WIP

this isn't done yet

these things really do happen

these things really can happen

how much of life do we live with our heads buried

not from truth but from what's around us.

we're not bad, we're not good

we're not evil, we're not godlike

we are as profound as grass and as firm as the earth

not more or better or more perfect.

looking for meaning is a dead-end job

meaning to look is as good as not

we are what we are, and we aren't what we aren't

filter down intention to actions remaining.

sweet breath, supple limb, sound memory

stiff joint, broken heart, callous soul

being alive is a work in progress never finished

fleeting relief cracked open for repair.

Unfolded words from a deep crease

Love note #1

I wrote myself a note.

This time not of darkness, forboding, and wonder.

Not murky and tumultuously existential.

It was a note of appreciation.

A note that said, proudly, look what you did!

As one would say to a brave toddler.

A note so simple, uncomplicated.

No criticism or doubt or insidious trap doors.

No what-ifs nor hesitancy allowed.

A visual, visible note to me.

A concrete reminder around mental blockades.

To make it real and mine and true.

Admittedly, it was a love note!

The first from me to me, a profession of love.

How did I not do this sooner?

The first note of many more.

I have spent too much time licking my wounds.

Now to delight in new possibility.

Dear little Lia,

You ask for a good life and you work for it.

Let yourself have it openly.

I want to break you open and let you out

When I don't know becomes I do know

What is it to know?

So often I don't know, but for someone else perhaps they would know - it being the same knowledge set as me of course, but in a different body, within a different set of expectations of what it even means 'to know.'

I doubt that what I know could even be real - it can't be, as real is just a word that can't mean anything beyond a physical existence - and how many things do we know that have a real physical existence. And even that definition can't hold water. A stone is real, because it exists, but is a stone made of clay not real? Perhaps not a real stone. So in that case no. But it does have a real physical existence.

So if there is no real, then is there even knowing? I tend to think no, infusing everything I think to be true, that I 'know,' with a flimsy, transient quality. Yet I allow myself to buy into others' knowing, buying others facts and knowledge as the truth, as real. Perhaps they know what it is to really know. It's like I live in one reality that I drew out and boxed in for myself, and yet I envision others in another world, one with absolutes and space that expands to allow for growth.

I want a bigger pot for my base. I have outgrown the one I am in and my roots are tangling at the walls. But it is not mere reorganization or imaginative thinking that is needed. I need to allow myself the same space and wiggle room I allot to others. I need a fresh pot, larger, wider, full of rich soil that can support my growth. The limitation is my own - my own ambitious roots hitting my own stubborn walls. Frightened walls that know where they stand, afraid to lose the plant itself if they came down; if other walls were built to support a new, expansive reality.

Fuck the pot. I want wide, unimpeded soil, the earth, I want to be part of the whole. I will hit rocks and roots and dry, crumbled patches, but let the walls fall away. Shards of terra cotta, disintegrating into my soils, now part of all, reabsorbed, but not blocking the way to widening root tips seeking deeper waters. Stems and leaves and petals reaching up and out, embracing more, living fearlessly or at least pretending so.

Perhaps knowing is the same as not knowing, only it is seen through trustful eyes that believe that that is all we can do. The information accumulated in my life may not be absolute, but it is all I have to go on, and my reality is the only one I can live in. Not others' realities. Of course knowing that is exactly that, my reality, and not someone else's, will keep me sane, prevent me from slipping down the slickened slide of self-righteousness and delusion.

I know I need more soil, more earth, more space to grow and extend and fill, and I am the only one who can provide that for myself. No thinking around it, just break the pot, and replant, knowing that I will survive and flourish. It is not all survival; the flourish is just as important.

Reconstruction

Watercolor paper, ink, watercolors, graphite, 10" x 12"

Thoughts on July 25, 12:08 am

the cosmic joke is that we all live in fear of one another, and that we spend all our time energy efforts in protecting ourselves from the so-called dangerous others who pass us moment by moment. Ha. its ridiculous and yet i do fear you, and you, and you. you could snap in a moment, you could strike like a serpent, you could cut me down in one short stab. i could humiliate myself beyond repair, beyond recognition, and you could see it, remember it, remind me or someone else. what would happen if i just said exactly what was on my mind and fuck all the rest and your feelings and your mother and all your bullshit luggage too. i could just say it straight whatever straight looks like to me. and i would be free and nothing would sit collect dust or pools of sweat and tears. it would all be out there in the universe and out of my hands. and would you hurt me or would i be okay, uninjured, unscarred, unfiltered. or would i be an empty ewer that dumped out all my juice without any concern who got it or who didn't. would i be more empty or more full. would i just be an asshole, or would i be honest and brave. would i eat crow later. would i be alone, deserted, unloveable. why is this all so scary. shouldn't being alive be easier than this. our one main job in this life is to stay alive. as long as we are alive shouldn't we feel successful and satisfied. why do i keep looking for meaning when i know that i create it. you are not scary and i am a meaning making machine. thats it. so when do i actually start writing my own script rather than reading others, sifting pieces out for my own story.

Set sail, little boats

Arrived

i walk into the institution

mugshot clipped, dangling from my shirt

"i belong here now"

no one questions anymore

i walk straight, past one elevator and

older men wheeling back and forth

waiting impatiently, I ride up

the doors open and I enter my new home

a special home for special people

so many keys for doors and drawers

keep them with me for no one answers but me

i am on my own now

rolling my cart like a new driver

i enter my first room, a symphony of sound

pumping, beeping, coughing, gurgling

the t.v. tunneling in the outside world

a reminder of normal lives and not-so-special people

its silence uncomfortable as I set up my music

caricatures of children I would imagine

aliens, creatures of the forest or space or water

i dont know, but i know they are alive

at home, splayed across my bed

i watched my cat play with her purple octopus

split open, jingle-less, irresistible

i speak to her sincerely

can she possibly understand a word, a tone?

she flicks her tail, i think yes

i shudder at the thought

of comparing a furry grey cat to a silenced child

i am too white for my own good

but i find sense and comfort

i love my cat and i know she loves me

i know she feels safe at home

we do not speak the same

but i know something passes through, both

we are alive and connected

in this thought, i find a way in

to see this group of beings, sentient, sensational

striving to reach out

i don't know what i am doing

bubbles and touch and forced brushes

music and one-sided narration

this is my offering, half baked

but i can say, i am here, and i will come back

you exist for me

you are alive, and for that, i am here

i belong here as you do

in our own roles, but dependent

needing both to make this home work

i don't know the meaning, nor a destination

but i am letting both sail like paper boats

what does it matter for whom and why

just being alive is enough of a reason.

Tethered to the pole and coming back again

The thing called Hope

It is the thing with feathers

it floats, it has wings, it is life

it holds up the world, never abandoning

Dum spiro spero, words written on my crest

for to lose hope, i hear, is to lose it all, to burn out

it lights the way, a glowing torch in the night, a halo

hope however begets disappointment

it is fanciful, naive, heartened, and unfulfilled

"Minds that are ill at ease are agitated by both hope and fear"

I breath as I hope, but hold it in, waiting

Should my hope not float up, fly off, shining

I will be lost, beseeching it's hummingbird wings up again

Hope is infinite, intricate, intangible

It is a small tug at the edge of your sleeve

It whispers in your ear, tail wrapped around you, hugging

It tells you of tomorrow, and the next day too

It warns you of unsteady currents and tropical storms

It tells you to hold on, even on the darkest, starless eve

Hope is a tease, a temptress, a siren overboard

It beckons you, deceiving and flawless, young and pure

Like chasing a rainbow, perfection and endless and ungraspable.

Hot and heavy and still going

Holding out

losing limbs

broken intactness, unintact

untacked, tactless, tacit

swimming through sand

grit in teeth, sinking faster than forward

hot, sucking moisture out

mask unhinged

ceramic cracking, peeling up

underneath just shadow

flopping on shore

glistening grey and rainbow

gasping in slivers

stop or go

when to hold out for better

or just ride the wind

unyielding momentum

do not let go for a moment

this is it.

I think I have been here before

A lake in the park, in the woods, in the world

a smooth lake marked by small slits of red

fish swimming up to the surface, rippling out

a calm punctuated by their lapping

curious reminders of them below the surface

the ripples soften, the reflection of the sky and clouds steadies straight

a picturesque image of the lake returns for a moment of unquestioning

About as much sense as it all makes

Watercolor and ink on paper

5 x 4 1/2 inch, 3 3/4 x 2 1/2 inch, 3 x 2 inch panels

We started with four

Watercolor and ink on paper, 4 1/2 x 9 inch

The only words left

Too late for your birthday

I semi-remembered your June 28th

I knew it last week

But today (now yesterday) was fresh and naive

She only saw now and not then

I got the call early, from my partner in crime

From the one who knows too

He told me, both as if for the first time and

As if it were already stated aloud

I said I would call back, do something

But it all dissolved away

I only saw today, I lived it with no past

As if loss were lost long ago

The evening was special and alive, vivant

But my artwork tells the story

It was crumbling, melting, coming down in pieces

You were there slipping away

I am sorry I am too late for your birthday.

You would be 59 today (yesterday).

The 8th birthday not celebrated with you.

It is too late for your birthday.

Too late for goodbye, too late for I'm sorry.

But never too late to tell you I love you.

I love you.

Points of connection

Watercolor on paper, 9 x 6 inch

Let it fall away

Watercolor and ink on paper, 12 x 9 inch

If your (my) word is all you (I) have

Skinned

I want to write 'what if'

I want to splay my fears and hesitations full out

Open-legged, exposed, indulging in calculations

Of all the uncertainties and fuckups on balance

Teetering, tempting me to sink into their comfort

The solace of a path well-worn, familiar, close-fitting

I want to prepare myself for the worst

I want to let the possibilities of disaster be known, in case

Slip on the cloak, half-disappear, safer now, shielded

Saturated down, translucent so it can't stick

You can't hold me down, fight me, break me, leave me

Yanked from my pedestal of knowing what I know

But I will not settle down again

Blocked into a place of reason, reassurance, gripping

I do not want the confines up, censures gauged

I want to take off my tie, my noose, my corset

Keeping these words in, but letting the rest out, breathe out

Knowing opening up to not knowing, a permeated flow

I'm peeling, pink and sensitive and fresh

I don't know more than ever, with new eyes blinking

Ha I laugh at the unlearnable learned somehow unthinkable

Held onto all the thorns letting the blood out beautiful red

Melancholy and it's brutal romance slip down into black lace

My nakedness is loud, shaking with thrill, now facing forward.

Seeing through new eyes

Roses by George Eliot

You love the roses - so do I. I wish
The sky would rain down roses, as they rain
From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?
Then all the valley would be pink and white
And soft to tread on. They would fall as light
As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be
Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!

Two Years Together Today

Mathieu

to my love, cheri

two years under one promise

one moment of more

I felt you, I know it

Shifting color

This soft green, chalky glow is fading into yellow haze.

It crinkles at the edges, aged.

Moments of shock and thrust and rushes of heat

Must give way to settling and integration.

Shifting in form following momentary obliteration.

You are new, within the same silhouette.

I must give myself inner shape, refocus my self, my lens.

Two twisted eyes bringing it all into view.

A lemony aura warms my body, sinking in like a desert tan.

Indescribable, prickling my skin, testing me.

Don't threaten me, don't worry, don't panic; I felt the click.

Remind me you're here but know you were taken in.

Caresses of infiniteness and space cushion and comfort,

I am nothing and everything.

Wonder-ful and awe-ful. Black velvet blanketing the future open.

Opting in to possibility

What I "got"

I make my own choices, they are mine, and I get to choose

I see the possibilities, if I don't see them then I don't have them.

I see them. I choose.

I get to say who I am and how I want to live my life

I say it, I create it, I own it, I live it, I make an impact.

I am saying it. I choose.

I cannot be prepared for everything, but I can be open

I can keep my eyes open and I can handle what will come.

I take responsibility. I choose.

I want fun. I am fun. I create fun. I live fun.

I want love. I am love. I create love. I live love.

I want connection. I am connection. I create connection. I live connection.

I want to bring this very sensation, understanding, inspiration to you.

To you and all others in my life, from my loves, to clients, to strangers.

If this is it, and it can only be it, and nothing else but it

Then I opt in, I say yes, I say I will and I am, and choose it fully.

I see it. I say it. I take responsibility for it. I choose it.

Obliteration and reiteration

Too much too new

this is too much, it hurts my head

expanding and contracting

offering me infinity and threatening my very existence

possibility and destruction fused

as deconstructing what I know to rebuild anything

is exciting and horrifying and unknown

i can't be sure, am not ready, not sure how i feel

and yet none of those mean anything in this new dim glow

the only thing that now carries meaning...

...is that nothing has meaning and the floor is wiped clean.

I cannot be your solution

Fully enough

i have lived a life not fully whole

i did compensate for another

i did try to make up for another's choices

and I was rewarded for it, then and now

but at what cost to myself?

what did I accept when I accepted

another's fuck-ups, another's inflicted pain

another's learning experiences

without my own learning from them?

Vicarious learning is not the same

as experiencing and understanding for oneself

Yet I lived with the belief that I carried the power

The responsibility for others' actions

That I could in some way be more than myself

And while atoning for another's sins

I lost my own path, my own desires to try

Not completely, but I mixed mine with his

And theirs, and hers, all others whom I respected

Well I am not you or anyone other than me

I am inexcusably, unapologetically me

And I am not ashamed, and I will not be

Anyone else but me from here on out

I am no angel, but I am enough

I don't know where this one is going

Reading shadows

how can you choose

when it all blurs into one

the colors overlap, shading

how can you find form

when edges are round, soft

color blind and limited to shadow

how do i move forward if

choices cannot be made?

but if choices must be made

how can i trust what i see?

can it all be left to feeling

intuition

gut?

I can't get no....

As you say it is

enough

that said

can never suffice

there is no limit

there is no finite boundary

that says that enough is enough

it is personal, subjective, objectionable

you must accept terms

as you choose

your challenge

satisfaction

When you are unspoken of

Haiku: Turtle Stories

she left partway through

mouths open, but forewarned

we bear silently

my home is your home

and your home is mine, removed

foreign yet faithful

you say let it lie

since when are words so simple

don't leave it unsaid

"we are who we are"

undeniably linked

grief looming within

Ripened, ready

Split it open, I ask you

thick and full and bursting ripe

this is the time, expose what is inside

share your fruits, the cluster of seeds within

you cannot let the ripeness linger closed

for to ripen fully, unshared, is to shrivel unknown

your sweetness and aliveness gifts to no one,

they shift to bitterness and mush within their skins

crack it open, it is okay if the seam is not straight

use a knife, a sharp edge, your hands if you need to

there is no right way, just share what you have

its is yours to give, and you must give

must give and partake and revel in others' joy

such pleasure brought through taste and texture

deep purple, not bright like an apple, but deep and velvety

your richness and softness are not to be compared

they are the inherent gifts you bear and you bring

let out the juices, the sweet flesh, and just breath

in and out, your scent in the air, filling the space

Chemical romance

We musn't stay here too long

it isn't so romantic to dwell in the dusk

there is little charm in sucking out the poison

yet there is a kind of addiction to darkness

an intoxication from drinking in such intensity

how can you take it in, feel it, but distill it out

let the dark concoction settle, filter through, purer

'emotional alchemy' she calls it, shifting dark into light

not negating or denying it, but transforming it

as artists, creative souls, how do we not dwell there

how do we take the sad like dough, and let it rise and puff

how do we 'feel every bump edge scratch ouch' and use it

but not lose ourself in the sharpness and wounds exposed

it isn't so romantic to nurse our wounds, sulking in the corner

there is little charm in self-deprication and self-medication

we must not sink down into the warmth of our despair

but pull away, push through, envelop ourselves as we rise up

The burning of old man gloom

All is not lost, all is not gained

how do we mourn for someone we so despise

how do we let go of grief that goes beyond our target

one man became the container for all evil, all injustice

he became a symbol of our fears and losses

inhumane, despotic, but scapegoated too

a misfit, alienated in his family and land

a double outsider from a double outsider

no excuses here, no justification, no forgiveness

a criminal on the deepest level, inflicting his own hurts

but a human all the same, a man of flesh and bone

he is gone and we rejoice, avenged as a nation

like zozobra, all our grief and gloom burned to ash

but next year, as we accumulate new loss, new concerns

who will take the blame, who will bear the weight of it all

this is not it, not everything, not pure relief

we must remember that no man is an island

and through all anger and tears, we remain connected

we must hold onto our humanity, even in the face of fear.

Orchard street

I catch moonbeams in my hands

Cycling

You heard me

fuck it, said gently

this cannot be your last chance

one is proof of more

To you t

muck and muse

t, you have to know that you are your biggest critic

you will never be enough until you believe you are - it is

you will keep holding out for more, for better, for stronger

you keep reaching for something you set beyond your grasp

you are broken, cracked, perhaps even crazy

but no more than most people are, even if they hide it deep beneath

you are beautiful, provocative, nervous, truthful, alive

you are unusual, creative, and my favorite sing-along friend

stop hating yourself for being out of the box, for caring, for trying

quit feeling bad for feeling bad for feeling bad for feeling bad

take it in, breathe it out, shake it out, cry it out

but then leave it at that, let it all be what it will inevitably be

it isn't all peaches and cream, rose colored glasses, peace and love

it's never been and it has never been so for anyone else

we all suffer, some deeper down, some on the surface

you experience it, know it, channel it, and it fuels you

that is enough, you are enough, the "good-enough t"

allowing imperfection to create the perfect cocktail

the muck only enriches the vast capabilities you hold

get messy, let it out, cry it in, laugh in on, swim through

oh beautiful survivor, hopeful existential dreamer, true friend

i am grateful for all the gifts you have brought to my life.

I raise you

Melancholy

you call it melancholy

i call it a deep connection to this world

empathy with mother earth

understanding my permeability

i am not strange or perverse

i am not more extreme than others

i just feel things deeply as my own

do unto others, for they are part of you

i remember crying in bed as a little girl

i did not know why i was sad

i rationalized even then that maybe

i was crying for all those i had lost before

perhaps this melancholy is chronic

diagnosable, medicatable, changeable

but it speaks from a place that is real

and to numb it out would be false

masochistic maybe, stubborn for sure

but i know that worse than pain and hurt

is numbness to the world around us

to not feel is far more terrifying

so i will take my melancholy

and raise you your prozac, your blasé

for i am willing to bet that i will fare best

even with the sadness i carry in my heart

I am saying it again for both of us

I am sorry goodbye, good bye

Well shit,

We said goodbye but I am not sure you got it.

You asked me again why I was leaving, and for where, and if I was coming back.

You asked me why I could not stay and continue with you still.

You know I can't but you don't really hear me, you don't really listen to why.

Maybe I am not convincing, maybe I do not really know myself.

Maybe I am not ready, and maybe you can see that through my poor excuse of a reason.

Maybe you know that "I have to" is linked to conventionality and rules, but that possibility still looms in the air if the door is kicked hard enough.

I am sorry sorry sorry so sorry and I wish this was not it.

I wish wish wish so hard that I could do more, be more, bring more hope into your life.

I just hope hope so hard, so badly, so deeply that you will be able to come through this all.

Please be strong and trust that the good moments of your life can happen again, in new ways.

You don't need me, not the real me, but the other "me"s out there with hope and love.

So I mean goodbye, goodbye, this is it, it has to be, it has to end, good bye, a very good bye.

I am waving in my heart, a ridiculous Vanna White, pageant queen wave of dreams to come.

I am watching you drift away, or maybe more likely, I watch you on the shore as I float on.

But I am waving, and wishing, and hoping, and believing to you, in you, for you.

Goodbye.

I will miss you so much.

You will not be forgotten.

I will cry for this, for you, for me.

A loss not taken lightly.

We will be okay.

We will.

Direction forward

A shift in being

You were the me before

varied pieces of a whole

each trying to be, to form

to grow into something complete

Chips of intention and hope

a tragically purposeless motivation

flying up with tethered wings

clipped claws scratching at the bark

We are coming together

stronger as we connect and fuse

Less an optical illusion

More solid and deep, rooted

Perfection fractured into realness

Shoulds dissolving into ghosts

To accept not knowing, uncertainty

Letting absolutes soften to gray tones

You have shifted into me now

But more, thicker, rougher, fatter

Marbled flavor, cushioning blows

Savoring a fullness of being not yet known

Fragments of parts in progress

Ink, watercolor, drawing paper, w/c primed board - 2011

Darkness is not emptiness

Trust in the stars to light your way

this is not how i want to feel

excitement shifting into anxiety

slipping over the peak of thrill

let the heat of enthusiasm stay

warming the clay, soft and malleable

don't let possibility lead to fear

your potential is not a tipping cup

it will not spill you out, empty

one fall cannot bleed you dry

you course through your veins

the good the bad, saturated through

a complete emulsion of both

retain the joy and allow for loss

but let the anxiety dissipate

let your energy stay pure, identified

you are all of it, cracked but not broken

grieving but not empty

uncertain but not lost

your blackness is not void,

it is the infinite backdrop to the stars

Gnawing pain

The other side of the wall

fingers throbbing raw

let this feeling filter through

befriend the unknown

More than a glass of rosé

An unexpected rosé

Pink cup of implications

I drink you with caution

and dreams of abandon

A wild, reckless abandon

Innocence drowns in your

cough syrup dilution

Break the frame, open the doors

Poppies on your lab coat

bleeding through the pure white

Blanc, rouge, merging into pink

A mottled messiness

of hot, cold, hard and soft

A reminder of summer

Of everything once warm

Even as I shiver

Possibility rimmed

I want to taste your trick

crack the coldness open

I sing of strawberry wine

Moments cradled closely

in arms sad and loving

Summoned outside my shelter

I drink your liberty

into my soul released

A poem about terminating

Where the End Meets the Beginning

How can this be the moment to exhale,
to move on?

This is just the beginning,
the warm up,
a pause on the starting block.

The game is on,
the rules have been set,
but the obstacle course has no map to follow.

This is not just me, this is you too.

You came to me for something,
something not yet yours.

I can't give it to you, so please don't ask,
don't hold it against me,
don't give up.

It's not mine anymore than it's yours, not yet.

How can I leave you now?

This is just the start of something more,
something with direction,
with meaning deeper than the top wave.

How can I leave now?

When I am still understanding all that I don't yet know.

What have I done?
What could you have gleaned from our time together?
What do I leave you with?
What do I take with me?

The track ahead is long, and I fear the hurdles and turns,
but you do have shoes, and I have mine,
and we must run, separately,
but synced by the knowledge that our tracks once crossed,
and for a moment we ran together.

rebeginning

i have wiped this clean and now I am beginning fresh, but with little idea of where it is going to go or what it is intended to say.

- lia