tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12114925756660517702024-03-05T11:51:29.518-07:00wallfloweredKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07844635284149826378noreply@blogger.comBlogger139125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-43981501487763078272016-02-09T09:41:00.001-07:002016-02-09T09:41:31.465-07:00
For as long as philosophy has existed ... it has been concerned with the relation between self-reflection and freedom. Yet it has never been clear what self-reflection is, or what freedom is, or why the former should make any contribution to the latter.
Jonathan Lear, 1990
Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-23198170970739673692016-01-25T16:12:00.004-07:002016-01-25T16:12:54.643-07:00Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-68480805195156208322015-12-26T20:15:00.000-07:002015-12-26T20:15:14.290-07:00pyrite
women like me
like us
are always teetering
on fault lines
hardening
stratified
always hitting sharp
edges
the constant grating
of becoming
polished
on the surface
metallic gold
mistaken
by fools
unable to decipher
the weight
of what they carry
Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-67545024568450588252015-12-16T14:57:00.001-07:002015-12-16T14:57:43.412-07:00now & now onI am...disenchanted in what one might call a "new" way, which is to say that I can't remember the last time I felt this apathetic in general. Before I may have been apathetic but at least romantically distracted, or employed. Right now I feel as though my time aware, awake has been minimized. As if every sensation is a dull tap on my skin begging to pierce the surface but hesitating before the Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-31326638356941653242015-10-23T13:51:00.002-06:002015-10-23T13:51:26.693-06:00
It's been unwise of me, I think, to be so temperamental. I am constantly caught between extremes, a fish caught by luck and lost by accident; a snag on a line but not a bite hard enough to reel. Fickle. Torn between the yes and no of life and love, trying to play into a duality that may only exist just this once. Can't I have both? I appease my desires on both a whim and as a lifeline, fumbling Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-40995943602664999112015-08-25T15:34:00.002-06:002015-08-25T15:34:37.499-06:00A Lesson on Self Care2015 is the year of the Diagnosis. The endless blood tests and prescriptions; vitamin supplements and homeopathic treatment. How does one find a "cure" for an ailment that seems metastatic? My mind is wandering; my memory seems unfettered by short term nuances. I've been clinging on to visions of my childhood in what feels like a haze of a timeline, not quite sure of years or age, or even what I Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-46625535623666586312015-07-23T13:56:00.000-06:002015-07-23T13:57:00.319-06:00
The element of truth behind all this, which people are so ready to disavow, is that men are not gentle creatures, who want to be loved, who at the most can defend themselves if they are attacked; they are, on the contrary, creatures among whose instinctual endowments is to be reckoned a powerful share of aggressiveness. As a result, their neighbor is for them not only a potential helper or Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-58060070231744494772015-07-08T16:14:00.000-06:002017-05-11T14:35:04.856-06:00the haunting
There was no doubt in my mind that this body, my body, belonged to a woman. My hips are softer yet still punctuated by sharp bones. My hair has begun thinning and regressing into the hair of my childhood, smooth, slightly wavy; stark white strands peeking through the varying shades of brown. My age surfacing in random pink spiderwebs along my legs; the lines under my eyes deepening. Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-23721871219131930492015-07-08T15:55:00.003-06:002015-07-08T15:55:47.210-06:00Continental DriftIt's been a mean year. Transitional, persistent, cruel and tedious. The skin on my body stretches, widens, then relents. I look for answers in other bodies, trace my fingers along the outlines of other figures only to find myself yet again, a stranger, hardly content, fumbling. Contact becomes a social tactic to maintain appearances. I smile and nod because I should, it's expected. There are Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-77048733901022782882015-07-08T15:48:00.002-06:002015-07-08T15:56:06.810-06:00Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-80418140271167764472015-06-23T11:16:00.001-06:002017-05-11T14:35:20.075-06:00June 6th, 2010
I.
Summer skin. June is a good month for water. The backyard pools begin to resurrect. Nights are a mixture of flooded yards in the Lower Valley and the scent of mesquite drifts from block to block. Everyone bar b ques. Everyone has a birthday. Triple digit weather. Nothing moves.
II.
Two-thousand-and-five. I weigh one hundred and eight pounds and spend my nights sitting next to a window Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-61367545021220907232015-05-18T10:11:00.001-06:002015-05-18T10:11:26.782-06:00
love as punishment.
Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-45273140228982165572015-02-18T16:05:00.002-07:002015-02-18T16:15:45.172-07:00
Maybe I am just impossible to get along with. I want too much. I expect too much. I assume too much. I think every woman secretly wants absolute adoration from someone. I put up with a lukewarm attraction for years. Maybe this response is only natural these days. I want someone to prove themselves to me.
November 25th, Thanksgiving, 2010
Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-80212618556690493262015-02-03T16:23:00.001-07:002015-02-03T16:29:46.058-07:00The Learning Curve
It's hard to believe I was once so patient with the sky. Afternoons spent watching the clouds drift slowly, shades of orange and yellow settling into the darkest purple until finally the greens and navy settled deep and heavy into the mountains. How had my life gone from such a luxurious, observant pace to a hurried time lapse? My life instead was moving forward suddenly in gaps, Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-59307774863181697112014-09-24T22:07:00.000-06:002015-09-10T13:25:42.172-06:00the scenic route
I've always wanted a beautiful life; for things to be rosy hued and filter perfect. Prepped and primed, photogenic. But I've spent the last decade photographing anything else but me and what is mine; pointing the lens instead at places I have been. Maybe it's an attempt, no, a declaration of independence to broadcast to the world - expanding my visibility, my reach. Other times I think it's Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-37262292280712540972014-08-19T15:07:00.001-06:002014-08-19T15:14:25.939-06:00sin alma
“The most common form of despair is not being who you are.”
― Søren Kierkegaard
I've been unusually quiet. Tentative would be a better word. Things have been falling into my lap, cards are being dealt. The responsibilities that come with aging have begun to slowly pile up around me. I pay my credit cards, my bills, the loans. I think about someday owning a house. I keep my name on paper to Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-82623572104615025852014-07-27T23:17:00.001-06:002014-07-27T23:19:00.523-06:00in twoIt's hard to think of things as either ending or beginning when it feels constantly in flux.
It.
As if "it" itself is even capable of being properly defined instead of the gray mess it is -- constantly exploding, imploding, heaving waves of toxicity with every weekend tremor.
I tune it out. I've grown numb. After everything. After all of this. I stand knee deep in the ocean. I let the Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-59119819045519251482014-07-27T22:46:00.002-06:002014-07-27T22:46:46.903-06:00Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-4494574125583836482014-07-22T10:55:00.000-06:002014-07-22T10:55:26.174-06:00
What a month. What a year.
Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-29831310800081856342014-07-11T22:03:00.003-06:002014-07-11T22:03:34.967-06:00tracksKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-25960050837494385582014-07-11T21:49:00.000-06:002014-07-11T21:58:52.892-06:00Rudyard Kipling's Carriage House, Dummerston, VermontKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-50462351649830691662014-07-11T21:41:00.000-06:002014-07-11T22:01:02.341-06:00verde
Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-53436161779108703462014-06-10T21:15:00.004-06:002017-05-11T14:36:42.917-06:00
“We are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love, never so forlornly unhappy as when we have lost our love object or its love.”
Sigmund Freud
Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-39936681296545079392014-06-03T22:01:00.001-06:002017-05-11T14:36:51.441-06:00the memory of a manKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211492575666051770.post-35538978630498786102014-06-02T22:25:00.000-06:002014-06-02T22:25:57.285-06:00basicsThere's something to be said on the subject of being wanted. The universe cranes its neck to provide a buffer from the rejection I have just suffered. It offers a phone call, a surprise, options. The stars spell out their connections; align to show the lines between the dots. Distractions. Ultimately. Distant.
I sit then lie in the steam room at the gym, post-workout. This has become my new Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15944357096374247710noreply@blogger.com0