ping point paing
ha ha
bird, don’t think I won’t fuck you up*
pushing past flowers
pushing up daisies
premature form
projects – projective – projectivist
is it the breath or the typewriter
out in the open field
asshole email
I’m doing it again – indenting lines off the left margin for no reason – oh yeah, because they are new paragraphs
high-pitched hello
Tag Archives: project
I see a flimsy tissue, leaves printed on one side and a small saying on the other. Inserted into envelopes. Like bank deposits, or like cookie envelopes. Anything. Or in a stack of slips, withdrawal or deposit, anything.
swimming about without a project
there is nothing I can do
no means no ends no optimistic no despair
and here a series of no’s
that anyone would call bad poetry
and in my hand, the summa critical
of everyone who thinks
or writes or speaks
just wanting nurture
happiness
Resting consciousness and sparrow comes to visit. Sparrows are efficient. No timetables, no project plans.
What about a CSP reunion? I am undecided, in a murky turmoil.
Some things I don’t have room for. Titles. Organizational structures. Some things I have a talent for. Some men are women, some women are men. I have my own clients now. I’m managing the project. This is my practice. Practice management system. What is manageable, what is unmanageable. What is your sentence? Linda saying. Job interview. I will ask you a hard question. Your job is to ask the hard questions. Change management. This and that. When are we on the same page.
Com mun i ca tion
Se man tics
It’s not just semantics. I will blurt. I will micromanage. I will be an addict. I will repeat the question. I will get the job done. Please.
tenderness, an inchworm, a pea sprout, a thin stalk of asparagus, the tender impulse of creation, tenderness in documents at work, tender care with headers, footers, table of contents, extending tenderness, your ravaged leaves, your petals bruised and brown, still vines of tenderness, your tendrils, tendrils reaching out, there is a sun of brightness hiding in the data, there is a shadow of creation in the project, the sun is out, the bright light of discovery, the light is beaming from my eyes, my hands, my ears receive this light, I love the light, I am an instrument of the light, an Apollonian, with my seeking tendrils climbing high
just an image
april 25, 2007
Been a long time. The project is red, as red as the buds. The questionnaire is purple. Disability and rescue. Caught between the acts. You could say caught but there is never any stasis. Rest in flux. The boredom of hostages. Involve your body, musculature, mind, and investigate. Investigate the virtues.
Some of these explanations, some of this story-story- story-story. Trying to maintain some equilibrium as far as project goes.
Something ready to panic about Monday. Someone wondering if she should ditch this project, jump ship, don’t come back. Well hell.
This wouldn’t be the first time.
Demons into Allies—
| money | -> | beauty -> | clothes home |
| -> | sharing -> | Blair, Kiva? | |
| -> | saving -> | 401K, pay off debts |
| impatience resentment |
-> | my koan. My obvious opportunity to yearn for liberation |
Buddhism really figures in here.
| my passivity at work |
-> | don’t get involved in tempests, gossip. Step up to motivation. Spend time with the winners. |
| two days a week at home |
-> | Discipline. Housework? Chores calling me? Exercise? Errands? I don’t think I can work 8 hours at home. Maybe that’s not the point. |
| Creative time | -> | most rewarding projects have been in fragments. |
Sam deserts me often in the evening, sleeping. I can do a lot with a short period of time every day. The daily effort is my ally. I fritter away time on Tues and Thurs, flounder.
I know I’m going to do this.
I am afraid.
december 13
Discs—Physical Earth energy
Grounded. Material needs. My body. Not being able to take care of myself. Not being able to defend myself from the demands of a project.
Priestess of discs—She’s doing Yoga! Can I still take my Tuesday morning yoga class? I would dearly love to be able to do that. Physical—trainer setup? What about a zafu/zabuton in this room?
Working can be bad for my health, bad for my mood. I don’t want to reach out, make connections. I don’t want to feel over my head again in an extroverted analytical culture.
Six of discs—reversed. Is about this. I don’t want to participate in the madness. I try experimental remarks with Linda, jumping outside the box of her behavior. When I think about healing/leadership, I think—BIG. I want to modify the whole extended team so that we can work well together. My intuition screams at me to modify other’s behavior in situations. I can’t. I avoid participation to a great degree because of this trap.
Son of discs—Goals. One of my fondest dreams is to improve the house. I would love to gradually transform this space into something that would feel good and livable. I don’t dare to wish for what. Seems materialistic. There are poor out there. I am no good at home decorating. Etc. First step—money. Could I feel good about this? I don’t know. I might feel like Michelle or Richie. I might be susceptible to Sam’s criticisms, bound/engaged with his actions or lack of action. I don’t want that.
Here are my projects—
I write a series about rivers, it feels really forced, much less interior than I’m used to.
I’m doing book design, an anthology. I feel like curling up in shame for the uneven obstreperous (bluntly) badness of this poetry and get defensive at the awes of horror over awkward typographic dumbnesses in Duncan’s Selected oh yes it is a bad book and—well, mine probably is too.
I’m writing a gigantic Hallmark card to 365 of my closest friends, a project which I never once get brave enough to mention because it’s absolutely a faux pas in circles like this to write about real people in a dumb form like “50 words,” not to mention being 50 which is also a mistake too grave to mention, so I shut up even though I secretly admire myself, if only for the year-long discipline (its roots in stubbornness).
I have a blog. Lisa acknowledges my blog on hers, kind words; we mention it once in person, then this contact sinks again into the pool of anonymity, mutual lurking. I decide I want to put more energy into my blog, I have sort of a grip on it as an aesthetic project so I post something almost every day in November, although this is quite strenuous, and sometimes, it’s only photos/fragments.
Lisa’s interest in plants helps me acknowledge that I have a yard, a garden, even a sort of love for certain specimens. I bring two plants indoors for the winter—parsley, rosemary—and plant cilantro seeds. The sage survives outside. I think of bringing Lisa some sage bundled as a gift, maybe wrapped in some embroidery floss. No thyme at the moment.
Umm…can’t get there from here. Can’t go to Naropa, can’t spend lots of money on classes when I’m 50 and Blair’s in college, can’t generate a poetic community like the Beats or the New York School springing up from the wasted garden void around me, can’t make contact, can’t begin to get excited again about an online journal project, any opportunity to publish or be published, any sights set higher than retirement sooner hopefully rather than later after I finish paying for the college education of my favorite anarchist who would never rub elbows with an institution unless the term was paid for by a foolish parent (yup that’s me).
I learned there is a different definition of project. At first,
I thought I had many projects. Now I realize I have only one.
How not to get hit by a car.
I heard something on the radio yesterday about supermarkets and the vast surplus of food/calories we produce here in the US. The radio voices said—No wonder we are confused—due to the pressure of food marketing. I am immune to food marketing.
I close my eyes to it. I used to get overwhelmed in the supermarket, until I blinded myself. Every year, I buy fewer and fewer packaged goods. No meat. Less and less fish. Ordering herbs and tea in bulk, online. This is a project full of pleasure.
A possible sadness antidote.