Torn to be Wild ...

My writing of late has the continued mention of rain, as if it's an oddity for this time of year.

Then, today, I pulled an old journal art notebook down, looking for a specific collage piece (above), and I note the dates June 9th on through the 11th and so on, in the year of my life 2004.

And what are the first words after the notation June 9th, "...end of the day June 9th. The temperatures have dropped dramatically with this new onslaught of rain. Lovely. Will be most excellent 'sleeping' weather' around here and as I once coined the phrase in one of my poems, [it's] 'summer supremely'."

I note another upside to the day, in that same journal entry, in that I've managed to write a poem, which "lifted my spirits since I felt as if there wasn't going to be time to get something to the page at all this week. What luck!"

As I traced back my skull today (June 9-2009) I had trouble recollecting what the fuck poem I was even talking about!!??!?! since I've written hundreds and so what the f' was I doing lamenting time lost in that venture?!?!?

However, because I have works online far-gone past, I clicked to an archive to see if there actually was a poem very specifically posted on June 9th-2004, since I did allude in my journal that getting one to the page was not the easiest thing in that timeframe, and indeed ...

in the thick of june

the whirring of the fan,
occasional rap-beating,
some distance away,
thumping inside the trunk
of a souped-up car.

the stirring of leaves,
rising and falling curtains,
muted television voicebox,
providing blue half-light
as shadows play.

the spurring of emotions,
yours, mine and ours,
knuckles hitting plaster,
walls coming down,
toes pointed in dance.

the slurring of words,
mouths searching,
beyond pouty lips,
sigh-sound meter
of time well spent.

the purring of souls,
scattered hair to pillows,
orange rinds peeled back,
cold fruit to soothe,
love's fire still burning.

the blurring of visions,
raindrops dancing
rhythmically roof-top,
nature's tribal beat,
singing us to sleep.

... and there you have it circa June 9th-2004.

Yeah, so I guess I see why I was pleased. I remember what brought about the piece ... the June bugs hitting the screen, cars thumping on the highway, Paul and I humping in the bedroom and Gwendolyn Brooks' poem "Jazz June," we die soon, ever and always in my head.

So it strikes me f'ing weird how we experience a time and a place and a series of rainy days, and we think it's unique, odd, strange to be happening "this time of year."

And then we come to find out, another threatening-to-rain-for-the-how-many-days-in-a-row-day-in-June of 2009 (this time) that we and it aren't that special or unique.

The times, they repeat themselves.

The emotions on the other hand ... maybe if I open every journal I've ever penned or look between the lines of every poem I've ever written in June, the rain and the tears will be there, but in a multitude of ways.
June 11th 2004, I note "... the rain is insane! Really heavy at 7 a.m." but a great blue heron breaks through the grey sky and I tear up some paper and put his likeness in my journal.

On this day, Bekah is graduating from high school. Freaky weird, because in two years from this June 2009, on maybe yet another rainy day, Ali will have graduated too, three kids total flown from the nest ... toot sweet. Time flies when you are having fun notating all the rain!

June 12th-2004 finds me notating a trip to the some kind of craft and art emporium with Paul because I'm hell-bent on my collage art now that I've discovered the joys of ripping up bits of paper and reapproximating them into something new.

It had made me realize that the "resurgence of this other artform [beyond poetry/writing] has really fueled me, inside and out. I'm seeing themes build in my collage work as well as in my poetry --or better to say -- as I have previously seen in my poetry. The recurring themes are both the same +/different," and I was all like holy, fucking hey!

I was so ramped up by the end of my entry on June 11th-2004 that I ranted about the craft/art store and how it had closed at the "ungodly hour of 8pm!!!"" when didn't they know that "artists dont' really sleep! This place should serve coffee in 'go cups' ... for the quick dash in for emergency supplies."

However, in the end, I had less stress over the matter, realizing I had "gotten what I needed to begin with, or should I say to continue with since I've more than just started the whole dive into this 'physical' art world beyond or behind the words."

So, I guess that's what it's all about these rainy, sky-crying days which seem to be forcing us to notice something unique about them, when in the end we note the same-same but in a different way ... and we continue on realizing we have everything to begin with, and we've more than just started.

Or I could have just gone fucking crazy with all the rain.

The jury is out on this.