Endorphins

Endorphin Rush

Whoosh, whoosh go the endorphins coursing through her blood. Traveling up from her feet, crossing the blood-brain barrier, snaking through skin and bone. Memories of her past come flying fast as she races atop a winding road. Blonde hair trailing in the warm, summer wind; she’s quicker than the speed of light, faster than a sonic boom. Striking pavement hard and loud, her body reverberates as the crush of feet come down hard. Nothing in the way to stop her now. Clearing out the carburetor, spewing exhaust and old guilt that has become grittier than soot in her 50 year old organs-pipes that require cleaning and greasing. She’s become a well-oiled machine. Run-she must run, if she values her sanity. She will do anything to hit the street, ride the trail, even if it means rising at 4 AM, a place where darkness prevails and the benefit of a caffeine rush lives in the distant future. There’s a spring in her step and a lifting of her heart. A place for thoughts to unwind-a redistribution of the cobwebs that have taken over her mind. Endorphins awaken her energy as she buzzes with a natural high-like a bird in the sky or a gazelle dancing on the open plains of Africa. Every ounce of her being becomes one with each foot strike. The connection to others runners she passes by feeds her rush-pushes her along, gives her the energy to get through the day. She has quenched her thirst and ridden the wave of a rush like no other. Endorphins are hard to resist, and like a lover, she must return again and again. Feed me she says. Nourish my body, love me up, grip me tight in your arms and tell me you want me like no other.

 

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Descend

Descend

Death descended swiftly, or so we were told. Being equipped with this knowledge didn’t make me feel any better. Who really knows just how quickly it can descend, unless you’re the one who’s doing the dying. I was on an airplane 48 hours later. It was October 8, 2009, Portland to Palm Springs. I know this to be true. The day he died was a Tuesday and the world as I knew it tumbled off its axis. There was no making sense of the loss that touched so deeply, in places I hadn’t known existed. The searing pain of losing someone you love is brutal and unrelenting.

He was a prolific artist and writer, not just my step-father. My lifelong mentor and best friend was taken away much too soon. When I walked into his home a few days after his death, his presence lingered. The air hung thick with the smell of musty eclectic furniture commingled with incense and stale cigarette.

I stood in his living room on the white shag carpet and imagined his airways slowly constricting. I could almost hear the sound of him as he began gasping for breath, the death rattle gripping his chest as he slowly lost consciousness and slipped into eternity. I pictured the paramedics performing their resuscitation efforts but it was too late. The artist man with the black fisherman’s cap and John Lennon specs was gone.

Death is not discriminatory. I despise the lack of control we have over its timing. It comes knocking when it damn well pleases and really pisses me off. Lately, I’ve given much thought to the value of time and how to make the best of it. I’ve concluded that it’s more about the living of it and not how it plays out in the end. In the act of dying, impermanence makes its home as a life long tenant, taking residence inside us all. Like a beautiful painting that cannot be unpainted, we fold into the perpetual landscape and become one with the well worn palette.

20 May 2017

 

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It’s an uneven world we live in

via Daily Prompt: Uneven

ypost.wordpress.com/2017/01/10/uneven/

The sidewalk is uneven, cracked from here to there. The trees are uneven, winter branches cold and bare. Her breathing is uneven and she’s unsteady on her feet. The icicles are uneven, hanging from a rooftop above the street. His hair is uneven, cut shorter on one side. The car drives uneven, it’s an uneven ride.  Her stories are uneven, she’s grasping at straws, to make sense of a world that leaves her mostly in awe. The television is uneven, the programs are skewed. There’s nothing but tragedy on the nightly news. Her balance is uneven, but what can she do? Her head is on backwards and there’s no getting through. The snow is in patches, uneven on the ground, warmer temps begin to melt it, not making a sound. Her memory is uneven, without a doubt. Words simply disappear from her brain, what’s this about? Her resilience is uneven, it slips from her hands, unsure of herself and where she will land. She attempts to be resolute, but that’s uneven too…what, where, when, why and most of all: who ? The days are uneven and so are her shoes. The fridge is uneven but there’s plenty of booze. The candlelight is uneven, it’s a flickering flame. She’s stretched to her limit playing this masochistic game. The silence is uneven, it screams in her ear; the noise is uneven, raising hackles of fear. The clouds are uneven, piercing the sky. The moon is uneven, she bellows a loud sigh. Politics are uneven, what more is there to say? Her ruminations are uneven as she chews thoughts away. The cycle of life is uneven, and nothing is fair, but the uneven feelings of loneliness are there. She’s uneven in temperament, uneven in her bones, uneven in her decisions, too many uneven unknowns.

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thinking thoughts

thoughts are like butterflies
thoughts are like ocean waves
thoughts are like runaway trains
i get claustrophobic just thinking about thoughts
and the thought that they may never end
just a stream of thoughts running through my head
over and over and over again
i can’t escape the confines of my mind
i am thinking of thoughts
all of the time

 

_raw6100photo by RaincoastgirlPDX

Tart

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/tart/”>Tart</a&gt;

Today is the day I’ve decided to come to the keyboard. Not my usual. Normally it’s hand connected to pen connected to the page. This feels different somehow. My fingers are rusty. I play hopscotch upon the keyboard; eventually fingers will become accustomed to clicking noises and a slight hesitation in the brain, words slowly forming. Sweet. Sour. Tart. Umami. All I can do is look out the window and marvel at the view. I got lucky. But these aren’t the things I’ve been meaning to say. Earlier today I wrote so beautifully inside my head. Now the words are stuck. Lodged between throat and sky. I hate it when that happens. Why is it that I write better when pen and keyboard aren’t involved? It frustrates me so. I need to take a second to think about what it is that I want to convey, what I want to say. One thing for sure…I make a mean Spanish Coffee. Drinking at 3:30 PM PST….what’s wrong with me? Anxiety has been lingering at my back door and I’m doing everything in my power to keep it away. But it’s hard. It’s pesky. It’s raw. He visits anyway.

It’s been a particularly difficult week or two. Actually, it’s been, shall I say, not so much difficult as Full and Overloaded. And it hasn’t just been the past week. I’d say the entire year has been one fast and furious ride. First, my 6 week trip to Europe (a dream come true) and then the searching for and buying of a condo, which was no easy feat. Nowadays, qualifying and applying for a loan is monumentally exhausting. It gave me a new perspective on the process. Being that I’m a real estate broker, it’s been a long time since I transacted a property of my own. It was grueling to say the least, especially in a HOT, HOT market. I moved 2 weeks ago so a lot of that is behind me now but I’m still feeling the aftershocks. Settling in takes time. But you know what?  I looked up from my laptop for a moment and was astounded by the view outside my window. I live in a nest perched high above the city yet the city is just a stones throw away. I can walk just about anywhere! I can see weather patterns changing; storms moving in and out. The city is bathed in golden light, grey clouds hovering just above the horizon. This is SO NOT LA!

The happenings of the past week have sent me into a tailspin. First, the election. Truthfully, I found neither candidate appealing. I was hoping for a female president, but was Hillary my favorite choice? To be honest here, not really. I’m a registered Democrat but I found it difficult to embrace a person whose lack of a tangible plan to keep our economy strong and to keep our country safe, almost nonexistent. Then there was the issue of the email scandal and the lies. It’s hard to root for someone that’s dishonest. The sad thing is, she’s a SMART woman! She is no dummy, but her insincerity and lack of vision is what kept her from becoming president. It makes me sad. I wanted to stand behind her fully and completely, and I guess in a sense I did because I voted for her, but it was with trepidation. The truth is, I can’t bare to look at Donald Trump or listen to him speak. Also, the fact Trump will have Republican majorities in congress has me somewhat concerned. I’m not a republican basher and in fact I have voted Republican in the past. One of my biggest concerns is women’s rights and most especially ROE v WADE. What I’m going to do is keep an open mind in hopes that our country will be guided by thoughtful hands, integrity of spirit and a head filled with common sense. (Not meaning to offend anyone here, I just needed to get this off my chest).

But for me, the worst thing that occurred within the past week was the passing of Leonard Cohen. My beautiful gypsy boy with the golden voice. I read somewhere that at 35 Leonard Cohen sounded like an old man and at 82, he sounds eternal. I’ve been stricken with grief since hearing the news. I’ve had the good fortune of seeing him two or three times in concert. I’ve also had the pleasure of meeting him once at the Wiltern Theater in Los Angeles, at a Cowboy Junkies concert my mom and I attended. He sat in the seat in front of us and of course we couldn’t take our eyes off of him the entire time. Such a wonderful distraction. We said a gushing hello to him after the show. He was kind and took our hands in his and said with his deep, throaty voice, “thank you for saying hell0”.  Boy could that man write and sing. Later on down the road when I was working at A&M Records in Hollywood, our label was producing a Leonard Cohen tribute album. Although I didn’t get to see him during this time, my friend Sunja was the graphic designer for the album cover and oversaw the photo shoot. She was aware of my love for him and had printed an original black and white photo that he autographed for me. I treasure it to this day but it sits in a box waiting to be unpacked. Then Leon Russell, another wonderful musician died a few days later. And then the PBS Newshour correspondent Gwen Iffel. A reminder that Impermanence is a permanent fixture.

There were a ton of things I meant to say but now they elude me. Something tart lingers in my heart. I’m always hungry. I’m always on the brink of a panic stricken moment. Somehow I manage to keep it at bay. I am reminded of my good fortune. I am grateful to have a loving husband and family, good health, a roof over my head, food to eat and a life worth living. Even so, it’s been a crappy week and I’m giving myself permission to feel. To live in the moment and to be with what is. And what isn’t.

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Daily Prompt: Surface

She observes herself through the lens of a discriminating microscope. Underneath the surface, critical eyes peer through the looking glass; every microscopic flaw a window into the macrocosm. She turns the dial for closer inspection. Upon examination she begins to see more clearly, beyond the open pores and blackheads. Below the epidermis lies the subcutaneous layer, made up of atoms, molecules and cells. Total magnification unveils what is raw and pure. Peeling away layers of skin, a new meaning of self arises. The one in which skin becomes the flesh of her spirit and an opening of pores allows the light to come in. As she turns the dial outward the larger picture emerges and the need for microscopic inspection disappears. She places the microscope in the closet, ocular pointing out and then turns and steps outside of herself. A new beginning without the magnifying glass. She’s an infant, a girl, a young woman, a woman in midlife, an old woman growing older, growing comfortable in her own skin. A shell that’s hers and hers alone. A fire is blossoming between skin and bone. It is here she has found her nonjudgemental home.

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via Daily Prompt: Surface