All My Wishes

Fri, Aug. 14th, 2015 08:19
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (starbuck)


-1 is less than zero, but for some reason it still has more substance than nothing.

Although one may not give up on others that does not stop others from giving up on one.

I'm bad at math though. My calculations are quite often off. Especially this particular calculation in which I equated myself; stubbornly. A calculation of which I believed I was the mathematician needed for solving. A calculation that actually works better minus one; myself being the one needing subtracted.

It's strange to feel the struggle finally coming to an end. Especially when it has been a struggle of years spent deeply vested. Yet, in the end, it wasn't until the moment of being nudged out, that the struggle dissipated.

In short; what I had been busy figuring, like an obsessively devoted mathematician, has finally found it's solution and that solution seems to have needed me removed to come to fruition.

Ouch!

As people who believe in magick stress though, "Be specific."

The solution I was solving for is discovered. I never specified I wanted the solution to include me.

I imagine this is how those before me felt. I imagine others will eventually feel the same.

So is the ebb and flow of life. Mathematically beautiful; minus one.

~TigrisSky
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (starbuck)
Learning how to sit in the background and just be is not an easy thing for me.

single hand

I had been filled with so much excitement and happiness in being a part of the "in-crowd" these past nine years of my life. It has felt wonderfully empowering to be looked to for expertise; to be able to help direct and focus energies to meet and, at times, exceed the goal(s) of the groups I have been involved with - both personally and professionally.

That limelight has faded though and I find myself restless in the shadows trying to figure out how to follow the light and no longer be it. For some, my doing this, has lead to confusion about our relationship connections, for others I am still a light, and for others I am completely forgotten - as I might have been all along.

Yet inside my own self I am trying to wade my way out of the remaining ounces of sticky self-judgement and devaluing that come with such a loss of status in ones own mind. Luckily I am no longer drowning in it.

"Where do I fit now?"

That is the biggest question I continue to struggle with figuring out. It often leads to an even bigger contemplation of: "do I fit in now?"

Well, do I? ... Punk.

In some instances the answer is yes, in others it is no; furthermore, in some instances I still fit in but am no longer included because "X" changed. Because "X" changed there is an assumption that means that "Y and Z" did too; leading to being excluded from being a part of "Y and Z" altogether. Which sucks, because "Y and Z" are things I still love, but you know, "X". *sigh*

Yeah for catch-22's!

... meanwhile ...

When I visited Grandma they did not have high expectations for her to be around much longer. I sat beside her as she slept and told her how strong she has always been and how all those naysayers throughout her life could simply never understand. I also reminded her that she is and always has been my favorite Grandma and one of the strongest most influential women in my life.

I couldn't really tell if she was cognizant of the physical reality she is alive within anymore. She lay there peacefully sleeping(?), calm, and oh so beautiful still. I focused on that point closely, even at the age of being worn out and done she looked so beautiful - and I don't mean that in the supermodel standards America sets. I don't know how to explain it right, she just was beautiful to see.

I didn't cry, told her I loved her, and then left the room to go sit with the rest of the family. The rest of the family followed suit, taking turns going into Grandma's room and chatting with her. She slept through it all. At the end, when Dad was done, he stated we should probably say our goodbyes and head out as she most likely would not be opening her eyes.

I was the first to enter into her room to say goodbye, my soon-to-be seven year old niece following right behind me. I leaned over, kissed her forehead, then whispered in her ear, "goodbye Grandma, I love you." As I stood up Grandma opened her eyes, a slight look of shock as she recognized me and then the biggest smile I have seen on her face since forever overtook her.

"Grandpa," my niece called out to my Dad, "her eyes are open! Come see! Come see!"

We all clustered around her bed. I sat on the edge of it to be out of the way. I showed her all the people whom had come to see her, pointing in their direction, "look Grandma, Dad's here."

Grandma would look, her lips unfurling from their smile as she focused for the briefest of seconds to see whom or what I was pointing at. Immediately she would lose interest and focus back on me. Her bright eyes would beam and she would smile big again.

It was overwhelming how much we said to each other just by looking and smiling at each other. I was caught off guard, as my sister pointed out what was going on to everyone in the room. "She just wants Tig, she is just looking at Tig. Oh my gosh, she really wants to see Tig. Look at her smile at Tig."

I don't know exactly what was happening in that moment, except to say that it felt like everything I needed to know and she needed to know were coalescing perfectly.

Shortly after she opened her eyes to smile at me she became tired again and drifted back to sleep. We all left quietly after that.

For days and days I pondered that visit. I don't know exactly what I have given my Grandmother that makes me her favorite, but I do know what she has given me throughout my life that makes her mine. As well, in that smiling quietly awake moment where she focused on nothing but me, she gifted me with something that my life thus far has shown is nothing but hardship, misery, pain, and sadness ... peace in dying.

No, she has not passed yet.

What I mean though is, she has given me the ability to see that death can be peaceful. That I can lay and bask in the memories of my life as a beautiful aged sleeping beauty and let go slowly. That Death's final moments do not have to be tumultuous and daunting. That I do not have to fear the final moments I may spend, alone, waiting for Death to take me back into the Cosmos.

After all of the death I have been privy to in my 36 years, I really needed to see something so positive in regards to it.

Everyone does.

driven

My honor code has been going through serious development over the past year as well. The above quote becoming fundamental to the core of the echelon of quotes that it is built with. The foundation of which still remains: "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle." ~Plato

To this day, that is ALWAYS the right answer to end up at in any situation I end up dealing with.

Yet, this new quote really puts into perspective the human I strive to be while I am granted this singular moment called life. While the chaos of the world flits about me it is all so hard to keep up with; sometimes scaring me, other times making me laugh; well, this quote from Neil degrasse Tyson just seems so pertinent to the objective that is life.

At least to me it does.

lucky

And so does this quote right here.

We give ourselves so little credit for accomplishing what we do, it is sad. Always thanking some invisible force, be it luck, god, or unicorns for the accomplishments we have made. When do we begin to accept the idea that we humans are pretty phenomenal creatures, accomplishing all sorts of very miraculous things on a daily basis?

Some will argue that humans are destroying everything and we are horrible parasites.

Okay. Woah! Yet, okay I get it. I hear ya, I understand, and you choose to focus on what you want. However ...

One day a human looked at the sun and questioned light; not with superstition but with questioning analysis. Then we found the speed of light and since then we have used our understanding of the world around us to find out just how insignificant and yet truly mind-blowingly significant we are.

We can see 93 billion light years into the future of our cosmos. Which means we are also seeing 93 billion light years into our past. WTF?! Amazing!

All of what we see around us comes from the wonder and curiosity of the Universe discovering itself - LIFE.

Life; such a beautiful moment of chaos experiencing itself.



This song just seems to fit the mood of where this post has taken me. It is the song that introduced me to Lucero, Slow Dancing.

That is all life is, a moment to slow dance ... alone, with someone, or something else. To experience and build a memory of emotions that help you understand life, just that much more. Be they good, be they bad, be they easily forgotten ... or maybe they grip ahold of your heart and never, ever, walk away - at least from your memory that is. A moment where time stops and you don't care about anything else, but those eyes, those arms, those lips ... so close to your own. A moment of encouragement that leads to discouragement that leads to surviving.

In the end it is all just a moment - take it while you can ...

~Tigresssky~
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (starbuck)
moth skull

As you get older you start conversing with death more regularly. It is quite amazing how quiet death can be in your youth; where endless possibilities dominate the discussions. Death only whispering in your ear every now and again, grabbing your attention for small brief moments in your youth; becoming increasingly louder as you age. Until it reaches a fervor pitch, eventually drowning out possibilities and leaving you waiting for "it's" handshake with your heart.

Hospice workers are visiting my last remaining grandmother regularly now. It is almost time. She has been living in adult foster care for years now. Moving her there really began her decline. Taking people out of their homes, dumping them in a single room, then keeping them doped up and sat down in front of the television doesn't lend for much mental or physical stimulation. Especially when family and friends do not visit regularly. All of these factors lend to ensuring a form of Alzheimers will develop.

I do not know why, but I was always Grandma's favorite. She didn't get to see me that often growing up, as my parents divorced when I was three and my mom left the state with me.

Yet I did spend the first part of my life in her home. She has told me a few memories from that time. She also babysat my sisters, cousins, and seconds cousins regularly so all the parents could work. This meant she would babysit me from time to time while I was visiting my dad every other summer. Eventually the babysitting stopped, at least for my side of the family; as we got older and my dad and stepmom just left us at home alone instead.

I use to idolize her. She was single the entire time I knew her. Living on her own, going out and doing her own thing, gardening and taking care of her own home - a home that she had helped build!

I didn't know the truth of it all until I was in my twenties and living back in Oregon. I spent a lot of time with my Grandma then. Her house was comforting to me. The memories it held. Most especially I loved just visiting with my Grandma.

I learned during these visits how my Grandpa cheated on her. How he moved out from living with her and into his girlfriends home. How long it took for her to finally put her foot down and tell him he could no longer gallivant between the beds of the women in his life - he had to choose. He chose his girlfriend.

Yet they never divorced. His money and benefits from the Navy all came to her. She was always his wife and she never had another lover, dated, nor anything after that.

I wish I knew more about it, Dad never talks about it. I wonder if Grandpa left when the three boys where still young, or of they had all been older? I wonder how they handled Grandpa being an ass? What was it all like for them?

I have a brief idea of what it was like for Grandma, because she spoke to me about it and I caught the reflective pauses, inflection changes, and subtle looks she gave while thinking about it. It was always weird for me to recognize how vulnerable this woman, who lived on her own and took care of her damned self!, truly was.

People say she and I looked a lot a like when comparing pictures of her and I in our teen years. Here is a picture of her in her early twenties I believe:

Grandma Hazel

When they moved her to the foster care she started forgetting my visits to her. She couldn't hold much of a conversation anymore. She always knew who I was, but never really when it was. It got hard to visit and see her like that. Now I feel guilty as I have only really made one or two attempts a year over the past few to see her. Last time I went she couldn't even stay awake and had become bed ridden.

Now hospice is visiting regularly and making sure she is in the best comfort as she prepares to feel Death's final handshake upon her heart.

It makes me sad that I didn't spend more time learning about her. Knowing her life and how she grew up. She lived in the middle of what is now pretty much gangland when it was all just fields and farm.

Three of the four houses that encompassed her side of the street on the 86th block, just off of SE Division in Portland, were built by my Great-grandfather, Grandfather, Great-Grandmother, and her. Now they are all old and falling apart as no one in the neighborhood really cares about having a beautiful home anymore. In what that neighborhood has become they simply cannot afford to. They also shoved two row houses in right next to Grandma's old house, in what use to be a large side yard that was part of Grandma's property.

There are cars lining the streets and lawns of the neighborhood and the beauty of the area is completely gone. There is nothing there that displays anything of the beauty, farm, and people who made that area thrive for two full generations. It is so sad how quickly and strangely everything changes.

It started getting bad in Grandma's neighborhood when I was about 13. She got robbed a few times; waking up to flashlights in her face and men in her bedroom telling her not to scream or they would kill her. Yet she stayed there, and would have continued to stay there had she not been turned back into a child, decisions suddenly being made for her, then placed into a small room of things, and forgotten.

At least I will disappear quicker, (I am already forgotten a lot of the time as it is), as there is no one to remember me. There is no one to regret not getting the full account of my story and in turn no one to lose out on finding a piece of history that personally belongs to them. No one to understand my life's possible effects on the world around it. No one to find out how my life was affected by the rest of the world.

After Grandma passes, all of the family women who affected my life the most will be gone; except my little sister. Maybe I should get her story before it is too late.

too-late

It always seems to be too late though. I will never know my brothers because no one told me about them until the one person who could give me details died. No one tells me about a lot of things. Choosing to lie or keep things quiet so as not to hurt my heart. Do I come across so fragile? Because I am not. I want to know - as much as I can, before Death grips my heart and every ounce of me disappears from this planet.

A disappearance which could be at any given moment. Something I learned with more poignant reality as I happened to be exploring my friends list on Facebook. I was checking out people I heard little from since FB decided to change from displaying all my friends post to just those I had interacted with recently. I learned if I just went and said "hi" on their homepage and they responded I would start seeing them in my feed again.

Being nostalgic lately, I was looking at people I had gone to junior high and high school with, and the first name I clicked on was dead.

She would be my age and I met her during my freshman year in high school. Well technically during the last 4 weeks of my 8th grade year in junior high. I had just moved to the area and had to attend school for those last four weeks to be counted as eligible to graduate from 8th grade in the State of Colorado, even though I had already finished in Alaska.

Anyway ...

Amy was awesome and we corrupted each other. She was beautiful and sassy to, with a short hair-do I kind of envied at the time. She was sporty, attractive, and had the attention of a lot of boys at school. Unlike me.

amy
This is Amy back around the time I knew her in High School.

I helped her be at ease with sex and her sexuality in general. No, we were not lesbians, she was just a virgin and I wasn't, so we had lots of talks.

I knew her for a little over a year because as soon as my freshman year was over, we moved, again.

I found her again in about 2008 through Facebook. We chatted a bit and caught up. She was living in Florida and soon moved to North Carolina. She was single, no kids, loved her dogs, and was a hair dresser. She was still beautiful and looked hot in a bikini! She was still sassy, independent, and strong; a beautiful specimen of feminine strength and beauty.

She died a horrible death in an accident in her car on January 24, 2011, with her dogs.

I was shocked to go to her page to say "hi" and find nothing but people posting how much they loved and missed her and still couldn't believe she was gone; even all this time later. She was loved.

In the past few years alone, people have been giving their hearts to Death fairly regularly. Some I have been closer to than others, yet all of them I was pretty shocked to see go.

As I continue to age this just becomes more and more the norm and people just don't seem to want to talk about or truly acknowledge it much. *sigh*

Maybe I am morbid for thinking often about what Death will say when Death comes for me. Will it be a soft whisper of forgetfulness until eventually I just dissipate? Or will it be a loud primal scream that hits me hard and shakes my core? Will it be a fearful boast or a gentle kiss? Will my memory live, in turn keeping me alive, after my physical is gone? Eh, I can answer that last question, no it will not - there is no one to remember.

death

In my youth, unlike most, Death spoke to me often. The fact I am here and alive is, in someways, unexpected. Top that off with the amount of times Death sat nearby and shook the hearts of those close, sometimes taking them directly, sometimes taking their loves. Well, it is no wonder I became a catalyst for change. It is also no wonder that I have developed a relationship with Death. Although come the fuck on, it is Death, how many relationships does Death really have? Maybe it is more of a fascination, appreciation, curiosity, and understanding that I have with Death; not a relationship.

I don't know, I'm not really trying to figure it all out; after all, there really is nothing to know. Death is just a little closer to me again right now, hugging me, pointing things out, like a father showing a child what work he has left to do, and what work he has done; proudly.

~TigressSky~



When I die
when my coffin
is being taken out
you must never think
i am missing this world

don’t shed any tears
don’t lament or
feel sorry
i’m not falling
into a monster’s abyss

when you see
my corpse is being carried
don’t cry for my leaving
i’m not leaving
i’m arriving at eternal love

when you leave me
in the grave
don’t say goodbye
remember a grave is
only a curtain
for the paradise behind

you’ll only see me
descending into a grave
now watch me rise
how can there be an end
when the sun sets or
the moon goes down

it looks like the end
it seems like a sunset
but in reality it is a dawn
when the grave locks you up
that is when your soul is freed

have you ever seen
a seed fallen to earth
not rise with a new life
why should you doubt the rise
of a seed named human

have you ever seen
a bucket lowered into a well
coming back empty
why lament for a soul
when it can come back
like Joseph from the well

when for the last time
you close your mouth
your words and soul
will belong to the world of
no place no time.

~ Rumi
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (starbuck)
Rapunzel by Harrison

"Rapunzel"
by Maria Mazziotti Gillan

Think what it must have been like for her, caged
in her tower, the small window cut into dark
stone, the hours it took to brush

and untangle her hair, waiting for the prince
to come so she could let down her hair
and he could climb up to her room.

Think what it must have been like for her, lonely
and starved for attention like the girls now
who stare into their bathroom mirrors, brushing

and combing their hair, applying perfume, mascara,
skin softener, make-up, all in honor of the man who
will stand outside the window, their beauty a braid they

climb up on, their lives spent, breathless and silent,
waiting for a man to rescue them as though their own
hands were not strong enough, their own hearts not

brave enough, their own minds not quick enough for
them to save themselves.


Sun Worship

find your meaning young girl

"Meaning"
by Carl Dennis

If a life needn't be useful to be meaningful,
Then maybe a life of sunbathing on a beach
Can be thought of as meaningful for at least a few,
The few, say, who view the sun as a god
And consider basking a form of worship.

As for those devoted to partnership with a surfboard
Or a pair of ice skates or a bag of golf clubs,
Though I can't argue their lives are useful,
I'd be reluctant to claim they have no meaning
Even if no one observes their display of mastery.

No one is listening to the librarian
I can call to mind as she practices, after work,
In her flat on Hoover Street, the viola da gamba
In the one hour of day that for her is golden.
So what if she'll never be good enough
To give a concert people will pay to hear?

When I need to think of her with an audience,
I can imagine the ghosts of composers dead for centuries,
Pleased to hear her doing her best with their music.

And isn't it pleasing, as we walk at dusk to our cars
Parked on Hoover Street, after a meeting
On saving a shuttered hotel from the wrecking ball,
To catch the sound of someone filling a room
We won't be visiting with a haunting solo?

And then the gifts we receive by imagining
How down at the beach today surfers made sure
The big waves we weren't there to appreciate
Didn't go begging for attention.
And think of the sunlight we failed to welcome,
How others stepped forward to take it in.
Tags:

Worshipped

Thu, Feb. 20th, 2014 13:39
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (starbuck)
primal

"2 A.M."
Dorianne Laux

When I came with you that first time
on the floor of your office, the dirty carpet
under my back, the heel of one foot
propped on your shoulder, I went ahead
and screamed, full-throated, as loud
and as long as my body demanded,
because somewhere, in the back of my mind,
packed in the smallest neurons still capable
of thought, I remembered
we were in a warehouse district
and that no sentient being resided for miles.
Afterwards, when I would unclench
my hands and open my eyes, I looked up.
You were on your knees, your arms
stranded at your sides, so still --
the light from the crooknecked lamp
sculpting each lift and delicate twist,
the lax muscles, the smallest veins
on the backs of your hands. I saw
the ridge of each rib, the blue hollow
pulsing at your throat, all the colors
in your long blunt cut hair which hung
over your face like a raffia curtain
in some south sea island hut.
And as each bright synapse unfurled
and followed its path, I recalled
a story I'd read that explained why women
cry out when they come -- that it's
the call of the conqueror, a siren howl
of possession. So I looked again
and it felt true, your whole body
seemed defeated, owned, having taken on
the aspect of a slave in shackles, the wrists
loosely bound with invisible rope.
And when you finally spoke you didn't
lift your head but simply moaned the word god
on an exhalation of breath -- I knew then
I must be merciful, benevolent,
impossibly kind.
Tags:
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (starbuck)
Silent Film Shot

Ready
~Rachel Barenblat~

"So the people took their dough before it was leavened, their kneading bowls wrapped in their cloaks upon their shoulders." —Exodus 12:34

You’ll need to travel light.
Take what you can carry: a book, a poem,
a battered tin cup, your child strapped
to your chest, clutching your necklace
in one hot possessive fist.

So the dough isn’t ready. So your heart
isn't ready. You haven’t said goodbye
to the places where you hid as a child,
to the friends who aren’t interested in the journey,
to the graves you’ve tended.

But if you wait until you feel fully ready
you may never take the leap at all
and Infinity is calling you forth
out of this birth canal
and into the future’s wide expanse.

Learn to improvise flat cakes without yeast.
Learn to read new alphabets.
Wear God like a cloak
and stride forth with confidence.
You won’t know where you’re going

but you have the words of our sages,
the songs of our mothers, the inspiration
wrapped in your kneading bowl. Trust
that what you carry will sustain you
and take the first step out the door.

Being Human

Mon, Dec. 23rd, 2013 08:39
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (starbuck)
dark woods

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be cleaning you out
For some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from the beyond.

~Rumi
Tags:

Alone

Tue, Nov. 26th, 2013 14:50
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (starbuck)
"High School Boyfriends"
Alison Townsend

Because they were willing to like me a little,
because they were willing to drape the heavy
animal warmth of their arms over my shoulders,
or hold me tight during slow dances
when the lights went down in the gym,
because they were willing
to claim me, like a new world,
or a wilderness waiting,
green beyond the waves, I

let them do whatever they wanted,
my breasts rubbed raw
under the flint
of their fingers,
my hand cramped
from jerking off the cock
of Lee, Randy, John, Richard, David, Peter, Jim,
each one the same
hard, groping boy-shape
that bruised my lips
in back seat, field, or at
forbidden forest camp-outs,
then left me lonely, my tired fingers sticky
with the salt-wet slick of their come.

I didn't know any better,
I say to myself now.
I didn't even know to say no
and push their hands away.
But the body doesn't lie.
The body remembers forever.
And sometimes the ghosts
of boys' hands still smolder inside me,
a fire gone underground
where something green once grew.
Tags:

amuck

Wed, Oct. 23rd, 2013 06:42
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (starbuck)
In Darkness by Seto Kaiba

"You darkness, that I come from"
Rainer Maria Rilke

You darkness, that I come from,
I love you more than all the fires
that fence in the world,
for the fire makes
a circle of light for everyone,
and then no one outside learns of you.

But the darkness pulls in everything:
shapes and fires, animals and myself,
how easily it gathers them! —
powers and people —

and it is possible a great energy
is moving near me.

I have faith in nights.

----------

eye

Too Much Light
~TigressSky © October 23, 2013~

I wake up and it is still dark out. There are sounds of activity within the house. I know it is four in the morning; no alarms have tolled. We are just up now. Awake in the darkness.

Sometimes I wonder what stepping into the light really means. To be seen? Sometimes it is better not to see; just feel.

I can't drink anymore. I can't hide behind sand. I can't continue to provide a cloaked smile for this charade. You just want to feel me; not see.

Loneliness has warm hands. Massaging me gently upon your bed. I smell the ax running through my hair. Lips fall gently against the back of my neck; whispered warnings.

Each button twisted rips. My heart beats faster anticipating scintillation. It may be bright but I remain void. An investment in a moment cannot afford the light.

I can hope for others, but in truth, only I can see myself. Maybe I haven't lied enough to stop caring. Perhaps the lies are why I care.

The train whistle signals your departure, my heart remains in tact. This time ... is the last time, until tomorrow. Shut the curtains; there is too much light.

----------

The adventure is somewhere I must get to. That is all I know. That is all I understand. Of this world. Of the next. Of the last.

A paper plane to fly me high over the words, leaking from the tip of my heart, crashing unto an empty crease, falling steadily upon a coffee stain, crumpled under your boots.

Everyone rushes to find their balance. Eight to five with bacon in tow. The pubs fill with warriors whose ties and heels have strangled the dreams of the faithful.

We do not know who to defeat anymore but ourselves. Systems furniture locks us into the cog and with every lash we "row! row! row!" The drum beats keep our time; no longer will we love.

An upper leads to an afternoon of conformity. A downer leads to an evening of forgetfulness. The cogs eat, they need more bacon. There are no heretics only pork.

Walk next to them but remain desperate for more. "Fight! Fight! Fight!" A whisper of the heart to a system of the light their eyes can find no way out of. Atheist know the safety of the dark.

Fingertips trail the wrong direction across my skin, I close my eyes and give in. A blossom opening, is the only way to find direction in the dark. Far away from this space where there is too much light.

Brave Losers

Fri, Oct. 11th, 2013 13:29
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (my so called life)
Space between

"The Spaces Between"
Jack McCarthy
for Helen

It hurts
when love dies.
When love is deep
it hurts deeply
more deeply maybe than you thought
anything would ever hurt
again.

But with time
the spaces between the moments when it hurts
get longer
the moments themselves become
less devastating
till eventually you come to associate them
with a sad sweetness
that has as much in common with love
as it does with grief.

I will not say
Don’t grieve for me—
do I look like Saint Francis?

But I wish you long
spaces between,
and may you carry into them
all of that sweetness
and only enough sadness to attest

the risk that’s being taken
by everyone who loves you.
Every time we love we’re saying,
Let it ride
and what’s on the table
is the rent money.

And every time we stride again
out into the crisp desert night
our fists shoved deep into empty pockets
we know ourselves for losers.

But, Jesus,
what brave losers we are.
I wish you this too,
for the spaces in between,
this bravery.
Tags:

Self Love

Fri, Oct. 11th, 2013 10:37
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (starbuck)
Chaplin Watercolor

As I Began to Love Myself
~Charlie Chaplin~

As I began to love myself I found that anguish and emotional suffering
are only warning signs that I was living against my own truth.
Today, I know, this is “AUTHENTICITY”.

As I began to love myself I understood how much it can offend somebody
As I try to force my desires on this person, even though I knew the time
was not right and the person was not ready for it, and even though this
person was me. Today I call it “RESPECT”.

As I began to love myself I stopped craving for a different life,
and I could see that everything that surrounded me was inviting me to grow.
Today I call it “MATURITY”.

As I began to love myself I understood that at any circumstance,
I am in the right place at the right time, and everything happens
at the exact right moment. So I could be calm.
Today I call it “SELF-CONFIDENCE”.

As I began to love myself I quit steeling my own time,
and I stopped designing huge projects for the future.
Today, I only do what brings me joy and happiness, things I love to do
and that make my heart cheer, and I do them in my own way and in
my own rhythm. Today I call it “SIMPLICITY”.

As I began to love myself I freed myself of anything that is no good for
my health – food, people, things, situations, and everything that drew
me down and away from myself. At first I called this attitude
a healthy egoism. Today I know it is “LOVE OF ONESELF”.

As I began to love myself I quit trying to always be right, and ever since
I was wrong less of the time. Today I discovered that is “MODESTY”.

As I began to love myself I refused to go on living in the past and worry
about the future. Now, I only live for the moment, where EVERYTHING
is happening. Today I live each day, day by day, and I call it “FULFILLMENT”.


As I began to love myself I recognized that my mind can disturb me
and it can make me sick. But As I connected it to my heart, my
mind became a valuable ally. Today I call this
connection “WISDOM OF THE HEART”.

We no longer need to fear arguments, confrontations or any kind of problems with ourselves or others.
Even stars collide, and out of their crashing new worlds are born.
Today I know THAT IS “LIFE”!
Tags:

Beauty

Wed, Oct. 9th, 2013 10:23
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (starbuck)
Male Form

"Vision of your Body"
Daisy Zamora

In the dimly lit room
I had a brief glimpse of bliss:
sight of your naked body
like a god reclining.
That was all.

Quite unaware
you got up to get your clothes
just naturally
while I shuddered
like the earth split open by lightning.
Tags:
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (Hobbes Tree)
Have the morning off then headed down south for a training for work. Was listening to a podcast from the nerdist.com talking to Katey Sagal. Learned how her true passion and path in life is music and that acting was a door that opened for her to make money while she pursued her music.

Now she is seen for her acting and not much recognized for her music. So of course I had to go hear something from her and, well, the Universe works in mysterious ways as this is the first song of hers I came across ...



Can't Hurry the Harvest
Katey Sagal

Be still my beating heart
There's so much time
Allow yourself to mend
Trying to be strong when weak
You break if you don't bend
It's a long night
But it's alright
Don't give yourself away

Change comes when it does
We all grow up when we do
You can ask yourself questions
You can struggle for truth
Can't hurry the harvest
Can't hurry the harvest

I was holding you so close
So much was meant to be
I thought I heard your voice
But you let go
You took so much of me
Oh my darling, my little one
Did it have to be this way

Change comes when it does
We all grow up when we do
You can ask yourself questions
You can struggle for truth
Can't hurry the harvest (You're gonna reap what you sow)
Can't hurry the harvest (Valley high, valley low)
Can't hurry the harvest (You're gonna reap what you sow)
Can't hurry the harvest

I'll plant a seed
And watch it flower
Seasons will change
Colours will turn
Nothing remains the same

Can't hurry the harvest (You're gonna reap what you sow)
Can't hurry the harvest (Valley high, valley low)
Can't hurry the harvest (You're gonna reap what you sow)
Can't hurry the harvest

Can't hurry, don't hurry, can't hurry the harvest
Can't hurry, don't worry, can't hurry the harvest
Can't hurry, don't hurry, can't hurry the harvest
Can't hurry, don't worry, can't hurry the harvest

----------

It's so beautiful and fits so well with the hard choice I made in missing fall and my rediscovery of who this caterpillar is about to become.

I can't hurry the harvest.

~TigressSky~

Do I Read?

Fri, Jul. 26th, 2013 07:56
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (starbuck)
You should date an illiterate girl.
by Charles Warnke

Date a girl who doesn't read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in a film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you've unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale or the evenings too long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn't fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn't, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn't read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent of a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, goddamnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn't read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so goddamned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life of which I spoke at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being told. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you.

Or, perhaps, stay and save my life.

A Girl Who Reads Is Sexy

Commentary from Brynn Brown that says what I too feel about this very moving piece:

The words elicit complicated feelings and maybe a bit of uneasiness. But it is supposed to. Anything that causes a person to examine their choices and value system will.

I am the girl who reads (and writes!), but I don't see this necessarily as a celebration of girls like me. Rather, it is a commentary on how people passively live their lives. It is about how people make choices that will not, can not, lead to the stated vision...if there is one. It is about how people let things happen to them and take the easy road rather than making choices that might result in a more fulfilling, even if more challenging, life.

When I was a teenager and just started dating, my mother (OMG, I am quoting my mother!!) said, "Choose. Don't just let yourself be chosen." The same should be said to men. I think everyone would be much happier for it.

Or, you could date a girl who reads ...
Tags:
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (starbuck)
Have you ever sat across from someone and become awakened to all your flaws?

I'm sure many of us have. Yet, have you sat across from someone, awakened to all your flaws, and realized how lovable you are anyway? How your flaws do not make you any more damaged or crazy than anyone else? That these flaws - so ingrained in your psyche as something you must fix, work around, keep hidden, and apologize for - need none of that attention?

I started writing this on Friday and today I was awakened to these poetic words from Roy Croft:

Love
by Roy Croft

I love you,
Not only for what you are,
But for what I am when I am with you.

I love you,
Not only for what you have made of yourself,
But for what you are making of me.

I love you for
the part of me that you bring out;
I love you for
putting your hand into my heaped-up heart
And passing over all the foolish, weak things
that you can't help dimly seeing there,
And for drawing out into the light
All the beautiful belongings
that no one else had looked
Quite far enough to find.

I love you because you
Are helping me to make
Of the lumber of my life
Not a tavern, but a temple;
Out of the works
Of my every day
Not a reproach
But a song.

I love you because you have done
More than any creed
Could have done
To make me good,
And more than any fate
Could have done
To make me happy.

You have done it
Without a touch,
Without a word,
Without a sign.
You have done it by being yourself.
Perhaps that is what
being a friend means, after all.

----------

So it is I sit across from him awakened to all my flaws and love myself even more than I ever thought I could in spite of them.

From this love I can now truly hear and, most importantly, understand the voices from the few friends who remain so, so, so close to me:

Beyond the Reflection
by Thomas Merton

The beginning of love is to let those we
love be perfectly themselves, and not to
twist them to fit our own image. Otherwise
we love only the reflection of ourselves
we see in them.

----------

So yeah, I process a lot here in my LiveJournal. As I go back over my posts, I find that, at times, it seems like the only thing I write is a lot of downhearted and/or extremely contemplative and self-judgmental posts. I tend to miss out posting those moments of great love and learning even though they are so abundant in my life.

That is how I process though; I write. I rarely share life's grievances at me with others, it just doesn't feel right. Nor does it sit well with the base of my honor code:

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle." ~Plato

TigressSky~

What if?

Fri, Jun. 14th, 2013 11:22
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (starbuck)
What if these were the stories we heard on the news. The type of things we gathered to bear witness to. Yes, exactly, what if?

Daisy Chain

“Killing Time”
Simon Armitage

Meanwhile, somewhere in the state of Colorado, armed to the teeth with thousands of flowers, two boys entered the front door of their own high school and for almost four hours gave floral tributes to fellow students and members of the staff beginning with red roses strewn among unsuspecting pupils during their lunch hour, followed by posies of peace lilies and wild orchids. Most thought the whole show was one elaborate hoax using silk replicas of the real thing, plastic imitations, exquisite practical jokes, but the flowers were no more fake than you or I, and were handed out as compliments returned, favors repaid, in good faith, straight from the heart. No would not be taken for an answer. Therefore a daffodil was tucked behind the ear of a boy in a baseball hat, and marigolds and peonies threaded through the hair of those caught on the stairs or spotted along corridors until every pupil who looked up from behind a desk could expect to be met with at least a petal or a dusting of pollen, if not an entire daisy chain, or the color-burst of a dozen foxgloves, flowering for all their worth, or a buttonhole to the breast. Upstairs in the school library, individuals were singled out for special attention: some were showered with blossom, others wore their blooms like brooches or medallions; even those who turned their backs or refused point-blank to accept such honors were decorated with buds, unseasonable fruits and rosettes the same as the others.

By which time a crowd had gathered outside the school, drawn through suburbia by the rumor of flowers in full bloom, drawn through the air like butterflies to buddleia, like honey bees to honeysuckle, like hummingbirds dipping their tongues in, some to soak up such over-exuberance of thought, others to savor the goings-on. Finally, overcome by their own munificence or hay fever, the flower-boys pinned the last blooms on themselves, somewhat selfishly perhaps, but had also planned further surprises for those who swept through the aftermath of bloom and buttercup: garlands and bouquets, planted in lockers and cupboards, timed to erupt either by fate or chance, had somehow been overlooked and missed out. Experts are now trying to say how two apparently quiet kids from an apple-pie town could get their hands on a veritable rain-forest of plants and bring down a whole botanical digest of one species or another onto the heads of classmates and teachers, and where such fascination began, and why it should lead to an outpouring of this nature. And even though many believe that flowers should be kept in expert hands only, or left to specialists in the field such as florists, the law of the land dictates that God, guts and gardening made the country what it is today and for as long as the flower industry can see to it things are staying that way. What they reckon is this: deny a person the right to carry flowers of his own and he’s liable to wind up on the business end of a flower somebody else had grown. As for the two boys, it’s back to the same old debate: is it something in the mind that grows from birth, like a seed, or is it society that makes a person that kind?
Tags:
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (starbuck)
This piece, yeah ... it hits home for me. Deeply. My big dumb self.

~TigressSky~

what animals know
"My Brother Buries His Dog"
by: Chris Green

He moves furniture for a living, over-sized bureaus and beds for the rich. He is big now and dumb with love that animals sense—cats, dogs, squirrels, birds, his pygmy turtles and rabbits, tree frogs—they all take him in, nuzzle his childhood scars, forgive his bad jobs and girlfriends. The middle child who grew up telling us all to fuck off—now a grown man, calls me crying, Why my puppy! (His Great Dane is dead.) He sobs, and I remember how we beat him—Mom, Dad, nuns, coaches, teachers—I know I did. And like animals before a storm, he has premonitions—this time a dream of me crying over Nina’s corpse. He says, I want you to think about that. He says it because I’m the godless eldest son who knows everything. So we carry his huge dead dog from the vet to his truck to his backyard. He digs a hole all day then lays her black body in the dark. Weeping, he seals her in with a last block of sod, and between the kiddy pool and the garage we embrace. He whispers, I love you. And in that moment I knew what animals know.
Tags:
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (starbuck)
Sunshine Love
"Of Love"
Mary Oliver

I have been in love more times than one,
thank the Lord. Sometimes it was lasting
whether active or not. Sometimes
it was all but ephemeral, maybe only
an afternoon, but not less real for that.
They stay in my mind, these beautiful people,
or anyway beautiful people to me, of which
there are so many. You, and you, and you,
whom I had the fortune to meet, or maybe
missed. Love, love, love, it was the
core of my life, from which, of course, comes
the word for the heart. And, oh, have I mentioned
that some of them were men and some were women
and some — now carry my revelation with you —
were trees. Or places. Or music flying above
the names of their makers. Or clouds, or the sun
which was the first, and the best, the most
loyal for certain, who looked so faithfully into
my eyes, every morning. So I imagine
such love of the world — its fervency, its shining, its
innocence and hunger to give of itself — I imagine
this is how it began.
Tags:
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (3 of Swords)
Queen of Cups 2 by Jake Baddeley
"Royal Heart"
Andrea Gibson

You will never be let down by anyone
more than you will be let down
by the one you love most in the world
it’s how gravity works
it’s why they call it “falling”
it’s why the truth is harder to tell
every year
you have more to lose
but you can choose to bury your past
in the garden
beside the tulips
water it
until it’s so alive
it lets go
and you belong to yourself
again

When you belong to yourself again
Remember forgiveness
is not a tidy grave
It is a ready loyal knight kneeling before your royal heart

Call in your royal heart
Tell it bravery cannot be measured by a lack of fear
It takes guts to tremble
It takes so much tremble to love
Every first date is a fucking earth quake

Sweetheart, on our first date
I showed off all my therapy
I flaunted the couch
Where I finally sweat out my history
Pulled out the photo album from the last time I wore a lie to the school dance
I smiled and said “that was never my style
Look how fixed I am
Look how there’s no more drywall on my fist
Look at the stilts I’ve carved for my short temper
Look how my wrist is not something I have to hide” I said
Well I was hiding it

The telephone pole still down from the storm
By our third date I had fixed the line
I said listen,
I have a hard time
I mean I cry as often as most people pee and I don’t shut the door behind me
I’ll be up in your face screaming “SEATTLE IS TOO RAINY SEATTLE IS TOO RAINY
I'M NEVER GOING TO BE ABLE TO LIVE HERE.”
I sobbed on our fourth date

I can’t live here
In my body, I mean
I can’t live in my body all the time it feels too much
So if I ever feel far away know I am not gone
I am just underneath my grief
Adjusting the dial on my radio face so I can take this life with all
of it’s love and all of it’s loss

See I already know that you are the place where I am finally going to
sing without any static meaning
I’m never gonna wait
that extra twenty minutes
to text you back,
and I’m never gonna play
hard to get
when I know your life
has been hard enough already.
When we all know everyone’s life
has been hard enough already

it’s hard to watch
the game we make of love,
like everyone’s playing checkers
with their scars,
saying checkmate
whenever they get out
without a broken heart.

Just to be clear
I don’t want to get out
without a broken heart.
I intend to leave this life
so shattered
there’s gonna have to be
a thousand separate heavens
for all of my separate parts
And none of those parts are going to be wearing the romance from the
overpriced vintage rack
That is to say I am not going to get a single speed bike if I can’t
make it up the hill
I know exactly how many gears I’m going to need to love you well
And none of them look hip at the hot coffee shop
They all have God saying “good job you’re finally not full of bullshit”
You finally met someone who’s going to flatten your knee caps into
skipping stones

Baby, throw me
Throw me as far as I can go
I don’t want to leave this life without ever having come home
And I want to come home to you
I can figure out the rain
Tags:

Re-invent

Thu, Feb. 14th, 2013 09:20
tigrissky: Tiger in Green Sea (Love Kanji)
"Valentine for Ernest Mann"
Naomi Shihab Nye

You can't order a poem like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, "I'll take two"
and expect it to be handed back to you
on a shiny plate.

Still, I like your spirit.
Anyone who says, "Here's my address,
write me a poem," deserves something in reply.
So I'll tell you a secret instead:
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.

Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two skunks for a valentine.
He couldn't understand why she was crying.
"I thought they had such beautiful eyes."
And he was serious. He was a serious man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding
in the eyes of skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled up at his feet.

Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.
Tags:

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