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Indigo Vales

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Indigo Vales

Tag Archives: thoughts

Morning, July.

20 Monday Jul 2020

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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July, morning, poem?, thoughts

The day is long when I rise at 4 in the morning, before first light. I wake up surprised that I woke, I must have made it through the night.

I pace from window to window watching the light evolve and paint the sky,
the trees, the yellow face, now bright, of these concrete walls.
Swallows will barnstorm us soon. Tony is making homes for honey bees.
The weatherman says it’s gonna be 105 degrees and I worry about folks
in the heat without access to gatorade, a/c, ice, shade and rest. (and love.)

I am open to the idea of being patient today.
Patience feels like watching my dresses dry on the curtain rod in the bathroom, and when I do it right patience smells like a green tank top
left out in the sun to dry, softly touching me.

Will another storm awaken me tonight?

June 30

30 Saturday Jun 2018

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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dragonfly, published, sunrise, thoughts

The sun has been present since 4:22. The eastern sky in my bedroom window tells my restless eyes so.  I am not ready to greet this day.  My alarm clock is set for 7:00 but that’s a joke because I know I will awaken and rise long before then.

I’ve got “work” to do. Or things to “think” about. Basically it’s just being awake before I want to be awake and now I have to deal with it.

It’s too dark to write, so I turn on the lamp near my table so I can “see.” The orange courtyard lights are still on.  The western sky is black diluted, while the sky in my eastern bedroom is robin’s egg blue.  Hours pass and the sun rises over the shoulder of my apartment roof, lighting the yellow walls aflame. I will close the blinds later to keep out the blinding light and heat, the light that coaxes my plants to creep and grow.  I have visited the balcony ten times already to witness the pre-dawn grass watering, finches calling, the ocean sky lilac and calm, large black bugs zip-zagging haphazardly, crashing into everything unlike their steadfast, straightforward but seemingly lost dragonfly compatriots. Much to do today and no word when we will bury our friend the Saffron Queen.  Will he refuse to tell us?

My editor says he will take one of my things for print. That means he likes one thing more than the other, or, one was more right for the anthology than the other. I keep wishing I could write more things for the anthology but that’s just not how it works for me.  Some days a thing grabs me, takes me by the lapels and says “You write this right now,” and I obey and it works. Most days I walk past dusty footlockers and wash dishes and wait for dolphins and sleep on a sore shoulder.  My editor says he will print my thing and I should be shouting from the rooftops and doing the happy dance, but right now all I got is gratitude for being alone, for choosing silence over the crush of the world, and squeezing in a story now and then.  And missing my pain in the ass friend.

My day began at 4:22 AM. The sun is bright on the yellow wall and I have much to do today, and I will try to focus on what I can be, what I will do, and ignore all the rest.

Post-storm thoughts

30 Wednesday Aug 2017

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beauty, crabs, gratitude, human, social media, storm, thoughts

Good morning.

I wonder what was the first beautiful thing you saw this morning? Did you see it? Catch it in the act of being itself? Did you share it with someone you love, or tuck it in your pocket to save for later?

Something beautiful is seeing another day with hands to give and receive. Your baby’s smile. Your silky dog waiting patiently by her bowl for supper. Your engagement diamond that flashed in the sun as you walked to your car heading out for work. That song on the radio that makes you smile. (You do still smile, don’t you?)  Was it a breakfast sandwich your co-worker gave you, unasked for? Was it that first sip of coffee so hot and full of olfactory glory? What was the first beautiful thing you received this morning, took note of, and said thank you for? I hope you will share it aloud with someone.

I want to ask you that question the next time we meet. I hope you have the answer on the tip of your tongue, something to help me get to know the rest of your heart. I hope your response will loosen and blow away the mocking parts you’ve shown that I don’t want to remember.

It’s no wonder I prefer to remain unpopulated (reserved introverted anniesocial hermit-like don’t call me I’ll call you.) Sometimes it’s hard to shake off the griping and sniping and complaining, the fear that no one out there has anything kind to say to the ones they love, their friends, their neighbors. If I crawl inside any tighter I shall implode. But then I remember I saw something beautiful this morning, and that’s what I’d rather share: the beach is still there. Flat and clean. I watched solitary crabs digging from their burrows, thrusting and flinging damp sand behind. Nature is good. The earth is good. The people are good, too. We just need to dig out of our holes.

Morning Musings

19 Wednesday Apr 2017

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birds, dog, Mermaids, morning, neighbor, ocean, sunrise, thoughts, words

I hadn’t planned on waking with a jolt, but it happens sometimes. I open my eyes to a bright flash, like lightning, but there is no storm here.  Sunrise soon, so I slip into slouchy clothes, add another jacket because the winds are northeast, and you know what that means.  The dog walkers were out trying to be quiet, but their fluffies have one job and they are going to do that job every morning: yip at anything that moves, and that’s okay. By now most of them know I’m not bite-worthy, so they let me scritch their wiry necks and set them on their way.

I stand in the sand with camera phone in hand waiting for the molten orb to rise from the Atlantic, noting the ceiling covered by rows of narrow clouds, adjoined, pink, soon to be yellow then white when the whole thing is done.  I watch the fluffies trot across wind-blown dunes. I see early crab tracks and wonder if they’re sorry they got up too soon.  In the west, a pillar of rainbow over the Hampton bridge.

The laughing gulls were quiet for most of the year, but now that the “skimmer” gulls have arrived, the laughing gulls call constantly. Laughing gulls are more likely to share the breakwaters with the fuller-bodied gulls or tiny plovers who are no threat to anyone.   The skimmers fly by in the mornings but do most of their work of feeding in the evenings, skimming the tideline open-mouthed and faster than a white feathered bullet. Their morning calls are demure compared to the coarse laughing gulls, their bodies are the epitome of sleek, narrow, curved, pale, and far more seasonal. They are white silk arrows flown from heaven, and that seems to piss off the laughing gulls.

There is a tiny bird perched on the dead tree limb outside my window, breast curved and deep. He silently pivots like an unsure weather vane. What is he looking for?

My neighbor says goodbye to her cat on the windowsill every morning; she doesn’t know I see this, and she greets him when she returns before she opens the door.  I met her across the balcony this morning. I said hello, and she “confessed” her ritual. I think she felt like she was caught like a deer in the headlights.  We haven’t spoken but a few words.  I told her, “You should see him when you’re not home. All the parties. Had to call the cops a few times.” one-two-three…. She had no idea what I was talking about, but eventually she smiled and said, “You’re funny, ” and I wished her a great day as she smiled and made her way down the stairs.

Mad Libs was a fun game, and sometimes Jimmy Fallon, the late show host, fills out a Mad Libs form and acts out a scene based on the guests’ words.  I’ve watched Jimmy coax a great many words from his guests, and most of them disappoint me. They’re like me, trying to remember what’s a noun, verb, adjective. Most guest replies are often bland like a primary color wheel, and it informs me more deeply than a silly interview.  This morning I am pleased with Kevin Spacey who, unsurprisingly, immediately, chose wonderful and interesting words.  This matters to me, not so much because I want to win a date with Kevin Spacey, but more because it reaffirms my need for more, my need to be in the company of people who are curious about the world, who know things that I do not. Those who touch the mermaid of me.

Musings

14 Friday Apr 2017

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life, sleepless, strawberries, thoughts

Sleep paralysis is not a plot device used by some dark gods to fuck up my night, my morning, my life.  I know what it is now, and I can fix it. (Furthermore,  I really didn’t need to recall  the “Sad Keanu” meme. It’s a bullshit way to start the morning.)

I like my strawberries room-temperature. My mouth crackles as I eat them, and I am grateful for this pleasant stimulus today as I walk along the edge.

Jackie is due in three weeks, and all I can think is that time moves so slowly, and so fast.

I lit a candle to honor the grief of someone I do not know. It only makes me feel better.

I watch a tiny black beetle who barely fits inside a window screen square make his way here and there. What is he looking for?

He found a message in a bottle on the beach that holds a child’s pain.

I’m the priest in that story who never wanted to hear music again because it’s all just noise compared to the singing of angels he once heard.

Loud generators, the bump and clank of hand trucks moving sofas past my window, and a door slam are not plot devices used by some dark gods to fuck up my fragile mood and ambitions. It’s called life, lady. Better get used to it.

Blessing Stew

30 Thursday Mar 2017

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angry woman, blessings, bones, marrow, sin, thoughts

Hot orange sunrise peels back my eyes. Sweat soaked skin meets cool air when I pull the covers away.

I lumber from my cave, and what is this? A pile of bones heaped on the floor.  They are mine. A fine, greasy mess I left for the maid.

I cracked open my bones and let all the good stuff out, those seven deadly sins flittered about, and I tried to catch them but they slipped from my fingers.   I wanted to marinate them and make this refuse a stew.  What better way to heal an Angry wound but to sup the marrow from which it came?

Come back here, you rascals, I exclaim, putting my seven deadly sins back in their box. Naughty things, useless things, helpless things that only want a little recognition, struggling to get out, but I silence them.

Yesterday I cracked open my bones and watched the sins fly out. Last night I slept with them all.  Today I will observe, perhaps interrogate and see which goes into my pot first. When I am ready, I shall call it Blessing Stew, because you can’t have blessing without sin.

Moderation Stole My Paddle

18 Saturday Feb 2017

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evolving, hate, love, moderation, thoughts

In a little boat now I can barely control.  Somebody put me here and shipped me out beyond the breakers basically saying, “Sink or swim.”  So I’m out here tryin’ not get brained by the boom, run aground, or caught in a current that takes me out to sea where I dehydrate and hallucinate mermaids, never to be heard from again.

Typical weekday while I think about things and try to learn sumthin’.

So I’m in my little boat now, fumbling for control of my course, fact- and spell-checking along the way, afraid to meet a whale. Afraid to meet a life. Myself.  There’s handbooks here, tattered, yellowed copies of basic seamanship and how to maintenance the engine, spring, summer, fall, and winter.  Hilarious. Might as well be a Yellow pages, for all that.

Abandoning ship, I decide to just fucking paddle a canoe instead. Much easier.  Still afraid of whales and meeting myself but, whatever. Back to the lesson sermon rant thing:

Tonight it’s about moderation. “All things in moderation,” one of my elders used to say. It has a different meaning for me, these days.  All things in moderation–even hate? I wish he was here for me to debate this idea. It’s one I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. Hate. Why people have it, why we do it, and can’t we just make the damn thing go away?  Wouldn’t we have stopped hating long ago, if we could?  What’s wrong with hate, anyway, full-fledged hatred for bullshit, weakness, opposition, beliefs, and race? Why can’t I hate without moderation?

And what about love? Why can’t we just off the charts love, love love love everything and everyone not in moderation but in bliss? Love of everything, everyone, a love so deep we want to eat it, wear it, sleep it, assimilate it into our bodies and souls, elevate it to the mountaintops and share the love with the whole world, even with the haters.  Love like my love for pizza and music and the ocean!  It’s free! It’s easy… wait, woah, hold on. Actually love is not always easy. Is hate easy? Why can’t I just hate? Hate the sorrow, the pain, the aggression, ignorance, intolerance, poverty, war, religion, the lack of love, I hate it all! Like I hate bananas or being cold?

All things in moderation?  I dunno.  Where’s my fuckin’ paddle?

Here It Comes…

31 Saturday Dec 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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change, justice, life, New Year, thoughts

This is where everyone writes their resolutions. Their hopes and goals for themselves in the New Year.  I ain’t putting that pressure on myself because I know that shit don’t work.  For me, anyway.  That’s all right.  I’ll take a moment to reflect and write, anyways, because it’s been on my mind.

I feel like I reset my whole life in 2016, though it was put into motion long before.  I upturned the whole apple cart.  I hurt people I love. I failed in so many ways, and the worst was walking away from a man who put up with me, who took care of me and our son all these years, and I struggle to deal with that upheaval.  2016 dealt me a “change” card. I took it and ran, and it’s hard to sleep with what I left behind.

I mourn the celebrities we lost, but they weren’t in my shoes or his shoes or your shoes all this time. Tonight is the end and a beginning, and yet I always felt like the true new year began when I went back to school in September.  More horror.

Tonight I am cleaning my bathroom top to bottom, and I will have some champagne at the prescribed time.  I look back on a life before and after I married Mike.  I miss my son.

This year I will share my fears on the page, and might, maybe, confess my sins for the record, too.  This year I will send more work out into the world because rejection just gets easier the more you take it.  This year I will try to do something about the thin skin I was born with. Perhaps I can toughen it because my armor just hasn’t been enough.  This year I learned that I can join a club, some all-grrl gang and force my view down your throat or beat you to death with it because you ain’t hearing us otherwise… or I can doctor the wounds. I can record the voices and stand up for the ones who need it most. I get to decide what Change looks like, and it doesn’t have to tear Justice limb from limb.

This year I will root for the Seattle Seahawks because I’m done with that other team. On a side note, I hope my son learns what “team” means, and that nobody gets a medal for being a lone wolf.  I hope they hand out medals to lone wolf parents, by the way, but I’d better not  hold my breath.

This year I will try to participate more in the community. Change can’t happen just by posting comments on a web page.

And I’m not asking any more of myself right now because that’s a pretty good plate so far.

December 11

11 Sunday Dec 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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dream, thoughts

Dark room. A bed like a cot. Blankets, I presume? On my back, naked, my hair longer than it is now.  Someone I do not know approaches, I only see their arms and what they’re carrying in the dark, no face, or voice or sound.  He or she puts a naked infant on my ribs and leaves. He is not interested in nursing and has no need to cry.  I can feel the skin of his skin on my ribs and belly. He curls up just a little and sleeps.  He only wants to sleep, and so he does.

###

I am walking down the road that leads from my father’s house to the main road.  The sky is pale and getting lighter by the second. It’s not the sun rising but the moon. The moon has risen from the wrong direction in the sky, and it is enormous. It should not be this close to us. Craters and seas are plainly visible. I am frightened by this enormous white, pockmarked plate in the sky.  I take the phone out of my back pocket, and I spend too long trying to frame it. When my finger finally finds the button and clicks, the sky goes full dark.  The moon is gone.

###

When I walk like a cat over my neighbor’s apartment, is every footstep taken with purpose? Does everything I put in my body have value to my body, all that I eat and drink? Is every breath nourishing, or are they only half-breaths, or breath-holding, forgetting the long, long path of chi?  Does everything I write have value, if not meaning? What was its purpose?  Was it worth waking up in the dark when the world was still sleeping to see an orange rose come into the sky, to brew a cup of coffee and hear nothing but stillness in the bedroom?  When did the courtyard lights go out? I was too busy writing the dreams to have noticed.  The refrigerator hums, a cardinal is peeping, I can find everything in my house with my eyes closed and cross the floor in the dark without stumbling.  If only the ringing in my ears would go away, but since that’s not gonna happen, guess I’d better fill the air with the sounds of dish washing.

prayer for a rust farmer

01 Monday Feb 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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evolving, inspiration, Mike, thoughts

i want you to throw off the whole world and rise up out of the earth and tower over us all like a sunflower, and then share your shade and your seeds with us, mighty sunflower, icon and anchor of our garden.

and he did.

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