Fairy Dust

 

I’m finishing the last chapter in a book today. It’s not a book of poetry, although that will follow soon.

It’s a book about intention. It’s a book about writing. It’s a book.

Intention, desire, trust, letting go.

This is the time of year for letting go, for desiring to receive more and more good in our lives and shaping these desires into something tangible, memorable and, dare I say, cinematic. Then we have to let go and trust that we’ll receive what we’ve asked for.

Oh, you want more on cinematic do you? Well, the more visual, the more visceral, the more vivid, raw, real, energetic, the more real we make our intentions the easier it is to spot them in the real world.

It’s a creative way of acting as if.

Act as if you’re already where you want to be.
You’ve already received what you desire.
You’ve already met him, her, them.
You’ve already …

Act as if you’re grateful 
Because you are

Act as if you’re happy
Because you are

Act as if you’re a singer, dancer, writer, actress, actor
Because you are

Act as if you trust
Because you must
Let go

Oh isn’t that letting go part challenging? I think it is.  I want to hold my intentions lightly, let them float above my open palm and breathe.  For me it’s a balancing act between doing too much and not doing enough. When am I doing too much? Usually when I’m so stressed out that I sit at my desk for hours without a bathroom break. That’s when I get in my own way and I trip over my own two feet.

I want flow
I want peace
I want magic
I want happy, blissed out days filled with light and love and the electric twinkle of fairy dust.

Her blue spun silk hair glows in the moon’s light, her dress is spun from fabric blessed by Diana, Vesta, Venus and Terra Mater, and her fairy dust is distilled from more stars than I could count.    She waves her translucent wand  above my head and sprinkles her magic into all the nooks and crannies of my life.

Ahhhhhhh

What are your feelings on intention, desire, trust, letting go and fairy dust? What’s easy?  What’s hard? What is it you desire…deep down, in your bones?
Please share…let’s start a dialogue.

 

Happiness

 

I love new journals. When I start a new journal those first few pages are perfect. That perfection, well, it doesn’t last more than about seven pages. My handwriting gets messy and I cross out words, lines, and sentences. I put big “X”s through whole paragraphs and even might write the word SHIT in big capital letters under the X. I wish I were neater.

Some people are neat, really well put together. They’re ironed and buttoned up, pressed and lip-sticked. I want to be one of those girls, the ones that never leave the house without their lip-gloss. I bring it with me but then I forget to put it on.

Like this girl I bumped into from high school at LAX. She looked as if she were off to brunch with girlfriends in her ironed white champagne flute and perfect hair and makeup. I think her $500 designer jeans were even pressed. When we were kids we’d dress up to fly, because back then flying was fancy with winding first class staircases and piano bars in coach, but not now. I had to run into her? Now? When I had no make up on, not even my lip-gloss. My hair was greasy and it was caught between my shoulder and the strap of my travel bag, pulling my head to the right. I hadn’t washed it since my haircut and color two days earlier. I spotted her as I was pulling my hair free.

I thought she looked familiar, but everyone in LA looks familiar. I assume they’re an actor. At some point isn’t everyone in LA an actor? She wasn’t an actor. She was Trista. Popular Trista. Pretty, thin, long legged, perfect Trista. She hadn’t changed. Except maybe her chest, it was fuller, plumper. It could have been a Victoria Secret Wonder treasure.

“Carolyn, how are you?” she asked. “Come sit here.” She patted the empty seat next to her. I plopped my bag on the floor and sat down. She rambled, talking on about herself and her life. She said she was still living in Beverly Hills, that she was on her way up to San Francisco to visit family, that she was a writer.

“Wow” I asked, “what do you write?” I had been taking my Method Writing class for a couple of years but I still was shy about calling myself a writer. When I met anyone who was a writer I wanted to know everything about what they wrote and if they were they published and did they love writing as much as I did?

“I write screenplays and I’m a copywriter and …and” her eyes widened, she looked surprised, as if she had seen someone from high school that she didn’t want to see. She was glaring at my left hand. “…uh…you’re MARRied?”

“Yes.” I said, “We got married in ‘03”. It’s as if a cool breeze had blown through the terminal. Her dark brown almond eyes narrowed, they got darker. They seemed almost black. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled to attention. I could see her cheeks blush. She looked away toward the gate and her hair flew behind her. She turned back, flipped her hair over her left shoulder. Cher used to do that with her hair on the Sonny and Cher show.

“Who are you in touch with from high school?” She asked. I couldn’t remember the last time I spoke to anyone from high school.

“No one.” I said.

“Really? Aren’t you close with anyone?” She asked. “Those were the greatest years! I had so much fun. I loved high school.” She had friends, she was gorgeous, she was on the volleyball team, went to dances, had dates; of course she fucking loved high school.

“Trista,” I said, “those really weren’t my favorite years.”

“Wow, that’s too bad.” She said. “I just had dinner with Veronica Frank. You two were friends back then, weren’t you? And Jeannie, you remember her don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “Veronica and I were close, Jeannie, not so much.” Veronica and I had a falling out after college, she wasn’t thrilled with my choices and made it clear: ‘You’re wasting your life away in Santa Barbara slinging hash, that’s so beneath you.’ Jeannie and I were never friends.

“Oh! You know who looks aMAZing?” Trista reached out and touched my arm. “L.S.” She said.

L.S. was my big crush, from that first day in 7th grade homeroom when I sat in front of him. He’d pull at my hair; tap my shoulder, lean forward in his chair and whisper in my ear. Our teacher, Mr. Markovich would scold him. “Mr. S.,” his voice reverberated, it felt as if the windows might shatter, “How is it that life hands out bowls of cherries and with you, I’ve received a bowl of the pits?” I fell hard for L.S. Trista knew it. Hell, everyone knew it. In eighth grade L kissed me behind the double doors of the multi-purpose room. I was in love. High school was going to be great. We’d have so much fun at dances, ooooh and he’d take me to the prom and we’d be high school sweethearts. That didn’t happen. In fact, he didn’t talk to me for four years. None of my friends from grammar school did. I don’t know what happened exactly. At first, I was devastated, and then I moved on. I made new friends that I don’t keep in touch with, like Veronica.

My wedding ring must be Trista’s kryptonite, because when she looked at it, she morphed from a grown up person bumping into a high school acquaintance to a cattish high school prom queen threatened that someone might steel her bedazzled crown.

I should show her a picture of Bill and me just to fuck with her. That’s not nice. Here’s the thing L.S. isn’t my kryptonite. He hasn’t been for a long fucking time. After graduation I turned and walked down the front lawn of Beverly Hills High School and didn’t look back. That was that. High school was done and my yellow brick road adventure started. Hey, I’m glad for Lee, good for him, that he looks amazing. And Trista, well, I wish her happiness. I wish Lee happiness too. I mean, don’t we all deserve happiness?

“That’s great.” I said to Trista. I smiled.   

 

The Making Of A History

 

Vacation Culebra

I can remember a warm hand
pressing on my belly
fingers like predictions
reaching
winding their way
forming into my future

I was still un-written
a white page
waiting for its epic poem
to adorn
with rainbow watercolor skies
swelling blue oil seas
fertile green forests
plump with fruit
pixie dust and dreams
of lips being kissed ruby red
sealed with white satin promises

Different authors penned my narrative
each hand bore its distinctive cursive blue and black liquid letters
an inked history
filled my book
some pages tore
shred
I let them fly into the wind

Others I folded
tucked away
an account
a tapestry of tangled kisses
broken hearts
miscarriages of desire
lost souls
ripening on the vine
falling to the earth
passion love hate anger joy sadness loss
chapters in my book

My life
reveals itself
in the warm curve
of my hip
the soft give of my tummy
the arch of my lower back
against my lover’s hand
as he presses into
my core

Our Vacation in Culebra

 

 

Sweet Apples & Honey

The days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are a time for prayer, good deeds, reflecting on past mistakes and making amends with others.

 

Diving into the layers of color that are my life
Painting a vision of the year to come
Honoring my past

My father passed away on September 12, Rosh Hashanah in 1988. I used to say, Wow, two days a year to feel like crap. I was younger in understanding when I said that.  Now I wonder if his timing wasn’t part of the gift

 

Sweet apples & honey

 

Honoring what I have released
Has released me

People
Animals
Expectations
Clients
Attitudes
Habits
Fear
Heartbreak
Worry

Wants wishes dreams

Ah you’ve let go of dreams, one might ask.

Yes, I might answer

Let go of needing, pushing, pulling,
the angst that wraps itself
tangles, knots, ties itself
tightening around my delights
Wooosh, throw them to the water

Like a cloud
Or a bird that glides on the winds that come off the ocean
The bird launches into the strong gusts

A time to relax
A time to play
A time to drift
Riding the wind-wave
Sailing

I will
I have
let go and I will be carried
I will
I AM

I saw the box
resting on the brown table
I was sitting in a waiting room
this wasn’t the first time
waiting
in this room
on this day
I Looked at the box
other days, the many times before, I picked up a magazine about Running
this day
the picture painted on the box
the blues and the greens
caught my eye
this day
I opened the box
a deck of cards
I picked up the card on top

Don’t take it personally
One  of  The Four Agreements

I turned the card over in my hand
I read

If someone is not treating you with love and respect, it is a gift if they walk away from you.  If that person doesn’t walk away, you will surely endure many years of suffering with him or her.  Walking away may hurt for a while, but your heart will eventually heal.

Understanding

stitching together fabric too worn to seam
isn’t useful
words are just words
threaded together
to create a cloak
no matter how coarse and uncomfortable
I chose to drape it over my shoulders
let it create rash
scratching, itching, burning
rub my skin raw

Y is just a crooked letter

 

Sweet apples & honey

 

 

 

Tomorrow I’ll remember
40 years ago, 40 months ago, 40 days ago

yesterday
today
this moment
the one after that

honoring those who have come and gone

through the windows, peep holes, cracks, nooks, crannies,
slipped in-between
underneath
around
swirled in through the front door
lifted out the back

 

Sweet apples & honey

Bread on the water

 

August Morning

I love hot August mornings. Early. Before 7am when it’s quiet and still.  Before the heat rises and swells.

I listen to the occasional car on another street,
a lawnmower,
mumbling voices
my neighbors walking dogs
that bark at birds, squirrels, or the sky,
the hum of a humid summer morning.
Still, hot, thick, breezeless, stirrings.
our late season tomatoes ripen on the vine,
the strawberries in my back yard waiting to be picked from the ground
planted on my tongue
their sweet red flesh
seeding my day

I sip my coffee.
a branch
in the tree in our front yard
stretches, arches up
to meet the blue expanding sky
I swell with memory

Somewhere in my Mom’s condo in Marina Del Rey, there is a box, containing snippets from my Dad’s life.

In black faux leather-bound Week-at-a-Glance notebooks,
pages filled with movies, scripts written in blue, red, purple, orange, pink, yellow and shades of green flair pen block print.
Pages read like scenes,
stolen moments from decades, years like 1972, or 1975.
a dinner party hosted,
a movie wrapped,
a birthday celebrated,
a friend mourned.

My Father’s voice calling to me from the page.

I have sheets filled with sepia tone memories
Beginnings seed, flowers bloom,
vines grow leafy,
they wrap and wind,
draping reality,
cloaking truth.
Memory yarns and stories are told.

Jeffrey Scott, the boy with two first names, a laughing ghost shimmering in my backyard, hovering over the ripples in the kidney shaped pool. He’s wearing a football jersey, I can see the black block numbers, but can’t make them out. A leaf floating through the autumn skies of my freshman year, swept up, blown elsewhere by spring.

No questions asked and none answered.

I’ve been the phantom. I’ve vanished. I’ve pushed beyond circles in which I once sat, cross-legged and eager, seeds planted, never thinking I’d need more room. That my roots would drive through the soil, exhausting the land we had cultivated together.  I extended beyond the iridescent round of abalone shells that adorned its border.  I moved to a dark, rich, new territory, fertile, soil untouched by deduction.  I stepped off the well-worn path littered with twigs, leaves and broken branches.

No questions asked and none answered.

What about So and So? Bill might ask, Why don’t you hear from her anymore?

I don’t know, I might answer.

I don’t know. It could be something I said, or did, or a birthday I forgot, or it could be that I got as busy as she was. Now there was no one left.   I don’t know. We didn’t call to find out.

No questions asked and none answered.

What can I do? Open.  Time embraces me; warm arms rock me, pull me close into a heartbeat, a soul, a moment, memory. Open.  Open to the promise of an August morning.

 

 August 7, 2012