domestic

it rained, hard, and there were blue patches inbetween, the way i love it. leanne called me to help come to the airport to pick up harriet. i remembered what rudy said about patting the side of the plane, and began to practice already two months in advance, dreaming of valium or perhaps a shot or a knock over the head.
there were urban and small stream flood advisories, then there were bright streets colors smells and sun. nothing imperceptible about the weather today, but i nearly have a pleasant banter complaining about the waldal “interaction.” at the same time, i am pleased to have harriet visit us, and leanne is in the living room talking with her, next to the gorgeous piano. the lasagne is in the oven. i came home after a hard but good week at work.
downright domestic.

playground

there is a playground in my mind and sometimes the swings make me sick but i enjoy the view and even the motion. i take a little ginger candy with me and wish that i am not surprised, but know i will be, and hope i try to be patient at the next downswing. the tundra looks utterly barren from afar, but the hike takes me through color festivals of wild irises, poppies, lupines, and of course, fields of poison oak. the wind blows into one ear and out the other, pushing me up and then down the steep coast. the ocean is turbulent, but it is far below. the plants are battered in the gusts. i see a quiet deer and i feel a peace though it runs away. i like to start high, then get higher, but i am also glad for an even space.

downturn

once again it was a bad day in the industry people love to vilify. layoffs downturn our days, in the biggest euphemism of them all. leanne comes home and is harrowed by what she has to do. something snaps, a protection violated, and we are no longer talking. the bracelet she gave me for valentine’s day came apart on the dancefloor at her birthday.

it has been suggested that i have been growing a bit paranoid. enough about that. it is april; the winds blew over the doggie from the diner last night. it was almost unbearably sad and funny at the very same time, the sight of the poor thing lying with its nose bashed in. we wonder about dogs and violence, of all kinds. we wonder what san francisco seems like from the outside.

fragments

fragments. i read a poem in the streetsheet called “i used to love the rain” – and tonight there is news of a homeless person freezing to death in our bay area snowy chill. my cold has progressed to the willy-wonka-colorful-globstopping stage and my throat is still sore. my parents love me. we spent the day together yesterday. we all watched the belly dancer last night at the kasbah and robert is nearly forty but several of his friends didn’t show up; i watched the woman across the room who looked sick and leanne roused sam up for bellydancing. kesin sent us a valentine and it made us happy and sad. i would love to be up playing in the snowflakes tonight and i haven’t nearly walked in the rain enough yet; i can frolic knowing i can go back to my warm home. can you go back to your home? do you have a home? is there warmth in this home? are we grateful, are we sad?

the fading.

the fading.
how long does it take to fade? like fireworks descending over sleeping beauty’s castle; like ‘ i’ll take you in my two weak hands and throw you so high; watch you fall forever into the western sky ‘ ; like animals hot on the scent of a drug ; a bombsquad dispatched to the embassy ; the rolling after the lightning ; the tumbling after the cliff ; the flying, always flying ; it will fade, she said.

“stems may curve as flower seeks light.”

<moya watson> repurposed from watsonhouse
[1/18/2001 11:22:23 PM]
mark eitzel. on the one hand, the drum machine disturbed me. bryce mentioned something that helped me identify why it was disturbing. keep in mind, mind you, that bryce has played the placating dynamic in his family for years, or at least since his tumour, or at least since he was the last born, so that it’s hard to distinguish the situational from the permanent. but as if. mark eitzel is very fluid; that’s how i have known him and become attracted to his music — music that leanne doesn’t tolerate (anymore?) or care to indulge in with me. now, you can go somewhere alone — yeah — and you risk less the person next to you saying this is crap — but you also deny yourself the possibility of the connection: yeah! that is wild. look at that slide guitar; think about that piano. which brings me back to the drum machine — always back to the drum machine. i’d been wanting to play drums since i was five. in a much-later-learned bit of wisdom, the drums have proven way to loud to learn, at least here. which is what prevented me in the first place — at any rate– mark eitzel – a fluid singer. fluid sensitivity — pare it against the drum machine. at first, i thought, cool, groovy; at second, i thought; this doesn’t fit — it agitates me — fit a story between a beat — fit the fluid into the solid. distribute spontaneous creativity evenly between equal measures… doesn’t fly. at THIRD, however —- the tension. the tension was interesting.

bryce kept trying to interject stories between the songs, but the space was too small; i wanted to listen to the songs; or his thoughts were too big. imagine, all that and a piece of your brain gone. </moya watson> <!–1:38:20 PM–>

<moya watson> “stems may curve as flower seeks light.”
it is blustery and almost like snow; take a deep breath and i almost smell snow. like giant invisible bungee cords, the wind unpredicts from the sky to the ground and back up around again. the tapping at my window sounds like a ghost; there is nobody there, but don’t i understand that look in wanda’s eye. wild cat. </moya watson> <!–1:35:45 PM–>