so you want to be a writer?

so you want to be a writer?
by Charles Bukowski

if it doesn't come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,

don't do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your

heart and your mind and your mouth

and your gut,

don't do it.

if you have to sit for hours

staring at your computer screen

or hunched over your

typewriter

searching for words,

don't do it.

if you're doing it for money or

fame,

don't do it.

if you're doing it because you want

women in your bed,

don't do it.

if you have to sit there and

rewrite it again and again,

don't do it.

if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,

don't do it.

if you're trying to write like somebody

else,

forget about it.





if you have to wait for it to roar out of

you,

then wait patiently.

if it never does roar out of you,

do something else.



if you first have to read it to your wife

or your girlfriend or your boyfriend

or your parents or to anybody at all,

you're not ready.



don't be like so many writers,

don't be like so many thousands of

people who call themselves writers,

don't be dull and boring and

pretentious, don't be consumed with self-

love.

the libraries of the world have

yawned themselves to

sleep

over your kind.

don't add to that.

don't do it.

unless it comes out of

your soul like a rocket,

unless being still would

drive you to madness or

suicide or murder,

don't do it.

unless the sun inside you is

burning your gut,

don't do it.



when it is truly time,

and if you have been chosen,

it will do it by

itself and it will keep on doing it

until you die or it dies in you.



there is no other way.

Has to stop

Published on Monday, September 26, 2005 by the Aspen Times (Colorado)

'It Just Has to Stop' Valley residents join massive anti-war protest in D.C.

by Gina Guarascio

WASHINGTON - In a movement that is increasingly angry and insistent, an estimated 250,000 people gathered here over the weekend to protest the war in Iraq. About 80 Coloradans, including at least two from the Roaring Fork Valley, were in D.C. as part of the Peace and Justice Festival and Operation Ceasefire concerts. ANSWER and United for Peace and Justice, two of the nation's largest peace coalitions, organized the event. "It just seems like with all the people we are killing in Iraq, it just has to stop, and people need to get out of their comfort zone, make a little effort and stand up for what they believe in," said Missouri Heights resident Cathleen Krahe. "Washington is really the heart of the nation, where all the major decisions are made, so I felt this is the place to come and make a statement." Today, about 1,000 people from all over the nation, including Krahe and Ann McCloud of Basalt, plan to meet with members of Congress as part of a day of lobbying and peaceful resistance. "I doubt I'll get arrested," said McCloud, who is more than 60 years old. "I'm a little nervous about it." She described herself as a generally shy person but willing to speak out when it's important. "I'm going to gather my courage and say what I can about my opinion and the opinion of my friends," McCloud said. Many of her friends "are older women like myself and may have supported the war at some time, but now see it as a quagmire." Almost every ethnic or political group was represented at the rally, which marched to the White House. Palestinians, blacks, Hispanics, lesbians, Haitians, Iranians, students, the elderly, war veterans and others who defied categorization clogged the streets of the capital. It was the first major protest to make it to the White House in nearly 10 years. "This is best use I can make of this uniform," said Telluride resident Phil Miller, wearing his World War II uniform and standing out as one of the older protesters. "If you've seen the horrors of war on the front lines, starving civilians, bombed-out homes, you can't be for war," said Miller, who with his wife, has been to 10 protests since the war . "Thank you," said a woman who stopped to take his picture. "My father was in [World War II], and he wouldn't have supported this war." Protester Cindy Sheehan, who some say has jump-started the anti-war movement by protesting outside President Bush's ranch in Texas, was on hand with hundreds of others whose family members were killed or wounded in Iraq. She screamed to the crowd, "Bring them home now!" Sheehan lost her son, Casey, in Iraq. "We mean business, George Bush. We're going to Congress and were going to ask them, how many more of other people's children are you willing to sacrifice for the lies?" Sheehan said. "We're going to say shame on you. Shame on you for giving Bush the authority to invade Iraq. Not one person should have died for that, not one more person should die." Jessie Tischler used to live in Durango and showed up to the protest with his mother from Baltimore. "We've always been a really active family," he said. Steve Sach from Boston was flanked by his parents, Joseph and Phillis, who used to take him along to protests when he was a child. The Keeley family from the Washington, D.C., area represented four generations of anti-war protesters. Hannah Pahl, 10, was the "E" in a group of five peace potatoes from the Idaho Peace Coalition. Her mom, the coalition's founder, was the "P." Three of the spuds, "A," "C" and another "E," were missing, reportedly stuck on the Metro. "I've been to lots of protests," Hannah said. This was her first protest for 11-year-old Marina Black from Telluride, and it was part of her homeschooling. "We believe in life experience for education," her mother, Carol, said. "My dad was here for a protest with his parents a long time ago, and he told me he got tear-gassed when he was 12," Marina said. The protest in Washington was the largest in coordinated anti-war demonstrations across the United States, Europe, Asia and the Middle East. "Does anybody believe they are liberating the Iraqi people?" asked a woman named Zorea from Iranians for Peace. "They turned a secular country into an Islamic country, ending up in civil war. I feel for the American families that have to send their children to this immoral war." Ken Hofgesang from Orange County, N.Y., served three combat tours in the Middle East. He said he used to be a staunch Republican. "There's only so much bullshit I can take," Hofgesang said. He recently helped bury a good friend who was killed in Iraq. "I have a real aversion to seeing 19-year-old kids coming home in body bags." As the disaster along the Gulf Coast overshadowed the rally, Hurricane Katrina victims joined anti-war demonstrators with slogans that included, "Make levees, not war." Bush didn't come out on the South Lawn and listen to the voice of what a USA Today/CNN poll called the majority of Americans who want U.S. forces to withdraw from Iraq. Organizers of the rally urged protesters to stay the course. "We stopped the Vietnam War, and we can stop this war!" one said. Copyright 2005 Aspen Times

Colorful Mind

Play for me
Sing from your Soul
all your desires, the Truth within you
the controversy of heart and mind -

fueled
only
by

breath


Life. Death.
Nothing.
Never enough... something

Chance encounters, a shared space
an open mind
an eager heart
the vast unknown, which is
The Void.

I am everything.
I am nothing.

Born from infinity - no beginning, no end.
A circle.
Touch the corners with curiosity
(never cease, there are NO corners)
Touch the void with creativity, imagination, connection, knowledge.
Living. Grabbing. PULLing, PUSHING, FORCING...

Breathe

Relenting.
Relentless.

Always seeking:
the calm...
then the fire
the Self,
then everyone else...


Play for me - find your depth
in this,
the journey.
In this,
the life

the mystical manifestation of

Who
You
Are

The Crazy Ones

"Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The trouble-makers. The round heads in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules, and they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, glorify, or vilify them. But the only thing you can't do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the huma race forward. And while some may see them as crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones that do."

Roll the Dice

Roll the Dice
by Charles Bukowski

if you’re going to try,
go all theway.
otherwise,
don’t even start.
if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
this could mean losing girlfriends,wives, relatives, jobs
and
maybe your mind.
go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or4 days.
it could mean freezing on a park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your endurance,
of how much you really want to do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the worst odds
and it will be better than anything else you can imagine.
if you’re going to try, go all the way.
there is no other feeling like that.
you will be alone with the godsand the nights will flame with fire.
do it,
do it,
do it.
do it.
all the way
all the way.
you will ride life straight to perfect laughter,
it’s the only good fight there is.


Thanks Charles,
GG

One life is not enough

The girl never knew me and I never knew her, really.

It’s been 31 years since my birth,
more than 40 since she slipped back into the atmosphere.
She was my sister.
She is my sister.
We have been all over this God-blue earth together.
Laughing easily, smiling contagiously: living joyously.

When my parents named me, they gave her to me.
A wonderful gift I cherish every day.
There is Gina (here I am!), and there is Michele.

Still 6.
Still living.
Still smiling —

for me and with me, because of me and despite of me.

She is energy.
She is love.

And I know she is still brave (as much as a baby can be),
still strong (she knew nothing different),
and still faithful to her Self, even after my parents questioned it all.
How could there be a lesson in this?
How could they deserve to suffer like this,
to give up their joy, their precious, radiant joy?

But children belong to no one. Not then, not now.

But still, 40 years later, it roars.

After Michele died, my parents realized what we ought to know inherently,
but tend to store up and get to later just like everything else.
They saw the sun set as if it were their last,
watched the moon rise as the miracle that it is,
they drove in snowstorms to ski fresh powder
and took off to Hawaii when the economy was about to break …
for the most part, I was there to experience it all.
To live it up.

I had no idea we were so different from the Joneses.

Some things are lightning, some things are rainbows,
some are the sun, some are the moon.
We learned to relish the sunsets, the new moon, and the darkness, together.
We know: Lightning strikes again, the moon will return, the sun will shine.

Energy is always moving.

A life lived with energy and love moves.
Holding onto the past takes power and force.
Love and energy are boundless, and move through the fabric of dreams,
across continents, galaxies, miles, years, sunsets,
and permeate everything, always.
Power and force are trapped in the matter,
stagnant.

Just like today’s news becomes tomorrow’s toilet paper,
I feel like I am recycled, recreated and reconstituted.
I am bits and pieces of a brilliant painter, a writer, a comedian,
a lover and a muse, a shaman, a stoner, a wanderer, wonderer,
philosopher, slave, a blacksmith and a bird.

And, no doubt, a very precious little child.

In 1976 I emerged onto the planet.
Throughout the years I have become Gina Michele.

Life is a transformation.

I listen to whispers and strain to hear what is next,
I pay close attention to the children who are laughing,
in that there is the wisdom I gave up because I thought I knew better.
Lately, me and all my selves, are running blindly into the fire of life;
there is no other way.

When I was 18 I got a tattoo on my hip of an angel.
She tugs me here and there.
My parents hated that I “desecrated” my body.
When I was 18 I got another tattoo,
a symbol on my lower back that means “Joy.”
I inked myself not just to spite my parents, as many 18-year-olds do;
I did it to remember, every day, all day, my responsibility to live —
to follow that angel, to embody that symbol, to soar like a bird, paint like a poet,
write like a philosopher, think like a magician, feel like a shaman,
and,
most importantly,
to share the smile of that child.

Because one life is not enough.


“Whatever you can do, or dream, you can do. Begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now.” — Goethe


(Gina Guarascio is a warrior poet and an Ea-gal [girl Eagle] who is sharpshooting her way into oblivion … on purpose. She is an astro-traveler who considers Carbondale “home base.” Her column appears monthly in The Valley Journal.)

Truly live

Think of the best possible thing that you could accomplish today,
and then ask yourself this. What would be even better?
Instead of lowering your expectations to be more in line with reality,
raise those expectations and then improve your reality so it matches them.
That's a much better choice and yes,
you can most certainly do it.
Realize that the best is yet to come.
Then get busy and make it happen.
What has happened before may be interesting and useful to know about.
Yet all of that is in the past,
and right now the world is filled with brand new possibilities.
The quality of your life right now depends on how you live it right now.
What will you choose to do with such a magnificent opportunity?
This is the moment when you can mold life into whatever you would like it to be.
Take a deep breath, stand up, walk forward and truly live all the wonder that is here.
-- Ralph Marston

closing time

Two in the morning is just too late
for a girl like me to go to dream
two nights now
two a.m. is nothing but
Tequilla and techno
the Truckers and who knows...
what is keeping us all up tonight

tweet tweet

Fresh Tracks

Walking down Second Street
taking artful, erratic steps
slow languishing Southern drawl steps
wide and small steps,
a skid
a slash
a hop-hop-hop.

It's momentary art
Like the Buddhas and their mandalas
of sand
built to blow away
to be buried
to change and manifest.

Such is life

It is snowing again

snowing again

Just my two feet and
eight perfect paws
tracking up the freshly fallen snow
creating what could only be described as
"Modern Art" (one can get away with anything, it seems)

All black
All white
tonight

We forgo the sidewalk for straight down the street
cuz we can
in Carbondale
on Sunday night

the tree trunks are glistening wet
striking black
with bent branches stretching out like spiny fingers to the sky

stark
still
silent
skinny

like a coked out fashion model on a New York runway

the trees seem so vacant tonight

almost lonely

I float on my feet down that long flat river of white-wet
it is damp,
but not cold
smells like winter is fighting with spring

I pause under the streetlamps
gazing at the water
falling
as flakes of snow

can't move

frozen in time

like a Norman Rockwell painting,
still, but animated
a girl looking up
under a lamp
flakes as big as cotton balls piling up on her hat, her jacket,
her pink face

It is a look,
her look,
like a Mona Lisa smile,
that would make a passerby
pause and wonder
just what she's thinking
as she breathes in this moment


Keep looking
and you will see
she is mesmerized by the light
the falling snow

and

the soft
sudden
silence
of
Second Street
on Sunday.

weary

no more liquid to lubricate the right and left side
unbalanced
slouching
sliding
under the table

why not get up

there is nothing left to see

maybe they find you there in the morning
still waiting

for inspiration

...here comes the sun

Budweiser

(Just thinking while drinking)

In some parts of the Mid West
grits are considered a vegetable
more than an average sidedish
covered in cheese
even
to compliment the plate-sized steak
that
is slightly more pink
than the charcoal
on the grill
there are lines and lines of people with heavy platters of flesh hanging over the stools at the Chuck-a-Rama all-you-can-eat buffet in Little Rock, Arkansas
Mrs. Clinton stops by for a photo op with "America today" and talks at length
about universal health care
A man is choking on a bit of all-American meat and potatoes
or grits
he desparately reaches for the that red and white bottle
his wife pounds his back and screams
"Save my baby! Save my baby!"

The hospital won't get paid

A private jet lands in Aspen
the insurance executives hail a cab to find their accomodations
downtown
penthouse
$5,000 a night

Baby isn't going to make it

His woman (we just assumed she was his wife) wails in the emergency room
"Why? Why? Why?"

The ER doc shakes his weary head
simultainiously, in another more animated reality,
one with glitter and gold,
the executives
reach for their complementary bottle of Dom Perignon
summer sausage
and cheese



Living high on the hog


dying like dogs

choking on inequality
poor food choices

reaching for
the King of Beers
to wash it all down

drawn in half

Throw me a line
I'm still sinking

Thinking,
"Did I ever leave?"

Because I am a thousand miles away

still feeling
the water
whipping my face
from the back of that wave
as I watched you disappear

smaller and smaller

the sun on my skin
precious poison

tasting the salt
under another rainbow

still swimming
pretending to hold on
to this tiny piece of foam
to preserve
this life...

that one, actually

gazing out to the horizon
waiting
for one last wave

but it's never enough

Speaking in tongues

Speaking in tongues

I can't understand
I can't hear

I speak

instead

with my
tongue
in your mouth

Comprende?

Pulling in deep

Once again, I believe life
can be compared to a ride
on a gorgeous
breaking wave

a vertical face

THE DROP

the speed
the balance
the fear
the excitement
the thrill of it

Don't forget to breathe!

Open your eyes!

It's over so quick


It evaporates

Then it is rain

We live again

The stunning reality

What you believe you manifest:

I am able

I am rare and exquisite.

I am taller than you

I am a believer

Yes, you can, but will you?

Once all the confetti settles, the yard signs are recycled and the Conservatives are tucked snugly in their beds, Obama will be president.
Things will be the same as they were, or a little different, for most people.
Except for me, that is.
I will be sitting at a Carbondale Town Council meeting at 10:30 p.m. with a packet of papers in front of me as thick as the New York Times on Sunday and a self-proclaimed do-good developer with a vein popping out of his forehead pushing for just four more feet and five more units wondering why I am not playing hockey and drinking beer.
You see, I almost got swept up in election madness and thought I should get involved in politics. It was so exciting; I was giddy. I was part of the process last week at the Carbondale Democratic Caucuses.
I got to vote.
And it felt good for once.
"Yes we can," I was thinking as I raised my hand for Obama,
"Yes We Can!"
And then, at that vulnerable moment, just guess who (I’m not going to out her) said to me and every young, impressionable person with a pulse around, "We need some younger people to run for the town council. It is up to you! There are four seats open!"
Well, young impressionable number one just had a kid and has two jobs and just can’t do it. Number two had a similar story relating that "Scott Chaplin was right. No young person around here can afford to take on what is equivalent to a part time job with little compensation. I can’t even afford to live here as it is," he said.
Then me, (I was number three), "I’d love to... but, I’m really, really busy on Tuesdays. Usually playing hockey and drinking beer."
I said that kind of as a joke, but not really. It has actually been suggested to me on more than one occasion that I consider running for town council because, one, there are four seats up, and two, it seems like a bunch of people think it’s important for the board to somewhat represent the Carbondale community. And, while I am tan, I am not Hispanic, so I can’t help there, but, what I am, still (thank God), is young.
What I have proven, through my stint as a Valley Journal reporter, is that I can (Yes, I CAN!) sit through hours and hours of town council meetings, stay awake, take notes and write a summary of the important parts. And I live in town. So, voila! I am a qualified candidate.
Why is it that I, or the many other way-more-qualified-than-me young people of Carbondale, am not running right over to town hall to get the petition and gather the 25 qualified signature to run?
The answer is simple, time.
It takes more than one job and more than one income to afford to live in Carbondale. So, Scott was right when he said affordable housing in some form or another has got to be a high priority for Carbondale and any town like it.
I work (or ski) all the time (yes, teaching yoga is ‘work’). My husband Spencer works (or skis) all the time. We neglect our pets. If we had kids, we would likely neglect them, too. And we neglect each other, rarely spending our "free" time together because we have so much other stuff to do, like clean the house or install a new front door. Woo-hoo! And then, at the end of the season, when we do have time, guess what? Were not going to just hang out in Carbondale (as decidedly hip as it is.) We’re going south, far south, where the politics and mud of small town living and springtime is nothing but a whisper on the wind as we drink ourselves silly, surf, sun, and make up for lost sex.
So, while it is tempting to get involved, especially after a contagious caucus, the reality is, most of the young set wants to be young. We want to party and play when were not working to pay the bills for all these thrills.

But, if I was running for council my campaign would be "Keep Carbondale weird." I would want a slate of candidates so the four of us could ensure the weirdness for the future generations. I already asked my husband if he would run with me, thinking that if we both got elected it would eliminate one of the problems I would face on getting elected on my own and taken away from him on yet another night. But, he declined. "I’m waaaaay too busy," he said. Figures.

If I were to run for town council, which I’m not, I would also make it an absolute priority to finish what we have started. Yeah, yeah, yeah, every candidate says that, I know. It’s almost like Obama getting all this milage out of "change".
Are people really buying that? I sure hope so.
My goal (not that I would come in with an agenda or anything) would be to somehow fix the entrance to Carbondale. When I was working at the Valley Journal, I came across an article from 1982 that was all about how the town had plans to buy the property at the Highway 133/Highway 82 intersection to make an inviting entrance to town. That was 26 years ago and as far as I can tell, the entrance is still pretty uninviting. Then, a few years ago, a citizen group got all excited about building a river park out there including some kayaking features. The town spent almost $100,000 on studying the feasibility of the whitewater features, and even went so far as to draw all these amazing connecting trails and picnic tables and the like, but they forgot one small detail. The town doesn’t own the land. Duh.
So, whoever gets elected to the town council, whether you’re weird or not, rich, white, old or young, please, please, please, do something about the entrance to town. And do something about Highway 133 through town. I want to turn left out of Dos Gringos without my life flashing in front of me. Do it before 2040 when I am rich and retired and thinking it just might be my time to sit on the board. I’m sure by then there will be much bigger issues to deal with, like where are all of us old geezers supposed to live, and who is going to take care of us now that we have no social security.
I guess I better get back to work.

Mayonnaise, oil, lotion, sweat: Life, lubricated

BY: Gina "Greasy-o" Guarascio

Mayonnaise.
It was a creamy white concoction I knew I should stay away from, but the fries glistened with grease and called out for more, so I dipped. Mayonnaise mixed with roasted garlic, rosemary and then some ketchup, it was just about the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Accompanying this marvelous mayo, was a masterpiece of meat (local meat), a yummy soft bun, (no doubt organic), and some kind of fried mushrooms and onions crispy and caramelized on top. Dipped in mayo, this mound of meat was just about the best thing this mouth has ever tasted, compliments of the local kitchen, Restaurant Six89. Talking about "the local kitchen" it has been said that the new restaurant downtown, ella, which calls itself "the local kitchen", has the best burger in town. Now, I have had a chance to sample both (I called it a work assignment, seeing as I decided to write about mayonnaise. Next, I will assign myself the breaking story, "who has the best dessert"), and both are praiseworthy for sure. They are made with locally raised beef, and puffy, fluffy white buns. And, similar to any handsome man with the same qualities (local beef and fluffy buns), they both leave you immensely satisfied, but eventually heavy hearted.
(When one writes about Mayonnaise, it must be noted, that when traveling south of the border, Mayonnaise is the ultimate "go with everything" condiment. Latinos love the mayo so that there is even a song about it, aptly called "La Mayonaisa". When thinking about cultural integration in Carbondale, perhaps we need to look no further than the Miracle Whip.)
Oil.
Acting bitchier than my anxious border collie on the now-anxious mailman, I thought to myself, "I gotta eat!" It had been at least eight hours and four massages (given, not received) since I had ingested calories and I felt I was beginning to cannibalize myself. And I know from past experiences, when you starve yourself, your body doesn’t start by eating up the excess fat in the thighs and tummy, it goes right for the boobs. And that’s something I just can’t afford to lose. So I’m at the Snowmass Mall, about to drive home in a snowstorm, again (Epic!), and my boobs are shrinking. I look left, I look right... Behold! Taste of Philly, Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory and The Daly Bottle Shop (liquor) all within about ten steps. Eureka! Warm-looking foreign people looked at my shallow eyes, my sinking chest, and offer to help me. "I’ll take a Philly cheese steak please... Yes, I want the foot-and-a-half long one," I say. The senor in the back throws some peppers, onions, garlic and meat on the extra long skillet and then pours about a quart of oil out of a pitcher onto the vegetables and meat I will momentarily ingest. OIL, Mmmm. Then off I was to the chocolate factory for a caramel apple imbedded with peanuts like a Bagdad reporter in a tank or the trenches, (going for at least a B-cup in the chest here), and then for a bit of grog to wash it all down just one more short shop away. What a gastrointestinal goldmine up there! I felt like I was on vacation for just a second, smiling at all the tourists with apples stuck in their mouths like pigs ready to roast, browsing the 50% off $50 faux fleece frumpy wear, thinking I might look cool in a "Snowmass Rules, Vail Drools" T-shirt... but then, wistfully, driving away from all that mall magic with only a foot-and-a-half hot steak to keep me warm on that long lonely highway home.
Lotion.
Naked bodies are my business. I’m always ready to spread the love. So far I’ve gone through almost a gallon jug of massage lotion this season. That’s a lot of lubrication. It slides and glides so easily over those worn and torn bodies. They come from all over the world, they absorb my cream as if in a dream, letting go of stress and steam. If only they could add some mayonnaise to their days... there could be nothing better than a rub and some grub. A little motion and some lotion (maybe some mayo) is all it takes to make the world a better place, I’ve found. Food for thought, you don’t have to be a certified massage therapist to give someone a rub. It’s a nice thing to do, just set you intentions straight (what I mean here is, don’t do it just to get laid, guys), get some kind of lotion and give someone you like some love.
Sweat.
It’s a 90 minute beginning Hatha yoga class that I teach or take every day in a room heated to about 105 degrees, humidity lingering around 40%. Everyday, I am surrounded by sweat. It drips on the floor and makes my yoga mat go "squish". If it’s a really good hot class, people fling it on the mirror, inadvertently, as they stretch, equal and simultaneously, in the Triangle or Bow Pulling Pose. Some people say, "Ewww, that’s so gross." I say, "Yes! I love sweat dripping down my nose, into my clothes, and onto the floor all of my days. Hey looky there, I think I see some mayonnaise."

Sometimes words don’t always slide right in to place. Sometimes you eat too much, drive too fast and drip oil on your favorite coat. Sometimes you sweat when you don’t want to. Life is funny that way, but you just keep on sliding by, whether it’s on the road, on the snow, in the classroom, the office or right at home. When life is lubricated, you’ve just got to go with the flow.

Y B NRML, when you can be weird

BY: Gina "Dorkina" Guarascio


She was "that" girl in high school. The one who wore those tall black boots that zipped up the side with heels, short skirts, red lips, charcoal on her eyes - plaid, strips, dots - colors all over, or, completely, totally, black.
Whatever screamed, "Look at me!" she wore.
She was the preachers daughter, no doubt rebelling against the stoic family values her father (who eventually divorced and ran off with the secretary) espoused every Sunday. She had a little VW Rabbit that clipped right along, buzzing through the school parking lot everyday. Her license plate read "Y B NRML". She roared by, a glare glued on her face.
While I kept my distance from "that" girl, like everyone did, I could totally relate. My biggest fear in life, ever since I old enough to contemplate such things, was being "normal". Even more, just being mediocre, average, the same same. So, I could relate to "Y B NRML" and her crazy, freakish ways, even though I was much more of a dork than a freak. For some reason, I didn’t care. Even in my tender teenage years I knew that life was a precious gift and I wasn’t going to just blend in with the wallpaper. I didn’t have to have some terminal illness to realize this, or have my friends die in rivers and on the road to know that one must live for the day.
This day.
Today.
It was easier when I was younger to live like that, without a care, really just taking it one moment at a time. I could let my mind, my body, my spirt, drift, shackled only by the limits of the universe, or more accurately, by my own imagination. It was easier when all my belongings fit in my car and when I didn’t mind sharing the floor with the cockroaches or crabs in some foreign country. It’s harder the older I get, the more stuff I acquire, the more bills I pay... add to the mix a husband, two hounds and a condo and my "Carpe Diem!" looks a lot like everyone elses. But I’m OK with that now. I don’t have to paint my lips red and wear the black zip up boots and proclaim, out loud, for everyone to see, "Look, I am NOT normal. I am NOT like everyone else!"
Just like any teenager with a mohawk, blue hair, piercings _______ (fill in the blank) or a tattoo on the lower back, I’ve screamed out. I’ve demanded to be different by doing dumb things that are really all the same as everyone else who yearns to validate just how special and unique they are. Guess what? We’re all different, we’re all special. So what? Being different isn’t my goal anymore, being better is my goal, being interesting, and interested, being provocative, enlightened, healthy, happy, passionate, out loud, and at times, completely outrageous.
Anything but boring.
Anything but average.
Anything but mediocre.
My guru, Bikram Choudhury often says, "I hate boring people." Yeah, it’s not cool to hate, but the world is full of stuffed suits, stuffing their faces and perpetuating the madness of mediocrity while selling you an image of everything that you are not. I think it’s time we all got naked (figuratively, at least til spring time), and sang songs on the street. Let your light shine.


"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that frightens us. We ask ourselves: Who am I to be, brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually who are you not to be?"
- Marianne Williamson

If George W. Was a Buddhist

(Published in The Valley Journal after I visited the Dalai Lama. What an inspiration!)

"My religion is kindness" Dalai Lama

I wish I spent the weekend with George W. Bush. I do.
If Bush would’ve come along with me, he would’ve traveled far from his cozy home in a small economy car burning radiator fluid.
It’s further than you think it’s going to be to the Shambhala Mountain Center outside of Fort Collins, Co, just 20 miles from the Wyoming border.
Bush would’ve seen the Dalai Lama who was to visit the center early Sunday morning to bless the Great Stupa of Dharmakaya, the largest Buddhist shrine in North America.
Bush and I would have camped in the biting cold on Saturday night, not quite asleep, as it was much too cold for that, but soberly looking up at a smear of stars and planets in our solar system of which we are one tiny part of.
We would awake before dawn with the same excitement and anticipation I remember on Christmas eve knowing Santa Claus was coming to bestow gifts upon me which I so righteously deserved.
We would walk somewhat dumbly along the path with the other 2,500 people who had managed to make it high up into the mounting this clear, cold morning.
W. Would’ve been freezing cold down to his pinky toe but he would’ve been smile at all the people he met along the trail. They would have given him hope that there is a chance for a better world. We will evolve.
When the Dalai Lama’s helicopter flew over the Stupa, to land in the field below, Bush might have clasped his hands together in excitement and anticipation as so many others did. Perhaps an elevator of emotion would shoot up from his gut and lodge itself in his throat like it did for me. Maybe his arms would have risen into the air to wave a greeting to this figure so many relate to and hold so dear.
"‘This is the 14th Dalai Lama," he might muse to himself recalling all of the times he’d seen this gentle man’s face on book covers, calendars, newspapers and the like and felt as if he’d known him. But this was the first time to see him up close and personal.
"The Tiger, Lion, Garuda and Dragon have all landed, " announced the MC of the event sending chills up my spine. I would look at G. W. and see a spark.
If George W. spent the weekend with me he would’ve heard Buddhist prayers in Tibetan and English, Queen Noor of Jordan’s prayers in Arabic and English, a Jewish rabbi’s prayers in Hebrew and English and prayers for grandmother earth from Chief Looking Horse in Lakota.
He might have been moved.
"This century should be the century of dialogue," said the Dalai Lama. "The past century somehow became a century of violence, century of bloodshed."
Later the Dalai Lama added, "If we don’t increase kindness, more Bin Ladin types will come."
Could Bush hear this pedestrian wisdom? Would he share it with others in his camp?
"There are no national boundaries. The whole globe is becoming one body," His Holiness said. "In these circumstances, I think war is outdated ... Destruction of your neighbor is actually destruction of yourself."
Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche, one of Tibet’s highest and most respected lamas, said cultivating compassion is the best, most practical way to preserve the world. "Aggression is shortsighted," he said.
Are you listening G.W.?
"Let voices of moderation and reason call out to all religions...all religions are based on respect for freedom, justice and compassion in the name of God," said Queen Noor who continued to say compassion is essential and means opening our hearts to one another and assuming responsibility for the happiness and well being of others.
"Compassion is a practice," she said. "Peace is a practice. It’s not something we achieve, it’s something we do everyday."
What is that you call yourself G.W., a compassionate conservative? Aggressors are not compassionate. Conservatives don’t live off their great grandchildren’s bank accounts.
"Living time should be utilized constructively, so the person feel(s) better at the time of death and remembers those positive deeds," said the Dalai Lama. "The most important thing for a meaningful life, a purposeful life is peace of mind and that comes from compassion, unbiased compassion.
"Everyone has the seed of this compassion, all traditions: Hinduism, Judaism, Islam, Christianity. It is a different philosophy but I think the real message is the same - forgiveness, compassion, tolerance, love... these are common values in all different religions."
What if your gun-toten’, tough-guy Texas Jesus is really fundamentally the same as the Taliban’s scarf headed, robed Messiah? Who ever win’s these wars?
"Our destructive, negative reality is based on false appearances," said the Dalai Lama. "Action is the most important, action is karma, action makes a difference. Brother’s and sister’s; to have a meaningful life action is important. Try to be more compassionate."
After the blessing of the Great Stupa we would walk a mile back to our car, which still had a leak, and drive into the heart of Denver to see the same man address 15,000 people at the Pepsi Center while more than 70,000 exuberant fans cheered loud and clear over at Invesco field for the Broncos. The Broncos won in overtime. The Dalai Lama won our hearts and gave us hope.

The Dalai Lama has lived through 2,500 years of murderous times where people kill to solve perceived problems. He tells us, through his vast experience, that it does not work. I believe him. George W., do you?

Let's go down to the river to play

(This was published in The Valley Journal in June of 2006 after I returned from one wonderful journey down the river)

From the depths of the Grand Canyon

(Editor's note: Valley Journal reporter Gina Guarascio begged and pleaded and basically made it clear that she was going to spend 18 days on the Colorado River. So she went. From May 7-24, while the rest of the VJ staff worked overtime, she was obviously enjoying the trip of a lifetime.)By Gina Guarascio

"Mountains of music swell in the river, hills of music billow in the creeks ... while other melodies are heard in the gorges of the lateral canyons. The Grand Canyon is a land of song."— John Wesley Powell

"Let's go down to the river to play, paddling the waves ev-ery-day, oh river, show me the way." That's the song we sang every day, for 18 days, as we strapped on our kayaks and ventured out to journey down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. Kim, Sonja and I, three kayakers known affectionately as the "Tupperware," sang it to the tune of "I go down to the river to pray," from Oh Brother Where Art Thou. It's a catchy tune.
This is how I pray
Praying for me means being baffled with wonder, filled with ghosts of thoughts from times so far before I ever existed. Before anything but single-celled anaerobic bits existed. The river carved this canyon 40 million years ago. The rocks that it sculpted were created billions of years ago. I am struck with awe, dumb with wonder every time I look up, and up and up. Instead of living a mile high, I am a bottom dweller looking up. Kayakers, as many people know, are at the very bottom — a very, very good place to be.
Friends in low places
I found the best friends I have on the river. It is a time to meet a gaggle of people who act strange and awkward one day and are laughing till it hurts the next. Why? It's because you are so small — especially in the Grand Canyon — connecting with others feels like strength. We're all in this together. And there were no Republicans on our trip. That was good.
The Grand Canyon from Lee's Ferry to Diamond Creek is 226 miles. The water is incarcerated by Glen Canyon Dam with measured releases by the Bureau of Reclamation depending on who's using their air conditioner or eating at an all night buffet in Las Vegas. It wasn't always like that, but that's how it is these days.
Young, naked and looking up
This trip really started in April when the storied river runner Katie Lee came to Carbondale to talk about experiential education at CRMS. She is one of very few people who floated through Glen Canyon before it was drowned, and down the Grand Canyon when the water was warm, rich with nutrients and colored red — like it's name. Now the water is green, clear and a frigid 59 degrees coming out of the bottom of the dam. Katie is an elderly woman, her skin worn and wrinkled like a button-up shirt stuffed in a suitcase, but she is radiant. Her knuckle bones are large and swollen. However, she is still holding her guitar and singing her folk songs of life before that damn dam. She showed pictures of a place we'll never know. Glen Canyon was a magical place.We bought a poster of her. She is naked. Her slim tanned body, taut muscles and blond bob were somewhere inside of the wrinkled exterior that was entertaining us that day. She must have been around 29 years old in the photo, the same age as I am now, looking up between two thighs of smooth carved rock staring up with wonder and awe at a miraculous side canyon. I thought that if I had an opportunity to go to a place like that, to be young and beautiful and free, I should go.
The Canyon is serum, a life-giving potion that renews the soul, fans the flames of love, and builds friendships that last forever. It is the place. It is the people. A package that I am always so grateful to receive.
Back in 2006
This tale would be better 10 or 20 years from now, when I could begin with the unimaginative hook, "back in 2006." Most any good river story starts with the words "back in ____". Our trip leader, Marcia, was fond of river stories that started with "back in '83." So forgive me as this story hasn't marinated for the proper length of time to become a river tale, or river lore. What happens on the river stays on the river. More often deep satisfying love is discovered than lost, unless you're the one stuck on the rim. Then the person you waved goodbye to so many days ago could very well be lost to you. If you did not come on the trip, you are a different species. The people who travel this stretch are invariably "different" once they dry off at the takeout. It's hard not to smile and stare into your comrades' eyes knowing this collage of special secrets. The stories of glory or uncontrollable, unbelievable laughter never translate outside of the big ditch; at least not for about 10 years when they can be rightfully embellished to entertain and the truth be sacrificed to that pursuit. Just like Hollywood.
The ancient ones
I hope I am a Hopi, even though I'm pretty sure I'm only Italian. But, if I were a Hopi, then the feelings that overcame my body and soul at the Little Colorado River would be warranted. Cold, green, big Colorado water merges with the warm Caribbean turquoise water of the Little Colorado and we paddle our boats right up inside. I felt as if I was invited and I was so comfortable that I shed my clothes, donned an inflatable froggy and floated in a desert paradise so idyllic it would impress even the most over-indulged teenager. For the Hopi, the Grand Canyon symbolizes the Sipapu. According to legends, the ancestral Hopi passed through a succession of worlds within the interior of the earth, emerging onto the surface through the Sipapu, a travertine spring in the Little Colorado Canyon.*I feel I am reborn in this tranquil aqua blue canal. As a woman, this myth suits me much more than its Christian creationist counterpart. Created from the rib of a man (albeit a righteous dude), or emerged into paradise from after traveling through other worlds. I am a swimmer. I am an athlete and schemer, a lover and a dreamer ... and I'm not the only one.
Moonbeams
We pass by Vishnu Temple, standing nobly above the layers after Tanner Rapid. We have sailed by the Unkar Delta, which was quite a metropolis for the Indians who cultivated corn, beans and squash. The moon emerges from behind a thick dark silhouette. The shadow rolls up the canyon wall like a manual window cranked slowly by a spaced-out child. I'm as free as a bird now. The water laps at the shore, corrosive and stubborn, light and playful, or tormenting and violent. It depends how much you tip the kettle. The Colorado River drops 1,900 feet from Lee's Ferry to Lake Mead. Half of the drop occurs in the 160 rapids. These rapids only account for 9 percent of the total distance. There is a lot of flat water.
The Grand Canyon is my secret pleasure. We are invited to come along. It all becomes a blur of breakfast, lunch and dinner, in between is a haze of colors, textures, thrills and noise — always noise — the kind that gels with the 70 percent of you that is what you float on. Water flows through canyons like blood pulsing through our veins. The small portion that is the brain, the driver, succumbs. I let go.
Peaceful, easy feeling
At Grapevine camp (mile 81.5), we throw a Pirate Party. It is my husband Spencer's 36th birthday and he is having the time of his life (evidenced by the perma-grin) singing songs like, "If I were a pirate and you were my matie, I'd bend you over and make you my lady." Argg! Tequila seeps into my tired dehydrated muscles and that peaceful easy feeling travels from my toes to my nose as we slow dance to that love song nestled in each other's necks, tasting salt and crunching on specks of dirt. We elope hand and hand into the darkness to enjoy each other's company.
The Inner Gorge
The river narrows to 76 feet at mile 135. Just upstream and downstream of this choke is the inner gorge, a cathedral of some of the world's oldest rock. Riding on currents of water through sculpted granite, gneiss and schist that is injected with pink and red Zoroaster granite is unlike anything. Every nook requires a careful look. The Tupperware are always lagging behind, screeching and chanting and experiencing multiple eye-gasms. The inner gorge is a sanctuary that passes by so quickly I am assured I am having a very good time. The weight and the depth and the age of the rock settles in like the crystalline seeps of the weeping rocks.
You're always above Lava
We are at mile 96 and a half, after Phantom Ranch through Horn Creek and Granite and the world has settled in on me. It might just be the perfect combinations of Weeds, Whites and Wine, but I feel a sign. It is so familiar and so, so good. It brings me back to other times and other places that I swore I'd never forget. It all settles in sitting on this rock by this river. Then we are flying through the current like bugs on a windy day using our paddles as wings to guide us through the swirling waters. Sometimes it's more fun not to use the paddle at all, just the hips to absorb the waters whims. Waltzing with the water, an excellent dance partner. Waltenburg Canyon is like a rare gem store on steroids. Every rock holds glittered faces or splatter-painted masterpieces. It is the official Grand Canyon modern art museum.
It's the stillest night in the canyon yet. Looking up, puffs of white decorate a stale blue sky. It is completely still. I am vacant like an ancient clay vessel taking in all of this grandeur. Every day, every second, is a shocking new miracle of this creation, this earth that we all live and breath on every day. It is easy to take it for granted, to forget that there is mystery and magic and that you are blessed to own it right here and now. We are surrounded on all sides by words and feelings and beliefs and ideals, and they were all born from this rock. The rock of ages. The timetable of the planet. The stillness is like an envelope sealing in memories of the last two weeks. Little bits of video play though my mind reminding me of the best of times that made me laugh so freely or think so deeply. I miss it, but then again you're always above Lava (a common saying by river runners, eternal optimists, who think they will be running this river again and again therefore always above the biggest and most feared rapid).
Just stop
It is day 16. We arrive at Pumpkin Springs and stay a while under the shade of a tamarisk. We visit the Space Hole upstream, a perfect straw of carved stone that is taller than me with my hands above my head. I take the slide and my body is deposited on a flat shelf above the river. We jump off completely naked to swim a quarter mile to the beach catching eddies with our toes and finger tips. The Tupperware are not ready to leave this alcove. We explore countless Nome Homes and Troll Holes as if we are the creatures they were made for by the majesty herself. After several long minutes of deep contemplation we struggle with neck gaskets and neoprene skirts and head downstream, paddling to catch up.We are distracted by the Tapeats sandstone that looks like giant bookshelves after an earthquake. I am involved in a meditative paddle session, dipping one blade into the soup after another, when Kim says, "Let's just stop."We are in no hurry to get to the end. As a matter of fact, the thought of the takeout gives me a powerful urge to paddle back upstream and live out my days in one of those rock holes we discovered. We stop. It is silent, except for the occasional descending whistle of the Canyon Wren and the movement of the water against the rocks. We three lay there in silence for once with our backs arched and our heads resting on the back of our kayaks. I am floating through space. I am completely, utterly absorbed in this scene, spinning in the boil lines that are gentler down here. The ancient canyon walls loom above us, towering, yet benign. The smell of blooming mesquite hovers in the air, the ocotillo cactus are waving their flailing arms, families of barrel cactus perched on tiny rock ledges watch over with care. Bees gorge on their nectar.
It is spring time in the canyon.



"Such things ... as the grasp of a child's hand in your own, the flavor of an apple, the embrace of a friend or a lover, the silk of a girl's thigh, the sunlight on rock and leaves, the feel of music, the bark of a tree, the abrasion of granite and sand, the plunge of clear water into a pool, the face of the wind — what else is there? What else do we need?"— Edward Abbey

Fragile: handle with care

I awoke this morning feeling like a glass bulb,
a christmas ornament
wrapped tightly in tissue paper
put away for the season
in a box
I was not meant to move
if I did
I would break.
My bones felt like pretzel sticks
with the little salt specks
grinding in the joints
if I were to touch something
like the corner of a table
or the wall
on accident
I would surely
disinigrate
into a fine pretzel dust.
It is a worthless feeling to embody pretzels and glass
It is a feeling I have already begun to forget
as I feel my strength building again
so soon
rightious
I look outside at a foot of fresh snow
so, I won't be raging down the hill today
but there will be other days
when my spine feels like a snake rather than a piece of bamboo
for now I am happy to be making fresh tracks walking in the yard
the sun is already setting
the day has slipped away
and I didn't break
or disinigrate.

Still dreaming

Well, it looks as though I'm still dreaming
my life is still floating on that great blue ocean
(could it be?)
when really
really
REALLY,
now
it's below zero
steadily snowing
again
and I've got some cold creep invading my bones.
Damn him
or it
or whatever it is that makes me think
over and over
today
that I ought to live in a more temperate climate
one where alien invaders frequent less
and the skin tans more.
The dogs are becoming quite restless now
Zorro is punching at the keys with his fat little paws
he writes
"I want out! Now."
(I've corrected his spelling)
So out we go
into the cold
the snow
saving the dreams
tucking them all away again
hoping
maybe
they won't come back.

Bikram says...

"You haven't even started living yet!"
"You cannot bring the light when you're living in the dark."
"You should be ashamed of yourself acting like an average person."
"When you come out of here (teacher training) you will have a million mile gap between you and everyone else you know."
"If someone can steal your peace from you, you're the loser."
"One life is not enough."
"Take it easy, honey."
"Having means nothing if you don't know how to use it."
"You can't have a sick body and a screw loose brain."
"Eat shit and die."
"Welcome to the torture chamber."
"Excuse me for living."
"Confess the truth. Follow the truth."
"Just think of it!"
"The easiest thing in the world is quitting."
"I hate boring people!"
"The saddest thing in my lifeis that nobody understands me."
"lock the knee lock the knee lock the knee..."
"Poison kills the poison. Pain kills the pain."
"The blind cannot lead the blind."
"Yoga is your gas station."
"Yoga makes you bulletproof, windproof, waterproof, stressproof, sexproof, moneyproof, fireproof..."
"99% right is still 100% wrong."
"If you try the right way you get 100% benefit."
"Have the guts to confess the truth."
"Hell is the only way to get to heaven."
"You only have to travel six inches in your life. That is the distance from your mind to your heart."
"Yoga is everything."
"An empty barn is better than one full of naughty cows."

Alien invader

No, it does not come in peace
it comes quietly at first
just a tickle or a scratch is all you notice
then it doesn't leave
such an unwelcome guest
stealing my joy
making me feel as if
I was made of glass
so fragile
I scuffle bout the house in slippers
afraid I might break
trying to avoid the dogs insistent stares
"why are we NOT going outside"
they seem to say again and again and again
I am on a different planet than everyone else
medicated
lightheaded
humorless, for just a second
then I hear about my friend
who almost died skiing yesterday
and doesn't get to ski for the rest of the season
and I think
maybe I just need to slow down a bit
chill-ax
and spend hours upon hours in bed
some people would dream of this
those who are so stressed out
overworked
overcommitted
stretched too thin
here I am
laying in bed
allowed to think even though my brain feels like miso soup
when I really needed chicken noodle
this is the time I want my mommy
nothing else will do
in her absence
I'll just lay here carefully
and try not to break

addicted to crack

broken hearted

why

you can't sing anymore

nobody hears you

there is a crack

it gapes

it grows

it's familiar

the severed

skin

the heavy

heart

the wine

the whisky

the

same old song

you sing

static

Does the fact that I started listening to commercial radio
mean I'm brain dead
or wanting to be brain dead?

It all started when I became a commuter this year
in my mini van
with an old cassette player
and not much else

I ALWAYS listen to KDNK
public radio
community access
volunteer deejays
National Public Radio news
All Things Considered
Democracy Now
All that shit
on the "far left" of the dial
in all ways
I love it
I went to Washington D.C.
because of it
to protest the war
because I heard the voices
the stories
the madness of it all

everyday
in the morning
afternoon
and night

public radio and me


Then I started driving
I got impatient
distracted
unconcerned with anything outside
my bubble
Amy Goodman's "War and Peace report" made me want to scream
it doesn't go with driving
up and down valley

and

I wanted to sing along
as loud as I could


So I changed the channel
seek-seek-seek-seek
KCUF, KAJX, KJYE, KKCH "The Choice",
KMTS, KSNO, KSPN,
Jack FM "We Play What WE Want"

What what what

Two of hearts Two hearts that beat as one Two of hearts I need you, I need you...
You got the right stuff, baby, Love the way you turn me on
Chaka, Chaka, Chaka, Chaka Khan Chaka Khan, Chaka Khan, Chaka Khan Chaka Khan,
let me rock youLet me rock you
Drinking my vodka and lime, I look around,
Leaves are brown, And the sky is a hazy shade of winter.
Sweet dreams are made of this Who am I to disagree? I travel the world And the seven seas--Everybody's looking for something.
Anything you want You got it Anything you need You got it Anything at all You got it Baby
People are people so why should it be You and I should get along so awfully So we're different colours And we're different creeds And different people have different needs It's obvious you hate me Though I've done nothing wrong I never even met you So what could I have done I can't understand What makes a man Hate another man Help me understand
Oh no We gonna rock down to Electric Avenue And then we'll take it higher Oh
Six o' clock already I was just in the middle of a dream I was kissin' Valentino By a crystal blue Italian stream But I can't be late Cause then I guess I just won't get paid These are the days When you wish your bed was already made It's just another manic Monday
She's got a smile that it seems to me Reminds me of childhood memories Where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky Now and then when I see her face She takes me away to that special place And if I stared too long I'd probably break down and cry
Sweet child o' mine Sweet love of mine
Burning the ground I break from the crowd I'm on the hunt I'm after you I smell like I sound I'm lost and I'm found and I'm hungry like the wolf
Come over here All you got is this moment The twenty-first century's yesterday You can care all you want Everybody does yeah that's okay So slide over here And give me a moment Your moves are so raw I've got to let you know I've got to let you know You're one of my kind
My my my music hits me so hard Makes me say "Oh my Lord" Thank you for blessing me With a mind to rhyme and two hype feet It feels good when you know you're down A super dope homeboy from the Oaktown And I'm known as such And this is a beat uh you can't touch
I swear I won't tease you Won't tell you no lies I don't need no bible Just look in my eyes I've waited so long baby Now that we're friends Every man's got his patience And here's where my ends I want your sex
I want your.....sex

noise noise noise

fills up the empty space and I sing along at the top of my lungs.
I seek.
I scan.
I avoid all I can: the commercials, the news, the world wide web of problems and bombings and recessions and foreclosures and death and dying and liars and leaders and injustice and hope and conservative talk show hosts.

Commercial radio numbs the brain with constant noise
but its got a beat

"We can dance if you want to," he sings. " We can leave your friends behind cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance well they're no friends of mine..."

It makes you want to dance
and sing
instead of
rage
against
the
machine.

Doo-wap a doo-wap

Welcome to the jungle, baby
Watch it bring you to your shun n,n,n,n,,n,n,,n,n,n,,n,n,,n
knees,
knees

I wanna watch you bleed.

Drive while you can

Max tells me
"drive while you can"
after he tells me he's seen my van
parked at the yoga studio dayafterdayafterday.

It is probably six blocks away from my bed,
the studio,
just far enough to fire an engine and bring
some pistons
an air filter
exhaust
transmission
ball bearings
brakes
and the like

to life.

With what?

OIL, of course.
Marvelous, wondrous, viscous
OIL


I love it, when it comes in convenient packages, like lip balm
lotion
even clothes,
like fleece.

You know we are surrounded by oil
products derived from oil
from shoes to flooring
we would be
could be
nearly naked
without it.

OIL
OBSESSION

Start the car
heat the house
wash the clothes
fuel the factories
the food
the farms
even

until it's all gone
or too expensive to buy
to drive six blocks when
you could walk
or ride
a bike

BIKE
OBSESSION

coming soon.

But for now, Max says
"drive while you can."

So, anyone want a ride?

except

Nothing to write about
except
that my husband
Spencer
is not a dirtbag.
I told him it was a compliment,
that I said that.
Dirt bag
dirt bag
dirt bag.
MMmmm, makes me hot,
just thinking about a guy who could give a shit,
who showers less than once a day
who is wonderful and marvelous
and under appreciated by a society of
Gucci-Glam-Gorgeous
guys
who wear loafers
and couldn't survive in the woods for one
second
while Spencer,
who really is a dirt-bag hero,
Kung-foo kills a vicious micro biotic malady with his pocket-sized water filter
quenches his thirst and then
fights off a bear
with his hands
and then cracks a beer and a smile
popping up his two-person dome tent
as the sun sets
the sky turns pink
and the rocks glow
all around
he waits for the girl of his dreams to walk right into his life/
tent

which she does

and she always takes off her shoes before she crawls in

because even dirt-bags
have some standards
to live by

usually quite high
and mighty
and completely different
than what you might think

beer 2 yoga 0

It's a tough choice
between what seems to be
immediate
relaxation
of the mind
and and and
whatever you call
that total relaxation of the mind body spirit
thing
I think it's yoga
it always wins

but not tonight

beer 2
yoga 0

It's going to be a total shutout tonight
the crowd goes wild

La luna llena

The full moon penetrates
swollen like an overdue pregnant belly
the orb pushes through the fabric of the grey-blue sky

Stars disappear in her wake
she radiates

women from Rome to Moscow
feel the pull in their belly
right above their legs

it pulls
screams

howls.

what's your husband worth? (a true story)

"My husband is worth... 22 million," this lady whispers to me, after asking, "Where do people with money like to go out to eat in Aspen?"

She is what we call the nouveau rich, married into it, late in life, third husband is the charm.
My dad always told me "It's just as easy to fall in love with a rich guy," I tell this lady, who is so visibly pleased to be joining the upper crust. "But I never found that to be true," I say recalling all of my dirt-bag-mountain-climber-river-rafting partners.

She is getting her first massage, ever
because now she has money.
Woo-hoo.
"What do I do?" she asks me as she looks at the table.
I tell her to take off all her clothes, lay down and shut up (not quite like that).
She compiles.

Once down, she settles in quite quick and starts telling me all about her life.
Grrreat!
She was once a dental hygienist, she's got some kids, she lives in a Huuuge house on the California coast, she really thinks she ought to try doing yoga, maybe even hire a personal trainer, and, "this massage feels so good," she says, "I think I'll get my own massage therapist!" She even confesses, as if I care, that she used to ride "clipless" pedals when she dated an actual real bonafide ski bum from Breckenridge in the 1980s and she smoked pot all the time.
"I was so crazy then," she recalled.

"So crazy," I think wondering if she's gotten a boob job and Botox yet or if the marriage and money is still as fresh and new as she makes it seem.

"Now, I don't have to worry about money," she says again, "should I get the cellulite scrub?" she asks.

"It couldn't hurt," I reply checking out her thighs.

She is really loving the massage, commenting over and over and over again how it is so marvelous and wonderful and the like.
She asks, "How often do people with money get massages?"
I tell her she should get one everyday.
Job security for me, and she must be a good tipper, I think.
At the end, she says, "That was unbelievable," as I walk out the door.
Before she leaves the spa, she whispers, "I left something on the bed for you, sweetie."

"Cool," I thought, "a tip from someone who knows what its like NOT to be rich."

And then there I see it, a crumpled $10 bill lying on the bed. "Ewww, I felt so used."
How quickly the nouveau rich forget what it is like to be on the other side of the divide.

My dad was wrong, it's not just as easy to fall in love with a rich guy. Rich guys attract chicks like this, not people like me.
Money is wasted on the rich. The upper crusty fuckers who can't even peel more than ten bucks out of thier tight wadded fingers for the best and only full body bliss they ever had.
I'll take my bearded, PBR drinkin', debt-ridden dude any day over a stuffed gut $22-million-dollar-man. And I'll give that ten bucks to the next waitress that serves me a plate, even if it only costs $1.99.
Share the wealth while you can, the recession of the century is coming soon to a country near you, ready to strip us all down, til we're all buck naked and broke.
I know how to dance like that,
do you?

Ripple

There is this girl
who lives inside
her eyes were blue-green
her skin fair
while I am dark and tan
eyes like night.
She was my sister
gone before me
her name is my name,
now.
I carry her with me
everyday,
giving her a chance to live,
to be more than five-years-old.
To be wild
out-of-control
exuberant
broken
nasty
bitchy
radiant
a teacher
a writer
a friend
drunk
stoned
clear-headed
focused
loved

alive.

I found these pants
today
in my closet
that I wore to Glen's funeral
not so many years ago.
He was an activist
a pilot
a father
husband
friend

When I fly through the sky
I think he's there,
out there,
and when I think i am small
insignificant
I think of him,
his life,
so short, but strong.
His light
lives on.

Russel and Damon,
I feel you in the waves,
the water,
the roaring currents that push towards the sea.
That unrelenting force
of the rivers
that lives within me,
in that, I feel your hearts beat,
your spirits sing
again and again.

Those who have come and gone
the energy of life continues
every
day
all over
in water
in blood
in miracles
in lessons
in understanding
in my life
in yours.

Always
a pulse

a ripple

Roses

The butcher's wife
is living alone,
after more than
fifty years

of caring
of sharing

of being a wife
a mother .

Now,

she sits alone
at the window
looking out
to the garden...

She misses him,
everyday.

"Daddy", she called him,
and she needed him
to take care of her

she thought.

The roses
are blooming now
her friends are calling
her family visits.
She still loves to dance
and play games
and get out
into the sun,
the pool.
She knows everyone
around
and talks
and talks and
talks
as she walks.

She is living alone,
now

he's gone.

She is still the butcher's wife

but still so full of life.

What next?

Then you look into her eyes and notice
there is
something there
that draws you in;
it's a song,
emanating from the doorway,
like smoke.

It speaks to you.

It's so late;
everyone
else
is going home.
You don't even notice the formality of goodbye -
walking in,
blind,
to see
where it is coming from:

whose lungs

whose heart

whose eyes

sparkling from the deep
with a reckless belief
that there is hope.

There is life.
There is love.

Here

Now

Come in.

I want to dance like a Dominican

This guy tells me, as he’s laying down naked in front of me,
"Americans live to work, Dominicans work to live."
"Americans are so boring," he continues as I rub my hands up his leg,
"They go to sleep just as we would be heading out on the town.
We stay up til three in the morning dancing."
After I finish him off, I say, "I think you’re right. Americans are pretty boring."
Then I leave.
After working more than five hours straight doing massage, I’m exhausted.
It’s New Years Eve and I can’t even be sure I’ll make it out tonight.
Sleep sounds good.
I’ve been working a lot lately.
That was Juan, from the Dominican Republic, just one of about 40 Dominicans visiting Snowmass over the holidays. I rubbed a bunch of them and noticed - from Maria, the mom who could care less about skiing, but was having a ball, to Martin, the mammoth mass of flesh who was so excited he woke up yesterday on the beach and today was in the snow - that Dominicans seemed pretty stoked on life.
"We are basically a happy people," explained Jose, a long, lanky, hairy man with a kind face and lots of questions.
I work my fingers up and down his neck. He smiles.
"To really understand the attitude of my people you have to go back in history," he says when I inquire why it is that these islanders seem to be so contented.
"We’ve had a difficult history, with a lot of struggles. So we appreciate where we are. And the people are mainly a mix of Spanish, White and Black," he says referring to what he called the Mulatto mix of a majority of Dominicans, making them an attractive light-brown-colored people.
"Because of our history, and the mixed race of the people and the climate, I think people are very accepting of what comes," he explained.
I wondered if we would be happier, more content, in America, if we were a majority Mulatto. The issue of race certainly wouldn’t be such an issue.
Imagine in Carbondale if we were all mixed; instead of saying the elementary school is 80% Latino and 20% Anglo, it would just be 100% kiddos who all need and deserve a good education. Just a thought. But what language would they speak?
I digress.
Jose runs a hotel in the Dominican Republic, on the beach, of course.
His skin is tan, that makes him seem healthy. It reminds me of my recent trip to Hawaii where I was sporting such a deep dark tan from my days on the beach.
That made me happy.
Jose seemed happy, too. Not to mention friendly, but not too friendly if you know what I mean. Just nice.
Happy.
But, the climate, the history, the race, that’s the formula to this generally gleeful group of guests?
Hmmm, I thought, is that all? I dug my elbow into Jose’s hamstrings.
Jose speaks on, muffled by the face rest where his head is supported.
"And the music. Anywhere you go in the Dominican Republic, if people hear the music - the Salsa, the Merengue - they stop what they’re doing and they start dancing," he says and I can tell he’s smiling by the tone of his voice.
"They can be working in the hotel and if the music comes on they drop everything.
The music is inside of them. They have to dance."
That’s it. The music. They dance all night. They stop work; they dance.
I’m sure if they are having an argument, after 20 years of marriage and three boys left home and off in college and money is tight, mama and papa Dominican can make up with a simple "step-touch-step", and a swing of the hips. It brings their bodies together and brings them right back to the day they met, in the hotel. She was a maid, he was a waiter, who cares how many beds to make, orders to take; the music is on. They feel it in their bones. She is wrapped up in him, just for a moment... then, the beds, the food.
People who work to live, will live.
People who live to work, will work.
"Living" is optional.
I want to learn to dance like a Dominican.
Anybody care to dance?

Rollin' in the XLT

Yo Yo

Rollin in my XLT
that's the extended version,
like an extra long BLT,
but better.
My ride is green like choco mint ice cream
she screams
up and down that valley highway
82
me and my crew.
It's Chachi and Zorro
Black and white bitches
sucking air out the window
they've got me in stitches.
I laugh when I see their lips flapping,
nostrils flaring
all the Audi, Benz and Volvo moms are glaring
cuz i drive real slow
watching the clouds float by, you know
as I roll in my XLT,
up and down this valley wide
the time I have just seems to slide
listening to public radio
or maybe even an old school cassette
playing with my phone, fumbling with a barrette
nothing works right
the van is a fright
"Kids don't look, the windows are tinted"
"And I can tell the drivers' eyes are squinted!"
Nothing but trouble
extended version and in the bubble
Nowadays I ride to and fro
earning my means
in a car that screams,
"I don't give a shit about the car I drive, dude!"
"Please don't stare it is so rude!"
I'm just hoping to survive this rush hour madness
and not give into the sadness
as I see each and every lonely soul
with all their gadgets
trying so hard to look cool.
I'm so far from that,
just me and the dogs, maybe a cat
cruising in the XLT,
for all to see.
Official Forest Service green
she is (We got such a deal!)
a lean, mean machine
charging through the snow
making people laugh
and smile

Yo YO

I think she'll be around a while.

Write more

Write more
think less
worry more
about nothing
worry less
about her
him
think less
waste away
the best you can
wish more
create more
be more
store more
bring blood
to your brain
wash
think more
heavy now
be more
bore less
create more
be more

for
me.