Be Pulled.

I am pulled. By every weak and sore muscled limb. By every leftover knot in my hair. 

I am pulled.

Back and forth. North and south. East and west. Outside inside upside down. I am pulled in every direction.

I am pulled to horse vision boards, equine shapes to cut and paste, and pin and hang. And panda projects- a closer examination at causes for extinction. {Not to mention just because they are so fucking cute}

I am pulled to the flats and to take photos of the tulips and share their misplaced beauty.  

I am pulled to spend hours tightening my ass, focusing on the hinge from my hips and the push back of the backside, not the bend. I am pulled to be stronger, better, more beautiful. More intelligent, more active, more efffective. I am pulled to be More.

I am pulled to the meals I have to cook

but before the meals, the market.

And before the market, the lists.

And before the lists, the pen and paper.

{and why is there never any

pen and paper around?}

I am pulled to remember things I cannot seem to hold for more than a moment, things that slip between the cracks between the pituitary and the pineal, to places that suck memory and tasks and turn them into hormonal surges nobody but me knows what to do with.

Then there is the sea.

I am pulled to the sweet sirens song.

The high notes of melody

Just for me, to sit and rest, or stare or read.

 

Then there is the river.

I am pulled to her banks

lush with Spring showing up

in full expression

never looking small.

Her wet rush

teases me to lie down along side her.

To write a love letter to someone

who has been waiting.

 

Those nettles.

Their cackle pulls me closer.

They know I want their sting. I want their sting so badly.

Their wake up and rise up sting. 

I am pulled to wake up.

I am pulled to rise.

 

There is the pull to work hard and make money.

To create from my bone places, the inside layers of the marrow.

There is service to humanity, the blood of One flows through.

There are prayers to be yelled and cried for the bombed.

There is mercy to be begged and pleaded for the bombers.

I am pulled to my friends, who need me.

I am pulled to those I can fully need.

I am pulled to lay my body down on the tracks

To stop the carrying of histories weight

Mined from the center of the Earth

and shipped over seas.

 

There are all the spells and incantations to be uttered, like mantra.

I’m pulled to save this cracked world. So my daughters don't fall deep in its crevices, lost.

 

Then there is laundry back home.

And yeah. Fuck laundry.

I am pulled to drop out. To leave it all behind. To savor mangos and tan naked babies and topless beaches and soft feet from the sand's daily touch.  I pulled to say goodbye first world; because there is nothing really left to do with you.

In the middle of the pulls I am pushed down. Right here on the warm wooden floor of my favorite bookstore. In front of a shelf that holds Mary Oliver, Raymond Carver, Wendell Berry, Gary Snyder, Leonard Cohen. Each one bats their eyes at me, flirts with me, offers me a smoke. They say: come on, pick me up and finger through me, every page. Fall in love with me, all of us. We're a non-monogamous bunch.

I do none of it. But sit on the floor and write this on a phone.

Because whatever

will be whenever

and whoever

forever.

It is all there is.

 

The sun will shine, until it sets.

Water will recede with this moon, until is swells.

And tomorrow I'll wake up older, pulled by gravity.

 

It doesn't really matter

what the hell I do

or don’t do.

It's all well.

Said.

Done.

Life.

 

Be pulled.

It is the evidence of great adventure.

A life worth a facinating, fantastic stretching.

In every direction.

 

Be pulled.

But the spot

where savior meets savor

where calm meets chaos

is where creation grows.