~ Camp Pit 2008 ~

This way....

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Story of my life…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Click Here for more pictures of the Tahoe trip…

FULL GROWN MEN – Opens in SF July 25!!!

Thank you to all who supported me while working on this film – come see the finished, award-winning feature at:

 https://tickets.landmarktheatres.com/Landmark.aspx?TheatreID=225.

Full Grown Men Poster

Blue Paint

 I stuck my fingers in the paint.

 

Trails of fingerprints, with tiny blue ridges

Like distant mountains, almost lost on the horizon.

 

I like the space between the blue

The absence of any particular identity

The Possibilities.

What else lies in that space?

The meaning of life?

One’s purpose?

Or simply,

Nothingness

Empty

Void

Wet and sticky on the wall the lifeless blue waits

for a faint breeze to dry its depthless hills

becoming as flat

and one dimensional  as it should be.

Pieces of a Dream – Theme and Variation

Some older poems- here’s three variations on a theme… Pieces of a Dream…

Pieces of a Dream

 

Lay on the floor of my room

I tie them together with strings of tears

What have I learned, after all these years?

 

Like a giant jigsaw puzzle,

I try to fit these mangled shapes together

But the finished product,

Never looks like the picture on the box

 

I’ve tried cutting, pasting, gluing, taping

Nothing seems to hold

Once together, seamlessly

It all starts to unfold.

 

Pieces scattered everywhere

Attempting relocation

But when I try,

I can’t complete

The vast consolidation.

 

Pieces of a dream I know

Are harder to acquire

Just when I find some peace of mind

The memories expire

 

I’ve been shopping for replacements

But the stores are all sold out

And I still look, in every nook

But parts are out of stock.

 

The dream is turning endlessly

Into a mangled mess

A jumbled heap upon the floor

I look at it and scream

I don’t know why I ever tried

It’s much harder than it seemed

 

Pieces of a dream

I’ve torn to tiny shreds

Some I’ve burned, others lost

I’ve wrapped them up into a box

To refund what I can

 

No warranty, or guarantee

Is on the precious label

So my priceless pieces packaged dear

I’ll sell under the table.

—————————————————

Pieces of a dream

 

Perfectly placed in albums

On my dresser

Covered with dust

I set them free from time to time

Ancient memories, I thought were lost

Float to the surface like a bar of soap

In my bathwater

But I can’t clean away the tears

Permanently stained on my face

 

I tear them, shred them, rip and cut

But the colors never fade

I wade through these deep waters

Until I slowly drown

Lost inside with the secrets I hide

These pieces drag me down

 

My mosaic life

Almost takes shape

As I stare from distant peaks

I don’t know what to make of it

But this peace I think

I’ll keep.

 

——————————————————————–

Drowning in pieces of a dream

Soaking up the bits and pieces

Of what I thought was real

But now I know

No matter how I feel

Nothing is ever as it seems

 

Shivering in cold sheets

Wrapping blankets close

Trying not to admit it

Admitting that I can’t

No matter how I try

I just can’t get it right

 

Crying in the darkness

Bleeding out wounds

That never heal

So tired of

Concealing what I feel

 

I wish I could sleep without dreaming

And dream without waking

And wake without seeing all these things

I have to see

Trying to be someone

I know I’ll never be

 

Copyright 2005 

 

 

Poetry for hard times

Life

 By

Charlotte Brontë

LIFE, believe, is not a dream,

So dark as sages say;

Oft a little morning rain

Foretells a pleasant day:

Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,

But these are transient all;

If the shower will make the roses bloom,

Oh, why lament its fall?

     Rapidly, merrily,

Life’s sunny hours flit by,

     Gratefully, cheerily,

Enjoy them as they fly. 

What though death at times steps in,

And calls our Best away?

What though Sorrow seems to win,

O’er hope a heavy sway?

Yet Hope again elastic springs,

Unconquered, though she fell,

Still buoyant are her golden wings,

Still strong to bear us well.

     Manfuly, fearlessly,

The day of trial bear,

     For gloriously, victoriously,

Can courage quell dispair! 

Baby Pancakes

Before even the birds were awake
The fluorescent glow from the kitchen would
Tiptoe down the hallway
Wrapping its fingers around
The door to the back bedroom,
Past Nona’s spare robes, draped on that funny metal hanger.
Though I lay comfortable in the silky flower print sheets,
The soft fingers always had a way of tickling me out of those warm covers.

Stumbling towards the light, I would consistently find her there
In her usual seat at the table, freshly brewed gusts
Of steam circling her as she sat sipping and reading,
Waiting for little sleepy eyes to pear out of the dark void.
You could just feel the warmth, as she fired up the gas
Laying her flat griddle, across the two burners.
We carefully went through all our possibilities…
This was the best choice.

Elevated on my rubberized stool, apron donned
I proudly showed her my latest accomplishment
As I cracked the shell with one hand, and the
oozing yolk, made a puff of smoke landing in the flour.
It was my job to stir. But I liked to pour.

I’m sure I looked clumsy
Like I wasn’t sure what I was doing.
She must have thought the measuring glass was too big
Or too heavy, awkward for someone with such small hands.
But I knew what I was doing,
I liked them that way
Small, teeny-tiny
And stuck to the end of the spatula

I stealthily added them to the plate
Where the rest of the more perfect stack
was piled high, interspersed with slices of melting butter
The wafting aroma finally waking my younger sister
From her coffin.
No one else at the table
Ever noticed those pancake-babies hiding in the shadows.

Pouring apple juice, Nona observed my odd obsession,
As I plucked the miniature ovals with my fork.
Even she saw them as drips and spatters at first,
mistakes accidentally filling up space between the
real pancakes.
But she must have caught on as my hands grew bigger
And more steady, that those drizzles were no accident
Purposely dropped, by some impractical pleasure.

Some years later you could imagine my surprise though,
After meandering down the hall, into the hum of the fluorescents
Now tall enough to look over her shoulder, and down to the sizzling metal
Where I found clumsy globs, and pre-meditated dribbles
Filling the darker space, where a once perfectly round shape had been.
Picking them up on the end of the spatula,
She only smiled and said,
“Don’t worry they’re for you!”

Tahoe

I gaze across ripples of shimmering light
Like iridescent orbs fading in and out of our
dimension
I am blinded
But in this place I see more clearly
Than any other place

The wood is hard beneath me
Slightly damp, and smelling of must.
It makes me wonder how many
Others have sat
Where I sit

The sand on my dangling feet
Glimmers like tiny stars
Twinkling in some fanciful universe
I can not enter
Because it is unfathomable

The sun sinks lower
Resting on the back of the mountains
As they zigzag across the horizon
My muscles relax
And I too sink lower into myself

When the sun is gone
The moon ceases to hide its face,
Rising high in the brisk air
The pale hue blankets the earth
Creating glowing undulations
I am entranced
Until you join me

Together we keep watch
My father and I
Not knowing what we will see
But it is not long before
Faint red lights
Transform a distant shadow
Into something resembling a boat

However,
The boat is not alone
Another shadow transforms
This one more unknown
More unbelievable
I think I see her
Do you see her too?

The rounded hump, and dragon-like
Features, seem to swirl
About the boat
Tessie, the cousin of Loch Ness
A helper of fisherman,
and stranded boats.
Mythical monsters don’t exist
But our eyes disagree.

Time must have passed, elapsed
For now the red lights move
Closer to the shore,
And her faded image
No longer appears.
We are mystified.
But choose to believe anyway.

The chill presses against me
And I lean closer to your warmth
Together we stand up
And walk home.

The Heart

An eternal sadness flows in my veins,
Seeping into my crevices, absorbing as it permeates
Through every piece of me.
Like a river of sludge it sloshes through my heart,
Crashing against the pillars that make me who I am.
It grows to massive proportions,
Leaping over rocks and
Tumbling down,
Down into the very depths,
It’s muddy waters converge and divide
Alongside the banks where I stand silently,
Watching as it washes me away
Eroding my life, as it rots away the ground
From under my feet
Decaying as it grows, endlessly
Flowing, on and on
Never ending, never
Stopping
Breaking through every barricade
Every last trickle gone, until the final drop
Plummets silently into the fathomless well
There is no end, no
Bottom of which to speak
It descends, as it plummets down, down
Until it collapses all that I am
Or ever could be
Nothing but a quagmire
A massless accretion.

Into the Grey

A thin brown line curves through the grey till it meets my feet at the edge.  I stare down. A swirling mass. Is it the either or the abyss? I wonder. Droplets of moisture twinkle in the dim shadows of the sun. I shift my gaze upward, squinting at the brightness. A rush of air and my face is cool.  There’s a  freshness in the air that wasn’t present before. Crisp. I often love to describe the air as crisp – cold and hard like a sharp knife cutting through stale life – or bread perhaps. But I wasn’t thinking of that now, I was thinking … the moment’s passed. What to do with fleeting thoughts, each one coming and going not waiting for the next ; pushing out the previous not-wholly addressed observation. Incomplete. It’s a terrible feeling.

Have you ever felt that nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach, like you forgot something, left the oven on? Incomplete. Not finished.Waiting.

That’s the worst part, waiting. Waiting as you stare, down. I look into the grey mass, swirling in all its glory, twisting, pumping vicariously. Some stare into the future, but I prefer the grey.

When I walk away from the thin brown line my feet press against the hard ground, and I can feel the pebbles through the flats of my shoes. My toes curl, a primordial grasp for the dirt beneath me, but  the plastic shoes keep them from forming a solid grip and I have to hold my arms out for balance. I walk on a tight rope away from the edge where I’ve spent most of the morning. You can only think for so long.

I’m still thinking as I walk, but the thoughts are becoming more mundane and soon you will find me most boring and regular as the rest. You don’t want to know about the rest, they are dull. They never come to the edge; stare into the grey. You would like it it’s a quite place and you can hear yourself think. Clarity. This is important. Without clarity one can not find their way – to the edge or any other place. When you have clarity the path defines itself and the grey moves to the side, swirling about you, but the path becomes clear and you make your way.  It’s not always necessary to see where you’re headed so long as you can put your foot down, one in front of the next. The grey will move; it will make room for you as you tread your on your tight rope.  Listen as you set your foot down, you can hear the rope twist, tiny sparks of dust and grain emanate as you release your weight to the twisted vine. You wait for the snap – but it never comes, the rope just continues to sag and you press forward. Clarity becomes difficult. The grey surrounds you as if to cushion your fall or hide the severity of what lies beneath. You get to choose if you see it as a shield or a sword.

Crunching as tiny dirt pebbles burst under me and my rope becomes flat and I lower my arms to my sides.  I fumble with tiny pieces of cut metal, clinking in my pocket. One is the right size, and it will let me leave this humble place and return to the vast electric circuit that awaits me.