Date: 20110415

Location: ERC

Author: Zak B. me

Prompt: “Measure Up”

“Hand me the spatula.  Now is the time to taste what is.

No measuring up.”  comes from a poem by a Marin poet which Zak used as the inspiration for the following piece.

Pure pleasure.  As a child seeing Christmas and knowing this is the only house in the world and I am the only one getting presents.  The concept of pure thought or a universal truth blows away any thought of the beyond this room this moment, this corner of the forest this rainstorm.  The realization that here I sit in a theater and I have to shake off the performance to remember what city I am in, and  who drove to the show.  Was it me this time?  Both scary and beautifully transcendent, the realization that I just experienced something on the stage on the screen that suspended, if only temporarily, my world beyond these walls.  The ability to unlink and fluidly hook back into the part of my life that affects other people is a true luxury, and at the same time a necessity if I will move, as I desire to do, to the next level of consciousness, again, if only temporarily.  Breathe in, breathe out.  Sometimes I forget to remember that is all I need to do just right now.  Every now so often, food and water, and sleep are a good idea, but not key right now.  Breathe in, breathe out.  On a personal note, when I go jogging, I get to choose the pace of my breath.  All I need to do right now when I run is collision avoidance and breath regulation.  No need to measure up to anybody else’s pace.  I cannot.  I must keep my own pace or I will fall away.  I learn what it is to hot dog for some spectator or to lose my own pace to try to dance down the field with someone who does a faster mile pace.  I must, as the poem says, “taste what is.”

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Untitled

by Alexandra Loonin

Would you share your story with me, world? här hemma, om jag vågar törs jag öppna dina dörrar? dina läppar vaggar mig till sömns och tårar söker synas vid den rena tanken. en lila, silverskimrande strömvirvel organiserar fritt flöde i mitt bröst.

But how would you ever understand me, is something I don't need to know. you already know that, you already know me. it's I who dare not to look at you for more than a moment.
Sometimes, if I call you the Fair Lady, you seem somewhat closer. I long to sit down and talk to you in our language utan ord och mening. krama dina händer som de kramar snön som rinner under jackan. någon placerade den där, mellan min hud och krage, kanske var det jag som ville döva. kanske var det du som ville att jag skulle lära känna dig där med. att känna där känseln försvunnit.

Yes, perhaps you wanted me to feel something where my skin is numb so you cooled me down in snow and waited for appearance. just like you smile at me when I look up to meet them - the eyes of a stranger. the eyes of self.
   sluta inte, sluta inte, släpp inte taget jag är inte redo än men du släpper inte du ställer dig och väntar. på att jag ska blunda. och säga hej. open your arms in a spiritual way, you open your arms for me to fall into. I let go of the ground and discover I was never on it. you were there like you are here and behind my back for you are me and all of them Ive never talked to.

You are the songs I dont know and the melody I sleep to. I am your mother, I am your god. I am the Fair Lady and everything you shake to. This finger tapping at a paper in a city somewhere is nothing less than what it's supposed to be and a material body can be seen as light. I saw it. Subconsiously. in your voice.

jag vill inte sluta ändå lockar sömnen mig. på väg ut genom grottan är ljuset för starkt för att se. gömmer jag mig i språkbruk eller kliver jag över murar? tillbaka till världen igen. tillbaka till sakerna igen. spade, cement, taggtråd, jordgubbar, snöflingor, träplankor, Nalle Puh, Bamse och Brummelina. färger man kan ta på, färger man kan se, färger i ett spektra och färger i regnbågens lejonman. jag ser de. jag hör de. i dig. i oss. Right now.