The Slow Clock

click - tock

the slow clock

ticks

slower

bending time

backwards

to moments preserved

to be replayed and continued.

click - tock

-caught in a freeze frame-

the window narrows,

squeezing and heightening

the pinch in the chest and the tickle beneath. Agony

meets ecstasy. Horror meets temptation.

Anxiety of the most precious variety. Drunk

on fantasy and hateful of reality,

they sit.

I'm Fine, Just Throw Me a Fastball

Sometimes life throws you a curve ball. No, I take that back. They all seem to be curve balls. Everything has a catch or a snag. Just once, I wish life would throw me a fast ball, straight down the middle: something I can see coming and know exactly what to do with it.

Yesterday a dear friend wrote and asked me how I'm doing. "Fine," I said. "Fine?" he asked. Yes, fine. Work is fine. Family is fine. Friends are fine. When I responded "fine," I meant that in a positive way. But when he challenged me on it, I was forced to acknowledge a rather lackluster sensation.

The problem is that nothing is easy. Sometimes it’s a minor issue (as in, why must the Virginia Department of Transportation funnel five lanes of traffic into a single lane on I66 Saturday morning when I need to be in Charlottesville?). But sometimes life’s difficulties are not so minor. That’s when I have to wonder if it's me. Is there something deeply rooted in my psyche that complicates my world unnecessarily? The answer is “probably,” but that would take hundreds of dollars and hours of therapy to figure out. So, instead I write. That can help. So can photography. Some days are just like that.

Return to Sender

Returned mail lands in the wrong hands,

and with that the lights go out.

The owner sneaks tainted loot.

A message lost is won unwanted.

A moment of wonder,

with new words

all to sit and ponder.

Today tests tomorrow

tests yesteryear

while a ghost voice flounders

in our ear

crying an anti-cheer.

Blackbird be gone.

Knowing some

can be worse than

knowing all

or even,

knowing none.

Doc, are these dreams

made of fear

or are they some sort of

real world seer?

Pre-tested temptations

sound sweet

way down yonder in the holler

where you can still stall her

with silence

and fodder.

Impossible to delete,

letters unsifted, torn, and drifted,

read in a dark, dank room,

clutter the diary

with craze

unfounded.

But old blood turns blue.

It needs air and care and flair,

and a one-way valve

for two.

So maybe

rap, rap, rap back

you raven bird.

Maybe just "accept"

how the red paper drips

a grey story down,

as it drops and slips

easily into the shadowy spout

even if it sticks to the pipes

now drowned.

Stop Looking at Me

You -

Stop looking at me.

I won't look at you

because to do so would be to acknowledge

your judgment

of me,

and validate it.

I know what you're thinking

and you're wrong.

You don't know what I know.

You don't know all of the facts

and the gestures

that I know.

You don't know the lack of facts

and the lack of gestures

that I know.

You don't know my confusion.

You don't know my need.

I could never explain all that you don't know

to you.

So again,

please,

stop looking at me.

We need to pretend

that we're not face to face.

That there is no tear welling in my eye

for no reason.

Riverdream

Sixty miles from the horns of Capitol Hill is the old historical town of Fredericksburg. This is not the strip mall-congested civil war haven that can suck the life out of you in Route 3 West Fredericksburg. No, I'm talking about the cobble-stone-sidewalk, homes of George Washington's sister and mother, civil war haven that is somehow endlessly charming in Route 3 East Fredericksburg. Being about mid-way between Washington, DC and Richmond, this area was a hotbed during the Civil War where about 100,000 people died as a result of four battles (Chancellorsville, Fredericksburg, Spotsylvania, and Wilderness). For that reason, it's a destination for American history buffs.

This side of Interstate 95 also hoards another treasure: the riverbed of the Rappahannock -- and the last few weekends, I've been hooked on its lure. Last Sunday during a tubing trip, I witnessed a large falcon brunching on a large fish (well, 12-inches long seems big for this size river). The bird perched on a branch above the water and pecked away at the wiggling fish trapped in its talons as I gazed from below. It was quite a gravity-defying spectacle of agility. This weekend was no disappointment either, watching some sort of water bird (duck?) dive beneath the river's surface for minutes at a time for prey below - no more than twenty feet away.

I'm certain I'll find my way back to the riverbanks again, though I promise it's not to watch mother nature's predators at work. There is something so inherently peaceful and soul soothing to be near that river, I can assure you, the fish feasts are merely a minor distraction from the beauty of it all. Here is a little something I borrowed from it today. Bear with me as it's still a little fresh.

Riverdream

Rippling water surrounds me, surrounds and 

drownds the  silent silence, 

making a new silence of water 

anew 

 silence of water  that 

moves and 

takes me downstream      before 

whirlpooling 

back 

to where fish     - jump -           and 

 dodge 

great rocks 

and 

diving  birds.

In this quiet, 

the sun dances 

a water tango - 

reflecting sharply 

while melting softly 

                 into the love creatures 

                                       below. 

A moment on the hazy morning train from Fredericksburg

From here the sun looks even bigger than it already is. I'm losing battle of the curl against my hair and blue herons blend with the steam from above. The Rappahannock's topface is smooth as a vintage mirror with only the occassional ripple or wrinkle due to watercraft not wind. The morning is young but prematurely aged, an ungentle reminder that Washington, DC was indeed built on a swamp and that nature can be glorious even when oppressive.

No More Red Beer

When I was a kid, one of my Dad’s favorite nighttime beverages was Red Beer. I’m sure on more than one occasion, he employed one of us kids to make it for him. It’s easy to do, simply pour a glass half full (or more) with beer then top it off with tomato juice.

Thinking about it now, it’s a drink that doesn’t make much sense and I don’t think I would ever dare partake as an adult (unless in a moment of severely blurred judgment, perhaps a failed attempt at the hair of the dog). But at the time, it seemed like a normal and acceptable thing to drink.

I imagine in a different place or a different household, they may have mixed the same ingredients and called it something else. The Food Network has a recipe for a Spicy Red Beer, but it’s really more like a Bloody Mary. In Mexico, maybe they call it a Bloody Sunrise. In France, maybe a Bier Royale? But in my household it was known as a Red Beer.

Whatever you name it, looking back, the drink doesn’t make sense. Mixing beer? With tomato juice? But I suppose then, like now, I’ve learned to accept many things in life that don’t make much sense, but just are.

Working in the news, it’s easy to get jaded. “Another person was just shot dead in the Bayview? That’s not news.” (That’s a direct quote to me from an on-air host of the ABC Radio station in San Francisco.) It is what it is, I guess. Another black person killed. Another Red Beer.

This week was particularly fruitful, if you’re thirsty for Red Beer. About 80 people were killed in a suicide bombing in Pakistan on Friday. The Pakistani Taliban took credit for the attack, saying it was in retaliation for the death of Osama Bin Laden. But the Pakistanis didn’t kill OBL, so why attack them? It doesn’t make sense: Red Beer.

Terrorists can’t board a Delta flight, but they can buy high powered guns and ammo? Somehow the second amendment still applies to them? Red Beer.

The US and NATO are continuing to support rebel forces in Libya. Yet, in Syria, where the UN says more than 850 people have died in the last two months since the government cracked down on unarmed protestors, there is no NATO/US support? What’s the difference between the countries? Red Beer.

Fine, maybe I’ll drink the Red Beer and accept things for what they are. It's naive to think that the world would do things that make sense. It’s just heartbreaking to watch videos like this posted to Youtube on a daily basis. Why is the army shooting at these people? (Red Beer.) And why are the protestors risking their lives to pull dead bodies from the street? (Red Beer.)

The more I think about it, the more I realize I’m surrounded by Red Beer. Maybe one of these days I’ll figure out a way to change the drink menu. Or maybe I’ll just figure out a way to drink it all in. As chance has it, I just read that an extensive collection of pornography was found in Bin Laden’s compound. Alas, more Red Beer. It might not make much sense, but it's a tasty tidbit nonetheless.

What I Learned in Bikram Yoga

I saw it coming. She had asked to leave the studio a couple of times but the instructor told her to stay on her mat and rest. When the woman behind me finally threw up in the bucket, I think I actually rolled my eyes and thought to myself, “She’s so stupid, she ate before class.” I have seen one person pass out before in yoga (and I think she was epileptic), but never anyone get sick.

So I got annoyed. Her problem meant the teacher had to stop class to take her upstairs. There was a break between poses and I could feel my muscles started to tighten up.

There are a few rules which they repeat during each class: stay on your mat, stay in the room. If you can’t do a pose, go into the rest position. Don’t drink water or move between poses. It’s distracting to others who are trying to focus. And don’t eat for two to three hours before coming to class.

So when the woman regurgitated her breakfast, I knew she had made a big mistake. And her mistake was cutting into my precious yoga time.

It’s not the first time I felt irritated in yoga class.

One time, the man next to me coughed through the entire class. It was a congested, sloppy, gut-wrenching cough and I thought he was rude to spread his germs around the studio. In my mind, the instructor should have asked him to leave. Truth is, I’ve found myself getting peeved with the instructors on other occasions as well. If I’m in “standing bow” pose, don’t prolong my agony by giving another student pointers on how to do it better. If I'm teetering on one leg in that hellhole of a room you better believe I'm counting every second. (I’ve actually found myself cutting a look at the instructor for making us hold it longer than I thought necessary.)

Now, to the rule about staying on your mat. You’re supposed to stand with your feet together between poses. If your feet aren’t together, or if you step off of your mat to grab a hand towel, I do notice. The teachers are all pretty good about telling you not to judge yourself: if you fall out of a pose, don't get frustrated -- just try to get back into it as quickly as possible. I think I've improved as far as that goes. As much as I want to improve with each class, I try to smile when I fumble up a pose rather than grimace. But if someone reaches for their water when I’m in backwards half moon pose, I have been quick to judge.

For those not familiar with it, Bikram is very intense – the room is heated to at least 105-degrees (one night it was 124) and for 90 minutes we complete a series of 26 postures that you hold for anywhere between about ten seconds up to a minute. Bikram himself says that he’d rather you have a heart attack during class so you don’t have one later in life. What I hadn't learned until that day is that physical stress isn't the only reason for cardiac arrest.

After class that day, I returned upstairs to change my clothes and the woman was in the lounge recovering while she waited for her daughter. As soon as she saw me, she commented on how impressed she was with the young women in the class. "I don't know how you do it." (Gulp. Guilt set in.) She was so nice and felt no need to apologize. She admitted that she had eaten breakfast complete with coffee before coming to class. (I knew it!) But for once, I didn’t feel any satisfaction in being right that day.

The truth was that I had been wrong. I may have advanced in my moving meditation class to the point where I wouldn't judge myself. But I have failed by judging others: wayward students......frustrating teachers.....a studio that's too hot.....a studio that's too humid.....and beyond: erratic drivers, lackluster co-workers, pushy people in the train station.

That list could go on for infinity. But my reaction to get upset with them is really only a reflection of myself and how I fit into my world, whether it's in the yoga studio or driving down New York Avenue at rush hour. I don't want to go through life with a grimace on my face. One of my instructors once said that yoga is a practice, not an event. You might not achieve exactly what you want the first time round, but just do what you can and get a little bit better each time. So now I've given myself a new mental posture to attain: when someone steps off their mat during a pose or if someone cuts me off in traffic, I will simply look at myself in the mirror and smile. When I can do that, and mean it, that's when I know I've found my yoga.

Post Script: I wrote this piece several weeks ago and was going to publish it the day that Osama bin Laden was killed. It didn't seem appropriate at the time, so I saved it. What that means is that I have had time to practice my new goal -- and would you believe that it is working? I no longer get irritated with other students who do something to distract me during a pose. I don't get mad at teachers for making us hold a pose longer than I think we should be holding it. Instead, I focus on myself, what I can do, and most importantly, what I can control -- and my classes have been much more stress free. (I will admit, though, that I have yet to perfect that "judgement free attitude" while on the road. But I have hope. There has been a slight improvement. I think I actually LET a car or two cut me off last week.)