Palm of a hand

An object held in the hand flickers in the chest. Palpating. Palpable no more.

Ate from the palm of a hand. Digested. Not passed. Is here. Right here. Pushing. Not out. In.

It is air. It is growth. Can't pass it. Can ride it. Ride it out. Must. Have to.

Have to let it grow past the skin, never leaving. Not there. Is. Is nothing. It will pass.

How to pass nothing. If it were only something.

Right now. Feel nothing more than something. This is good. A bubble of air. A rupturing of time. Host to something bigger. Lost to it. And feeling.

No trigger. Not any more. Not in the palm of a hand.

Etymology of Economy: Public? Or Private?

Economy:
oeconomia = household management
oikonomia = household management
oikonomos = manager, steward
oikos = house
nomos = managing

economic = related to the science of economics
economical = characterized by thrift
Economist = household manager becomes student of political economy
Economy = cheaper then bigger and thus cheaper per unit or amount

I'm feeling a little feministy right now. I choose not to comment.

Fall Flight of Fancy

A fine time for moving. Is the fall. Chafed skin is rubbing my heart raw. I have lived here too long. I am developing allergies. To memory. To my own memories. I have collected too many and they are seeping out of the gaping cracks in my floorboards, itching me like dust mites, and squealing like baked grapes.

I am bored.

I want money. I need it to run. But not away. But I need to run. So I should find somewhere. But where? Wherever it is, I need to run somewhere with money.

Dammit. This is too much.

I want to experience this thing called leisure. I've heard it's really great. Supposedly you can get off the continent on something called a plane. But that takes money.

I guess I'll pour myself a drink of scotch. It's the poor woman's vacation. The busy person's flight of fancy. And it makes me think I am a writer. It's good to dream.

Reading is no longer a vacation.

Make Over

React to beauty like an itchy scab. Fixate on it, toy with it, pick at it - to feel it more - to feel yourself more. Be enrapt in it; wrap yourself up in it.

With beauty, sensory wires cross and perceptions tune into a glossolalia of colour. Words shout out from paintings in this blind state. Beauty is the keenest confusion...if you're open to it. Alert, brilliant, connected, alone.

Beauty washes over in sensory waves. A book. An image. An idea. A person. A street. Fabric and texture. The tone of a conversation heard through an apartment wall. Sensory impression pressing.

Do you fear beauty - fear how it takes you over? Experiencing beauty is not practical or advantageous. Is it? Unless you're an artist, right? Are you one? Beauty: it is weak, it is vapid, it is dumb, it is an infection. Kill it off and you will be successful. Numb.

Here is the question: how can you support yourself on beauty? Beauty doesn't pay the bills. It certainly feels shameful, even harmful, to feel beautiful, think beautifully, see beauty at work. We are educated, cool, and critical, and this is a politic.

But, beauty?

It is an unclaimed politic. Yes, beauty is a politic. And one of the hardest ones to support. There is no party for beauty.

Will you fight for it? Will you bring it to work with you? Let it make suggestions in meetings? Or will you scoff at it and say that it is being silly? Will you share it? Will you take a pay cut to let beauty work with you? Have you? Will You? It is not often that beauty gets equal pay for equal work.

A lazy stoop-sitting evening. An organic urban lull. Sitting in calm, I worry that my vigor is waning; I worry my age will sink me into a catatonic state. How to learn to use this age that I am now. My drive force is switching engines. I can't figure out how to fuel this new power source. I worry that I will become my father--couch-sitting mud baking itself until it can sink down into the primordial ooze.

Supposedly, this evening rocked the kidneys. Yes, a pair of organs were kicking, but it was a pair of organs organized a wee bit lower. It was sobriety meets messy and the bass underneath the beds kept the girl-organs a-bumpin'.

I had gone anticipating a boy. I had let him go to feel the bass. I settled into the glow of my surroundings -- the too drunk and too attached boys dancing on the beds.

This is a part of our city that most do not see. I like it. It is open, without being childish, crass without being bullish.

The periphery is a continual motion machine drawing in the hip and sway of diversity. But, this edge is controlled by centrifugal force. It spits out as hard and fast as it draws in, and it has spun the pioneering crew out beyond its tidy hemline.

All that is left in this spiral-jettied wasteland is an odor. The space that was once made full has now been transformed into a ghostly cipher. There are messages in and around this scented space. The center writes the code for the container. But the scent keeps the space from collapsing. The cast out dwellers have coded a fragrant and malodorous message.

And now a new batch of spirited and witty ones will be selected to sashay into this fringe and the cipher will be once again filled, for a time. Can they pick up on the remnant scents? Can they read it? It contains a warning. How long will it take for the continual motion machine to spit them out?

There periphery is merely a space to temporarily sojourn.