Juxtapositioning

words are foreplay for the soul
September 13th, 2014 by me

The Circle Game

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We’re captive on the carousel of time
We can’t return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game

— Joni Mitchell

This is what reading my archives does to me. Inspires me, that’s what.

Thoughts that go through my head:

1. She’s a damn good writer. Why doesn’t she write more? Where’s that fucking book she promised? (oh hey, I did write this one)

2. Seriously, where is the damn book? The other book?

3. Aha! A Category titled Rants. I shall make use of that one.

4. The Way Back Machine goes all the way to here. The beginning.

5. Shit. I didn’t leave my problems back in 2012 or whatever.

Okay, that last one is a bitch. That’s why I’m here today, to reconcile the sad fact that despite the passage of six years I’m still the same [read: gloriously fucked-up, insecure, self-judging, wants-to-be-awesome] person I was in 2008. Read the rest of this entry »

August 21st, 2014 by me

Phoenix

phoenix

 

I am reborn.

The birthing process took far longer than I ever imagined — two years and counting — but oh so worth it. I now live less than a mile from a sunny warm beach. I feel welcomed into the warm embrace of loving community. My yoga body looks strong. And I feel very loved.

A year ago last night I stood in the center of a circle of love, pledging to spend the rest of my days (then still an even more uncertain number than for most of us) with my beloved Mister Splashy. A year is a long time. It’s been a lifetime already, these past 365 days and the 365 before that. Two lifetimes ago there was a real possibility I would die within weeks. Now I love one moment at a time, and each moment stretches into eternity.

I suspect this is how we are meant to live — this full-breathed YAWP, inhaling gulps of fresh wonder in each moment, falling in love with every pair of eyes-connected-to-a-heart that I meet.

I have a secret.

Life is meant to be fun, a carnival ride, a glorious adventure.

I rose from the ashes of She Who Came Before, and I stand aflame now and ready to embrace even more yum, even more breath, even more possibility. Life beckons. It’s what you do with your moments that counts.

 

August 6th, 2013 by me

100 and counting…

There are so many ways to die.

She knew this. Daily she plotted her death. Little ways.

A sheaf of papers could grow edges and slice knifelike across her white soft throat. The cord of his headset, sprawled oh so innocently across her bed, could stretch and wrap itself like a hungry boa around her neck. The closet door could slam so satisfyingly, crushing her skull into the jamb. Kitchen knives could grow wings. Heavy pots with heavy lids could crash like cymbals into the grapefruit of her head. Cars could swerve and leap over sidewalks.

So many ways.

There’s no point to being here if Here just means pain. Refresh. Reboot. Wipe away years of dried tears, years of rust around your heart, and for what? More pain.

The circle stands unbroken. You can’t get off the carousel. She prayed for the ground to open and swallow her into nothingness. She was so very tired.

November 5th, 2012 by me

Circuitous

 

In the far, far places where

mermaids sing and fishes cry for their mothers

there are no sounds

only the soft slapping of waves

 

Your heart stills and your breath sighs raggedly

but your feet keep moving, moving

pushing your warm soft pliant body of

stitched-together skin stretched over tangled red-blue pulsing cords

and hard-breathing whitened bone

to find the spot where sky meets earth

 

You sit and wait

for a sign, a sob, a sweetness

but the roar inside silently deafens

and drowns your fears and ambitions,

grinding past-present-future into a bright purple Now

 

In the far, far places where

mothers sing softly and ancient stones weep

there are no songs and no stones

except in the stillness of memory

and creation of what-comes-next

 

This is your time.

This is your time and this driving, harsh road is yours — your child.

This road is your child

and its songs are the songs we sing when we are born and when we die.

This is your time, yours and yours alone and

on this road you walk unencumbered, alight, aloft

until one day wings sprout from aching shoulders and

weary feet rest in cool waters

and you breathe softness and splendor once again

 

November 3rd, 2012 by me

Why I Have Cancer

I figured it out. It should have been a no-brainer. Why I never suspected that years of self loathing would lead to cancer, I don’t know. But it clearly did.

I hate myself.

I tried to wipe me away by changing my name two years ago, but like a bad penny and a lost puppy, I came back. And all I can do now is imagine I’m jabbing an ice pick into the side of my now-irradiated head because the pain of being me is unforgivable.

Please make it go away. The pain. I would do anything not to feel this anymore.

I shouldn’t be here. I can’t be here anymore. There is no place for me and the pain of being me is unbearable. But everywhere I go, there I am, way less of me now than a few months ago, to be sure, but I’m still here and there are no icepicks to save me from drowning in a sea of me.

August 20th, 2012 by me

I’m a bitch, I’m a lover

Something has turned me into a total raving bitch. Does cancer do that? Although I would like to blame [everything] it on cancer, sadly, I believe this is my doing.

Last week one of the people I love most in the world came to visit. And that was right about the time that TB (Total Bitch) showed up. All her fears and anxieties and need to control came out while this awesome person was visiting. I hate that. I hate that my son, this amazing young man, saw me being a bitch, saw me in my fears, saw me struggling to walk across the room because my body is so weak, saw me fighting with the man I adore, saw me doing anything but being the perfect goddess woman I advertised I was going to become. Read the rest of this entry »

August 17th, 2012 by me

Kahuna + Akua = a Grand Love Story

About a year ago, my soulmate and I made special love names for each other. We actually did research on this. We looked at sites filled with love nicknames. We looked at sites filled with names from other countries and other traditions. Finally we found the right names.

Akua = spirit, goddess.

Kahuna = wise man or shaman.

I think we are still claiming the full power of our names. But I look at my soulmate and I see Kahuna, even if he does not see it fully himself.

This is what happened. I got cancer. I thought it healed. It didn’t and came back. Far, far worse. Terminal. And my soulmate, my Kahuna, has determined to make this his grand story. I am his grand story, he says. He has been looking for one, wanting a grand story in his life, and here it is. Kahuna is loving me into life. Read the rest of this entry »

August 13th, 2012 by me

Terminal

True story. This just happened.

Me: Hi Dad, the doctors say I have less than a year to live.

Dad: I don’t know what to say so I’m sending you a card that says it.

It isn’t very downstream of me to dwell on this stuff, but really? A fucking CARD? Way to phone it in.

Hi, I’m Talyaa and I have Stage 4 cancer that’s not treatable by western medicine. Yay. Yes, this will change my life (ba dum BUM).  I am writing about it here. And my beloved soulmate is writing about it here. Follow me. Write to me. Hire me. This is your story too. It’s about loving and living.

July 26th, 2012 by me

Mrs. Splashy

Yes, I am 5 years old.

Apparently I sometimes like to be exuberant with water. I notice this most when doing the dishes (he is The Chef and I am The Dishwasher, an arrangement that pleases me greatly) and I come away from the sink with the front of my shirt all wet.

I didn’t used to be that way.

Once I lived with a man who was horribly splashy. In hotels, I’d dive into the bathroom first and shower, neatly toweling off before stepping on the bathmat, so I could avoid the Tsunami Aftermath of that man’s showers. I hate stepping on wet floors in socks.

Another man was horribly splashy, but with food. “Look at me!” he’d yell while chopping, “I’m the Swedish Chef!”

“Not when it’s my house,” I’d grumble, knowing I’d be the one to clean up the ankle-deep carrot clippings, onion snarls, and ginger shards.

I hated splashy. Read the rest of this entry »

July 22nd, 2012 by me

Sailing

I am sad and angry and scared.

There is this situation. It is pretty dire, the down-to-the-wire kind of thing that has major consequences unless some big changes are made and made fast. I wish I could say more but I’m not willing to. (hint: it’s financial)

The problem is my soulmate. He is not the problem. The problem is me. I am not the problem. The problem is that putting attention on fixing the dire situation has meant some radical shifts between us. It’s those shifts that have me feeling so sad and angry and scared.

What do you do when the person you love most in the world pushes you away in all the ways that trigger all your stuff, because his own stuff is triggered from years of not-dealing with the dire situation? He thinks I judge him, so he pushes me away. I feel angry and scared about being pushed away, and judge him for the way he pushes me away (I am not good with angry yelling, and as soulmate says I’d probably wither and die in an Italian family, whereas he’s clearly very Mediterranean slash what they call Black Irish, a formidable combination when it comes to angry yelling compared to the quiet passive-aggression of my Puritanic-Teutonic Celtic-Saxon heritage). More pushing, more judging.

In my world, Angry Yelling + Pushing Away = Not Loving. Read the rest of this entry »