Where the poet went ....

If you knew me before Henry, before Tucson, before I stopped wearing vintage clothing -- you knew someone who called herself a poet. A girl who felt her life in words. Who felt her life in abbreviated sentences. Who wondered whether her "Tea Party at the Apocalypse" meant anything to anyone. She knew it must. It had to, right? She stood at the front of smokey rooms reading to the rhythm of the art. To the beat of the rhythm. She wanted to change a mind, shift a culture, change the world.



But, a bus hit a group of onlookers and her poetic advocate was gone. What to do? Move. Shift, delay. Do it alone. Find your voice. Of course, in the end, the voice of "poetry" as defined by academics vanished. And the words transfered to colors on a canvas. She painted. Not well. Not schooled, not workshopped, but she painted and, for her, it was relevant. This is how she became me again. Or, realistically, I was always me, but it's taken a long time to come to terms with what I perceive I lost when my poet died.

My poet transformed when I realized today's poets -- the type of poet I wanted to be -- are the musicians ... I could never change the world through my art, because, well, I have no rhythm. This is not bad, good or indifferent. There are other poets out there making a difference. Some are doing it as "poets" -- many are the singer/songwriters we love....

When people ask me now..... what about your poetry? I don't fuss about the words. I tell them my poetry is in the music of artists all around the world and I celebrate it. And my individual poetry comes out in colors of canvas and in the voices I shape at work every day to help people understand how to care about people. My poetry comes from how I live my life -- my cycling, my new found passion for running, laughing with friends, etc.

OK, so I might not (will never) win a literary prize, but I have come to understand that the value of art is not in the recognition of the masses but, instead to the contributions to individuals. Every day. Every breath. And, in homage to the poet Sting ... in Every Breath We Take.

Twinkies

I am already behind. I mean, the pressure is huge to be relavent and informative and witty and, well, whatever else a blogger is supposed to be. But, you can't be any of that if you don't even keep the blog current and regular.

So why am I behind? No good reason. Every good reason. Well, no good reason.

Random thoughts ....

My friend Rachel came over and we painted. It was fun and Rachel's painting was a great depiction of what it's like to look at the sky through a forest of Aspens -- a fabulous experience and very worthy of fine painting. I did a self-portrait/Ode to Doogie. It was meant to hang in our new StrangeSugar Tap Room. Unfortunately, last night it fell on the floor and one of the cats urinated on it. Sad. Maybe I will take a picture of it and make it my Facebook Profile Picture.

I was confused and confounded as I watched people protest the closure of parks in Arizona. I dont' like it either, but the sign I saw on the news (Where Will I Camp?) when it seems to me the sign should really say "What Am I Going to Go When I Have a Stroke" when the hospital start closing and EDs are overrun by people who no longer have access to primary care. The budget crisis is amazing and somehow we need to figure out a creative way to get to the other side.

Running. Two trail runs. I am starting to like it. Sometimes. Somedays. Some runs. Really, it's true. And I continue to really like runners. Most of the time. Except when they talk about running a long way. Then, it hurts. My bikes seem to be a bit depressed because they keep getting left behind -- but I will get to them later.

So, words of wisdom? "Believe it or not, Twinkies have an expiration date.... ." Or so says Woody Harrelson as Tallehasse in the movie Zombieland, which Chris is watching right now. We all have an expiration date, so...... Live for the Day, right?