wordpress, commence!

Moving to wordpress, to blog and share my journey:

http://saltwaterrecollections.wordpress.com/

see you there!



Shared 1 year ago on May/29/2013.



One of my favorites of the new manuscript,
The Saltwater Recollections

Shared 1 year ago on May/4/2013.
(2 notes)



> Letters to impossibilities: And it's so dark here, not even the moon reflects off of the surface

ponderingcomplications:

Today I learned
how to hold a breath
when someone punches you
in the pit of your stomach,
and how to smile
even when your pockets
are full of stones
and you’re drowning
in the lake
of your own agony.

Today I learned
that ships and anchors
are destined to sink,
and that I am not as beautiful
as…

Shared 1 year ago on April/29/2013 » via.
(20 notes)



“Within my Garden, rides a Bird Upon a single Wheel – Whose spokes a dizzy Music make As ’twere a travelling Mill – He never stops, but slackens Above the Ripest Rose” — Emily Dickinson

Shared 1 year ago on April/12/2013.

A Letter to Nikola Tesla

 

Dear Nikola,

The moon is full and rising over the Raritan Bay. It is a luxurious egg white with touches of yellow craters that seem to glow like a night light.  You once spoke about the moon and described it as a cold point on our journeys path. “The sun is the past, the earth is the present, the moon is the future” you wrote in June 1900, a month before your 57th birthday. You loved drinking a glass of whiskey at night, perhaps by moonlight. You said it was for your health and would help you live to 150.  This July will be your 157th, and although whiskey only gave you 87 years, I feel in many ways you are still living amongst us.

 

It wasn’t until I began reading your writings that I saw past the veil of idealism that surrounds your image today. Every July 10th the alternative science and technology blogs hail your birthday. Facebook posts display your most quintessential quotes besides your intense and gleaming photo.  Nikola Tesla. Even your name rings like that of a king, or a rare and precious gem.

 

But you are only human, not a god or even a king.

 

What I have found through your writings is that you are a revolutionary of the mind and of the heart, for in all your efforts of genius and ingenuity you wished never for money or power. At the end of it, you sacrificed your own identity just to bring to Earth new discoveries which may make life here a little easier.

 

And you are still needed Nikola, even after death.  You believed we could harness electricity from the air and create free, wireless energy for every soul on the planet. A hundred years later and this technology still feels utopian. Perhaps progress itself has become gridlocked by the measure of the dollar. This world is not much changed then, and maybe it is all too familiar to you. I read how you lost your laboratory due to exploitative funding, and although you received over 800 different patents in your life, you still died penniless and alone in the New Yorker Hotel.  

 

Affection from a woman never filled your desire as much as your own curiosity. Perhaps in those last ten years, alone in hotel room 3327, you had regretted turning away your many admirers. Or maybe you still imagined what your earlier experiments hadn’t revealed. Maybe you drew lines in the air mimicking those drawings you filled with amazing possibilities. I would love to sit for a moment in your lab, in the late hours of the night, where you made so many of them a reality. Only few eyes ever saw you illuminate a light bulb in your hands, or generate high voltage electricity wirelessly using your Tesla Coil.

 

It has been said you were a man placed out of time. I don’t believe any time is good for a person who wants to bring change to the world. Even now, we idealize about you, but were you alive today, what fate would our cruel judgmental minds give you, if not the one already dealt? We talk of you longingly perhaps because it is terrifying to accept this world is still ours to create.

 

And what a world we could create. You said all life is rhythmic. Birth, growth, old age, and death are nothing but a cadence which all universal laws obey. I believe all movement adheres here too, including our ideas. Your second coming tells me there is an unceasing drive to move forward. To discover every bit of our mysterious Earth before we become dust and ice, our efforts but a crater on the moon. 

 

You have inspired us to keep imagining—to see the world through the eyes of a visionary, and believe there is a spark of within us, still capable of transforming itself into a great fire.

Gratefully yours,

Beth

 



Shared 1 year ago on April/12/2013.
(8 notes)

from where to whom

crematorium back to womb

mechanically 

in tune

nature bursting—bloom

dawn to noon

dusk to you



Shared 1 year ago on March/19/2013.
(1 note)



Today the snow reminded me
To love each moment
I am able to stand still
And see the importance of
Just one small breath

Shared 1 year ago on March/8/2013.
(2 notes)



All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Shared 1 year ago on February/25/2013, orig.

Amputee

Perhaps palms are better suited to be

Detached from arms, lying on hills under stars

 

I find fingers always slipping into coat pockets

Clutching seams and stroking crumbs

 

They might please a pen on paper, but instead

Lay like a moth dried up on the dashboard

 

My hands, once full of yarns and needles,

Sheets of paper and worn book covers

 

My hands as small and delicate as tissue

Resemble a petal preparing to slip away



Shared 1 year ago on February/21/2013.

A yard

Amongst white blankets perfectly crisp
And a restful yawn at sunrise

There are still walls sitting in the dunes,

Broken branches hanging off the roofs
And mud marking the wooden fence.

A yard for snow angels
And a napping cats
Lay where a living room stood.

Perhaps I’ll plant there a seed
An evergreen whose arm
Points towards the sea

Perhaps

I’ll plant

me



Shared 1 year ago on February/16/2013.
(1 note)

A window and a chair (again I am here)
Carmel by a bare sycamore
A silent centipede of air
It’s arms could lift me from my chair
To view tiny people
Quietly foot stepping
Through the little day
Unfocused
Small worries
That web sitting near windows all day



Shared 1 year ago on February/16/2013.
(1 note)

mermaid

that rumor of a wave

that masks the light of sun

that melts the town to coral

that sets our souls spun

that rumor of a wave

that was written and sung

that legends living nor undone

that to me a prayer you gave

that from crimson glass hung

that water in my lung

that weight of my tongue

that wave has only become



Shared 1 year ago on February/16/2013.
(1 note)



if i could bloom in winter, id be only an evergreen

but so sensitive my flower grows

so till spring, 

the great unfold

these wild seconds will be

a mere time lapse

Shared 1 year ago on February/10/2013.

Today I watched the curtains sway with the current of the air vents
I watched for the sun, which in the final hours of day, exposed itself
I watched as it lit the white fence posts and brown wicker chair
I watched five birds bathe in it upon a streetlight
In the morning the river was moving east, towards the ocean
Now it moves west, towards the sun, away, breaking open independence.
The reeds can’t stop shaking
The river won’t stop flowing
No nothing stays still
In this day no one sits watching the curtains shake in air vents like I do



Shared 1 year ago on February/4/2013.
(1 note)

Your gift

If loneliness was to be my punishment for following the snow
Onto a frozen river
It has indeed become my gift
Nothing moves as slow and delicate
But if compared to rain
We would say
Too quiet
Not enough urgency



Shared 1 year ago on February/3/2013.