Walk, Don't Run

Hey, I
didn't mean nothing
No one
runs up behind me
Boys playing, joggers
little girls,
I always look
sometimes I yell
Hey,
don't run up
behind people like that
I could have hit you.

How Much is Too Much

How much is too much?
Tell me, my friend.
Which day is the first
day of the end?
Will I ever have
another chance
to live this part
of my life again?

How much is too much?

Growing Up

1993 at age 29 was the year of rejection.
I rejected things and they rejected me.
And I felt more like the self I knew from growing up
than in all the years of growing.

About Alis

In her job, she had to be hyper-aware. Aware of each tiny detail when proofreading, aware of the phones incessantly ringing, aware of a problem across the room, and aware of the occasional twinge of annoyance that unconciously altered the way she spoke.

She had one of those readable faces. Despite years of practice escaping her body shell, and turning off feelings like faucets, still, people thought they saw things on her face. Then there was the energy thing. People could feel her negative energy. They could feel her anger and frustration. She had a rule that if you kick a door or punch a wall or whatever, as long as it was inanimate, it didn't matter. As long as it wasn't human, which was often hard enough. Yes, it was disturbing to others, but for her, it was restraint.

Meanwhile, she thought much of her accentuated awareness, her biggest problem being that she actually gave a shit. Things like bad service got her nerves. In this flush economy, the service industry had depleted its reserves. Cashiers, waitresses, attendants in general functioned like robots only needing to say "Welcome to MacDonalds can I take your order" regardless of whether they were actually ready to take that order. A person steps up to the counter and the words pour out the cashier's mouth, but they are not listening. They said their piece unconsciously and they have done their job. You wonder don't they care that I've had to say my order three times? And sadly realize: no. Not one iota.

She liked a good ending. Similarly, she liked the last days leading up to each grand event, when you are almost upon doing that which you've been working up to, like Christmas Eve to Christmas. She thought a lot about her girlfriend's suggestion that she was a procrastinator. Never having been called that before, the subject was intriguing. But after much thought, she determined that she was not a procrastinator at all, because it really didn't matter how much you procrastinate -- you don't earn the title as long as you get the things done on time, which she did quite faithfully.

AlisLogic, she like to call it, this perfect rationalization. It made complete sense to her although she realized it did not to others. Along the same line, it was perfectly acceptable and sometimes beneficial to hit, swear at, or flip off TVs, computers, telephones, broken appliances, cabinet doors that hit you on the head and things that trip you in the dark. The logic here is that it is OK to take out your aggressions or momentary anger on all these items because they are inanimate. They are not living things, so better for them to bear the brunt of any physical reaction that works toward lessening any pent-up anxiety that might rear its ugly head at a less opportune moment involving humans. Let humans create their own angst, to be treated entirely differently, but let not the frustration of misplace and ill-performing inanimate objects enter the human fray. It is dealt with its own way and rightfully so.

Waiting in the elevator, the sound of jingling keys was like shattering glass. Like a movie where the background noises all are amplified for dramatic or suspenseful effect.

Driving home, her peripheral vision was amplified and supersensitive. When cars whizzed past her, she could feel their proximity like a hot hand squeezing her heart. Her chest constricted. Her breathing accelerated. She gritted her teeth.

She tried to explain why she didn't want a blanket. It would make her look weak. "You've got too many hang-ups," she was told. But she thought it was a rational, even interesting way to feel. A social observation. Power relationships 101 – control group coming soon to your living room.

BeatBoddhiWonder

iris spreads as a dog
before a fire
and flattens like the
center lane of highway 5

pow'r touch like a Duraflame
burning rainbows
with everlasting promise

restless dreamer who screams
in her sleep
from angel to lion
slipping heartbeat

alone in your vastness
you need me

fearless lover
roaring through time
unchanged by empathy

you lure me from sleep
each moment a glance
new day unconnected

infidel
godless
graceless

mortal

14 Mission

I left my morning
on the 14 Mission bus
among ordinary idiots
loud-talking losers
and trumped-up drug addicts
full of boring, baseless bravado

bus driver yelling at the passengers
passengers yelling at the driver

"There's no more room!"
"Don't keep stopping!"
"These kids need to get off!"
"Hey stop the bus!"

six blocks of screaming
ate my morning
senselessly... silently.

Don't Miss It

"Most people don't know there are angels whose only job is to make sure you don't get too comfortable," she said. "They know how easy it is to fall asleep and miss your life."

Why does it matter?

Often I wonder why it even matters, my thoughts, the things I care about. I mean why would it matter to other people?

Why do we all just keep going when we know everything is impermanent? How do we make ourselves do the things we really don't want to, just because we should? Why do we honor right or wrong, when we know how easily and quickly those concepts can be warped by our perceptions? Why do we continue to care?

Heather Lewis, the author of "House Rules" (Doubleday) answered this question well in an interview several years ago, with a phrase that's stuck with me all this time. The dilemma right now is "Do you choose fear or do you choose faith?" There are not many concrete reasons to be hopeful, but because of that, it's like you have to. The alternative is dark.