sabine's poem, april 2011--(3rd grade)

do you ever think,
do you ever glide?  i do
and here's why:
i live like you
in my heart
but deep inside i have
my part.
i keep my talent to myself
but you my dear, you're just an elf.


---------


of course i am a proud mother who thinks her children are Brilliant, but aside from that, i love the innocent confidence, and the deep, revealing truth that she shares in this poem, and which may be said to be universal.  she had written this in her diary, but brought it out to show me today.  thank you sabine!, and:

that's my girl!

to stay asleep

not awaited not invited.  deep
indigo, deep night.   and sweeping
in they come.  unwanted from behind the bed
unwanted from below.  or from the
very in of it.  unwanted.  from the diagonal distant
familiar place.  the stark place,  from far.
from far too close to see.  from far. 

the monster hiss, the seethe
knobby and plain.  and true

with ears and eyes:
mine is a zenith horizontal. 

an already.

diagonally distant.  far. 

pay attention,  i think
in the middle of the night in 

the middle of the mare 
of me i
know:

i want my zenith. 

jumpstand.  and
not awaited not invited visions
damn and visions dark.   and sweeping
in they come.

those feral figments:  the old        
the done.

that flailing mahogany phantasm, that fabled
white inferno.   awakened   

from it: the smiled upon, the understood
the bloodless itchy-warmth.   comfortable. 

lilifed sanctuary.         flat-lineation and
jumpstand.  and it is morning.

at the edge, I'm facing the blaze. 

a faith to spell me back to myself

many personhood-central things along the curl to here i have lightly, or not so lightly, lost.  or tossed.  and as with all nows, this now will vanish and is really nothing but a single flashing, a bulge of possibility with little information as to the direction of next--of the zing.  and like all the others, this time is one for a bit of retrospective tracing and a lot of opening up to the unmapped.  (is it real, this moment, or is it just momentum?)---during the zip between then and next we carry memories, and happily today i stumbled upon this one, in a conversation, this not-lost thing, and re-realized my religion.  and that i do in fact believe its creed.  and practice it. 

i try to assure people that i really Really am calm, i really Really am ok, even if along with the losses-- desired or otherwise--i am sometimes crushed,--but how to translate above that fact the gains achieved alongside, and the sigh of relief upon recognizing oneself, again, still, and/or maybe despite? and that that is sometimes all that matters. 

the following articulation, this quote, comes from Jeanette Winterson, a contemporary author i favor.  i have it tattooed on my bloodstream, (my only tattoo) and have had ever since i discovered it in the early 90's.  it is from her book The Passion.   when i read it, it may have been the first time i have felt recognized, or reflected somehow.  (i've made friends and have maybe lost them over this book...--it is an important part of my story.)

You play, you win, you play, you lose. You play.
It’s the playing that’s irresistible.
Dicing from one year to the next with the things you love,
what you risk reveals what you value. 

right this very moment, as you are reading this, you and i may be friends or strangers.  in either case, you know me now.  

the strand running through each one

crouching on the strand,
forming definitely one brick.  and one brick

patting the shit and straw
into rough evens, and fathoming
the sun.  dream bake turn bake dream turn bake turn to dry.  and hard.  strong.

some bricks break.  and
not.  saving one and one

rain no sun no straw.  double-dutching a puddle.  there is
drought no straw no water.  hide and seeking the dust.
there is no shortage of shit.

in plenty in even bright, measuring
mix the champagne and haunting.

bricks coming slow next to that tongue of questions:
of traveling snakes and god and.
one and one     saving them.

sweating in
steeping in the biscuit rose and in the stink 
creating magnificent castles

take. 3.

then: sit on that red shag carpet or lie on the bear rug spread eagle on my stomach with my chin resting on the head of that poor dead bear’s and  i would watch the zenith. the thing that i remember about star trek (tos, now) on that tv is that dr mccoy was crabby-compassion and had that polaroid camera looking thing and could detect disease. from the outside,  scan people and then with fancy sonogram laser unnamed beam and through their clothes, cutless, germless, would heal them, and no matter how bad the diagnosis, no matter the nature of the injury or the freaky composition of the poison,   bones who was left with nothing but his skeleton after his         could treat almost every broken. and after a few hours or days all would be well.  or   well enough.  kirk still had the blue eye shadow problem but that was small in comparison to the        cases mccoy was able to cure.  now: i picture i am standing in my kitchen with fabulous hair wearing too much blue eye shadow and a zippy black catsuit and with command. i call into the retro modern brooch high at my shoulder, urgently but calm.:  McCoy!  Quickly! The Kitchen!  and then bones is transported from the enterprise or the unknown territories right in to my house despite mistrust, of the whole transporter contraption and runs to me with his migrating geese eyebrows and starts to take out scanner c or something and i turn to him and put aside my jigger and look at him. and say:  just fix me here.  here is where it hurts.  and i point to my weakly fluttering wings and he grimaces a bit and with his hair loosened flailing mahogany, like a white inferno. he ministers to me with his gun of medicine and i wake up. in some sickbay.  scarless..  with an edelweiss engraved brass cowbell on my chest and a terse mccoy patting my hand tenderly reluctantly understandingly, and saying:  i'm stepping back. now.  just      this if you need me.  but i don't need him any more.

scene 1 take two

then i would sit on that red shag carpet or lie on the bear rug spread eagle on my stomach with my chin resting on the head of that poor dead bear’s and  i would watch the zenith.  the thing that i remember about star trek (tos, now) on that tv is that dr mccoy was crabby-compassion and had that polaroid camera looking thing and could detect disease from the outside,  scan people and then with fancy sonogram laser unnamed beam and through their clothes, cutless, germless, would heal them, and no matter how bad the diagnosis, no matter the nature of the injury or the freaky composition of the poison,   bones who was left with nothing but his skeleton after his divorce could treat almost every broken and after a few hours or days all would be well.  or   well enough.  kirk still had the blue eye shadow problem but that was small in comparison to the severe cases mccoy was able to cure.  now i picture i am standing in my kitchen with fabulous hair wearing too much blue eye shadow and a zippy black catsuit and with command i call into the retro modern brooch high at my shoulder, urgently but calm:  McCoy!  Quickly! The Kitchen!  and then bones is transported from the enterprise or the unknown territories right in to my house despite mistrust of the whole transporter contraption and runs to me with his migrating geese eyebrows and starts to take out scanner c or something and i turn to him and put aside my jigger and look at him and say:  just fix me here.  here is where it hurts.  and i point to my weakly fluttering wings and he grimaces a bit and with his hair loosened flailing mahogany like a white inferno he ministers to me with his gun of medicine and i wake up in some sickbay.  scarless.  with an edelweiss engraved brass cowbell on my chest and a terse mccoy patting my hand tenderly reluctantly understandingly and saying:  i'm stepping back now.  just ring this if you need me.  but i don't need him any more.

thank you for coming to my sight

i am so happy.  look what came to me today!  a beautiful, beautiful present--

being looked for
being seen
being responded to
and music that soars to match. 


"hi, suzanne!

i attached a song in response to your visual images.  if you look closely - real closely - at the wheat field, you will see..."
 




http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tg0vHnk9_28&feature=fvst

**very important, if you go to this link.  close your eyes and listen.  do not watch. 



what an honor, what pleasure.  i feel like a drunk in a midnight choir.  with a bunch of others kind of different but kind of the same.

peter, again :  thank you.

she's not dead, jim.

then i would sit on that red shag carpet or lie on the bear rug spread eagle on my stomach with my chin resting on the head of that poor dead bear’s and  i would watch the zenith.  the thing that i remember about star trek (tos, now) on that tv is that dr mccoy was crabby-compassion and had that polaroid camera looking thing and could detect disease from the outside,  scan people and then with fancy sonogram laser unnamed beam and through their clothes, cutless, germless, would heal them, and no matter how bad the diagnosis, no matter the nature of the injury or the freaky composition of the poison,   bones who was left with nothing but his skeleton after his divorce could treat almost every broken and after a few hours or days all would be well.  or   well enough.  kirk still had the blue eye shadow problem but that was small in comparison to the severe cases mccoy was able to cure.  now i picture i am standing in my kitchen with fabulous hair wearing too much blue eye shadow and a zippy black catsuit and with command i call into the retro modern brooch high at my shoulder, urgently but calm:  McCoy!  Quickly! The Kitchen!  and then bones is transported from the enterprise or the unknown territories right in to my house despite mistrust of the whole transporter contraption and runs to me with his migrating geese eyebrows and starts to take out scanner c or something and i turn to him and put aside my jigger and look at him and say:  just fix me here.  here is where it hurts.  and i point to my weakly fluttering wings and he grimaces a bit and with his hair loosened flailing mahogany like a white inferno he ministers to me with his gun of medicine and i wake up in some sickbay.  scarless.  with an edelweiss engraved brass cowbell on my chest and a terse mccoy patting my hand tenderly reluctantly understandingly and saying:  i'm stepping back now.  just ring this if you need me.  but i won't need him any more.

flying home

                                       
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 Fertile Soil.    
           Spikes And Blades.


___________
___________

evening skies like this are my cobblestones