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Watching the snow settle around on the eaves of my little home and on the yard is such a simple joy. It awakens a little block of contentment in my heart. Snuggling on the couch under a blanket, warming my feet (and Maybe's paws) at the little electric space heater while listening to soft music is a treasure! I am very grateful for my little house. There is still much to do, everyday I think of something new to enhance or a way to improve it. I have to be patient with myself because resources are limited. But, still there's no place like home in winter. Sprained my ankle today, pretty badly. Ack. Hobbling around stinks! Then to make matters worse, Maybe decided to go on a little unguided tour of the neighborhood. I was out with her, I dropped the leash to let her into the car and she took off down the drive at a fast pace little jaunt. I really believe she was smiling, with her head held high as she trotted towards traffic. No amount of calling her and making the "come here" kissy sounds brought her around. I was terrified she'd run out into the busy street. She crossed it, safely and headed down the street to the sounds of barking dogs. Gah! Luckily, I caught her. I was really upset at her. I gave her the cold shoulder once I got in the house and popped more Advil for the throbbing foot/ankle. These are the days.
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You may think you do, but you do not know the innocent secrets. Never again to be told, never... |
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I have the sense to recognize that I am waiting for things again. I am not living, just waiting. Waiting to build or repair, waiting to tear down or clean away, as to where this relates to me, I am not sure. Feelings of displacement and sadness ebb and inch. I try to sing and to snap my fingers and turn my cheek the other way, as if it will undo all that has come, will come but it can not be done. I try to find something in myself, or in my friends, or in the person on the other side of the pen, the page, to prove to me that this existence is anything more than a trifle. There are tigers tearing people apart out there and brave ones, dying from war bullets and I bury myself in pillows, in words and dust. |
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This is a diary to myself, so that I will remember that once in a while I was untouched by the cloudiness and the silvery tasting words. That, every now and then, I remember something beautiful about who I was or wanted to be, or something sweet about my mother, grandmother or grandfather. I will recall nights of poetry, stretching across my bed in lamplight, swimming in the the coverlets adrift on words and the sound of my voice in the room. I remember running off for the afternoon to B-town just to buy a newspaper and a beer or spending all day on my knees in thrift stores looking for records. I remember sitting in the rain in my little red car, just to hear a U2 song I liked. If something were to change me in the next few weeks, if my personality were to be erased, these were little traits of me.
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I am learning about myself, re-defining who I am and what I want or don't. What to do before I die? The list should be long or should it be short. I think of B. who used to say, "Three things, A, three things." What is it, girl? What are my three things? I tore down the trail today with the two questions, "Who am I now? What do I want?" Running, running, running, listening to my breath, my feet on the path. I was deafening. love, peace, stability, safety,clarity,confidence I suppose if I had peace, clarity and confidence would come. I used to have those things, but they got a little lost. If I had safety, I wouldn't feel the need to abandon the trail when another runner is behind me, I want everyone on my scope. Days where my body, my skin, seemed good enough, where I wouldn't tear off a limb to be thinner. I want too much love. Not just enough, but spilling over me and radiating-me-like-a-sun love, to lay in my own light- love. |
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I ache for this crush. I ache for him. I used to be someone, something. Now I am a whisper. Green light, Seven Eleven Red lights, gray morning And if you look, you look through me If I could stay... Faraway, so close And if you listen I can't call If I could stay... Three o'clock in the morning Just the bang
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The day slipped away like the sunset through a pink sky. I just stood on the horizon, watching it burn itself out. |
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There is something about operating on the fringe, even the fringe of your inner- most self, that can be so conspicuous. Perhaps want to hide from prying eyes and annoyances but you feel that you are displayed. The cutting judgements of people's stares and questioning glances are breaking your casual exterior. You run the scissors along the only seam that covers your nakedness. No one knows the reasons for their madness in the moment. And when you are struggling and a close friend slights you, however innocently, it can feel like the witness of a thousand angel' torment. Today, I had the displeasure of a psychiatrists appointment. Waiting in the lobby I see a very handsome I felt him sizing me up as I sat there, trying to demurely read my novel. I knew he wondered what kind of crazy Anyway, depression still on but medication has been induced and heightened. Although, am strangely proud and driven by the torment I've put on my body lately, I know I should be more gentle with myself. But really, what one of you is? Thank God, this is my *only* life. And at the same time, I sigh, because this They said she cried everyday. Not because she was sad or pained but because |
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I'll curl up with my solitude and listen to the sound of your voice in my head. |
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Am fasting. Running my over my body, my hands are mirrors to my bones. My flesh transparent. I feel my heart quicken and my blood, a pond to swim in. |
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I am swimming, dipping further and further beneath the surface so no one can find me. Gliding deeper to a place where no one knows, holding my breath, until all this will end. |
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Thank you for sharing this beautiful poem with me, A. You are right, it touches me v. closely. I want to share it with other people so that may ripple outward. You, by the way, have a beautiful heart and are the smartest person I know. My Song When you are alone it will sit by your side and My song will be like a pair of wings to your dreams, It will be like the faithful star overhead My song will sit in the pupils of your eyes, And when my voice is silenced in death, --Rabindranath Tagore
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Help, I have done it again I have been here many times before Hurt myself again today And the worst part is there's no one else to blame Be my friend Ouch, I have lost myself again Be my friend Be my friend
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To quote my favorite childhood heronine, Anne Shirley, I am "In the depths of dispair." I feel like I am in glue, I hew, without motion or logic. A dullness slips along my body and into my mind, as the last of what was hope is eaten by the supressed ideas and emotions. That's what I hate most. The useless words that I type. The empty pages and stolen words. The block. The block. The block. All the words that go unpenned and sucked into the place where medicine swims in my blood, the gluey poison pit. Alkaline and tail pipes and metal rims and fallen trash bins, the rusted and crusty places of my block is where I lay, prone and unabsorbed.
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Inside my head there lives a dream that i wanna see in the sun Behind my eyes there lives a me that i've been hiding for much too long Because i've been too afraid to let it show, 'Cuz i'm scared of the judgement that may follow Always puting off my living for tomorrow It's time to step out on faith I've found strength, courage and wisdom behind my eyes there lives a me It's time to step out on faith I've found strength, courage and wisdom I close my eyes Yesterday, I cried bitterly. It was a difficult day, and I said, "Fuck God, I'm so sick of God." But I didn't really mean it. I'm just tired of the difficult days though I know that I learn more during those days probably than in the easy ones. I just was tired. I feel I write this down because it was a very low point and I was sobbing and feeling quite pitiful about myself and doubting what I know is really the only constant that I have, God. I felt so guilty and wrong later. I have no pretty words to dress up how I feel like a dirt bag. I write this song out as a hopeful bolster. Someone was trying to point out all the reasons, yesterday why I should be feeling better, but it only makes me feel worse. I feel too badly to even point it out, I know you are only trying to help, Panda bear.
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I went to a wedding last night. A friend who said I wouldn't dare more than she would ever say, "I do." But there was an air of sweetness and "alls right with the world." It just seemed that they were good for each other. I only cried because I recognized I was glimpsing magic. I had too much too drink. My silver pumps teetered me home in the rain. But there were images. Images of me dressless against a Benz and kisses on my shoulder as the city lights twinkled and towered and I giggled and lost my balance. Was that a dream, desire, or dare? |
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Together we learned how to undo the sad songs the gulls had woven in the air, an unraveling like unwinding a shaft of wheat, how peeling back the husk, the taut skin, revealed the pearled berries. We learned to read the widening rings of water, echoes of movement and how to time them—anticipating their disappearance into the margins of the marsh, the grasses. You showed me a walnut shell—brown and smooth as a belly, calligraphied with streaks of black, hollow as an unlocked safe. We slept in the shapes of shells—fan folding over fan—hugging patiently as water. The tiles in your bedroom are the color of clay, the color of dried blood. And yet somehow there was no warning for the trouble made by the moon, that shifting body—how the tides narrow, how a wave rises and builds, curling upwards, which is to climb towards collapse. A water flute closes on its own throat. Wise one, what happened to make you so afraid of me, and before— so afraid of yourself -- Michelle Detorie, Undertow
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sad
creative
blank
apathetic
awake