Furthermore, the notes are not automated - they are all written personally by me. So, you get an extra note/memo/letter (depending on my mood), in which I might just wax philosophic on any number of topics that seem relevant, preferably in a few sentences or less. Or I might talk about how it feels that you all are in this journey with me or I might talk about updates to the site. But whether I say very much or very little on any given day, it feels more personal. Like I'm talking directly to you. I feel more connected to the folks on the notifylist. There, I've said it.
04.12.03 - 6:51 p.m. in the kitchen, outside of war
date: 4/12/03, 01:35am from: Ariana Waynes to: Andre/River/Suelto/Arjuna subject: in the kitchen outside of war
yellow walls, wine and grilled cheese sandwiches, a dead flower in a carafe, once red now pink petals litter the table before disintegrating, a turquoise taper candle that went out as soon as it was lit, the twin thin dancing nymphs of smoke calling my attention to the moon on the other side of the ceiling, a stack of books— we eat the poems, crunch soft through the words, taste, swish, savor, and pull, our mouths delicious with reverence, for once, instead of disdain, our bellies calm, the soles of our bare feet meeting on an empty chair—and i am not naomi shihab nye or adrienne rich or neruda or june, though i still (and always will) aspire. i still look for the moon through the walls, through clouds, black smoke, and my own closed eyes, for a mutually acceptable reason to reach your lips with mine. i cannot hear the bombs exploding baghdad from this kitchen. i hear your voice mellifluous and stumbling. i celebrate this respite from war, the fumble of our first two years ripe with love and disaster. there are man-children channeling some god of rage and catastrophe and i celebrate their absence from this kitchen, even as i reach out my compassion— young or not, i am a woman, i want to hold the agonized infant inside the warmaker’s armor close to my newfound peace and ask him what release he needs that unheard inspires tantrums of genocide and hatred. we are still here, generous with our compassion, we are still here with loving arms for even the throwers of bombs. i have myself hurled grenades of my own despair exploding into rage and you have crossed my lines of danger, to draw me close and soothe me still. this kitchen will remain a haven where we hold with open hands softly our dead, where we forgive ourselves even the worst harm our fists or hearts have done, where we celebrate the survival of our compassion, where we find reasons and time for kisses and poems, for reverence soft and delicious on your lips and mine.
