Gaia Community: Ron's Blog

Lying in Wait

http://dukka.gaia.com — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 15:50:28 GMT

all my life is just now.
all my life has checked
things out, always preceding
me, gauging the crowd.
all my life signs ok, circle in hand
all my life has me by the shirt
because i wanted to get ahead
of myself. I appreciate the help
but it is only the white-faced
clock on the wall that matters.
all my life will not be deterred.
all my life is just now.

Tags: past/future, present, here

Miming: laughing, crying, and bonding.

http://dukka.gaia.com — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 02:48:45 GMT

mime1

As one of the ladies in the gallery where I work applied my makeup I began to slowly let go of my sense of who I should be. By the time I entered the gallery I had begun to play as I can't remember having done in ages. If there is anything to it, it is taking what people bring and reacting. In the office a few people said they didn't like clowns or mimes. This made me sad and of course my response was exaggerated. I cried and flopped to the floor, shaking. When people laughed at me, I laughed back silently, making them laugh harder. I played a spontaneous game of tic-tac-toe with a customer on the glass surface of a display cabinet. A friend's infant daughter was frightened by my face and cried. When I covered my mouth she stopped. And a young boy, about ten, watched me for quite a while before pairing up with me for most of the evening. The evening included a lantern festival out on the street and we had a table set up for mask and lantern making. Since the theme was Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights Billy's mask had a long pointy nose. But he proudly showed me he had painted the rest of the mask like my face. With his grandmother's permission we walked along the lantern parade route together, dancing a jig or two along the way as some scottish reels played. I will never forget that young boy and the magical time we spent together that evening.

Tags: Miming, improv, the moment

Marcel Marceau

http://dukka.gaia.com — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 13:01:53 GMT

Marcel Marceau

I was thinking about Marcel today. I work at an art gallery and we have been encouraged to dress for Halloween. So today....

Tags: Mindfulness, miming

Car

http://dukka.gaia.com — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 13:45:25 GMT

I stepped out of the Scottish Inn into a light mist. "Car," I thought."Where was help?" I wondered. Broke down in Lake City. On Main Street I could look east and know this street deadended into a lake. The Movement of God would take me west to the Engine Room where the boys would pronounce the word serpentine slowly while looking at my belts. I had developed a mild case of tinnitus in the form of an inner voice saying "car" whenever conversation arose. This was not the Tennessee I had drawn. The one with horses and whiskey was balled up in the waste basket at the Scottish Inn. And there would be no drink at the counter with MacDuff to send me on my way. Ganesh said, "have a good day". Ultimately what would save me was the prayer offered by a woman who was moved to speak to God concerning my situation. "Lord, help him find the path out of this mess," she said, touching my shoulder there at the gas station. "Car," I responded, as she walked away. Later the boys at the Engine Room would give me some weak-ass coffee and say, "you're all set." "Car," I replied, smiling.

Tags: friends in faraway places

Big Friday

http://dukka.gaia.com — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 02:11:02 GMT

This is how it got away from us:
Many of us began to notice the
true cyclical nature of things and
became fed up with Wednesdays.
Oh, it was like pulling teeth, but
eventually we rounded that corner,
circumscribed that square.
Mondays were next, a day,
that for obvious reasons,
lacked zest and produce.
Tuesdays got caught in that cross
fire and Saturdays lost their novelty.
Sundays encroached on meaning
and Thursdays had nowhere to go.
That left Friday, Big Friday, as we
jokingly called everything left. The
next thing we knew past and future
spiraled out of control, and crashed.
Night air, sunlight, and a little rain
were our first choices for what
to gather around Big Friday. But
even those things were no longer
sitting in slots, waiting for a bell.
Nothing ever started again on Big
Friday. And nothing was ever finished
in the sun, the rain, or by the moon
looking in.

Tags: the damn Mayans

Headwaters: A schematic of sorts

http://dukka.gaia.com — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 19:07:35 GMT

"We here at the Larnie Ketteridge Home have been assigned the task of renaming rivers. First we say welcome to the sun this morning and welcome to the laundry driver, Dirk. From the Department of Interiors I have received a packet of five rivers that I shall rename today. Thank you Mr President for providing this volunteer retiree program to make it easier for all of us to remember river names. Thank you interior people. I know you are busy on the inside and underneath, so it is up to us on the outsides to stay current, to be updating right now. The first river I have is the Moselle. Why in the hell I got this I do not know. It is over there somewhere. But I see by a map that the upper part of the Moselle wiggles like a cat cleaning itself. Felix is my name for this river. Next is a river in Ohio called the Muskingum. This is silly. I name this river Central Mosquito. Another river is right here down the road. The Cuyahoga or crooked river. It too wiggles like a cat cleaning itself. I name this river Krazy Kat. The fourth river I have is the Suwannee. The idea of "way down" does not appeal to me. I name this river Toot. What the hell. Why not. And finally today I have the Mississippi. I feel that i-double s, i-double s, i-double p is an unnecessary way to remember a river. I will name this river Sippy Cup. Now people may wonder if this program actually works. Well I have received many cards and e-mails from people all over the place who have reported great ease in remembering rivers I have previously re-named. Such as the Turbinado Sugar, the Lesser Leaf Rake, and the Piper Cub. No explanation was necessary as the names truly fit these rivers. Well I would like to thank Floyd, Archer, and Frownman for their help with research today. Good day."

Tags: Confusion, Bureau of Reclamation

The Silent Speed of Starlight

http://dukka.gaia.com — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 01:31:16 GMT

How far has that light come?
People pass me on the interstate
as I putz along looking up.
The time it takes for me to see
them is like starlight. Isn't it?
Approaching. Receding. Until we
meet at that exit light. Eventually
every star will meet me, entering
my little planetarium through the
wet, double doors over there. And
finally, the bear will lose a paw,
the dipper handle will fall in my lap.
But others are coming. Enough for
some kitchen utensils. I will find
the garlic press, the little creamer.
There, dangling above the southern
horizon, the apron and strings.
All in good time.

Tags: night sky, time, relativity

A Parent Up Each Sleeve

http://dukka.gaia.com — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 03:55:17 GMT

We have a parent up each sleeve.
Maybe a mother up the right,
a father the left.
It wasn't always that way.
We chose. Dominate hand,
dominate parent, or
ambidextrous/counter-intuitive.
When my arms are crossed,
my mother rests under my left armpit,
my father, the right.
It feels like they are lying
across each other after
sex. It's a comfortable position
for me. When I point with
my finger it could be my mother's
instruction. Or my father's command.
I can feel the length of her, beckoning,
in that finger, while other times he is
bulky, emphatic. When I put my arm
around you it is my mother, like a
fish, curling, wavering softly. And
when the other arm is extended it
holds gunpowder. It can be discharged
if I hold it steady. When my hands come
together, they touch with the realization
that the two of them found time to be
together. When my mother hand is
holding my chin it soothes. My father
hand holds tightly the same chin, pulling
at my lip, directing my mouth. My face
can not smile with my father's hand.
When I shake hands with you my
mother is there. I hold her like a gift
for you. On the other hand my father
holds a small book of cautionary tales.

Tags: growing up, balance, holding.

Orange

http://dukka.gaia.com — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 02:04:18 GMT

A monarch
so orange the color is sacred.
Burnt orange bellows, black panes.
Fractals of breath that are wings.
I try to breathe like that.
But mine is hidden, unconscious.
The monarch's, exposed, precious.
Orange. The monarch wearing its breath.

Tags: beauty, breath, breathe, butterfly

Love Poem #3

http://dukka.gaia.com — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 01:17:10 GMT

Falls under the driver's seat,
hidden, to be stained by tea
and rain, traveling, listening.

Tags: the best one

Love Poem #2

http://dukka.gaia.com — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 01:15:23 GMT

I dreamed I fasted for two days.
And when I awoke I weighed
Three pounds less until she
placed her hands on my shoulders
-there on the scale-
And all I could see was buttons of
bananas, 1/2 & 1/2, visible air rising,
and those brown eyes writing
in the butter.

Tags: breakfast

Love Poem #1

http://dukka.gaia.com — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 01:08:29 GMT

You must not miss this moment.
Please watch her face, her eyes.
The spotted dog flushes the birds.
You turn. Lower the weapon.
Do not fire. Watch as they float
up, an abacus airborne.
Feel into that as you would her face.
Something is rising, like bread, like
standing up. You notice a shelf there.
And for the first time you see its surface.
There is water on it, suspended, held
there like mercury. But now it is thinning
And rolling off the sides. Things are going
the other way now. Down and in.
Never take your eyes off her face, the shelf.
In a moment it will be dry and calm.
Nothing is left.
Almost nothing.

Tags: that moment, remembrance.

Restoration

http://dukka.gaia.com — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 00:37:14 GMT

We are not alive yet. We skitter along the top of a bridge arch
and peer over the cornice. It is a distance we cannot judge.
There is no reference point. But eventually a native sense rises,
telling us to go, to let go, to do. The one who sustains us is nearby.
The thing about falling is that eventually there is a constant- terminal
velocity. All things become redundant until we slow or accelerate.
The wing is just attention. The beak is only focus. And the eye has
such clarity that it sees the future coming. The raw data always indicates
somewhere something is not possible. This will pass for hope. This will
save itself. This will restore the colors as the spell is broken. This will
disguise itself as a solution in a world where the answers evade. At that
moment of terminal velocity we can still find a way to tuck a little tighter,
breaking the given.

Tags: falcons, fledglings, us

Persuasion

http://dukka.gaia.com — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 00:15:27 GMT

You have not convinced me
of anything. A world this thick
is always already making a point.
God is arguing with me, sending
out an endless cascade of bullet
points, just beyond my breath.
Back here I have my reasons.
But they don't stack up. They
are just music. Even if I mail
them and wait for a reply there
is still time for the tide, either way.
All persuasion is gifting, I think.
When the world persuades me through
a bumblebee on lavender, or when
the awnings of dark hostas say "look,"
I have to agree. When the light hits
your eyes in the middle of a smile
I say yes...

Tags: poem, world, god

Ghost Deer

http://dukka.gaia.com — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 01:20:55 GMT

A little light was left,
enough for the ghost deer.
We stood by the fallow
corn field, she and I,
listening until they appeared,
blinking, two, four, then seven
or eight, then fewer, finally just
the color of evening, muted, stretched.

Now it's late afternoon, two hidden birds
screech across the head high corn.
I stand where we stood.
The finches drag yellow over the
soft open thistles at the back of the field.
I mosey through an alley of green thinking
of Cary Grant in North by Northwest. In the
thistles, I kneel, listening to the woodpeckers.
The ghost deer are still here.
Maybe we were asleep that cool night
Maybe we dreamed of the ghost deer.
But I remember them now as
I experienced them then.
As a memory, that quiet, moving out into
our presence-- As if I recognized them then
the way I still see them now.

Tags: Memory, time

Carrying a Ladder

http://dukka.gaia.com — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 02:47:21 GMT

Kay Ryan is the new poet laureate, reluctantly so. I love her poetry. The way she works with words in short spare sentences leaves me pondering .

Carrying a Ladder

We are always
really carrying
a ladder, but it's
invisible. We
only know
something's
the matter:
something precious
crashes; easy doors
prove impassable.
Or, in the body
there's too much
swing or off-
center gravity.
And, in the mind,
a drunken capacity,
access to out-of-range
apples. As though
one had a way to climb
out of the damage
and apology.

-Kay Ryan

Tags: Kay Ryan, poem

The Loneliness of the Car is On-going

http://dukka.gaia.com — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 01:26:28 GMT

The loneliness of the Car is on-going,
not like reading a newspaper
where things seem to end.

I sit inside the Car
behind the wheel. Its
life can be felt here in
this seat.
But with limitations.
If I talk to you
something different happens,
subtle or not.
But here in this space
looking out on the road
it feels like my eye. My
eye does this one thing.
Continually.
Only this one thing.
Focusing.
Meanwhile I do the
looking. The Car is
like this. It carries,
I travel.

In it's loneliness the Car
craves my voice. It wants
to be soothed. But I look
over it or through it. I absent
myself from its heart. It sits
in the rain, the snow, the
hot sun, and waits for me.
It is not going anywhere
until I engage it.
What does all this mean?
I wonder as I stare at the
Red dash lights.
How can I bring this form
into my arms?
If I close my eyes the
Inside of the Car seems
a dark blue in the evening
light. When I open them
it has no color. Just darkness.
It is peaceful, like bread,
here in the Car. I fill
the Car while the Car
takes me in. It seems
I am everywhere in the Car,
in a way that is necessary.
The Car is obligated to let
me have these thoughts:
that I am driving, that
I am going somewhere,
and there is no Car.

Tags: perception, illusion, limits

Transatlantic Blue

http://dukka.gaia.com — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 01:21:56 GMT

I get up in the morning
And brush my teeth.
Behind me in the mirror
Is a shale blue waterfall.
I am closer than I think
To being outside in the velvet
Of rain, the rawhide belts of
Trees, the smells prying at
My nose, scanning the diary
Of deep green fragrances.
But what a mess as I come back
To the sky blue tile, the reptilian
Tube of toothpaste, the floss.
I turn the head and notice the
Hand propped on the counter.
Again I reach for land, I reach
For discovery. Now this way
And that. Through the shiny
Feedback of this loop behind
The sink, like a drive-in movie,
I lean back, letting evening in.
No more delay in the night's first
Stars. Just this double feature
Falling back and back to morning,
To the stillness of trance.

Tags: Time, reverie, poem

Doppelganger

http://dukka.gaia.com — Fri, 22 May 2009 14:31:37 GMT

I nailed that sucker down
To the hot wood and leaned
Over it, deepening it with my
Free shadow.
"How's that feel," said I.
"Sweet fellowship," said the dark prisoner.
The day was moving and life was
Changing for these jet lovers,
The one crucified, the other faultless.
After the sun went down I used the
Rudiments of triangulation.
Location, location, location...
Knowing the geometry of nails
Doesn't lie I stirred the black
Crepe from its dozing.
"In your element, aren't you?" said I.
"Darkness, darkness," shrugged my shadow.

Tags: Poem, acceptance

The Dazzle

http://dukka.gaia.com — Sun, 17 May 2009 21:44:42 GMT

The beech leaves move up and
Down my spine, shimmering,
Flipping like cards-from mint to
Scalding white. The wheels turn
In the vegetable light. Pin wheels.
Somewhere inside me is
Condensation, breath on
Clear glass, thought hushing
The place where things stick,
Where a mark is a diamond.

My hand is growing in the
Grass, wondering itself in
The simple form that contains
Everything. My name is not
My hand. Only the sun, falling
In sheets, patting my head,
Patting my shoulder, knows
The name of each thing.

Each part is jigsawed to fit
Somewhere, to hold itself
Against another. We keep
Coming back, the picture
Grows clearer, the gaps
Shrink and our resolve moves
Across the ground. Things
Fill in.

I see that it is moving inside
Something else. Evidence is
All around me. Something
Green is scooting through
The tall grass. The wind is
Such a puppeteer I think.
Now my hand is resting
Just below the surface
Holding everything like
A waiter with a tray held
High overhead, about to
Serve.

Tags: poem