a view that was endless
from a moment in time that felt endless.
a time of in/between
at a time when my life itself
felt endless.




seeing her hands opening this fruit
was like watching a birth:
raw and sweet and fleeting


On Creativity, New Years, and Ditching The Pill


Today was the first day in three years that I haven’t introduced synthetic estrogen and progestin into my bloodstream. At least, on purpose anyway. There were a few days when I missed my pill by accident. And yeah of course, the token placebo pills in each pack. But this time, I’m not taking my pill on purpose. This time, I’m not rushing back onto it when I realize what I’ve done. This time, I’m not planning on taking any more at all.

My doctor (who I loved; she was the most empowering and caring gynecologist I’d ever been to) was the one who suggested I try the pill after I told her what my every-fourth week was like. She was right. The pill reduced the severity of what were indeed some pretty severe menstrual cramps. The pill allowed me to function on all of the days of the month. It made life easier. But I also think that as it turned down the volume on my pain, it turned down the volume on other parts of me too: pleasure, whimsy, emotional experience. I appreciate not feeling knifed in the stomach every month, but I’m not sure if my life is better now that I don’t cry when going through greeting cards in the drug store. Honestly, I kinda miss that sappy, emotional version of me.

Reflecting back on the last three years that I’ve been popping this pill…

I think about the fulfilling then unfulfilling relationships, the fulfilling and then unfulfilling jobs, and the projects sparked by ideas in my mind that came to fruition… or didn’t. The last Big Beautiful Artistic Project I created was done before I went on the pill. I wonder if that means something. I wonder if there have been any negative effects on my creativity during this time of non-ovulation, this false-state-of-pregnancy that my body was tricked into. Each little white full moon of a pill kept my body thinking it was already growing something. Is our mental and psychological creativity affected by our bodies’ physical and hormonal states?

I remember how good, how alive, I felt when I was writing, singing, creating and birthing That Big Beautiful Artistic Project so many years ago.The years since then have been times of sharing that project with with world, introducing it to more people, helping it make friends and stand on its own. It’s toddled its way into the world now and I’ve let go of its hand.

I wonder what new projects will want to come into being once I allow my body to once again have the experience of ovulation…Allowing my body to re-join my mind as a place of incubation, a fertile place pregnant with possibility. I’ll once again let my body be a place where new life — even if only in the form of art, music, dance, adventure — takes shape and can be birthed into the world.

Last night as I was writing this post, it was exactly 24 hours until 2014. On New Years Day-Night, our moon will be perfectly dressed for the occasion, in a slinky black New Moon costume of her own. Empty of all light and reflection, she will be wearing a velvet black openness waiting to be filled. The timing seems perfect for my body to join her in that shadowy place filled with total possibility.

The New Moon has historically and agriculturally been the time when it’s best to plant new seeds. That’s because, as the light returns slowly, newly-planted seeds get more and more light shining on them per 24-hour period, so that as they move from germination to sprouting, they get more and more light to sustain their radical growth.

Joining with the moon, this is a time of planting seeds in me too. I’ll be holding hands with the darkness, feeling its fullness, and calling forth artistic fertility in all its myriad, surprising, hatching forms.

Happy new year!

morocco memory


i remember
a 115-degree hot summer day
in morocco,
moving way too quickly
in a language i didn’t understand
past moments i wanted to remember fondly
but found far too challenging
for fantasy to win




hannah’s hurt

a girl named hannah
with the intent to hurt,
was once very successful.

i don’t know what kind of darkness inside
would lead a person
to form a goal
to hurt some poets…

of all people,

but i imagine it is a person who is
wounded with bitterness
afraid of connection
insecurely arrogant
and who fills her free time with cruelty instead of creativity.

someone who is probably hurting deeply herself.

she mostly sat silently in the back
of the twice-monthly open mic.
though a few times
she stood in front of the crowd to share her poems too,
poems which used the word ‘cunt’ a lot.
and then she went home.

little did we know
she was harboring hatred and anger
towards people who had also
simply had the courage
to stand there
and share what they had written too.

some were lifelong poets
but many were new to the art.
some had only just written their first poem the week before
but they were all welcomed
and celebrated
and encouraged
by myself and others who stood in support of creativity,
creativity at any level,
twice a month
in celebration of words.

and it was they
that she lobbed her arrows at:
the new
the trembling
the brave and unsteady
who were trying something new

she spoke of them harshly,
calling them hacks
calling their words amateurish
laughing at their still-developing writer-voices.

a girl named hannah
with the intent to hurt,
was once very successful.

she didn’t have the courage to stand in front of us
and say her words aloud
so she published them
as a contributed editorial
in our small-town newspaper

and she hid.

she never showed her face again
at our twice-monthly gathering
in celebration of poetry.

but her words reached us still.

her words hurt those she aimed her vitriol at,
and they hurt me,
who had created the gathering
offered the opportunity
offered myself
offered my words
offered space and time and money and encouragement
in celebration of creativity.

many years have passed,
and i’ve written many words since then
(some of them were even poems)
and i’m sure all the others have as well.

and i wonder if hannah is happy today.
i wonder if she remembers fondly
that time
she aimed poison arrows
at those who had the courage
to try something new
to put themselves out there
in the name of
the appreciation of life
and connection with others.

i wonder if she is still thinking of ways to hurt poets.

perhaps she has moved on
to clubbing baby seals
or plucking rose seedlings from the earth
or stealing milk from babies
or pissing on the sacrament
or farting near old people in wheelchairs
or bullying gay middle-schoolers
or telling newlyweds they’ll be divorced soon
or tripping kindergarteners as they run by
or telling teenage girls they are fat and ugly
or spiking diabetics’ food with sugar
or stealing sandwiches from homeless shelters
or throwing puppies into raging rivers
or funding tyrannical and oppressive world leaders

it makes me think
that the kind of person
who aims
to hurt poets,
to silence poets,
is the kind of person who
probably has a dreamless sleep of fear inside her heart.
and who probably hasn’t changed much.
and who probably needs poetry the most.

The taste of life

This unusual fruit,
So similar to my life now.
It’s sweet,
But hard to eat.

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