Latest Tweets:

"Genius is merely those moments when we don’t limit our awareness."
- Lee Coit

From my birthday art show. ♡

Approaching Forty-Four

I’d imagined myself older
and sitting somewhere
and people coming to talk with me
and maybe I was giving a bit of wisdom
and maybe I was simply quiet
and, like now,
maybe I was putting pieces of paper in front of them and saying
make a picture of it.
And it occurs to me tonight
that I am older now
the memory from long ago
and I feel my alertness, the same as it’s always been,
awake and looking out these eyes,
same as at
six years old
or eight
when I sat in the closet and wrote on a
red plastic and working typewriter
on top of the upside down grocery store cooler
whose Styrofoam eventually cracked
from being stuffed with my dirty clothes
awaiting their time in the laundry.
I made many white things pink in those days,
my jeans,
my turtlenecks,
and, ever since,
I’ve preferred other people not wash my clothes,
but having had a hand in it lately,
I’m more apt to say yes now,
now I’m older.
It is not the age that means something
and certainly not the number,
though there must be something auspicious in the double digit,
like the repetition of my initials,
given as a gift of good fortune by a parent for a child.
And I have been blessed.
And so why not take up my spot on that porch,
and move when I feel to move
and be in the space between the sounds
to give a hand to those for whom the sounds are God
are honesty
are objective truth
and rest there
until nothing. There is no until.
This is it.
I am on the porch, I am sitting,
there is a fan and there are
itchy patches beneath my breasts
that have been talking to me most of the day,
and maybe yesterday too.

Just came across this picture from last month & I kind of love it.

Just came across this picture from last month & I kind of love it.


I’m a carousel of emotions.
I lose some sleep and I’m gnashing with
and when I look up and see the doe’s reflection
in the open front door’s glass,
I couldn’t be more ecstatic,
in the most mellow sort of way.
I’m a bohemian speed ball,
with almond milk and chocolate almond milk
in my chai,
and my skin feels amazing: shoulders French kissed by the rain,
fully soaked in the rain.
So thankful that the rain came
cooled down this sticky world
allowed me to open up the doors and be in
fresh air and quiet —
no vibrations from cooling units
no shake up in my nervous system.
This carousel moves slowly
but steadily,
and swiftly in its
no time.

Summer Solstice

This morning in the car,
summer and windows open,
that very same longing,
like my boyfriend come home again,
kissed me on my bare shoulders.
It had slipped past the laptop,
folded & left under a shawl at home,
as if pretending it’s less important than it is —
the computer, that is.
The longing knows its role,
and it rolled around my arms
and slipped through my summer braids
and wandered through my breast
and settled in my lap,
the lap of a summer morning driver.
It said, “This car. And you. And me.
And the road, the ubiquitous
summer road.”
And I listened intently,
like I always do, and it said,
“Say ‘yes,’ mama. Please say ‘yes.’”

Wondering if I can put words to what I’ve been experiencing/exploring …

that nothing but nothing is as it seems and as we imagine —

that the definitions and descriptions we’re born into or even create-as-we-go are just guesses along with everything else.

We think we know because we’ve observed, but who’s to even say that observing is a thing? If we take our descriptions off (sight/sound/temperature/texture/colors/dividing lines/I’m looking/I’m seeing/I’m hearing-tasting-feeling) how can we possibly ever know what’s going on?

Even and especially the things we’re most convinced of: science, our spiritual path, love — they’re all tumbling away when even observation cannot be counted on as absolute.

Does it sound scary? Not for me. For me, it’s even more relaxing, open, fresh, glorious, mysterious.

Wishing I could put it into words and also just enjoying the wave of what I’d call wishing, knowing that it cannot really be named.


I smelled something today that smelled like my grandparents’ house,
like comfort and laundry and wooden stairs going down to a cinder block basement
and a wooden shelf, painted, and along side
that, that they referred to as the pantry.
Sometimes there was a can of spaghetti with that sweet red
and faintly cheesy sauce,
and Birch Beer,
and she was good to me.
They were good to us,
and though I strain to remember it,
I felt a little fear with him or maybe just a little caution, picked up from a vibe.
Her, I knew I could get one over on,
and that’s what Bubbies are for,
soft and not unlike my mom,
the bosom of a grown up,
at least to my little child eyes.
I was skinny and choppy blonde
and already hooked on TV
and games and friends
and there were swimming pools and beauty parlors
and people who seemed to have known each other a long time.
We went to temple with them, not as much fun as back home
where we got to run around in a great big empty hall and climb on the stage
and pretend we were something big,
but if I remember, and with only the same strain,
I believe there was punch in Pennsylvania too.
My dad says he was surprised by his dad’s tenderness toward us,
but maybe that’s just how girls were treated,
different from boys.
Or maybe that’s just what Zades do —
let their guard down —
let their sweet show.
They were kind and interesting and
from another era,
and in our twin beds at night
with our arms bare for the summer and cooled by
summer’s imagination and central air,
my sister and I heared about them as children.
It’s hard to imagine, at five years old,
that these ancient beings were ever anything but.
And it still is.
I was in the laundry room tonight,
where the smells of my laundered blanket
sparked this whole song.
And when I put this down,
I’ll go back there again
to put my fresh blanket in the dryer.