Trish Szymanski and the BrainHeart Beat

To My Old Master

2012-02-02T15:19:00.000-08:00

One of the very best things I have ever read.

Please do read to the end. And enjoy!

To My Old Master

On Percussion and Vocals in SEA OF OTTERS!

2011-08-24T10:36:00.000-07:00

It's a blast to be performing with these cool cats! Our first gig was the August 17, 2011 Groove on Grove in downtown Jersey City...check it out!

LINK TO VIDEOS:

http://www.frigginfabulousradio.com/seaofotters.html

Head to Head Haiku

2011-08-09T22:29:00.000-07:00

I joined this Facebook group: Head to Head Haiku. Here is a sample of my contributions.

* * * * *

It would be nice if
One of my extreme ventures
Brought in some income

My income need not be
Extreme to satisfy me
But I shan't complain.

I provide service!
I'm great at what I'm doing!
Where is the love, y'all?!

Poverty was a
Lesson for me. I learned my
Values hold up well.

Peanut butter and
Three-Fruit marmade. Breakfast
of this champion.

Grapefruit, lemons and
Seville oranges, in the
Dundee tradition.

Oh boy, and no thanks.
Even just a taste of fame
Leaves me way creeped out.

Lyrics pour through me
Like DNA building a
New human being

My heart is open
To what your love might offer
Blind as usual

Cannot hold my breath.
While tempests rage around me,
Inhale, exhale, be.

Of Poetry and Doing

2011-07-31T08:55:00.000-07:00

This poem was written for my feature performance at the kickoff event of JC Opens Up the Mic Tour 2011, held at the Warehouse Cafe, Sunday, 31 Jul 11. The theme of the event was the title of the film screened at this event, called "Committing Poetry in Times of War." (You can watch this film in its entirety on Hulu.com.)

* * *

Of Poetry and Doing

We’re still doing this
Speaking
Truth
to Power

And there is little
More important
More infective
More inspiring
Than the word
Well turned

Because war
is a hell
That cannot be imagined
And catches fire to
Everything it touches
And makes it legend

I am a child of war
That touched me through
My mother and my father
Both of whom resisted
Telling me much about
The pink elephant that lived with us.

What gives?

* * *

War
Peace

* * *

Write a poem about homeless people
Make it be
impossible
To turn into banality

Take it on the road
keep it fresh
in your mind
stand up
walk out
(don’t forget your keys)

Step lively to that place
Where you know these people are
Or, if you don’t remember,
Just go to Journal Square
But make sure it’s before 11pm
Cz that’s when they get locked out
And they have to find a place to hang
for the night
And that’s 365.

What was it that your poem said?
Well, here it is in front of you.
And what, dear one, is it that now
You are going to do?

* * *

There’s poetry to be written
About poverty and fear
And racial inequality
Yes, sisters, it’s still here
(Though if we keep together
Like we’re doing
We’ll go far
To get clear.)

There’s poetry to be written
About the world we want for us
The one that must be new.
What is it, fellow poets,
That we are going to do?

* * *

Write a poem about dis-ease
And why it takes so very long
To put our children’s education
First, before so many wrongs

It’s more important than a bomb
Than drone attacks and weak will
That brings young men, and women now, together
To kill from fear
And for sport
In war-torn lands

We saved them from the plunderers
We’re told they begged us for our help
And plunder now aplenty
And take it for ourselves

* * *

Poetry and peace
More important than
Cynicism
Propping up one hateful, cruel regime
While we attack another
Stealing the cash out of our own pockets
To spend this dirty act
And tell ourselves we’re safer if we give
When we cannot afford to even live

To fund the next war
I’m telling you
Because war is a fucking money maker
And somehow that’s become
The most important thing
To those who TAKE our taxes

* * *

Write a poem about health care
And how it’s not a right
How having no insurance means
You go without good care for years
And when you die
We wonder why
Could medicine not save her?
Of course, it could
It chose instead to lobby for
Drugs and money

Write a poem about
Drugs and money
I dare you.

I dare you to write a poem
About THOSE drugs and money
And make it sweet and
Hard to resist
And name names
And name the
government-pharmaco tryst

And get it out to
10,000 readers
Don’t wait to be published
Cz that will take forever
Decide you will do it
Self-publish
Self-publish
Self-publish

* * *

Write a poem about
The incarceration industry
About millions
MILLIONS of prisoners
The BILLIONS AND BILLIONS of dollars
And how we need the system to grow
So there are some jobs
Which are reasons to keep it all going.
Oh, right
Drugs and money.

What difference does it make that you are here?
What difference
Do you make?

“Poets are pioneers in language
So, to people who are interested in controlling language,
Poetry can be a threat.” - the man said in the movie.

A threat is only worth its life
If there are teeth behind it
Chew on this:
There are thieves and liars
Running things out there
Who need to be reminded.

And you are not alone, my friend
I am here too
And together we are two
And then there are these other few

And in other places
There are faces
Hearts and minds
That come together
As we have
Connect with them
Establish a tether
Of intention and will
Of word - oh, powerful words!
Of language and of action
Of poetry and doing

Some recent activity...

2011-05-27T10:17:00.001-07:00

Let's see:

So, I got new headshots. Beautiful, right?! (Two of them are visible on this page.) I'm referring not so much to the subject matter (although she is impossible to ignore!) as to the photographer, Jessica Siemens. I met Jessica through a friend a couple of years ago and I'm so glad I decided to let her take my new publicity photos. Jessica has been photographing professionally for a long time, so it was surprising to see how organically she works, all up close in natural light. She captures the real you. Take a look at the mini portfolios on her website, and LIKE the Jessica Siemens Photography Facebook page. She's a very cool person and charges very reasonable rates for amazing work. I am so pleased!

Uptown Crew is all over Monticello Avenue these days. I'm hosting our Open Mic every 2nd and 4th Thursday at Moore's Lounge, 189 Monticello Avenue. Moore's has become something of a second home for me, especially since it's practically around the corner from where I live. I'm happy to see that the UC Open Mic has brought new attention and business to this 40+ year community establishment.

Besides Uptown Crew's open mics, Moore's is famous for live jazz. My whole neighborhood, from Journal Square down to Communipaw, West Side Avenue to Monticello, probably has the highest concentration of world-class jazz musicians, and live jazz performances, in all of New Jersey! I'm not kidding -- it's amazing.

So...I'm co-producing a jazz showcase of three live bands at Moore's with two veteran producers and live music professionals: Nick Ciavatta, a highly accomplished singer/songwriter in his own right, an outstanding voice-over artist (you have heard him many times!), and CEO of Friggin Fabulous Productions, and world music expert Neva Wartell, aka DJ Neva, an ethnomusicologist and the brilliant mind behind the Music for the Masses movement. The June 3 show is called JC Originals Jazz, it's part of JC Fridays, and it's going to be amazing!

Inspired by hanging around some super talent singer-songwriters over the past half a year, I've written three new songs in 2011. Nothing on audio/video yet, but come out to one of the Uptown Crew Open Mics and you're likely to hear one of them. I have a new cover too, an old Percy Sledge favorite of mine: At the Dark End of the Street.

I've been cast in a new off-off-Broadway one-act play...Galileo the Musical opens June 8 as part of the Planet Connections Festivity in New York City. This annual theatrical festival focuses on works with an environmental theme. Galileo the Musical jumps from the present, where scientist John Holden attempts to convince Congress that global warming is a real and present danger back to the court of Pope Urban where Galileo attempts to convince the clergy that the earth is not really the center of the universe. Both gentlemen suffer sad rebuke. It's a great play, and I'm super pleased to be involved with such talented people! Being in this production has given me the opportunity I've been looking for: It's made me refocus on my legit singing, what with all the vocal pyrotechnics! Come if you can, and please donate to our fundraising campaign - even $5 makes a difference. Galileo the Musical is a _gaia production.

I'm also working on a spoken word CD. We're in editing mode, and an awesome artist is on board for the artwork. Sorry...can't say too much about it now, but this CD should be available for purchase within the next few months.

Other than that, I'm focused on my domesticity, my heart, and bringing Uptown Crew to the next level - we're working on our 501(c)3 application! Please, LIKE our Facebook page and, if you can, make a donation to support our ongoing activities. We've got a lot in store for the next twelve months, and we need your help -- THE CREW IS YOU!

A life well lived is my wish for us all.

Expectation Fail

2011-05-14T14:28:00.001-07:00

(c) 2011
by Trish Szymanski

And it is too familiar
this disappointing
hard wishing

i've dusted myself off again
and understand too clearly that it
has to go this way

so maybe this is what this has been for
for me to practice knowing
unequivocally
what i don't want

but still
because i love
i want so much for you

if only
i were the one
inside of you
doing the wanting

Please stop chatting me

2011-05-05T12:57:00.001-07:00

by Trish Szymanski
(c) May 2011

hi.
hi. I can't chat with you.
ok.
i'm too angry.
You're too angry to chat?
Yes
wow
yeah, wow
I don't know what you want me to say
yeah, I know that too and remember, I can't chat with you.
You're not being fair
excuse me?
Oh ok nevermind you are right
I am sorry to have to say this but I do. You are so lame.
Nice
honest
guess I can count on that
more than I can
ok. that's fair.
There's nothing fair about this whole thing. Please stop chatting me.
Ok

hi.
hi. I can't chat with you.
ok.
i'm too angry.
You're too angry to chat?
Yes
wow
yeah, wow
look, I am not saying any of this right, I know, but i'm going to try again, anyway. You are right. I am a mess. I knew that, as you know, because I said it, and it was more of a warning than anything else, I swear. I really was just trying to head you off at the pass because I did not want this again. And here it is anyway and, I don't know what else to say. Ugh. I mean you are right and I am going to do something about it.
What are you going to do?
I am not sure yet, and I know that's not good enough, but i'm telling you right now, I am. I am going to get some kind of - help. I don't know. But I am.
ok.
I don't want to lose you. This is nuts. I can't go on like this.
Ok then.
You're going to see.
Keep me posted.
I will. I promise.
Please stop chatting me.
Ok

hi.
hi. I can't chat with you.
ok.
i'm too angry.
You're too angry to chat?
Yes
wow
yeah, wow
baby, don't be mad at me. You know how I get sometimes. Look, I am sorry. I really am. You gotta know I love you, right? I do. I love you so much, baby. I can't live without you. I didn't mean to hurt you, you know that, right? Baby? R u there? What u drop your phone or something? yo. Oh shit. You're really mad at me, right? Listen, don't be like that. Dude. Baby. What
you fucking asswipe please stop chatting me.
Ok

hi.
hi. I can't chat with you.
ok.
i'm too angry.
You're too angry to chat?
Yes
wow
yeah, wow
god, I am so sorry.
Yeah, I bet you are. Sorry you got caught.
Fair enough. Yes. Because it was like a slap across the face.
Now you know how I felt.
Fair again.
And not really anyway
ok true
because your slap was well deserved. What did I ever do to you? Look, I don't want to get into it. I really can't chat with you, i'm too angry. Really.
ok. can we chat some other time then or talk on the phone?
I don't know maybe
ok
Please stop chatting me.
Ok

***Disclaimer: This poem bears no resemblance in any way to any chat or text exchange between myself and any real person/s at the present time or in the past. That's part of what makes it a poem, I would say.

A Few April Poems

2011-04-25T13:34:00.000-07:00

by Trish Szymanski

Taking Place
Wednesday, April 20, 2011

She did not expect
To see me though
I knew she would be there
Her surprise surprised me

I wasn't ready for those spikey pointed shoes
I never understood

Recovered steps taken with care
Near someone padding to and fro
Hearing a song you don't
You can't call that dancing

Balance (a haiku)
Friday, April 22, 2011

I promise I will
Drop my end if you do not
Hold up your end too

Delicata
Monday, April 25, 2011

Fruit of a vine

With care and patience
Willingness to lose and to wait
To try again
With only hope to move
It all along

2010-12-25T09:35:00.000-08:00

If the trial is one of fire, ice, or both,
Go through it.

If you have the chance to love someone and be loved,
Do it.

An Old Moment

2010-12-21T13:36:00.000-08:00

Last night, I went out with friends to see the

TOTAL
LUNAR
ECLIPSE

and possibly a meteor shower.

We set out at about 1:45am, bundled up as best we could, with a sack of goodies to help convince us that if we went out there, into the middle of the freezing cold night, we would not die.

We made our way towards the fields at Lincoln Park, stopped for coffee. (Who knew Al’s Diner at 2:00am was going to be a see-and-be-seen venue?) I launched my StarWatch app and we pointed out the beginning of the show to the waitresses and then headed out.

We drove around the park and over Route 440, made camp in the car at the edge of the Hackensack River, and watched the earth eat the moon. Bit by bit, it blackened the satellite’s full, bright face. And as it got closer to full coverage, sure enough, the predictions came true – the moon turned RED!

Or rather, sepia. That’s what our driver was saying. I was saying, “RED!” She was saying, “No. It’s not red. It’s more brownish.” “No way! That is, um, reddish!”

The iPhone sound track started with the Fifth Dimension singing “Age of Aquarius”. Then two of us broke out with a very gusty “Red Rubber Ball”, inspiring all of us to produce a new act for the occasion:

Band Name: Sepia Moon

Album: Beyond the Tinge

First Hit Single: You Never See That

Plus, ten cosmic tracks, including

• Moon to Earth 1: Get Out of the Fucking Way, It’s Cold Up Here.
• Moon to Earth 2: We Get It, You’re Floyd Fans.
• Earth to Newark: What’s With the Lights, Largest Commercial Seaport in the Continental United States, Huh?
• 72 Minutes Means the Earth is Fat
and
• It Really Happens Every Friday

A glow of almost gold capped what used to be our moon, lying across the top of this now unfamiliar circle in the sky, like snow atop an Arizona mesa, only 235,857 miles away, straight up.

And then, it got cinematic. The glow slid slowly down, over the face of the ball, and illuminated it more brightly than I ever expected, until it became not a disc, not a circle in the sky, but a three-dimensional glowing solid mass. It was a body, suspended, full, alive, incredibly precious. I whooped, my mouth opened, I stared. I said, “I read that 1638 was the last time this happened on the winter solstice. It was so beautiful here then.” I thought about what it must have seemed like to those people, the Lenape, the Algonquin, the Mohawk, the Africans, the Europeans.

Now, the moon looked like a glow-in-the-dark superball, like Orion’s belt in Men In Black. But it was so real that some part of my brain kept looking to see, how did it stay there? And I had to tell myself again that it is the pull of the sun, behind us now, that keeps it there, that keeps us here, that in this miraculous universe planets, moons, stars and dust spin around each other, a phone plays songs and maps the eternity above us, and friends share an old moment in a new time.

So, no meteor shower. But that was awesome.

Guests from Gibbet Island

2010-04-19T20:08:00.001-07:00

I have recorded an audio reading of Washington Irving's short story, Guests from Gibbet Island.

Written in Irving's later life (around 1855), Guests from Gibbet Island is set in the late 17th century in the Village of Communipaw, a settlement on the western shore of the bay by the city previously known as New Amsterdam, now New York. For a long time after the British took control of the New Netherland colony, Communipaw remained a Dutch enclave, and anti-British sentiment was the norm there.

The son of Scottish merchant immigrants, Irving was born on Williams Street in New York City in 1783 but was teen-aged before he learned of the Dutch origins of New York and the surrounding area; in tradition, the history books had long been already rewritten by the victors. From one of his sister's Dutch-American suitors, Irving learned of the New Netherland period and began a lifelong interest in the period and the culture, writing stories anchored in Dutch characters, names, habits and politics, including the novels Rip Van Winkle and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Irving also wrote several short stories including at least four set in Communipaw in what is today Jersey City, New Jersey, where I live. Guests from Gibbet Island is one of these.

For those who know the area, I estimate the location of the public house in the story, The Wild Goose, to be at the western edge of Liberty State Park, near the Light Rail station there. At the time the story takes place, high tide brought the bay waters to about what is, indeed, the foot of a street known today as Communipaw Avenue.

Guests from Gibbet Island was brought to me by a writer friend in late 2006. Its simple 37 paragraphs struck me as a somewhat elegant description of the legacy that the Dutch left on Jersey City, the New York region and, perhaps, the United States -- we think of our multicultural business profile and the U.S.'s apparent high drive to commerce and production as American characteristics when they are, in fact, traditional Dutch cultural norms imprinted on our region and our country. As early as the 15th century, the Low Country cities of Amsterdam and Rotterdam were home to the most diverse merchant class in Europe.

Irving's story stuck with me, and soon I began to learn more about the period, about Irving and about New Netherland, and eventually to write an adaptation of this story for stage. The play script is more detailed than Irving's short story, with more characters and more dialogue, but I have kept Irving's timeline, historical considerations, and the two characters who drive the action from beginning to end. The play's working title is "Roost". (I have a dream to one day see this play performed in the parking lot of the Light Rail Station or the Foundry Condominiums at the end of Communipaw Avenue where most of the story's action takes place. If you're interested in staying informed about the progress of this play, please let me know.)

If you'd like to hear this story read by me, please send an email to trishszymanski@gmail.com and I will send you the audio story.

And please, feel free to pass this audio reading on to anyone you think might enjoy it, or to someone whose pants you would like to scare off.

SHARED: Carolyn M. Rodgers

2010-04-12T22:43:00.000-07:00

I heard that Carolyn Rodgers died a few days ago.
This is one of her poems that I like very much.

The Last MF
By Carolyn M. Rodgers (1945-2010)

they say,

that i should not use the word

muthafucka anymo

in my poetry or in any speech i give.

they say,

that i must and can only say it to myself

as the new Black Womanhood suggests

a softer self

a more reserved speaking self. they say,

that respect is hard won... by a woman

who throws a word like muthafucka around

and so they say because we love you

throw that word away, Black Woman ...

i say,

that i only call muthafuckas, muthafuckas

so no one should be insulted.

*********************************************

Some information about Carolyn Rodgers:
http://www.answers.com/topic/carolyn-m-rodgers

POEM: Might Have

2010-04-10T14:46:00.000-07:00

By Trish Szymanski (c) 2010

Do you have regrets?

Do you wish
You had appreciated
More the plate of food
You had been handed,
Delicious, fragrant sustenance?
It would have kept you warm
Through winter's hard embrace.

Do you wish
You had not squandered
The chance to love and be loved by
A joyful, substantial woman?

Well, maybe you do
But what is that about?
Your empty belly?
Your soul, twisting in the cosmic wind,
its vacant sign swinging past
That dumb yawn?

See what regrets do?

Writing, A Solitary Sport That Cannot Be Played Alone

2010-03-09T10:46:00.000-08:00

Writing can be such a lonely affair. Just me and my blank page. So, for balance, I try to connect about writing with others in different ways. I've had a good amount of help.

Among my influences are June Foley, whose memoir-writing class changed completely how I shape a story; Warren Lehrer, whose theories and methods on character development have become an integral part of me as a person; and Barry Goldsmith, whose construction and deconstruction of comedy made for one of the more fun semesters I ever had and taught me a lot about entertainment.

These days, one of my favorite coaches is someone I've never met in person - Daphne Gray-Grant. Daphne lives and writes in Vancouver BC and sends out a frequent e-newsletter which is always welcome because it is always meaningful in some way and is always designed to be easy to digest. Check her out:

http://www.publicationcoach.com/

Today's newsletter was about the writer's health and raised the issue that writing is just one more activity where we can concentrate so hard that we FORGET TO BREATHE. It speaks to the neurobiological consequences of that omission, to posture and to general good practices for writers. Why is this important? Because it impacts directly our ability to create cogent, compelling written product.

Thank you, Daphne!

Too much to write about

2010-02-17T23:39:00.001-08:00

It's been many months now since I've written here. But I've been writing, alright. There's been plenty of business development, correspondence, marketing materials, website development, advertising, checking in, confirming, clarifying, creating. Just not much blogging.

I'm back here because I added a blog to my profile to boost my business, my Boost Your Biz business, that is. It's going pretty well.

And I'm working on my acting too, even though I missed a couple of classes lately. I've got a role coming up in the fall that I've been developing for a while, so I'm getting excited to bring her to the stage. And I've been invited to submit a part of my play script to a one-act festival, which is inspiring. And I was offered use of a country house as a writing retreat, so I might actually be able to do it.

And I am doing some photo-manipulation-collage which includes a piece that will be in a group show next month. And I'm co-producing a small event next month. And I got a cool domain name and a great deal on hosting.

And I'm working on my business savvy and sensitivity, negotiating relationships, bettering my self-skills, my boundary navigation. And I'm challenged by health limitations which I am determined to break through, and I think I'm doing it. And I'm feeling more confidant and relaxed, though not always.

And I'm looking for roommates and really pretty broke, like bad broke, but kind of don't care because all the stuff up above this paragraph is all I care about.

Well, there is that thing about feeling alone, which is different from being alone. I'd rather not be involved with either one of those. Working on that too.

Going with the flow

2009-09-04T10:29:00.000-07:00

So, I dream again. All the time. All kinds of dreams. Most mornings I wake up aware that I have dreamed, if not what I dreamed about. None have been ground-shaking for a while, since those stirring first dreams earlier this year, but I like it that the many years of nights as big black holes are over.

A Most Tender Dream

2009-04-16T21:26:00.000-07:00

Bobby is my best friend. I think we met a year or two after high school, when he came through town and spent that week staying at Matt's. Oh, he fit in with the pack, and he came on that fated camping trip. I think we all lost some body part and gained a chunk of maturity and some life long friends.

You never know who's going to be a good, real friend. Over these many years, decades now, Bobby has become my sweetest, closest friend, the kind who can finish your sentences but doesn't even have to because you both know what you mean. It turns out we make a good team too. Before now, our time together was mostly movies and meals and volley ball and concerts and camping, talking about a book we were reading at the same time or about how to help a friend. We did a lot together. And all that good trust makes for nice work.

We are getting things done, fast and right. It's that easy quiet between us. Rigging the lights in complicated patterns, one pair at a time, with a word or two exchanged here or there, it's a sharp contrast to the catering staff, banging into each other, pans flying, clattering, the manager screaming. At one point today it got quiet and we realized they were just staring up at us, and we burst out laughing. They went back to work, jeering us raucously, but it seemed like the rest of the day went a little better. I don't know, maybe I'm projecting.

We said, let's eat at Giacomo's tonight and Bobby drove. We sat down and I asked for a glass of wine right off and then quickly ordered comfort food. I got perfectly roasted chicken, okra fried ever so lightly, and that great mac and cheese they serve in a little crock, all crispy and bubbly on top. We ate off each other's plates like always, shared a piece of flourless chocolate cake. It all tasted so good.

What I remember about this dinner is what stood out over the day: the simple, profound joy I feel in Bobby's company. When he reached over to pick at my mac and cheese, I just felt grateful to have him in my life. He looked so cute, trying to wax poetic about its savory decadence or something, but mostly just mmmm'ing his way through half the crust till I had to tap his hand with my fork and tell him to leave me some.

We talked about the lighting and the crew and about how well Celeste was doing given Matt's dickheaded decision to leave her when she got cancer and how the remission and her inheritance were fitting karma for both of them. Man, I felt so bad for thinking that all this year but I just couldn't help it. I could hardly look at Matt anymore, and he didn't really hang out with us much. Bobby said he felt the same and he wondered whether Matt would ever get it. He said, "I'd never do that to you, you know?" Not the same, of course, we're not married or anything and I don't have cancer. But I nodded, I understood his point.

We left Giacomo's and started walking toward the car and Bobby looked at the sky, early sunset colors slicing through each other, and said, "I want a cigarette." And then, "It's so nice out this evening. I'll just walk you home and then walk back to get my car." "Really?" I said. "Yeah," he said and smiled. "Come on."

We cut through what's left of Kidden Woods and walked towards my house. It still feels strange, living back here, in the house I grew up in. I got re-attached, visiting Mom when she was dying, so I decided, I guess, to get burned out at my job and take early retirement, which also seems strange -- how do you take early retirement when you feel like a teenager half the time? In my school days, I think I was a little ashamed of our old house in the old part of town, but I like living here now. The trees are tall and offer real shade.

Bobby and I sat on the top step of my front porch. The house blocked the setting sun and it was almost dark here now, just a glow left tracing the treetops. We sat side by side, and I leaned into him. He put his arm around my shoulder, cradling me, and leaned into me.

My heart fluttered. I thought, "I should have been born in 1850." Definitely a romantic. But then, I still would have been a woman and it would have been so hard to get my work published. Bobby sniffled. It sounded like a laugh, and I thought he knew what I was thinking and I sniffled back. At the same time we turned and looked at each other, and at the same time we opened our arms and wrapped them around each other and rested our heads on our shoulders and breathed, deeply, a necessary sigh.

Now my heart lifted and it felt like it burst open wide. My face was warm in his neck. He smelled really, really good. I reached a little further around him and he did the same. I felt him breathing, hard, on my neck. I started to close my eyes, trying to temper the emotion, but stopped because I could not, as I thought, quite unexpectedly, "I'm falling in love with my best friend. And he is falling in love with me too." And I wondered at how life can be.

* * *
By Trish Szymanski
(c) 2009 February 8 / 977
(c) 2009 March 23 / 952

Another dream.

2009-02-24T11:15:00.001-08:00

I woke up the first time around 8 this morning and thought of him right away. I went to the bathroom and back to bed, fell asleep, and we picked up where we had left off. Part of me knew I was dreaming and was delighted that we were continuing.

I was who I am right now. He was quite a bit younger than I, just barely within my stated acceptable age range, very fair with strawberry blond hair and lots of freckles. The freckles figure prominently in my memory. He has a sweet face, unfamiliar, no one I know.

We had met somewhere just that night, it must have been my home, though it didn't look familiar. There were others around but everyone else left, one by one, and he hung around and it was alright with me. I was occupied with something in which he had no interest, or maybe I just didn't share it with him. But it was easy between us, which I figured was why he stayed.

It was getting late, and I sensed he wanted to lay down together. I did too, but some activity on my lap was taking my attention. I'm guessing it was a laptop; maybe I was writing a poem.

He kept busy while I did my thing. Now and then, he came to me and smiled, or asked if I was done yet, or massaged my neck a little. I enjoyed his goodhearted nagging. I would smile and say nothing or, "Soon."

Once more, he came to me and rubbed his face against mine, like a cat. I rubbed back at him. But I wasn't quite ready and my fingers kept moving. He gave up and lay down in the next room, in the dark. I could see him there, curled up on his side, resting. I considered taking off the long, soft, dark blue dress I wore. I walked over to him and as I sat, he reached out and pulled me down. I lay down, on my side too, lying in front of him, and we spooned, his one arm under my head, the other over my hip and my belly.

I think this dream was partly inspired by a couple of Facebook exchanges recently, but as I thought about it this morning, what struck me was the familiar feeling of calm, feeling present, safe, of confidence that all is well, and when I'm done with the task at hand, I'll get to lay down and rest in the warmth of a friend.

Homeless For One Night

2009-02-22T16:01:00.000-08:00

by Trish Szymanski
Late night, Saturday, February 21, 2009

"U.S.A. U.S.A. U.S.A."
She comments to me on the steps at Journal Square tonight.

I watch as history poignantly repeats.
Jean comforts her, hugs and loves her.

"This is inhuman!" she whispers to me,
Not wanting to insult her host at the fountain.
Jean's bags line up neatly as she huddles nearby
And waits for her husband to join her.

U.S.A.
U.S.A.
U.S.A.
She says, "How can we just sit by with people in such plight?"

I watch as her consciousness once again is raised.
And she has known, better than most.

"What can I do now?" she thinks to herself.
Now walking ahead though she sees no path there.
Her fire is ignited. She struggles. She cries.
Looks up, so the answer will find her.

U.S.A.
U.S.A.
U.S.A.
"Don't cry," Jean says, "It's going to be okay."

for Adela, and Jean

Me, in December 2008

2009-02-10T08:56:00.000-08:00

A new me...ish.

Photo by
Elizabeth Solaka

I like dreaming.

2009-02-08T19:56:00.000-08:00

I used to dream long, vivid dreams that I remembered in detail. Sometimes, I would awake and write them down and they would come out like saga poems.

In my teens and twenties, I dreamed stories, like being in a bookshop with my mother who was telling me how to spend my book-buying dollars, me getting frustrated and leaving, then walking back up the street to find my mother standing outside the bookshop in an animal print bikini, in the waves that crashed out of the bookstore (where presumably the ocean was), trying to avoid the shark that was swimming in the surf while getting as close a look at it as possible.

At some point, my dream memory began to fade and it seemed my dreams had become less interesting, shorter, hardly worth remembering. And then, about ten years ago, I stopped remembering my dreams altogether. It was disappointing.

Recently, I had a few long, detailed dreams, like the ones many years ago. In one of them I was in the right place at the right time to catch a baby as it popped out of a friend's vagina. It was slippery, like a greased pig, and I kept almost dropping it as I washed it off and finally managed to deliver it to its mother's stomach. Everything was OK in the end. Whew!

Another dream was long and detailed, like the old sagas, rich with emotion and images. It left me feeling vulnerable and so alive, in that messy, real way.

I couldn't get it out of my head and for a few days I told it over and over, to different people. A friend said it sounded like a great short film. Finally, I wrote it down and couldn't stop until it was done. I embellished it in the writing, just a little, because now the narrative had grabbed me and I did begin to see it as a story, like I used to, maybe even a film. The process of writing it took away the compulsion to tell it. The narrative passed through me, and like a fine filter, it dragged out of me strong emotions, some pleasant, others not so much.

After talking with close friends and confidants, I take this dream as a significant signpost along the amazing personal journey I've been on for the past couple of years. I like the direction it says I'm pointed in.

I'll post it here in time. The photograph in this entry is of my bedroom, where I dreamed this most tender dream.

confrontaal: Saturday Night Live: Sarah Palin Rap

2008-10-19T12:07:00.000-07:00

confrontaal: Saturday Night Live: Sarah Palin Rap

Me in December 2007

2008-08-05T08:55:00.000-07:00

Blue and gold
and blue and gold
complements.

Photo by
Donetta Pedmoza

Um. No.

2008-04-14T08:29:00.000-07:00

I almost built a big no. I might still do it.

I'm all about finding common ground and getting to "yes," but everywhere I turn I see the eloquence of a well-placed "no".

My "healthy woman" email came with the caption, "No's the way to go!"

Yeah.

No.

An Uneasy Lesson

2008-04-03T17:41:00.000-07:00

I am free
I forget that often so
I tell myself that
I am free

I cannot make it so
It is so
I am free
It is so

Free
Inside a crack
Deep in a crevice

Free
In a hole
With no way out

Free
In a cell
With bars and guards

Free
Tied up and blind

I tell myself
To teach myself
The ways of the world.

"...those women who walked instead of riding the bus"

2008-01-22T07:27:00.001-08:00

If Dennis Kucinich had been included in yesterday's Democratic presidential candidates' debate, really an exchange of blame and barbs among the truncated field of Clinton, Obama and Edwards, it might have been interesting, or at least useful to a voter interested in assessing the candidates' principles or positions. Instead, I settled for being entertained, if not educated.

Falling on the federal holiday celebrating the birth of the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King, Jr., the candidates' words sat in a context of righteousness, protest and activism, with all three competing to offer their version of what Daddy King might have thought of today's political scene, about what it takes to make things right.

As I listened to Obama, I realized that I remain a woman who will walk instead of riding the bus, if riding the bus means supporting an oppressor, contributing to what works against my best interests, feeding the monster. Some people can sell themselves so easily. I might give myself away, but I am not for sale.

To live one's life in a form of protest, making the personal fully political, is a distinct choice. How that choice takes shape -- by exclusion or inclusion -- brings different results.

On Atheism: The Heretic, Heine and Me

2007-11-27T06:57:00.000-08:00

Atheist (noun). A person to be pitied in that he is unable to believe things for which there is no evidence, and who has thus deprived himself of a convenient means of feeling superior to others.

— Chaz Bufe, The American Heretic’s Dictionary

I empathize with following your gut, testing a possibility, letting go of worry or following any number of other rational directions whose hypotheses remain unprovable. Pre-enlightenment, Heine's idea about when religion "makes sense" (see below) fit, in a way. Since then, the religion of science has been at times as wildly foolish as the science of religion. These days though, the church and fetish crowd just makes me shudder. Hypocrites...ewww.

In dark ages people are best guided by religion, as in a pitch-black night a blind man is the best guide; he knows the roads and paths better than a man who can see. When daylight comes, however, it is foolish to use blind, old men as guides.

— Heinrich Heine, Gedanken und Einfalle

There's something about this analogy that I like, though I can't agree completely. It works in a historical context, I guess. But personally, even in the darkest depths, I'm not going to follow the yellow brick road and sleep in the poppies. I might flail around and look quite mad, but not knowing is not knowing.

An essay: Authenticity and Art Making

— Trish Szymanski, CityBelt

Who's the creator here, anyway?

...

The Fog

2007-08-18T20:55:00.000-07:00

I met the original Baadasssss tonight. He showed up at a fundraiser for BlackWaxx Recordings (http://www.blackwaxx.com/) at their Jersey City studios. Other luminaries were in attendance, including Bob Law of "Night Talk" fame, who proved his finely honed wallet-squeezing skills.

Melvyn Van Peebles is 75 now, a diminutive-looking man with a white-gray beard. He wore black parachute and an orange/black bandana. His cinematographer, whose name I regret I did not catch, drove/accompanied him. We chatted about the fire in the Deutsche Bank building, south side of Ground Zero, that burned today. Weird.

Here's what I took away from him.

He said that when he was starting out -- he's been writing for film since the 1950's! -- it was like he was rowing around in the fog. He called out, "Hellooooo," but all he heard was his own voice. It was lonely but he kept rowing. Periodically, he would call out again, "Hellooooo."

Finally, once, he called, "Hellooooo," and listened hard till he heard a couple of small voices, far away, calling back -- "Helloooo." He rowed in what seemed like their direction, and they did the same. Eventually, they met up and made contact. Together, they rowed on, called out, made contact with still other, like-minded artists of vision and together, they made their way and backed each other up.

Van Peebles's 1971 Sweet Sweetback's Baadasssss Song exploded into black America, first, and then hurled itself at the rest of us, lauching more than a genre, not a movement, but the ship called Equal Opportunity, the chance to create work, control its creation and profit from its sale. As author, producer, star and director, Van Peebles owned "Song" in every way.

The thing is, he made it because he KEPT ROWING HIS OWN BOAT and worked with people whose sense of integrity was compatible with his.

Funny

2007-08-10T19:35:00.000-07:00

Some things are. Even when they're stupid, or ugly, or damning, or seriously fkd up, or mind-numbingly, bizarrely, ironically poignant.

Funny, though laughter isn't always an appropriate response.

Me in May 2007

2007-08-10T19:23:00.000-07:00