what did you want for Xmas? do you have it now?

Did you have what you wanted all along?

I want company. I want to have fun socializing with people who love me.  I am having dinner this evening with some acquaintances but I wanted more.

When my daughter as young and would want want want things I did not want to give her, I would say "Katie, you have the gimmees." The gimmees was an illness, like the flu.  Saying that to her did not stop the gimmees but I felt better. Now I wonder what her experience was hearing me tell her that.

What did she want for Christmas this year? Did she get it? 

I want love, companionship, intimacy, family, fun, socializing. Love. I want love.

Occasionally, a friend will ask me if there is something I want at Christmastime. I tend to not think of anything I want. I have decided that from now on, if someone asks me if there is anything I want, even though they are offering to buy me a physical gift, I am going to talk about what I want.

I want love, commitment, companionship, sex, emotional and physical intimacy, family, fun, work, recognition. Love. Love sums it up.

The Lethality of Loneliness

The Lethality of Loneliness

Mindful by Mary Oliver

Mindful - poem by Mary Oliver

Mindful by Mary Oliver

Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for -
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world -
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant -
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these -
the untrimmable light

of the world,
the ocean's shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

 

"Every night is secretly christmas night."

I ripped this off someone else on G+ . .. but I could not resist.

football: ritualized war game

I think I understand the phenomenon of being a sport fan, even a fan of commercial, for-profit teams that, unbeknownst to most members of the public, tend to extract quite a lot of public wealth from the commons under the guise of being an economic boost for a city. That's bullshit. Team owners threaten to take their teams out of town to extract money from cities. And cities balk because they are run by craven kiss ups who will serve anyone willing to make campaign donations and keep them

No more fake "I love yous" please. Love plays through

Recently, two people I have loved very much dumped me. I had behaved unkindly towards each of them, yes, indeed. Each of them have behaved unkindly towards me in the years we've each known the other. But these two fucking hypocrites never acknowledge their unkindness and they are horrified by mine.  Yes, I am an imperfect human.

Love abides. Love plays through. Love is like the old days before many football teams had domed stadiums and football games kept going even in frigging blizzards.

Love plays through.

tamales -- perfect Xmas food

I'm going to head to SF tomorrow to find some chicken tamales. It isn't Christmas for most Mexicans and some other latino cultures without some kind of masa food like tamales, pupusas, huaraches, etc. For me, it's tamales. Weirdly, my Irish dad loved tamales. When I was growing up in Chicago, in the fifties and sixties, there weren't a lot of Latinos. There are now!  My childhood neighborhood has all the signs on stores in Spanish.  My dad would have scoped out every tamale joint.

My challenge, tomorrow, is to find some because so many will be out buying tamales tomorrow. And which places sell the best ones?

When I lived in Mountain View, I bought tamales from a woman who sold them outside the Walmart. There was a bus transfer statin at the front of that Walmart. I didn't actually shop there. On Xmas Eve, or the day before, I'd go looking for the tamale lady. That gal make awesome tamales but she'd sell out fast.

All the good ones sell out fast. So do I arise early and just go to the Mission and wander?

Or do I skip tamales? They are gluten free, can easily be had dairy-free, so they fit my nutritional goals. And I want some.

The Mexi joint around the corner took orders until Dec 20th and I missed the ordering. I swung by today -- they aren't open tomorrow - and asked if they were selling to any who had not pre-ordered. Nope.

But in SF's Mission, there will be tamales available if I know where to look. Where to look?

"Remember that I am an ass."

"Remember that I am an ass."
The character, Dogberry,  said the above , in "Much Ado About Nothing"
Aint that the truth. I call upon anyone who ever loved me to remember that I am an ass. An imperfect human. A perpetually wounded Grail King.

Forgive me for being an ass and love me still.

Broken Hearts by Jeremy Reed

Broken Hearts

 There should be heart-shaped rooms in which we sit
 as a collective to repair
 the damage done by love, and half the night
 we'd exchange stories, share a common pain
 that's always different, but never less
 in how the ruin's total, like a house
 slipped off a cliff edge to the sea
 or like a turtle that has lost its shell
 but keeps on going, making tracks on sand
 to find a refuge up beyond the surf.
 We're all suddenly disinherited
 from little ways, familiar dialogue,
 security of someone there to share
 bad news, rejection, a red letter day,
 a downmood's tumble of blue dice,
 or someone there to celebrate a quiet
 in which the meaning is in being two
 without a need to speak. But out of love
 we seem to be falling down stairs
 that never terminate. He left or she
 took off with someone else, it's like the blow
 will never stop arriving in the heart
 as an impacted fist. We'd call the place
 Heartbreak Hotel, and hope to patch the scars
 of unrequited love and leave
 a little less in tatters, disrepair.
 I'll find the place one day, and book a room
 and talk amongst the losers of a face
 I can't forget, and of a special hurt
 bleeding like footprints scattered over snow.

-- Jeremy Reed    

Seamus Heaney . . . poet laureate of Ireland

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/12/23/opinion/for-seamus.html?smid=pl-share

I'm not Irish. Born in South Dakota.  I was raised to believe I am Irish, in a world where everyone's grandparents and great grandparents had been born in Ireland.

Seamus Heaney's poetry resonates powerfully in me. The NYTimes has a sweet little documentary posted about Seamus.

What does Santa Claus say?

When my daughter was 18 months old, experiencing her first 'real'  Xmas, she was talking and even in full sentences but brief sentences. I would encourage her, or at least I imagined I was encouraging her to talk, by asking questions repetitively that she knew the answer to. AT age 18 months at Xmas, I kept asking "Santa Claus says 'ho ho ho', honey." then a long pause and then I'd ask "What does Santa Claus say?" And every time, and I think I asked a few hundred times, she would say "Ho ho". Then I would say, "Santa Claus says 'ho ho ho', ho ho ho, honey, not ho ho, but ho ho ho."  I would have sworn she was being funny, playing a trick on me. She was always very smart. She knew the difference, I was sure, between ho ho and ho ho ho but she never once said the word three times. And believe me, I tried and tried.

So ho ho HO, Merry Christmas.'

The year before, at age six months, she mostly slept through Xmas although the Christmas tree lights seemed to please her. She was oblivious to Santa Claus but aware that some fuss was in the air at six months.

At eighteen months, she knew who Santa Claus was and, I am positive, she knew he said "Ho, ho, HO!". To tell the truth, I loved it that she would not say that third 'ho', loved her stubbornness.

Now her stubbornness is not quite so charming.

But ho ho ho, anyway. Merry Christmas.

She could sing most of the words to Jingle Bells. I just didn't believe she did not get the distinction between 'ho ho' and 'ho ho ho' but gol-dang, she never once said 'ho ho ho'. And she laughed a lot after she said 'ho ho'. 

I would give anything to hear her say 'ho ho' in the soft, whispery tones of my long ago baby.

Ho ho.

Help someone's soul heal.

Be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder. Help someone's soul heal. Walk out of your house like a shepherd." - Rumi

Hat tip to the friend who shared this Rumi quote on her FB wall.

snow in San Francisco

©A week or two ago, I rented a citycarshare car that just happened to be across the street from San Francisco City Hall.  The ground all around SF City Hall just happened to be covered in snow. Some kind of celebrating ritual civic cvent was going on. Lots of people were dressed as old fashioned carolers and elves. Or something. I didn't look closely.

Lots of adults were there to show kids snow.  I find that depressing. A couple hours drive east into the Sierras and those kids could see real snow.

It didn't look or seem like real snow because as soon as it was blown, it began to melt into icy lumps. It wasn't cold enough to not melt, either.

Weirder than the snow was all the people in costumes, which didn't had a discernible theme.

So that was it? Snow on the ground in front of city hall?

When I returned my car, someone had parked in my private parking spot. Citycarshare cars live at specific spots. The signs saying it was not a parking spot for any other car were quite large.

I was all bah humbug, called the emergency line who told me where I could leave the car. I asked him to call SF traffic enforcement and get the car towed and given a big fat fine. Scrooge herself, eh?

I once saw snow in downtown San Jose, too, when I lived in Silicon Valley. The snow there was pathetic, inferior to the SF city hall mounds I saw recently.  It's much warmer in San Jose. Still, mountains with real snow are an hour or two away. If parents want their kids to see snow, why don't they go see snow in nature?

My Christmas spirit is flagging.  I wanted to offer to extend my rental and drive some of those kids to see real snow.

if you want to give me a Xmas gift -- poetry. Seamus Heaney would be lovely

Or Alice Oswald.

Or that guy who used to be US poet laureate . . . what's his name?   -- Billy Collins. for some reason, I love his stuff, which evokes Seamus Heaney for me, actually. And chick poets work for me. I just discovered an old lady chick poet .. . Heather McHugh.

It's kinda awful that so many male poets spring to mind. Jack Gardner, who was based in Berkeley when he died recently, is a poet whose works I don't own and would like to.

I see how women are not given the same respect as male poets by my blog. I can see when a post is clicked on and read and when I mention a male poet, the post always gets more posts than when I mention a chick poet. Don't tell me gender discrimination or feminism is wrong. Screw equalism. I'll be all for equalism when women have equality with men.

I have a few Billy Collins and a former friend gave me one of his books. He even read me a poem over a birthday lunch. This was a few years ago when he loved me and showed my birthday a little respect, unlike this year when he treated taking me out for my birthday like an inconvenient chore that dragged him to the East Bay. I can hump it to SF to see him but he has to combine work with seeing me if he is going to bestir himself to the EB.  My birthday disappointment still rankles, I suspect it still rankles because I lost the friendship because I did not pretend I wasn't hurt.  I can't do suppressing my emotions, which sure seems like the key to success in this fucked up world of corporate dominated values systems.

I ramble.

No one is fretting about what to give me for Xmas.  #1 choice, a book by Heather McHugh, a completed works if it exists. Then, sorry women, a Jack Gardner. Man, Gardner could write poems.

If someone wants to give me the stars, give me some reconciliation with my baby.

I spent five days in Santa Fe with an old friend who knew me as Katie's mom. I told this friend that I had seen Katie wearing one of my old necklaces, I had the matching earrings and I was considering sending the earrings to Katie. the friend spoke in an angry voice, almost snarled as she said "Why would you do that?"

Tears stung my eyes. Why would I do it? I felt defensive and wrong but then I pulled myself together and remembered why. Because I love her, I am her mom and the earrings match a necklace that she clearly loves for she posted it in so many photos,wearing it. I should send her those earrings today.

had I not been awake by Seamus Heaney

Had I not been awake
HAD I NOT BEEN AWAKE I WOULD HAVE MISSED IT,
A WIND THAT ROSE AND WHIRLED UNTIL THE ROOF
PATTERED WITH QUICK LEAVES OFF THE SYCAMORE
AND GOT ME UP, THE WHOLE OF ME A-PATTER,
ALIVE AND TICKING LIKE AN ELECTRIC FENCE:
HAD I NOT BEEN AWAKE I WOULD HAVE MISSED IT,
IT CAME AND WENT SO UNEXPECTEDLY
AND ALMOST IT SEEMED DANGEROUSLY,
RETURNING LIKE AN ANIMAL TO THE HOUSE,
A COURIER BLAST THAT THERE AND THEN
LASPED ORDINARY. BUT NOT EVER
AFTER. AND NOT NOW.


©I tend to repost beloved poems. Poems are not meant to be loved only once, just like lovers do not make love only once.

I love this one and it feels at least tangentially related to winter solstice, holy nights and even Santa Claus. If I am not awake, I miss so much.

I never considered becoming a poet and now I think that's who I am supposed to be. George Eliot has a famous quote that says 'it is never too late to be who you were supposed to be". Could it possibly be true that it is ot too late for me?

Happy Yalda Night: a Persian solstice celebration

©My friend, Farsi, is from Iran. I got this from something she posted:

Happy Yalda night! (December 21st)  Shab-e Yalda "Birth of Mithra", or Shab-e Chelleh (Persian:Shabe Chelleh: "Night of Forty") is the Persian winter solstice celebration which has been popular since ancient times. Yalda is celebrated on the Northern Hemisphere's longest night of the year, that is, on the eve of the Winter Solstice. Depending on the shift of the calendar, Yalda is celebrated on or around December 20 or 21 each year. Yalda has a history as long as the religion of Mithraism. The Mithraists believed that this night is the night of the birth of Mithra, Persian angel of light and truth. At the morning of the longest night of the year the Mithra was born. Following the fall of the Sassanid Empire and the subsequent rise of Islam in Persia/Iran, the religious significance of the event was lost, and like other Zoroastrian festivals, Yalda became a social occasion when family and close friends would get together. Nonetheless, the obligatory serving of fresh fruit during mid-winter is reminiscent of the ancient customs of invoking the divinities to request protection of the winter crop.

So eat some fresh fruit tomorrow.  Well, today!! and be grateful for Mithra, the Persian angel of light and truth. Mithra, I invite you into my life. I need all the light and truth possible.

Merry Christmas from Joni Mitchell

When I was young, Joni Mitchel spoke to me more than most singers. I was also way into Bonnie Raitt. Their styles are significantly different but both of them hit the spot for me. I wore out records by them.

Merry Christmas.

moon poem by Robert Frost

By Robert Frost (1874 – 1963)

Ive tried the new moon tilted in the air
Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cluster
As you might try a jewel in your hair.
Ive tried it fine with little breadth of luster,
Alone, or in one ornament combining
With one first water-star almost as shining.

I put it shining anywhere I please.
By walking slowly on some evening later
Ive pulled it from a crate of crooked trees,
And brought it over glossy water, greater,
And dropped it in, and seen the image wallow,
The color run, all sorts of wonder follow.

a moon poem by poet Carol Ann Duffy

Carol Ann Duffy – The Bees
The Bees is a whole book of poems that I have not yet read. /this is just one poem. Give someone you love the book sometime, even yourself.


Darlings, I write to you from the moon
where I hide behind famous light.
How could you ever think it was a man up here?
A cow jumped over. The dish ran away with the spoon.
What reached me were your joys, griefs,
here’s-the-craic, losses, longings, your lives
brief, mine long, a talented loneliness. I must have
a thousand names for the earth, my blue vocation.
Round I go, the moon a diet of light, sliver of pear,
wedge of lemon, slice of melon, half an orange,
silver onion; your human sound falling through space,
childbirth’s song, the lover’s song, the song of death.

a moon poem at the full moon

Full Moon and Little Frieda

A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket
And you listening.
A spiders web, tense for the dews touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.
Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm wreaths of breath
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
Moon! you cry suddenly, Moon! Moon!
The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed.
–Ted Hughes, from Wodwo (1967)

Mr. Hughes was married to Silvia Plath.