this is me?

So here , this is me

i hand it over-

you see what is written down

funny thing to be

black blue swirls on white-

collection of subject verb noun

a formuliac collection of who i am

(was),

on those days

my angers joys fears

multifacted me

in multifaceted ways

Yet i hate that word

multifaceted

overused, abused and sad

how to describe one without it?

for the lack of word

I'm glad

of the inabiltity of this paper

to actually be me

Rather than burnable, crumpable paper

I`d rather be the tree

Now I know trees burn

I know they`re cut down

yet a burnt tree, a fossil

can be the carbon in the crown

its mutilated trunkks- a bed

chair desk for inspiration

its hue texture grain

instigator of new sensation

its branches- when at last reduntant

once holders of seeds and more

of hopes, fears projects

life and the seeds it bore

Gaia was... on pressure and growth

Gaia is.

Gaia is two steps forward and one step back

Slowly getting this show on, right on track

Train picking itself up, slotting back on the rails

Yesterday’s hard bitter blow, today’s bittersweet tales

Yet this record is desperately seeking for a different groove

Mime artist stuck in invisible net, each single move

A laboured languid attempt for some peace from my mind

A reaching out of the frame a new start, yet every time

The frame grows in enepcted dimensions

All discussions taking on the wight of old and new tensions

An attempt at being carfree as the walls close in

No matter the push, this pressure seems to win.

Yet.

Yet I’ve cheerful attitude to my own destruction

Argh. Destruction,l worng word. To the temporary reduction

Of brain and breathing space- although in interesting ways

The pressure squeezes me well- soo I’ll be writing plays

As creativity becomes my outlet. That and learning to fly

Once i've taped my wings back in - i'll be leaping through the night sky

sitting on a trapeze suspended on the stars above

climbing up warpped in bloodred ribbon for a body-glove

suspended by the straps of these muscles- muscles yet tpo grow

yet growth is what i fell each day- in body spirit mind and so

colours get brighter, conviction stronger whilst i burn the midnight oil

weight ever lighter, sky even in sight'as i stretch from the stars to the soil.

improbable cows and cathartic writing

I'm hyper and manic and stressed today

There may be more to it, not much left to say

(mainly caus its been said again and again.

No phone call yet, ill you know if and when)

So.

I'm hyper and manic and stressed today

There may be more to it, not much left to say

An orchestrated hyper- half-speed thought before I act

larger than life congeneality- exagerated gestrures- infact

those extrapolated, manicated moves of thos mad for true

although what is mad for me, may not be mad for you...

And her, she? Well she just sits there as life whiles away

the parrot on my shoulder, her thoughts mine, she may

just be a construct of this poem- attempted escape from own cliches

but i'm running out of steam, not much left, and so she sways

Comfortably numb.

- never understood the phrase-

but maybe now i do

Comfortabky

not thinking

of me. and of you

Of us-

and the U.S.

and how it all went wrong

and the parrot on my shoulder? well she just burst into song

Whilst spieing my wierd legs (that look so dry yet feel so smooth)

Those legs? well they just went, upped and moved

down to torres del paine, to run jump and play

bored being my little sahara, just watching parrots sway

so i waved them goodbye- ill miss them its true

they left on the night bus- my new pair is bruised black 'n blue

and hidden and hairy and slightly uptight

though they loosened at the party and now they took flight

swinging upside down on a trapeze in the sky

as my eyes looked up from down below, wondering why

the camera hadnt shown up- to capture swinging light against inky blue

as an improbable cow jumped over us all - its last lament a solemm moo.

This is the first poem of the April-May 08 series.

Having come back from a failed 10 day trip to try and sort things out with an ex, things felt liek they were falling out at the seams but, you know, in a good way, kind of.

It got me writing again!

Endings and beginnings and square one all over again. Leaving Santiago

Aquí estamos, y aquí es casi el fin. Sentadas sobre Baquedano en un trapecio, colgadas en telas en el parque forestal. Mirando el cielo desde santa lucia… Conversamos. Hablamos de las cosas que solamente se conversan en las ciudades.
De vida, de muerte, de sus vecinos del otro lado de la cordillera, de mis vecinos que hicieron tanto ruido anoche, haciendo...lo. Conversamos no como amantes, sino como quien se ama… por simbiosis, por el tiempo. Un matrimonio de conveniencia que convivió de manera muy conveniente. Como los que se aman porque el uno y el otro se metieron bajo la piel, entre las manos… No es romántico, pero si es real. Es tangible.

Santiago llegó de noche. Era fría y desconocida, una película hiperreal con subtítulos malpuestos. Sus personas hablaban un idioma rápido. Rudo. .
Veintidós horas de vuelo y un corazón lleno de dudas hicieron las luces mas brillantes, el negro mas oscuro, los ángulos mas afilados. El viento frío intentaba sacarme, me gritaba. Me decía que debía irme, volver a casa, que aquí no era el caso…

Dormir. Necesitaba dormir. Y dinero, ¿pesos? Si, pesos. Necesitaba pesos para llevarme al taxi, para llevarme a dormir. Para poder subir escaleras anónimas, agarrando mi mundo, mi yo, en dos maletas. Necesitaba este nuevo extraño dinero para poderme echar en una cama desconocida, supervisada por una nota severa que me avisaba de no utilizar demasiado gas, porque no había. Tenia algo que ver con Argentina, pude ver... y yo en esta cama extraña muriéndome de frió y sueño y distancia.
Y, esta extraña moneda... ¿Diez mil pesos por un taxi? Díez MIL… ¿mil?-Para un taxi que en realidad no era un taxi, si no un coche negro sin nada- “¡Ah no! No eh! No seas tan tonta... no es un taxi… no entrar… ¿Quieres ser asaltada en tu primer noche?. ¿Que haces? ¿Porque sales?” La voz de la mamá me grita, pero soy cansada, las palabras no me salen... intento quejarme pero no… y ya tiene mi maletas… mi ‘yo’ en su coche. Me siento. Y vamos. Y llegamos. Y soy la gringa solita que desconfía de todo y de todos.
Y entro y pago y subo la escalera y me echo en la cama desconocida. Y ya. Ya estamos. Ahora aquí estoy


Santiago arrived by night. She was cold and alien, her people spoke a harsh fast tongue. She was a hyper-real movie with subtitles misplaced. 22 hours of flight and a dubious heart made the lights brighter, lines sharper, the cold winds trying to blow me back. All the way back to home.
Sleep. I needed sleep. And money, money to take me to the taxi to take me to sleep- up anonymous stairs clutching my world, my me, in two suitcases; into an unknown bed, watched over by a stern note telling me not to waste gas as there was close to none. I was supposed to blame Argentina, I believe. And the cold. From new york’s summer to this cold that grabbed you by the feet and round the back of your neck- a mean veil over poor sleep.

The morning taught how deceptive Santiago was.
I woke to brilliant blue skies. A smile with my morning stretch as I readied to face this new real. Yet, I woke early, it seems.
Just a shower, make-up, and breakfast’s blink away, and it was grey. Grey bubble that we breathed in, seeped in, and produced out. Vicious circle of absorbing and creating our own filth. The muck spewed out of cars and coalfires hemmed in by the invisible mountains on all sides. One soon learnt that the visibility of the mountains indicated how deeply one should be breathing in. Most days, it seemed that past 10am one shouldn’t be breathing at all.




Santiago had arrived with her cold smile and grey embrace. She had arrived with her warm secrets and coloured lace.





And here we are, and here it is almost the end. Sitting on a trapeze above plaza baquedano, hanging from silks in the parque forestal. Watching the sky from santa lucia

And we talk. We speak of those things that one tends to talk of with cities. Of life, of death, of all the miracles in between. We speak of her neighbours from over the Andes and the deserts, we speak of my neighbours that made so much noise last night doing… it . We don’t speak as lovers do, yet we speak as two that love each other… by symbiosis, because of time itself, an arranged marriage that came to an arrangement. A love that came as Santiago entered under my skin, between my very fingers into the lines of my hand. It is not a romantic picture, not a romantic love. But yes it is real, yes, it is tangible and yes it has become part of the patchwork of my feel.