an idea of rest

once every few months I one friday evening alone to carry out my routines. this includes an afternoon session of house cleaning, to remove the remnants of the work week from my mind; going to the gym, because I have no choice; coming back to shower and pamper myself in a bathrobe, whilst I get ready for the night. The sun would be down by then.

this is all followed by dinner arrangements: 2 cans of beer and bread (has to be fresh), a can of sardines, a tomato thinly sliced and heavily salted, some butter and a sprinkle of black pepper. The lights are on by then.

I need to see a movie, any movie, as long as it is my movie. The first can of beer will be gone between the first 10 minutes but the second can come later. After the movie, all dishes are washed. The kitchen lights come off at this time.

it's then time to settle for the writing part. if I feel watched I can't do it. I stretch out and admire the cleanliness of my house, the lingering smell of tin canned fish, and I move forward. I love to play the horace silver quintet or miles davis quintet at this point.

usually frustration hits after a while. I just continue to push. I'm exhausted from the week, probably should go to bed, but the minutes I have left of solitude are more important than that. so I cling on to it before my head starts aching and all the lights go off. that's my idea of rest.

cortex development

I miss the days where the separation between who I was and who I was meant to be was bigger,

those were times where only fantasies could fill the gaps, unexplained processes,

hell I didn't even know how to pay my taxes and yet it was a magical place.

I lost that now that the cogs in the machine have a place,

there's not a lot to find with every rock I toss into the river,

there' no splash.

I miss feeling like I belonged in the incorrect place: in my family, among my high school friends;

feels like I've lost it now, there's no need for them to see me but there's this innate need for me to know they are there,

but they scurry away, shush, keep their silent distance to remind me I built this,

I am too a victim of the machinations,

and if blood is blood and can never let go, then I am to blame for who made me,

who raised me to keep the quiet and only take what I needed.

I miss the time where that idea didn't cross my mind,

but now it's Friday and I see it

it's staring down at me from the bottom

of the

laundry pile.

fool's spring

I will always be enchanted by the fool's spring.

nothing like a breath of fresh hope,

suspending the disbelief after

long bouts of sadness.

I don't care if tomorrow the permafrost grows on me,

I'll allow the weeds today

  as they blossom into a disarray of flowers–

  I don't mind being swallowed in.

hands

there's such a humanity in motherly hands,

not once have i resisted their gentle invitation,

their will to reconnect, mend, grab, hold, settle,

it has to be a motherly, knuckly, clunky hand,

that shimmers its weight in silver and it's moisturized,

quivering and warm.

my hands used to be warm and calloused,

now they are cold and soft,

inviting the overwhelming sensation that i too,

can follow the female leads of this family,

and foster love of my own,

four generations of teachers, supporting students,

four generations of unconformance, learning to mend on the road,

four generations, maybe more, of women holding their families together in the only way they could learn.

i see my hands and i see my future,

they will tremble, they will have scars and scabs,

they'll bear my mothers rings,

they'll hold my childrens' hands.