12:38 am
mood: indifferentindifferent

My new therapist asked me if I journaled. It occurred to me that I no longer journal. This has happened before - the subconscious struggle to disappear into a haze of unrecorded events and days that blend into one another. But why? I also no longer dream. Actually, on most days I need a crane to get me out of bed, and when I do get out of bed, I'm not sure why I bother. Most would say I'm idle. I am idle. I lost my way somewhere, and idleness seems to be what's found me.

I did a tarot layout this afternoon - my first in a very, very long time. I wanted to cry as I shuffled the cards. I've had the deck since I was thirteen. I pulled cards that appeared to be reflections of themselves. If one implied suffering, the next implied retreat, and then the one after would indicate that the isolation caused suffering, and then another card of retreat. I wonder if there's a message in the retreating that I'm unable to understand. The card of the Hermit came up, in the position of the future. I'm trying really hard to break free from my state of isolation, but it's not natural. Naturally, i want to stay alone inside the house and ponder things, until the truth comes. I wish someone would tell me that's OK. Well, a lot of people tell me it's OK, but I tell myself it's not. I wanted other things for myself... Or perhaps interpreted myself as an extension of my parents' expectations. I don't know. I've been individuating for a while now. I wish I were myself again, so I could get on with life. For the first time in my adulthood, I feel I don't know who I am, and it's absolutely terrifying. It would be nice to be nineteen and attending college and reading Jean Paul Sartre now, I feel I would gain much more than I did 11 years ago.

And oh yeah, I turned 30, which was kind of a big deal because it's been like a death sentence. But it feels like the date passed and I'm still on Death Row and so maybe there's some hope for a turnaround in my sentence. Because, well, I didn't do it. I've been unjustly accused, don't hang me.

I miss driving. Sometimes I feel really resentful towards M about the car and leaving L.A. and coming to New York. I don't like New York. There are too many people and I miss sitting inside my car and tuning out the world. You're still, but the world is moving. Here, I'm still, and the room's still, and everything's still, and it's like dying. I guess, if I had to sum up my problem, it's this -- Homeless. Ever since leaving LA and the brouahaha with my status and being forced into an Indian exile - shudder - I have not had a home. I call this home, I love it - physically - and love M, and the cats. But something's gone now, and I can't express it. And, sadly, my dreams have fled, leaving me no psychic clues for a solution. So, I'm gonna try journaling again, because it seems to be the only start.

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