Wednesday, March 30, 2005

guilderland rest stop

truck stops have a certain magic all to themselves
it’s sort of like being in a really familiar, but foreign country
truck driving language is a cross between a verbal ballet and break dancing
for the most part, truckers are pretty ordinary looking,
on the flabby side with big sideburns
they swear loudly and show far too much excess luggage on the
lower parts of their bodies, but they always smell pretty good.
they sure can pack away the (fake) pork products though
i could swear i saw hundreds of arteries clogging in unison

marjorie says that running from things is not a good idea, but sorting things out is
but what if you drive to sort things out, i asked. when i come back,
i say my piece and i’m done
i don’t bury my feelings in a ditch on the side of the road in the back of beyond...

i wonder how many hot chocolates i can drink before i have to pee - this is number 3.
there are new faces at the counter and the waitress is tired and cranky
she wishes she were almost anywhere else, but smiles – genuinely
when one of the truckers says something nice to her
she wants to ask me a question but doesn’t want to invade my silence
her curiosity will get the better of her soon, i think

32 miles south of lake george is a little town called northville.
my grandfather built a cabin on a hill over-looking the Great Sacandaga lake
last year my drunken mother sold the cabin for a Crown Royal
to who knows who – have i told you this before? i can’t remember.
but i found my way down the twisty driveway that’s half asphalt, half dirt
and passed over a wooden bridge that put me right in front of the house
that jack built. his real name was jacob, but no one called him that
i left my high beams on and walked around the over-grown grounds.
i could hear the water at the bottom of the hill and the air was singing it’s natural symphony.
i even heard the bullfrogs croaking a hoarse, off-key duet. down to the lake and i could hear fish popping up through the skin of water to either breathe or feed on some lingering insects skimming the surface.
i wondered about the snapping turtles that had always lived by the beach.
they’d be almost as old as me by now.
it was so peaceful that i didn’t want to leave, but i finally made my way back up the drive and onto
the Thruway, and here i am at the Guilderland Rest Stop.

the waitress, annie, finally got around to asking me what my story was. i told her i had no story.
she said honey, everyone has one. so i said that i was between one place and another. she looked disappointed, then disbelieving, so i added quickly – i lost my best friend. she nodded and patted my shoulder.
sorry, she said. was it quick? i said no, that it had dragged on for a few months and finally it was real. she said you poor thing. i said no, not really, we can still visit one another. just not like it had been.
she nodded her head and said how far? i said pretty far. she nodded again and said try not to be sad
then she poured more coffee for a trucker named Al who was pulling
an all-nighter to get to memphis to see elvis. again.

i’m trying not to be sad,
really i am

Friday, March 25, 2005

three things...

three things i am wearing right now
1. fuzzy socks
2. ferrari t-shirt
3. 4 silver rings

three things on my desk
1. batteries
2. a mug of hot cider
3. a picture of my friend steve

three things i want to do before i die
1. sail to easter island
2. learn to scratch
3. live in scotland for a year

three ways to describe my personality
1. curious
2. sarcastic
3. independent

three bad things about my personality
1. i overthink EVERYthing
2. a little too cynical
3. people say i can be intimidating

three places i want to go before i die
1. easter island
2. guatemala
3. new zealand

three nicknames i have
1. miss direction
2. shasta
3. moonflower

three screen names i have had
1. celandyne
2. aneira
3. herefishyfishy

three people i miss most
1. steve 1960 – 1988
2. wendy feldhuhn
3. my grandpa max

3. three websites people may not know about

three visual artists i like
1. sebastiĆ£o salgado
2. jacob riis
3. odilon redon

three books i like
1. in the country of last things
2. love in the time of cholera
3. the history of luminous motion

three people (living or dead) to invite to my ultimate dinner party
1. octavio paz
2. tom waits
3. alexander rodchenko

Sunday, March 20, 2005

currently relying on automatic transmission
and power steering
to stay on the road

and the tea kettle whistles like a one way train

persephone's return

i am
winter’s daughter
eaten by cumbrous grey clouds
smeared across frozen sunsets
then surreptitiously spat out
with pinpoint precision
to negotiate spring’s ransom

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

can journals ever be TOO public?

public journal - isn't that an oxymoron?
like fresh frozen or military intelligence?
it seems like my brain is on auto pilot and
forgot the code to land or something. a friend -
no, rather an ex-friend - had been writing a journal
for years and when he asked me if i wanted to read it
i was surprised, but i did. i almost laughed out loud
(but that wouldn't have been friendly)
because it was obvious that he was writing so that one day
when he was dead his family could publish more of his stuff even though he's dead. like...oh...oh... damn...hemingway! that’s it! his son found some of his unpublished stuff and then finished it, yes FINISHED it for him and published it.
how presumptuous. and the worst part was - it sucked.
there was a reason ernie held back with that one.
he knew it would tank. and he was right

damn greedy families.
(family theme re-visited)

Sunday, March 6, 2005

pablo neruda - integrations

After everything, I will love you
as if it were always before,
as if after so much waiting,
not seeing you and you not coming,
you were breathing
close to me forever.

Close to me with your habits
with your color and your guitar
just as countries unite
in schoolroom lectures
and two regions become blurred
and there is a river near a river
and two volcanoes grow together.

Close to you is close to me
and your absence is far from everything
and the moon is the color of clay
in the night of quaking earth
when, in terror of the earth,
all the roots join together
and silence is heard ringing
with the music of fright.

Fear is also a street
and among it's terrifying stones
tenderness somehow is able to march
with four feet and four lips.
Since, without leaving the present
that is a fragile ring,
we touch the sand of yesterday
and on the sea, love reveals
a repeated fury.

Wednesday, March 2, 2005


i found myself at the bottom of a hole
it was raining and i had no hat
the rain mingled with tears of frustration
making the water running down my face taste sweet and salty
i looked up out of the hole and i could see birds flying in pairs
they did not seem to mind the rain
trying to find a way out of the hole i stumbled over a large rock
at first i thought it would only hamper my escape
later i would see my error
shouting for help occurred to me but
i could not bear the sound of my own plaintive cries
i needed a way out. minutes passed then an hour
it dawned on me finally that i should use what i had to get out
the rock
so my error was not only the obvious misjudging
of a temporary situation
but was a direct reflection of the way i think
flawed, dismissive
using the rock for leverage, i clawed at the wet earth,
and with dirt on my face, emerged from the hole
the only positive i got out of this experience
aside from getting out at all,
was the knowledge that eventually
i can see what is right in front of me