Her inner Yogi
She learns the most about herself and her own personal world before the sun rises. It is only in the blue black coldness of the dark that she can truly dive deep into the heart of the matter.
It is in these quiet moments that she imagines he would learn to genuinely love her if he could.
But would she ever share this incredible silence with anyone?
She is unsure because she cherishes her daybreak moments as she does her poems.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Scar Tissue
One morning, she realized to herself as the November sun came up, that after all of the shrapnel, all of those terrifying and violent flesh wounds...
She can no longer feel herself through the skin.
She can no longer feel herself through the skin.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Warm Memory #4
There is a special place on his body and it is only here, in this reminder, that she can fall into that deep and peaceful slumber she loves so much.
It is always in the mornings when she realizes how she has found the intense quiet of sleep. Between his shoulder blades is the smooth, concave pillow in which her weary head fits. It is only when he faces left, his right arm draped lazily backwards over her thigh. It's as if he's pulling her along with him, into his dreams and yet, she hasn't experienced them.
And when the sun comes up, she sees it rise over his right shoulder, she can't help but smile inwardly knowing she can never speak on this, that it is not a feeling forced between friends. These are the moments between only the mind the heart, maybe the liver if it could understand in that way.
The scents - the lingering soap, the muted smell of old perfume, the dry smell of an unfamiliar blanket all make the scene its warmest.
It is the taste of the cracking raw daybreak, the black sensation of frost between teeth and the fuzz in the eyes, like stale eyeliner mixed with sweat and tears.
She can feel him breathe, his chest rising predictably and his heart thumping softly, rhythmically inside, because he is far away someplace while she looks at him through her weary, broken eyes.
Though in his visible slumber, he traces her with a finger as if in his dreams, she's always been along with him.
It is always in the mornings when she realizes how she has found the intense quiet of sleep. Between his shoulder blades is the smooth, concave pillow in which her weary head fits. It is only when he faces left, his right arm draped lazily backwards over her thigh. It's as if he's pulling her along with him, into his dreams and yet, she hasn't experienced them.
And when the sun comes up, she sees it rise over his right shoulder, she can't help but smile inwardly knowing she can never speak on this, that it is not a feeling forced between friends. These are the moments between only the mind the heart, maybe the liver if it could understand in that way.
The scents - the lingering soap, the muted smell of old perfume, the dry smell of an unfamiliar blanket all make the scene its warmest.
It is the taste of the cracking raw daybreak, the black sensation of frost between teeth and the fuzz in the eyes, like stale eyeliner mixed with sweat and tears.
She can feel him breathe, his chest rising predictably and his heart thumping softly, rhythmically inside, because he is far away someplace while she looks at him through her weary, broken eyes.
Though in his visible slumber, he traces her with a finger as if in his dreams, she's always been along with him.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Two Relatable Quotes for the Now
"Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any one thing."
Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865)
"I don't know the key to success, but the key to failure is to try and please everybody."
Bill Cosby (1937 - )
Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865)
"I don't know the key to success, but the key to failure is to try and please everybody."
Bill Cosby (1937 - )
Rule #4
Starting over requires several changes made, but the first and easiest to accomplish is to obtain a new sense of style. As the season shifts away from the past, be sure to wear short skirts; grow your hair long; and and wear a genuine smile with laughter in it. These are sure to boost confidence and ensure the appropriate attentions. When necessary, wear glasses, but only if the lenses are completely open and clear.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
The Secret Letter
When she mailed the package that morning, she smiled thinking of the letter that was lying just underneath the first flap. When it was opened, she would read everything, and hopefully it would make a difference. Finally.
Dear Mrs. Weedgrass,
I do not know you. We may not have ever truly met in the way we could have. Having learned all about you and feeling the devastating effects of your existence on the planet, I feel it necessary to express what you inevitably must know in your cold, bitter heart.
I will put it quite simply and quite plainly so that you do not misunderstand nor have to muddle through my rhetoric.
Your bitter disappointments and hatreds, your self-loathing, and ultimately, your manic discontent and sociopathology has affected many and most definitely have created a small sphere devoid of love or ability to heal.
Find it in yourself to love. Do it openly and without shame. Apologize. Give hugs and bring warmth where it is needed so desperately. You have very little time left on this earth in which to do it.
I know this.
Don't ask me how.
I do.
And should I ever meet you on the street, so help me, you will be the one person I make pay for it though it has never been my place.
So make sure you don't know me and make sure you never meet me.
It is best this way.
Mend it. For your sake. And for the sake of those closest to you whom you have wounded so horribly.
Sincerely,
Me.
Packing up and moving on...
At home, alone late at night, she puts everything left in a box marked "Then, not Now" and prepares to have it shipped. These were the few items that she could not throw out into the street for fear he would seek revenge. Then again, she had been told he was plotting it already anyway. She was one step ahead.
She was surprised when it didn't take very long. It took a half glass of wine, a song, and a quick read to get it all done. The night was heavy with rain and the lights in her place dimmed for the occasion. As she packed each sheet of paper, each little scrap of what could be called "what's left of it," she wondered to herself if this was right? Did it really have to go like this? Did it have to be her way, or rather, her fault? She wasn't sure.
She would likely never know.
She had never purged anything in her life - had always kept some remnant, some leave-behind-item as a lasting testament to what was once so very beautiful and genuine. It scared her on this night, knowing that in the morning, there'd be nothing left. But she couldn't write like this anymore. It hurt too much. And it didn't mean anything, didn't make sense anymore. So much was so foreign and so far away.
Surely he would understand. Surely it would make sense to him when he heard it - when he saw it the way it really was. He had once told her that to truly write this poetry, to truly put herself, her soul, her whole being into it, she had to follow the path of solitude. This was her shack in the wilderness.
She placed the story she had written on top. He didn't know she wrote real fiction. He never knew she'd been writing the entire time - didn't know it had been about him when he wasn't looking. Now he would know. Now maybe he would see her, sense her, in the way he should have all along. Back then, she'd just been a student.
Smiling, she added only a few other items in hopes that he'd see her and remember only the good about writing and creating with her - a rumpled t-shirt, a card, his book, the letter she never sent, and the two photos, one of her naked body and the one she once took that he didn't know about.
And she closed the box, sealed it with tape before she could think again and then took a long drag off of her wine. She wrote no return in the corner and grabbed the dark felt marker to address it.
In the morning, she took it to the post office and handed it to the morning clerk. "Please send this express," she said coldly, the wine still in her eyes.
And she let go of the box before she could stop herself, knowing she'd addressed it to another woman instead...
She was surprised when it didn't take very long. It took a half glass of wine, a song, and a quick read to get it all done. The night was heavy with rain and the lights in her place dimmed for the occasion. As she packed each sheet of paper, each little scrap of what could be called "what's left of it," she wondered to herself if this was right? Did it really have to go like this? Did it have to be her way, or rather, her fault? She wasn't sure.
She would likely never know.
She had never purged anything in her life - had always kept some remnant, some leave-behind-item as a lasting testament to what was once so very beautiful and genuine. It scared her on this night, knowing that in the morning, there'd be nothing left. But she couldn't write like this anymore. It hurt too much. And it didn't mean anything, didn't make sense anymore. So much was so foreign and so far away.
Surely he would understand. Surely it would make sense to him when he heard it - when he saw it the way it really was. He had once told her that to truly write this poetry, to truly put herself, her soul, her whole being into it, she had to follow the path of solitude. This was her shack in the wilderness.
She placed the story she had written on top. He didn't know she wrote real fiction. He never knew she'd been writing the entire time - didn't know it had been about him when he wasn't looking. Now he would know. Now maybe he would see her, sense her, in the way he should have all along. Back then, she'd just been a student.
Smiling, she added only a few other items in hopes that he'd see her and remember only the good about writing and creating with her - a rumpled t-shirt, a card, his book, the letter she never sent, and the two photos, one of her naked body and the one she once took that he didn't know about.
And she closed the box, sealed it with tape before she could think again and then took a long drag off of her wine. She wrote no return in the corner and grabbed the dark felt marker to address it.
In the morning, she took it to the post office and handed it to the morning clerk. "Please send this express," she said coldly, the wine still in her eyes.
And she let go of the box before she could stop herself, knowing she'd addressed it to another woman instead...
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