Winter Solstice

Today marks the gradual shortening of nights and lengthening of days... and the rain has begun. The kind of drizzle that soaks through Gortex, through bone. It is what makes the winter months here so unbearable, especially when one is alone. But does one respond by living the life of hermitage, or, go out? Rejoice in all that is drenched and saturated!... see what is surrounded in a fresh, dew-covered new light! Copious amounts of wine, food, and good company will be in abundance tonight, and I wish the same for all! Happy Winter Solstice.

Nostalgia

Nostalgia grips at me during this particular holiday. Nostalgia is my heart deceiving my head; lustfully remembering what I did and did not have. Knowing that I will grow old with him but not WITH him. Knowing that he is not with me yet can never leave me.
As people come and people go, the ebb and flow of experiences and intimate moments...alludes me. I believe that instances of vulnerability, magic, wonder, and suffering are captured in the heart's consciousness, a recollection of one hundred lifetimes. The soul may ache with the affliction of remembering, but it is nothing more or less than just that. Instead of fighting to forget, I open up to the overwhelming waves and embrace each fleeting memory as if it were my last, allowing the one hundred lives of me to submerge again into my grateful and weeping heart.

1,2,3 Goodbye

123 goodbye
I love you more in death
Than I ever could in life
123 all sigh
When the dollar is young
And the year is new
Me and the full Wolf Moon
Will be over you
Unto the nighttime
I dream for you 12 sparrows pretty in a row
1 and 23 eyes open to the risen scarecrow
With his mind all blown
Down those hay lined roads
To his farmer's throne

It was happy 123
It was sad 123
We were happy once you and me
When we were sad

Once upon a time
We were happy in the bathtub
In the abacus of the rains
Once upon a time
We take our laughter to the blackboard
With a calculus of pain
And with good news from the weather vein
We'll go our separate ways

It was happy 123
It was sad 123
We were happy once you and me
When we were sad

Once in a lifetime
When the dollar is young and the year is new
Once in a lifetime
Will the undoing of two souls be so easy to do
Like it was for me, like it was for you
When you find somebody who's so very easy to lose

It was happy 123
It was sad 123
We were happy once you and me when we were sad
123 goodbye, goodbye
Ready? 123 goodbye
Steady! 123 goodbye
Nice to know you! three goodbye
It's very nice to meet you! three goodbye
Are you ready? 123 GOODBYE
(Elvis Perkins in Dearland)

Coca Mate

We arrived in the ancient city in the early afternoon, a residual ringing tumbling in our ears. The sky seemed to bend and fold in layers of unfathomable blue, miles above our heads. Nestled 3,310 meters above sea level in the Andes Mountains, the antediluvian city of Cuzco showcases like a stray's pedigree. Romantic and narrow cobblestone streets of Europe; the brightly colored buildings of the Caribbean; scarves, gloves, and woven blankets of alpaca wool. The air was ice in the lungs. Refreshing and opposing, thin and fluid. A toxic elixir that could incite a surreal, and weary defeat. Battling a nagging exhaustion, we sat down at a small kitchen table in a lime green room. Faded wedding photographs and school diplomas dotted the walls, some hanging haphazardly on rusty nails, others absent-mindedly hung askew. The final details of the trip were made as a large metal pitcher was placed on the table in front of us. The perfect resemblance to a summer night's vessel, I almost expected to find the pitcher dripping in condensation, overflowing with fresh cut lemons. But this particular vessel held steaming water, and within this water danced green leaves from the mountains. Let the tea steep, scoop sugar into a cup, slowly pour the faint green liquid over the sugar...watch how it disappears! The leaves fell into our steaming cups, and we contemplated them, swirling them around with our spoons. Could someone tell the future or predict their fate by analyzing the leaves at the bottom? We felt a sensation of clarity and renewed eagerness to venture out and loose ourselves among the small, twisting, alleyways of the city.
(Peru, 2006)

Right to Write, Pt. 1

I have been formidably inspired by the latest book that I am reading, to start writing again. Having always been a faithful reader of 20th century Latin American literature, and more specifically the genre of magical realism, "Living to Tell the Tale" has caused me to think more critically about my life experiences, and to go out in search of classic novels that I have never before considered reading. This autobiography by Gabriel García Márquez has enlightened me, to some respect, on the mysterious plot lines behind his novels; his internal struggle with self-doubt; and his flagrant battle with poverty. One is never too old to pick-up where they left off, be it an old hobby...or an unbridled secret passion fuming below the skin.