Monday, June 24, 2013

Who Farted?

A little indelicate in polite company, but who are we kidding?  I've been asked this a dozen times.

Do people ever pass gas during their massage?  Short answer.  Yes.  It has happened. But before you either blush anew, or decide to get smug and say to yourself “I never have”, consider the following.
A.       To a massage therapist, the fart is like a belch to a Chinese chef - proof positive that I am doing my job.  One major goal of massage is to move from the sympathetic nervous state into parasympathetic state.  When that happens, different systems kick into gear.
B.      Though I know it’s happened, I honestly cannot tell you which clients or when.  It is remembered only as part of the general history of the work.
C.      Some do it while completely floating and totally unaware.  Again, a compliment to the chef.
Bottom Line:  No worries!  As I always say, I'd be in the wrong business if I was bothered by "all things human"

....and now for something a bit loftier. 

Here is a poem of mine that was accepted for publication, in two magazines.  It is a PERFECT illustration of the number one rule of writing: 
Consider your audience, but do NOT be inhibited by them!  Much of what is written, particularly in poetry, is NOT autobiographical.  I cannot satisfactorily answer the question of "where'd it come from".  It just comes.  My father did not drink, and my mother was not easy, for the record : )
The result of a good poem should be a feeling, often a fleeting feeling.  It operates in a space we all share, but cannot dwell.

Moon
Out the jalopy window of childhood night
A backseat for sprawling.
I saw a partial sanscritandvine face,
next to the tomahawk of stars and constellation of wine in my father’s head.
He drives us home, home again with his own steering wheel of cheese -
Conjuring his days of before, before becoming an expatriate of everywhere.
I know nothing, and think my thumb in front of the open, squinted eye makes the moon disappear.
I imagine my father disappearing.  And give him the thumb.

Out the jalopy window of childhood night
A backseat for sprawling.
I saw the brazensweetbread face,
through the wicked black lace of winter trees and captive breeze in my mother’s head.
She sleeps her way home, home again with her beautiful, blonde ease –
Dreaming of her days of before, before becoming patently everything.
I know nothing, and count the seconds between her breaths, as though I can change them.
I imagine my mother disappearing.  And my own breath is ransacked.

Out the window, that childhood night
after they taught me that the moon trundles us
from the anteroom,
over our itinerant bridge, and into the travesty -
I freshly recall her leaving me with the sky.
-jean sotos *bows*

Worth Asking.....
Lastly, and as promised, here is a probing question.  I invite you to ask it of yourself and at least one special someone.  Preferably someone you care to hear the answer from. 
It has been said that we are who we TRULY are at age 12 or so.  Most things that come after are manifestations of what the world imposes.
Q:  What things made you most proud of yourself and feel special at age 12 ish?  Do you still do/practice/posess it?  If not, why not?

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