which one of you nuts

drawing down to do or die here on the lealife front.  my dreams have gone spastic and are definitely not following the “dreams are not real” guidelines they should stick to.  i wake up all confused and thinking i’ve lived through a few more rough patches.

so much of the last four months has been a hibernation for me. counting down weeks to an indeterminate deadline. esperando con alevosia for a man to tell me he’s on his way.

silver linings-the hawk self and the owl self have certainly been born from me and my reflections. as always watching me waiting. watching me hold, and hold, and hold and occasionally break and self-consciously lose my cool.

not that i’ve ever been cool to begin with. you know.

had a guy inform me i was acting unstable a while back. this gave me pause and also made me laugh. felt like one flew over the cuckoo’s nest. i certainly have my moments, but i prefer to see them as a calculated release valve. we all know how bad things can really get, and my sartrean fear of the cliff is actually pretty well developed. the self sees from above and takes things with a pinch of salt.

i’ll keep you posted on the deadline issue. a whole chapter of my life is about to open up before me, and unlike the impatient reader, i can’t flip through the pages, skip to the end. i have to read every dull word, sounding out the vowels and consonants as my eyes wash over them.

it’s like zen practice, where you have to let go of your pedestrian rage in order to get in the flow. i’m still working on it.

was reading about how the thing that seperates humans from animals is the invention of linear time. i wonder how accurate this is. it’s hard to tell if the squirrel is thinking about snow coming when he stashes food or if he’s just roboting around instinctually.

one could say the same about us, i guess.

contractions.

this far into my life i am starting to feel more absurd than ever, more confused or unsure that my existence has an objective.

sometimes dancing makes me feel like living, i guess. so there’s that.

dancing’s such a tricky high though, it lets you come in and become something else for a while, the rhythm maybe.  like all highs soon fades.

lamentably, i have peeks of myself as a sparkler. one of those firecrakers that lets you become intimate with it, assures you it does not burn or impale, and for a few minutes makes you feel like a fairy in a tale. sparklers do not inspire awe, but they remind us about fire and sparks and the fleeting  beauty of  oxidation.

i am not patient enough. laughably, all i have been doing for seven months is waiting.  a novice beginning my immortality training.

baby my baby complicates and beautifies and trivializes all this musing. there i have a clear as day objective, to love well and provide well.

i see my self from above, hawk flying over owl nest, and the mirror of the sky infinite and reflections losing meaning and becoming pattern.

buoys: laughter, babygaze, and faith in eventual revelations.

all religion, in my mind, breaks down to prescribing acceptable buoys and recognizing them together.

i want the freedom to pick my own, and to me ultimate faith is the faith in myself that i will go on fighting, loving, and seeking my way.

late night texting.

life……or society makes us want things and we depend on it to give validation when we get them.

i think rejecting this relationship might be zen.

but there is why the holy life is one of poverty.

give me my wooden pillow.

you still me. me feel less empty.

grey sea salt.

compression. dark cold days give rise to calorie hoarding, thinkdreamed hours trying to intuit the infantike exchages that sum up my life.

waiting still for my prince to come home.

engrossed in parallel sleep training universes.

the murky twilight stroll, the bath in a fall pool, leaves blocking my view of the surface. light beams dancing on my face. some blinding me, others giving me hope.

angel eyes following me everywhere i go. toddering now.

breathholding, then deep breathing, then belly laughing, then quiet again.

slipslide waiting room.

immortality training.

i hung out with estranged friend W. today. he gives me bizarre hope for humanity. tells me unbelievable stories.

i love it when people make me want to believe in what they’re saying. movies have that magic too. we want so badly for it to be real because it answers to some deep need in us.

sometimes this culting of a movie turns kitch, and then is when people become ridiculous. and even more loveable. we all need to dress up as our favorite characters, and we have no outlet for this adult play acting in our society. witness the dude lebowski conventions. Trekkies.

totems served this purpose tribally. a man became an eagle, a bear. their spirits inhabited the men. these animals Were the characters in the primitive mise en scene.

so i’m still holding out on my owllady. she falls casually and silently above me, the trees posts in her mysterious vigilance.

being followed, the hook of a thousand storylines.

now as i muse on what part of my life is tellable, it seems obvious that the best idea is the lovestory. i need to become my own owllady, swoop between the whispery pages of my memory, pick out the extremest moments, thread them together to create a tale that justifies your attention.

at first i balked, my hand stayed by fear of narssicisim.

soon enough i realized that a story is a story. as soon as i “fictionalize” myself that self immediately becomes someone else. any presented self is an other.

it just comes down to telling an absorbing tale.

this is possible, no?

Asi mi vida es una fuga y todo lo pierdo y todo es del olvido, o del otro.

-No sé cuál de los dos escribe esta página.

so i live as a fugitive and i lose all and all is forgotten, or becomes the other’s. 

- i don’t know who of the two writes this page.

(borges, trans. mine)

visitor.

if she had an archetype it was the visitor. early orphanage made her this way, she thinks. cut off from patrimony, lost her closest patriarch.

this slows her down in ways that have been inconvenient, but rich with human factor.

i found it great when call girl, diaries of came out recently. google her. turns out she’s like a cancer scientist, wo.

it made me realize, congeal, the idea- when brave women must sacrifice for success, they lift the degradation to a holy crusade, escaping mostly unscathed from the slummin adventure. this is the story we want to read.

call me puss n boots, oh facebook.

changing the subject, i wish we were hanging out instead of me writing this blog to you, but i must admit i do feel you are there, so maybe we are hanging out, in the ghosttimes.

i laid in bed last night and felt alone, and then remembered how many times i’d said, i’m jealous of girls who are alone.

life is serving me and i am attending the banquet.

i look out the blackwidow into the night and see the opposite window’s occupant doing the same. an odd taste of camaraderie here in metropolis.

on the eve of my daughter’s first birthday i feel i am the one struck with apotheosis.

vibrating, searching for poise.

thanking universe for this new person in my life.

 

the butalizee.

children, aah. things run together. the shadowy routine of naptimes, peas and pasta and scrambled eggs, of bleating in the night, of the overwhelming feeling she gives me of containing the whole world in my chest.

i feel the death of the momentum of the trip i was on to get here, a soft and accommodating place to land, to regroup, to be just ok for a bit and not experiencing the fight flight hormonal surges.

it makes for a different kind of writing and i come to grips with that. i am in memory land. all the buildings hosting ghosts of my shadow.

someone has offered to submit my film treatment to a major hollyword producer: an in.  it’s a long shot even assuming this person is not bullshitting me. ok, i think: even if he is i should still ride some of that fluttery what if excitement to formulate a treatment. if it turns out to be a purely artistic exercise, so be it.

i’m thinking: use this blog as a chopshop. raw material for something that falls into the basic three act plotline.

p.s.

i force you to look at this.

http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?ref=vl_other_2&listing_id=18337018

i think it rather compares as conceptual advance of Assemblage as per the late artist norman hasselreiis. see post

http://leahla.wordpress.com/2009/08/20/headbanger-baby/

http://nbhasselriis.com/

buenas noches, luna

not monkeys.

flashback from this summer.

it was all filled with organic vegetables and yellow fields and green creek water in my memory. i leave versions of myself in each milieu.

now it is cold with winds here in seattle. nights come quick on the backs of days spent wandering my city and watching noa baby teeter on her first whole year.  she’s morphing more a bit each day into a sweet and sassy and charming little kid.  yesterday in an attempt to stall her crying in the grocery store i presented her with a shiny tiara packed in plastic. her crying breath faded and on the inhale she sighed in rapture. it was cute.

walking is happening this week, i wish you could see it. she holds her hands up in the air and kind of does the wave/forward moonwalk.  drunk sailorlike. all the hours of lost sleep are repaid in these instants.

life is beautiful and bittersweet. the advantage of spending lots of time in a place: it fills up with memories, and wandering around a girl can fall into reveries of lives and loves past. doing this with noa brings this wavering to a new level, like dreaming about a dream, or remembering the future. i spent time pondering her, and myself as a mother, while roving these sidewalks 10 years ago. now i have an answer to these questions wrapped up in fleece, strapped to my belly, giggling as i growl into her neck.

Samhain

” you subject me to this indignity and my only consolation is cheerios?  this is an outrage!  quit holding out on me….hand over the kitkats now!”

the next morning baby got her revenge.

we found both her and 2 year old L. gloating quietly in a sea of chocolate wrappers and cat food, both deliriously sucking on lollipops.

halloween has become my favorite holiday. after putting babies to bed S. and i joined the frenzied masses on the streets of belltown. first we attended a burlesque show at the pink door (youtube search luminous pariah, so talented, so hot). after one more drink (ok, two) we walked home on first ave weaving our way through the beautiful public spectacle. in front of hulahula we come upon a fight scene unfolding its climax: big boy in a superhero costume gets punched in the jaw by a much littler caveman and topples to the pavement.

i seized upon the coincidental purchase of a striped shirt to become marcel marceau this year. if any character suits me it’s the dramatic clown.