4/30/12

 Mannequins eye me in twinkling suspicious stare, unspoken, yet obvious, watching expressions on my face as I pass along the mirrored windows of store displays, I look more closely at the better dressed mannequins, knowing nothing in life ever revels that perfect. Straightening out my shoulders, my out stretched hand smoothing out the line of my skirt,stepping into that gilded place, the place where I spill all of the unnecessary baggage out from the knapsack I carry it all in. The place where I am determined to keep my breath in place, and my heart strapped tightly to my chest. It is the place I chronicle my dreams, go with what I've got, and intently learn about myself. The learning is often never curved, and often, never very easily digested. The place I restore faltering voice and simultaneously inaugurate new phases of my life. Squinting, looking out into the blazing sun...giggling back at the mannequins, as I know for sure one thing, nothing in life ever presents that perfect, as a cab  now passing by splashes dirty rain water across my Jimmy Choo's. No, nothing is ever worth so much, or ever so perfect !

  Yesterday's Sunday brunch in the city...

4/28/12

Just back from my Saturday morning run, hanging on wet breath, still holding my future in my back pocket. I am finding air has a predictable chaos to it today, as the chill of winter has reclaimed itself. The man on the corner took notice, as I held my lips to the mouth of the river, and drank, nakedly tossing pennies into my wishing well. The pennies on the bottom from yesterday, well, they too still shine.

His greeting was warm enough, but I could tell this man was sizing me up, sizing me down. I watched the telltale signs, as he lowered the sunglasses to his eyes, the dark of the shades hiding the direction of his stare. Feeling his eyes follow me down the platform, as the train rolled in, and I sauntered on, my heels falling like seeds on the ground. Each seed now opening up to a different page. Trapped amongst the pages of my bible,myself, my life.

Building life again from all that was left behind

Teaching again

how to catch myself on the fall

My suspicion is that the birds that flocked above me this morning during my early morning run were sent to pull me from myself, pull me from deep self - absorption. They grabbed hold of one of my threads in their beak and pulled me along, as they inched me toward complete stillness. 

As I grab for my journal book, my mind unravels a thousand thoughts. I think on paper, the place I sort out my life. The place I connect all those tiny prism dots, the place with many beginnings, and few endings, the place that often allows me not to speak in tongue at all.

4/25/12

I have been so exhausted as of late, that I have been too lazy to write every day on the blog, missing a day here, a day there. I feel guilty about it too, actually guilty, like I am doing something wrong. I thought the guilt would dissipate, but it hasn't. I feel out of sorts when I do not write a date, and then a profound statement or two, or short piece, on some tangible thread of my life. The threads that hang from my scarves, the threads that I rip from the hem of my skirt, the thread that holds my fingers in place to type on my keyboard, the thread that runs the length of my body to my feet that holds my heart, the thread I need to yank on each time I need to pick my heart up off the ground again, yes, threads, my threads of life. The long thread that attaches me to someone else, somewhere else, some time and place I have yet to be. The threads that run through my soul, wrapping around my thin waist, tiding up the loose ends of things complicated. It is these threads that make me feel guilty, each time I do not add them to my day, showcase them in my blog. Thankfully, the book is in final stages and off to print, so that should allow some room for me to breath, in between marketing, which really is going to leave me no room again to talk about my threads. I have taken a vow though, made a promise, that each day now I will put something as a blog post, letting you all in on the long and short of my life. Even those of you who do not care will know, will now find yourself knowing!

It's not always the seasons that change, when I want them to stay,

not always the night that covers the day,

teach me how to fall,

so I no longer land on my knees,

give me music in places I no longer find air.

Teach me to breath !
 LJ

4/24/12

 I spent months creating a time line that I derailed, stopped, affected by emotion. However, today I put the last correction, to the last sentence, in what will soon be in print and kindle format, over the next few weeks, my next book. The book that opens to me and gives answers to all those questions. The book that sorts through life and speaks to god is just around the corner.

It has been awhile since I have run in the morning rain. I had almost forgotten the feel of the drops; the combined feel of their cold against my body heat, suspending me mid air as I howl down the hill, soaked to my bones. I cut through the park, my own version of the African Jungle, mist hanging from tree branches; I suck in air, now closing the door to the world behind me. I am alone on this African Safari, other than the spider whom spins a web of protection around me, as a cool and steady calm now seeps into my brain.

4/22/12

 Wanting very much for the raindrops pelting the window to say something, speak to me in some brilliant philosophical language. Yates or Poe would have had the brilliance to shape the drops into poetic tongue, as I only have the brilliance to watch them drip, emotion by emotion, down my window pane, as I reach to feel the wetness of the individual tears.

4/19/12

Sitting down in the chair beside my desk, taking a deep breath, staring at the dry teabags, wrapper remnants of 85% dark chocolate, last night's organic white wine dried in a stem glass, staring at a passion on the verge of obsession, yes, this is definitely the desk of a writer. All of my words in a collection, I am saving a place for the one that states how it all ends. As god was stunned at the blood covering his palms, so was I, and if I could stash away and rewrite my life story, I probably would, with the wisdom of silence and absolute of concrete, with the black and blue of where it hurt most.

4/18/12

A prose artist creates, pulling flesh from bones, at last, uncovering the slightest of corner in which to write from.

4/17/12

A large area of dry dusty earth can be felt beneath my feet, wild flowers pushing up, filling in the devoid of my life at an alarming rate. My life, the one I keep adding compost to, watering feverishly, forcing out of the house into early air, where the world is still quiet, where I can feel the damp of dew on my legs, sun not yet warming my face, as I escape under a canopy of branches, yes, that life.

I can tell you with absolute certainly that every day I wake up, I look for answers. It is only today that I have come to realize that the answer, the one I have been waiting for, isn't nearly as important as the question.

4/16/12

Blissfully wakening from my oblivious slumber, as I join the outcry of emerging daylight. Weathering the ignominy of life and my naked self, quietly sliding from my bed, as I pull in fresh air from the open window. Stumbling down the stairs with more life knowledge in my head than I care to admit, hedging toward that cup of coffee, thinking about the dress, the jewelry, contents of my briefcase, and my soon to be saunter down Park Avenue. Sunlight creeps in, pouring ever so slowly across the kitchen floor, birds flitting about the tree branches. Monday morning has arrived!

4/13/12

 

Of all the distance

I have traveled

My abundance of closure

Has been wrought, twisted  

Vaguely narrow 

Offsetting

Beginning and end

As I tell my story

To you, my friend

So far cold

Not today

As the heat of summer

Leads my way

LJ

4/11/12

Naked in Front of God book 1

Are you there God, it's me?  > >Has gone through multiple rewrites and edits, and exhausting transformations. As my fingers are now cracked, worn, withered and dry, I do believe it is almost set to go to print in the next few weeks. I had been simultaneously working on two books at the same time over the winter, not the smartest move I ever made. The labor intensity of it all was a bit overwhelming. It did however keep me warm and toasty in doors during those cold months. Now, I am emerging from my cocoon, and ready to fly!

4/10/12

 Well behaved women rarely make history >>>>Marlyn Monroe


 

 I could feel my pulse all the way home on the train. Everything about the man was pure. I backed away, stuttering profusely, falling over my feet, trembling with embarrassment and disappointment, as I eyed the finger that held his wedding band. It was too late, for he already was in love with another. Feeling drained, washed out, and utterly devastated, I drifted into a sleep.
      The tone of the conductor was flat, as his palm nudged at my shoulder, asking me for my ticket. Hhhmmm, I thought.I secretly found him intensely exotic as I complied with his request,touching the warmth of his outlaid palm with my ticket, as thoughts of him moved across me in gentle breeze. Thinking to myself, he might just be the one to waltz into my life, the one that sets all hell loose.

4/9/12

I watch as my fingers play with the rim of my morning coffee cup. I feel the hardness of the brew on my lips, the wet grace of peace and pain sitting in the residual grinds of the pot. Sipping in silence, the sun not yet shifting up from behind the moon, as light dances across the kitchen floor. The walls holding a balance of emotion and history, the personification and ache of life, the fears held translucent in early morning coffee drops. 
     In early morning ritual habitual daydreaming, caffeine rises and rests on the roof of my mouth , as relief sweeps over me. Afraid, if I stop the sipping, the world will intrude and step in, bringing me back to the unforgettable darkness of a nightfall that still haunts at me.

4/7/12

Excerpt:

It is pouring rain, I am soaking wet. I have yet to come to peace with all of the mud on my shoes. Part of me needs to stand just a bit longer amid the drops, as the coldness of each drop on my skin makes me feel I am still alive. Turning down the street, looking out over the water, appears a rainbow over the sky. Somehow, I just know, it is my brother! 

Excerpt

Part of me wants to stand still, and reach for him, part of me wants to relinquish, and let go. I seek the sea with music, in every hollow of my brother's shadow, promising my lifetime to his rainbow.

4/6/12

Life is about starting over, one day at a time!

 One book at a time!

 One poetic profound verse at a time!

Life is just that, a layering of language! 

 A shortened prayer!

An acknowledgment of all that is!

A finish of all that wasn’t!

Life is just that!

I am all of just that, and more!

4/5/12

Feeling oddly lightheaded, slightly numb. Lowering my sunglasses over my eyes, I found I could not speak, only politely stare.  The slanted blue of his eyes, the tumbling gray hairline, watching the waiter now troll over to him. When he finally spoke, he ordered coffee, as the words fell from his tongue like fine silver laid down on china.  The sound of the clinging of his spoon inside the rim of his coffee cup was near poetic. The heat was pounding down on me, as I took a breath, and began to walk closer..

4/4/12

 Another day spent lost in the weeds of editing.
Writing non - fiction doesn't always hold answers, for that you need to write fiction, where problems tidy up neatly by the end of the book. 

When will I stop writing? When you pry my pen from my cold dead fingers.

4/3/12

 A day of complete editing, page by page, and finding, yet, another mistake not caught. I accept editing as the least friendly part of writing. Gladly willing to hand that part off to another willing human being. Feeling that the tulips of spring are just around the corner, today's blog becomes a poetic crevice.

*****

In a language I did not yet know how to speak,

                                     in bitter frost,

 until my tears ached from my pores,

                    until the ocean refused to stop kissing the shoreline,

 in wisdom of silence,

                    and loudness of concrete,

 in passion on the verge of an obsession,

                         in thinking out, then placing down,

 every thought before my temple of self, 

                        my jigsaw puzzle pieces of my life,

 I stood and watched,

                       as your hand waved goodbye.

 As the innocence turned to tragedy,

                       and the drama of the production became unpredictable,

 as I lent you my soft corners,

                       and you sharpened them to hardened edges,

I kept seeing,

                       your hand wave goodbye

*LJ

4/2/12

Time to go into the dark where the night has eyes to recognize my own. There you can be sure you are not beyond my sight. When your vision has gone, and no part of the world can find you, unapologetic and passionate, I will read your mind, lead your heart.