Oh You Coulda
Coulda had something realllll good.
Something solidly good.
Classic good, punctuated with quirky good.
Fun, songs and games and laughter good
Yup, I live this life good.
Good so good it made smiles linger and eyes wrinkle,
Smells of campfires and swampy bogs
Hot winds and cool pond water
Unspoiled goods
Could have had it
Right now.
Allllll over this blog
But you fucked it up.
You broke your word
and you went behind my back
You judged me and pretended to care
Fuck that
You won't ruin me for others
I've got shields
And fake horses
And jousts
And more icons than the thrift store
You could have had that all too
Real good stuff
The kind that makes you dust off books
sip lemonade
and move slower
and laugh like a child
But you fucked it up.
I guess I'll see you later.
Don't worry
I don't play people
So.
I'll still have my goods.
My real good goods.
You coulda had it too.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
poems
Like the leaves in the wind
To push the momentum
of a force created by every
lost moment, then gathered
and stored away to ignite
A future need to recapture
something past
and harness this for
the momentum
that sets the leaves
in motion.
A moment blink
and all can be lost
a moment blink
and all refound
Of the most fragile elements we're given to
watch over in this great world
life is that
Random randomness
that makes you laugh
like a child caught in a fit
rolling on the floor
slappping knees
big fat tears
stop! stop! oh gosh stop!
Grab your stomach, lean in.
Pushed over
Caught in the wind.
To push the momentum
of a force created by every
lost moment, then gathered
and stored away to ignite
A future need to recapture
something past
and harness this for
the momentum
that sets the leaves
in motion.
A moment blink
and all can be lost
a moment blink
and all refound
Of the most fragile elements we're given to
watch over in this great world
life is that
Random randomness
that makes you laugh
like a child caught in a fit
rolling on the floor
slappping knees
big fat tears
stop! stop! oh gosh stop!
Grab your stomach, lean in.
Pushed over
Caught in the wind.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
A strange rant from my coughs
My cough took me to the ground. grounded me. placed me back on the earth. hands and knees, hacking and pushing and wishing up all deep within. It seems linked, at times. Certain thoughts or moments, I spasm and am hacking again. I know, physically my body is trying to expel phlegm that it is creating within my lungs... but, I want to allow thought on all things from different angles. Different realms? Maybe this would be better if I was more in a transition. Maybe if I was breaking up with a boyfriend of several years, or pulling myself out of a negative experience... maybe then I could see all this forceful purging of inner darkness (although, the phlegm is not dark, itself. But, that's jumping dimensions of thought back to mainstream).
My most intense coughing today started when a friend called. A good, healing, loving friend from a distance. I haven't even spoken to him yet, in fact, he's on the phone with another friend. However, even his voice, his connection with us has allowed my body to try harder. It's like encouragement, but, so so very very physical. So physical my abs hurt from all this unintentional encouragement.
dreamers talk. just coughing really. it's going around. I must say, of the past illness of the Nov-January realm, 'dis is nothin', babe!
practical talk. grapefruit seed extract, liquid form: 10-15 drops in water (very bitter)---bulk tinctures: echinacea and astragalus 1-2 oz, humbolt hack-a-way (usnea) alpine meadows botanicle 70% alcohol.
My most intense coughing today started when a friend called. A good, healing, loving friend from a distance. I haven't even spoken to him yet, in fact, he's on the phone with another friend. However, even his voice, his connection with us has allowed my body to try harder. It's like encouragement, but, so so very very physical. So physical my abs hurt from all this unintentional encouragement.
dreamers talk. just coughing really. it's going around. I must say, of the past illness of the Nov-January realm, 'dis is nothin', babe!
practical talk. grapefruit seed extract, liquid form: 10-15 drops in water (very bitter)---bulk tinctures: echinacea and astragalus 1-2 oz, humbolt hack-a-way (usnea) alpine meadows botanicle 70% alcohol.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Photos
I'm so bad at timeliness. It's not a virture I embody. I definetely lack.
Well. Photo uploading-- now there's a beast that I rarely take time to tackle.
So. Here are the beginnings (because, hey, that's a start!).
http://community.webshots.com/user/loveyourdori
Well. Photo uploading-- now there's a beast that I rarely take time to tackle.
So. Here are the beginnings (because, hey, that's a start!).
http://community.webshots.com/user/loveyourdori
The Arrival of the Box
A package arrived in the mail today. Oh how glorious. The satisfying pop as you break the tape, the little breeze you make when you pull open the flaps. And there. Something. Anything. Excitement was already at it's peak, for me at least, the joy is in the opening. The expectation. Granted, it's many levels better when it's something you've been expecting, or something amazing you didn't expect! I love the anticipation. I love the moment just as the scissors hit the box, the moment of pulling up the first layer of packaging before the goodies inside. Those collective moments make me want to drink lemonade and slow down.
What does that say about me? Do I like plans more than reality? Possibilities more than actualities? Do I like to picture joy rather than experience it? Am I reading into this too much? Yes, probably, but I didn't think about this so much until just now. It's an amazing thing, writing, how it lays things before you to examine.
The box was very exciting. Even though I packed it myself, many months ago, it was more exciting than it would have been had it arrived, as scheduled, many months ago. But, in opening it, and handling the goods I felt necessary to ship myself, I also found myself questioning my mentality and revisiting the moments surrounding the packing of the box.
Sweaters, two... brown. Two brown sweaters. Is it ironic that when I opened the box I was also wearing a brown sweater? So I own three brown sweaters. Maybe I should throw a sweater party. Brown only-- rotating every hour (i'd be the only hardcore party goer I expect!). Also, a shirt that doesn't fit (ahhh hope), a shirt that didn't make the morocco cut (welcome back), a pair of pants that got much love when I was in the classrooms (why are you here?) and a black button up shirt (for my formal hike? Huh?). Baby pictures (yay!), Grandma jam (dare I say, double yay!), my external hard drive (now there's a metaphor... shipping my external memory to myself. Hah!) and a pair of socks (sweeeeet). Simple items. So much joy. Oh and tiny fake flowers for my scrapbook. ESSENTIAL. Hah!
So, should I tell myself that this is acceptable behavior? To mail myself my own items because I want to. Need? no no no, my friends, and I am very aware, it is a want for sure. For now, I accept this behavior and allow myself to indulge in what I want (not getting to crazy, keep that new laptop and camera and house in fiji at bay, christine, but you can splurge on the goat cheese). At some point, when I open a box I pack for myself and note that I packed two similar things, and am also wearing a similar article of clothing-- maybe then I will realize I need to keep myself in check.
What does that say about me? Do I like plans more than reality? Possibilities more than actualities? Do I like to picture joy rather than experience it? Am I reading into this too much? Yes, probably, but I didn't think about this so much until just now. It's an amazing thing, writing, how it lays things before you to examine.
The box was very exciting. Even though I packed it myself, many months ago, it was more exciting than it would have been had it arrived, as scheduled, many months ago. But, in opening it, and handling the goods I felt necessary to ship myself, I also found myself questioning my mentality and revisiting the moments surrounding the packing of the box.
Sweaters, two... brown. Two brown sweaters. Is it ironic that when I opened the box I was also wearing a brown sweater? So I own three brown sweaters. Maybe I should throw a sweater party. Brown only-- rotating every hour (i'd be the only hardcore party goer I expect!). Also, a shirt that doesn't fit (ahhh hope), a shirt that didn't make the morocco cut (welcome back), a pair of pants that got much love when I was in the classrooms (why are you here?) and a black button up shirt (for my formal hike? Huh?). Baby pictures (yay!), Grandma jam (dare I say, double yay!), my external hard drive (now there's a metaphor... shipping my external memory to myself. Hah!) and a pair of socks (sweeeeet). Simple items. So much joy. Oh and tiny fake flowers for my scrapbook. ESSENTIAL. Hah!
So, should I tell myself that this is acceptable behavior? To mail myself my own items because I want to. Need? no no no, my friends, and I am very aware, it is a want for sure. For now, I accept this behavior and allow myself to indulge in what I want (not getting to crazy, keep that new laptop and camera and house in fiji at bay, christine, but you can splurge on the goat cheese). At some point, when I open a box I pack for myself and note that I packed two similar things, and am also wearing a similar article of clothing-- maybe then I will realize I need to keep myself in check.
Monday, February 16, 2009
The Ordinary Meh
Meh. That's 50% of emotion right now. A part of me is ready to leap and run and go go go onto New York, back to the woods of south western New York, the sugar maples, beech trees, wide braken ferns, dappled sunlight, loud summer thunder storms. A part of me is just feeling pretty meh. Meh..... Not meh about New York, just meh about my life. I know it's just a passing meh, but this time, I'm looking at it, and letting it fill me. I'm letting it settle in certain parts of my body. Certain, very fleshy parts, are really feeling very meh.
Never want this blog to turn into a body-bitch-blab-and-boo hoo... but I must say a few things... every now and then. Met a woman who was a size 8, then size 22, and now resides at a 14, sometimes 12, occasional (if i really try) 10. Hm. I'm a realist in some ways, others, a total dreamer. It has served me well (really, honestly) to be a realist about my body. I'll flux between a few sizes, but, for the past 5 years, I've pretty much stayed between two sizes. The rollercoaster of emotion about the whole ordeal has also calmed to a steadier, more enjoyable pace. Punctuated, of course, with thrill rides-- some boo hoo and some wooo hooo! Anyways, I did not start writing to complain, or to moan, or to have some way to e-vent about this all, but instead, to realize two very simple body thoughts.
One. This body can change, and does, and will, and many times--- won't. And I love it. Love its changes, love that it is me and that I am it and we are a very odd couple... strutting about in a meant-for-eachother opposites-attract kind of way.
Two. I'm young. I'm not 30 yet. I've got a lot of life to live... and it will all occur in one place. This body of mine.
So, the choice to treat it well really is not a choice. The choice to be nice to it (verbally, mentally and physically) should be no choice, either.
I'm at a bumpier part of the ride right now... feeling pretty meh. Realizing the meh-ness subsides every inch I take closer to treating this kid better. This 20-something's body is directly attached to the meh-ness, and even in the times she feels meh, and the times she lets it sink into her, she's still got it, and it will always be there. Like it, love it, or hate it.
Ready to run and frolic my way to New York. Not exactly, but I've got the legs that have the potential to help me with those actions.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
The first of the stories
So. About 4 days ago Morocco became a past event and I began my slow return to the western United States. Currently I am in Scottsdale, AZ at the house my lovely lovely friends Fernando and Kyle. But let us back up from here.
Lets go way back, before the 17 hours of plane travel, the few hours of metro, bus and car travel that brought me to where I am now. Before I went through 6, yes 6, security check points in Dublin, before I threw out, yes threw out, outfits, books, toiletries to appease RyanAir, before beer in Ireland...there was Morocco. And, as Fernando pointed out, still is Morocco ("people live there!").
Which story first? The dramatic break down of my poor health luck? The knight in shining suit from Fes? My Boston family in Fes? My Moroccan brother? My could-be-if-only-I-say-yes Moroccan husbandS? The cheese massage? The dreamy hammam? The night on the dunes of the sahara? Moustaffa the CD making camel guide who gives crappy hand massages? The mountain tagine to die for? The beautiful winds of the port-side Essaouria? Countless nos-noses and the a la menthe? Near death bus rides on the snowy, icy mountains? Oranges, the sweetest orangy-est oranges I have ever had? Karima, and all her infinite wisdom and friendship?
Well. Let's just start at the beginning. Let us start in the shadow and then we will move to the light. Sickness it is.
My first week and a half of traveling (CA, AZ, NC) found me to be 'happy, healthy and wealthy' (to quote a certain grandma of mine). As soon as my parents, Axis and I made our way to GA, things started to go down hill for me. I caught, what I thought, was a bit of a cold, which I was trying to down play so I didn't think I could get anyone else ill. Well. Back in NC all health broke down, and my parents and I, with different yet intense, illness fell to our respective sick beds. I pretended I had a cold, but spent each night unable to control my body temperature, and a chunk of each day blowing my nose and feeling nauseous.
Well. To NY. A nauseating plane ride (swooping over the lake to wait out heavy, snow-dense, winds) back left me thinking that this 'cold' was not going to go away. The cold turned into the flu, and fevers, headaches, dizziness, weakness, nausea, loss of appetite (the only symptom I enjoyed), and a general inability to feel in control of how I felt racked my for the whole week. Along with the flu--guilt and anger that my only time with my friends, and all I could focus on was me. Me. Sick. Ouch. Ugh. Gasp. Grrrr...Me.
A car ride to NJ, a long plane ride to Dublin and the finding of the hostel couch. Sick, and unable to cover it up, I flopped on the couch of my hostel to await my room. After a 5 hour nap, I tried to get ooot and abooot in Dublin... but could not walk without stopping every few minutes to steady myself. A cup of tea, a yogurt, and back to bed.
Paris. Oh Paris. Oh Jo. Sweet sweet Josselin, the stellar boyfriend and hopefully soon fiance of my sister. I stayed with him in his family's 15 arrondisement apartment. Fevers, and sleepless nights led to days in bed and yes, every one's favorite, tag along disease: tonsillitis. With difficulty swallowing, but meds in hand (thank you Jo and thank you french health care) I bumped my way to Marrakech. Few days ill, and then light on the horizon of health! YES!
Four days of good health (minus some pretty gnarly blisters... biggest I have every seen). Then again the sun set and, as Jo had warned, I had an allergic reaction to the meds for tonsillitis. Hives anyone? Mildly twisted my ankle in Fes. Hives and a limp, anyone? The meds caused other bodily imbalances, but all related affects from the meds cleared in about three days.
Clear. Clear. Clear. Healthy until NYC where the 24hr stomach bug took my time and much of the city's toilet paper. A string of sneezes and a runny-nose sidekick on the plane, and bam, here I am... healthy (yes, yes, yes I am) in AZ.
That's the first story, and that is where I stop for this post.
Lets go way back, before the 17 hours of plane travel, the few hours of metro, bus and car travel that brought me to where I am now. Before I went through 6, yes 6, security check points in Dublin, before I threw out, yes threw out, outfits, books, toiletries to appease RyanAir, before beer in Ireland...there was Morocco. And, as Fernando pointed out, still is Morocco ("people live there!").
Which story first? The dramatic break down of my poor health luck? The knight in shining suit from Fes? My Boston family in Fes? My Moroccan brother? My could-be-if-only-I-say-yes Moroccan husbandS? The cheese massage? The dreamy hammam? The night on the dunes of the sahara? Moustaffa the CD making camel guide who gives crappy hand massages? The mountain tagine to die for? The beautiful winds of the port-side Essaouria? Countless nos-noses and the a la menthe? Near death bus rides on the snowy, icy mountains? Oranges, the sweetest orangy-est oranges I have ever had? Karima, and all her infinite wisdom and friendship?
Well. Let's just start at the beginning. Let us start in the shadow and then we will move to the light. Sickness it is.
My first week and a half of traveling (CA, AZ, NC) found me to be 'happy, healthy and wealthy' (to quote a certain grandma of mine). As soon as my parents, Axis and I made our way to GA, things started to go down hill for me. I caught, what I thought, was a bit of a cold, which I was trying to down play so I didn't think I could get anyone else ill. Well. Back in NC all health broke down, and my parents and I, with different yet intense, illness fell to our respective sick beds. I pretended I had a cold, but spent each night unable to control my body temperature, and a chunk of each day blowing my nose and feeling nauseous.
Well. To NY. A nauseating plane ride (swooping over the lake to wait out heavy, snow-dense, winds) back left me thinking that this 'cold' was not going to go away. The cold turned into the flu, and fevers, headaches, dizziness, weakness, nausea, loss of appetite (the only symptom I enjoyed), and a general inability to feel in control of how I felt racked my for the whole week. Along with the flu--guilt and anger that my only time with my friends, and all I could focus on was me. Me. Sick. Ouch. Ugh. Gasp. Grrrr...Me.
A car ride to NJ, a long plane ride to Dublin and the finding of the hostel couch. Sick, and unable to cover it up, I flopped on the couch of my hostel to await my room. After a 5 hour nap, I tried to get ooot and abooot in Dublin... but could not walk without stopping every few minutes to steady myself. A cup of tea, a yogurt, and back to bed.
Paris. Oh Paris. Oh Jo. Sweet sweet Josselin, the stellar boyfriend and hopefully soon fiance of my sister. I stayed with him in his family's 15 arrondisement apartment. Fevers, and sleepless nights led to days in bed and yes, every one's favorite, tag along disease: tonsillitis. With difficulty swallowing, but meds in hand (thank you Jo and thank you french health care) I bumped my way to Marrakech. Few days ill, and then light on the horizon of health! YES!
Four days of good health (minus some pretty gnarly blisters... biggest I have every seen). Then again the sun set and, as Jo had warned, I had an allergic reaction to the meds for tonsillitis. Hives anyone? Mildly twisted my ankle in Fes. Hives and a limp, anyone? The meds caused other bodily imbalances, but all related affects from the meds cleared in about three days.
Clear. Clear. Clear. Healthy until NYC where the 24hr stomach bug took my time and much of the city's toilet paper. A string of sneezes and a runny-nose sidekick on the plane, and bam, here I am... healthy (yes, yes, yes I am) in AZ.
That's the first story, and that is where I stop for this post.
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