Oh great and glorious Livejournal friends. I miss you. We never talk since that bitch Facebook started monopolizing my time. And then LJ went and started doing weird things with in-page ads and privacy policies. It's official. I've migrated all m.y LJ posts to Wordpress: okelle.wordpress.com. I'm on LJ less and less anyway. At some point, I suppose I'll have to up and delete my account here all together, but I'm in no hurry.

If you want to keep in touch, please email me -- it's my LJ username at gmail. Or look me up on Facebook. Or, better yet, join me in the land of milk and honey at Wordpress. I really am an immigrant over there, with no friends and no one to talk to!

[Additional Note:] As of March 2011, I allowing only current LJ friends to comment on this journal. Some hackers from Russia keep trying to nose their way in with spam and malware! Comment over at Wordpress if you would like to start a conversation.

Welcome to the Garden of Words, container garden version. I transplanted the Prosies in May 2004 and began using it to add new free verse circa 2006-2007. In general, the most up-to-date content is now on this domain, but the original Garden, planted in my own land is venerable, mature, and full of perennials that do not fade. It gets lonely, so do go visit.

You will miss out on a substantial number of juicy, sexy, and well-written posts unless you create a journal (free accounts are available), comment here and ask me to add you as a friend. Please do. I love makin frienz on teh Intarwebs!

A Gangster Wedding In Riga
Elena Fanailova


The sun was bright at the end of June.
I was walking with Lenny and the pianist Vadim Sakharov,
Nicknamed "Bird," taking a stroll
Behind Cathedral Square before going to a concert
(They were putting on Piazzolla's
Maria de Buenos Aires)

Coming toward us
Was a slow-moving group of heavy-set guys
In black suits, white shirts and sunglasses
With colored frames: red, yellow and green
Like clowns.
In the heat,
They wore heavy black suits
Well-made, single- and double-breasted.

And the bride
Was properly attired in a frothy white dress and a veil,
And next to her was the groom, one of those guys in black suits,
But he was set apart by one peculiar detail:
His right pant leg was rolled up
Exposing a white, nearly white freshly caved wooden leg,

He was walking
On a lime-wood crutch, hobble-hobble,
Like a fairy tale bear
In the bright, bright sun
Just like something out of a film by Fellini
Or Takeshi Kitano,
They moved toward us

And passed like a mirage,
Smiling,
Like sun stroke.

We walked a few hundred feet
And found ourselves by the river, we were looking
At the dusky river water,
It flowed so slowly and gently

There was a drowned woman
Floating face down

Two locals found her,
They weren't sure
About calling the police
And they didn't have a cell phone,
So they used mine

The police arrived almost immediately
But we had time
To get a good look at her black shoes
And her colorful A-line
Knee-length skirt
Only her face wasn't visible

She was lying face down
Rocking on the waves, like something out of a terrifying Russian
Fairy tale or the song
About cornflowers and Olya
Who perished from love

--tr. Genya Tuovskaya, The Russian Version (Ugly Duckling Presse)

fate or concertinas - does it matter?
god or neurological - the miracle remains
can you hold the deep stillness
that observes and opens its heart
even as you return to the dance?

in praise of the still, small voice
that does not speak with grasps
you at the crux of your bones
and moves you into the day
when moments ago you thought you'd
spend all day afloat
on the ocean-bob of the couch

in praise of cupcakes and clarinets
in praise of the white pines
looming curved and sap-dripping
pinned by the wings of Aphrodite
to the world

11/9/2010

for Lee Ann

clothed in ink and wreathed in shadow
alien life pushing through the thread of your own
offer up a cup of parcels: poems, carrots, shrimp heads
-- chomp! -- it accepts
or expresses displeasure in endless nausea,
jolting you through the interior as you travel
the two worlds, inside and out

what witch's power lets you let it pass through you
without death but transformation?

Yes, I know I'm late. All I have to say about that is "fuck you, November." Although October was more of a bitch this year than November so far.

I'm more of a poet than a novelist, so I'm doing what some poets have started to do, which is write a poem a day in November instead of the insane marathon of a 10,000 word sustained narrative.

I fully expect this month's poems to be mediocre in quality. As Julia Cameron said, "rest on the page." A single haiku is better than silence -- at least in this scenario. If you want the good stuff, buy the chapbook. Assuming it's ever actually published.

still waters of the pond
turn the eye inward
leaves a carpet of yellow--
sun on the ground
turn the eye outward

Once a day and twice on Sundays. Yesterday I sat for 20 minutes in the morning and then 20 minutes after I got home from a visit with Mom. It was the first time I've done a meditation at night in this go-round. Very interesting to see the differences in the state of the mind between morning and evening. Took me longer to settle down -- actually longer to sit. Part of the evening meditation was also about re-settling after a day that involved lots of driving. Re-settling myself into my home and re-sanctifying it.

This morning I began Week Two of the program, which focuses on the body. Specifically, the teaching suggests that I focus on areas of discomfort or pain within my body. Relating how I approach discomfort, pain, not getting what I what, to how I relate to my own body's pain. It's a very powerful association but definitely a more challenging kind of meditation. Luckily, the teaching -- and my own mind and experience -- remind me to continue to be gentle and open. I move back and forth between focusing on my breath and returning to the area of discomfort. First the general area, then gradually honing in on the spot that has the most intensity of pain. Or sensation. This kind of meditation can be exhausting. So I begin, again and again. Return to the breath. Return to the sensation. The teaching even suggests focusing on pleasurable sensations as well -- but warns that it is easier to get lost in pleasurable sensations.

I do not think that attempting this challenge by myself would be a good idea if I did not already have some experience practicing meditation with others. It is so easy to become overwhelmed and lost in the mind. But also wonderfully rewarding to peel away the layers and find, finally, the Centered Self. The End of Desire. The bottom of the tackle box.

Right around the solstice I started the Tricycle 28-day meditation challenge. Other friends of mine might do weight-loss challenges, but this is definitely more my speed. So to speak.

As the word "challenge" might imply, the course set out by the hard-core Buddhists over at Tricycle magazine was a little too rigorous for me. But I figured it was a good opportunity to deepen my on-again off-again sort-of daily practice of mindful movement and seated meditation into something a little, um, deeper. I may not be able to commit to 20 minutes a day of sitting still for the rest of my life, but at least I could commit to 28 days.

Tricycle's staff wanted me to sit for TWO 20-minute periods, morning and evening, and then dedicate two hours over the weekend to more sitting. Maybe that makes sense for a farmer or a delivery person, but I ALREADY spend far too much time with my butt planted in a chair. 20 minutes of doing it mindfully sounded possible, though, especially since seated meditation always inspires me to a more frequent yoga and/or tai chi practice too.

The first few days went pretty well. Then, on day 3, I started feeling like crap. Some passing physical symptoms kicked up the chronic illness and before I knew it a week had passed.

I got back to it last night. I was pretty emotionally raw and noticed that the practiced helped calm me -- but not just because of the practice itself but because of all the little bits and pieces I've learned about mindfulness practice over the years. This morning I sat again, and for the first time I saw the sitting as a gift I was giving myself rather than something I was taking away from more meaningful pursuits.

There is a difference, after all, between focusing all of my consciousness into the screen whilst typing madly with my fingers and hunching my shoulders... and sitting quietly listening to my body.

In terms of how to count the days, I decided to consider myself pretty much at the same place I left off last week. The 28 days are divided into four weeks of practice, with a focus that shifts from breath to body to mind to etc -- I'm trying not to peek ahead. So I'm still on the breath week.

We'll see whether I want to give myself the gift of 20 minutes of seated meditation tonight, or some other gift instead. Like a hot bath. Or another form of relaxation.

For right now, at least, I'm glad to be back on the beam.

Wife of the Gods: A Novel by Kwei Quartey

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


I found Quartey's description of the divide between city and country culture in Ghana eerily similar to the same divide that exists in the USA. At times lyrical in description, with excellence characterization. A story about real people in Africa, not just the latest political or natural disaster.



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