Nothing For Once

Busy doing nothing.  

What about really doing nothing.  

What about quiet.  

What about clear thought that isn't a reaction to something. 

what about that.  

Nothing for once. 

Rest not for the lazy, 

not to avoid or to shut down. 

Rest that isn’t rest.  

Slow that isn’t slowing down because it’s all too fast.  

Everything is moving too fast 

and I can’t stop 

and I’ll die.  

I’m dying.  

I’m dead.  

Nothing for once. 

What is this election.  

What is stopping for this pedestrian.  

What is staying faithful.  

We do everything for the good of the many

in theory, 

but we do it for ourselves in actuality.  

How dare you. How dare you. 

Who is right in a war. 

Where do you stand on the Crusades. 

Just because that one is cast in white and that one in black... 

its so complicated that we must make it simple.  

A 14 year old Pakistani girl is shot in the head 

as she walks home from school with friends.  

A girl who speaks.  

Who speaks her truth living in the Swat valley run by the Taliban.  

A girl who just wants to go to school.  

There’s nothing wrong with being a girl who wants to learn.  

Yet a bullet traveled through her brain.  

You cannot fully recover from a bullet through your brain.  

Her name is Malala.

The Taliban promises another attempt to bring her to death.  

Would the Taliban do nothing for once?

I get angry when white, affluent, elected officials 

talk about food stamps and government assistance.  

It really rubs me the wrong way.  

Granted, visiting the projects in Minneapolis 

I saw a lot of people abusing that assistance.  

I saw problems with gambling, big tvs and expensive cars.  

We lived in the suburbs and we got food stamps.  

We needed those food stamps.  

We needed those groceries from the foodbank. 

Those donated Christmas gifts were very nice.  

My mom is a hustler, we never went hungry.  

Who am I tell her to do nothing for once?

I bailed on today.  

I decided early evening on Monday 

that Tuesday would be a sick day.  

A home day.  A sleep day.  I slept.  

I did nothing.  

I do not feel guilty.  

The heat rash between my thighs 

my shorts were too short for my long walk with Rocky. 

Looked up a cleanse program from Pressed Juicery.  

Don’t feel bad about it.  

I don’t feel bad about my body.  

I want it to be stronger, but it’s strong now, 

and I won’t be ashamed of where it’s at.  

I choose to end that war with myself.  

Stop making myself feel small 

because of how “big” I am.  

I’m done with that.  

I will do nothing for once.  

The Voice of Your Eyes

Blue, bluey, feather in the sky of a passing jay crashing into the clear. Piercing in color and focus. I feel it in my root, red hot and honey warm, expanding like a stone in a still pond. Outwardly radiating til it engulfs the gold circling orb that surrounds my heart and most of my ribs. Shoving energy up my esophagus into my throat. The spikes of electricity shoot though my lobes. Russian opera, boy band ballads, sage fogged sitar chords... I dreamt you into existence, but you have a will of your own, you have the strength that I lack. You keep me safe. You give me pleasure that expands across leagues and leagues of rocky, murky seas home to megafauna with human heads and gnashing teeth. Antartica... so white, so vivid, colors must appear saturated. The hefe... what is it called? The lens? No the,.... um, can’t remember. The filter. YES, the hefe filter on Instagram!  Deep below the layers of snow, of ice, of frozen time... is an ocean... is a memory of a lush green landscape.  Of a sea faring people, Atlanteans?  A type of Atlantis, a people who knew longitude and latitude before we imagined a people could know. Mother shifted her self. God changed his mind. Now they are lost in a prism, but not completely forgotten. In dreams, in writing, in every song they are seeded. Close set, connected to the breathing, to the airing of my brain... a coolant and a heating system that hums like my computer’s fan. Imprinted. Imprinted by two orbs. Connected by something that is invisible, but I can reach out and touch.  The silver rope of all that we have between us is tight. Able to handle our weight and then some. Over the rushing rapids below, that which is unknown and what is to come. Every step is like a strum of a mandolin, a simple tune that tells you everything in this present is good and full and shining and love. When you cry my heart sings. When you show me everything, I am yours and I have always been yours. I was imprinted onto you. You to me. A deep hum, a guttural laugh, a confident, sure held note is what wraps us snug as we gaze ahead and above at all the stars of possibility and the past.  Hmmmmmm... aaaahhhh.... Eyes, the voice of your eyes. I hope our children have your eyes and I hope they have mine and one minute.  One minute left to describe your eyes and its voice and my voice and our dreams. I smoosh my face into yours so that we can become one, the Faithful Couple we saw at Mariposa Grove. That’s you and me. Separate then merged then outreaching.

The Faithful Couple. Yosemite. Taken by me. 


Storytelling with no inhibitions.

Friday, October 19th at 9pm.

$5 cover - tickets available at the door.

LOFT Ensemble - 929 East 2nd Street (cross street is S. Virgnes), 90012

Storytellers: Ilyse Mimoun, Kulap Vilaysack (ME), Fia Perera, Jennifer DeFilippo, Matt McConkey & Katya Lidsky 

HelloGiggles Presents: After Hours

It's after midnight and we're feeling rowdy. A lot can go wrong when the lights go out. Come join our Hellogiggles writers and performers as we hilarious stories that happened to us in the After Hours!

Hosted by Katie Nehra

Ingrid Haas
Casey Wilson
Cat Reitman
Alex Staggs
Kulap Vilaysack <--- ME! 
Mel Stephens

Working Together by David Whyte

We shape our self
to fit this world

and by the world
are shaped again.

The visible
and the invisible

working together
in common cause,

to produce
the miraculous.

I am thinking of the way
the intangible air

passed at speed
round a shaped wing

holds our weight.

So may we, in this life

to those elements
we have yet to see

or imagine,
and look for the true

shape of our own self,
by forming it well

to the great                                                                                                                                                            intangibles about us.

Thank you to Heidi Rose Robbins, who sent me this and has filled my life with poetry.

Stuck On Repeat: Mateo "Say Its So"

Gives me the feeling I had when I was listening to R&B as a teenager, back in the nineteen nineties.  A full fantasy, yearning of a necessary heartbreak that never existed.  With an ex love made up in my lil boo boo heart.  It just didn't work out, y'know?

Or maybe he was Cambodian and my first real boyfriend.  Tough to remember as I am in my thirties now. 

Oh, to mean this much to someone... he'd convince Alicia Keys to sing back up and Swizz Beatz to produce.  I hear you Mateo and its so.  

What I do (Good Morning & Good Night)

I have selected the blaring alarm sound on my iphone. It is an awful noise. When it goes off the sound is akin to marching out of Abercrombie Fitch with a shoplifted stack of cologned soaked jeans in every size.  I am jolted and rise off the bed, blindly pawing for the source to turn off the racket.  No snooze, just OFF.  Once accomplished, I settle back into bed and rest. 

I open my eyes again 5-10 or 20-30 minutes later and grab my phone. Gotta go in my settings and adjust the brightness, because it's too dark from last night's bedtime usage.  First thing, put on my glasses to check my gmail inbox, closing my eyes while it loads.  With one eye open I select all the Orbitz, Lifebooker, Groupon, Anthropologie, LivingSocial types and trash them before I see what my real emails are.  Crap, I accidentally selected "All Mail" again. Must now go into the gmail account to  "All Mail" to select and then trash those errant emails!  Back to the inbox, I scan the previews & see who sent it to decide which order I’ll read them.  I’ll flag them for later response if necessary. I have two other email accounts to tend to and I do. 

Next stop, Instagram.  What snapshots of other peoples lives can I look at and decide if I like and/or if I shall comment on?  What of my shots have people liked and commented on?  Shall I respond with something pithy, sweet or teasing?!  Seems like their relationship is going well based on these pictures.  Guess he or she is out of town again... Love those shoes. Super great that everybody else is working!!!!!

Then it’s off to Twitter, what are my @replies? My interactions & mentions?  Is a RT in order?  How many followers do I have at this moment?  How many followers does this person have?  Why is that?  How do I feel about it?  

Now for the news, still immobile in my bed I use the AP app on my mobile.  Lot’s of meaty bald caucasions doing bad things are featured.  Croatian homophobia has turned to violence, pilot suspected of girlfriend’s murder steals a plane and shoots himself in the head, ex oil worker razes a bar with a semi automatic...  Syria, Obama & Romney, a cat travels 6 miles back home, a cat with a stubby tail is a mayor somewhere in Alaska.  Shootings, shootings, child abuse, Olympics, Drew Peterson Trial, woman tries to steal baby, freed lobsters and some more shootings.  

I think of getting up.  Rocky, my dog is still sleeping hard.  His front and back legs are stretched out and he's snoring. Coffee would be good now.  

I repeat the above to see if something has changed.  Hmm, must update my apps.  

I don't like secrets

I regard them as clutter, dusty tchotchkes and cracked souvenirs.  Spoiled milk or wooly rotten fruit in the fridge. They are prisons, cages of lies, noise and pretend. Rooted, gnarled and historic ones are a cancer --  silently, ruthlessly disfiguring, from the inside out.

I don’t like secrets.  I hate secrets.  HATE THEM. or maybe its just today.    

I am desperately thinking now of a secret that has been positive in my life.  There certainly has been delightful surprises and wonderous coincidences. But a secret? I hear secret, I feel trauma. I feel my soul being trespassed upon. I recall adults who’ve taken too much.  I picture a little girl with long black hair being slapped with "secrets."

I prefer omissions.  Even some lies. But that's another thought for another time.  

Be Drunken

Be drunken, always. That is the point; nothing else matters. If you would not feel the horrible burden of Time weigh you down and crush you to the earth, be drunken continually.

Drunken with what? With wine, with poetry or with virtue, as you please. But be drunken.

And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace, or on the green glass in a ditch, or in the dreary solitude of your own room, you should awaken and find the drunkeness half or entirely gone, ask of the wind, of the wave, of the star, of the bird, of the clock, of all that flies, of all that sighs, of all that moves, of all that sings, of all that speaks, ask what hour it is; and wind, wave, star, bird, or clock will answer you: “It is the hour to be drunken! Be drunken, if you would not be the martyred slaves of Time; be drunken continually! With wine, with poetry, with virtue, as you please.”

-- Charles Beaudelaire