Not a rhetorical question

What is / are the downside(s) to being underestimated across the many dimensions of self ? *




* ( ..... thus far, I cannot think of any; but I'm open to being persuaded)

Short Play: about play

Dark, black stage area; black floor with large rubber squares distributed across the surface, resembling a multi-coloured chess board ( no pastels... primary and stark colours only with occasional black and white squares); black ceiling with star shapes all over. 5 people are scattered on the board, wearing a colour that contrasts with the colour of the square they are on ( red, blue, green, yellow, pink). Back wall is concave and hung with a thick,black, velvet curtain. Scene action begins with a visible ripple in the curtain from a forced air movement somewhere off stage. Players are positioned on their respective squares, seated in tightly curled ball shapes. Curtain ripples, players begin a slow and gradual uncurling process until all are in a standing position that they then hold in stillness. And then, simultaneous shouts ring out.....
Red yells to Blue : how can I move across this space
Green yells to Yellow: how can I reach across this space
Pink yells to the stars: what is this space? who are these others?
Players begin reaching out and up, without moving their feet, and then cautiously begin to creep themselves to the edges of their squares. For no apparent reason Yellow yells: travel on our colours ... let's meet on the blacks and whites.
Other colours mutter initial agreements.....ok, sounds good, that's a plan, where's my square.... utterances spoken at once.
Green yells out: is this a game? and then there are many voices, shouting and yelling : is this a game? what is the game? are we the game? what are the rules? there must be rules !? must there be rules? must there be....
Colours are scurrying , running, sliding , gliding from square to square; halting spontaneously, forming groups into moments of stillness on black or white squares, breathing audibly, then dispersing again.
Pink yells: the rules are no game
Blue yells : then let there be rules
Red yells : such as they are
Yellow and Green chant then whisper: such as they are, such as they are, such as they are.....
colours hold their positions on the squares where they are, such as they are whispering continues, colours swaying on the spot, making subtle and obvious figure 8 movements with their hands, audible breathing continues, black velvet curtain is rippling, colours look up at the stars, swaying and hand movements continue, and even though all have been trying to cling to their separate squares, their movements and swaying pull them together like magnets until all are clustered near centre stage.
Pink says, clearly: rules are not the problem; the game's the thing
Red and Blue call out ( making grandiose accompanying gestures in the direction of the audience) mesdames right arm large presentation gesture messieurs left arm large presentation gesture and the gods !! both arms cast upwards toward the audience in a gesture of greeting and adoration.
Green and yellow call out.... the game's the thing ?! the play's the thing.... and then there are many voices, the game's a game, the play's a play, the play's a game, the game's a play.... all the colours are turning and flailing, moving away from centre stage, and then, in a moment of perfect hovering stillness, all call out in one bold proclamation: the game that can be played is not the game that is played....
and then.....
then, as swiftly as it took form, the stillness dissolves, and all colours move into a row, on one square, very close together. There is a sharp intake of breath, and then a trembling held breath as all gaze into the dark audience space, finally exhaling into relaxation and, with the audible exhale, the words, given over as a finishing sigh... is it?
Their heads lean softly onto the shoulder of the next colour, with pink at the end of the line, leaning on her ( or his) own outstretched arm, with its hand turned upwards to the dark... or the stars.

Limerick

There once was a chemist named Sue
whose workplace was next to a loo.
She thought it was art
to camouflage fart
with concoctions of sweet smelling goo


(eewww!)

Preference

I see you gazing at her
feel the heat that used to be
ours
no more
no longer
strange
how that move to casual
( or worse, tolerant)
begins in one
seldom both
seldom simultaneous
you gazing at me
incredulous
that I would dare to make that first move
usually yours
for the taking
having been both
having done both
leaving by far the tougher
sentence
surviving remorse
seeping poison
every breath
a little death
grateful for your leaving
after all

Tableaux

I. I grew up in poverty & not only did I not find anything noble about it, I never thought I was all that different from others..... I wondered, how would you know, just by looking, or listening, or noticing, where I came from or how I lived...
...in those dwellings where edges overlap & walls are skin, the space crawls upward and carves out a vertical horizon
amidst the dank, tin, boards, wire & squalor there are flowers of dignity, lines of pride, the clothes I wear that reveal & conceal who I am & where I dwell.
You think you know me.
Maybe, you do.

II. I hurt you it seems
all I do
is move words around in the service of some
elusive clarity
& even that movement
continues to offend
when I had hoped to express
gratitude & admiration
instead I dig the hole
deeper
than sky or sea
earth or fire
elemental & hopeful
I seek a grove
there, I'd lay down
the sound of trees
streams & rain
bearing witness
there, I'd bleed my motives
& if you chose
you could inhale the copper
scent & wonder
about the wisdom of Sequoias
& the risks of assumptions

What's in front of me....

The window in my study is to my right, the moon visible through my sheer curtains; my desk faces a beige blank wall. Computer straight ahead of me, a small 10" notebook style, my gift to myself, with a nifty turbo internet stick, so I can connect wherever whenever. Not sure why that was as important as it was, but it was. Must be those alpha leanings my colleagues keep commenting on...
I have 3D pipe as my screen saver; I could watch it for days. Atop the desk to the right my pen and pencil mugs, stuffed; a small body-building trophy, a woman in a gold lame bikini, whose face looks like a cat's caught in a flashlight's glare. Maybe I'll compete again. Aging is a pesky training variable; my joints are almost always sore, but that's been the case for as long as I can remember as an adult. Maybe I'm a masochist, too ...
just ahead are my staple and paper clip towers flanked by my cd's and my card collection; my green banker's lamp sits off to the left, no light bulb, but the overhead light is soft enough. Further, my touchstones shrine, photos of my partner and me, further right a photo of me and my son, the child, now man, who I never thought I'd see again, now present in ways I can only wonder at. There's a shelf of beach rocks taken from Middle Cove, a wild, starkly beautiful, rocky place just outside of the city where I grew up in Newfoundland. Incense smoke and scent, too much dust, lots of vertical organizing....some day, some day I'm going to have just a little more space. Nothing extravagant.
And of course, my books, my journals, things organized in categories that make sense only to me. It's beginning to feel more comfortable to me, my study. No need to rush these things... I've only been here ten years. Lots of upheaval translated into haphazard storage for longer than I wanted ... or needed. Clearing, now. Breathing easier. The tangles and brambles have a quiet resilience and dignity all their own. I'm learning how to be in the midst of them knowing that home resides in relation as much as place and this music fills me, almost to the brim.

Greeting Card

Front of card :


LOVE YOU....

MEAN IT!!!



Inside of card:


}:-o

mmmwwwaaaaa.....

HAPPY LET'S BE SUPERFICIAL DAY




Back of Card:
messages brought to you as if you really cared one way or another

stream of consciousness: wasteland

looking through gray haze
at black sun
shivering, wondering, slither & slide
tears & snot cheek against
pillow
beyond comfort
quaking, shaking
what was that flicker
some forgotten promise to self...or others
try to imagine how little i care
what's the point of an oxygen rich environment
150 freakin' house plants and 62 rose bushes and not a kind word or glance
tolerated
except when it meant satisfying some pounding
need
no wonder
i hate the garden that used to be
a refuge is no more than
a soft memory of what sunshine could do with this
a day at a time begins
with this empty garden
the only way out
is
next

Meditation or motto.....

"Delayed gratification is the hallmark of emotional maturity."
my therapist



first day back at work after a six month leave, seething and screeching with rage, harboring vindictive fantasies, keeping profanity in check (barely) wondering if it is possible to implode and remain invisible, the best place to do damage


therapist tells me over and over that the fuel goes in the tank, not in the fire, and every violence foregone makes me fitter for the larger fight
that I only have to do the next right thing.... whatever that is....

and some days, my mind is not my best friend.