that harbormaster's voice

my calm, rhythmic sense of soul ran into rough, disturbing waters floating in and out of the last few days:

the trying of patience, inevitable, if thats what I'm claiming to be.

As portkeeper, I sensed the approach of windy-faced dilemma gathering pace toward my sturdy coordinates. I affixed my blaring spotlight to anything oncoming: a test of my virtue nearly underway.

And though wind might have its glory (the rath whipping against my anchors, my docks, my shore),

I believe in the clarity of agats, the beauty in the remnants of storm.

I can not divulge the content of what ailed me this past Thursday; but I can, through controlled word choice and poetic metaphor depict the scene.

I can emphasize the sediment polluting my bay; a gravel interfering with boat engines and the gills of fish.

I can send to you the sense of rest i've rescued from despair; confident now, on how I must maintain its livelihood.

I am here to tell you, ladies and gentleman, let me be the first to say (and the first to fall) that to work in a nursing environment you have to - you must already have -accepted everyone for who they are.

this is where most people struggle if they do. what about the gays? the christians? the natives? what about the drunks, how do you accept them? give care to those who refuse, those who lash out at your giving hand?

who has patience for the retarded? for the blind, the deaf, the angry, the old, the baby, the nagger, the bitch, the asshole, the arrogant, the consipirator...

no one, sometimes. believe me when i tell you, i've walked floors and found no one with mercy. in a hospital that claims to exemplify God's love for all; it is every now and then very hard to find the example.

to be the example,

(we are still only that which falls short, the human)

and so I spoke out, which I never do, but my eyes found this action intolerable: blatant mockery and disapproval of one person different from all the rest. Sesame Street had not taught them well and as adults, I found them to be the childest creatures. I could not close my eyes from then; I could not use them to remember; I could not even continue without tear.

And then in one day's time, I could not longer be silent in its face. These eyes had something to say about all it saw. I could not avert or shrug off the seep of oil muddying my water, spinning sediment into the engine: This is a house of care.

And that, my friends, (that blatant mockery) was a contradiction to care (an insensible jolt of pain in a house designed to ease the nature of such things).

if you can not give good care, do not give care at all. leave this house.

i know i am sensitive, but maybe thats a good thing. because then i have a voice to speak for those in pain? serving as Coast Guard, advocate, ombudsman for my patients, my coworkers even, my friends from unjustified hate.

i know they are insensitive and thats their guard against abuse, mistreatment, the bites of hands that feed...

but if they think no one is worthy of being fed, what good is the food? what does that hate do for anyone?

And though I hated to be loud; appear obnoxious...I could not bare the dysfunction of silence. Nothing will ever stop bad care if it is not stopped by someone with a voice to bring it down.

My voice met challenge this week; the rebuttle of a world much louder. I trembled and I didn't want to make sound but I closed my eyes and did what I had to do. The water of my soul; the pull of my moon; the arc of the Earth measured by a moment; a graceful surrender to integrity. I felt compelled to be the voice of change. It drummed in me, provactively, until testimony sang out:

there is only one plan of care; good care.

otherwise, it is not care.

[jazz]

swing in, to the smokey tuesday night affair:

a romance between piano and sax,

Voice and reason.

unexpected time;

not to be remembered but be listened.

the sense of a season,

steps in, from behind the black stage backstage door:

Voice approaches microphone,

with closed eyes; and an understanding of what for...~



i was going to call it, [my own catharsis]...but, essentially, i've walked away with [jazz]

[high praise]

for all the other days; he said, when i can love you as i do,
this journey in your darkness is worth the pain.
find it in you, hands lift; pray, the tenderness to remain,
as patient and as loving she said; i hold high praise for you.~

seward

Hello my world wide friends, far and wide you click on my coordinates and discover my strong yet trembling voice, smoothed over with lots and lots of editing...

there are lots of things i want to say.

i want to tell you that my mom is staying with me now. she will be for a little while, until winter hits. and that we are crocheting and watching breakfast at tiffanys and picking blueberries and baking cookies.

i want to share with you this book i'm reading. The Poetry Dictionary. A manic purchase; no less, its fun to read. I'm experimenting with different sounds and styles and so its a nice break from writing about how I feel all the time. sometimes, i don't feel anything that needs recording; or those things be better expresed in paint and picture, abstract considerations of mood.

i want to tell you about the sense of peace i've obtained. the slow meditation that consumes me. my thoughts are active but the rhythm is passive and controlled. like jazz.

i tell you that when i'm lost and overwhelmed and unsure of the future, i memorize the pictures you see posted. the first one is where i got engaged. well, so is the second i suppose. Miller's Landing is the name. the houses in the picture are a few of our favorites (Jason and I); we always sail off into daydream imagining us drawing our own curtains from the inside.

but it is Seward. and this is where we hope to end up. we see our lives here and though we're not sure how exactly we plan on getting there, its what drives me a lot of the time. it brings such a sense of home for me. I think it is my Ithaca.

I hope everyone is having a good mid-week. no suffering, no stress. i have so much to do but I am not going to turn off the pace of thoughts in my mind. like honey, i love the pouring of ideas. its brought to me, much patience. good day to you.

[puffy]

slow and puffy-eyed sunrise;

i feel the dance of the day.

rise and shine but cloud and glow;

the temperature tepid;

wide-side alaskan eyes timid.

its only inside the colors appear vivid,

and the melody plays as soft as the sky

emits light

to my day, good morning~

[bear]

alaska where the

bears growl and

crawl and snuff and

dip and dive

eagerly for

fish

grabbing with teeth or claw-fist

hooking gills and tails with

incisors or scissor-sharp nails

jovially turning back to the wood like

king of the kingdom, he reins

like the forest is his well it is

mama bear too, she's got no patience for you

not in the way of her cub

oh not in the way of cubs

please yourself with paintings but do not capture with light

'quisitive creature, on tour do not

run or camera or film

so you'll live and so will bear you in yours, his in his

tempting to you, you're tempting to them a feast

undulate moving swift in your direction

viciously gnawing at your meat, you are, yes to beast

wonderfully tantalizing meat. ~


its just a poem, bears don't necessarily like to eat people. but they will kill you if you get in their way. and "their way" is according to their perspective.

a whole new

the length of the night gives no measure to the heights of which i've grown.

in a single revolution

i am wholefully new in my eyes

the water caving in over the head of my perspective,
crashing down onto the earth, the thick paled-of-pigment web of dense fiber;
i firmly imprint,

greens and blues in hue, not so shallow with confusion, but thick with clarity, falling water over my brown sunshine

apparently

so apparently i am stronger.

i conquer the tears, i make them with pride.

i release them dutifully.

and the rainbow coloring through this magnifiscent Monet,

fuzzily strokes hope, a harpists truest chord.

tonight i am stronger. in the dark i've seen something.

the working of the lower limbs day after day

finally breaks through tire and does not strain to stand.

here i make of myself all that can be made.

here i make of myself what hasn't been allowed so far.

[full moon]

peppered tounge,
the taste moves into the night

the tempt of the moon;
the test of the ground:

walk, shuffle;

face, down.

spiced air,
the breath takes bite of the time

the depth of the pockets;
the hands fisted quiet:

lips bite, steps crisp,
intentional fits.
quiet undisturbed; the owl
visits the path;
the multi-legged eye the wrath;
the bats fly passed;
the moon emits the path.

face down,
watch the lamp:

gather your thoughts
on the way the tram.

the tempt of the moon;
the test of the ground:

you'll get there with fists
in your pockets,
and your eyes on the ground.

fidget with the pennies
and visit nothing but the rocks meeting
the toes, each step with sound:

pushed by the taste, still
popping at your mouth;
forced by the nature of your quiet getting loud.~

jazz beat

...really nothing you can do,

stand in silence. let the quiet have the strength to say what you can't.

(waves wash over the voice, extracting bass and beating it into the sand)

wisdom unlatches the door to the mouth only
when the eyes have first surrendered to the fight not to see whats going on,


(damnit.

shh...don't fight)

its not mine.

what belongs to me is this heart;

open to the wind.

leaking out from its embedded cushion,

it bleeds but not dies because in passive, fluid grace, heart defines wisdom

and when it runs it does not run away.

from here, the quiet is strength. the solitude solidifies virtue. patience emits.

God speaks.

artsy compilation

i just have to share. this really made me smile. how artsy is this? Paris Parfait and tangobaby teamed up to make this awesome vid.