I’ve always thought that expectations tend to lead to disappointment, but after a conversation with a gentleman who’d recently returned from time in the Amazon, I’m realizing that maybe goals are what’s ruining people’s chance at happiness.
The thought of simply living. Doing. Being. It seems to be the greatest freedom of anything I’ve ever heard of. How do we rid ourselves from our mental todo list? Ambition kills contentment, this is for sure. But does contentment kill progress?
It would be fascinating to take a company and ask everyone to quit goals, deadlines, benchmarks, and just show up and do whatever they feel like doing. Like montessori school. Hmmm….
I’d love to experiment with an atitude adjustment of this sort.
Someone whose life’s had as many ups and downs as hers only belonged in a city who could relate. Long legs in high heels made hiking hills easier. But when everything was heading down, well, it was more dramatic and dangerous and certainly a sight to be seen. Leather soles on slippery sidewalks. Survival of the fittest.
San Francisco. We are kindred spirits.
refreshed or lost. a choice in perspective - half full, half empty. a opportunity to start again, ground zero.
one of the most terrifying things is to confess to someone that what you wrote was really about them.
there is a cove where pirates go, where our souls are still connected and our love is true only in innocence. our saturdays when we drive down the hill at dawn on a sugar high. you tell me stories, fairytales, and lies that i trust as true as the ground beneath my feet and the wetness of the air a la june’s misty marine layer that’s encompassed our sleepy beach town morning. with salty hair and sandy toes you make me laugh deep in my belly. i laugh and laugh and laugh through tickle time and impersonations. and my fear of skeletons and pirates returning for buried treasure deep in the caves dissipates with each snicker as the sun burns through the clouds to reveal the summer day.
She begged for affection the same way this blank page begs her to write the words she’d rather swallow than say. or write for that matter.
The latter half of the past three years, she was falling. in. then out. now down. And now, her knees wobbled as she walked, fighting folding beneath the invisible weights on her shoulders. Her eternal optimism opted out tonight. Longing for foggy skies and rainy nights, warm whiskey and williams, she settles for recorded tracks of rain falling on a tent.
Heavy lids protecting her from going stale.
an excerpt from a gchat, giving my sister life advice:
A very blatant destiny lies itself out.
And you say ‘fuck it’ and don’t follow.
And instead of the paved road, you’re walking on gravel.
And dirt and sticks and through brambles,
As only fate would have it.
He wasn’t exactly invited but she was still elated when he arrived. Significantly less than one hundred percent, she nursed him to health and in exchange he stayed loyal to her for a lifetime. She’d bring her face close to his and he’d kiss her nose or lips, gently and right on cue. He’d patiently pose for her frequent photographs and always follow her to bed when she she was ready. Tantrums or tears, it didn’t matter her mood, or when she came home, or how she grew or changed over their lifetime together, she was his girl and he was her kitty. RIP Simba (September 1998- August 6, 2012)
Bright candles and backlit spaces
Cast shadows on familiar faces
Stolen glances with missed chances
She was the one that never was
Her voice drops to a hushed tone
And she tells you she’s made it home
Invites you over for a cup of tea
And slinks about in her lingerie
Tiny tea lights in chandeliers
The subtle glow of forgotten years
Gift of hips and lips winning her trips
She was the best at “yes”
Her voice drops to a hushed tone
And she tells you she’s all alone
Invites you over for a double whiskey
And lights a joint to smoke some weed
Reflected sunlight makes a full moon
Illuminated nights make her swoon
Love or lust, demands “nirvana or bust!”
She took her hedonism out to play
Her voice drops to a hushed tone
And she tells you that she’s all done
Invites you over to collect your things
And hides her tattoo, removes her rings
Lights left off even though she’s home
Blindly navigating the dark’s unknown
The unappreciated art of tortured hearts
She never really needed eyes to see
Her voice drops to a hushed tone
And she asks if you think you’ve grown
Invites you over to fix her mistakes
And clothed conversations ceased heartache
Stark blue skies prompting sun shades
An amber tint brightening her days
Flipping frowns with new proper nouns
How quickly the universe spins.
it only took three days for him to construct a dam in her heart. as the winter ended, their sunny days and cozy nights quickly melted her icy surface, and her rushing rivers of affection stayed put. and he was proud of the a deep and beautiful sparkling lake he created. she invited him take whatever he wanted of her love whenever he pleased, and he did. frequently casting a line to dine on her meat or take a soak in her shallows, he was content. the lake would invite him deeper, but sadly, he didn’t know how to swim, so his time in her water was always limited and he could never go far from shore to enjoy all of the lake’s depth and beauty. he waded cautiously, ankles to knees, knees to waist, and once almost to his chin, before he hurried back to shore. the lake was lonely. there was so much more to explore than a few yards from shore. and while sometimes he would float for hours, he was still shy to really get his head wet. he told the lake that before he could learn to swim, he had mountains to climb. so her lake waited. it waited and waited, and while his fears of drowning festered, he began to focus his time on hiking and hunting. this left little time for fishing and floating, and the stagnate lake filled with algae and silt. he still enjoyed her lake, but it seemed pointless to keep a dam here anymore, so he broke it down and salty sea water rushed in to fill the space the river formerly fed. and he left to climb his mountains. he would make it back one day, but her heart’s become an estuary.
three tequilas on sunday night on her 28th day. she hadn’t put on pants before 11 am for nearly a month now. the daily ache in her heart had dulled to an agreeable state. she had already scheduled her week. monday, book writing. tuesday, work out shoulders and arms. wednesday, paris and poetry. thursday, advertising. friday, belongs to her sister. she walked the street, 6 feet tall, hair flowing like her dress, and sun bronzing her shoulders like it was summer in southern california again.
