Stories About Stories (Babies Making Babies)

It smells great here in Kansas City.

The sky is blue, there is NO green on the trees (we ain't got evergreens like you do, oh no, no hills neither). Sixty some odd degrees it reached today, in this somewhat desolate, meaty aroma-ed atmosphere. I feel sweet; going outdoors without a jacket is so liberating.

The trees are haunting here. Their gorgeous skeletons look so dry I almost can't believe they will grow leaves again, and they look so defiant--jagged branches plunge out, violent and graceful against periwinkle background. The wind blows through them and rolls over me as I wander through loose park, straggling behind, hearing in some places my dear angel Kelly talking about birth politics with Heather.

And my vibe is still, I stand still, what feels to be stiller and stronger and more distinctive than ever before. Everything has changed. Everything is still. I am still.

Some emotional opportunities have come up so far that I would normally get swept away in. I have noticed a temptation to do this, and even an inclination or beginning of doing this, but the stillness seems to pervade and interfere. And through this stillness, this space held, life is allowed to happen. Healing and progress allowed.

Amidst this I find myself catching myself. Being close to home is allowing things to hit me close to home. I'm seeing some more things, things I wouldn't have thought of myself so I'm glad I didn't try to.

Today I spent the day with dad. He is a sweet man and so emotional. He has a very active mind so it is interesting to be around that energy. He is also very well endowed with earth energy and being around him feels constructive. Makes me feel more like manifesting those things I'll be doing, I'm starting to see the process with which I am able to snatch things from the sky with my fingers and mold them and turn them into life. We ate an amazing lunch at the good Indian buffet. We bought reeds for his Selmer Mark 6 saxophone. We went to Whole Foods and he had fun checking everything out, he got himself some multivitamins for 'mature' adults and kidded with the check out girl who relished in giving him a hard time.

I knew I was supposed to come to KC, of course I didn't know WHY but made a story about it anyway. Now that I'm here, things seem to be happening so quickly and so needily, like crying children that need to be fed NOW. At the same time I find myself catching time and hanging with its resonance. Finding myself sitting a lot, being, waiting. Opportunities and tasks popping up, sounds of helicopters in the air, a flash of de ja vu in the kitchen as I unload groceries. I remember this. I remember mom being out of town and what? What is this strange feeling that is coming over me again?

I cooked. We thought about turning on Seinfeld and did, but within seconds of sitting down to the food we both decided that it didn't feel right. Dad regaled me with stories with and without beginnings and ends, things got alluded to and conclusions were awoken to and I held space, watching him bloom. He loved playing soul music in high school and talked about his band leader, an original mc who took after James Brown. Talked about being led by feel rather than sheet music. Spoke with so much feeling and sweetness and nostalgia. Talked about things done and not done and would haves and lessons learned and the kinds of things my dad likes to talk about. Talked about fear and why he left music behind. Talked about growing up with two parents who were musicians, and how his dad didn't push him to take lessons until he wanted them, but then when he wanted those sax lessons how his dad had the connections to get him the best sax teacher in St. Louis. Life going on.

Right around then we got a phone call, it was my cousin Trisha from Louisiana who is not a frequent caller. Grandpa Joe, dad's dad, collapsed in the middle of Ash Wednesday mass. He had a heart attack. And that was the last five hours of my evening.

March 4th Update: My dad, expecting the worst, went to Louisiana to be with his family. However it wasn't my grandpa's time. Grandpa Merello is better, and with an adjustment in his vitamins and medicines, everything should be fine.

Day 3--Nashua

I forgot to mention in my last post that I sleep in the same room with their recently deceased cat Midnight's ashes. As I drifted off that first night, after Mags finished the story and asked me if I wanted the Christmas lights on or off (I opted for off), a huge sensation said, "HEY it's OKAY!!!" then cruised through my body. Woah. The last time I slept in Justine's room it was August and Midnight was alive. I remember waking with a start at three in the morning to see Midnight sitting perfectly still, mugging me with her queer yellow eyes. This had given me the willies. But this time, her presence is definitely felt, but it seems comfortable.



Last night I got to spend time with one of my kindred spirits, the lovely Magdalene.



We sat by the fire in the fireplace and listened to an lp of a flautist playing in the taj mahal. We attempted to make henna past but failed. We found a teal fine point sharpie and drew crazy ass gardens on each other's heart centers. I decided that if I were a high school art teacher one of the assignments I would give would be to make a crazy ass garden somewhere you wouldn't normally find a crazy ass garden.



We read aloud out of our journals to each other, stuck our candy in the air, watched animation shorts, traded back rubs, spilled things, ate burnt popcorn. It was a pretty good time.

This morning we went to their local Salvatorre Armani's (What they call salvation army) and I picked up this sweet sweater. What do you think about that?!

Golly

When the car pulled into the dark and rolled away from the glowing mothership of kripalu, I felt strange. EARTH SPACE rolled under my feet as I soaked in the flavor of my aunt's intense aura and clutched my black tormaline, gazing out the window and coming into stride with this new wavelength. Why this felt unchartered was beyond me--I've been driven down that driveway dozens of times, and I have embarked on trips away a few times as well. Why can't I trick my energy body, "Why yes, see, we'll just be driving into town to pick up some things, then we'll be back by bed time." Maybe I would have felt strange all the same if I was just going into town for a beer or whatever. Maybe I was just feeling strange. There was, however, some tint IN the strangeness that hinted at the nature of the journey I was about to take. My hat brim concealed my eyes as I sat in the shade, deciphering subtle washes of sensation that seemed to glaze through the atmosphere, through me.

The kirtan cd that my aunt had purchased droned on and on, and after an hour or so she felt it too--she needed a break from the vibe. We pulled into a stop so she could have a coffee. My cousin Magdalene and I ate ice cream. The rest stop played only non-american music...an interesting contrast considering the nature of the architecture of the place...I imagined 30 other travel stops just like it, all playing the same uncommon music. When we walked in, the structure of the space was very intentionally set up. The very brightly lit right side of the space had Mcdonalds and other fast foods with no seating--for travelers on the run. Bathrooms were directly to the back. The left side of the building was decidedly low lit, and had the upscale "LAVAZZA--Italy's favorite coffee" and Ben and Jerry's. We hung out on the LAVAZZA side in a dark and rainy booth. On the walls were some photographs that seemed like a cross between commercial artwork made for the space and advertisements. Only if they were advertisements there was nothing being advertised. Have you ever tried to make an advertisement without actually advertising anything? I have some tips for you: lots of open mouth smiles, a couple shot, and a familial shot. Cynthia perked up from the LAVAZZA and conversation, we were well rested from the rest stop and we were ready to go. All those open mouth smiles and intentional lighting worked. That and the dopamine that they were pumping into the air supply. The future is now.

Mags played the latest N*E*R*D cd for her mom's driving music and I have to say I was disappointed. It worked for Cynthia. All she had to hear was the hook, "All the girls standing in line for the bathroom," and the logic of the language tittilated her Virgo mentality enough to stimulate her, she riffed on with the music, harmonizing with her voice and drumming with her hands. My aunt is such a treat.

We arrived in Nashua and pulled into their driveway around 11:00. We had tea and Mags tucked me in and read me a bedtime story. Ferdinand. I didn't want the pictures, I closed my eyes and imagined myself as a big strong bull who stood steady around all the bullfighters who wanted to fight me, smelling flowers and enjoying the stillness.

Lost Girls

I'm one of the many lost girls at Kripalu. I rock cave girl shag hair, found things, tattered shirts that borderline dresses and pants that resemble pajamas. My love waits somewhere between sleep and life. My reality happens when I'm least expecting it. It tricks me, my shadow. I spot it dancing from across the room, laughing at me because I try to know too much. I sink back into that space between sleep and life, chasing that elastic shadow through koshic layers until finally it dissolves and there is only pulsing. Remembering.

Uh oh, getting sexy with myself. Remembering stories, concocting devices, tricking the mystery, confusing the line where it plays me and I play it. Intruding on my insides. Oversharing. Taking thangs too far in myself and complicating that dream, that me. My shadow is still and impatient, as I dance and run around it, flapping my cardboard wings.

Some thangs be expanded and grow wide inside (some of this happens online) and some are balloons and some are chicken wire and plastic wrap and I think this could be an interesting installation project. Where would it go? Maybe in the Kripalu shop, my chicken wire/balloon/medical tape/gauze sculptures, shrunk into bite size pieces so people can purchase 'an authentic experience'. Maybe I could make a kit, complete with materials and instructional dvd, and they could try it out for themselves.

I could install my thang somewhere natural, create a functional tree house where my anandamaya kosha can hide out, maybe right over Monk's pond.

I could install it like a chandelier inside one of the many enormous institutional buildings I explore in the space between my awareness and unawareness, the buildings of my breath, where I live as a witness or else a witness of a witness...

I could swim in my installation, trying out my molecular modification skills, inhaling long streamers of gauze, exhaling fairy dust, turning all sharp gusts of wind into soft dreamy mists

I could burn it with my gaze

I could put it on ebay and say it is a mummy

I could slice it up and encase them in slices in glass or seal them with epoxy, sell it to the smithsonian

What is that machine that video records the spaces that have no time? I could trade it for one of those

I could stick it in a cornfield to scare the crows away

n
e
wayz



Too lazy to teach, to busy brooding in my bunk to dream up more dharma for myself. Gotta get that pitta down. Walking the line where my love waits, wondering when I'll be ready to let it out to show me what it wants.

DREAM