Entry 1# I'm not suicidal am I?

This city reeks. I love it and I hate it.

Sat by the window. Light fazing out like a lonesome child defeating homeward in twilight walks after a long winded winter day of school. Hard breath, red cheeks, cold icy hands. Yes.. it's like that scene, the cloudy glow of a hidden sun is sinking over the edge and I sit in this partial darkness, able to see but losing visibilty as day turns to night.

Drizzling rain.
I watch the orange alleyway flicker, from my ghetto townhouse window I can hear an ambulence wailing in the distance, can hear cars, and can even hear and taste the wet, cement grit.

I can feel the old spirits, the dusted away spirits settling back in.
I miss that laughter. Remember when we played hide n go seek while adults sipped wine on hardwood floors and ate expensive cheeses. We, like circus performers waving to the adoring public with a seal balancing a ball upon his nose as we showed off your golden retreiver spiffed up in the outfit we had picked for him.

Remember how we danced in play, imagination and all, until the last possible moments. Until it was time to go home again, my parents at the door and you and I hiding under your bed.

Its one of those nights again, the long rainy screechy kind,only your dead and the garbage pile outside my house stinks extra hard.

Cozying up to the window, I am a cat, a fat grey house cat who spends the hours water eyed listening to specks of gods droplets tinkling upon leaves. Its good to be home, to be blanketed in a cuccoon of comfort. Of familiarity.

Scraggly memories crawling from behind my ear I hear the rangly cuckas of the jungle and its ancient misty spirit. I miss its danger and exotic excitement. I miss my smile, the genuine one.

I put my things away so I could sit and write in peace, placed my guitar in the corner where it belongs, and hid my now empty backpackers backpack under the bed. I don't want to see it, my spirits greater than my mentality.
Like air, like wind, I'll sweep away, I'll run for hours just so I can feel that high. I'm not grounded, maybe I have issues.

So then I sat in frustration listening to the rain, its like an annoying tap. Creativity gone.

Pulled my mess back out of the box and scattered it everywhere. You know when your young, when your a child and you just kind of do things?

I thought back to when I was little, to the moments of my greatest joys.
It was always when I was at the top of a tree, at the peaks of death, or when I was running, running away from the world my conciousness was born into,
  it was when I jumped out the window and got the ministry phoned on us. Although the latter one wasn't a joy, more so an annoyance on my freedom and a burden to my family.

I could spend hours staring out this window at night, I did it once too. My first all nighter at the age of 5, when I simply had to see each snowflake fall. And then it was sunrise and the neighborhood was pure white.

I miss my mom, shes still here but not as young. I miss spirit, I miss soul, I'm getting older but am I wiser? I think I was smarter when I was little. When I would run for freedom, when I would pit up a fight. Not submissevly recline to my other side as to ward off any inner resistance.

Now that my ***** scattered all over the room I find it easier to write. At least thats something I've always known, everything has a home. My guitar is happy on my bed and I've always been happier on the edge of a cliff, flying high with my heart in the heavens and my head in a cloud. Just waiting to jump.

..
..........jump.

Oh the misery of an air spirit.

"We have come to be danced
not the pretty dance
not the pretty pretty, pick me, pick me dance
but the claw our way back into the belly
of the sacred, sensual animal dance
the unhinged, unplugged, cat is out of its box dance
the holding the precious moment in the palms
of our hands and feet dance

We have come to be danced
not the jiffy *****, shake your ***** for him dance
but the wring the sadness from our skin dance
the blow the chip off our shoulder dance
the slap the apology from our posture dance

We have come to be danced
not the monkey see, monkey do dance
one, two dance like you
one two three, dance like me dance
but the grave robber, tomb stalker
tearing scabs & scars open dance
the rub the rhythm raw against our souls dance

WE have come to be danced
not the nice invisible, self conscious shuffle
but the matted hair flying, voodoo mama
shaman shakin’ ancient bones dance
the strip us from our casings, return our wings
sharpen our claws & tongues dance
the shed dead cells and slip into
the luminous skin of love dance

We have come to be danced
not the hold our breath and wallow in the shallow end of the floor dance
but the meeting of the trinity: the body, breath & beat dance
the shout hallelujah from the top of our thighs dance
the mother may I?
yes you may take 10 giant leaps dance
the Olly Olly Oxen Free Free Free dance
the everyone can come to our heaven dance

We have come to be danced
where the kingdom’s collide
in the cathedral of flesh
to burn back into the light
to unravel, to play, to fly, to pray
to root in skin sanctuary
We have come to be danced
WE HAVE COME"

Rain and all its forms
Blurred Mountains seeping into the borders
surrounding
A little village
Grey on the horizen
Ocean way way below the village
Down the mule trails
Scraping in coils
Pebble linings
Down to the mediteranean sea
In this village
Cobble streets
Coloured roof tops
Crumbling houses
Empty clotheslines
Except a few wet clothes hanging
Forgotten faded red shirt
Hanging from one season
To the next
Water drips and dances bouncing from stone to stone
Wooden shoes clack quickly
As they rush over the street
A lady
Wearing hand woven clothes
warm fresh flat bread
Wrapped in cloth
And in a basket.
A young boy follows her
His sweater held over his head
Eyes obscurred
He walks as though in a maze
Then they are gone
Empty streets
A round woman, hair ******* with a faded white rag cloth
Empties out steaming hot water
From a copper ***
Soapy steam
In the rain
Alley way
Side door
Not much activity
A girl sits looking out observing
Watching the rain
Smelling the warmth
Rising from the bakery down below
She remebers the hustling market, the colors when in the sun
The shuffling people
In sunglasses
New people
Sun season
Different apearences than the ones she knows
The ones shes used to
The skin foreign to her.

She likes her room
With the elephants in the rug
Little marchers
Within the mandela sequince
She likes the bakers down below
Aunts and uncles
Unsure of who's family
By blood
And who's family
In spirit.
She likes the old man
Who sits with his cane
In the little sitting chair
In front of the bakery
He who treats her to a cookie every now and then
Or slips her a piece of sweet bread
He, who wears an old black cap
And puts on his coat
And hobbles down the little street
She waits for him sometimes
She sits perched outside and looks down the street
From right to left
Until she hears the familiar clatter
The sound of his wooden cane on cobblestones
Each who carry their own divine essence
Or sound to which they bring
A memory of her father comes to mind
How differently he sounds when he walks
Gentle and slow
Heavy and kind
Compared to her mother
soft and light
Swift like a feather
in the wind
Sweet like a berry.
The girl sometimes likes rainy season more
Although she misses the hustle and bustle of market day
In the sun
When the lively noises fill her ears
The wild smells
When the bakery arises before the crack of dawn
And the smell of fresh bread awakes her
Smells of new special treats
Made larger and larger
Just to apeal and to please
The large crowds.
The sounds of bakers
Yelling orders back and forth
Clanging pots
A madness of creation.
Grand cakes
Thousands of tarts
Each one delicatly made with care.

When the people make extravagant delicacies
When goats are roasted
And fresh tomatoes
Made into scrumptious sauces
With fresh basil.
Olives pickled and handed out on toothpicks
By yelling merchants
The best olives in the region shouts one
Across the street, the bestsest shouts another.
Most
spectacular
Imaginative
Freshest
Most this
Or that
Yummiest
Tastiest
Wildest
Amzingest
Greatest.
In her mind the images play
Like moving dolls

In full vibrancy.

For a second she forgets
Her placement
She has returnes back to the heat
And the memories
Of men in white undershirts
Smoking outside
Playing cards and waiting for the sun to dry
the rest of their clothes
The bantering ladies
From window to window.
She gets lost,
until the sound of a door loudly shutting in the streets awakes her
Jumping up
Looking out the window
Still silence
Nothing in sight.

Drizzles of rain
The sound it makes
When it slides down the roofs
She misses the heat
Of the bustling summer day
But in secret
she likes the rain
The silence and comfort it brings.
She likes the rain and the lonliness.
The solitude.
the sounds of her parents sleeping
Yawning.
a distant kettle whistling,
A neighbors.
The desolatation.
Patters of rain.
She likes to have both seasons
One season to live
And the
other to dream.

I'm loving this rain.
Listening to it hit the tin roof of this wooden jungle home,
dreaming of the little grey island back home,
The familiar sleepy feeling found in all rain,
feeling it cast over houses,
dreaming of a scene where I am thinking
whether to put another log in the fire and snuggle back into bed beside a man,
a man I love
with three days of stubble on his face
And to just lie thinking about things.
Or whether to start a *** of coffee
or just keep sleeping until the sounds of silence,
of finished showers,
awake us.
I lie dreaming
of family,
of chickens and kindling, of sweet angel children
soflty sleeping with baby hands in little fists
and resting under little quilts.
I dream of witch hazel, good soap,
and claw foot baths,
of lush mossy rocks and strong red cedar, of rich abundent apple trees,
they too sleeping in the rain,
black gumboots and puddle green fields,
of forest walks, warm eggs and organic chai tea,
I dream
of the ocean in the rain,
or the city in the rain,
all the different umbrellas.
Everywhere cast under Mama Earths spells of comfort,
of big yawn sleepiness
that follows a morning like this.
Oh my,
oh me,
if I didn't have chores
I could lie forever like this.

"Hey you,"
"I'm listening," she says,
but I'm not sure
she is me
my voice
so many times of uncertainty
trying to give and give
but only being taken from
trying to take
but no receiving
why the silence
why cant I just answer the questions
why can't i laugh with the others
lost by my maturity or immaturity
rather run  away with children
or talk with the adults
of meaning
talk with the adults who have walked a ways on this earth
and have figured at least something out
instead of stuck in some turmoio of one tracked minds
way of continuessly spinning but never evolving
hey she tells me
You are better
you know more
but then something else clouds it all
i take an extra sip
skip a little to catch up to the moving crowd
try to laugh a little harder
Just act
casually, comfortably,
cool
hey the voice tells me, its not that your too mature and boring or too immature and incapable
you are your own classification
or rather no classification
simply you, me, us.
And,
the thing is,
its that theirs plenty of fish
and a vast ocean to swim
through reefs and corals
and sometimes the muddy sand at the bottom
but it is your heart she says
it is our heart
we must follow it
as much as a part of us would like to take one more sip
and flip our hair
and be the center of the group instead of
Always Stumbling a little to catch up
and instead of walking a little farher and farther behind
under the orange light
While the laughter of them journeys on
and your footsteps get louder and louder until it echoes in silence
as much as we'd like she says
its not what we'd truly like
hold the heart and skip don't stumble
Skip to catch up but dont just stop once you hit the centre
keep skipping
skipping
Away into the sun♡

Morning of poetry
Fear;
how it echoes in dimensional chambers.
When I was young,
I recall a dark eyed girl, clutching a strawberry doll,
Hidden behind our parents legs.
silver stillness, eyes of fierceness,
watching me like she might run in an instant,
or like a black jungle cat,
leap out instead.
Silence like ice, stilling the breath,
the air between us cold and heavy.
She was the one to tell the monster
to go away,
I was always the one to let it rest
under my bed.
Let life be,
demons and all.

Love, trust the heart completely. So like hippies we drove a van into the sunset, sweet grass, aviator haze, straw hat chins to the sky, singing from our hearts, barefoot desert land, oncoming moon on the western horizen, crisp of an orange glow left on the desert mountains in the east, moon and stars, dream catcher dangling, quietly breathing, sleep calling me like a child, sorrow and love sinking in, warm cool air, sighs of release, goodbye. Life, simplified, always pursue the heart, surrender and release, deal with you{re stuff, cry, release, yoga, it becomes easier the more pain we release, tension is built up pain. Western medicine isn{t very neccasary, trust, visit death, lose attachment, the soul will never die. Lose fear, fear is opression, surrender to the luminous love light of the one. freedom.