a scent stronger than that musk
they wear on a saturday night god it is
so intoxicating it is wafting in through the vents and the
windows that i shut so tight but it is 
still coming through and oh my 
god i think it is permeating my skin it is coming inside my
precious skin my skin is being assaulted it might be that it is
inside me or is it outside i am shutting the door i am running away i left
the house is it gone it is gone 
oh thank 
god no it is still here it is in my nose i am on the asphalt i am rolling in the ice and stones the stones
and ice and bloodiness they are cleansing me they are cleaning me and scrubbing it away it is disappearing
oh good my skin is gone it is saturday night what are you saying what what 
oh
oh ya
i like that cologne too

saudade

best of 2010 in music

did a top 20 lp's and top 10 ep's of 2010 according to my listening tastes. 

top 20 here
top 10 here

my mom writes poetry

My Mother's Hands

(By my Mom, Patricia Steely)

Fingers long and thin,

Unadorned,

Just a simple

Gold wedding band.

Nails tough, yet tenderly maintained:

These were my mother’s hands.

These were the hands

That rocked me with her strength,

Dressed me within her protective care,

Fed me from her sustenance,

 And kneaded my imagination.

Her hands soothed and scolded,

Guided and provided,

Only to be pushed away

By my hands

And the assertion:

“I can do it by myself.”

When my hands held

My firstborn child,

I could better understand,

How the hands that hold,

Can find it hard to let go.

In time, her wrinkled hands

 Pushed mine away.

I’d reach for her arm and elbow,

As she walked unsteadily,

Only to meet her resistance:

“I can do it by myself.”

Eventually, we both grasped

The firm comfort of our hands

In rhythm together:

My right hand in her left,

As my left hand supported her left elbow:

And in stride we would walk.

Until swollen and plump,

With mounds of skin swallowing

Her wedding band,

Wired and taped,

Steroided and sedated,

With tender blue, purple bruises-

Her hands lay quiet to the beat of the Ventilator.

So, her hands I held,

And I let her go.

And as she breathed

Her very last breath,

Her spirit took flight

At her physical death.

Yes, I fully understand

How the hands that hold

Can find it so terribly hard

 to let go.

-Patricia T. Steely

Written:  May 12, 2005

Revised:  May30, 2005

Read at Mom’s funeral

Originally posted at spirit songs 

musings

How does an infinitely dense universe become a vast and spacious one? And how is it filled with matter?


of the moment thought processes, musings, a small brain fart into existence:
the universe, a living thing, as a human grows from a fertilized egg.
hierarchies are real illusions (paradox?). we are all of the universe.
time/perception is relative to size.
'our' time is subjective to 'our' existence
planetary time is subjective to a planet's existence
universal time, to the universe
a cell, to the cell's existence
an ant, an elephant, etc.


the universe is an active living thing, expanding as it grows

experiment in sound

last year around december 23rd ish the steely children got together with their favorite people, the evans children.  it resulted in many fun things unrecorded and undocumented.  after a few bottles of shared wine and some other libations this appeared on someone's iphone... 
bleep bleeps n blahs

swaying with the crowd, alone i dreamt

for all that it isn't 
it's everything i need

for every moment that passes too quickly,
there's still eternity.

sitting on the steps
eyes closed
tripping

over thoughts that come back
around to the same worn path.
the gate is open.
it's a straight path 
through beautiful country -
vibrant tall grass padded down
by gentle plodding of adventurous children
they run by consumed with wonder, 
imaginations running wild.
clean blue sky, occasional billowing clouds,
the entire scene lain over with a golden aura.
no houses in sight save one
laughter, happiness
pervade every detail

standing up and swaying gently
why does everyone seem to stare so coldly?
the gate, closed.
drifting images,
blackness closes in,
the smell of lavender,
your face,
then, 


nothing.

dr. robert sapolsky

pyschologically
depression is essentially
"aggression turned inwards"

biologically
depression is essentially
"neurotransmitters out of wack"

personally
depression is essentially
"everyone and everything is almost as fucked as me"

surfing y'all

neoprene thickness is wrapped delicately around my supple flesh.
counter-intuitively i paddle into chilly waters with chillier air temperatures
upon a floating fiberglass stick which is the cataylst of pure pleasure.
dwarfed by hazy pinks and vibrant oranges juxtaposed with sky blues and royal indigos,
the sun sets as my steed leads me down the breaking face of an oceanic slab of paradise...


i entered to win glasser/twin shadow tickets.


i briefly flirted with being ironically funny, but decided to just be poetically honest.  we'll see how it works for me.

'life is long for those that live it' -me