GoGo on a Page

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Location: Midwest, United States

"Power lines, my travlin' partner on this ride. Dripping, pulling - up and down, in this sing song, their lullaby blends with the swaying train. I curl myself into this journey; folding myself up into this pocket of time. Old familiars greet me - that swing set in the back yard, the ruins of an old church covered in new birth and old - mixed with unremembered newness." Journal Entry, October 13, 2005~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~All words are copyrighted by GoGo on a Page/gogoroku.

Thursday, June 28, 2007

A Woman Walking Up a Hill

I walked past a picture, empty of my face

'Cause you told me I'd grow into my ugly.

I bought a camera and filled it with my face

‘Cause you told me I’d grow into my ugly.

It’s either going to be a chronology to

Your truth OR something different

~Get Out of My Internalized BS~

December 20, 2005

I was searching for something else when I found this. Some piece I had started writing about a woman walking up a hill. I had begun another story, with a woman walking up a hill, and my memory reminded me I may have written it before. I suppose I was looking for the old piece to see what changed between then and now in this imagery forming in my head. Why was there a story brewing about a woman walking up a hill? I didn’t find her…walking up that hill. I did find this piece. I had labeled an old scribble Get Out of My Internalized BS and decided to click and see if that woman was there.

She wasn’t.

I was.

This piece was one of three poems, written at some time when I struggled to like myself, forgotten by this somewhat confident woman. Always three separate poems, usually one stanza long. Hmm. Of the three, this one I did not remember. Reading it felt like some foreign author snuck into my private journals and scribbled something of her own, not me. Don’t get me wrong, I know exactly what I was talking about. Scanning the words reminded me of the intensity in that moment that became a catalyst for such purging. Then, like a closed book it was gone and had I not written it down, there would be no record of the thought.

The piece was stuck between other pieces that were published. Knowing myself, I am sure this one was too personal, too vulnerable for public eyes… OR I thought it was crap. So many things I toss go into the crap pile until one day, like this one, I stumble upon it and find a flower has grown out of the crap that lived there before. It pays to be a collector of words I suppose.

So why is this piece a flower now?

This last week, I have been working on a few pieces about body image while trying to capture some empowerment brewing in my world right now. These pieces aren’t ready for this page. Not even close. I can’t get passed this long winded diatribe of how society f-cks over women, and that’s not what I am intending on writing about. I’m trying to create a piece about how beauty is in the journey of finding our own, not in societal norms. I have no idea how I got off on the subject of a woman walking up a hill. And yet, I found this instead, a piece that reflects where I am. Where I have been for a long time and all those scratches on a page about finding our own beauty was me trying to bull shit my way out of the feeling. As if I could become an authority on finding our own beauty, I’d fine mine.

But isn’t that the way it goes? At least for me, it’s about trying to do something different and sticking with it as long as it takes, until I finally do something different…or a flower grows out of all that bull shit.

So, I decided to post this piece, giving it space to breathe. I like it. It reminds me that, though I have not gotten far, I am still committed to finding something different.

Are you trying to find something different?



Thursday, June 21, 2007

Happy Summer Solstice

I’m sitting down to finally write that paper for a seminar I took. Little did I know that a one day class would have a 7 page paper attached to it. I didn’t plan for it. Didn’t plan for even making an effort here. So, of course, I am spending time listening to music, utube’n, and avoiding any sense of effort towards the paper. Maybe in a little while, aye.

I thought I could spend some time writing while I put off the paper. Much is happening, but little to report. I am currently babysitting a cat for a friend. For about 2 months I have this obnoxiously cute cat living in my home. I have to admit, she’s just what I needed – a little furry friend to hang with before I move. I’m trying not to get too attached. Unfortunately, she has such a wonderful personality, its hard to not fall in love with daily. For example, this morning she woke me with a constant licking of my noise while simultaneously putting a paw on my chest. I pushed her off in a groggy state telling her I didn’t need CPR, I was asleep not dead! She and I then proceeded to head into the kitchen for our normal routine, food for her and the Synthroid for me. She gorges down her food while I begin the coffee.

This is the point in the morning, after she burps and does her morning constitution that she proceeds to walk between my feet until I trip and fall. I know she’s just a kitty who needs some love’n, but I need a moment to stretch and remember what day it is, who am I, and what are my plans for the day. So, what I usually do is grab one of many toys I bought the little puss and toss it; she goes running after it while I get a moments peace to orient myself X4. The thing is she bores with the toys easily. A run and a bat and she’s back at my feet trying to topple me over. Please note, all the petting in the world doesn’t stop her need to entangle herself in my calves.

This morning, I finally found the one toy that she will play with longer then a pat. A tampon. Yes, that’s right. A new, still in the wrapper tampon. The cat can’t get enough of this fun. I discovered this new toy while doing my own constitution one morning. I was in the bathroom, grabbing my own fun-time tampon (GO BLOATED IRRITABILITY!) and dropped one on the floor. Now, Ms. Kitty is not allowed in the bathroom when I pee. It’s a small space and though I love our closeness, I get tired of holding her while peeing because she MUST be on my lap in the bathroom. It’s not hygienic, people! So, while I am grabbing the tampon out of the box, one falls to the floor, and no sooner does it hit the ground then Ms. Puss’s paw comes flying under the door sntaching the thing like it was just the prey she was waiting for. I suddenly felt like I was myself prey being watched under the door. Of course, I had to bend down and stare. And there she was, crotched under the door like some big scary Rapture in that movie, eyes all wild and extended claws, licking her lips at her babysitter. The only thing between me and death, besides the door, was that tampon she was straddling as if to smoother it with her huntress body.

This morning, needing some vertical peace and quiet, I decided to lob that tampon in the air and like some bird she just NEEDS to have, Ms. Puss hightails it with supersonic speed, pouncing on it with sheer glory. For at least a half hour, I heard her batting the hell out of the thing while I drank my coffee. I’m thinking of getting her her own box.



Tuesday, June 12, 2007

What is your favorite color? My Ode to Life

So, I am a childless woman. Right now, no kids. No, this is not a long winded whine complete with boo hoos and poor me(s). I really don’t mind being childless at the moment. In fact, the whole childlessness makes it real easy to pick up and move to London. I am noting my current childless existence because I myself am surprised by the number of kids who are in my life. Yes, for a no kid gyrl, I certainly get a bunch of calls and letters from this developmentally influx group. And you know what, I love this. I have my nephew, my little bo, and my cousin, all around the same age calling me or writing me. My friends in North Carolina keep me posted about their little one – she’s walking! And every-so-often, I hear about this 6-year-old out in the world.

I never expected kids to be in my life. Just didn’t. I don’t know why. I like being an adult in these kids’ lives. Okay, sometimes I like being a kid with these kids or what I like to call an extension to childhood. It’s nice.

Recently, one of these wonderful pre-adults asked me some questions. Ironically, the whole conversation felt like a funny forward sent out on email, except they were the usual questions one expects from kids. Questions were asked like what is your favorite food; do you prefer cats over dogs; and if you were a sound what would it be? (Peas, cat&dog, Bflat). One question that really made me think was “what is my favorite color?” Now, for years, since I can remember my favorite color has been red. It’s the color of hearts, the shade of love, and strawberries are red. These would have been my answers at age six. Fast forward to 30 years old and I found myself wondering if it was still true. See, there is so much more then red out there. Blue is a wonderful color, relaxing and reminds me of the word authentic. It also brings out my eyes. Orange is a sensual, warm color that just feels confident, assured, and in harmony. Purple is wise, far reaching and reminds me of the word twilight, plum, peace. Green is everywhere. She emphasizes life in breath, the whimsical in everyday, and it also brings out a nice shade in my eyes. Yellow is a surprise every time. It just is.

So, when the little one asked me what my favorite color was, I wondered which of these were true. By the way, I wasn’t allowed to answer all colors. But you know what, after thinking about it. I realized red is still my favorite color. Why? Because out of all the colors, it’s always been there for me. When I was wee, I had a head injury where a ho had slit my forehead. Um, that was a garden ho. I can remember being confused, disoriented and just plain out of it! What I also remember is the red bleeding from me was so beautiful. It was rich and pure, and life itself. Which, if we think about it, is not such a good thing. I felt at peace and was very distracted by the color. I realized out of all the colors out there, red has always had by back. Every time something bad happens and I bleed, I am okay, because I’m bleeding my favorite color. :-).

That’s why red is my favorite color. And here, read this poem, because it also explains my love for red.

This probably explains why kids like to talk to me too.


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Wednesday, June 06, 2007

another letter to my grandchildren

Dear Grandchildren,

I seem to be running from morning to night these days, getting many things done while wading through many more things still undone. I am learning. That is a theme strong and thick in my veins today. Some core part of me is learning to come out and not be afraid. That sounds ambiguous doesn’t it? Hmm.

I wish I had time to chronicle my last summer in this town. I have lived here for 6 years now. Wow! The edges to this place have blended into softened corners. I have met and learned from so many, seen many more things. Alas, time keeps me present in my days and by the end of them, I am ready to continue some other project rather then putting fingers to the keypad. I wrote you last year, trying to decide if I was moving onward from this town; I wanted to now follow up and find some insightful words to share as I transition onward toward London. It’s happening! I am moving. I guess. Little by little I am collecting myself and saying goodbye to all I have known of this town. Little by little I am preparing for my new journey, excited to step into this new unknown that I am sure will greet me with grace, as I become the familiar amongst the unfamiliar. I do wonder what that will look like. How does it feel to be the familiar among so much unfamiliar?

Damn, I write like a mystic.

I am also full of fear that I comfort on a continuous basis! No fear think! I’ll never leave if I let it get to me. If I allow myself to go down roads that fear opens, I will be lost. With that said, it’s hard not to think about being isolated in London and not knowing anyone. It’s hard not to wonder if I am just deciding to live a pauper’s life in the end after all. It’s hard not to wonder if my family will ever forgive me for going, and without them what does that make me? But, these wonderings are just misdirected wanderings I have no intention of treading.

I feel an enormous amount of comfort in writing letters to the future. It brings mindfulness to this spastic soul. I have no clue if “my grandchildren” will ever be, but I do know whether I have my own children or not, there will be grandchildren, and I’d like to think these words somehow will find their way to some future result that benefits.

With that, “grandchildren”, know your Nana is pushing forward, letting go of some very old fears, and finding my way towards you.

With Love,

Nana GoGo.


Saturday, June 02, 2007

Tapping the Wire

So many thoughts come and go. I am lazy to write them down; comfortable in letting them pass along, like time does tick by ticking hand. I am a thousand miles away from the written word.

My days are filled with countless stories…I find they can only fit into verbal retelling. I think that is it, I have become vocal in my days again, leaving the written word for something other than an expression of me. I do miss my connection here. I miss painting with words. I can almost feel the rhythmic swaying between mind and fingers. Though I hear a story coming, it is quick to leave just out of reach before I can grab it.

I’m currently working an over night shift. I actually work days now, but I pick up shifts anytime I can get them. Unfortunately for me, the overnights are the only extra shifts opening up. I have become comfortable with waking in dawn’s early light rather than going to bed in it. I long to be in bed.

I went outside to get a sense of fresh air to wake me. I do appreciate the intoxicating liquor of the night air. The earth breathes at night, releasing this thick perfume, the temperate air feels grounding. After having many long hot days, the nights have become a warm expression. No coat needed; nothing to brace against the air, I could wear shorts out at 4am. My mind wandered to sleeping with all the windows open, letting the earthy air wrap around me like a cocoon while I sleep. I believe I am done working at night, all night, until morning comes.

The bright side to nocturnal employment is tomorrow while I sleep, I will be unconscious through the sweltering heat of the day. By noon, the body is layered with perspiration, too long outside and it becomes a river of sweat pouring off the body. The days are all a dehydrating experience; heat rising from every orifice this town has to offer. The pavement a sticky skin, sun burnt and peeling, reeling in the humidity rising. I will be unconscious through tomorrow’s hot day. That’s my consolation.

Hmm. Is this really what I came to write on this page? Another ramble on weather…another diatribe on working all night?

I guess I am just tapping this wire, seeing what I can get. Its just another rambled prose on an overnight shift.

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