Eat Pray Love

A night with my daughter led to diving into the movie Eat, Pray, Love starring Julia Roberts. I have been waiting to see this movie - attracted mainly by the title itself and ofcourse knowing Roberts will always deliver a worth seeing performance.

Verdict? It was enjoyable with a couple thought provoking moments. Honestly, I waited for "the moment" to happen. I felt a glimpse of what it would be like to be in Italy, the architecture, the food, the language, and the people. A travelogue with a few intimate flings to spice up the "find myself" journey. My favorite part is just the dreaming of being on the trip she was taking. Maybe that was the point. From the point of being numb and unexcited about life to exploring and expanding personal limitations to spark the life back into the day. I can understand that. I can appreciate that. But honestly, I expected more. Will watch it again. Just because I did expect more and feel jilted.

So, as for my life. I am confident with the day if I have faced it with a hint of passion. The days that scare me is when I see the end and all the in between is just that "grey filler" that means nothing because it will end when I end.

I went to the library yesterday and browsed the poetry anthologies for something that would jump out and awaken something in me. Taking out aged hard covered Elliot, crisp Atwood, and colorful names I had never heard of. Then, there she was, Anne Sexton Complete Poems. I had heard the name and wanted to explore more women authors. How did they handle their crazy. I continued the evening being a taxi and waiting in my little black bucket of bolts reading the introduction to Sexton's work. A history of a troubled sucidal woman who dared to spill her confessionals during a time when women's secrets were just that - secret. A natural flowing string of words devulging her love affair with death - specifically her own death. The scary realization is I relate to so much of her life and why she writes. She wrote to survive, to live, to stop from wanting to kill herself. I don't relate to the woman who walked with a barbie doll presence or the middle class view on the world. I relate to the loneliness and death that seemed to consume her days and led to her eventual suicide. I have walked with this cloud over me and survived with scars from my own attempts to escape my chaotic mind. But I did come out from that storm. I struggle each day to keep from drowning in my own mind. So I write.

Eat, Pray, Love....I guess that is a good start. I like the title. A morning cup of coffee, a plate of breakfast 'something', and cigarette while being an observer from my kitchen window. I may not have Paris today but I smiled. I smiled because I still feed. I still crave for candy apples and flavored coffee. I still yearn for the knowing only spiritual awareness can provide. I still can shed a 'real' tear when a child cries. I can still dream of being loved and sharing love. Yes. That's a good start for the day.
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And I Write

I now have 44 pages of 'poetry' or strings of words that vary in stream and rhyme. Must not sabotage this move forward.

I never know when the moment will arrive. In that moment I write and even I don't believe it came from me.

Not much the hand wants to type today in generalities. I want to edit and write more strings.

Key: Write. Write. And write some more. No thought to the direction but once the direction arrives flow into it with no restriction. No editing. No correcting or deflowering the freedom of the unfolding journey of writing.

Being Alive!

The mornings are my favorite time of day. I love the feeling of coolness and quiet in the kitchen. The scent of brewing of coffee and sweetgrass smoke triggering childhood memories - those good memories.

This morning, I lay with eyes closed attempting to convince myself of the reasons why I should get up. No job. Goals lined in failed attempts. Broken dryer. Piles of laundry. Plans replayed and never realized. Promises made and not kept. Teenagers in drugs. Teenagers dropping out of school. Teenagers dropping back into school. My son calls me a hypocrite. My grandson tells me he hates me. My daughter isn't speaking to me. My other daughter is pregnant 'again'. Where did my son get that money last night? Were the police watching the house? He hates that I think that of him. My bed is broken. I am sleeping on the couch again - where my grandson wet in his sleep. I am gaining my weight back. I am afraid to exercise. I am afraid to take risks. I have many good intentions. I do more in my head than in my physical reality. I am still struggling to make ends meet. I dye my hair. I can't look in the mirror. My grandson barely knows how to read. The world will never know me. I will never know the world. How is my mother? My brother sent me sixty dollars. Will I lie to get money? Will I drink like that again? The closet needs cleaning. The window needs fixing. The door needs repairing. The screens need replacing. Can't avoid looking poor. The city is filled with racists with a voice. I don't have a job. I can smell the coffee. I can smell the sweetgrass. I can hear ...... the mornings are so beautiful. I am here. And no matter what I still care, want, need, plan, love, smile, and face the morning. I am grateful for all of it. That's what being alive means.