riding a weedwacker, noise-wise

mingling god of a feeling
from one sunny day to the next autumn shift
spiraling focus of infinity, anxiety, calmness
thickly woven
rolling around marbled meat and fat

o and leaves and lives bark burnt off trees
and mucus membranes
health like boils on the butt and fungus
light spots on a bloated gut
pallid hollowed bug eyed bonfire of an existence
acrid aftermath of a revolution that has not gone sad
only turned to show the underside
the great turkey molt of our times

do not look for anything.

It's almost impossible at this point for me to decipher between intuition and tricks my mind makes up to keep me egocentric and unaware of the great big beautiful impossible world around me. and all i can think is why did that text message say that? how come I am so needy lately? well the answers aren't terribly important, its finding my strength that matters. centering myself around that point barely below the navel.
I will squeeze this love out and in and all around one way or the other.
feelings are no reason to do anything other than feel.
I'd really like a hug. Maybe one will show up today right when I can offer a really good one back.

Breathing in, I know that I am breathing in.
Breathing out, I know that I am breathing out.
sipping mate, I know I am sipping mate.
feeling like a sad love dog, i know i am feeling like a sad love dog.

center of all centers, core of cores. all of this universe, to the farthest star. and beyond them, is your fruit, your flesh.

o, well, hi.
the past couple weeks have really served to internalize some very thin values i've been carrying around very poorly.
reading some bhagavad-gita...what's really stuck so far is the importance of discipline. whether you buy into any sort of model of the ultimate, i think its still useful to think of ourselves as containing a higher consciousness that needs a little help to transcend these stories we put ourselves in...to cultivate awareness outside your story..
with better understanding comes compassion...a smaller ego, an easier approach to life's conundrums
i do not like to hurt people, arjuna did not want to go into battle
you only want to murder your family if you're a disconnected psychonutball...however, theoretically, there are higher things that your own desire to keep your hands clean
inaction is action and we all must keep acting, there's no getting out of it...but who's in charge here? whose intention are we serving?
it is a possibility to explore who gets to drive this bus. there are experiments to be done.
kindness can seem pretty awful sometimes.
the responsibility is all our own to discipline ourselves to cultivate this higher self that is sitting idly waiting for its opportunity to drive. its got its gloves on now.we are supposed to be frightened.
that said, i've got a lot of work to do
i suppose i will always be doing it...i shall always be striving and failing to serve the goodness inside of me, which will not show itself unless i give it it's dues.
this can make for some very awkward moments. good thing there's humor for that.
well, and tears.
good thing loss makes room for growth. creative expansion.. go with it.

sprinkle it on, call it god. and so it is.

I had a dream of sitting in complete silence. Its absurd to be a burden to yourself.. to not live freely and for language not to work how you want and for eyes to not do the thing intended for them..by the great big Intender of Things... that is, and are, ourselves and everything and you and my blanket and your love and my indecision.
Certainty, it comes, it goes. Most certainly,  certainty never stays for long. Burdened. What do I offer?
And then, to peel it off, to be a symbol of your own experience and offer nothing and suddenly, you're being received and receiving, seeing and being seen..neglecting to hope for anything. Like what, a chicken sandwich? Greek yogurt.
I, being truly and classically woman, take the espresso chocolate cake out of the fridge at 2 am, though I am still full from the dinner I ate six hours ago, half intuitively and half wishfully open the front door for my silent cat who tonight decides not to roam in the cold, but to hop in my lap and lie on his back and paw the air in ecstasy as I massage his belly and simultaneously try to eat the cake. Truly and classically feline.
Irresistible and inconvenient.
I said killer whale but what I was really thinking is: sperm whale.spermwhale. Sometimes I just can't think of words. I thought, "semen whale." No, not right. The conversation the whale was sandwiched in pertained to my linguistic abilities.
Most the time the right word eludes me, even if the word is spoon or ostrich or ..well, ..
For this reason, along with how my muses are tiny insects I can hardly recognize until I smash them, spill my juice and scare the cat away, writing as any sort of profession is far too daunting a ...I can't think of the word...
no, really.
And I don't want to think any harder on it...I know there's a word for that spot, but maybe that's my style. Along with my true and original nature, I've been looking for my style. Are these searches diametrically opposed...do we contain style as our essential selves? Probably, yeah, I know that true style is an expression of the comfort resting in the, our, yours, my true nature. The pants don't matter.
Probably nature dictates our most eloquent style after funny haircuts and when you forget to think about your weight and shape and size..the best hair and shapes come out.
I'm not sure of my style or how close I am to liberation, but the cat just might sleep through the night to the right of my legs on top of the down comforter and in front of the space heater in my queen bed in my sweet little home with my teacher, friend, roommate sleeping quiet and naked next to her haunted secretary desk.

no tail to wag.

I figure the adderall vending machines are coming soon, anyway. So I threw on another course. The thing is, I am neither ambitious nor disciplined. This is a stupid idea. I'm not sure if this is the way to manipulate my nature. It's a pretty expensive way. But maybe if I'm swamped with reading and tryin to figure out how to study and write papers well, I won't have time...well for anything..but for lonely anxious moments considering why we do anything at all. I'll probably just drop the anthropology course. The course covers these Mississippian Native Americans who had building projects and big 'ol marble statues and a Matriarch queen sorta gal. Its like, cool, okay. Civilizations are neat. I'm all about them. However, I guess I don't really care for anthropology. It's too scientific and dry. There's a lot of meat in there...but I prefer a historical and philosophical perspective..something closer to fiction.
I am terrified I'm not sure I even really know what it is I want or like or prefer. I'm thinking, this is all going to change, I'm not a fixed variable, I feel different all the time. It's hard for me to keep focused on a particular ambition.. I forget easily what I felt so passionately and surely the day before.
solutions: (because we always just have to come up with solutions, plans, follow them through and forget why half-way, come back to the piece of paper and say, "ah. yes. This is what I do next, then." We have to do this or else we're just floating and shape shifting and our friends won't even recognize us after awhile. we must be recognizable)
articulate, often, what and why something matters right then. A good reason to follow through..
ha.

I wanted only to try to live in accord with the promptings which came from my true self. why was that so difficult?

for today, some Hermann Hesse:
"I have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me. My story is not a pleasant one; it is neither sweet nor harmonious, as invented stories are; it has the taste of nonsense and chaos, of madness and dreams-like the lives of all men who stop deceiving themselves.
Each man's life represents a road toward himself, an attempt at such a road, the intimation of a path. No man has ever been entirely and completely himself. Yet each one strives to become that-one in an awkward, the other in a more intelligent way, each as best he can. Each man carries the vestiges of his birth-the slime and eggshells of his primeval past-with him to the end of his days. Some never become human, remaining frog, lizard, ant. Some are human above the waist, fish below. Each represents a gamble on the part of nature in creation of the human. We all share the same origin, our mothers; all of us come in at the same door. But each of us-experiments of the depths-strives toward his own destiny. We can understand one another; but each of us is able to interpret himself to himself alone."
Well, okay, Hermann, but what do you think about communion, love?
"Love must not entreat, or demand. Love must have strength to become certain within itself. Then it ceases merely to be attracted and begins to attract..I will not make a gift of myself, I must be won."

That's all from Demian. I re-read it today. Whatever the man's got to say always coincides with the troubles tumbling around in my hairheartdryer.
I guess I've gotta listen to my blood. Okay.

Pick up your feet when you walk and speak directly
be a companion to yourself and when its pain
when its giving up, obsessive
ego cracking jokes avoiding
gettin scared, utilizing tools at hand
running wild like a pig to be slaughtered
and i'm trying, you know, not to eat bacon
pig path, kris boots, snake-scared
courageous lonesome companion
bring the nice cheese
the good wine
slowly, slowly
feeding wolves
between my ears
so some'll die and that'll be the headache
If i'm gonna cry, maybe I can just do that sober
If i'm gonna be a fool maybe I can do it honest
if i'm gonna wonder, maybe just wonder
slowness.


O look I've sprouted hooves like wing seeds.

balm for swollen hearts and throats, a thick liquid, a face first into the pillow

My throat's sore, but that's hardly what's the matter this morning. Swallowing is a whole ordeal.
I'm nauseous.
The real problem is my dreams won't stop. Every night I have emotionally distressing dreams with breaks in between when I wake up and recognize how horrible it was and agree with myself the best thing to do is go back to sleep- this is when I delve into another one. I do not feel rested.
The worst of it is it's just there in me. It's not the sort of thing you want to talk about.
But my psychic link to facebook is, I suppose, to be noted, though the details are not.
So maybe I ought to disable facebook for awhile. I'd like to disable everything. I feel completely lost this morning. completely unsure of absolutely everything. I'd like to move into this new house and lock up in my room alone (this current room won't do. its got residue of my own experience all over it). The cats can come in.
Some people are naturally all the time well adjusted creatures. They just like talking to people they recognize and know and sharing and it just oozes out of them. Others want to lock up in a room and chant until the inspiration comes again to be happy-to-see.
This morning I'm not a strong capable woman, I'm a sad child who woke up cuddling my stuffed unicorn.

Growing up starts soon. For now my eyes are raw and itchy, and who can do anything like this?

shellfish

Today I read Julia Sweeney's blog a bit, I thought of my friend Katers, because I believe they're similar people...
I've been meaning to write Katers a letter..I've been meaning to journal more, so I thought..this is just easier.
Besides, in a dream I had recently Katers said to me, "I can't take it, Kris, I can't just listen to your life right now."..and its made me wonder what I would put in a letter that isn't maybe too much...and I realize when Sneez says, "its not all about me" and it makes us both feel better, that in fact, it isn't. And what a relief.
So what else is there?
This morning Sneez was talking about the 5,000 birds that dropped dead new years eve in Beebe, Arkansas. She told me about vision quests, some Hopi prophecies and the need for humanity to connect itself more spiritually for us to have any hope of survival..
I offered my defense for at least Westerners, who are in fact destroying everything while simultaneously consisting of people I admire and think are very good for this world, or at least for my world, anyhow..and anyway, its useless to pretend it all could have happened any other way than how it did.
SO anyhow, my defense: people, even the real fat American ones who's primary activity is microwaving dinner, watching television, and sometimes vacuuming, want a spiritual connection. desperately. Why are there so many yoga studios and meditation discs and that big stand right when you walk into half price books for eastern spiritual studies and how come at the local coffee house there's tribal night and everyone wants to atleast LOOK like they're connected to something, somewhere, and all those acid dropping beats who set out for India and now we read their books and its COOL, man. We're desperate. Is it our fault? Well pseudo spiritualism is our fault. the whole aesthetic and scene, this "tribal" business, this I AM YOU YOU ARE ME etc over and over ad nauseum.
I can think of a few things wrong here. Lack of discipline, easy access to easy elation, anti-intellectualism of it all! I feel like reasoning could help..I feel like if we want to be connected to something transcendent and unseen we will have to do unconventional, uneasy things. And I don't mean acid.
So anyhow, what does it mean to be spiritual? and I can think of a few indications of a spiritual person..a person confident in their own voice and intuition...self loathing is probably indicative of a completely disconnected creature, you know?
And maybe thats what it all comes down to...America hates itself and as a result, doesn't know how to love.
so, what is there to do? ease the mind of America, tell her she's good, she's really got potential and ought to relax and focus on what it's doing right.
I'm not sure. It's easier for me to reason my way into spirituality than it is for me to establish my own connection with confidence and ease...I am trying to love, I am trying to know I am good.
This usually just takes space and quiet, and its just there. what a great deal we have sometimes.

In between creating this blog, showering and actually typing this out (without forethought, I might add, but thats my general style...no forethought)...Paul shows up unannounced. I am in my bath towel listening to the Deodato vinyl Leonard left me...feeling pretty all right (other than the fact that I think too much heavy whipping cream and allergies is concocting a sick kris) and my phone rings, I look out my window, there's his truck..there he is at my front door. O Lord I am not in the mood to have fun with this awkward dynamic. I am angry. O good, anger.
So I open the door a smidge, say let me get dressed, come out to the patio and look at his face once or twice..tell him i'm a little stressed, i'm a little sick, and you know, shellfish. shellfish.shellfish, yer a shellfish. Go learn about your own goodness and get off my porch, Paul. Your goodness is not here..easy elation..appearing sweet and tasting like old meat. (if one could say an alligator in a rocking chair appears sweet.)
I'm glad i'm a little sick, its like all the bloods in my head and nowhere else.
This Deodato song is in the Being There trailer..also on the soundtrack is Beethoven and  Erik Satie.
Sometimes things just make sense, and I wonder if the universe is offended I am surprised..but then it always keeps my cats coming back and someone around somewhere who likes me..and more importantly people that I like.
On the agenda today: to be grateful. for no reason. for no end. not even to feel good.
There's a big wasp in my house.

Thanks.