Astral Ostrich

I teach what I feel best about; and that's home.

The only culturally specific chant I know is an uneven cry amounting to a quiet scream.

I am angry with myself for allowing a homeless man to briefly watch pornography on my computer.  I have no couth, no modulation in my relations with others.  No one will teach me how to develop it or where it comes from. 

Lesbians change.

The Goddess changes.

I have tried to embrace the beauty in life that so much of what is culturally transmitted attempts to hide.

Please understand that a poem that fails to believe in its own beauty is a way to coldness.

I am trying at the same time to integrate myself, to integrate the world around me, and to separate myself from that which seems to be destructive as well as separate what does not seem to me to belong together. 

This began as an intellectual project, but now I understand that without putting life first, it can become prelude to horrible destructive acts.  I just wanted to go back to myth, in my own life and in my intellect, to undo the separation between poetry and philosophy that Plato introduced into our "civilization."  Now I am clinging to the shreds of wholeness that remain.

You probably want to stop reading what I am writing.  Before I go, let me simply let go of the sick pressure to communicate in coherent language what must first emerge from spirit, feeling and love.

I hope you will read this and not think it a total regression.  I've attempted that also.  It does not work, leading only to a self-enclosed entity without outward activity or inward awareness; in other words, a kind of death.

Say, how about them artist softball players?

You know that it's okay today because no one is making my anger anything but a distraction from hope and not an unbearable and inescapable wrath a la Jehovah.

May your awareness of your life give you pleasures great and small.

The River is Dreaming

I oblige you no longer.

This song flows with embers from a melting rock;
It is cold as the peace by which trammeled opposites search for honor's desired unity.

(Famine will sell its bonds even to occult guides, giving
No reason to like pain, which runs to asherah with lowered jaws.)

Pockets of acrimony are left for me to inspect.
Because they do not suffice, I pour art into
Streams wandering the abyss.

The auk framed her extinction with a soft murmur; I stay to give fists to my hopes.

I'm leaving today

These are the words that Mr. Frank Sinatra sang in the intro to the famous New York, New York anthem.

I have done the reverse.

It is becoming more unlikely that I will move back. I finally did a pro and con list about the very subject and realized that the only reason to move would be to fulfill my distended ambitions.

Yet somehow I wish to see people with whom I have had so much love.

These same people seem to think that I would be making a mistake even to visit and that the irritability quotient might be too high. I have to remember this and take it into account.

I do not believe I belong here either.

There really isn't much to say right now.

I am encouraged to note that the NY Times doubts Sarkozy will win. Maybe something positive will take place in Europe.

Pointless.

Anyhow, let's all be considerate today of the birds and the bees and the flowers and the trees.

Embarrassing to admit, but I really am soft on the Goddess. I think she does a lot that brings out the best in people and in me.

Salut,

Julia M.

Amber Palooka

Flying

Dean aisle.

You know?

Anywho, the art is tic (etc.) trials that I have undergone have certainly become tedious. I am now becoming more interested in teaching the tribulations that judgment produces in those who have become party to peace.

Peace has been my underlying value for so long, but now I have managed to bring to it various self-tortures and a great distance from any practical change. I take this to mean that I have isolated it and myself as an abstract and do not have much of an inkling as where to go from here. Surprise!

None of this matters that much, except that I strive to have some reason to keep on going and to make decisions on things I believe in. Somehow this becomes, "Shit! I'm a crock/crook/c**ehead/c**ks***er!" This too is irrelevant. I thought that if I made anybody love me, then I would make somebody strong. Now it seems that I have made kindness and hope more or less alien. This is not at all my intention. Please, those of you who may have some interest in what goes on in the life and mind of another individual who has played some role in your emotional/intellectual/physical/spiritual self, realize that much change is happening that I believe means that I am on the verge of some degree of healing to the extent that I can be part of the social world that I could not maintain a place in.

Thus always doth a separate existence make attempts to hope.

Secondly, I am hoping also to be safe.

Thirdly, stress with my female progenitor is increasing due to some uptick in her debilities.

Fourthly, may joy and freedom be strong for you.

Reading this over, I realize I have not said much. I will never again be a third wheel. I will never make being strong an excuse for destroying other's peace. As you know, everything that gives one safety is also something that will bring happiness. A straw woman.



Julia M.

Keeping it Real

Since all this atrocity of apollo has made change suck, I say that you are kind and that you have made running too cruel to keep doing.

Every place that is safe brings me love.

Now, I hope you will believe that someone is dreaming of plastic.

Me a woman.

Love,

Julia.

Notes

I really enjoy that new show "Missing." A strong middle aged woman bests her opponents with raw force all the while being in the most glamorous parts of Europe.

Certainly I can identify with some of her attributes.

I have friends who care about me. That has become clear. However, I have not been completely open with all of them about some of the things I have done up until two months ago. I want to assure them that I have not done those things for two months. Further I am committed to taking care of myself because this is the only life I have.

Perhaps there is a way to understand life that does not involve either utter self-abnegation or self-exaltation.

Language of delight.

Dimensions

Americanski?

So little good in this long struggle to say yes to life.

I rode to the limit of belief, rending my freedom to strive for still-arduous bars.

In that place, the crow believes in positive belongings.

I remain deranged as a person with little melody in her cry to save almond
ogres from love.

Because I am po-lite, I will dry my sticks in the flaming of grain, caves and aurochs.

The charge of chameleon salmon is dry to the green trees and the tender flesh.

Seek a POSSIBLE mantra.