Wednesday, August 30, 2017
Maine-bound
driving into storms
"wimple-shipers" slapping time
(the child in her sings)
she grew in this place
of grim pilgrim settlements
quaint villages now
white-steepled churches
in wild terrain or in towns
blueberries and god
rosehips and seaweed
pidgen-speaking lobstermen
ancient new english
we breathe salt, eat fish
admire authors, work hard
and keep to ourselves
we were bound for Maine
and to it, and then away
too restless to stay
Thursday, August 17, 2017
Totality
I was born three weeks late on a full moon. I mean, it was full if you looked at the sky. But it wasn't quite full. It was 10 degrees shy.
Shy, but luminous, imminently full without attaining the real deal, existing in that state of anticipation just before you step onto a stage, when your heart is in your throat, and time stands still. I don't have to perform yet. I don't have to abandon a secret joy or cope with a disillusionment when everything's suspended like this, in suspense, pending.
I like it best when the gift is in my lap and I haven't yet pulled the ribbon. I like it best when the roller coaster is about to crest. "There's more to this story" is music to my ears. Ambiguity is at the heart of all my favorite poems.
Shy is the neutral ground between performing and self-destructing. Anonymity is the refuge, until I see that I haven't ever been seen, that I'm disappearing (without a trace).
At 15 I wore the cigarette and the flannel shirt with unlaced boots of the girls who weren't good, but I was good. I hated Aerosmith and pretended to like them. I knew every Joni Mitchell song by heart and feigned indifference. I was ambivalent, and I could become anything, for anyone. I loved a guy madly, secretly, but I was eclipsed.
Monday I will celebrate turning 53 during a solar eclipse. I like how this is a new moon, and maybe I'm coming full circle with this one. Maybe I can imagine being full finally, and holding onto that fullness. Until then, I will make shadows here.
Shy, but luminous, imminently full without attaining the real deal, existing in that state of anticipation just before you step onto a stage, when your heart is in your throat, and time stands still. I don't have to perform yet. I don't have to abandon a secret joy or cope with a disillusionment when everything's suspended like this, in suspense, pending.
I like it best when the gift is in my lap and I haven't yet pulled the ribbon. I like it best when the roller coaster is about to crest. "There's more to this story" is music to my ears. Ambiguity is at the heart of all my favorite poems.
Shy is the neutral ground between performing and self-destructing. Anonymity is the refuge, until I see that I haven't ever been seen, that I'm disappearing (without a trace).
At 15 I wore the cigarette and the flannel shirt with unlaced boots of the girls who weren't good, but I was good. I hated Aerosmith and pretended to like them. I knew every Joni Mitchell song by heart and feigned indifference. I was ambivalent, and I could become anything, for anyone. I loved a guy madly, secretly, but I was eclipsed.
Monday I will celebrate turning 53 during a solar eclipse. I like how this is a new moon, and maybe I'm coming full circle with this one. Maybe I can imagine being full finally, and holding onto that fullness. Until then, I will make shadows here.
Friday, August 11, 2017
different
He might be all of 18, my slave.
You think this is another dream.
It's something different.
He has something to say, something to sign.
My arms are full but I happen to be empty.
So I'm already listening before he speaks.
Today for no reason this stranger is different.
You seem so different he says.
By different, he means kind.
Kind is different (though they're antonyms).
I'm kind of different, for my kind.
Write your number down right here he says
pointing to a line on his petition.
if you want me to be your slave.
?? (smile)
Oh I know you ain't like that.
This kid.
He doesn't know that I am like that.
You think this is another dream.
It's something different.
He has something to say, something to sign.
My arms are full but I happen to be empty.
So I'm already listening before he speaks.
Today for no reason this stranger is different.
You seem so different he says.
By different, he means kind.
Kind is different (though they're antonyms).
I'm kind of different, for my kind.
Write your number down right here he says
pointing to a line on his petition.
if you want me to be your slave.
?? (smile)
Oh I know you ain't like that.
This kid.
He doesn't know that I am like that.
Wednesday, August 9, 2017
The Ex
Spent an hour with the ex (and others) this week. Remembered everything, what I love about him, why it wasn't sustainable.
He's so very bright. He's so very embittered. He's so very funny. He takes up space.
But yeah, I keep seeking that out anyway, in new contexts, new faces, and making sparks with it. That's some kind of sustainable after all. I'm better at filling my own space now.
He's so very bright. He's so very embittered. He's so very funny. He takes up space.
But yeah, I keep seeking that out anyway, in new contexts, new faces, and making sparks with it. That's some kind of sustainable after all. I'm better at filling my own space now.
Thursday, August 3, 2017
Driven
I'm in what should be the driver's seat, but I have no steering wheel. He's in what should be passenger's seat, driving confidently, as if we're in England and always have been in England. I think we're like besties on this road trip, ever so close, and getting ever closer, with me just kicking back enjoying the scenery, him being charming and driving well, but in the next scene he says a thing that makes me completely doubt my understanding of things.
We're at the destination, a bed and breakfast, settling in, affectionately I think. He's moving clothes from his suitcase into a dresser like the orderly, organized, ready-to-be-present-where-he-is guy (whereas I always just keep my suitcase packed and voila! I'm also ready... to escape at a moment's notice). I notice there's only a single bed in this room. Yay, I guess we'll be cozy?
"It's clear from that drive that there's no 'we'," he declares calmly. Even kindly, like a teacher. "But at least we're connecting."
Whoa.
The implication is that I should not have been so passively content with being driven by him. I'm challenged to also drive-choose-speak-steer-dare-risk and in the end *unpack* if I want him and me to be "we".
We're at the destination, a bed and breakfast, settling in, affectionately I think. He's moving clothes from his suitcase into a dresser like the orderly, organized, ready-to-be-present-where-he-is guy (whereas I always just keep my suitcase packed and voila! I'm also ready... to escape at a moment's notice). I notice there's only a single bed in this room. Yay, I guess we'll be cozy?
"It's clear from that drive that there's no 'we'," he declares calmly. Even kindly, like a teacher. "But at least we're connecting."
Whoa.
The implication is that I should not have been so passively content with being driven by him. I'm challenged to also drive-choose-speak-steer-dare-risk and in the end *unpack* if I want him and me to be "we".
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