The Meaning of Life

I won’t beat around the bush.  I am here on the page this morning to save my own life.  My heart hurts.  But not just casual, poetic heart ache… no, the kind that makes me want to swaddle myself in isolation and respond to the world in a dead end game of attack and defense.  Is that why my spacebar is acting up again????  How will I ever get my blog written when I have to press the spacebar like 200 times between every word?? (okay, more like 2 or 3 times…but still, it blows and I especially needed to express today.)  Okay, screw getting upset.  If I were gonna imbue this situation with a hearty moral lesson, it would be choosing patience and peace over poopy diaper whining.

The new moon is coming this Saturday.  I have caught wind that this particular moon is about the world that is currently dying and the new world that is rising up from beneath and within.  Those of us who are awake

Oh, bah humbug.  I don’t want to be deep and organized and scholastic.  I just want to talk about that which tickles and pleasures me.  I was trying to write something on the topic of midwifing the emerging world for the SpiralMuse website (, but all I really want to do is sooth myself with decadent, uplifting thoughts…like…I went to see the Holy Mother, Mata Amritanandamayi yesterday.  While she was hugging the people right before me, she conversed with one of her uh…attendants… for a long time while she held a couple in the folds of her oh-so-cosmic bosom.  I delighted in listening to her speak.  What IS that south Indian language?  I sure don’t know, but listening to it is like being drenched in soft, linguistic bubbles.  The sounds are unearthly round and smooth.  You know what it’s like?  It’s like the Hella Holy Ghost submerged me in a sacred strain of champagne.  Amma’s voice is the bubbles and the intoxicating, golden liquid was the privilege of merely bathing in her presence.  Really.  Just being physically near to her fills my body with tangible sweet sensations.  Imagine diving into a pool of whipped cream.  Please believe me.  My heart softens and spreads outward like melting butter is pouring through me, from me, to me and all about.

I had to stop writing earlier because my spacebar’s attitude was more than I could handle.  So I went and got my haircut instead.  What a treat!  It had been like four months and I had hair more straw-like than our very own hero of popular culture, the Scarecrow (and not just ANY scarecrow, I mean THE Scarecrow!).  I always thought scarecrows were called “ScareAcrows”.  How embarrassing was that fateful day when I made a tangible fool of myself and was publicly shamed for the mispronunciatory correction.  I like getting my haircut.  For a while I didn’t have a bitchin’ stylist and I got a good few haircuts that missed the mark by numerous crucial notches.  But then, by accident, I found Noah.  I had my doubts, because what does a MAN know about cutting a WOMAN’S hair?!?! I mean a straight man, for Buddha’s sake!  I expressed this to him, because generally I like to say what’s on my mind.  His perspective was convincing~ that as a [straight] man, he knows what kind of hair style he finds attractive on a woman.  Not a shabby argument.  Is he hot?  Nah…he’s extra doughy…(I imagine he likes to get stoned and munch on stony snax when he’s not on the job) but SOMEthing about him I find attractive.  He has some good depth and substance to him.  And his eyes are dark like night skies reflected on the surface of wishing wells.  And who could pass up two night skies reflected on the surface of wishing wells, really?

Disclaimer!  I’m gonna jump all over the place today.  Because none of my thoughts seem to be jointed to other thoughts.  And I am bounding about after my joy and healing, like a golden retriever chasing a duck through an old timey marsh. (An aside= I LOVE the sound of duck voices.  God, hearing them infallibly breaks me open!)  Yeah, I’ve had a day.  I think my blood will spill tomorrow.  So I’ve been vacationing on the land mine ridden border territory of Saturated Sorrow and Latin Wrath.  Today was the first time I broke down sobbing while ON the climbing wall (it was a hard climb).  Then, in the sauna, I was feeling suicidal and had a thought that went like this~ “Screw discovering and living my ‘life purpose’… I think just making it to the end of my years and dying of natural causes should get me some kind of prestigious award!”  Because in the moment, that seemed like a near impossible feat.

I used to be suicidal all the time, but since I believe in reincarnation, I figured I would only be the worse for taking my own life, so I just keep slogging along in this mess.  Now when my emotions get so unbearable and my mind gets so ridden with negativity, I don’t take it all that seriously… but… I can’t help but wonder what the point of all of this is.  You know?  There’s this whole bullshit construct that we’re all here to LEARN and GROW… Like life is some goddamn school… And that in the end, when we earn are arduouser than thou stinkin’ degrees, then we get to merge back into the Oneness of our bitchin’ Creator…or else decide to stick around and hold the lantern for all the other gods and goddesses whose heads are still lodged way up where the sun don’t shine… but like WHY would the Creator BOTHER pulling its Self apart into such a suffering ridden grab bag of multiplicity, just so we could merge back again???  Just for shits and hoots, I suppose… But I don’t hear us all shittin’ and hootin’ down here in this heavenly inferno.  Well… sometimes I do… actually more than I care to admit… But Jesus!  I’m not having enough fun.

Is that true?  In THIS very moment, I am really enjoying writing about all the senseless madness.  And is there anything else?  That’s debatable.  I just want to heal my disease ridden mind.  My mind that is so convinced that it’s right all the time and it creates so many concepts built on the false foundations of fear and scarcity.

Ask me what I’m gonna be when I grow up… Go on, ask me!

I’m gonna be a Self Realized Master!  I dunno how I’ll get there, but God’s gonna lead my way.  And for now, I’ll just settle for this marvelous opportunity to pound out my thoughts and feelings on a computer with a spacebar that WORKS!!!!!

The Revenge of PMS

I wonder… if God is so real and all pervading, why is it so hard to feel that all pervading goodness sometimes?  Hmmm, maybe it’s not… Maybe it’s called PMS.  Yeah… That’s it.  If I put any effort, whatsoever into seeing the good, I would have to quit my day job because I’d be so overwhelmed by the never ending flood of beauty and auspiciousness.  Three little kids just sat at the bar to my left (Pizzaiolo).  They all looked diminutive on their bar stool chairs… their chins barely rose up above the counter.  Child faces… skin so pure and radiant.  Effortless presence.  Morning buns dusted, dirty with sugar.  My tea!  (I’m on coffee-cation)  My tea is deep and rich like fertile soil.  Creamy fertile soil.  Sweet fertile soil.  Caffeinated fertile soil!

I will let myself be swept away by the enchantment of liquor bottles.  Sitting at the bar, I am facing the liquor collection.  Did you know the enchantment available by just simply studying all of the creatively shaped vessels of glass, filled with rainbow spectrums of intoxicating potions?  Glass catches light, shines in mystic lines and shimmers inside my wistful eyes.  Liquor bottles.  Frivolous apothecary.

I woke up in a fog.  Yerba mate did not wake me up.  I was tempted to cry over the spilled milk latent in every unholy instant.  When it was my turn to order at Pizzaiolo, I found sadistic pleasure in the baristas’ fresh state of dismay.  They reported that they were both tortured by the music playing.  “Why are you playing it?” I asked, confused.  (Normally, they are the ones in command of the ipod.)  Turns out the owner is in today and whenever he is in, he plays this one particular, employee loathed latin-esque album.  It sounds like Buena vista social club… Maybe it is… but it’s not the usual one that everybody knows… you know, with that song, “los gardenias para ti”… Honestly, I really wanted to not like it, so I could participate in the celebratory occasion of hipper than thou musical snobbery.  But truth be told, I like it better than most of the noisy junk they play here.  They pointed playfully disdainful at their oblivious boss, who was blissfully toiling away in his food prep coral.  Overt was his oneness with the funky latin beat as he moved like lightening, flipping mystery contents in large, hot skillets.  Now he is dumping an entire bottle of white wine into a steaming cauldron.  Anyway, I smirked inside to see that not only was this benign discord fully alive inside me, but it was thriving like a fungus in a most pocket of creation on the outside too!  Phew.  All is well.

I left the house with very tangled panties, because Mykael informed me that he might not go to the gym with me.  We already skipped it on Tuesday, due to his studious overwhelm.  (He’s taking a Kaplan course so that he will finally pass the Nursing boards on his THIRD try.) (Ahhh, I have this bratty piece of oatmeal lodged between my teeth and my tongue is obsessively trying to dislodge it.  It’s amazing I’m managing to get any writing done.)  So Mykael promised me that we’d go on Thursday… and then this morning, he balked.  This pissed me off.  And on top of that, I slept with his Vaayu Shrutri Journey Stone again, and again I had scarcity and anxiety dreams, so I woke up feeling bound by my own wounded consciousness.  I want to believe in abundance.  Thought by thought, Athena.  Okay.  God, please HELP ME rest into the unbounded abundance within me, without me, all about me, right now!

With that, Athena grew taller than the sky and bold as the sun, though cool as moon breath.  Hot as orange coals, she whipped a roll of Glide Comfort Plus floss out of her backpack and dislodged the aforementioned oatmeal shard from between her molars.  SURPRISE!  It was actually a pecan bit!

Anyway, listen~ I just wanted to poke fun at myself for being such a moody jerk this morning.  PMS is so amazing, I can hardly believe what a little hormone spike (or is it a dip?) will do to a body… I broke in a deluge of tears and barf when I found out that Mykael was revoking his gym promise (It alchemized into an anxiety ridden “maybe”.  Fuck that.)  The world collapsed on top of me, and I tried to forge ahead with life as previously scheduled, despite being ensnared in a net of ceiling and sky and purple-black clouds.  My heart felt paralyzed by disappointment, which made it oober difficult to be generous and kind.  Woops.  I was SOOOOOO tempted to leave the house without saying goodbye to my mister.  But that was two notches too shitty, so I managed to slink into his room, coated in a fog of pout and ache and give him the [official] world’s LAMEST kiss in the lips, before vanishing into the cruel world at large.

He texted me once I got settled in my “office”.  I had wanted to text him, but I couldn’t bring myself to muster generosity.  Thumbs down, eh?  Yeah.  I give that seven thumbs down.  (One for every day of the week.  One for every dwarf.  One for every deadly sin.)  But I was moved by his step toward me.  Sometimes I feel astounded by his tireless generosity.  I LOVE IT!!!  But I also sorta expect it, which I hate to admit, because that’s just WRONG.  I shouldn’t expect such tireless, crystalline devotion when I act like such an indulgent baby.  But I do.  And thank Saint Mykael, he delivers like only a saint in training would. (Just for the record, though, I texted him back in [tortured] poem form.  Then he replied to me with a poem-text.  And the next thing I knew we were in a hot and heavy poem tennis rally.  Sending and receiving poem texts is massively rewarding.  In fact, I shant ever send a plain old utilitarian text ever a-gain…mostly.  Try it.  Your life will become instantly spicier, or your money back, guaranteed.)  I should send myself to “time-out” and count my blessings, and not let myself come out until I have EVERY SINGLE ONE accounted for!  Well, in that case, I’d better sign off now, because I really have my work cut out for me.  Wait a sec… I would spend the rest of my blasted, holy life counting… and still die incomplete… is there any end to the blessings?

The Day that Turned to Go(l)d.

I left the house this morning without saying goodbye to Mykael.  I woke up today under enormous pressure.  Remember, I had declared that I would march myself and my typewriter* down to the Lake Merrit farmer’s market to offer my services as a Poetry Muse.  But then the morning arrived and I let the fear strangle me, dominate my choices.  Holy failure!  What can I say?  I failed.  But I justified my failure because I just started bleeding, and going out in public during this vulnerable window in my cycle is asking for trouble.  It’s like kicking life in the shins and calling it gratuitous names like “fat, “ugly” and “unwholesome”.  Naturally I am exaggerating, but really, a woman oughtn’t be too ambitious on her moon days.  It is a sacred time for inner reflection, self care and rest.  I’ll conquer the world next week when I burst out of this chrysalis and spread my massive, psychedelic wings of light!  Mark my words…

This period has been particularly intense.  Being myself is hard enough, but I can’t even imagine being my partner.  I CRAVE attention.  I want Mykael to stop everything and drown me in adoration.  (Synchronistically, he looked up at me as I typed that…I guess he read my vibe… then he snickered… What a mystery.  Yes, I am at HIS café again… I just need “nearness”.  I love that term, “nearness”… I find it very useful in expressing one of my more prevalent emotional needs.)  This morning, in the shower, suddenly my feelings became hurt that Mykael had not been appreciating my breasts since they have been menstrually plumped.  Remember the old Ball Park Franks ad campaign?  Plumps when you cook ‘em?  On TV they’d show the skinny little unmentionable animal parts meat stick, and then they’d show it radically expanding, as it is guaranteed to do when you cook it.  That’s my breasts.  They got so nice and plump this time around.  How could Mykael not notice or care?  I trip over them.  A fantastic opportunity to feel the hurt in me bubble up and become the most consuming aspect of my reality!  He came into the bathroom while I was getting out of the shower and I confessed my grievance.  God bless ‘im, he tried to generate appreciation for my bouncy twins, on the spot… But of course it seemed fake to me… I was more curious about what could have possibly been more interesting and consuming in his private world than my breasts, but that, he would not divulge.  Probably his dumb old carvings… That’s mostly all he thinks about.  Not that they’re dumb, but the little girl in me who has been in the driver’s seat frequently in recent days, has no qualms about calling them dumb as she plummets through a bottomless field of need.

But I did NOT mean to spend so much time talking about my breasts.  I have so many more triumphant things to tell you!  First of all, I want to apologize to you.  Yesterday, in a fit of premenstrual angst, I made a comment about why bother blogging when I only have  twenty-ish visitors to my site per day… I was reflecting on that in the sauna at the gym yesterday afternoon… realizing how dishonoring that is of each of you who DOES read my words.  You are NOT chopped liver.  No way!  Though you do HAVE a liver… I remembered to be grateful for every single pair of eyes that drink my words.  Every single heart that widens as it takes in my vantage point of human beingness.  And probably simultaneously, Kurt, over on the east coast sent me a comment addressing this very topic.  He said he may be one in twenty, but he digs my prose.  Talk about affirmation!  Thank you, Kurt!   And while I’m on the subject, Kurt, I invite you to reconsider your stance on milk maids.  They are a SPICY breed.  Demure and dangerous…

Thank each of you who simultaneously give and receive blessings by imbibing in my linguistic caricature of a world.

So I wandered out of the house this morning, into a day that promised much intoxicating beauty.  Clarity, warmth, subtle cool breeze… But I wanted to cry.  I felt so alone.  Self inflicted aloneness.  Self inflicted tragedy.  I guess that’s home for me… But shhhh, let’s pretend I didn’t admit that.  Ahem.  I decided to put on an extra special Course in Miracles lesson.  A practical application lesson on true PROSPERITY.  Immediately my spirits began to lift.  Not overtly, by any means, just those little tremors that start at the core and softly tickle as they spread through the infinite layers of my being.  Reverend Deb’s reading spoke to me of how anything I want to have for myself, I must GIVE.  Right at that moment, a disheveled, woman with desperate, tragic eyes approached me.  “Happy Saturday,” she said.  I turned off my Course in Miracles lesson and she proceeded to tell me that she needed six dollars for a room for her and her kids because they had been sleeping in the park and being harassed.  Was this the truth?  Probably.  But honestly, who cares.  The truth of her need was apparent.  And God had just told me that whatever I want, I must give.

ATHENA KNOWS NEED.  I know that god-forsaken place in the human heart.  The place of tragic, imagined aloneness.  I looked in her luminous though weary eyes as she gushed her troubles.  Then I have her two dollars.  “Thank you,” she exclaimed.  “Only four dollars left.”  I imagined her standing out on Grand Avenue, digging around inside for the humility to continue to approach more guarded, self important middle class Oakland folk, begging for money.  Screw that.  I had a twenty in my wallet and it practically dove out into her open palm without consulting me.  She lit up.  I felt relieved.  I shared my perspective, that it’s hard to be constantly approached by those in need.  That I know there is a deeper issue than our need for dollars… and I wish I knew how to address that… but it feels so tangled, complicated.  I started to cry.  Then she started to cry.  She opened her arms and I accepted her embrace.  We stood on the sidewalk, feeling the pain of humanity and blessing the concrete with our sacred tears.  Then I invited her to church with me tomorrow morning.  I’m gonna pick her up in front of the Grand Lake Theater tomorrow at seven thirty.  We’ll go back to the East Bay Church of Religious Science.  What better to share with a woman in need than the All Pervading Light!?!?!

And I’ll testify that in giving the blessing of comfort, care and prosperity to a fellow woman, I became full, when just moments before I had been empty.  It works.  Give what you most want to receive and it becomes YOURS.  Naturally, this remembrance comes with responsibility.  Because it does not only apply to homeless people.  Imagine our surprise, but it also applies to spouses and the like.  So I’m considering giving Mykael the rest of the day off from having to work so hard.  Maybe I will stretch so far as to give him what I most want to receive… God, why is it so much easier to be generous with strangers?  Grrrrrrr.

*Typewriter.  Remember the asterisk from the first paragraph?  Well, I must divulge that mine is no “ordinary typewriter”.  It belonged to Mykael’s grandmother.  She was a minister of the Church of Religious Science, head of the ministry of prayer.  She bought the typewriter to reply to prayer requests.  I do NOT take this lightly.  The keys are imbued with prayer.  This is the perfect typewriter for a chick like me.

Paradox and Wanting

I feel like picking a fight with someone today.  Anyone.  But mostly, it’s God whose bone I most want to strip bare.  Mostly I have been so blasted patient about this whole Self realization business.  But today, I have hit my limit.  I get frustrated, meditating every day and waiting for some kind of reply to plummet from heaven and splat me ecstatic… and meanwhile, toiling away in this world of strife.  Is it really a world of strife, or am I just being dramatic?  It is both.  But God?  Please come closer to me today.

I can’t think of anything to write about.  Honestly, I woke up this morning, thinking I must be living a lie.  I dedicate so much time and care to this blog… at least two hours a day.  And then an average of twenty people read it every day… I wonder why I keep doing it… Why do I keep doing it?  Because these words make me feel real.  Because to me, this life thing is so odd and confounding… and even the most mundane happenings of my sheltered day to day experience seem so far fetched, mostly… and if I don’t write it all down, it will inconspicuously sail down life’s toilet in a great, anticlimactic whirlpool, only to be sucked back into the great, black-assed Beyond, from whence it must have sprung.  Is it just my unconscious fear of death then, that compels me to write?  Because I want to live beyond my fleeting, insignificant little life?  Why am I so existential?  Why couldn’t I have been born normal, like all you accountants and paralegals and milk maids?

I know, I know, you milk maids are anything but normal.  My friend has a magnet on her fridge that says, “The only normal people are the ones you don’t know very well”.  Touche.

I need a savior today.  This needing a savior business is a slippery slope, because usually I try to make Mykael my savior… but truth be told, he makes a crumby savior.  Which I guess is a good thing… since a woman oughtn’t cling to her man like an f-ing messiah in the first place.  Why, you ask?  Because it is a suffocating way to live.  It strangles the relationship.

This is a first:  I actually left café five oh four in mid blog.  Suddenly I couldn’t stand being in the shadows on such a sunny day.  I couldn’t stand the erratic jazz music polluting my ears.  And mostly, I couldn’t stand the cacophony inside me.  I am about to bleed, btw.  I’ve heard other women say that they turn to mush right before they bleed.  You know, lose that gracious mechanism of linear thinking and rational relations with the rules and regulations of the outside world.  Caterpillars turn to mush before their bodies re-form as butterflies.  Maybe women move between fat, squishy worm, chrysalis and butterfly every single month.  That would be nice!  If I was about to sprout big, striking wings that looked like light explosions in the MOMA!

Speaking of light explosions, yesterday evening, Mykael and I were walking down Grand Avenue (wandering purposefully toward Boot and Shoe Service for a second helping of the good time we had the night before, which I’m embarrassed to admit, but I will anyway, because life is too short for me to pretend I’m other than I am.)  Anyway, Mykael pointed to the big, dramatic stormish clouds and said, “Do you see the rainbows?!”  I looked, and was only blinded by the obnoxious sunlight pouring through them.  “Nope,” I answered.  He handed me his sunglasses (I never wear sunglasses, because I like the light too much).  “Here, look through these.”  I did, and the edges of the clouds suddenly looked like oil stained puddles, hosting ostentatious rainbows!  THIS IS NOT AN EXAGERATION.  Sometimes as a writer, I take poetic license, naturally.  Duh, you would too.  But NOT THIS TIME.  I am not just another girl who cried rainbow.  This is for real.

The edges of the clouds looked like they were being ecstatically eaten away by acid rainbows.  Magenta, warm gold, teal, turquoise, lavender… These were no primary colors.  This was psychedelia.  I was ready to stand up on high and loudly announce “MIRACLE in the sky!”… but Mykael was quick to tell me that that’s simply what the world looks like through sunglasses.  I wonder…

Anyway, I really fell out of rhythm today.  It’s two thirty pm and I am blogging on my front porch in partial sun and partial shade as Mykael feverishly sands his spiral laden stone, perpetually filling the air with fine, white dust.  But earlier, after I busted loose (as my mom always says) from the prison also known as Café 504, I did not know what to do with myself, besides wallow in the premenstrual fog, which was making me fold in on myself in an almost lethal fashion, so Mykael dragged me and my typewriter to HIS café.  You see, I finally got myself a typewriter, because I have had a long standing (six or seven years long standing) dream to go out in public with my type writer and be a real live muse.  Sell poems to the masses.  But now that I have my typewriter, I am looking my dream in the face and it is staring me down-doobie-down.  I realize how risky it is to put myself out there like that.  Gimme a V!  Gimme a U!  Gimme an L!  Gimme an N! E! R!  A!  B!  L!  E!

Yes, I feel vulnerable.  But since I am some what of a warrioress, even on my most premenstrual days, I marched my crabby self down the hill and set up shop.  I thought I’d rehearse… A dress rehersal before the farmer’s market tomorrow.  What would I DO if someone asked for a poem about “Paradox and Wanting”???  Would I freeze, or rise to meet the challenge?  I used paradox and wanting as an example, because that’s what the owner of the café asked for.  And the barista girl asked for a poem about blisters on her heel.  Mykael asked for a poem about the paintings of the wolves on the wall.  Jen asked for a poem about beauty and gratitude.

So I wrote my first five poems and I am still alive to tell the tale.  Nice!  Although I must say, that I am NOT the most literal person… So if you ask for a poem about cigarette butts, don’t be surprised when you get a poem about peaches and oven burnt nuts.