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Showing posts from 2019

What is Love? One Rule You Should Know

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This year has been all about trying to be OK with the other person not hearing my thoughts about our falling outs - Blue She's right, so right. The year before was all about me learning to speak my mind, to give my words to the other party, to gift them the choice of how to handle my message. Relationships fall apart because of words not said, so goes the saw.
People pass awayleave us die, so you're supposed to tell them things they might have wanted to know.

Only they don't, do they? They don't want to know. And that is the choice meant to be offered in the traditional wisdom. If you love somebody, tell them. Only don't, because they aren't prepared to accept the sentiment without having an approved box in which to store it. They aren't ready to let it wander free.
Trust means I must
give you permissiontosay no.
So I've receded. Again. I dislike this very much.

Tell people you love them in the same way you point out that it's a mourning-dove there on…

Case Files - the Ghori Wife (working title)

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My love is like sand that clings to my feet when I walk on the beach: it's cold, yet giving, conforming to my shape and then falling away, leaving irritating particles that must be brushed aside when dry.

Beginnings of a thousand novels, like case files of long-forgotten crimes never to be solved, clutter my shelves and our computer. I keep them buried, but at hand; perhaps one day something will spark and all will become clear.

I call the shelves mine, because my husband has no use for them. They hold things waiting for me, not us. I tell him how important it is to always have a "me" in my culture.

Mine, not his - his, not mine. What is his? Where is ours?

The cats are ours. He tells me his mother doesn't think we should live with cats.

"I think she wants to be the woman of this house," he says, his eyes twinkling while his face remains placid. He looks at me from an angle, waiting for response.

"Of course she does," I reply. You let her think s…

The Colander Canon vs. I Don't Know What Everyone Else Did This Weekend

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So. Let me start by saying I find a certain sexiness in the art of colanders - the word itself, too. I no longer have the aluminum colander permeated with star patterns, inherited from my grandma and dented from years of love; the one on my wall is more modern with clean lines, marring only visible from discreet angles. That's not why we're here, but it matters to the narrative.

We're here because I've found myself entangled with a Gordian knot of poets on Twitter. Nothing edifies my strangled artistic octopus-heart more than volleying word-games. NOTHING. The weekend took a circuitous route through winter synaesthesia, poetry readings, and book-shelfies, and ended up with two things very important to me:


1) Pablo Picasso published a book of poems, written while he was on hiatus from art. The surprise is not that he did it, but that I didn't know about it.

2) Colanderesque as a word is in use, mostly outside the United States.

Somewhere in the middle of the knot was…