A few days ago on one of the yahoo groups I post on, someone commented on a recent poem, I think it was "The Purging." Anyway, the person said that some of the images reminded him of the early days of Everquest. How very ironic, this, a videogame. That most definitely was not the effect I had in mind. But oh well. Live and let live... Let's hope that's as far away from me as possible.
Right now I feel life is like that U2 song, It's a Beautiful Day (don't let it get away) where all these bad things keep happening, but the attitude of the person is not that negatively impacted. I mean I've some material things and just today a source of transportation. But like someone said, when one door closes, a brand new one opens up. I feel I'm on the verge of one of the most exciting times of my life, in the midst of near-poverty. And I'm happy about this. It all comes down to one thing. The things I was so stressed and sad about last night turned out not to be as bad or as final as I thought. At least I hope they stay this way. Keep praying. Strange for me to say since I haven't usually been all that religious in my life. But when things are important you learn to look toward something bigger than the self, and place your desparate hopes there. I really do hope I'm not just fooling myself, but I don't think that's how it is.

Over the weekend: My son convinced my daughter to cut his hair into a mohawk, hmmm. My daughter is going through an unemployment crises, and believing lame interpretations of computer read-outs are personally accurate. Hopefully I convinced her that's not the case.
What else is new... the co-worker who lost her son in the accident finally came back to work. The supervisors say she can stay out of ICU however long she needs to.
The big news we were all supposed to get about our jobs on the 21st never happened. They have delayed it all yet again, this time till Sept. 1. Seems to me they are testing loyalties here. I am so ready to go elsewhere anyway.
I spoke to some people I haven't heard from in a while. A lady I used to work with out at the Groves, the nursing home right across from the hospital. And a friend who lives in Florida. I guess their advice would be valid if they really wanted to know the whole story. I don't know. It seems I'm just stuck in this situation that I want so much to be out of already but every avenue is blocked.

The Purging

I am not running away,
this place is sanctuary
and casts influence
to find consolation alone.
I am not running away.
This is where a shaman
goes to heal the self,
rid the pain of too much loss.
For the journey this time
turns again through an
early September, runs rampant
to a hard ending in November.
It's here, when I'm ready,
when it becomes too great.
I can stare it down, embrace it,
birth it out of me daily if I have to.
Right here on the coolness of sand
where the leaves would have turned
and the boardwalk has been shut down.
I will find no distractions
in placing turquoise, amethyst, rosaries,
bury turtle pins and charm bracelets.
This time it will be Asbury Park
turned my Callanish.

I've been having these dreams lately, that could have a connection to something. I'm almost afraid to find out, but I'd need specifics about certain things in order to be sure. Last Saturday morning - this makes it exactly a week ago. I told a friend at work about the dream itself. Now it just feels very spooky to me if the conditions turn out to be valid ones. Just that fact alone, I mean.

I never told anybody exactly how he did finally leave this world, Shawn Peacher. I didn't hear the details until much later. Well they did eventually "pull the plug" on him. I don't know why that bothers me so much, I just think they could have waited a little longer. I know it's a long shot but people have been known to come out of such a condition. I also never told anybody that once, from right outside his room I actually did see him move, a couple of times. And on one of those times I did find myself holding my breath, thinking that he could very well be taking his last, right then. And I looked around to see if any of the nurses noticed this, and at the same time thinking that machine will start beeping an alert, but that didn't happen. Would it have changed anything if I'd have gone to Debbie and said something - anything. I wanted to, but didn't because it might have been considered an intrusion. It's been said that we "never know what we would do in a certain situation until we actually do it." I was caught up in the moment but backed away after a second thought. How many people have backed away like that in their lives. How much would it have changed, really if they hadn't. So many unanswered questions. Anyway, I wrote the poem "Unspoken" and plan to read it next week, because its another one of those things I feel very strongly about. I've even considered asking a friend who wrote a similar poem if I could read that one too. Well enough morbid scenes for today. This has just been where my mind is at lately.

Because

I would paint you
in shades of silver
and colors of the ocean
to match your moods and
all the beliefs I remember
and fell in love with
when I found you.
I would paint you free
like herds of wild mustang
traveling the great plains,
which thrive in the open.
I would paint you sweet
like grapes in Visalia orchards.
Like the wine, like the songs
I treasure most, because of
what they remind me, Irishman.
I would hang this canvas
in the sky, in the Rockies,
or at the shore, and let you go
because I love you deep.


Bailey
August 21,2003

Surely

Sometimes words are just
simply words
and a poem is just a poem
There are no direct speeches
except now, to myself...
Get over it and on toward the
exist and then live part,
exist and then live, surely
there can be no perpetual
constant one or the other
(That's right, but don't call
me Shirley) Because for now
I've got ten thousand stories
to tell that I'm still not done
living through yet. Because
I will always have
a story to tell... ones of
shooting stars and bears in
the woods, of Sir Ozzy, of
bus fantasies and of what
noise, if any. a tree makes
when it falls alone in the
forest.



hahaha, I'm sure this one doesn't make any sense, and for some reason I felt compelled to put in a quote from Leslie Nielson in Airplane.

I haven't been myself the past couple of days. Maybe its the heat, or stress. Or maybe just my own insecurities. But if I came off sounding unduly urgent to anyone, I sincerely apologize. I have a feeling that things will even out soon enough. And even if they don't, it won't be the end of the world. So now onto the task at hand, which is always a challenge. "I have a story to tell." I need to pick a good one for next Friday. Remembering Moulton? Nah, that's too long. I will come up with something, maybe even something new. Remember this: Spoken Word rules...

Through This

Hope stolen from a
callous soul may cause
it to cry for a day.
Take the hope from
the soul of an empath,
she will never recover.
I still don't understand
What good can come of this.
I'm wearing my insides out,
a reversal of vital emotion
and defenses. Here, these
walls have crumbled and
understanding can no longer
be found when I look for
the vanished meaning
of courage.

The Sound Of His Voice

Today has found me confused
lost, wondering, waiting
wandering, searching
so lost.
What would I be then
without the possibility
of you.
Should have been more
careful in what to wish for
Ask and you shall receive
a flood of heat and desire.
I close my eyes and allow the
images remembered to take hold
and send me transfixed to
another place.
Now that such a gift has
been released in a sense
I know that his pull is
one of pure addiction
that seems to know before
I know myself how badly I
need the sound of his voice
in my ear, that calming effect
for when my thoughts are
working overtime and blocked
words threaten to tumble out
to hang in the air, each batting
against others in a rush of
convoluted meaning only he can
decipher with just a few words
of his own.

Its the worst thing in the world to be blocked from writing. Either from someone sneaking up on you to look over your shoulder, or with all the unwelcome prompts to "hey, check this out.. you gotta see this." I'm afraid. This is too damaging to me, this being here in a situation that's never been what I really wanted. I should have listened to people years ago when they told me this was not the future for me. But I was too stubborn to listen. It was my mom. I should have listened. Now I'm stuck in this terrible rut with no hope of getting out of, save some major disaster, some upheaval. Why should I wait for this now. I deserve living my life the way I want with the freedom to write whatever the words say, no fear of retaliation. This is just another form of control. Home-based censorship. For years I've been trapped like this. Five years too long. I finally get my writing back again, I'm not turning loose of this now. Damn all the having to seek out broken minutes to myself just to be able to write a single line. I'm unsure and afraid, but I know all my words are true. That has to count for something. I'm afraid that the concept of patience has run out, leaving me to wonder how could I handle this. My one much needed source of courage has vanished. What could I be now without that possibility. I am so close, I can't give up on this. Don't give up on me.

Today finds me confused,
so lost, wandering, waiting
searching, lost
What would I do
without the possibility
of you.

I've been kind of busy this weekend, trying to keep up with all the messages and ideas everybody's throwing out to everyone else, about the group. I was so excited about doing all this, I think I got way ahead of myself and started my own group. I think it'll be ok, though. I won't be trying to take anyone from the original group. I'd rather keep mine small, to keep more of a close-knit feel to it. I've seen some really good poets on Xanga, so that's where I plan to go for membership. So if anyone's interested, feel free to visit baileys_java_cafe at yahoo groups.
Well after spending all this time on the internet, I feel kind of blah today for some reason. It might be the heat. I think it got up past 102 today. And no relief for tomorrow either. At least there's a window unit and a fan here. I wonder if everybody finally got their power back on in the east, out toward New York and other areas. I sure hope so. And hope everyone's still doing ok.

A day of shopping and filling out employment applications yesterday, for my daughter and son, respectively. At the "Center" looking for school clothes and underwear. Hahaha... I dare anyone to ask "dun Laoghaire" what she wore on her head in the car while driving, at least half the way home. I was kind of embarassed but at the same time laughing so hard... It was craziness, I tell you, these young whippersnappers today, having fun. What's the world coming to? The two older ladies in the car next to us gave a shocked look, the one in the passenger seat covered her eyes. Oh the shame, the shame. But the way I see it, my daughter can do anything she wants. I know for certain that she is not on drugs, not wanting to be in a gang, not going out and having sex, not stockpiling weapons to shoot up a school, not drinking and driving or any of those things you hear in the news. My daughter has become a free spirit, but with a responsible attitude, a decent concience and I'm very proud of her, even if she does *giggle* occasionally wear a thong bikini for a hat on the way home from the mall.

Time and Trepidation

When you hear them say
time heals all, remember that
they've only forgotten
how time can also obliterate
a near lifetime
of memory and belief,
a faith, a path, a wonderment
at what was thought lost forever
is now being rediscovered slowly
and deeper, deeper I fall into
the chasm of uncertainty.
As unattainable as you are
at this moment, and as mysterious
as I can be without meaning to be
and avert my gaze against the
possibility of missing some precious
something presented so full and so
real but not yet surely within my
grasp. Yes, at this moment I am
afraid the time will come I will
have been erased because of my
fear of yet more loss and failure.

A lady at work was telling all of us at break this morning about a freaky experience she had up on 4 North. That's part of a separate wing, way at the other end of the hospital. The 4th floor of the North tower is used for long term patients, some even bedridden. Well she was in a patient's room cleaning it, and she thought she was asleep, she heard her breathing and everything but she kept smelling roses from in the room, so here she's looking around for these flowers and there's none in there. So she goes and checks some of the other rooms for the source and none of them have any flowers at all. But every time she came back into that room there was a strong scent of roses. She finished cleaning and went on to the next few rooms. Then found out a little later that the lady had just died. And the realization that she was in there working either right before or during. That would be freaky just by itself. But how do you explain the rose smell in the room at the time? She says it had to have ben someone coming for her to take her to heaven. I have heard stories like that before how somethin like that can happen right before a person dies. This one is pretty tame, compared to some I've heard. I don't know whether or not I believe in them. But now that I think back, not one person I've heard relate such a story has ever had a reason to lie about it. So there must be something to it.

Work went at a steady pace yesterday. I really like when it's like that, it just seems to make the entire day go faster. I was in the ICU area, and probably will be today. I'm glad that they moved so many out to another floor, it just means they're getting better - that's always good news.
Also got an invite to join the moderators in one of the yahoo poetry groups I'm in. It seems they want to get more input on some for new members to interact with the rest of the group. I think I'm really going to enjoy being a part of this, I'm excited about it.
I guess the Xanga site has really been having some major problems lately. Something about a series of DDOS attacks, which I take to mean somebody has been infecting the site with some kind of virus, over and over again. They say they're in the process of getting it back up, but I just wonder what all that has done to my posts on there. Well it's a good thing I have my own copies of everything important. Even if I've lost them on Xanga, I know they're not gone for good. I can still repost my poems somewhere.

To Continue...

Because the feeling I hold now
is the morning's brightest star
lifted safe in the sky at dawn
where no one can ever
steal it away.
I hold the elements of
such feeling in another
safe place deep within
the core of my existence.
For this I feel alive, after
all these awful years spent
searching through too many
idle storms of futility.

I wish I hadn't ever thrown those old poems away. Geez, I don't even remember now when that was. I do know that it's probably one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made. And I'll probably still kick my own butt over it from time to time. It was an entire notebook of poems I had, representing two creative writing classes, complete with instructor comments written in the margins. He'd said he liked the way my mind works. Well I did keep one of them I had turned in for the class (I couldn't bear to part with that one since it was the first really good one, I thought) And I still think First of Thirteen is in a class all by itself. The day he read it for everyone, he asked for comments and when none came he said that it took him a couple of times reading it before he caught on that it was about "writing" itself. Then he looked at me and said "that is the message here isn't it?" I nodded, said "yeah" when the truth was I didn't know myself, what it was about. I'd worked on it for days, I think I rewrote it by hand at least fifty times. It was during my "Warhol" phase. At the time the images were the most important thing. Images and the flow. I had to get the images right, I mean Warhol was all about images so I had to do it justice. (without the luxury of a camera, that is.) And I just realized something here. 1) I'm rambling again and 2) lacking a means for images seems to have been a recurring theme.

Aaahhh... Is it still only Tuesday? This week is just dragging. It's like time is in slow motion or something. It was like that at work today. Well some days the motto goes a little something like this: "Wait for it... wait for it..." (patient room dismissals). Then at about 3:00, it's "Hurry up and get these things done." I once had four stat cleans that came in at the end of the day. Impossible, especially when they expect you to clock out at 3:30. Oh yeah, it's also interesting when a nurse will put in a stat clean in bed tracking so that when it comes across the pager, you rush to the room only to find they haven't dismissed the patient yet. Whoops, somebody didn't check first! Lol. Does it sound like I'm complaining? I'm not really, at least I didn't think so but now that I look over this, I can see how somebody could get that impression.
I'm waiting for it to get dark out. I hear there's glitter storms and meteor showers due later tonight. Hope I can see a little something anyway. Wouldn't it be great to get a shot of the full moon at the same time as Perseids? I've never taken nighttime shots like that before. I don't think its possible with a throw-away camera. I'll just be glad if I can see half a dozen shooting stars. I'll have to tell Laoghaire about this... Wow.... Cool... Double Wow... Double Cool (in a hushed awe-struck whisper)
I'm going to tell you all my classic "shooting star" story from a camping trip one year at Shaver Lake. But not now. For now I'm going to hammer some words out on paper.