for auld lang syne

i spent the day wandering through antique stores with two of my sisters. i enjoy poking through the finds, but the real fun of the day was just getting to spend the time together; the one sister lives in colorado and was only here because she decided to surprise everyone by driving over for christmas!

but i also found myself occasionally being amused by some item or another that made me think of blogbelieve, with the attendant thought: "i can't wait to tell them about this tonight...!"

we were never alone then. we walked with each other through all our days, even though we were spread across the globe. it was such a wonderful feeling, and i smiled today at the nostalgic return of it. there truly is a part of me that will always be tj, and i'm glad for it.

today i walked through antique stores, and i saw a little scuffed-up stormtrooper sitting on a shelf. it made me think of mayo, and imaginary parties where we knocked imaginary star wars figurines off imaginary glass shelves, and i had to grin.

i hope everyone had a wonderful christmas, and will carry the bright warmth of it into the new year. you were in my thoughts, with smiles.

ho ho hum.

remind me to never work retail during the holiday season again. it's astonishing how little holiday spirit there is on display (not to mention intelligence, patience, and courtesy). "stressful" doesn't even begin to cover it.

i have an escape plan, though, a little adventure that, the closer it gets, keeps me filled with a fizzy anticipation and a rising energy. tuesday's my first mcr show in two and a half years, my first opportunity to see them since madison square garden, and nothing can faze me when i think of that. my very first concert was a christmas show, and my chemical romance, and four years later here it is again, full circle but not the same place at all.

i'll most likely be at this show by myself, but it won't be the first time, and truly, you're never alone for long in line for mcr. there's always a camaraderie that makes waiting in line a party, a fellowship that turns a group of strangers into a tribe.

i'm ready, just throw me in the crowd and watch me smile. no amount of rude customers can take the joy out of my holiday season, not when it includes a gift like this.

after all, 'tis the season...

for rock 'n' roll! :)

excursus.

if you knew how much i struggle with this liminal doubtful mini-reality, even now...

boundaries have always been important to me; i categorize and define and trace the outlines of who i am and what i see and then along came a little imaginary black house and smudged everything all up. and the smudge scares me because believing in it might mean that i finally took that half-step i've always been afraid i could so easily take, led astray by my imagination into the proverbial white room. and yet the smudge is wonderful, because it was true magic and it caught me up in it.

and now nothing else is defined either and i'm sorry but i just can't be happy all the time, i am only this messed-up person no matter what color my hair is and the path to wherever and whoever and whatever might allow me to take off my own headphones is just my path, and that's always a longer path, i always take the long way around. and on this path there are no 3 a.m. friends so sometimes i spill out where i shouldn't. i reach out when i should just stand the fuck up and figure it out for myself. so.

sometimes i am writing stories and making pictures, and sometimes i cry. sometimes i am excited and cheerful and sometimes i despair. i try to keep it all to myself and not sprawl messily where i don't belong. i don't want to trouble anyone. i know my place, even if it is smudged 'round the edges.

enfilade.

i'm gearing up for a mini-road trip and concert next month. i'm excited (natch), but i'm trying to keep my expectations in check; the circumstances that made it possible for me to go out on the road and see all those shows two years ago were unique. it was a perfect storm, you know? and now, i have to let this show be what it's going to be, i have to open myself to whatever it will give me. i need the jolt live music has for me, i need the re-charge. i can't clutter it up with ghosts and echoes.

plus, this new music, these killjoy boys, on my best days the new songs and all the shenanigans fill me with every possibility, and it's easy to feel connected to my artist self, my writer self. i wish i could be that person always.

on my worst days i'm like i was today, feeling lost and empty and worthless. a dead end.

maybe that's why i find myself writing here. i was thinking about these last few years, thinking about my grand schemes and all that post-divorce babble about becoming my true self. i found a lot of courage here, back then. these days, if there's any forward progress, it's microcosmic and halting. most the time i feel like a mammoth in tar.

and i wonder, has there been any point to it? to this struggle? maybe the best i can hope for is the occasional bright joy of being at a show, my own little bread and circus, and the rest is futile empty daydreaming. i don't know. i'm so happy to be able to go to this show next month, but there's a nasty whisper inside telling me to give up and grow up. i love the message i'm hearing in the new songs, but i feel like a traitor because i can't quite believe i have a right to it. it isn't meant for me. i can draw and i can write and i can make things, but it's wasted skill, isn't it? i don't have a voice to sing with.

i want to believe that at least here i mattered, for a little while. here, at least, i had a voice. i made a difference. i helped.

that it's okay to be who i really am. that it's okay to be starting out at this late stage. that there really will be a place for me to belong again, even if i can't imagine it right now.

that the best days are the real days, and today's ugly voice is the one that lies.

autumn equinox.

I am the sunset on the lake,
Balanced, then does the night overtake.
-from The Pagan Book of Hours

(vespers, the song sung at evening.)

the last of my wheel of the year couplets, for at the next we are come full circle, and return again to the close of the day and the death of the year, at hallows.

sincerely.

i’m not strong; in my weakness sometimes even a fraying thread is better than no thread at all. but it was what i needed to hear. it gave me permission to do what i wasn’t able to on my own.

and even though it’s done, even though i was set free and able to make an end, it doesn’t change the loyalty i feel. it doesn’t change the fact that i will carry this place (and you) with me, forever.

i stand by everything i’ve written here, all the seriousnesses and sillinesses, all the ramble, all the promises.

i meant every one.

thank you.

lammas.

I am the salmon, coming to spawn,
Rushing through fields of grain grown long.
-from The Pagan Book of Hours

(nones, the ninth hour, midafternoon.)

with a smile.

i've been of half a mind to not post here anymore. i don't have much to say, nor is blogbelieve any longer a place to bare one's soul. those days are in the past (and i am very grateful for them).

but it seems i have an embarrassing amount of loyalty to give. i belonged to this place in a way unlike anything else in my life. i still feel wholeheartedly that this was a special gift, of accident or fate, but one to which i will always owe a debt. i was seen. i was myself, wholly, and i was seen.

it was gratifying, and exhilarating, and not easy to let go of.

so, while there is not much to say anymore, i still feel the urge to speak. i accept that this most likely makes me a weak and foolish person. if i were stronger, i would walk away from the empty hallways, but i was tethered here, once, and the ghost of that thread still binds me.

it's okay.

there will come a day when it won't.

but i will never give up what i was given here, no matter how ridiculous that makes me, and though someday i'll stop sending good nights out into the emptiness, i'll never stop being toujours.

unrepentantly grateful, for all of it.

midsummer.

I am the bright sun at its height,
All that live flourish in my sight.
-from The Pagan Book of Hours

(sext, the sixth hour, midday.)

poetry night.

here's one of the dishes from tonight's feast. i think i might have been this girl, or am still her.

Shaking the Grass
by Janice N. Harrington

Evening, and all my ghosts come back to me
like red banty hens to catalpa limbs
and chicken-wired hutches, clucking, clucking,
and falling, at last, into their head-under-wing sleep.

I think about the field of grass I lay in once,
between Omaha and Lincoln. It was summer, I think.
The air smelled green, and wands of windy green, a-sway,
a-sway, swayed over me. I lay on green sod
like a prairie snake letting the sun warm me.

What does a girl think about alone
in a field of grass, beneath a sky as bright
as an Easter dress, beneath a green wind?

Maybe I have not shaken the grass.
All is vanity.

Maybe I never rose from that green field.
All is vanity.

Maybe I did no more than swallow deep, deep breaths
and spill them out into story: all is vanity.

Maybe I listened to the wind sighing and shivered,
spinning, awhirl amidst the bluestem
and green lashes: O my beloved! O my beloved!

I lay in a field of grass once, and then went on.
Even the hollow my body made is gone.

beltane.

I am the promise of noon's heat,
A merry oath kept by love's beat.
-from The Pagan Book of Hours

(tierce, the third hour, the rising day.)

i lied.

actually, today was a day spent hiding.

after the visitors left, i went online to catch up, and wind down. there was still a little bit of morning left, and i was looking forward to a resumption of my usual coffee & internet.

but when i turned the computer off, i was unaccountably shaky. suddenly, i was lost. suddenly, i was heartsick.

i surmise that my unsteadiness was partially due to the inevitable crash that happens after guests leave, but why was the world suddenly so foreign, so inimical? why was my voice breaking with tears that had no discernible source?

so i pled exhaustion, and hid behind a closed door for most of the afternoon, trying to escape, first in a book, and then finally, in sleep.

but mostly i think maybe the absence of distraction opened me up to an attack from within, and doubt was what wrenched at me, and pulled down my defensive embankments, and left me standing on a precipice. all my plans seemed futile, all my hopes, infantile. there was no struggle today; i lost.

and though this is what was on my mind, this is what was in my heart, i just couldn't face making my weakness the subject of a good night, yet again.

i once wore a thread on my wrist, but tonight i fear it is gone, and today my faith was shaken that it was ever there at all.

spring equinox.

I am the birdsong at daybreak,
Their cheerful tunes bid all to wake.
-from The Pagan Book of Hours

(prime, the first hour of the day.)

poetry is the best tonic of all.

The Music We Are

Did you hear that winter is over? The basil
and the carnations cannot control their

laughter. The nightingale, back from his
wandering, has been made singing master

over the birds. The trees reach out their
congratulations. The soul goes dancing

through the king's doorway. Anemones blush
because they have seen the rose naked.

Spring, the only fair judge, walks in the
courtroom, and several December thieves steal

away. Last year's miracles will soon be
forgotten. New creatures whirl in from non-

existence, galaxies scattered around their
feet. Have you met them? Do you hear the

bud of Jesus crooning in the cradle? A single
narcissus flower has been appointed Inspector

of Kingdoms. A feast is set. Listen: the
wind is pouring wine! Love used to hide

inside images: no more! The orchard hangs
out its lanterns. The dead come stumbling by

in shrouds. Nothing can stay bound or be
imprisoned. You say, "End this poem here,

and wait for what's next." I will. Poems
are rough notations for the music we are.


-Rumi
from The Soul of Rumi translated by Coleman Barks

Thank you.

no guts.

ah, shit.

my writing jag crashed, and so did i.

i slept with my window open, just an inch to let in the wet air. this morning, the fresh wet scent filled my room. i woke, i stretched, and the scent, which should have been a welcome one, which is normally a welcome one, was today, not.

somehow, it reminded me of days half my life ago, when all my hopes were ahead of me, and everything was yet to be done. and they're gone. they are only a waking reminder on a breath of air.

squandered time, and none left.

and yesterday's joy in writing is today's ashen grief.




it is a dead end day, for a dead end life.

better than mischief.

the following is from something i wrote on another blog, but i wanted to post part of it here, too. i want this reminder of this magical thing, this gift, this experience i had that actually, literally, changed my life. it isn't often you can pinpoint a single event that picks you up and puts you back down facing a brand new direction, and it's even more rare when that event is something wonderful.




i'm glad i've been a part of this, i'm glad i've had the chance to become friends with people from around the world without leaving my chair. i'm on a completely different path than i would have been, and though it's rocky right now, i'm glad to be heading in this new direction.

and i'm very glad to have been able to read your posts, all of them -- the scary ones, the silly ones, the stories, the riddles, the beautiful prose, and the beautiful poetry.

you're the author of this blog; you started it, and the ending belongs to you.


and so i'll be hanging out here until then (because i'm kind of silly loyal like that) and when i'm not here on this comfy ol' couch of yours i'll be out exploring that new beginning i found here.

hope you did, too.

take care, my friend. good night, and sweet dreams.

i choose to believe in daffodils.

technically, it's spring now, you know.

oh, i know it doesn't look like it. i don't see any flowers, either. but we've turned the corner, and there's no going back.

look closely, and you'll see buds on the branches. tiny, but there, all the same. look again, and you'll see little shoots in the flower beds and margins, fierce and green.

hang onto those signs, even when the nights are cold.

have faith in spring.

candlemas.

I am the sweet breeze of pre-dawn,
The first hint that night's nearly gone.
-from The Pagan Book of Hours

(lauds, the first song of the day.)

hachiko.

i used to feel like i was writing a letter every night; sometimes silly, sometimes serious, but somehow a correspondence.

i have to confess now it feels more like notes on rolls of parchment; wishful little things sent out with only hope for postage.

it is most probably a weakness to continue to write them.

i am most probably a foolish woman to subsist for so long on hope.

i know this.

but i will most probably still send out that little message in a bottle, every night, too.

new year's magic.

i am a superstitous person. it goes with the territory when you believe in magic; the idea that one's actions can affect a change on a larger scale is essential to both. i am, however, not superstitious willy-nilly. those superstitions i subscribe to i do so because they make sense to me (or, to be completely honest, because they're fun.)

i have long been aware of the idea that whatever one does on new year's day will set the tone for the rest of the year, but have only recently begun to believe that this might in fact be the case. 2008 was the year that made me think so: on new year's day i attended a cd release concert at sonic boom records in bothell. i spent the day enjoying live music from a favorite local band, and the year followed suit.

last year was dark, i spent new year's day hiding from the world, wracked in fear and sorrow, and those feelings stayed with me, dogging me through every season.

so this year, i decided to take the superstition by the hand and do something symbolic, something hopeful, something to nudge the year in the direction i wish it might go. my options were limited, no cd release parties nearby that i knew of, nor any galleries open on new year's day, nor could i spend the day in a house of my own, nor travelling...

so i dyed my hair purple.

does it seem silly? maybe so, and i almost didn't. i've never used a crayola color on my full head of hair before, i had no idea what it would look like. but hell, it's just hair, right?

the result is actually quite subtle; my hair is dark and i didn't bleach first. i have purple highlights in the sun, though, and that's enough of an oddity hereabouts to garner some gawking. but what was important was how it made me feel: purple in my hair always makes me happy, and it did this time, as well. my hair might not have ended up looking like a muppet 'do, but when i look in the mirror, i can see it, and it's like a secret i'm whispering to myself.

this is who you are. you are creative, you are off-kilter, you have always been so and seen or unseen, you are still so. take heart. be brave. be you.

this is what i hope for this year, for it to be a year shaped by the whisper i whisper in my heart, a year of optimism and grinning at myself in mirrors, a year of making dubious choices that work out just fine.

Trust your heart.
Listen to your gods.
Walk your path.