Real Stars of The Universe

The stars were out last night.  Not the Hollywood stars making headlines in the days following the Golden Globes; the real stars of the Universe.  The twinkles in the sky with Greek names and mythological lore.  The dark night sky of New Mexico was the perfect inky backdrop to a beautiful light show last evening.  These are the stars I could worship; they've navigated ancient mariners, inspired nursery rhymes, poetry, and symphonies.  No star in Tinsel Town has ever been that motivating of a muse for me.

I stood on the Casita patio craning my neck, thankful for the flexibility that yoga provides, and gawked at the very bright, not so teeny points of light in a midnight sky.  I must muster up some bravado and wander into the desert at night, away from city streetlamps (actually there are not many of those in Santa Fe), car dealership light pollution, and distracting noises to experience, no, re-live, one of the favorite parts of my childhood.  Staring at the constellations.

I grew up in suburbia, that confusing intersection of city and country.  Which mouse was I?  There are only two choices in the children's book, and suburban mouse is not one of them.  To my relatives in The Bronx or Staten Island, we lived 'in the country'.  To people north of the Rockland County line, we lived in the city.  I remember my Aunt Ina remarking that she could really see the stars out here!  We were standing on my driveway, and somewhere in my eight year old brain, I knew I was lucky to live in a place where celestial clusters could peek through my curtains at night.

The sky is wondrous.  During the day we are warmed by the sun, at night we gaze at the moon.  I've been known to howl a few times, and it feels really good to do that.  Feral, wild.  Clouds all have names that are complicated, scientific.  Growing up,  I'd lay flat out on the ground, pretending every cloud was a stand in for something else. A dinosaur or dog.  Do kids do this anymore?  I still stop when I hear a bird, look up for the vocalist.  Crows may caw, but the ravens that circle the Casita have a sort of gurgling croak.  It is softer and more feminine than the crow.

As an adult, I learned the word firmament.  Akin to the word basement, I thought it would mean grounding or foundational.  In fact it means quite the opposite.  Often a new word, a cool sounding word, or a word with a meaning that intrigues me will inspire a poem.  That is what happened with firmament.  I wrote The Firmament while attending a college level poetry class at Arapahoe Community College.

I mention this because I am a non-academic poet.  I don't have a degree in writing.  I don't qualify for an MFA low residency.  I am the poet of my heart.  I've been writing for 50 years.  This class at ACC opened poetic possibilities for me.  Kathryn Winograd is an amazing poet and teacher.   She coaxed me to open the Pandora's Box of poetry buried deep in the hurts of my soul.  And my hope is that hope will remain when I am done writing about the darkness and the wounds.

I'm in Santa Fe to write.  Polaris is in the sky every night.  The beacon of bygone sailors.  Will I feel the tug of the North Star?  The gravitational force of the Goddess Moon?  Can I bay when the words don't come and shine when I find just the write combination of letters to express what I need to?  Tonight I will bow to the stars of the Universe.

Time to Write,

Jane

Reflection on Georgia O'Keeffe

She came to the desert
To walk on the edge of a knife
The paint brush her weapon of expression

The green of New York did not inspire her
Vastness held her wonder, her spirit
The loner in the desert, found her own way

Her ashes and essence sparkle in the dryscape
I seek only a glint of her inspiration
A creative raindrop in the elusive oasis

Talk to Strangers

Another cloudy Santa Fe morning.  Somehow I continually experience aberrant weather on my adventures.  Long ago, on a family trip to Southern California, we had to buy winter coats at Disneyland, in April!  The song may say it never rains in SoCo, but if I'm visiting it probably will.  Pittsburgh in November was bitter cold and everyone proclaimed I should have been there the week before.  A few Februaries ago in Portland my companion and I enjoyed sunny, warm days.  So not every veer from the typical weather course is a negative.

Days here seem to begin with low level clouds and cool winter air.  I was pretty sure it would have been ten degrees warmer here than in Denver, but the opposite is holding true.  No matter, I am prepared,  One of the advantages to car travel is this; I can over pack and want for nothing, while still managing to forget an important item or two.  Like a sleep mask.  I have flip-flops in case the hot springs call - and they will - snow and hiking boots, and two pairs of tennies.  Sneakers to my east coast friends.

When I first came west in 1979 I was teased about calling my favorite footwear sneakers.  Was I planning to 'sneak' around in these shoes?  Was I a 'sneaky' person?  It didn't take long to glom onto local vernacular and call items by names that prevented me from being identified as a greenhorn.  I never hear that term anymore, we now call the influx of pot-seekers newcomers. When I arrived in Colorado it was evident that there were many Spanish, Mexican and Native influences, but New Mexico has us beat.  I don't even dare to attempt some of the pronunciations here.  Thanks to GPS, I don't have to ask strangers for directions.  Why did I take French in high school?  Was I planning on moving to Quebec?  Spanish would have served me so much better over the years.

Another good reason to not talk to strangers in Santa Fe is this; strangers don't talk to me.  In Colorado, on the trail, in the gym, on the street, people acknowledge one another.  I say hi - they say hi.  I nod my head - they nod their head.  It is painless.  Smiling at someone I don't know makes me feel good, like a citizen of the earth.  Receiving a smile from a stranger makes me feel even better.  On the Highline Canal where I walk a few times weekly I see lots of kids, bicyclists, dogs.  I talk to the kids, breath in the dust from the passing bikes and pet random dogs.  I always preface my request by telling the leash holder I need some puppy love.  The reply is usually "go ahead, he's friendly".  When I used my usual line in Santa Fe recently, the lady who was walking three canines flat out told me to "get a dog"!

The cloudy day won't stop me from taking a walk about this morning.  There are plenty of museums and cafes nearby.  Often I use art as inspiration to write.  While I don't always follow the true meaning of Ekphrasis, I find visual art to be incredibly stimulating.  For me it is more about the emotion I feel looking at a piece, rather than a literal interpretation.  Artists who can take an image from their minds-eye and translate into their desired medium fascinate me.  I can visualize and attempt to draw or paint, and my results are consistently juvenile and simplistic.

No sunglasses needed today, but I will don my tennies and a light winter jacket.  I'll walk around the fringe of the renowned Plaza and yes, I will smile at strangers.  I might even utter a greeting or two.  If I expect nothing in return, perhaps the Universe will gift me with more than I could ever imagine.

Time to Write,

Jane

No Vacancy

Sorry, there is no vacancy in my heart

No subletting space to you, even briefly

I am not willing to take the chance

When we were together, married

I always had room for you, availability

I’d let you stay in my mind, and you would sting me

Now the chamber of my heart that was

Exclusively reserved for you is

Permanently occupied by indifference

Procrastination. Got Me Nowhere.

We picked a house, no wait

He chose.  I never felt that house

As a home, the energy wasn’t right

If I had known the unhappiness that would

Be raised in that house

I might have spoken up, said no

That house had creaky floors and

Walls that yelled, empty rooms only filled

With furniture after much dissension and demoralizing

Why was my wusband so difficult, disgruntled

Not an easy-going kind of guy, but rough and righteous

All that voice raising, hair raising…  for what

Once I remembered saying, telling him that he only seemed

Happy, after he saw each of us cry

In the same day

Twisted, power, control and then?

Good-bye, but darkness had been painted into the rooms

The unhappiness waxed into the wood floors

No matter how widely I opened

The doors, gloom seemed permanently destined

To live in that house

So, I left.  Stopped procrastinating

No longer held by confining spaces and

A dispirited man

Now, now, now I know that

My serenity is in my hands

In my heart

Deflect/Defect

Character defects.  Anyone in a 12 step program knows this term.  Even before becoming a grateful member of Al-Anon, I had a good idea that my #1 character defect is procrastination.  I'm very good at identifying a task and then delaying the start.  There are all sorts of distractions that I can talk myself into, instead of concentrating on the task at hand.  The balance for me becomes what is procrastination and what may become a justified source of inspiration.

Yesterday's deflection was a lovely yoga class at a Rec Center way closer than the one I ventured to on Thursday.  See?  I am already saving time by not aimlessly driving around this citified desert looking for things to do.  I will return this to center and seek this teacher because I felt great afterwards.  Relaxed and ready to write.  That is the purpose of my trip and nothing like a good, long savasana to motivate me.

My car however had a different idea after class.  With a little help from GPS and my ability to follow directions, we ended up at the winter's farmers market at the Railyard.  This is an urban renewal complex of businesses, offices, event space, art galleries and I'm sure if I had looked there were restaurants and the requisite brewery.  I entered through an Indian market and walked straight through the building, across the tracks into the part where produce is sold.  Little organic carrots, tiny potatoes; I love how delicate and beautiful the fruits of the earth are. What to buy?  What to cook in my mini Casita kitchen?

Apparently nothing!  I only had a whopping $3.00 in my wallet.  How did that happen - where did I spend money and how did I not notice a replenishment was in order?  Did I know and neglect to grab a few bucks?  That would play right into my character defect.  I KNOW I need to do something, but later is good, never has consequences.  Like not being able to buy a $5.00 bag of jujubes.  These little red gems are also called Chinese dates.  Not as dense or toothy as Medjool dates.  Almost an airy texture.  I would have enjoyed some of those in my quinoa breakfast porridge.  Next week.

Lack of funds did not stop me from perusing the stalls at the Indian market.  I fell in love with a blanket jacket that was only a whopping two hundred buckaroos.  Even better, the man at the booth was so interesting, I allowed him to tell me tales of Santa Fe for a half an hour.  Not a waste of time, bit certainly a distraction from writing.  In my own defense, I listen intently to peoples stories.  Hoping a morsel will drop from their lips and into my pen.  Here was a man telling me that desert nights in winter are cold, and his house is only heated by a Vermont Castings Stove, and how he manages to score free firewood in Santa Fe.  Was their a poem hidden in his secret?  Was I just digressing, so I wouldn't have to come back to this lovely casita and BICHOK?*

I meander my way back toward the exit, and am presented with a booth called Dollar Deb's.  There goes my brain again; How can she make her rent and then some selling everything for a dollar?  Books?  Oh, I am weeding through those, they are only a buck, and I might find a good one.  And I do.  It is called The Productivity Planner;  brand new, not written in or dog eared.  I have enough cash to buy it and here is what I truly feel.  The universe has again stepped in and spoken to me.  Stop procrastinating. Stop.  Procrastinating.  Stop!

With scant funds and breakfast a long way off in the rear-view mirror, I do head back to the casita.  I sit on the patio, ensconced by the coyote fence, and I write.  I am a bit off track because I choose not to write for my main project, but rather for a contest sponsored by The Poetry Society of Colorado.  The subject for January is a woman's skin and I am trying to correlate the smoothness of the interior casita walls with how a woman's skin feels.  Make magical metaphorical comparisons that other people might understand.  I am fascinated by these walls, and find myself touching them with wonder.  How did they get this slick?  Glasslike.  Running my hand along the walls is like touching freshly Zambonied ice in the rink.  I know there is a poem in this, I just need to coax it out of my mind and into my pen and onto my paper.

Last night I went to bed with a plan to wake up, caffeinate and write until about 11:30.  Then I could go to a meeting and see some sights.  Now at about a quarter after eight, with my blog post under my belt, two cuppas in, I want to take a walk.  It is the first blue sky, sunny day since my arrival.  I know I will see or even smell  (Bakery?  Coffee shop?) something, anything to spark my creativity.  I can justify not writing from here until next Tuesday.

Here is my challenge.  Can I turn my defect of procrastination into an asset?  Is it possible to take a negative connotation and find positivity in the roots?  I want to finish this project.  I need to finish this project.  But this project will only be finished if I work on it.

Time to Write,

Jane

*BICHOK - Butt in chair hands on keyboard

Scotch Tape and Tickets

Casita Life.  A small cozy space, akin to a studio apartment, except it is only one self-contained unit.  The essentials are here; stovetop, toaster oven, French Press, printer, wi-fi.  And the necessities too; comfy Murphy bed, (never to be folded), washer and dryer, a nicely appointed lavatory.  I am feeling pretty at home here.

The parking in Santa Fe, especially in this downtown area is tight and tough.  I have a parking pass that allows me to be on the Casita's street only, without qualifying for a ticket.  My hostess has suggested I just keep the pass on the dash at all times, and at first that seemed like a good idea.  But then that Cop Mom brain comes into play and I think NO!  Why should I announce to every stranger, in every parking lot, the street name where the car with Colorado plates (and of course the driver) is staying.  It is a short street with only about 12 houses, so it wouldn't be difficult to track me down, plus the casita is set way back from the road.  My intuition tells me just remember to put it up and down as needed.

Before this innate paranoia set in, I thought "let me get some scotch tape and attach the pass to the dash".  It likes to slide around, and just my luck it would fall into the defroster vents, never to be seen again.  In the future every time I would turn on the heat I'd hear it flutter from the inner cogs of my car and I would be warmly reminded of my time in Santa Fe.

Yesterday, I walked 1.5 miles to an Al-Anon meeting.  GPS doesn't like walkers as much as drivers and it is a bit weird to be in  public with my purse telling me what to do, where to go.  Kind of like being married.  On Montezuma St. my pocket pal had me turn around three times - go east - go west - go east, before I just looked at the damn map myself and figured it out.  Par usual the return trip was easier and faster.  I was able to let my mind wander a bit; did I feel Santa Fe like the lady in the restaurant suggested?  Do I possess the determination to write prolifically here?  Did I really need hiking boots for an urban stroll?  The sidewalks are in shit shape.  Scree abounds, tree roots have created pyramids of concrete, and drivers like to dare me to go.

About halfway back to the Casita, there are two rolls of scotch tape on a pilaster.  A little note,  taped down, announces: FREE!  I stand there with my mouth agape.  Does the universe want me to affix my parking pass?  Why is there free tape just hanging out on my walk?  One is the typical encased in plastic roll, and the other is for desk top office models.  I look around to see if anyone is watching, filming perhaps?  I mean, who gives away scotch tape?  Did these folks neglect to buy enough holiday gifts to justify their tape supply?

Even though the sign says free, implying take it, I surreptitiously slip the self-contained unit into my purse.  I feel smug, like I've scored something priceless.  How ridiculous to have a surge of satisfied emotion, the same kind of brain tingle I get when my FB post gets a lot of likes.  I continue on my jaunt, now obsessed with the should I / shouldn't I thought process of whether to tape the pass  or not.  Cop Mom vs citation angst.

For now my Cop Mom brain waves win.  Maybe it is my residual New Yorker psyche that knows the world is not only full of wonderful, kind people, but also some dirt-bags.  I need only turn on the nightly news, which I actually avoid doing, to hear the horrors of society.  I temper my need to feel safe with a dose of confidence.  I've got this.

Time to Write,

Jane