consuelacooks

cooking, poetry, and unapologetic intense moments in a life

Category: Snow

twenty and six

Zooming through some hill-town we were invincible
dirty Berkshire kids loving company who could talk Shakespeare,
love, loss, and the best dance music.

Zooming in that emergency room we knew it was coming
the inevitable snip rendering an absence
it created space, though. We all knew it would.

A righteous anger blanketed us in some Maine town.
You had sealed that deal with a tequila shot
a kiss, a flower, and a promise.

We played football in the snow.
We built fires.
On time went, and distance crowded into some car and went.

Winter’s tale-like years passed.
A call, a drive, a union, warriors, changing everything
and we were Southern, perfect and thick in cats.

Delicious pines dotted days of wars,
paintings of memories, and ice storms
that tree divided your house, brought love in three to my flat.

But the cats fought.
The neighbors complained.
And again, snip snip went my brain.

In the midst, some cousin made love to me
laughing, blatantly, unapologetic-ally rife
with mischief, then roses.

Again, space was made, we filled it with birthdays
walks and talks and locks on doors
that only we held keys to.

We all went to school
We sat in cafes, singing loud
We wept, fumed, sighed and lived wide.

I fell off the world awhile
There was too much escaping and I couldn’t find my feet
I lost play, I lost love, I lost mirrors and beauty

When the heartbeat ceased a moment
I saw the three of us in that amphitheatre
40 kids battling at agincort

I wasn’t done, I guess.
We all weren’t.
There are still records to listen to.

Zooming to Memphis
we came to the compound
we played, talked a little

I saw more cats, more fire
the creations, sublime, you two molded
in observation and questions- your best art.

We had a meal again.
Again, it was all shifting for me.
My feet were hazy, nearly gone, but the shadow was all.

The sunset reminded me we were young.
And so it was.
It was all right.

At least it was for me.
There’s an equal elegance to sadness, joy.
I’ve always known. I had to admit it, though.

It’s raining in Memphis,
so don’t zoom.
Take the road easy and make sure to breathe.

You all know I’m here, same as it ever was.
Still short, still unsure, still the worker bee.
Still pushing, shoving, defiant and scared, but

My feet are in full view.

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Flurry, Memphis 2018

So we start again.
It turns out we don’t need a Delorean for time travel
Just a flight delay, or a scent on a midday breeze.
A plush pillow with a thread bare
or a random Memphis flurry on a cold morning
(Brings me back to laughing in the Berkshires
in some house in some hill town
recovering from some deviant switchback
and becoming pure again.)

Let’s get back to wildness in this year.
Talking back, taking back,
and wearing defiance like a leopard-print thong.
We are like the women in Mucha,
Languorous, wealthy in fabrics, grace
Sex in swirls, libidinous in our words
Our lens is warped for hope
we are the new world.

We write a man, gynic, fertile and bursting
We write a woman, jock, gallant, resolute
We mix our bloods in our babies making rainbows
We, two-fisted, pound our history into the backs of those
who, head-hidden, die off like white-hooded raptors
ripe for the welcoming rebirth of earth that will only remember them
as fertilizer for hydrangeas.

We close our eyes and let go.

The cynics say there is an art to stocking the cache.
Reaping repose and required wealth with a click.
Substituting stuff for status, serving rapacity before the homeless
Filling mouths, coffers; the artists in avarice.

The bridge still stands, majestic.
The statues are coming down, Delta town.
The rock stars still go to the theatre, and we sing a song of
judicious enchantment.

A search for soul, worship and welcomed weakness in the new year.

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Tue 222

This morning I gave up bewilderment.

Took new snow in bare hands, wiped clean.

Skyward gazing, seeing the brown of morning eyes.

 

It has been four hundred years.

Since in the histrionic ante meridiem

You, compunctious , penitent, shame faced

Sold me the snake oil

that gave salve for the emboldened heart

acclimatized my expectation

resurgence of disquiet

I held my heart in my hand and ate of it

(creature in a desert, naked, bestial)

 

One can’t help but remember, though

On a sweet January day

that concave part

beside the basket of ribs–the alabaster crevasse

(You showed it me)

perhaps where you kept your wishes and desires

Your conjecture

Your bliss

Your ecstatic posturing, feral

your violence and ignominy,

the sound of your voice in deep midnights.

 

Or better yet, the names and numbers of the snowflakes that would fall

in eulogy

the day you walked away.

 

It’s all so dramatic, she said.

The Whole lot.

Something comes of nothing and then, bother, bother

the whole place erupts in glamour. Clamour

erupts in the sunshine, the moonshine, the deep seated egress

-the bible of those two.

Oh, those volumes spoken in glances were so very tiresome

for two as timid as trees, windless.

 

It’s all so ecstatic, she said

The sole shot

Something comes of nothing and then, Farther, farther

The whole grace disrupts in armor, stammer

disrupts sin, confine, consign, maligning sleep cheated confession

-the bible of those two

No, shows volumes long broken in chances were so very dire, mums

the word, for two as livid as leaves, flightless

 

It’s all so climactic, she said

The blood clot.

That effortless bruise, the reminder of all that was, is– holy.

The prayer in tongues older than sound

more revealing than sight,

larger than the space a girl occupies

achromic, melancholy,

 

naming the planets, each for a sigh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes you don’t want to dumb it down.

ImageI’m going to hair.
I’m going to bone.
I’m going to sea
I’m going to forest and hum
a city that doesn’t want for kindness.

Time that won’t rest, debts always paid. Softer countenance than yours.

(The Mirror up to nature)

Sure of me. Sure of me. Be sure, I said. And don’t take it back on Thursdays.

Cataclysmic lovers, poets, madmen!
VI amo con tutto il mio cuore.

And god’s fingers are here

here in these hills, smothered in thick white-
every celestial vein
every angelic knocked point gives a destination, a time, and place
and thirty steps to a corner store for spirits, they say, those gentlemen…
And don’t they love and lie and hiss and sing and kiss and touch and rage and howl at the moon in the New World? The New England? (Billy Bragg isn’t looking hard enough)

(And those crazy Thracians- Philomela in her hut having those things done that he did and then them all becoming those crazy birds)

Maybe we can do that , become those birds, when we get the nights back, when we can watch the sun set again, when it gets back to hand holding and fires.
When the wall portraits finally close their stoic eyes and let us play. When we close our stoic eyes and see what is in front of us, not a month behind.

And the house was made of glass, each several window blown sugar, each strand of sugar spider webs, each web the finest dew line, each dew line the stuff of dreams.
And in 15something they wrote a book for me
I have it by my bedside,
It produced tributary tears in the getting of it. It teaches me how to human well.

fiends, sleepers,
lunatics, composers
poets, builders
horrors, flying girls, painters, and professors-  those who dig deep in the dirt

come to the circle, she said and wear it like the costume of a play.
it is a triple night of palettes for trying.
Oh sisters and brothers-
Soyez prêt pour un festin. Nous serons présents tout.

Et mangez-vous entier.

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Sweet seasonal sadness, poetic peanut butter, and wantings.

AND FIVE SIX SEVEN I ZOOMED THESE PAST FEW
A BUZZ WITH WANTON WANTINGS AND WIDDERSHIN PENDULUMS
RUNNING FINDING CLOCKS AND CALORIE COUNTS
FASTER THAN USUAL, EVERYTHING.
AND EIGHT NINE TEN I LOST ONE, I GAINED ONE, I NEVER STAY FOCUSED VERY LONG AND
MY FRIENDS I GRAPPLED THEM WITH HOOPS OF STEEL
TO SINEWY FLUFF HEART, FULL
OF WATER, PIGS, AND OTHER SUCH PLUSH STUFF

AND I THOUGHT OF YOU IN YOUR NEW HAMPSHIRE
OR YOUR WOODS SOMEWHERE 
THINKING OF THE BIG THINGS AND GROWING FROM BOY TO MAN AND I HELD YOUR FACE ON MY BELLY ONCE
MY HAIR WAS SO LONG IT BRUSHED YOU THERE

AND I REMEMBER THE BERKSHIRE NIGHT WHEN WE WENT TO THE WHARTON MANSION,

GORGING ON BUTTER PECAN OUT BY THE WATEr

WANDERING THROUGH THOSE HAUNTED WOODS LOOKING FOR INDIANS

EDITH WAS ON FIRE THAT NIGHT, LIKE US
WANTING TO KISS, BUT NOT
NERVOSA KEPT US FROM ALL 

AND CHASTITY IS WHY I REMEMBER YOU, LOVE.

I WANT WOODS NOW, WOODS WHERE I CAN RUN AND FIND SCREAMING DEAD PERFECT INDIANS
FLASHING FIRE EYES THROUGH GREEN NIGHT WITH
A HUNDRED YEAR OLD SOMETHING MANSION STARING ME DOWN.
I WANT TO BELLY BRUSH FACE AND HAND
I WANT A ZIP CODE OF KISSES
AND A KINDER WAY TO KEEP THE SUN

AND I’M NOT SO FAR FROM IT REALLY.

AND I TWISTED MY HAND INTO THE SHAPE OF A ROSE
AND I KNEW, I KNOW I BELONG IN THE SHAPE OF THE HARVEST MOON
AND I KNOW HOW TO SAY MY NAME
SO THAT THEY HEAR.

I CHOOSE INSTEAD TO
GO FIVE THOUSAND MILES FAST

AND FORGET THE TASTE OF SALT TEARS

“When clouds appear, wise men put on their cloaks; When great leaves fall, the Winter is at hand;When the sun sets, who doth not look for night? Untimely storms make men expect a dearth. All may be well; but, if God sort it so,’Tis more than we deserve, or I expect.”

-Richard III, Willy Shakes

“A glooming peace this morning with it brings; The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head”

-R & J, Same Guy

“You think I’ll weep
No, I’ll not weep:
I have full cause of weeping; but this heart
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,
Or ere I’ll weep. O fool, I shall go mad!”

The Tragedy of King Lear, Yada Yada Yada…

Seasonal affective disorder (SAD), also known as winter depressionwinter bluessummer depressionsummer blues, or seasonal depression, is a mood disorder in which people who have normal mental health throughout most of the year experience depressive symptoms in the winter or summer,[1] spring or autumn year after year. In the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-IV), SAD is not a unique mood disorder, but is “a specifier of major depression”.[2]

Although experts were initially skeptical, this condition is now recognized as a common disorder, with its prevalence in the U.S. ranging from 1.4 percent in Florida to 9.7 percent in New Hampshire.[3]

The U.S. National Library of Medicine notes that “some people experience a serious mood change when the seasons change. They may sleep too much, have little energy, and may also feel depressed. Though symptoms can be severe, they usually clear up.”[4] The condition in the summer can include heightened anxiety.[5]

I have noticed some really textbook responses to this condition. Seasonal Depression is rampant here.This shit is real.  Most of my friends and myself get spanked by this every year. Here are some methods of temporary release from Seasonal Depression, none of which I endorse as a cure, but all fun in their own way I suppose:

Gobs of Medication. Takes 2-6 weeks to kick in. Not timely.

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Drinking. Lots of it. Late at night at socked in bars with locals. Loses magic quickly…

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Spirituality. Can be daily. Definitely helps, but can be lonely without the community to support it. It’s hard to congregate when you cannot leave your house.

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Intimacy.  This is always a quick and temporary fix. Short term but effective. And fun.

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Pets. They help. A lot.

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Friends. Lots of them. Gathering. Staying warm. Loving one another and just getting through. This works too. Probably best of all.

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Good Food! Winter food! The universe provides comfort foods in the Winter for a reason. I believe that root vegetables feed the inside and outside of your soul. They scrub it out.

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.

So. When I get sad- by my own prescription I will attempt to eat only super foods while shotgunning a beer, hugging a dog, taking some Prozac, and alternately kissing my good friends while on a rosary.

OR.

JUST WAIT.

WINTER WILL END…

And the Spring will be glorious.  And we will lick the Sun and take our clothes off and jump in lakes again. We will watch Tanglewood on a hot July evening and swat mosquitoes and roll in the grass.We will all in reality get through this. It sure doesn’t feel like it right now to me… But the paralysis will eventually end and we will feel alive again. Soon the boulders will get off of our shoulders and we will use them for target practice. We will roll them uphill. So- keep on keeping on. And remember to love each other.

-Carmen-maria

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