Clock and Calendar Girl

April 2

Clock and Calendar Girl

I depend on the count and measure of time to get me through.  The swing of the pendulum carries me from moment to moment and the divisions between days are like the rungs on a ladder; I climb from month to month and age to age.  When I hold my breath I count the tic, tic, tic till the difficult time passes and I can inhale once more.  Harder things require X’s in their numbered boxes to help me transverse the larger distance and rockier terrain.  Take away my clock and I go deaf, remove my calendar and I go blind.  Tools are tools even if they only aid sight and sound.

Address your future

*

THE SCULPTOR

Stuck in a block, my sponsor chips away at me
I struggle to hold still
With surgical precision she cuts through the debris
With which I have surrounded myself

After my sponsor frees my hand and arm
She places a hammer in my open fingers
When the other arm and hand are rescued
She places a chisel in that hand

This is how before my head showed above the surface
I began to help in my own restoration
I am the sculptor
The program has made me

Recovery has taught me
I can be anything
If I keep chipping away
At the things which hold me hostage

As time travels on I am a new shape
With each turn through the steps
And have an ever lustrous finish
With every application of the traditions

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/More-Sober-The-Way-Sane/dp/144141231X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1374072329&sr=8-3&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/Lines-My-Life-Sherrie-Theriault/dp/1448652820/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374072576&sr=1-1&keywords=Lines+from+my+life%2C+Sherrie+theriault

Whittle it Down

February 12

Whittle it Down

A famous sculptor mentioned that he doesn’t so much create the objects as remove the stone which doesn’t belong.  I have had the same experience with willingness.  Encased in the bedrock of my will willingness had no opportunity to open doors. Flaking away the extraneous the key shape appears, rugged, blockish, rudimental.  As the tears stream down my face and wrong thinking flies from my brain the key is more finely formed.  As I wheedle at misconception and haul bodily wrong action the teeth of this thing show sharp in this day’s sun.  Many doors stand ajar, at first those with basic tumblers, but now even those with encrypted defense are no match for the willingness, which I wield with rapier wit.  The obvious blocks to progress open to me as well as the subtle doors to untold destination, I am let out of danger, released into possibility.

Trace implication

*

NIGHT FLIGHT

The small log shape with wings
Passed the windshield of my moving car
Without collision.
Meticulous calculation and correction
In a night sky.

Silent passage
Swift and meaningful
The owl lives as it knows how.

I was not born to the night.
Darkness not my given realm.
I have inverted my senses and compensated
For the moonlight.

I pull my way through the air
And hunt for my survival
In a world of shadows.
The morsels caught on the wing.

Snatches of conversations
And lines from books sustain me.
Giving me strength to live
In spite of the nocturnal bondage.

I have made peace with the night.
I am changed by my living
And my living endures.

The grace required to abide here
Is bestowed on me nightly.
I wear it though it is not the prize I sought.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/More-Sober-The-Way-Sane/dp/144141231X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1374072329&sr=8-3&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/Lines-My-Life-Sherrie-Theriault/dp/1448652820/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374072576&sr=1-1&keywords=Lines+from+my+life%2C+Sherrie+theriault

Mosaic

December 6

MOSAIC

I couldn’t prevent this plate from shattering, so I saved all the pieces, losing none.  I laid them edge-to-edge and made a design, secured it with thin-set.  Pieces of pattern framed with grout are seen, as they never could be when this dish was whole.  I am part of this construction more than just handing china onto the table.  Integrity has been lost but replaced with fractured openness.  The plate has lost personal unity to become an ingrained part of my personal archeology.

Fly your kite in the wind.

*

The Way West

The sun reflected in the windows

winks at me as I fly over.

The plane climbs higher

and the reflected light no longer reaches me.

I slip from my eastern bonds.

I am west coast bound.

The carpet of snow was laid down

to quiet the passage.

Clouds take over the task,

then part to reveal the patchwork

of the middle ground.

We cross the Stateline without a sound;

a few more miles then touchdown.

Vlog:  http://youtu.be/RQcqROgXhRY

You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/Sober-On-The-Way-Sane/dp/1440417342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576888&sr=8-1&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/More-Lines-From-My-Life/dp/1448677203/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576956&sr=8-1&keywords=More+Lines+From+My+Life

Whining Brats

Sept 15

WHINING BRATS

Some days whining brats come at me from all directions and my hair won’t curl.  Apathy chases me around the house.  I wonder how it has more energy than I do.  My mind twists into a wrinkled mess; I drag my good foot and hop on the bad one. And even on those days I still rather be me; I never long to be the innocent victim or the spiritual leader, the tough guy or the PhD.  No matter how bad it gets or what the struggle is, there is no place sweeter than in my head.  Many are the days when I wished not to exist, not at all, but never to shuck my skin for the skin of another.  Now that I manage, breathe right and face each day with cheer I know it was almost worth it and might be worth it yet.

Write your name on a piece of paper and slip it into your pocket.

*

Warhol Wouldn’t Be

There is no trick to art.

If I work to make my pieces fit with the familiar

I lose my individuality.

If I make what is truly me

I fear there is no line in which to stand.

I must make the work, find the market,

live life and die happy;

All this with no map

and a world filled with people

who tell me what to do,

but none who can guarantee the outcome.

My unwillingness to fight,

to look at and feel the ugliness of life

is at the core of my impediment.

You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/Sober-On-The-Way-Sane/dp/1440417342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576888&sr=8-1&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/More-Lines-From-My-Life/dp/1448677203/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576956&sr=8-1&keywords=More+Lines+From+My+Life

My Babies

July 31

MY BABIES

Too often I have abandoned the infants of my creativity to doorways and charities.  Having little patience I did not raise them to their intended station.  Joyful parentage need not stop at the cutting of the cord.  Downplaying the importance of each birth, I would leave beauty and art to be foundlings and the province of others.  I can share the guardianship of these precious gifts and be more than a brood mare for cunning and craft.  I have neglected things apparent for the promise of each new conception.  Overpopulation weakens the body of my work and leaves my portfolio listless and immature.

Touch your finger with your nose.

*

Charmed by Snow

Warm weather snow falls in fat full flakes;

I am living in a world of dreams and sweet peas.

Sudden dustings sparkle and surprise

leaving as quickly as they came;

yet the world is kinder now.

Beauty is an ambush of the heart.

My breath alters, accelerates,

speeding me to a smile, an illustration of joy.

Crows walk the edge of the hedgerow,

prattling on as they do;

snow to their ankles and food on their minds.

I drive over the mountains

discovering myself as the recipient,

the receiver of all this great gift, this life.

You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/Sober-On-The-Way-Sane/dp/1440417342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576888&sr=8-1&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/More-Lines-From-My-Life/dp/1448677203/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576956&sr=8-1&keywords=More+Lines+From+My+Life

Hold the Line

July 22

HOLD THE LINE

Relax is not the same as give up.  Unwind is not fray.  Let go doesn’t mean never grab hold.  It is important to have moderation in all things including moderation.  Exuberance and enthusiasm are wonderful in their season; too much and I could get an adrenaline addiction.  Make sure your song has more than one note and make sure that you sing more than one song in your life. Change, interest and excitement are vital to my existence.  Like my sponsor says, “if you take all the spikes and ridges out of your life-line, it means you’re dead.”

Give allowance to yourself.

*

The Landscape of Words

Paint takes time to dry;

I work with words.

I say azure and you are there with me,

even if I am far from this mortal coil.

My pigments stay fresh as long as you know blue,

as long as you can hear me, read me, see me.

I paint 6X8 cell and we are imprisoned together,

trapped,

till I tell you of the key I slipped into your shoe.

I love the flow of watercolor,

adore the mushy paste of oil,

but nothing beats the world we paint

and repaint here on this page.

You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/Sober-On-The-Way-Sane/dp/1440417342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576888&sr=8-1&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/More-Lines-From-My-Life/dp/1448677203/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576956&sr=8-1&keywords=More+Lines+From+My+Life

Reclamation Artist

June 27

RECLAMATION ARTIST

I stand over the refuse can and peer in; I drive slowly past the piles of curbside discards.  I have so much trouble accepting there is no reclaiming most of this ever-growing mass.  There must be an alternate plan but I can’t see it yet.  I surround myself with hopeful stacks and wishful trinkets.  I want to make a new world from the old, save past relationships and make them somehow fresh.  I don’t want to drown.  I fear I can’t think fast enough to keep the wave from breaking over us all.  I will maintain an open mind and be grateful my life was retrieved from the dustbin.  I’ll steal peeks at what has been put out for lost.  I was once lost, too.

Read your favorite book one page a day.

*

When I rise up and when I lay down

In order to be happy with you

I have to learn to be happy without you.

I gasp at the pain of it

I desperately wish that the above statement were not true,

but alas, you are gone in a way that I can never reclaim you

and to hold on to what of you is still tentatively available

I must release my frightened grasp.

A wisp of smoke is not the bonfire of our past,

but it is what remains and I breathe it in as best I can.

Immediately I realize I am holding on again.

I breathe you out, let you go.

I want to run screaming throwing you from my bonds,

yet another of my attempts at control.

So, now it’s time to pray.

Not a prayer to get my way, not a prayer to make you stay,

not a prayer to make you gone, just a prayer to live on my own.

God help me please to live my life,

Please guide me away from strife.

I am lost and cannot find my way,

Father, hold me till the light of day.

You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/Sober-On-The-Way-Sane/dp/1440417342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576888&sr=8-1&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/More-Lines-From-My-Life/dp/1448677203/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576956&sr=8-1&keywords=More+Lines+From+My+Life

The Sculptor

April 4

THE SCULPTOR

I'm stuck in a block; my sponsor chips away at me.  I struggle to hold still.  With surgical precision, she cuts through the debris with which I have surrounded myself.  After my sponsor frees my hand and arm, she places a hammer in my open fingers.  When the other arm and hand are rescued, she places a chisel in that hand.  This is how, before my head showed above the surface, I began to help in my own restoration.  I am the sculptor the program has made me.  Recovery has taught me I can be anything if I keep chipping away at the things that hold me hostage.  As time travels on, I am a new shape with each turn through the steps and have an ever-lustrous finish with every application of the traditions.

Everything has its own intelligence and you do, too.

*

Please Sir

Gratitude is a thing which collects and solidifies,

it’s pink and I can walk around on it.

Some days it is a broad highway

and other times a winding spindling track.

Ever present if I am mindful

gratitude roots out pests and pestilence

while planting a garden beyond my dreams.

Gratitude is like handholding

it warms and strengthens me, k

keeps me connected to real life

and reassures me that I am not alone.

Many days I find a way to make a face and pout,

plundering the rich rewards of sobriety

for the thin gruel of discontent,

Poke me with a stick on these days

and remind me who I am,

for I am never Oliver even if I feel a little twist.

You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/Sober-On-The-Way-Sane/dp/1440417342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576888&sr=8-1&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/More-Lines-From-My-Life/dp/1448677203/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576956&sr=8-1&keywords=More+Lines+From+My+Life

Night Flight

February 13

NIGHT FLIGHT

The small log shape with large wings passed the windshield of my moving car without collision, due to meticulous calculation and correction in a night sky.  Silent passage… swift and meaningful, the owl lives as it knows how.  I was not born to the night; darkness not my given realm.  I have inverted my senses and compensated for the moonlight.  I pull my way through the air and hunt for my survival in a world of shadows.  The morsels caught on the wing, snatches of conversations and lines from books, sustain me, give me strength to live in spite of the nocturnal bondage.  I have made peace with the night.  I am changed by my living and my living endures.  The grace required to abide here is bestowed on me nightly.  I wear it though it is not the prize I sought.

Write a letter home to you.

*

Whittle it Down

A famous sculptor mentioned

that he doesn’t so much create the objects

as remove the stone which doesn’t belong.

I have had the same experience with willingness.

Encased in the bedrock of my will

willingness had no opportunity to open doors.

Flaking away the extraneous

the key shape appears, rugged, blockish, rudimental.

As the tears stream down my face

and wrong thinking flies from my brain

the key is more finely formed.

As I wheedle at misconception

and haul bodily wrong action

the teeth of this thing show sharp in this day’s sun.

Many doors stand ajar,

at first those with basic tumblers,

but now even those with encrypted defense

are no match for the willingness,

which I wield with rapier wit.

The obvious blocks to progress open to me

as well as the subtle doors to untold destination,

I am let out of danger, released into possibility.

You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/Sober-On-The-Way-Sane/dp/1440417342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576888&sr=8-1&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/More-Lines-From-My-Life/dp/1448677203/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1388576956&sr=8-1&keywords=More+Lines+From+My+Life

What's that in the Pool?

December 14

What’s that in the Pool?

Parts of the Rocky Mountains look like algae bloom out in the Indian Ocean.  Parts of me look like parts of you and here we go with oneness being nothing more than pattern recognition and optical illusion; though I hope there is more to it than that.  My hurt might not be your hurt, but I have a sense of it.  Likewise your hope may not resemble mine, but it cheers you just the same and we are all better for it.  We needn’t replicate each other or attempt imitation, but recognition is a kind thing and art is what we all have to share.

Stain your napkin

*

SIZING GOD UP

God doesn’t need to be Big.
I only look for a Big God when I feel very small.
I turn to God as compensation for my feelings
As some sort of bolster to brace myself with.

I have found when I am diminished in anyway
God is tucked in a corner or pocket or drawer.
I flee to the great out-of-doors
And find earth, nature and wind.

The God of my understanding
Is proportionate to my mental state.
My partner is with me
Near enough to hear the fear pour off my skin.

God doesn’t run from me to adventures in the wild.
I want to escape regularly
But this is not my Higher Power’s defect.

I come back to God when I stop running from me.
I face my reflection and recognize
I am not towered over by a Giant God.
I am yoked with a power to share the load.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/More-Sober-The-Way-Sane/dp/144141231X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1374072329&sr=8-3&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/Lines-My-Life-Sherrie-Theriault/dp/1448652820/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374072576&sr=1-1&keywords=Lines+from+my+life%2C+Sherrie+theriault

Five Fingers that Gobble

November 27

FIVE FINGERS THAT GOBBLE

It only takes five crayons to turn a tracing of my hand into a turkey and it only takes a few things to change my drunken life into my sober life.  Looking back I am amazed how little it has actually taken to transform my life.  My drunkenness looks about as much like my sobriety as my hand looks like a turkey but the transformation has taken place.  The red, the yellow, the brown, the meetings, the steps, the sponsor, these basics are the bulk.  Sometimes it’s the small extras that help push this work of art into the realm of believability. Accents of green, up and down the fingers, or a few bonus phone calls to women outside my network.  Anything can be the thing that kicks it over into a plausible and convincing reality.  I can never be more than I am, a drunk is always a drunk and a hand is still just a hand, but within each of these things are unimagined possibilities waiting to be explored.  Michelangelo believed that sculptures lurked in chunks of stone.  I have come to see that a sober woman prowled inside this drunk and every Thanksgiving my hand yearns to put on feathers once again.

Read your own palm

*

ELECTRIC CONNECTIONS

I step into a room and take its currency.
Is the flow good, steady, the pulse even and strong?
Where are the power brokers
And are they sharing the time
Or using their magnetic personalities
To draw the current off others.

I check the complement of resisters.
Examine their stripes and access the possibilities.
I pump energy when I can and take when it is available.
I keep in mind we are all transformers
And change is possible for everyone
As long as we make the connections.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/More-Sober-The-Way-Sane/dp/144141231X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1374072329&sr=8-3&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/Lines-My-Life-Sherrie-Theriault/dp/1448652820/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374072576&sr=1-1&keywords=Lines+from+my+life%2C+Sherrie+theriault

Spectrum

October 24

Spectrum

The quality of the poetry is so dependant on the quality of the lighting.  Improve the color palette and yes, you’ve guessed the result.  So, I say to you, “Turn up the lights.  Do not write in half-dark grief and limp through the words.  Spotlight what you can and illuminate the rest.  You needn’t make a sound, needn’t pitch a tent, needn’t build a bridge, though you may, may if you wish and wish is what I do, wish for better light and when the clouds break loose in the sky and let the sun pour, I lift my pen and make it all; for what was needed was this better light.”

Imagine your webbed feet

*

PICK ME SIX NUMBERS

Knowing all the page numbers
And quotes of the Big Book
But not being able to apply them
Is like knowing all the winning lottery numbers
With the inability to buy a ticket.

Telling my story has little or nothing
To do with public speaking
Recovery has so much more to do
With willingness rather than studiousness.

Popularity contest, policing meetings
And service politics are a circus
I have attended far too often.
Empty rooms sporting great curtains
Does not a home make
Comprehension is no substitute for acquiescence

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/More-Sober-The-Way-Sane/dp/144141231X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1374072329&sr=8-3&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/Lines-My-Life-Sherrie-Theriault/dp/1448652820/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374072576&sr=1-1&keywords=Lines+from+my+life%2C+Sherrie+theriault

Warhol Wouldn't Be

September 15

Warhol Wouldn’t Be

There is no trick to art.  If I work to make my pieces fit with the familiar I lose my individuality.  If I make what is truly me I fear there is no line in which to stand.  I must make the work, find the market, live life and die happy; all this with no map and a world filled with people who tell me what to do, but none who can guarantee the outcome.  My unwillingness to fight, to look at and feel the ugliness of life is at the core of my impediment. 

Except change then accept change

*

LINEAGE

People stand in the cue and I stare,

Lost in contemplation and compliance

I weigh the conflicts and complications.

Is this the method to clear identification?

I think I am better known for the lines I’ve crossed,

The times I press between warm souls

And force myself to the area beyond.

How can I wait my turn for generational stew

When the fruit trees bear life for those who break free

From ruts and rumbles to bite deeply the flesh of the future?

I can’t stand here though I love so many in this line.

I cannot love the line itself.

I must step through, breathe,

Stretch my legs and mind.

Take leave of grids and locks

Living a lonelier but healthier life

All caused by a change in direction.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/More-Sober-The-Way-Sane/dp/144141231X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1374072329&sr=8-3&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/Lines-My-Life-Sherrie-Theriault/dp/1448652820/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374072576&sr=1-1&keywords=Lines+from+my+life%2C+Sherrie+theriault

Seen on the Street

August 12

Seen on the Street

Sometimes graffiti improves a place, other times it degrades it.  I now wonder; is this defined by the breaking or breaching of public norms?  Or is it built from the intent of the artist/perpetrator?  Possibly the pedestrian traffic or the light of day determine the difference between art and recalcitrance.  What if all these factors flashing like a neon kaleidoscope facilitated what this all really means?  What if it all signifies nothing other than yet another way for me to entertain my brain while avoiding work?  I guess I better get back to the spray cans I have a wall to cover.

(this was sent to me this morning and I think it goes nicely with this reading) .com/embed/23bA_5yadxs

Open your mind to unusual collaboration

*

THE TEAM

The dream sobriety I envision,

The fantasy recovery I mentally construct,

Blows out to sea as so much mist

In the face of actual life.

Setting out sports teams, which don’t exist

Is playful and entertaining.

Trying to rebuild the principals of the program

Is a delusion I can drink over.

Finessing my network and pretending I can put together a team

On a basis of specialized talents instead of ground level willingness

Is like designing a plane without regard to physics

Playing only to esthetics.

Anytime I am redesigning

I must realize I am no longer participating

If I keep my head in the game

I can stay away from statistics and stop planning outcomes.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/More-Sober-The-Way-Sane/dp/144141231X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1374072329&sr=8-3&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/Lines-My-Life-Sherrie-Theriault/dp/1448652820/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374072576&sr=1-1&keywords=Lines+from+my+life%2C+Sherrie+theriault

Michal Rovner

August 10

Michal Rovner

I have numbered all the blocks in my ancestral walls.  This has enabled me to recreate them stone by stone everywhere I go.  It all fits to create the tomb I now have to learn to leave.  I must change the equation and reorder the numbers allowing these rocks to be recycled and find a wonderful useful life as a stairway out of this pit of despair.  What was once an edifice to lives unlived is now able to facilitate elevation, a restoration of a level playing field.  It was not wrong for me to catalog the stones and there was no way for me to leave them behind, but nothing matches the satisfaction of using them to build a life, except for the ability to live in it.

Take a look at yourself from a distance

*

THE SEDUCTION OF SOBRIETY

I was seduced away from my duties

As an alcoholic by the promise of sobriety,

Allegiance to my disease was sidelined.

Alluring stability and beguiling integrity

Curried favor with my desperate heart,

Pulling me from the arranged marriage of addiction.

How could I cling to the corpse of dependence

When sanity shimmered just out of reach,

Then not out of reach but within my grasp.

I couldn’t resist the golden flicker of life.

I had been bound to death

Unable to see an alternative.

My loyalty to loss and grief slipped from me

And I limped into the daylight,

Like the widow of the night.

I have been lured to my senses

By a love like no other,

The love of life.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/More-Sober-The-Way-Sane/dp/144141231X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1374072329&sr=8-3&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/Lines-My-Life-Sherrie-Theriault/dp/1448652820/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374072576&sr=1-1&keywords=Lines+from+my+life%2C+Sherrie+theriault

Rules

July 21

Rules

There are rules about breaking rules.  You can do it this way, but must not that way.  Cross this line and you get dragons; cross that line you get a good natured slap on the wrist.  Beneath the reflective surface of law I have found many shoals and sandbars; rocks and outcroppings, layer upon layer of blue depth I can only partly chart.  I also find inquiries in this matter meet with the same reaction as asking about: yeti, crop circles, or what was kept in Uncle Author’s spare room.  Those willing to talk about it I often fear to hear from and the reluctant to speak I fear to pursue.  You see this investigation is just another thing from under that sea.

Look before you listen

*

MY BABIES

Too often I have abandoned the infants

Of my creativity to doorways and charities

Having little patience I did not raise them

To their intended station.

Joyful parentage need not stop

At the cutting of the cord.

Down playing the importance of each birth

I leave beauty and art to be foundlings

And the province of others.

I can share the guardianship of these precious gifts

And be more than a broodmare for cunning and craft.

I have neglected things

For the promise of each new conception.

Overpopulation weakens the body of work

And leaves my portfolio listless and immature.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

http://www.amazon.com/More-Sober-The-Way-Sane/dp/144141231X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1374072329&sr=8-3&keywords=sober+on+the+way+to+sane

http://www.amazon.com/Lines-My-Life-Sherrie-Theriault/dp/1448652820/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374072576&sr=1-1&keywords=Lines+from+my+life%2C+Sherrie+theriault

Whining Brats

Sept 15

WHINING BRATS

Some days whining brats come at me from all directions and my hair won’t curl.  Apathy chases me around the house.  I wonder how it has more energy than I do.  My mind twists into a wrinkled mess; I drag my good foot and hop on the bad one. And even on those days I still rather be me; I never long to be the innocent victim or the spiritual leader, the tough guy or the PhD.  No matter how bad it gets or what the struggle is, there is no place sweeter than in my head.  Many are the days when I wished not to exist, not at all, but never to shuck my skin for the skin of another.  Now that I manage, breathe right and face each day with cheer I know it was almost worth it and might be worth it yet.

Write your name on a piece of paper and slip it into your pocket.

*

Warhol Wouldn’t Be

There is no trick to art.

If I work to make my pieces fit with the familiar

I lose my individuality.

If I make what is truly me

I fear there is no line in which to stand.

I must make the work, find the market,

live life and die happy;

All this with no map

and a world filled with people

who tell me what to do,

but none who can guarantee the outcome.

My unwillingness to fight,

to look at and feel the ugliness of life

is at the core of my impediment.

Mortification

August 10

MORTIFICATION

Lime with envy, I built a wall around.  Love and hate are enclosed, brick and stone.  Rigor of extremities, the discipline of ages falls so short.  I make no in-depth connections; I coat externals with glue, stack reactions and let the bombs fly.  I mix and crush old habits and bad ideas, make a paste.  I am setting myself up again.  Abstinence becomes the pestle of bludgeoning and abasement.  I am hard and I am hollow; with wounded pride, I subjugate my soul.  My life is reduced to a powder.  I am mortified.

Spread oil from your navel out.

*

Michal Rovner

I have numbered all the blocks in my ancestral walls.

This has enabled me to recreate them

stone by stone everywhere I go.

It all fits to create the tomb I now have to learn to leave.

I must change the equation and reorder the numbers

allowing these rocks to be recycled

and find a wonderful useful life

as a stairway out of this pit of despair.

What was once an edifice to lives unlived

is now able to facilitate elevation,

a restoration of a level playing field.

It was not wrong for me to catalog the stone

and there was no way for me to leave them behind,

but nothing matches the satisfaction of using them to build a life,

except for the ability to live in it.

Reclamation Artist

June 27

RECLAMATION ARTIST

I stand over the refuse can and peer in; I drive slowly past the piles of curbside discards.  I have so much trouble accepting there is no reclaiming most of this ever-growing mass.  There must be an alternate plan but I can’t see it yet.  I surround myself with hopeful stacks and wishful trinkets.  I want to make a new world from the old, save past relationships and make them somehow fresh.  I don’t want to drown.  I fear I can’t think fast enough to keep the wave from breaking over us all.  I will maintain an open mind and be grateful my life was retrieved from the dustbin.  I’ll steal peeks at what has been put out for lost.  I was once lost, too.

Read your favorite book one page a day.

*

When I rise up and when I lay down

In order to be happy with you

I have to learn to be happy without you.

I gasp at the pain of it

I desperately wish that the above statement were not true,

but alas, you are gone in a way that I can never reclaim you

and to hold on to what of you is still tentatively available

I must release my frightened grasp.

A wisp of smoke is not the bonfire of our past,

but it is what remains and I breathe it in as best I can.

Immediately I realize I am holding on again.

I breathe you out, let you go.

I want to run screaming throwing you from my bonds,

yet another of my attempts at control.

So, now it’s time to pray.

Not a prayer to get my way, not a prayer to make you stay,

not a prayer to make you gone, just a prayer to live on my own.

God help me please to live my life,

Please guide me away from strife.

I am lost and cannot find my way,

Father, hold me till the light of day.

Pictures and Frames

March 9

PICTURES AND FRAMES

I paint my way into the corners of the frame. Each picture I fill diligently, color, texture, all the tricks I use. I work hard to get the desired effect. I hold nothing back; I put heart and hopes forward. I load my brush with pigment; I propel my tongue out of my mouth. I use it for balance like a kangaroo uses its tail. Stroke after stroke, I layer the image. My depiction is fresh to me. I bring the green, the red, the blue, blue, blues; all of those flow from me. The canvas fills; my soul soars through the tinctures. Then the disappointment begins, the complaint and lamentations. The perspective is off. I can’t seem to contain this scene within the confines of this gilded prison. I re-adjust. I tilt my head; I paint from the bottom up, then the top down. No, no. I must pick up a new canvas, the frame oak, burnished and honeyed brown. I cast to the side the gilt and sculptured casing; I lay it along the wall with the others, the many discards of life. As yet, the obvious has escaped me; the tint, the hue, angle, size may diverge but that is all. I have recreated the same scene in all the frames. In all my attempts, I have painted only one picture.

Learn your process.

*

Résistance

Resisting tough love

is approaching long run action

with short run thinking.

I hate to set the toddling babe down lest he fall,

but in the end if I do not put him down

he and I will both be the worse for it.

Whether I see a forest or I see trees

depends so very much on my perspective,

also on my willingness to delay

the prevention of minor scrapes

to eliminate the need for permanent scaring.

The theme is greater personal responsibility

and less irrational fear.

Guarding tomorrow’s possibilities

by not hamstringing them today

through the resistance of tough love

saves lives, it saves mine.