MISTRESS

MISTRESS

June 2006

By Scott Murphy and Jeff Ludlum

Two parts compassion, three parts frustration, one part horror and a dash of pure insanity
though sometimes pure agave azul does the trick.
You say there's a remedy and I say it's incurable, caught in the cappilaries of your soul
when I awaken from the stupor, the fever still a simmer in my veins, the sheer terror makes me shudder.
And I realize the safety in the stupor, the terror in my waking seeks the calm of a nightmare, the sedentary peace of a horrible dream
There are days that string together when I feel like I used to, before, when the world seemed my oyster, my playyard,
Would I high score Pac Man today, will I get 3 hits in the game, will I ever get laid?
I think back to how "the troubles" of the day have shifted, always being terribly trivial and simple and solvable, AFTER the fact. Shouldn't this be the same?

But these are no longer the daily trivial, they are internalized wars, earthquakes in my bones, and injustice of the most heinous nature that leaves no visible scars, but
then, who really gives a shit what I think, how I feel? Millions have faced the same, I'm no different. This is my cross to bear, and complaining doesn't make it anymore comfortable.


This is my cross, indeed. The burden of being made this way, designed with so many flaws, so many questions, and so much beauty that the world cannot contain
crippled in the next moment by the thought: six billion souls face the same things I do, why is it so fucking difficult for ME?!!
Mind, body, soul, spirit- the collective conscious holds comfort for me when I swim in its deep pool. Today, I stand stagnant by its edge.
I shiver as if dripping wet and hypothermic after climbing, coughing and spitting, onto the shore of an artic sea.
The shores of the eqautor, so warm, so central to my balance, so full of blue clarity, so salty sweet, and so damn distant
When the distractions subside, and they always do, I'm left to figure things out for myself, climbing the mountain as we must all ultimately do, alone.
Its perils are its own reward, its peak its own discovery about me, and you.
And when I have The Lama's view, I'm quite comfortable. Strong and sure, nameless and knowing, trascending my beaten body, weathered mind, and pockmarked persona,
Trusting
That it is all as it should be. And I'll be ok.

I'll climb, swim, walk dusty trails, search forever only to discover I am looking only for myself,
What poses the greatest challenge is that there are many me's.
Or one- Central, core, hidden by the layers, conjured behind the pockmarked personas- one,
When I meet her I know, and I'm glad. Then the next moment, she's gone.
Illusive indeed, but her voice never leaves, her aroma never from my sheets
nor the ache in my heart as I lie in the dark wondering when she'll return again.
Its not simply the knowing, its the unknowing and the reknowing with every new thing discovered
That quiets my raging soul when I feel alone, betrayed, deserted.
She'll return, this I know staring into a starless, haunting, tragic, restless, wishful night
and when I smell her, feel her warmth, hear the calm in her whisper, I'll know again that I am alone, that I can carry on, carry the cross, carry the day, to another.

By The Drop in June 2006 - jl/sm

Light filters through the blind, the purple flowers sway outside my window, I feel an easy assurance about the day.

And the warm air buckles at the opening door to the aroma of lattes and ginger tea

Music from the other room drifts down the hall,

creeps around the corner to couples and single sitters on comfy couches

There's a fig tree dancing above me and I wonder if the fruit's any good.

If its the deep, soulful nourishment or just the amped up shot that sustains me for the moment.

Cards sitting on my desk remind me of feelings I'd rather not feel, long tucked away as lessons learned.

The written history, like the stacks of NY Times by the door, forever etched into me

Those stories, those thoughts, from a year or two back, and more than twenty too, all collected and make up who I am today, right now.

And who I will be when I stand and return the scorching heat or cool of an open refridgerator

An old busines card reminds me of a jovial, deal-making, easy-smiling, big bear of a man, transitory friend, colleague really, temporary acquaintence, maybe nothing more, maybe

100 degrees. 6 degrees separated from warm, anxious not-so-strangers entering in my shop this Sunday morning.

Some make their order, take a moment, take their breakfast, beverage, and depart, while others linger, like the dogs sharing their company with me as the music continues to play.

They lap up conversation, words, sweet aroma of a partner they've walked with for most of the better part of their lives. Chicago horns enter the conversation.

And the piano drones on, shifting the mood from promise to subtle dread, I feel my pulse quicken and my grip tighten as I try to hold on,

My colorful, engaged palate in sharp contrast to the olive and tan earthtones and tile that hardens moment by moment, eternally.

The coffee in my cup nearly gone, lingering at the bottom, and on my tongue, a thin film of slightly sour taste, I pull my teeth over the surface to wipe it clean, and go back for a refill.

Full, empty, full again- life cycles and the whir of machines blending ingredients from places I've never seen and will never know.

Map of the world wrapped around the container and my mind, often drifting off to those far away places, far away peoples, temporary feelings I wish I could contain.

But I know containing is temporary, spilling out like a careless cup of tea or a tidal wave surging through the once dry land.

I surround myself all the time with images and things and sounds that will keep it constant, like Knopfler, a picture of Vaughan or Syd, a dictionary, a glass of pens, that dog asleep in the corner

"won nepo skcubrats" captures my attention. Perspective shifting with new angles, emotions shaped with every changing song.

The dust on the blinds and a whine from another room remind me of things I need to do, but the strumming six string keeps me seated.

Give me the beat, drifts Dobie, I wanna get lost in your rock n roll. I can think of no better place to be right now. Lost. Perfectly Lost.

Looking at The Dome on the wall I recall that feeling I first had, the first time on top, there was no better place to be at that time,

Atop a mountain, on top of your game, above a beautiful, vulnerable woman- knowing down is also a good way to go, too, like glacial water and bare feet.

Like the flowers in the garden that come back every spring, knowing that going up and coming down is part of life, inevitable, nearly automatic, wisdom I keep forgetting.

I'll never let you forget for your mind is my mind, you hopes my hope, your life mine, and yours

Living life by the drop is ok, Stevie reminds me, because though we come in and leave alone, we're together lots in between.

I tilt the cup one more time, spill the last drop down my throat. My inner voice shouts across the shop and out into the blazing heat one more time, "Refill, please!"

Memorial Day 2006 -sm/jl

Peddling down the street today I saw an American flag flying in front of the house with the forest green trim,

A flag I've loved, I've loathed, I've honored and questioned. So much in woven into those simple stripes.

Lots of different reasons to have that colorful cloth unfurled on the front porch today,

An argumentative tapestry that necessitates the conversation without fear.

And after all, what is there to fear at the end of the day?

Much depends on your relationship to that flag, how it cloaks you or cuts you, how it shelters you body or drapes you in memoriam

Whether you know how to properly fold it, raise it, lower it, love it, or not.

The light is on it today, but tonight the light may dim and the penalties are stiff for the unschooled,

Punishments meted out by those who think they know best, know what's right, who rest comfortably in the shade of that colorful banner.

The tedious balance of honoring those of our past and our present, those romantic heroes who vices have dropped away in between the pages of tattered text and PBS specials

Muting the voice screaming inside, demanding to be heard, recognition of the crimes committed being committed today manipulating our warriors down a path washed in rhetoric and blood.

Committed? A star spangled sanitarium of warriors whose mouths suckle the green teat of dollars and nonsense.

Whether the flag be red, white, blue or red and gold or black and green, or any of a hundred other variants, we have allowed the fever of nationalism and alleged common purpose spur us on.

What would our founders say? Those who tilled soil, who struck gold, who killed Apache, signed declarations, and pondered the future.

Who found their way in the world beyond, before the glare of cameras and hum of audio tape, before the twentyfour hour news cycle, when criticism wasn't so multidimensional.

Whose ignorance was matched by their bravery, their obstacles matched by their oblivion, whose vision, "at whatever cost" instilled into our leaders still.

Though those men today seem only to have arrogance to match the accounts they manage, the buttons they can push that would end the world.

Not an earned privilege, but one swindled from the pockets of poverty, and fed to the hungry by an illegitimate father.

And though many of our fore where fathers illegitimate, they seemed to have something more...respectable, maybe? back then, more honorable, beneath their dusted wigs.

At the very least, more excusable their tainted flight. So much wealth unshared, so much potential unrealized, so many unfed, and so many clipped wings flights unflown in the shadow of that Goddam flag. Anger, without rationality, I know.

But if the words written on that bleached, ancient parchment be true, anger we need harness if we're to change our course, honor the best ideas that began this great experiment.

My own internal revolution battled, the horses turned loose and the steel hammered to unsheathed will. Harness me tonight?

Or let me run unfettered, unguided, free to determine direction as I speed forward, regardless of who gets in the way.

A natural course, a migratory path water unimpeded by stone walls. I will not be broken on these plains.

But will they remember me after I've crossed over, footprints long ago blown away, long a faded memory?

Or the millions of others uncelebrated for their unrealized American Dreams?

Which is probably why I tipped my riding cap to the flag flying on the porch this morning as I peddled by,

And remember I bear responsibility for that flag, for this leadership, for those failures, and these hopes that we are never done, never!