2/15/11 A request for psychic advice
Also on the photocopy machine at the library was a letter addressed to Madam Anastasia Star, requesting psychic advice on an older gentleman's financial state. And while I don't mean to make light of financial woes of the elderly, I am absolutely delighted that someone has finally acknowledged my psychic ability, and my common sense in dealing with the world. I'm equally delighted with the new nickname, though I'll only assume it temporarily, in case someone else needs to use it too. Of course I consented to giving him advice, and here it is:
Dear James, I have consulted with my spirit helpers, and this is what I see: Good energy always draws good energy. Being grateful for resources that you do have can set you on the path to happiness. Try to be busy every day, as a wise friend of mine says, and perform generous acts each day. Help someone, call someone and offer your emotional support, help a neighbor clean their house if you are able to. Grow some stuff in your yard, your garden this year, if you are able to. Try to do five generous things each day. Your deep desire to heal your financial woes can be a shining beacon for others. You could be the center of goodwill and resources for your neighborhood, for example. The more you do for others, without expectations (in other words, truly giving), the more the universe will recognize your bright soul. You might not have a lot of money, but you will have all you need.
Sincerely, Madam Anastasia Star
Monday, February 14, 2011
2/14/11 An unexpected Valentine
Was expecting to spend the day handing out pumpkin bread at work, photocopying a song for my set list at the library at lunch, and exchanging bland, platonic Valentine greetings with co-workers. Check, uh-huh, and check.
But on the photocopy machine at the library, was this fabulous Valentine from a true romantic to his "illicit lover." ME, of course.
My anonymous lover reminded me that I had his deepest esteem and excitement,that his feelings for me are passionate, genuine and credible, and that "our intercourse" is "hot like the newest Porsche." Aaaah, romantic love. Just when I had taken a break from you, you show up as if by magic, pledging your heart and giblets.
Was expecting to spend the day handing out pumpkin bread at work, photocopying a song for my set list at the library at lunch, and exchanging bland, platonic Valentine greetings with co-workers. Check, uh-huh, and check.
But on the photocopy machine at the library, was this fabulous Valentine from a true romantic to his "illicit lover." ME, of course.
My anonymous lover reminded me that I had his deepest esteem and excitement,that his feelings for me are passionate, genuine and credible, and that "our intercourse" is "hot like the newest Porsche." Aaaah, romantic love. Just when I had taken a break from you, you show up as if by magic, pledging your heart and giblets.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
2/5/11 Mist
Mist, endless mist today, from the snow that melted and floated back up again yesterday. Maybe we’re mistaken and the most natural state of water is as mist, drifting, smoking, lines and forms through the trees, limning the twigs in white. Maybe it’s as a liquid that water is heavy, clunky, mistaken, out of shape. Maybe the liquid form of the water planet mistakes and misrepresents the true healing form of water—as air, the translucent, enwrapping, insulating, thick, drifting, evanescing mist.
Mist, endless mist today, from the snow that melted and floated back up again yesterday. Maybe we’re mistaken and the most natural state of water is as mist, drifting, smoking, lines and forms through the trees, limning the twigs in white. Maybe it’s as a liquid that water is heavy, clunky, mistaken, out of shape. Maybe the liquid form of the water planet mistakes and misrepresents the true healing form of water—as air, the translucent, enwrapping, insulating, thick, drifting, evanescing mist.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
1/26/11 Finishing the poem
Even if it's going to be torn apart and re-written a half-dozen more times, even if it's ridiculous and makes no sense and is so terrible--or not. Even if the other people in class obviously have more experience and wisdom and insight and everything than you do, even if you can't yet turn a phrase....you finished the poem. You wrote it. It's done and on the page. You can use it and re-use it, you can do anything you like with it. Be satisfied. Be ecstatic. You have finished writing a poem.
Even if it's going to be torn apart and re-written a half-dozen more times, even if it's ridiculous and makes no sense and is so terrible--or not. Even if the other people in class obviously have more experience and wisdom and insight and everything than you do, even if you can't yet turn a phrase....you finished the poem. You wrote it. It's done and on the page. You can use it and re-use it, you can do anything you like with it. Be satisfied. Be ecstatic. You have finished writing a poem.
Monday, January 24, 2011
1/25/11 A blind man, running
...across the Government Center Plaza to catch a train. His white cane, not the tapping kind, but the kind with a dog-leg and a crook, but colored white with a red tip, still, the cane waving in front of him like the nose of a swordfish. I love reckless aplomb. I love when people make a way to do something difficult. I love when people surprise you by jumping out of typecasting. I love that this guy ran and caught his train!
...across the Government Center Plaza to catch a train. His white cane, not the tapping kind, but the kind with a dog-leg and a crook, but colored white with a red tip, still, the cane waving in front of him like the nose of a swordfish. I love reckless aplomb. I love when people make a way to do something difficult. I love when people surprise you by jumping out of typecasting. I love that this guy ran and caught his train!
Saturday, January 22, 2011
1/24/11 Time
What does it feel like--how do we spread things out in this line of divisions and counting? Is time like the field of snow outside my sliding glass door--vast, grey-white-yellow-blue and sparkling in the sun, surrounding with a soft but severe presence everything that exists? Is it a grid that we could draw on the field of snow? Is it the individual snowflakes, each a unique, feathered, crystalline moment? Is time this field, with buckles and wrinkles and furrows that we flop around in, making of our life a messy, tangled dent in the fabric, like a fly caught in a web?
What does it feel like--how do we spread things out in this line of divisions and counting? Is time like the field of snow outside my sliding glass door--vast, grey-white-yellow-blue and sparkling in the sun, surrounding with a soft but severe presence everything that exists? Is it a grid that we could draw on the field of snow? Is it the individual snowflakes, each a unique, feathered, crystalline moment? Is time this field, with buckles and wrinkles and furrows that we flop around in, making of our life a messy, tangled dent in the fabric, like a fly caught in a web?
1/23/11 Canyon of light, city morning
Beauty is something that has to be known, felt, honored, to be perceived. I don't often walk through the streets near my job thinking, oh this is beautiful, this is ecstatic (but maybe I should start to).
Yesterday, the sun was at the right angle to shine nearly horizontal through the clouds of exhaust on 4th street. Traffic backed up--trucks, cars, minivans with their taillights winking red in the dark hulks of their silhouettes. The buildings four and eight stories tall along the street, a skyway (walkway on the second floor) bisecting the rays down at Second Avenue. Figures in overcoats hurrying one way and another on the sidewalks--edges of this canyon of light. Grey-white street, part snow, part asphalt was the canyon's floor. And the curls and wisps and limbs of vapor rising from the cars idling at the traffic light--dreamsicle pink and peach in the sunlight, white-blue sky behind.
Beauty is something that has to be known, felt, honored, to be perceived. I don't often walk through the streets near my job thinking, oh this is beautiful, this is ecstatic (but maybe I should start to).
Yesterday, the sun was at the right angle to shine nearly horizontal through the clouds of exhaust on 4th street. Traffic backed up--trucks, cars, minivans with their taillights winking red in the dark hulks of their silhouettes. The buildings four and eight stories tall along the street, a skyway (walkway on the second floor) bisecting the rays down at Second Avenue. Figures in overcoats hurrying one way and another on the sidewalks--edges of this canyon of light. Grey-white street, part snow, part asphalt was the canyon's floor. And the curls and wisps and limbs of vapor rising from the cars idling at the traffic light--dreamsicle pink and peach in the sunlight, white-blue sky behind.
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