The Journal of June Labyzon|
buzz buzz little bee
10/22/2014 12:06 p.m.
Aerodynamically the bumblebee shouldn't be able to fly, but the bumblebee doesn't know that so it goes on flying anyway.
~Mary Kay Ash
If only I would just get started. Getting words on paper these days is as difficult as any thing I might have to do in my life. Actually getting anything done these days is difficult. My eyes open in the morning, my body begs to get out of bed, but my mind stalls it. My mind starts laying out in front of me all the things that need to get done, that I should do, that I want to do, that I’m not doing and there I lie. I don’t believe I am really a writer, perhaps I should be like the bumble bee, write in spite of myself, write in spite of the words that are eloquent in my head and acid to the paper. Yet I write in my head every day and dream in phrases that would make Shakespeare quake.
Years ago when I had time to put aside my dreams and just live my life, I did just that. It was easy because there were few dreams to be dreamt. I cheated myself then. I’m cheating myself now. These days when time is running out, my powdered honey visions erupt into aspirations which liquefy on my tongue, sticking it permanently to my cheek. People are not amused. Dream makers sometimes have to mist others to pursue their own dreams. I feel an urgency to produce, but as usual the process outweighs the product. In my dreams my mouth opens and I do not finish a sentence, I cannot bite down on vowels or consonants, I cannot swallow and so the words are not there when I awaken.
I used to feel God at the head of my bed when I was sleeping. During those times, the days in the basement gift shop I slept it in my mother’s house, the words flew out of my head and onto the paper like torturous little bastards, no parenting needed. But God no longer resides at the foot of my bed, I kicked him out years ago along with the other man in my life.
Miracles happen so maybe all this writing will not be crap. Perhaps my sensibility will be slapped to sensuality. Maybe one day I will jump without holding on to the ropes. Jump straight off the bridge between then and when and create a now.
Buzz, Buzz, Buzz….I hear you little bee. I’m right behind you.
I am currently Exhausted
I am listening to the morning news on gma
Write in The Moment
08/20/2014 04:18 p.m.
Pleasant beautiful smile coming from the tiny Asian women behind the country with the shiny jet-black hair. Kaia flashes through my mind and I miss her and Gail and all the women who have been a part of me, who reach out, who I sometimes neglect. I miss Nia, who sat on my sofa so many years ago and became my muse in a dark time when bitterness and anger was my daily dietary intake.
And yes, I could enjoy these moments more, if I stopped looking at my watch ticking ticking into the next moment. Moment to Moment, second to second.
A relationship is embracing each other's likes and dislikes, friends and foes. The pleasant moment of living one's life. I used to live in the past, but now I live in the moment, or at least I am trying. Though I continue to speak as the moment passes and I am in the next one, so each one spills and pours into each other.
Sometimes my cleverness amazes/amuses me.
I am currently Sly
I am listening to the humming of the airconditioner
A Rude awakening.
08/20/2014 03:45 p.m.
Tearing out the pages of the past starting over so to speak, becoming a true Sankofa bird. The past is a mist behind me. Moving straight into the future. What I wrote in the past needs to be gone. Back to starting fresh, vanishing acts on paper, nourishing new words, finding one's authenticity is sometimes difficult. The thought occurred today to refer to this as the starting over house. I've lost myself in the last 18 + years of struggle, deceit and lust. Totally lost myself in the last two years of isolation in this sleepy little town called Beaufort, in the safety of my daughter and her young children.
If I really too a good look at myself I would turn away. Perhaps that is why I can't stand how the camera portrays me, the ugliness within from the past 18 years shines through. Betrayal after betrayal after betrayal. Betrayal of some friends, but mostly of myself. The elastic band keeps popping and I can't seem to let it snap without picking it up again.
Myths, yes I know about myths. 18 years of one long myth of make believe. A myth of self deception and deception to the world. No harm done, I've said. But I have harmed myself deeply and believed I was powerless to stop. Powerless to do anything but continue on the path. I'm not even sure now and as I write that, I know I have the power to cease and desist. (this was started on August 25, 2005 when it was eleven years and completed today)
I am listening to the hum of the airconditioner
10/08/2013 03:57 p.m.
(holding it all together)
(holding my weight)
metal belt buckle
perfume bottle top
(mixed in with needles)
(protect the guilty)
(paring or pairing?)
(see what is unseen)
(sharper than innocence)
(hues of you)
I am currently Refreshed
I am listening to Hum of the Air Conditioner
09/30/2012 09:05 p.m.
The assignment read: “Think of a time when you needed courage.” Funny, how I read/interpreted it as “think of a time when you were scared.” Those are two different concepts. You don’t have to be fearful to need courage, sometimes you just need courage to raise your head in the morning, get out of bed and face the mundane, the day to day give and take of life, but it doesn't mean that you are fearful, though you could be.
Once upon a time, there was a girl who had a child who became a woman who had a child who also became a woman who also had a child…..
Right now I am finding that I need courage to put these words on paper. I write eloquently in my head, and let it all disappear before I have a chance to put pen to page or fingers to keys. Even the start of this particular writing was different in my head as to how it is coming out now. I swear I will invent a tool to take the brain waves from my head and put it into words on paper. It would make life easier. I hate the struggle, the actual act of putting words on paper, though I love words and the formations they make when put together.
Kerry Cohen wrote of being afraid to hurt others when she wrote her memoir. I think I’m afraid to hurt myself; to actually admit to myself I am not who I pretend to be. I romanticize my life. I live it as though I care little about what people think about me, and in reality I don’t think I do. But, to put words on paper, is to open one’s self to be judged, to self-judgement. I have jumped many hurdles, to use a cliché, in my life, made several big moves, changed my life more times than I moved. I raised a child mostly alone, a child of another race, using fear as my lover, using it as the tool to laugh in people’s faces and forge on, lived alone, lived with a husband who was an alcoholic and drug addict, had lovers who didn't love me back, among other things, but it didn’t take as much courage to do any of that as it does to record it.
I am mustering up all the courage I have within me to actually begin to write again and face the truth. The truth is I do care what I think about myself. To put the words on paper is to admit that I have weaknesses, that I have some bizarre thoughts from time to time, well more times than not. It is to admit that I am judgemental, intolerant, impatient, and not at all rational. If I keep them in my head, I won’t really know or be all of those things. And, the world will see me as I wish them too. I once wrote in my chapter of a book I was asked to participate in “Fear is the crutch that keeps us from moving forward.” The editor liked it so much that it was one of the things she pulled out of the essay and highlighted on the pages of my chapter. FDR said “There is nothing to fear but fear itself.” I believe these two quotes, attempt to live my life that way. And, for the most part have been successful. I need courage now, to tell the story I need to tell, not the cutesy little anecdotes that I tend to write in my story telling, my essays and my poetry. But the bigger picture, painted around the small incidents in bold color, perhaps fucia, as purple is much too comfortable a color for me, I need to excuse myself from my comfort zone. I need to face the fact that I spent a good part of my life, trying not to be like my mother, hating her, scared to death that everyone around me would realize that I didn’t love her, afraid to admit to myself that I didn't love her. After all, she didn’t really do that much harm to me. She didn't beat me, or abandon me, she fed me, clothed me, bought me nice things, gave me money when I needed it even as an adult. But it was always with “conditions” and those “conditions” have colored my life, colored me sad, colored me defiant, colored me obstinate, colored me strong, colored me as I am now. It appears trite to write about one’s mother. After all, so many people do it, blaming things on their mothers. I remember when I was a teenager and had attempted suicide; the psychiatrist said it was my mother’s fault. My mother pulled me away from him quicker than the sharp words that came out of her mouth. “They always say that, damn you, Junie, you always make me look bad, what did you say about me.” I didn’t remember saying anything about her. In fact that day, he didn’t talk to me, just her.
However the story I need the courage to tell is not about how my mother and I didn’t get along. The story I need to tell is not how I struggled to love her. But how I lived my life loving others in spite of her, learning to love, discovering that love really existed. To whine about the bad times is an easy story to put on paper; to actually admit that there were good times, both with her and without her, that takes courage….and as I begin my story I call upon all that is in me to begin. Once upon a time, there was a girl who had a child who became a woman who had a child who also became a woman who also had a child…..and so on and so on and so on, now I must fill in the lines in between.
I am currently Anxious
I am listening to roar of the air conditioner
10/28/2010 01:33 a.m.
They kept telling her
“sometimes you just gotta take life by the balls and yank it”.
Right now the balls are at the top of the steps;
ready to roll down.
She keeps praying for the strength to let go,
to free the dancer. No one has seen her.
Her life is just sort of flying away.
She refuses to puree in her misery.
Too much time was spent lavishing in the beauty of her burdens,
balancing them in a woven basket
perched on her head, stately… regally.
Confident enough in her femininity to dress
in frills and lace, accessorized to the nines,
she asks one last thing.
Please send flowers instead of donations.
I am currently Bemused
I am listening to cat meowing
02/15/2010 03:25 p.m.
I am home again today; a four day weekend gifted to us by our principal. Our real vacation won't come until the end of March when I will have 10 full days to do absolutely nothing. Unless my daughter comes to visit and then I will be pushed out into the crowds (which I used to like a lot) and world in general. I didn't leave the apartment but once this weekend and that was only to walk to Garden of Eden to purchase some vegetables so I can continue to stay on this new eating plan I've started. I am almost always reluctant to leave the apartment these days. These dusty walls call to me constantly "stay here, stay here." Well, perhaps I am dramatizing it, but that's what it feels like. Am I depressed? I like to think not. I can pull myself up by my "bootstraps" (which my friend Margery who once very long ago worked in a rodeo says is impossible to do literally, go to work and socialize when invited. But if left to my own devices I will just stay within these walls, do little. I begin a task, then stop, then begin another. For four days, I have promised myself I would put this "writing room" in a semblence of order, so that I can continue to write. I think my resolve is always less than my energy allows. But today will be the day........perhaps.
I am currently Blue
I am listening to trucks on the street passing by
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