Friday, October 29, 2010

a story for a year 2006-2010

the thrill is gone, she said

the thrill is gone she said to me
on the street as i passed by
and the shrillness of it haunted me all the way home
my mind went searching for a response to her accusation.
elaborate fantasies:
(the slippery, forceful, wet throws of sex
or the stop you in your tracks reverse the car and go get the girl)
when you are eight you are a princess in a fairy story
fifteen, sneaking out in your boyfriends first car
twenty and the wild ride of testing freedom sans the true heavy crown of adulthood,
twenty six becomes a candlelight bourbon in a studio
straddling the fence.
on one side lusty, youthful memories almost close enough to touch
(like breath that appears and fades when the heat from your mouth hits the cold air)
but the other side?
it is a fence now after all
meant to protect valuables
a reminder to build the border of territory

and then thirty? forty? fifty? shrill warning cries on the street at strangers...
at a certain age
is it still charming to believe in runaway nights and sticky stars?

i can only answer her
the thrill is not gone, not gone. no no no
you simply must make the choice to hold on to it,
although learn to keep it politely hidden away at parties.



i love more quietly now.
not any less intensely, no
don't be mistaken
the waters of my heart are ever as powerful
as they were;
but they churn at new sapphire levels,
close the core of the earth, where stone is forged,
no longer lingering toward the surface
where gusty wind becomes the fierce, quick master.
i am keeping my currents grounded
so that now, over time,
the continents of my life will be moved in the name of Love:
shaped by patience and time,
rather than the whims of an Aeolus-like god.



always at this time, never fails. i find myself in tears. because? ...
the leaves are changing in birmingham and the air is crisp. my mother is making tortilla soup. the front door is open and the mid day pours in while i nap on the couch to the ambient noise of a humming ceiling fan and the football game my father is watching in the other room. a kitty stretches on the floor in the beams of sunlight. there is a pumpkin on the front porch and my sister is not so far away. my car is parked in the cul-de-sac in front of our house and i love feeling the leaves crunch under my feet, because i never take the sidewalk. i hear the kitchen chairs slide across the hardwood floor. i smell the cinnamon from my mother's spiced candles, and when the phone rings it is a childhood friend that i can embrace in mere minutes. i feel the peace of being wrapped in familiarity and love, along with the chenille blanket that is always invitingly draped across the edge of the sofa. i am languid, warm, and safe. i am home in autumn, with quiet eyes and waterless cheeks.


divorce (or the beginning of the end of the beginning)

the pictures are already coming off the walls,
vacant spots,
stray nails with no purpose.
just a reminder of structures once designed with reason
but the use is lost.
all that’s left are meaningless parts
missing the whole,
forshadowing the ultimate deconstruction.


why am i surprised?
i don’t even like to write in pen
too stark
too permanant
too ominous.
now the delicacy of pencil lead-
the fragile marks on clean paper,
never pushing the pressure: needing to be ever present.
only leaving traces of thought in beautiful smoky strokes,
somehow wisely owning the transitory nature of life.
is where i find some comfort.


my mother called.
the tree she planted when i was born
blooms every april,
white blossoms
for 22 years.
this year
they all bloomed pink.


ladies night

i drink too much wine, a little green tea, and stay up too late talking, reading beautiful books, and thinking too much. i take off all my clothes and lay in bed, feeling my body merge with sheet and soft mattress.shedding. listening to the hum of ceiling fan and lull of synthetic ocean waves.mmmmm that stillness in the cycle of one day which has ended, merging into another. dawn is a funny time. one window frame ripe with possibilities. is it wrong to find something you could weep over everyday? everyday i feel like something lands on me, i am so taken. a look, a song, a touch- leaves me so full i don't know what to do with it. can i do what i was meant for? can i accept the hugeness of it? i hope so. but i have to start DOING so more often. i let many things fall to the be so passionate i sure can be lazy. and that is dangerous. especially if i want the privilege of making a living as an artist in this world.

grad school

"what we usually call 'developing one's talent' is nothing more than freeing it from the influences that hamper, occlude, and frequently destroy it entirely."
-michael chekhov

to burn that deeply, to live a life so scared and so open that you can wail and thrash and love so immensely, so true. to spark a light in the darkness with your tears and determination. to not let this world own the last thing you can hold dear, your ability to love and live more than you fear. when are we able to regain our lost right? ...frozen by ambition and projected insecurities...when can we give in? and just melt. invoking strength, but not strong like cold steel, or stone. strong like liquid; like water forging through time in its rage of freedom... opening our guts to be pulled forth into the web of humanity we often ignore: not owning our talents as reflections of ego, but truly offering ourselves up as vessels. we end up destroying the gifts that were meant to be our contribution to this world by indulging in fear.


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