dearduende

[dearduende]

dreams deferred

how often do we say

maybe later, maybe someday,

maybe when I’m ready

but the dreams keep tickling

keep begging us to come out and play

keep waking us at night or in the day

how often do we put them

on a shelf, on a back burner, on the backlog

tucked further and further away from life

as if dreams never expire,

never wilt or wither, never oxidize,

never simply get bored and flit away

how quickly do we chase a what if with a but

as if dreams themselves don’t get offended

by all the ways we brush them off

as if a nuisance, a bother, a distraction

a foolish waste, or an indulgence

but this is no chocolate cake

it’s nourishment

it comes from the soul as signals

we can follow or ignore or deny them

what if we tried

and in trying, we become

we learn and grow and come alive

the dreams are guides

but they need us too

to make them real as dreamers do

[dearduende]

coffee and poetry

sip by sip

I sit a while

the cup runneth over

the coffee flows

and so do I

and here we are

again

all I’ve ever wanted

to sit a while

with coffee and poetry

flowing again

[dearduende]

a little girl head of curls

taking little steps hesitant

in velcro pink shiny shoes

her mother hands her

a batmobile toy, she beams

pink tutu waist held and raised

to sit atop mama’s shoulders

curls bouncing up on high

pink shoes flapping up and up

with every step they take

she sinks her little hands

into her mother’s curls holding on

as they look both ways

and cross the street

making their way

[dearduende]

healing

the way you let an indoor cat outside

not freely into the dark of night

but on a sunny Saturday

coaxing then out to the yard with play

and sweet reassurance,

no grabbing by the scruff

or forcing

because the vast unknown is

overwhelming

unseen predators lurking

put patience will lead

to soft belly

splayed in the sun

eyes closed

ears relaxed

not on high alert for threat

instead, rolling in the sandy dirt

face dusted in pollen

among the wildflowers

[dearduende]

open mic of life

each time

I brace myself

for it to be

bad

but then

each time

as it starts

I soften

as their voice picks up

with their song

or their story

and my heart melts

and I ease a moment

into the nice surprise

wondering

why I was so tense

to begin with

[dearduende]

if we raise our children in paradise

will they even know it

the cost of peace and freedom

for ease of living at no apparent price

for all the ways their needs are anticipated

what will they hunger for yet

as a child raised in paradise

in my parents’ greatest dreams

how much around me do I take for granted

these thousands of wishes I never had to beg

for sun, for sea, for love, for full bellies,

for the freedom to pursue my own dreams

and I dream of raising my own children

in our own form of paradise

with fewer lingering burdens

from our intergenerational strife

and I hope that they grow

to cherish and to know

what a beautiful paradise it is

and yearning for an even more

beautiful paradise for all

[dearduende]

fear as a spider in my bathtub

do I scream and hide

close the bathroom door

and pull the covers over my head

call for my mother, my father,

my roommate, my lover, or my friend

to face it and make my suffering end

or do I smack it with my shoe

or flush it down the drain

heart thumping until I squeal

and enact the swift stroke of violence

dreading each encounter with this tiny pest

maybe I ignore it and let it be

to spin its web in the corner

while I shower it stares at me

but in the dark of night

I pray I can sleep in peace

without it crawling in my mouth

or biting my hands or feet

maybe it lives

maybe it lays eggs

maybe it shrivels and dies

maybe I crack a window open

and hope it goes outside

or better yet I learn to face it

with cup and paper in shaking hand

a slow approach with bated breath

I trap it gently as it lands

this little thing no menace to me

I release outside and set it free

[dearduende]

reverie

Playing piano just now after lunch got me deep in the feels and the flow. Deeper than I've felt in a while recently. Softly at first, like a peek at a memory. The quiet tinkle of high notes.

And then flooding in all at once. Sweeping me away in its current. Rumbling scales and arpeggios. Reverie by Debussy. To remember how it feels. To feel. To flow. To move with creativity. To feel moved. To channel into my innate creative energy, my talents, my power.

It was always there.

I have just been too busy grinding, pushing it aside, not-feeling, not-flowing. Muscling through. No wonder I'm tight in my jaw and shoulders. Feeling but trying to not let it get in the way. Of business. Of busyness. Of professionalism. Of doing what was expected and needed of me. Of being perceived as good and able. Of helping everyone around me.

But what of my gifts? My true nature begging to be free. My sensitive, intuitive, creative being begging to be heard and nurtured. (These beings reside in us all.) But business, capitalism, grind culture, startup culture has no space for feelings not deemed useful. Or at all.

"These feelings are normal. But they're not useful." – someone who was once a boss & mentor

Well, what if I don't want to be "normal" or only "useful"?

What if these feelings are in fact very useful—to me, my wellbeing, our entire teams of humans. Who feel things. Maybe feelings like grief, frustration, despair, anger, hopelessness, sadness, and whatever else—maybe these might not be useful to the company. To the KPIs and stakeholders. But what is a company if not the greater whole of its constituents?

If a company is money and numbers, then are we as employees reduced to fractions of the same? Where do our human aspects go? When they may not align, or even come at odds with, the company vision and goals. Where is employee satisfaction and thriving accounted for in the Board decks, quarterly metrics, growth plan? (Usually not until it's too late.)

Well, if we can succeed and grow by squeezing and replacing Human Units, then why even account for the longterm durability of such things? If Humans are simply a Resource, why not simply squeeze and extract as much juice as we can? Are these resources truly abundant and replaceable?

What if a company was the greater composite (and then some) of its employees. (I'd posit it is, and that's why so many seem to be problematic. Because it's an extrapolation, a representation of the abused, struggling, or otherwise overextracted individuals.)

What if a company was more creative, more innovative, more resilient because its individual components (employees) were as well.

And why is it on the individual to push against the stream of grind, extractive, overwork culture? And how do the most vulnerable—the overachivers who care, who try even harder, who suffer in silence. Why is the system, the company set up to squeeze and grind them the most?

How many brilliant, caring, creative, enthusiastic beings have this culture consumed, pulverized, and spat out? Over and over. Like we're livestock for slaughter. Until we break or extract ourselves (if we even have that luxury) or continue on. Numb, disillusioned, callous to it all. Cynical, resentful, bitter beings. Exhausted beings. Leaking, contaminating, poisoning our relationships with friends, family, and coworkers as we suffer.

Some might ask, why do you care so much? I say: mu. That is a bad question, or rather the question being asked is wrong. Give me another question.

Why as a caring, creative being am I expected to disassociate, to numb, to abandon the very core parts of me for something, somewhere I spend most of my time, effort, and energy? Caring less is not only what this failed system wants and needs, it's also simply not possible. In forcing myself to care less, I force myself to deny my humanity. I force myself to reject and ignore the ongoing blare of alarms going off in the system. System failure! System failure! System failure! ...

Feel less, or feel otherwise. In a way that's convenient to the business, the company, the ongoing grind.

Psychologists and biologists will tell you what happens to unfelt, unprocessed emotions. It gets trapped in the body, dysregulates the nervous system, eats away at and triggers the immune system. To attack itself, your own body, your own mind. Anxiety, depression, panic attacks. Stress hives, autoimmune diseases, cancer. Ulcers, IBS, digestive issues. The list goes on.

Maybe it's boundaries, or work-life balance, self care, or taking breaks. One, why is it again all on the individual? Until breaking point, then HR and the State or Federal regulations come into play. Medical leave, disability, or firing. Two, I must believe there can be another way. Another model. Another culture.

Why have faith, hope, dreams in otherwise? For my own survival. For collective survival. I see so many others also suffering similarly. We cannot simply "try harder." We must do otherwise. Imagine and embody and lead otherwise.

For the benefit of all beings.

I pray for us all. I pray I survive this. I pray for a life where I can thrive. Where everyone around me can thrive.

It cannot be so hard, can it?

Maybe we are, in fact, making it harder than it needs to be.

Maybe there's another way to be.

I can taste it as if a memory.

[dearduende]

For Jesse, Valentine's Day 2025

roses are red and violets are blue I'm on a plane flying home to you

peonies are pink and dahlias too flowers of summertime when I first met you

sunflowers yellow and sage light green through all the seasons I'm loving you deeper it seems

from lavender purple to poppies orange gold I'm delighted to end each day and wake with you to hold

our dragons are black with eyes golden green and blue beeping and purring and loving up on us two

Witch House is purple and OB blue and gray what a joy and honor it is building our home each and every day

espresso is brown with foam frothy white thank you for my oat capps and our coffee hikes

mangoes are orange and carrots are too in leftover curry blended I'd roadtrip anywhere with you

our bikes are mud splattered and our boards are waxed my adventure buddy, my love, your playfulness is unmatched

tears are clear and laughter contagious you coax and heal and hold my heart, safe and courageous

I am yours as you are mine not in a way to possess, to control or confine but in a love freely given, cherished and sublime

I will tend and I will grow as we mend, blend, and wiggle in transcendence, in love, my darling teem teem, JDaddius. with love, 3na

[dearduende]

domesticated

lured in by love and a warm bed staying again and again and fed full of grandeur and worship his adoration for this empress reigning from our little palace where the sun shines on our stretch of sea and our little black dragons purr peacefully

I wake in the middle of the night and gaze out beyond the streets to the dark wilderness beckoning calling to the wilder parts in me but there is warmth here and I am loved and I am free to roam and to return home between our pets and my warrior king I am happier (I think) than reigning alone

morning breaks again as it always does and he wraps me up in his dreams as our babies snooze and groom heaven feels brighter than it seems when it’s only the lonely moon aglow surrounded by suitors wooing from below

but I’ve found my sun now beaming even with occasional clouds interfering I open my heart to his and bask in a love deeper than I could ever ask

[dearduende]

giggling in the shampoo aisle twisting to smell each bottle silly high in our own bubble of laughter and shampoo fragrance testing each one and wondering what do I wish to smell like to my lover and what do I wish my lover to smell like to me when nothing matters and all I want is to be in bent over laughing fits on a random Monday night at the grocery store smiling into his eyes crinkled beaming back at me

[dearduende]

lover

cooking a pot of curry in the kitchen together

lover

asking me where we should hang up the paintings

lover

peacefully in slumber arms flung over his head

lover

bringing me an oat cappuccino while I’m naked in bed

lover

sometimes 5 again and weeping old wounds

lover

the kindest, strongest, most warm-hearted man I know

lover

guiding me onto waves and dirt bike trails I’d never dared before

lover

holding me when I’m 5 again and weeping old wounds

lover

finding each other over and over again forever

lover

marveling, adoring, beaming with devotion

lover

daring me to bloom even further

[dearduende]

I owe

so much

to the mothers

of the men

I’ve loved

[dearduende]

if our therapists were to meet

would they smile in recognition

of how our mended wounds mirror

of how proud they each are of the two of us

to have opened our hearts to one another

if our therapists were to talk

what stories would they swap and chuckle about

and what words of caution would they whisper

what secrets they have kept from everyone

and even sheltered from us their clients

if our therapists were to meet us two

what would mine have to say about you

who we have discussed in so many sessions

the One in the flesh who I have manifested

and healed and grown toward in these years of wandering

and how would I appear to your therapist

who has seen you most intimately through the years

if our therapists were to meet

it would be a celebration

of who we are now and all that we’ve been through

and all the goodness we cultivate together

there would be toasts and cheers and maybe some tears

knowing me and knowing you, definitely tears,

and if our therapists were to meet

could we invite them to our wedding?

[dearduende]

Darlinghurst

how a place can be the same

and also different after two years

the cafe on the corner still there

but the menu has shifted

with time and with the seasons

and what I desire is not served

until their southern hemisphere winter

how I can be the same

and also different after two years

sitting at the same cafe on the corner

but my life has shifted

with time and with the seasons

and what I desire is not to be found

until I embrace my next season

and stop clinging to past memories

[dearduende]

the sky drips heavy outside

a window cracked open, it sounds like

you are showering in the next room

soon to step out of the tub and towel off

soon to peek in through the door ajar

soon to be cuddled up shoulder in armpit

soon to be but not soon enough

to tip the scales from the frustrated squirm of longing

to the flutter of anticipation of counting

down the days or the hours

how many mornings

must I wake without you

how many showers

will I take and pat myself dry until

we jump in the ocean together again

until we make coffee and breakfast

and live into each tomorrow

and tomorrow together again

[dearduende]

doors

I got myself dressed and into work. The same variation of SF summertime (fall) office fit I’d worn two days ago. This time with my oversized black fluffy coat. All black tank and slacks. Feeling like the doom lurks nearby. Even the November sunshine cannot chase it away.

I sleepwalk to my train. To my building—Mr. Ed is no longer greeting me at the lobby door. It's some kid on his phone now. I don't know what happened to Ed, only that a message had been sent earlier this week.

I walk past the elevators and start my climb up the curved lobby stairs. Feel the burn in my heavy legs from my workout this morning. At least I got my ass to the gym. Climb to the second, third floor and up the stairwell. Fourth floor. The door is strangely propped open.

Pausing in my mindless ascent, I take a peek into familiar halls. Walls painted a vague purple, frosted windows. But otherwise the same hall just a floor down from our office. A hanging plant in the window.

Part of me wants to step through that door, held ajar by a door stop. What is beyond that familiar hallway, yet a world away? Who walks those halls and haunts the desks, faces lit up by screens, doing what? I realize I've never met anyone from any of the other offices yet. Even in my two years at the company. Even when the fire alarm cleared the entire building out. I scanned the confused bored faces as they exited squinting into the sun, trying to guess what they did. Were they architects or accountants, designers or engineers?

I swallow my curiosity and turn to continue my last flight of stairs. Wave my hand over the door access scanner, no response. Take out my phone and tap it. No light, no beep, nothing. Try the door—locked. I think to knock but sigh and turn to go back down the winding stairs. Take an elevator up to the fifth floor.

Wondering still about that barely open door. Places unexplored.

(What if it was a portal to a parallel universe. I meet me but in another place, another path.)

I'm yearning to explore otherwise, and elsewhere. Who knows where.