I didn’t know not exactly, not until this moment.
I never believed brushing aside the possibility of happy.
Tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow I’ll embrace the quirks and eccentrities.
Funny time wasted. Not funny.
This end of April Sunday close to May, I stand at the fault line.
The compost pile is toppling from all the shit dumped over the years.
I don’t know about you, maybe you were born over-confident.
A chest puffer.
Never had to overthink it, actually liked spending time in your own company.
Didn’t fret about how you looked in a full length mirror, crap you never even owned one.
Happy, no worries. Happy, never mind the worries. Happy, because it feels better.
And maybe you weren’t born with a twelve pack but a Buddha belly and when you laughed it was honest from the gut, and your smile was fuchsia electric.
I’ve known people like that, really I have.
Well one that I can think of.
I wonder if Angelina Jolie is a brooder like me?
Angelina was the first perfect human that came to mind.
Let’s see, Buddha belly person is happy for realz, never asking, wanting or needing much of anything.
Seriously, just the jubilee of living and giving are enough.
I can’t speak for Angie but I wonder if she wears Crocs, doesn’t bother to shower or sits in the grass simply because she likes the way it feels against her unshaven, hairy-for-days legs.
I can’t help but wonder, curiosity careens through the wrinkles I now possess,
and the dirt under my fingernails from digging the earth.
I like how my back aches, moss green hands throb and sweat trickles down my neck.
I like that Jeff Buckley is blasting haunting, melodic melodies directly into my brain.
I like that this moment I am absolutely present just him and me, in fifty degrees that is neither scorching nor too cold uncomfortable but smack dab in the middle.
I like to use clichés, that make me happy no matter how incorrect or passe.
I like the physical task of creating something, something real.
That is the closest I’ve come to happy.
To loving myself.
On this end of April Sunday close to May, I stand at the fault line.
“I have loved, laughed, cried, hurt, chose the empty life, until love finally found me a home.” – Jacqueline Cioffa
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Do you believe in signs? I try. I want to. Some days they’re impossible to ignore.
I have a funny kind of feeling we’ve been here, lived this place before.
Maybe not in the same order, geography or circumstance. I don’t know, maybe not at all says the practical parts to me.
I’m pretty sure we won’t remember.
I’m quite certain the people I have loved deeply, who have loved me fiercely remain infinitely an existential part of my spirit.
One can hope.
Then again maybe I shouldn’t believe in this world, but a different one where pain tastes like cotton candy, death is celebrated with dance and joy, planes don’t crash into the side of mountains but glide on love. Heinous evil, racism, hatred, fear, greed, guilt are words no longer recognized or used in our vocabulary.
“We are made of star stuff.” Carl Sagan
I love that quote, it represents the fortuitous impossibility we are.
I look for them, the signs.
I can’t help but want them to be true.
Truth is universal, truth always wins.
The signs help make sense of the free-floating chaos swirling over, above, under and straight through us.
“Humans presume their orbs are unique, very different, when in fact they are not, they remain very much the same. The only variants are in shape, color and size.” – Jacqueline Cioffa
The quotes, imagination and creative worlds they live inside.
The orbs came yesterday in the form of magnificent, silver-light reflection shimmering atop the ripples of crisp blue waters.
I felt serene, almost happy.
I searched ‘orbs’ for a quote from “Georgia Pine” on my Kindle.
Funny, OTB came up instead.
Not funny at all, not to me.
My dad was a lover of the betting the horses and frequent OTB visitor. Like almost daily and I shared his great big, gambling fool heart.
The best of me lives in the orbs I have known and the signs, well…
The signs might not always be there, the sun will eventually die and burn out.
I am predestined to be star-dust set free.
GEORGIA PINE http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00T270L88
Because it’s raining, and my mother sits in the kitchen with a pencil reading Georgia Pine., first edits. I reflect. Typing in my Zen room, deep in the world of Georgia Pine. I work fast, anxious to see how the story ends, intersects, everything comes to a close. (even I don’t know if they characters will veer left or right). I am melancholy. I will miss Harrison, and her descendants. For me, living in their world is a gift, the best part of the writing process. Then I remember, people go, even imaginary ones. They exist in the mind, muscle, blood and soul, by memory. It’s the comings and goings that count.
‘Don’t let anyone make fun of you carrot top, freckle face, how you are. Someday, they will see how dazzling and pretty you are. Stand your ground, find something to believe in and go for it. Don’t look back. Don’t apologize. Be nicer to your mother, she was a free spirit once. She plain forgot. Make her laugh when she gets too serious. Protect and cherish your sisters, they’re what you got. At some point, you will be disappointed by them, even hate one or all. They might despise you, too. It won’t matter, your sisters will pick your side every time. I promise, that’s what families do. Your family, our family is bound by deep love and tradition. We are not quitters; we are backwards optimists. Takes a little longer, we get there on our time. I love that shared trait. We believe in our truths, once we’ve ripped them apart and examined the guts with a Lupe. I’m dying baby, I won’t spare you, hide the truth. So you can wonder where the hell I went. I adore you too much to leave you questioning my invisible parts. I love you right now, in this room, on this bed. You’re my big girl, so smart. I will miss bedtime tuck in’s, our secrets. Don’t tell your mama, she won’t understand. You have your grandfather’s eyes, and my cautious curiosity. Close your tired eyes, tomorrow we’ll go to the beach. Hug your grandfather when he gets sad. He’ll need you Georgia Pine, when I go.’
“Georgia looks at Harrison through the puzzled eyes of an eight year old. Hush don’t be afraid, life is about coming and going.”