...sing me a Love song....

So i'm spending lots of time with Durga these days.  ya' know.  that lovely Hindu deity who straddles tigers and lions as her primary form of transportation, fights demons in her spare time, knows her way around a sword and can counter all resistance with the heat and concentration of pure, unadulterated LUUUUVVVV.  not that ooey-gooey saccarchin shit but the type that can Move MOUNTAINS.  Yeah.  that kind.

so.  we're hanging.  she and me.  she's occupying a little corner of my schmancy roll-top desk my parents just bequeathed me.  casting me a sidelong glance with that celestial glimmer of hers' each time i look up to take a breath, or take a look around.  incline my head for a mini burst of inspiration.  and she meets me.  this paper depiction of righteousness, beauty and strength.  and we do a breathy little tango, she and I....  me inhaling her image, her symbols, her reminders and remembrances...  maybe even a smidgeon of her girly-hurly-burly strength.... her guts and grandness.  borrow a snippet of her generosity.  and grace.  and she emits a low Hummmmm.....  somewhere between Eartha Kitt and Muddy Waters....  cuz any goddess -pal 'o mine, she knows her way around the blues....  and she lends me her freedom, her heaven, touching down to my earth...  a small sip of her air... reminding me that it's the same stuff I've got swirling in and around me.  if only i would care to remember.  once more.

the great Natalie Goldberg does this lovely thing to combat the naggings, war-mongering, and endless oscar-the-snappy-ass-drunken-grouch rumblngs of the Inner Critic.  Craft yourself a sweetheart.  A person, real or imagined, or a gorgeous compilation of all the high holy aspects you can name of all the souls of this world, or any other, who fill your heart with JOY.  Give 'em gusto.  Give 'em balls.  Or better - tits.  and a fabulous caboose.  grant them the voice of a young and hopeful Judy Garland, an aged to perfection Nina Simone, a sinewy Martha Graham, Mother Theresa and your dear Aunt Marilyn.  Roll them into some holy, omnipotent alchemy - able to combat the demons of inadequacy and fear, impotence and anxiety - melt them with a single honeyed tone or crumbling, benevolent glance.  Infuse them with all the Mirth and Gusto they could want, in order to lay that cat-calling jerk-face wildebeast you've been taking orders from these umpteen years past in a bed of its' own shame.  She can tell 'em all to go to hell.  and you can help them pack their bags.

Cuz that Chorus of Woe - who've been humming their endless tune of mockery and smug mediocrity - turns out they're just sitting there.  chain-smoking and squinting atop creaky, fold-up metal chairs.  Their seats are cold and hard.  Their feet chained to where they lay.  And they're always more than happy to have you in the mix.  mired in your own thick shit.  or theirs'.

And so you choose a Singer - whose voice can drown out all the rest.  A song so sweet and flowing, your feet begin tap-tapping....  your heart again to beat...  the breath coming heavy in your chest, your stomach and toes.

And She drives a sweet ride, this Singer of Yours - maybe a lion or tiger - my oh my - a cherry moped or a ten-speed bike - and she beams and offers you a LIFT.  and quietly extends a HAND....

and maybe it's not all so very grand as Myths and Deities.  Maybe your Honey prefers jeans and Top 40.  and maybe rides the Bus.

But how good to know... you've got a Sweetheart - in there - out there.  Somewhere.  Ready.  Whenever you decide to look.....

...step-ball-change...

I'm in the market for a teacher.  For a few in fact.  On this, the tenth day of the 14th year of the century, I find myself in a unique and possibly brilliant place.  I am admitting my finite skills, knowledge, my lack of expertise.  Although there are days when I believe myself to be posessed of some greater intuition which renders actual practical learning secondary, I am determined that this year is the one to say poo-poo to that notion.  Get my butt back in the learner's seat, my head back in the beginner's mind schoolyard, momentarily set aside all I think I know about walkin' and get down on the floor - and crawl.  Nice and slow like.  Inhale the carpet, notice the texture in between the tiles, re-acquaint myself with the ground.

chart a slow course to the sky ...

There is something incredibly liberating about this willing self-abasement.  By positing the notion that perhaps, I do not know everything... I once again open a window, a big, creaky door, or hell, I might just be blowing the whole damn roof off my now too-small hobbit hole.  There may be a great open sky right above me - filled with light and stars and galaxies my mind has never to explore.  I only needed the proper hands to direct my sight.  The proper set of spectacles rendered by an expert opthamologist.

I guess it all depends on where you want to go.  If I'm happy to stay enmeshed in my little hillside hovel, crouched down beneath the same dank ceiling, vacuuming the same damn floor day and again, re-arranging the furniture and acquiring a new plant or two to brighten the dump then hey.  More power to me.  But if, like now, at the dawn of this new Gregorian juncture, when newness beckons its' opportunites on each corner, and I feel the urge to let the the codes and catechisms I've put to memory move aside in favor of a few (hundred) new folds in the brain...it's time.

a none too original cry but again...

...If not now then When?....

For there are books I want to write.  Languages my tongue is tickling acquire.  I want to not be a big dummy about money.  I want to know what it's like to have a strong circle of really, truly rad, radical, deeply human and gorgeous girlfriends.  I want to stand in the middle of the living room on my own damn head. And then stand on my hands, an elbow and maybe the delicate skin of a forearm or two.  Rinse, wiggle, Repeat.

I want to write dialogue that doesn't suck.

I want standing up in front of a crowd, reading a snippet of my songs or wails or storms or poetry, with a well-tuned ukulele in my hand - I want it to be commonplace, like taking the dog out for a walk, peanut butter sandwiches and saying, "I Love You".  Just another shade of thread in the ever-rich, developing tapestry of my One Wild Life.

I want to speak French beyond the level of a drunken kindergartener.

I want to know what it is to be a woman of strength, beauty, great character, tenacity and grit.  And maybe it'd be nice to have a couple folks or so see me rock that role for a minute or two. ...

I want to throw away the playbook and the script I've been sloggedly-monkey-type-typing for the last 30-sum years and step out into the wide open place where maybe Anything.. can happen.

I wannna stand there in the middle and throw out a hand to someone, anyone else - who maybe needs a little nudging in the direction of that Beautiful, Bright Beyond-ness... and maybe share a dance step or two I've learned along the way...

But for now.

My feet are tapping.  My heart is ready.
I am holding out my hand.

Ready to foxtrot, tango, tapdance or fly.

And I'm on the lookout for those someones who can come and show me how.

I'm trolloping the pavement. I'm knockin' on doors.  I'm sounding the call.  But in the meantime...

If you see them out there, positing their particular brand of brilliance, oh won't you please...

Send 'Em Down My Way.