let’s make a list of all the things I didn’t do of all the tasks still uncrossed the boxes unchecked and measure my worth by them.
How it had been months since I last dusted well and when some fog of depression lifted and I stared in disgust he breathed a sigh of ‘finally’ relief and happily let me scrub them down even seeing my obvious self-loathing
what did you do with your day? I erased months of my skin cells erased months of myself with disgust at the oily build up of what I’ve become…
but no matter how much grey brown filth I rinse down the drain I’m still here
were that my cells finite, and every time I shed I just became smaller and smaller and smaller until one day I would blink out of existence.
I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. And I’m not sure if its an American Capitalism (should be capitalized right?) thing, or a global disease but…at what point did we stop valuing art and creation if it wasn’t…profitable?
I’m an anthropologist at heart. It started when I couldn’t put down the Clan of the Cave Bear series at 12 and continued on through college and my degree, and until…well, yesterday when I read a really cool article about a new Neanderthal skeleton that was recently reconstructed…why does it matter?… well…”Anthropology encourages us to extend our perspectives beyond familiar social contexts to view things from the perspectives of others”. Where was I? Oh yes…art. Humans and art. Do you know how long we’ve been creating art? Paintings on walls, carvings from stone, beadwork, intricate clothing, papyrus, plays (both tragic and humorous…), STORYTELLING…
The point is, humans were born with divine mental capacity. And it extends in times of plenty and scarcity to provide sustenance in a form of mental fulfillment. Then…I dunno…hustle culture happened? Capitalism happened? 1970’s parents started scoffing over martinis that so-and-so’s son wanted to be an *gasp* artist…and what a dreadful shame? That someone would chose to create new and innovative and truthful things over…stamping letters and creating spreadsheets? Because…well…art has no… no money in it.
These birthing pains gave way to an entire generation of people who were forced to work at acceptable jobs and “dabble” in art. Which gave way to people “hustling” in their art and marketing the shit out of their soul’s best guess of humanity, to make it ‘real’ by turning a dollar sign. This is where we are. Art has been reduced to…a commodity. And if it doesn’t sell…it isn’t worthwhile…
There are countries that don’t charge artists taxes. Did you know that? That if they’re producing art (writing, painting, illustration, music, etc.) they are exempt from the toil of paying their country extra money. Why? In America that would never fly! Why should they be off the hook
Let me ask you…What do you do in your free time?
You don’t work more. You don’t put out more spreadsheets, or call more clients, or cut more hair, or take an extra shift for fun…you read. You…go to museums…you watch plays…you visit the botanical gardens… you go to a movie. These little “acts of joy” sometimes even keep you from jumping off a bridge. They inspire your mind, they take you out of the daily grind and…hustle.
…is that not of value? Does feeding your soul not count as a necessity?
I’m on a soap box, I get it. You’ve probably stopped reading. But in case you haven’t, please consider
…humanity has survived and thrived because we have had more than just survival to aim for. There is joy and purpose to feast off of. Art makes life. In the event of an apocalypse… could you even imagine not trying to save the art, the books, the music… the decadent history (and prehistory) of the humanistic howls into the universe that scream… “we are here and we feel”?
What is there to appreciate beyond it? Art brings us together, it connects us, it’s a shared experience and a deeper rooted truth than almost any paycheck. And yet…it has been reduced to: how many followers, how much in royalties, how many people ‘liked’ it, how many people went to your show, what the script writer made and if they have potential for more (we don’t pay if you don’t have at least three seasons)…
I beg of you, if you have funds in the strapped and dystopian financial climate that is America now… support your artists. They don’t even have to be me. Just…find something that you love, that moves you and…tell the artist, write them, speak to them, throw some money their way. Remind them…They are important. They are the story up on the wall of a cave…that proves a defiant resistance to the endless march of time. The voice in the dark, the color in the black and white that speaks; we are here.
We were here.
Art matters. And the only people telling you it doesn’t, are the people that cannot profit from it.
This is the last week of April, and so I offer a “still has that new smell” poem, straight out of the journal (so please forgive if I haven’t reworked it much). If you’ve enjoyed this month, if you’ve gotten out of your comfort zone and explored poetry, I encourage you to keep reading. Poetry is the boiled down essence of awareness and presence in the moment. It’s a straight line to another person’s soul and perspective and if the world needs more of anything these days, its building up compassion and connection between humans and fostering our common humanity. Enjoy this little off-shoot of one of my favorite songs. Its always good to have a conversation with the beating of your heart. The punctuation is intentional. I hope you can feel yours beating too.
Hello, my old heart. I'd nearly forgotten that you still lived in this tattered cage of me
until you jolted awake with such ferocity that I was stunned to attention, in the death of night
. . / . . / . . / . . / . . /. . . . . . . . .
Who put a kicking prisoner beside my lungs? Why does he fight against his cage so?
Is it because I've ignored you? Silenced you reprimanded you cuffed you when you spoke out in knowing beats against the electrical reasoning of neurons and logic?
Is it because, this time it matters?
You're quieter now
I put my hand on top of you and feel you push against my palm fighting . . steady . .
pay . . attention . . or you'll miss it.
You'll miss it all . . / . . /
What am I missing?
Your . . One . . Wild . . and . . Beautiful . . life . . /
There you are, my old heart I'm sorry I locked you away for so long
Why? Why did you? . .
Because I was afraid.
Of me? . .
Of letting you lead. Who knows where I might have ended up?
who . . knows . . who . . knows . . who . . knows . . who . . knows . .
Today is my daughter’s 14th birthday. She’s been through a lot. She’s still going through it. She’s one of the strongest, smartest, most thoughtful humans I know, and the world has put pressures on her she should have never had to carry. We can’t protect our kids from everything, but we can stand with them in the fire. This one’s for you kiddo.
Bigger
I’m taking you out on the trail today to see if we both can heal one step one stitch to close the gaping hole the chasm between our beats
I’m taking you away from the screams and screens and all the voices of a maddening world always telling you to be smaller
I’m bringing you into the bigger world like I brought you in 11 years ago back to the light and the breath and the love and the truth that you never have to lose to gain
I’m taking you out on the trail in the early morning hush You and I away from a million voices Screaming we are not enough whispers to pinch skin and hollow out our souls to lose the weight, to be less, be smaller, be gone. disappear.
If we must disappear then let’s do it together let us lose ourselves in dirt tracks and aspen quakes and forget the other world exists
Let’s make it smaller.
I’m taking you out on the trail to gain back what you have lost to heal one step one stitch at a time
Do not make yourself small when the size of your soul is my whole world.
I’m ten days late to Poetry Month. So, in penance, I’ll be posting poems every blog this month and a few more on my socials. Because if the world needs anything right now, It’s poetry.
Here’s an odd little collection. Read, sift through, taste them on your tongue, roll them over your neurons and let them…sink in.
Poem Speaks
She scribbled me down in the depths of anguish The sharp lines that cut through conventions of writing forms and cursive norms
uncaring of limits or margins for there were none to her suffering no lines could contain the horror that poured fresh blood on the page
She died on that page, over and over for nights on end awash in loneliness visions of failure longing for the final epilogue
and all I could do was trail behind the pen powerless to stop the deluge helpless to stop the stabbing wounds of ink and metal I was merely the blood spattter the aftermath
sometimes a river of words flooded over with her tears until she lay spent across the page a traveler unable to cross that river unable to battle the current but unwilling to stop fighting for safe shore
I loved her every word her every dark thought and the possession of her passion that overtook those nights
Because at least when the damaged words flowed and their messy calligraphy misspelled itself across the page there was breath to her
there was fire within and she burned bright
in the blackness of a cold world there was enough fodder of love to suffer to ache to ignite
The pause of me meant the death of her the blank page was a heart too weary to go on a silent pen was a life ended
I persisted in the days when I was her written world survived while she lived in all her aching splendor
When she lies still, pen laid to rest against desk I will only breathe if her words pass through new eyes, ride across new tongues I will be the fire she leaves behind.
S.E. Reichert
Tiny Speck Wanderer
Hey, tiny speck wanderer, no more than a bird’s heart beat A flutter of space dust, careening out of control headed into the black abyss along with all the other stardust heart beats.
What’s one head of a pin drumming on a thimble mean to a galaxy of celestial beings?
Don’t you ever feel small? No matter to your matter, at all?
The moon takes up a quarter’s space to those tiny bead eyes Jupiter—the mighty giant just a hole in the dark night’s skin, pricked by needle tip.
Yet there you spin, the world in orbit around you The cares of your heart the temperature of your feet the hunger or fullness weight or lightness in your belly. The love worn or tossed away, Suddenly the concern of the cosmos.
Tiny speck wanderer The universe beats for you. in the petite coils of your Underrepresented brain junk. A flutter of space dust— with universal ego.
S.E. Reichert
Untitled 1-24
I swing from suicide to bird song in the hair-breadth of a star
one shade dark now light but...
When I have purpose the pendulum halts the need for center a string of balance hangs my sanity and...
When unrequited and impossible love teases the fluttering edges of this tattered heart I forget that I want to jump off a bridge in the small moments of polite conversation so...
Even when its all just illusion the empty purpose, and impossibility of love the light from a star billions of years ago now dead and gone...
They are the precarious threads of hope from which I swing.
In honor of spring, I’ve dug this little gem out of one of the many unmarked-but-filled journals in my desk. My poor children will one day find all of these scratchings and will have to make sense of them, or they may chose to burn them (I will be gone and won’t offer protest). I hope some of my words survive. So they know the normalcy of a heart, wild-raging and how undefinable a life really is.
Sown
I am wakening though this small seed planted seems stagnant and it is cold and dark the surrounding day so dense and ungiving but the seed is planted and every seed has potential for awakening
And this seed... I know her concrete shell her impervious coat you think the darker, the colder, the absolute absence of love would kill her dead pod in ground served justice for even thinking of blooming on her own
But you do not know this seed, no one does except me. I knew when I plucked her from my heart in the solitary depths of lovely dispair, and whispered incantations of self-worth of imperviousness of an unbreakable shell an unkillable flame the magic was set and it no longer needed what living things needed to survive
because she is survival and her words will tendril into the hard pack of your indifference and she will feed off of your apathy and she will shoot forth arms to the sky that you cannot hold down with guilt or obligations or crocodile tears
because she is the boundless and unshakable irreverence of me, and I will awaken in the absence of your love
Do you believe in coincidence? Do you think…things just happen, at random and we catch them (or don’t) as they pass, and its simply a game of chance? Or do you believe in that beautiful swirling nebula of fate…a universal design that has an orbit, predesigned.
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about connections, intentions, and the broader picture of a universe playing busy body in the minuscule lives of humans. Honestly, why would a universe care? And yet…sometimes, things align to a startling degree… It is a fine line between a nagging cosmos, and just good old fashioned human planning. I believe it to be true, that in both cases, our lives and our fates are made. The only thing that seems to muck up my semi-good theories is the addition of the fourth dimension, time. Or rather…Timeliness.
The first truth I know is that when you set your intention on something you want, often, you start moving in that direction. Disclaimer–you cannot simply set the intention. You tell the universe what you’re seeking and then, you start to make active (even if small) steps towards that something. You want to be a great painter, you set up a class. You buy the right supplies, you practice…You want to land a certain job, you research the company, find your matching skills, network… Setting intentions and the small movements you make forward set forth a path in the direction of your dream. Sometimes…it’s a very looooooong game. Like years in the making, and there are times you lose sight of your original intention, or get waylaid…sometimes its something as simple as working up the courage to try something new…baby steps are the key. Baby steps in the direction of your dreams
Secondly, I honestly believe when you put good into the universe, when you give love and compassion, outside of the ridiculous bounds of if someone “deserves” it or not and not for the reason of getting it back necessarily, you are building a nest. A nest of positivity and connection and a safe haven for those around you. Who feel safe coming to you when in need and who feel happy to help when you yourself are in need. Our nests are our families, our friends and our communities. They can be organizations we believe in, or programs that we want to see flourish, but when we invest our time and our love into those things, we are building a safe space for others and ourselves to explore and be supported.
All of these things are within my control, and yours too….but what I don’t get lately is how, on two separate occasions this week, I’ve been able to bring people, all of whom I love and want such good and beautiful things for, together in ways that are symbiotic and purposeful. And this is where that illusive magic of timing comes in. How on that exact day, how in that one moment of action…did everything align?
I think when we set a path and build a nest, things happen in good time. Its nearly always unexpected (I’m not a goddamn fortune teller) but it happens when the conditions (often that we build and foster) are right and the match strikes. And that’s why I believe… that fate and choice are two conspiring lovers, and in seeking out one you’ll never get the whole, but when you take care of the choices you make, the fate will follow.
So go build a nest, give love and compassion freely to all that are in need, pursue your dreams in small steps or large leaps of faith…
I know its still Winter, but these are the gray months that beg my mind wander back to the comfort of knowing Spring will come again. I don’t really know how many more Springs the world has left. It’s all so complicated and teetering on death, isn’t it? We take so much for granted, we kill, and destroy, and maim and use up…as though there is no other fate left us, no generations in our wake that have to live in the wake of our destruction… How ridiculous and short-sighted humans are. We absolutely deserve everything Nature throws at us.
My mind is obstinate today though the sun is well past up and the traffic is growling on soft streets like wild animals rejecting suburbia
my lights have gone out and I'm wrapped in gray struggling through the muck of a thousand demands, mostly self imposed to keep me from slitting my wrists
I am obstinate today walled up against progress and productivity I scarcely believe there is blood in my veins to let out not in the tub not on the page
I am obstinately hollow and feeling undeserving of the titles "woman" and "mother" aren't these strong, unshakeable elementals? I am not either today
