What I Learned from Algebra

That I'm smarter than I thought I was.
That I am more determined than I thought I was.
That I myself am just a number.
That I may have masochistic tendencies.
That I have twenty more hours in my week than I realized, which I plan to fill with music and art and writing and the things that I love.
That failing means trying again. And again. And again.
That the third time is a charm.
That the Academic System is set up to deter artists, liberal arts majors and socialists.
That four months of Spring whiz by like greased lightning when I am calculating and pondering and figuring.
That I need to make time to see the beauty in everything, even if it seems as if there isn't enough time.
That getting lost in numbers can be mesmerizing.
That in some unfathomable way I will miss it...a very tiny bit.
That I admire my father even more, who was an electrical engineer and did math problems for fun.
That I will never be that person. And I'm okay with it.
That I wish I did this years ago, because my destiny might have been different.
That maybe I would be in the same exact place I am now regardless, according to the theory of Pi.
That I'm wondering what else I've told myself I cannot do in this life, and realizing it isn't true.
That sometimes I have to be ultra selfish with my time and energy.
That sometimes things fall through the cracks.
That I'm a tad melodramatic. And I'm okay with it.                .
That I need less sleep than I thought.
That I also need more sleep than I thought.
That naps are luxurious.
That if I suppress my creativity long enough, it will explode through my dreams.
That every day is different, but math is always the same.
That everything is math.
That nothing is math.
That sometimes cigarettes and coca-cola after midnight are necessary.
That I don't really care what x equals.
That I do actually kind of care what x equals.
That I can do anything I set my mind to, whether I'm terrified, intimidated, tired, hungry, sad or angry. That all these things are fleeting; math is constant.
That I can see how math might comfort some people.
That I can focus my attention for hours on one thing.
That I can postpone instant gratification for something that matters to me.
That spoiling myself in other ways can be an incentive.
That I actually did it.
That my future is a wide open horizon.
That I create my own destiny.
That I'm a late bloomer. And I'm okay with it.
That I'm so fucking glad it's *over*!
That compared to Algebra, everything else in my life seems like Unicorns frolicking in candy meadows.
That freedom and time never quite seemed this sweet before.

Thank you, Algebra.
Don't let the door hit you on the way out.

The Yoga Ladder of Success

You've climbed The Yoga Ladder of Success, one rung at a time.
You've envisioned your photo in the corporate headquarters
Gallery of Superstars, placed alongside the ancient ones.
You bring your switch to class, tucked in the corner -- a reminder
to your students that you are the one in control; this is yours.
You rose up from the ashes, reinvented yourself: new name,
the right clothes, the right pose, the posturing, gesticulating,
judging and pointing out the flaws with that handy little switch.
Your ego is over-sized, Super-Sized, at the McDonald's
of yoga studios, a chain reaction, money-maker.
It's all about the numbers and staying on top of your game
with retreats, photo shoots, partnered sponsorships, on-line presence.
You've climbed The Yoga Ladder of Success! You have arrived, Girl!
You have assimilated the rhetoric for so long now
that you truly believe it: "Yoga has changed my life!" you spout.
And it has. And with your drive, your ambition, tenacity,
you may change the course of Yoga, one new student at a time.

Pink Noise; Different than White Noise

Pink noise; different than white noise.
Protective bubble, bubblegum-
pink bubble bouncing buoyantly,
enveloping, surrounding me
in radiance, love, forgiveness.
Shiny and clean pink soap bubble.
Cotton-candy fluff floating clouds,
blowing with the breeze as it comes
hovering above the ripe ground,
moving seemingly randomly,
but guided by natural force.

Pink noise; gentler than white noise,
drops me off on a mountaintop,
somewhere Swiss with verdant meadows,
yellow flowers, chirping birdies.
Or higher still -- there is no noise,
no rattle and hum, no chatter,
no engines, no bells, no knocking
no questions, no answers. Nothing.
Rolled out on pink velvet carpet,
curling like a tongue to swallow
the vibrations, intonations.

Ladykiller

You blamed your lewd acts on society and pornography,
claiming 'not guilty' until your bitter, dirty, tragic end.
Illegitimate child -- probably the product of incest.
You psychoanalyzed yourself and came up with no answer.
"Why? How could he have done those things?!" Those evil, derelict deeds.
You smiled, shrugged your shoulders, reminiscing about the stark gore,
the girls, the crowbar, the chase, the murders, the rapes and the blood.
The blood -- you wanted to bathe in it, wash yourself clean with it,
your past, your history, wishing to be a star, deity.
You renounced God and humanity, creating effigies
from burned and battered flesh, from the remains of true innocence.
Your will, your choosing, your destiny -- a self-made man; monster.
In your final hour you accepted Jesus Christ, your savior.
The Governor of Florida, your real God, turned a deaf ear,
as your sister-mother wept for you, her son, her little boy.
The world sighed relief as you left, then went on with its business.
Just a flicker, after all, a meaningless flicker in time.

Ceramic Elephants

I wish my life was like an Urban Outfitters catalog --
at my age, a ridiculous desire, yet still, I want it.
Those kids look like they're having so much fun with their records
and their beer tumblers emblazoned with the words 'slut' and 'douchebag'.
Those crazy kids with their ivy-league educations and their
summers spent in The Hamptons, or in Morocco or Paris.
They gallivant in cut-off's, forced shabby chic, with the back-up
of Daddy's credit card and Mommy's guilt from being away,
never fully present (extended cocktail hours, pill-popping).
Those kids, poor orphans, are forced to reinvent themselves through style,
modern art, macrame plant holders, ceramic elephants,
marijuana cookbooks, paisley-print sheets, fruit-scented perfume,
Indian-inspired jewelry, and pomegranate candles.
They create a space, all their own, in their dormitory rooms,
hosting parties on their magic carpets, drinking from tumblers.
They make toasts, and eat hors d'oeuvres; Life stretches out in front of them,
glossy, immaculate, full of endless possibilities.

Energy

Energy...clean sweeps of it.
Dark bundles of it, lurking.
Light silk feathersweeps of it,
meaningful glances of it.
Energy -- use it up, fast!
Usurp it, demolish it!
You are made of it -- an itch
will never be satisfied.
Energy -- stand up for it,
celebrate it while you can,
it's breaking up, it's breaking.
You depend on it, always.
Energy...it's a fool's game,
nothing but a foolish game
one you are destined to play
simply because you are here.

Tell Me What is Real

You've built your life upon complaints,
stacked neatly, one on the other.
Negativity ruminates,
boiling over -- hot, sticky mess.
It has to be pushed down, controlled;
like everything else, it grows.
Before long it would overtake
your walls like a cloying ivy
wrapping you up like a mummy,
while you make lists, judge, criticize.
Your comparisons won't save you,
neither will your weight, your money,
your husband or your fancy house.
They are all as illusory
as you -- the inside of your mind.

Rancho Tarzanadu: Helicopter Nightmare

Miss Linda had fallen asleep on her bed with the lights on and the sliding glass door open, exhausted. Her sheer lavender curtains rushed into the room in a torrid frenzy as the whir of a helicopter whipped immediately outside of her window, hovering at eye level outside her bedroom balcony. From a loudspeaker came a man's even voice: "National Security Agency! We are just observing...go about your normal business."

Miss Linda tossed and turned. She shouldn't have had that third cherry-vanilla soda with vodka. She tried to wake herself, but she was in the in-between state, in a tug-of-war with the dream world and the waking world.

There was a gust of desert winter air as the helicopter lifted itself up above the house and flew away, almost indecipherably. It was there for only seconds, long enough to realize it was there, and then it was gone into the blackness and the distant stars, slipping in between the folds of the night.

Miss Linda dreamed that she sat up straight in bed, and re-arranged her hair and smoothed out her bedclothes and blankets. Paperwork had blown all over her floor...mail and notes, and postcards and magazines and bills and post-it notes and the pages of books and seed packages and tissues and empty paper bags.

Marlon Brando came to Miss Linda in this dream, dressed in a pin-striped Zoot Suit, cigar in hand. He advised: "You must never intervene with humans and you must always entangle. Jesus, I just want to fear my own truth. Cut, and it's here...a snail. On the edge of a razor."

He took a breath.

"Believe in One Day. There was a apace. The Gardener had land and steak. Black motorcycle. The egg farmer's in the ocean. It's a day pulled. And for penguins. Ever read 'The Merchants'? It winds muscle. You're staying. Me. You will be called to the left out of justice. It's The Wonder Twins. I understand. My son, try living faster than the speed of light. But you, mad men, will still be lying and I will be sober."

He paused.

And finally: "He went as mad as a March Hare."

Miss Linda awoke, for real, disgruntled. None of it made any sense at all.

Or, obviously, the question would be: did it?

Rancho Tarzanadu: Dark Hour

Miss Linda was in a bind. Manuel was being held at Guantanamo Bay, indefinitely, for questioning.

Little Johnny and the male FBI agent had both disappeared into the Vortex, without a trace, sliding in 'accidentally' on cardboard boxes.

The FBI had obviously pulled the funding for Little Johnny's stay after his disappearance occurred, and almost worse, the daily prepared gourmet meals had been halted as well. Miss Linda was a horrible cook, and piece-mealing meals together the best she could. Basically she was eating whatever was lying around in the refrigerator. She ate lot of peanut butter sandwiches, cheese sandwiches, and scrambled eggs. She wasn't much cut out for 'roughing it', but desperate times called for desperate measures.

She was having strange, psychedelic dreams that were a residual effect from the energy work she had been practicing. She felt a growing blurred line between this world and the next with more and more clarity. Although that didn't lend itself very well to sleep, so she was also tired. Very, very tired.

She had also lost her other boarder, the Psychic, who left on a whim one afternoon unexpectedly to follow the cloud patterns to the Native American Gaming Casinos. She left Miss Linda a note written in red lipstick on a paper towel in the kitchen (the last paper towel on the roll, by the way). It said, "Sorry...gotta go!" Miss Linda understood, but now she was left alone and almost penniless, without a solid plan of action.

She missed Manuel. He drove her crazy.

She was afraid. She might actually have to get a job.

She would have to be her own boss, of course.

She began to contemplate her options, while chewing on a stale slice of dry burned toast accompanied by a glass of lukewarm tap water.

Rancho Tarzanadu: Miss Linda's Phantom Lover

Miss Linda had a phantom lover for the last few years. He lived across the golf course in the hills; he was very reclusive. Sometimes when the moon was full or new, he would come traipsing across the green with a red rose in his mouth. Miss Linda had a difficult time saying no to him, even though she knew it was ultimately fruitless. He was like a firefly caught in a jar...only for the moment. She always felt a deep melancholy when he was gone...which was usually. He would never stay the full night when he visited her, always creeping out before dawn (she wondered if maybe he was related to Vampires), and she would wake up alone and ponder if it had actually happened or if she had dreamed it. He would stay away for days, weeks, sometimes months at a time, and she would speculate about what he was up to. She told no one of his existence, because he had made it very clear that he was not her 'boyfriend'. "Why do we have to 'label' it?" he would moan, and look anxiously towards the fading sun dial on the golf course green. "Why can't you just let it be what it is?"

"And what is it?" she would ask him. He would avoid the question, then slip away.

Everyone at Rancho Tarzanadu thought she was a loner; how could she tell them that she was emotionally involved with a phantom?

He made Miss Linda very angry and she started to resent his capricious behavior and elusive charm. He was never available for most major holidays or family functions and when she needed anything from him he was nowhere to be found. When she got into a car accident and needed a ride he later told her that his cell reception was horrible in the woods so he never got her message. She found this hard to believe. When she got her eyes unexpectedly dilated at the eye doctor months previously and needed a ride home he later told her that he needed more advance notice of such things and had a former engagement. She ended up driving herself home, blindly, and saw it as a metaphor for their 'relationship' which was really just a 'situation'.

For Miss Linda's most recent birthday, he handed her a folded up piece of paper, with an 'I.O.U' scrawled inside.

She would completely and utterly lose her patience with him and vow never to speak to him again, only to find him climbing up her balcony unannounced at an unexpected hour while serenading and mesmerizing her with his magical flute and incandescent ways; they would laugh and dance into the wee hours. (That stupid flute! Maybe it was the culprit of all this nonsense.) He would soothe the savage beast inside her with music and stories and smoke and mirrors and then disappear into the morning fog as she would awaken in a vague cloud, alone.

She considered putting up barriers and blockades around her property, so he couldn't get through if he ever tried again. But he could get through anyway, because her heart was still unbarricaded. She felt like a chump; she'd been duped with faerie dust and moonbeams. She sat outside on her balcony, smoking and looking at the stars and listening to the frogs sing, and wondering. She disliked him immensely for making her wait and wonder. She decided firmly that she would never yearn for him again. The next day she would waffle, then wander around the house trying to talk some sense into herself. If he knew the torment he caused her and cared about her even slightly, he would never, ever attempt to bedazzle her again with his whimsical ways, but would go deeper and farther into those wooded hills and play his flute to the muses and the birds instead...surely they would understand him far better than she ever could.