31 december

at the end of the year i am looking around for what else i can get rid of -- tax relief over and goodwill closed, i would like to carry over less -- the literal baggage bundled off into trader joe's and whole foods with sturdy paper handles and lots and lots of rolled-up clothes in a big swag bag from the running store -- as if, if i cleared out enough, i would be light enough to go forward, higher, without, beyond --

all the pieces of old dreams and all the waiting ingredients -- a supply shop more than a home, pausing between missions and searching for the tools -- a ravioli maker and a saw both gone, with pots and red wagons and more -- what's left?

30 december

*even being right is not
smooth enough when the lights
go and the space is bigger

*channels for the crossing and
already the static coming up
too fast -- in through the open
window up from the parking lot

*said and now too late to
take back though why would anyway

*truth told and curtains down

29 december

when your teeth fall out
in dreams it means you
feel like you don't have
control and when your
dreams fall out when
you're awake it means
you feel you have no teeth

answers break on salad bites
coffee milks the cup
jagged sleep snags on light
dishwasher to clear away
roaches storm the stovetop
daily bread to freezer
unknown time to spend
sleep until the list is made
do the deeds and done

28 december

but it's hard to tell
and when i know more
i sometimes wish i didn't
know i'm not at the center of the screen
but when i see the spotlight pointed elsewhere
know how far from relevant
climb backward into the card catalog
reclassify and categorize
a million ways to look away
decimals to divide by subtraction

27 december

and yet when space comes i feel
the need to create more
snags on the only rough edges
catch and tear the empty smooth
expand the expanse and tow
lines to be drawn and abided
stand by behind -- no delivery
space in the night in the day
starring roles in quiet opportunities

26 december

and should i leave no one will
ride along will come with will
tuck feet up under the chair
to show stability - should i leavve
is not the question she asks
but who would stay and also
where - his is the window,
the curtain, the mountains -
even as the outfield, all
the channels will change -
rivers to run through the
lanes and boulevards to
cross - let us turn the
tempest to a salad for the toss

25 december

still full of spoons
of sisters and brothers and of drawers
healths of any numbers of others -
can tent themselves can toast the
all the lumps are out and the potatoes
to the squirrels and horses to the chipmunks
leaving dogs instead and had fed apples
burglars when they realized they weren't
look askance would second chance the cat
because the people in my neighborhood would

24 november

leaving one outfit in the closet
hanging still
I won't be coming back.
returning anyway
nowhere else to wear
quiet in the near
hearts in the dark

22 december

no need to apologize
there is no candle to light
broken backs and tired ears
been there before again
kaleidoscope opportunity
shiver me you

21 december

because i do not want to read more of the same when i type this into externality

because making up words is all i could happenask for in the underwild sleep of days hazed by

because the only sound is the absence of response

because no question has been asked

because there is no hand to hold the door

because equal parts are never

because the chance to dream

20 december

to pour out truly from the top of my head - light streaming straight up as dickens' first spirit - is to note the gush of distrust and uncertainty, of withdrawal and self-preservation - if i am not asking the questions still i am getting the wrong answers - let me turn the other page and start a new list a lighter pen to press, a darker night

19 december

and somehow even as i close the door there is a crack that opens -- letting in light and also strands of sound sometimes -- i have turned off color and i am watching for the rain for the refresh and i'm not sure what the season ought to be --

18 december

the time to waste is a copy to paste - a listener bluffed and stuffed enough to birdie - hurry past the bogey monster - stash the apples under the bob and rise like tide to lift all boats - float until you sink

17 december

but the energy is not even as the wheels turn and shoulders creep to ears: steer clear enough to bluff all listeners, to stall all callers! we are taller than our treason and still unseasonably cool --

16 december

turned off and i am still turning away and beyond and it's okay if no return no earned pass to elsewhere to compare the steps taken to the days waking up and dreaming of sleep of the pace changing of the race rearranging to  different course divorced from sense and other unmentionables the unstable expectations and the lights changing to flash unsettling tired as expired coupons floating through the glove compartment sandwiched between assurances of insurances and broken pens and putdowns brushed aside

15 december

so many of those projects - pressing initiatives, brainstormed beyond norms and on into the sunrise - never make it to day - a crack of light in the dark and scattered plans for scrambling all the elements to build fresh bright sense when now there is only the idea of more than dark - and yet somehow, someway, someone or other pulls the plug on the sky, tables the discussions, puts it in  pocket to share with someone else later for a closer look, peering deep into the details until we fail to recognize there ever was a big picture at all

14 december

the sense that i can swim as long as hard as i want but even if i floated there would still be a challenge tossed out - debris we cannot get ahead of and shoves of war with tugs of love all conspiring to fire the pistons and set the boat unhinged

13 december

and sometimes there comes a moment where you feel the best thing would be to walk and if you do you will survive though even if you don't you will likely survive anyway but remember if you do you will remember and you will probably remember the stopping longer, a dark speck in the milky white memory of emotion

12 december

half the way home
and all the way gone -
i am finding marvels in
the undertow and passing
on the savings - let me
speak to how i feel
and let me bridge the
space across - trying
angles and lasting suppers
until the stars alight -
the circumstances notwithstanding
no single hold that i am
handing off - scoffing all
the latitudes to pieces
while the maples make
their own sweet lives -
lemons and all the mints
on the side -

11 december

another piece of the pie - of the puzzle - of the dreamflash and cattle call - of the magnets and attachments catching on like sauce on your shirtsleeve countertop - dressing to condense and shaking off the condensation - the uniting of a nation with its shadow and the wish to sleep forever, dark heavy slow

10 december

- opening the door doesn't mean the door is ever open after, let alone always

- keeping calm and also biscuits in tins

- if I am late it is because the door is locked and I cannot get in

- take a picture of the sound of her voice and send me all your notes

- words from the kaleidoscope of fiction - scientastic and unexpectedly bright

9 december

because i cannot ask
cannot write a list for anyone else
driving home to dark
accepting the breath of excuse as fact
no apology required

wolfing airport Chinese
underpacked flight
a whole can of cran-apple

"It looks so dark out there."
room to swing down overhead bags
cost of parking -- indulgent close
two Christmas trees and no waiting
too late for restaurants
too late to ask or receive

8 december

- writing the to-do list at the dawn of a juicy chunk of time - like making the sun rise

- what would make you move?
*open the safety instruction card on the back of the seat in front of you
*call in to support the pledge drive
*let a stranger know he has broccoli in this teeth or TP on her shoe

- two settings: close and cold

7 december

- the root of all the tale of more and a tail of woe - temptation sweet and cold, ends

- absorb and deflect - collect no checks and tab the foot on the way out - trout the stream and up and salmon the smoke windy side down

- crowning glories like asparagus alarm clocks for when you lose your marbles

- still waiting for the writing that's the goodbye - nice to know you - turntaking advice list for when you meet someone righter

- still waiting for the right question wrong answer multiple choice bonanza off to such a start - thank you! and no problem!

6 december

Maybe that's a weak effort but it's best for the less is more like what should be focused on - still and all, being. Fill the will with the need to create and build a better, a closer wrap to collapse away the unnecessary - all the better to do without, my dear - weary of the worry and of stirring the pot to find if there's anything worth saving before it's drained.

5 december

apologies unnecessary but constant - filling gaps - collapsing all the angles tangled in punctuation - no compunction about the dysfunction apparent - bear it and grin - turn out what's in and start fresh

4 december

but really the negative must reach an end - am i really such a giver if i feel so dark at those angles, tangled beyond the reflection i'd acknowledge in any window - bring hoe all the pieces and puzzle over the parts (a start so clear following discussion, but still there's something one-sided - can't hide the imbalance and here i'm the only complainer)

3 december

Would you like to take a turn or shall I be the sole author of this narrative? Lines and thoughts drain out, guaranteed for delivery - shivery cold and none too kind, blinded by perceptions - the lessons I learn over again (giving too much to fill the balance, never ends in equality). Revelations unsung - strung along by a cracked mirror (done wrong) (seeing clearer in the bottom of the stream running free and away).

2 december

lose the weight
lose the face
race the track
break the back
there's a givetake pushpull
fulfill and spilling
unwound and willing
these are the choices that we make
these are the hands we choose not to shake
unwilling and confounded
what i feel: again compounded
all the invitations lost
this the storm and i'll be tossed

1 december

drained i am and if it only takes one day to break a habit then this will be the day - wanting a warm embrace of celebration, finding cold rain and dark, i turn instead to sleep

30 november

NO: Excessive apologizing

I’m sorry. It just happens. It just seems like the right thing to do sometimes.

Dented your bumper when you parked in the garage this morning? I’m sorry.

Broke your favorite mug? I’m sorry.

Your dog is sick? I’m sorry.

That girl who sits next to you will not stop giggling? I’m sorry.

You speak in an unclear or vague fashion and I can’t understand what you mean? I’m sorry.

My constant apologizing annoys you? I’m sorry.

Yeah. Sorry about that.

29 november

YES: Optimism

It’s probably ridiculous to believe that the right outcome (at least according to you) will always happen, no matter what. It’s naïve, sure. If you don’t train at all, how can you expect to win the race? If you don’t study, how can you hope to ace the test? Sure, maybe everyone else will forget their sneakers and you’ll win by default. Maybe you’ll realize that you have somehow memorized all of the content and the exam will turn out to be a breeze. Maybe.

The kind of optimism I’m talking about, though, is not that foolhardy reality-denying kind. The kind of optimism I’m into is the kind where someone can look the facts full in the face and consciously believe that the most positive outcome is fully possible. Miracles? Not so much. The hard work of people, more often. You know the saying, like the harder you work the luckier you are? Or something like ‘we create our own luck’? Of course there’s the Edison quote: "Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.” He has a lot of them that tie in here – “Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work.” “If we did all the things we are capable of doing, we would literally astound ourselves.” Literally.

Optimism is not merely the opposite of pessimism. Pessimism is a black hole. There are enough pessimists around to destroy the power of the sun, were they all to focus their lack of belief in the same direction. It’s gross. Why do those people even get out of bed in the morning? They know that there is nothing that can be accomplished, no matter what anyone tries to do. There’s not enough time, enough money, enough political capital, enough space, enough energy, enough psychobabble to make anything happen. Ever. At all. The end.

Optimism is simply saying yes. Yes, it is possible. Yes, we can try. Yes, we will do what we can. Optimism is not idiocy. Optimism is powerful.

There’s plenty more to say on that, but you get the idea. I believe you do. I’m pretty sure you’re at least some degree of optimist. Pessimists don’t need to read books. Why bother? Efforts at self-improvement lead to nothing. Humor isn’t as funny as the author thinks it is. Science and history and all that – who cares?

NO: Apathy

Pretty sure you already saw that coming.

28 november

Now let’s focus on quality.

I want to create. I want to create good things. I can’t create good things if I don’t create anything.

Did you ever do syllogisms? Those overlapping circles, seeing which people or subjects share which characteristics? Interesting. Here the entire circle of creating good things would exist within the circle of creating anything.

I also loved logic problems. Solving them, yes, was very satisfying – finding, for example, that Mr. Johnson lived in the blue house with two windows and played the trombone and owned a dog and that Miss Anderson lived in the yellow house with three floors and played the flute and owned no pets. Everything in its place. Beyond the matching, though, I also loved the tiny little universes contained in each. The soap operas created when Mr. Johnson fell in love with Miss Anderson and wanted to marry her, but discovered that she was allergic to animals and that his beloved husky, Rupert, would have to go were they to live their happily ever after together. The questions of how Miss Anderson ended up with a three-story house when she was unemployed. Was she really allergic to dogs, or was she just jealous that Rupert had been a gift to Mr. Johnson from his first wife, and therefore decided he must go? I loved these facts, and the potential stories

Remember in elementary school or so when you and your friends would play games to decide your future? HOMES was one of them, I think. What did that stand for? House. Mansion. Shack. What were O and E? Office? Elementary school? Anyway, it was a series of categories that would tell you where you would live, how many kids you would have, what your job would be, and of course, who you would marry. There was nothing like that certainty of seeing all the other options get crossed off one by one by a steadily counting and confident friend wielding a rainbow-erasered pencil of fate. Now your fate would be decided. That is, unless you ended up sitting with a different boy on one of the red benches at the lunch table. Sure, you could argue that it was just a mix-up in the lunch line that forced you into this rearrangement – after all, your best friend Courtney was sitting next to you on the other side, far across the between-bench abyss and sharing an orange bench with Cathy from mathy. But really, that’s how fate works.

Ahem.

Can I tell you something?

I have a lot of goals here. Some of them relate to quality. Quantity certainly helps, though. That’s why I brought coffee with me.