Because I Was in the Mood

We're in Houston and not sure what that means.

We're on earth and not sure if we want any of it.

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Last night, I slept in a seven-dwarf-like bed with a tiny four year old girl, at her request. She tucked me in, she tucked me in again, she briefly picked up my hand and stroked it and then gently returned it to my chest. I scrunched there next to her and I could feel her baby skin against my arm and it was then that it struck me that this was a precious moment in my life.

I just finished a tupperware of really, really good mac n cheese and desperately-desperado want some more. The way the noodle gives out under my teeth, you know.

I think it's a miracle there's a world beyond my own self. Thank God. (Now, if only we'd been given the tools to experience some of it without our selves present.)

A lot of the food that I like, my sisters don't. A lot of the food they like, I don't. Kind of like a genetic clique or something. It's strange how I literally feel left out when they enjoy their steak and roast potatoes.

In one of my classic "now I feel super smart/what a great insight I have for life" moments (which means that these moments make me cringe later on down the line), I realized that the reason I want so badly to be in love is because I have an unconscious idea that love of the soul-pouring variety blankets all the hurt, like it never existed, like I don't need to think about it anymore just because I'm in love.

True?

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Here, I get absolutely exhausted by the thickness of heat. Because it means sweat no matter what I'm doing. That translates to a lot of showers, whose steam make me sweat more, til I'm frosted in it, if that makes any sense.

But sometimes, there are days, such as this one, where all it does is rain. The heat lifts off the ground and I'm finally comfortable. I feel like my name could be Rupert and that I'm just barely avoiding wetting my British Indian Army uniform, the eaves of my canvas tent caving in with all the water. I'm cupping a travelogue to my wife, Betsy, so that the ink doesn't run down into the mud. Signing it, "Yours, R. W. Sanford." So formal, Rupert.

The one good thing that I have to say about PCs: they, at least, have that handy 'delete' button, where you can erase forward, as well as backward. Metaphor not intended, although I appreciate the poetry of it.

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If Freud was in the room with us today, he'd tell us that there are things we want that we don't even know we want. I'd buy that, plus it makes me feel more exotic.

Things I do know I want: eventually, a sweet little baby who I can just hold and hold and rub his/her little nose, and look at those barely fingers forever and kiss the soft little daffodil head. To sing at a coffeehouse, although this is slightly abstract as I don't know how to play the guitar or anything--I can only sing. But it's something that I know I'd love. Also, "ageless, timeless, lace-and-fineness, every young boy's dream."

Things I conceivably could want but don't know it yet (does this make this paragraph senseless?...): Somebody in my life who is something that I could have never known to wish for beforehand. A poem written on a scroll 15 yards long, signed by me, written in crushed petals. To be a fondant baker. To run away and live like a bear. Brambles and trout all around. To be Jewish. Or Buddhist, or Muslim, or anything other than Catholic (not sure about this one...how do you leave what you know? and love.) Also, a screenwriter or a stay-at-home mom. Maybe just a stay-at-home person.

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Like Johnny Cash always said:

"And you could have it all,

My empire of dirt."

Lighter

You're gathering.

Collections of pressure

Holding back, just so above my head.

Randomness groups itself

in pigeons, through clouds, about bacteria.

All holding back, just so below my head.

I implore you: explode onto me

I need the rain-- clean, soggy peace

I need infectious deluge.

I need movement

even if it is bereft of purpose.

Reasons I Left

Excuse the sort of semi-poem/semi-essay form of the following. It's a work in progress, to say the least!

If you think I'm going to take the long way,looping unnecessarily,

and if you think it's because you're sitting there on your bench, stark-eyed,you'd be right.

But it's not because it's you, it's really just that I got excited by the idea of granola bars upon reaching the new world which meant that there was no room in my mind for making friends which really just meant that I hid behind mom when girls with popsicle-stained lips giggled.That's where it started.

It continued and included skorts with buttons too tightly sewn, which really just meant that I felt unfree in the home of the brave which made me realize that I walked with a duckish gait which caused me to shrink deeper inside the buttons and plaids, frantically trying to walk like a normal-born girl.

Well and then I was too folded to unfold and nobody had the patience to help me so I remained, useless origami (origami's exotic and complex and might be pretty to look at, but it's no fun to be.)

And meanwhile there were rulers and a divorce and then movies with incest

which brought up whole new and unfounded reasons to fold.

And so here, do you see? A duck-origami girl shrinking around still thinking about unhelpful things such as damsels, particularly not in distress but in love,

and then mean things started.

From mean things, of course,tears hot as blood and thoughts mangled as muddy prints.

Ridiculous, really, but that's how it was.

Oh, and did I mention all the handshakes,the how-do-you-do's? They teach you these things will help you succeed,but for me, it was one more way of cutting off breathing.

So, eventually retribution came, I 'discovered' myself, like that could make up for still secretly being a piece of paper not in its natural state.

Do you see now why it's not you and your bench?

It's really granola bars and all that came next.

Suspended

Standing in that junebug darkness, there was lack of movement--

unless that hollow wind which blows sandpaper down to its dry dry shingly self counts as movement.

It's clear now how the well felt the day Snow White called down it: nothing.

A Very Forgotten Gem

Catullus 2

Passer, deliciae meae puellae,
quicum ludere, quem in sinu tenere,
cui primum digitum dare appetenti
et acris solet incitare morsus,
cum desiderio meo nitenti
carum nescio quid lubet iocari
et solaciolum sui doloris,
credo ut tum gravis acquiescat ardor:
tecum ludere sicut ipsa possem
et tristis animī levāre curās.


Sparrow, the delight of my girl,
with whom to play, whom to hold on her lap,
to whom, greedy, to give her finger tip,
and to arouse sharp pecks—she is accustomed,
when it pleases her shining with my desires,
to say in jest something dear I don't know
and her own pain's solace,
so that heavy passion is relieved, I believe.
I wish I could play with you yourself like [him],
and lighten the cares of your saddened mind.

Special hello to Sister Mark and your ever sunny classroom. I miss you!

(Unfortunately, all Latin has since flown the coop, so to speak. :) Got this translation from Wikisource. Many thanks.)

Also, photo credit: (c) 2009 Gianna Leggio

Hmmmmm(feel my heart)

Let's collect all the little pieces of me:

the things I think,

how little I know.

So first there's release of body

on cool surfaces,

something real-undisputed-

among everything else.

then the magic lists begin,

endless, my canyons of discrete infinity

(i wish i saw them such...)

a felted apple-dome skull,

after being in the office's corset for hours,

seasick heart-to-heart,

you fickle tide, you glowing sister.

also, imaginary:

tucked in a tucked away village

rapunzel's tresses on a muslin'd maid

and her prince among firs--

there's a castle beyond with a banquet hall

full of baked apples and silks.

don't worry.

an apartment in london, pick a decade:

thick & heavy turn of the century,

organized & sentimentalized 40s,

just give me your voice

of rolling masculine desire.

thames along with me please.

or being born maasai

grinning in the hard heat

knowing all from simple simple let's keep it so sweetly simple kind of things.

and always always:

being held as i sob my guts out

my inner lining falling away

in your arms

being held.

tight and strong.

hmmmmm.

Just Like Poor Man's Ditch

hey, there you are!

grandma and uncle and sarah jane (maybe?)

i love you guys.

you seem ever-multiplying, never the same one twice really.

except for the girl, trapped at thirteen

(you've got to be at least my age now. no?)

so anyway i see you (all)

it's been more than a decade now

and you're always there

pulling things from windows

and creaking trucks crammed in

a garage not unlike my own

really it's quite concerning the way you live

but you touch me like no other

your resilience--

you seem so defiantly alive--

your never-aloneness

when i see you, i grin.

you weren't a part of the plan

but,

hey,

there you are.

when i see you, i know i'm almost home

my timeless time markers.

you're you.

'You' is the Very Loneliest Place to Be

Well I don't know what to say

This thing's left me feeling real empty and scared:

Cracked worse because it always was.

O God take me away from here

To a land of rock candy skies.

An avenue among the tulips would be nice--

Safe in my flowery crevice.

(O God maybe I'm just a loser,

wishing always for what can't happen)

So what I'm saying is, take this anger;

so what I'm saying is, fill my cracks

please. please--emptiness is no good.

Fill these little cracks with good red clay

and some good kind strength.

Cause what I'm really saying is

fuck you to myself.

And I was raised right,

and so I know better than that.