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Indigo Vales

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Indigo Vales

Tag Archives: silence

fog morning.

06 Friday Nov 2020

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Catskills, childhood, fog, memory, morning, ocean, poem?, Senses, silence

the kind of morning i wish would stand still
see what i see.
let me take in the silence
the scent
the gray
the cool soaking wet
let me hold you still
before it all becomes the day.

i remember waking and rising before everyone
and sneaking outside to sit on the concrete steps
shocked i could rise so early
that i could be so quiet mousy
elated that there’s no one to tell me
No
or
Don’t
a long green and white trailer nestled in the catskills
courtesy of grandma and grandpa
land of loud crickets, soft orange lights
strangers in pubs who are friends
a pool that’s off limits
and a basketball court where my dad actually bounced a ball.
so many tiny white spider tents in the grass
should i walk, yes i should walk and soak my socks
i’ll take them off
my tracks look like skis in the wet grass
the world was still and mostly silent
accompanied by tiring crickets
soon grandma will rise with her little slippered feet
and pastel house dress to make us toast with too much butter
that is life
and no one around to say
No
or
Don’t

sun please hold before you burn this fog away
fluttering flock of mourning doves say otherwise
the guy downstairs comes out for a smoke
the chemicals chase the ocean scent away
still, everyone is reverent this morning,
keeping quiet.
so far.

Night Sounds*

21 Saturday Jul 2018

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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evening, fireflies, heartbeat of the night, life, magic, nature, noisy neighbors, poem, silence, soundtrack

Speak softly if you must speak at night.
Sparrows might be preparing to take flight
Finches nestling in for the night
Crickets and katydids are creaking vigorously
Not for you and not for me, so hush and let them be.
Speak softly if you must speak at night.
The breeze is changing direction.
Rain is coming but you would hardly know it.
Worms will rise and robins will strike in purple dawn
before the sun gets in the way
tomorrow.
Speak softly if you must speak at night.
You might hear the lamp post lights humming
your very own heartbeat
your lover’s breathing
you can almost hear a fireflies’ wings beating
if only you would speak softly in the night.

Or maybe…  do not speak at all.

*dedicated to the neighbors across the street who haven’t a clue what all is going on in the night because they’re too busy saying terrible things to each other they believe is righteous and apropos.

Energy, Creative, Spent. On.

17 Friday Nov 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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creativity, energy, fiction, furnace, home, politics, potted plant, reading, Shogun, silence, writing

I’ve heard it said that one should be careful what they put their energy into.  Perhaps you’ve seen the meme that cautions who you invite into your soul, or the reminder that Karma did, indeed, see what you did.  “Be careful what you put your energy into tonight, darling,” I think to myself as I write.  It doesn’t all have to be lofty and worthy, but is it worth the energy I believe it might?  Yes. No. Maybe.

The silence of this place is more precious to me than the clean water that patters into the steel sink. Why not use the cliche of more precious than gold? Because you know me better than that. Only my fingertips tapping and my eardrum’s tinnitus breaks the silence. Here comes a helicopter (helo) beating its way over this little spit of land, soon to cross the bay and RTB.  This helo sounds awful, one blade out of tune, I’ve never heard that before, and I wonder, and I wonder if my energy should care.

My plants are repotted. The floors smell of citrus. I dug this fuzzy sweater from the box that hides beneath my bed, baby blue that made me sweat when I took a little walk earlier this evening. Finding shelly treasures require extra scouting these days. All good use of my energy, but why should you care?

My little green oil burner fills this space with the scent of something vague but peaceful. It’s not the loud, spotlight-stealing scent of sage, or the typical pumpkin or vanilla stuff we’re “supposed” to be burning this time of year. I stare at the tea light flame and think of the advice I gave to a friend. She is struggling. So hard. She is a potted plant who hears a wild life calling in the distance. The energy I give her is not a waste of time. It’s just not the right time.  I spent a lot of time thinking about this and conclude that I respect the woman she is, the woman she chooses to be, because to do otherwise would be harmful to us both.

I have used a great deal of energy reading two books of political non-fiction. I pat myself on the back for reading out of my comfort zone, for finishing what I began though in places I wanted to throw them across the room, and for recognizing that I am ready to stop using my energy on this quest now. I sought wisdom, some kind of understanding for the politics of our day trying to make sense of it all. The books were good, but they left me feeling like a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing.  Who knew maybe it was a bad idea to take a bite from the fruit of that tree? My furnace is ready to burn for better things now.

What I’ve produced in my recent writings are for personal use, so much sorting, so many questions and no wrong answers.  A good use of my energy, I believe.  I’m ready to turn back to writing fictions, pleasures, dragons, warriors, to create a world I can understand, a world where I’m not being held hostage by my government.  And I’m set to re-read “Shogun” because it’s been calling at me for quite some time.

PS: The refrigerator is running, breaking the silence, and that is just all right.

My Remains Ask You To Examine What Matters

28 Thursday Sep 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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anger, change, colin kaepernick, crickets, Equality, future, grace, justice, love, nature, peace, silence, wisdom

morning crickets, disorganized, a messy symphony, out of time and tune like a first grade choir. they are young and vigorous, excited, eeping out of time like i’ve never heard before and we love them, dearly love them, dabbing our eyes with pride and ready for more.

green water with long whitecaps in the bay, ambassadors to the hurricane’s arrival. white sky turned gray for days, cloud processionals form impressive figures like gray knitted blankets, then icebergs moving fast in a distilled sunset sky that dispenses piss water instead of whisky.

i hear you. i hear you all. i allowed you to take over me like some drunk uncle at the barbecue who knows better. our burgers were adequate, filled our stomachs but we really didn’t want cheese on ours and not exactly burnt on one side.  it all works out in the end because we’re family and we take what we get, even after I told you all to fuck off because i can’t take your flag-waving bullshit anymore. We’re a family. I can do better, and so can we.

my anger is constant. it simmers long and sometimes a bubble pops and you get hit with the spray of “fuck off,” a little stain on your favorite faded t-shirt or that gauzy thing you wore for the first time today.  i try to keep her in check, in the cauldron, but after 16 days, sometimes it goes critical and that nicey girl, the one you thought was so well spoken and decent and measured bursts and she… she will not forget it.  she’s been wrestling your vipers and her vipers. my unwieldy elbows knocks the cauldron over and now another job:  own the disaster. the strife. the discord, the worry, the ransom, the fear, the woman, the apple, the evil, the world. I mop up the bloody mess and wring the rags out into the cauldron to begin again. again.

then i seek to breathe. to hold. to measure. to examine and find a way to spread the peace. the love. the wonder. the beauty. the magic. the grace. the harmony. the creation.  to own and love and share that thing i cannot see that made me and made you and reach for your fingertips in our birth and in our death, the turning wheel that pricked my finger and gave me a sword to fight my own dragons.

Momma said if you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything at all.  I believe she was so right, so very right. But when you believe, you need to stand for it, all the way, not stare at your toes and be a neutral pussy.  Take a stand, make a change, have courage in your convictions, and fuck what your father thinks.  Our future isn’t about measuring mother wounds, and it isn’t about lobby money and power. It’s about people rising up and telling the world the world matters, YOU matter, everything on it matters, we can do better, and I will walk with you peacefully, barefoot, and speak for you loudly, peacefully, forcefully. Otherwise, my silence means I accept the wrongs, the ill-doings, the damage, the hurt, the shoulder-shrugging extinctions.

Be brave, my fellow humans. Be brave and be kind and be giving. Be tolerant. Be listening. Be strong. Be happy. Be comforted. Be loving, and be one. Be ready to speak out for those who cannot speak for themselves. Stand your ground not for us but our earth and life that we cannot yet imagine will come because our time here is already done.  The future is fragile and we can sow the seeds to make it beautiful-strong.  Put love on your tongue. It’s not impossible. We are right and good and brave as we walk barefoot through all of our dust.  Bless you for taking a knee and asking for the wisdom to discern what matters.

What Does Your Flag Remember?

13 Sunday Aug 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Confederacy, evolving, flag, heritage, justice, march, one small world, peace, race-traitor, silence, weapon, women, Women's March

Quickly! Quickly Betsy, fast as ever you can, we need to see each other from a long way. Make the flag of canvas or cotton or linen, use everything you can, but we must carry our message into the field and beyond when we’ve taken out those lobsterbacks!

Quickly! Quickly, Constance, as fast as ever you can, we need to see each other from a long way. Make the flag of canvas or cotton, linen or silk, use whatever is at hand, but we must carry our standard into the field so the Yanks know we’ve forced their retreat, our message clear!

Ah. Ackh. This flag tastes like ghost pepper, my eyes and nose and mouth are thick and throbbing.  That’s all right. No biggie. Sliding this flag off this stick 1-2-3 and you’re mine now, pathetic, race-hating antifa motherfuckers!

Ah. Ackh. This flag tastes like ghost pepper, my eyes and nose and mouth are thick. That’s all right. No biggie. My friends will douse me down with water. We got some good Go-Pro footage of everybody hollering and jeering, until they decided it was time to come and get us. Now? My flag tastes like salt and blood and I dunno what. The flag isn’t really the thing, it’s more like, standing up for what’s right.

Maybe they’ll remember Heather’s name or maybe she’ll have some 15 minutes of fame in her deceased state, you know, walking along a street wanting to stand against bigotry and white nationalism. I don’t know whose face or what place to mark that she was here. Seems like we all have to make our mark, somehow, something that says we were here. We did something. It meant something. We want our times and times and times to remember what we stood for. The little girl of me wants to remember the best of us.

What does your time, your greasy fingered baby-back rib in the front of a cave mark, stand for? Was it peace? Did you stand for neutrality to escape getting your ribs cracked because you took a stand? Or did you lick your fingers clean?

(the women’s march on dc included very specific instructions that we were not allowed to carry signs, banners, or anything sharp or cudgel-like, and we followed that rule. we carried lots of 8 x 10 inch paper, cloth, pillowcases, hats, shirts, lots of people walking to and from the mall with one goal in mind, and that goal was not to stand behind a shield, and beat you with a stick or throw bottles filled with urine or cement. why was that rule not in place in charlottesville? i await the governors reply)

We smear meanings on the wall, things we want to remember, things we teach our young. Something happened here, and smear that moment on your face so you know you are part of it. Your cannon mates, your tent mates, the buttons on your tunic, that bit of cloth that tells us where to rally, or retreat, and did you understand what it all really meant?

Flags, unholy acrid, captured and desecrated. Flags damp in the dew of morning on the way to capturing you.  Flags rising up, defying a surrendered past, denying defeat and demanding glory, wanting to tell its silken story to a crowd that sits restless in chains or brings its thin pole down and down and down upon you, race-traitor.

We will remember you, in your place as we savor gobbets of meat from the fire.

A Day Of Silence

06 Tuesday Jun 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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authentic, meditation, silence, truth, woman

Soft.  Soft.

Yesterday, full of meditation.

Full focus on being present.

Refocus. Refocus. Refocus.  Because the mind wanders so easily,

treading paths that sound like jealousy, heresy, inadequacy

detours around

a little girl’s pain

a woman’s leaving

music that reverberates in my bones

dredging a stick through embers

igniting memories and regrets

calling me back to my body that sits in silence, suffering

writing thank you notes and apologies in ink and in blood

so much good will that do unless I put these hands to use.

Yesterday, full of silence.

No candle, no ritual.

Reflection,  insomnolent

Your pure truth was a light for me, your woman’s authenticity.

I’ve never been clear with anyone and not sure I ever will be,

but I learn from you and I hear and remain sleepless.

All I can be is grateful for voices I trust in a field where I walk

looking for wisdom, peace, and silence

amid chuckholes that break a horse’s leg.

Starling Made Me Write It

29 Wednesday Mar 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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bird, crime, mine, poetry, say no, silence, writing

It is the time of saying “no.”  You may not visit my home.  I will not smile because you don’t know what else to say.  I will not give you $40 bucks because they took your house away.

(did you hear any apologies here?)

I will say that I am tired and need to go when I am ready. I will give you compassion, but I’m not feeling sorry for you. I will open my home, my ears, my heart, and purse strings when I want to.

I am not your mark anymore.

I’m chasing poems around with ink, talking to myself and writing secrets in the sand.  I write what I need, when I need, and I reserve the right to hoard my treasures.  This bud’s lips will part and speak when it’s damned good and ready, be it gardenia or stinking corpse lily.  Or maybe the roots will rot, the flower will drop and die like some thief on a rope before anyone hears the word.

Either way, I’m cleaning up the crime scene before you can figure out what hit you.

White Helmets & Thunder

13 Tuesday Dec 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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help, human, refugee, silence, Syria

It was perhaps 5:30AM when I was jolted out of bed by metal pounding, great booming concussions of the sanitation truck emptying a dumpster.  It’s not Thursday afternoon, why is this horrible smashing happening now?  How inconvenient.

It was 7:00AM when I heard the sound of thunder, but no, not thunder.  A distant low boom that cuts off quickly. This is the sound of either a fighter or stealth jet.  It growled and boomed several times, and I wondered if they would be practicing around here today, but it’s gone silent now.  There’s no use trying to sleep anymore, thinking about the marvel of our machines, the wonder that we forced our way into the air, and then beyond air.  Aren’t we so clever.

It was 7:30AM when I read the that civilians are being marched out of their homes and shot in Aleppo, Syria.  Technology allows us to stay in touch with little Bana Alabed via Twitter or CNN, a human family stuck in war.  The US has amazing flying machines that boom over the bay, but what have we done to help the people who asked for freedom from a tyrant?  Silence. Our country is war fatigued and tired of being the world’s police. Our government condemns and sanctions Syria and sends help piecemeal because it’s not in the interest of our country to start a world war over ideals.  It amounts to silence. The world watches as Russia sides with the tyrant and suppresses the rebels who only asked for more democracy five years ago. I watched the uprising and the refugee crisis in the news for years in silence, hoping the world would do something.

I’m hoping to redeem myself as a human being by writing letters, Tweeting, and donating to the White Helmets  , and asking others to do the same. Revolution cannot be silent, humanity must make a joyful noise and do the right thing.

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Truth To Power

05 Monday Dec 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Disturbed, Iron Maiden, music, power, silence, Simon & Garfunkel

…. and then someone posts a link to a song that “Disturbed” covered, majestically, forcefully, and relevantly “The Sound of Silence,” by Simon and Garfunkel.  I was this close to shutting down my writing for the morning, getting ready to move on into some kind of useful action for the day like taking a shower and writing Christmas cards, but up pops that post.  I don’t know when he saw it, and I don’t know why he chose to post it today, but I only know it affected me this morning as it did the first time I saw it:  I cannot sing the song without tears and clenched throat. I imagine myself some kind of “Americas Got Talent” contestant, sturdy in my creative beliefs, but then the music cues and when I try to sing it, everything turns to waterfall, my throat choked with rocks and my soul wanting to heal the rifts, and I croak tears instead of strength.   I’m not sure how anyone can sing that song and not become puddle.   Simon and Garfunkel recorded the song in 1972. I was four. Did I know what soul was, rifts, waterfalls, pain, passion, or tenement halls were back then?  Surely not.  But I remember that song, that whole album, along with Andy Williams and Cher, Perry Como, Johnny Cash.  You know, my mom and dad never sat us down and said, “Here, boy, listen to this song, it will change your life. This is literature. This is passion, this is what it’s all about!”  Music was a background to things like washing dishes or erecting the Christmas tree with Bing Crosby. Loretta Lynn taught me that unless I stood by my man I am not a real woman, because only real women weep for their absent men, shuffling room to room, tears dragging at their cheeks, searching for their dignity, keeping their children in line and dinner on the table because that’s the way it’s supposed to be.  (Poetry.  Lurking.)  And then I started to grow and understand not everyone has my Freedom, and the power in the cry for it!

I am moved to tears this morning because of a song, not because I am sad, but because of power.  It’s like the emotion the church wishes it could elicit from me, that eyes-closed, hand gripping dress rapture they wish they could incite from us every Sunday.  I read poems, dusty words on a yellowed page by authors nobody cares about, and they push me farther and farther down into disbelief, but so much wanting to believe that I was born with a sword in my hand and the fate of the world lies on my skill, cunning, and resolute in the power that I cannot fail.  I laugh in the face of your certainty.  Songs like this one, sung on street corners for change in a garbage poet’s voice, lowly, unhelpful, occupying a flash in a rebel’s mind teach me where the real people come from, their songs dark and misunderstood, but they never for a moment waver in their faith and belief in the song.    There is hope behind the neon gods we made, and it won’t take much to show it.  We just have to keep on keepin on.

PS:  Just got back from running errands and played the song again, this time with the window open, mindful of the time, one must not Disturb one’s neighbor after all,  and I sang this baby without a catch.  Yeah!  \m/

Taking Notes

29 Monday Feb 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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amwriting, evolving, silence

The plan was to write.  The plan was to heal and grow. The plan was to accept the hurt I was about to deal, and the hurts I might feel by the needle and thread in my own hand. Plans change when the noise stops and all you can do is listen.

The silence here has been … well. You don’t know what noise is until you seek out the silence and that is all you ever hear.  I sometimes wonder if I speak to Zephyr, my wax plant, just to break the silence now and then.  Sometimes in the middle of the night the silence is broken by what seems like a giant person slamming a giant door that shakes the entire building. Those times are rare and my eyes open not in fear, but I emerge from mild sleep and look at the pale orange rectangles on the wall that show me nodding tree branch shadows.  Silence returns. The loudest sound I hear is the tinnitus earned from too many concerts without hearing protection. Guess I never believed it could happen to me, this thing where I hear your voice but not your words.  Now the constant sound of raining bells in these two silent rooms are my loudest company.  Sometimes the loudest sounds are my fingers touching keys or hot water pouring from the faucet for my bath. I rarely break the silence with my own voice, and I rarely want the silence broken.  I never knew how much it meant to be able to slide the bedroom window open and hear branches chiming on branches in their midnight wind dance…and nothing else.

The plan was to listen to my body. To hear what it needs to tell me so I can either honor it with good things or pollute it with chemicals, bad habits, negative thoughts, or stasis.  Sometimes I take the entire day stopping to ask my body and senses, “What does this feel like? What does this sound like? How does this taste?  How am I feeling just now? Why?” I write those things down because if I can’t tell you that the clean, bright taste of lemon in cold water makes my mouth pop, how can I ever describe it to anyone else?

All very nice things for a writer to experience in between bouts of laundry or wiping up the stove top after dinner. All very serene, privileged tools in my shed. Until we pick up a book and it challenges everything we thought we understood or wanted to understand.  I wanted to read it so I could know what all the “noise” was about, why was it so important to everyone, it seemed?  I spent the entire day yesterday reading it, and at its conclusion asked myself if I have been asking the right questions all this time. A friend sent me an article that reminds us that a wave breaks at precisely the right moment, that only it knows when it is time.  I doubt I could have read this book with open eyes until now.

I could name drop and say, “Oh it was this book by this author.” It might add a hit or two to my stat counter, make me look all intellectual-like.  That would bother me on so many levels and the bottom line is that it’s less than truthful or helpful–to anyone–to do so.  So why bother bringing it up, anyway, if I’m not going to be candid about it, I mean, it meant enough that I spent a whole day with it, then took the time to blog a few notes here, what was the point? The point is that it gave me perspective. It gave me powerful reading that I hope will lead to powerful writing. I haven’t the sophistication, the intellect, the background, NOTHING in my arsenal, at this moment, that allows me to make a meaningful comment about the book I just read.  However. It allows me to question my perspective and ask if I am asking the right questions.  What might happen when we all start seeking new perspectives, asking better questions, carrying the light so we can see enough to take the log from our own eyes that we might understand how a speck came to be in our neighbors?  Yes, I misquoted just there, but that’s how it feels right now, a log in my own eye, my heart, my understanding.

 

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