Carving out a corner to post random crap.
beauty is awake
eyes shut
wounds reopen
darkness all around
sharp and sweet
beauty thinks
death is here
smoke and fear
she breathes deep
metallic mist
"He smiles and reaches for my hand. All the fight has gone out of me. Sleep becomes a possibility."
Some tales are meant to be shared. The magic of imagination creates a bond between storyteller and listener, and all who enter the circle are given a gift to do with as he or she sees fit. And then there are stories that belong on a flash drive, kept safely out of sight, and not intended for public consumption. I'm not blaming you of any wrongdoing, per se, but certain voices in question definitely needed to remain inside the writer's head. I'm also not terribly angry over this unfortunate incident, but we need to give each other some space. Indefinitely, I might add.
sweat rolls down
soft flesh
voluptuousness is
scorned
curves
are much maligned
It seems as though the puller of strings and the maestro of messing with heads is at it again. Never one to show his work, the Old Unknowable has led me back to the path from which I ran not so very long ago. I thought I got a jump on the Big Blankness, but he caught me under a full moon just when I was in control of all my amorphous schemes. Yes, I did run fast from fate. And no, I did not expect to spend the rest of my life in hiding. But–and this is the part that rips the night sky wide open–a beginning and an ending takes place in the space of a single breath. This is all the knowledge I've attained and it's not nearly enough to fill a book. In the ditches and gullies that straddle my abandoned path may very well be buried the rest of this story.
Small town eyes have cleared over the years and teenage obsessions have turned into 9-to-5 nightmares. Incidentally, did you know dreams are a lazy way of saying, I have a story to tell? What we already know is the quickest route to boredom. What does one's innermost desire signify? Well, for Belle it's the need to never be ignored. This wish goes hand-in-hand with never being taken seriously, too. Shh…we're not in the business of bursting bubbles so please don't tell Belle to back away from the mirror. True, we are the reflection but we pass no judgement on what the looker sees. We might think braggart when Belle declares she is the object of our devotion. Ah, Love is a liar until she proves otherwise. Until such time, we can only dance and hope it's enough to stay on course.
By now I've figured out life got and gets really interesting when I hit the ages 7, 17, 27, 37…you see the pattern. To avoid disturbing encounters, I don't tell anyone my birthday. Cake and ice cream and a woman on the ground flopping like a fish is not my idea of fun. Anyway, last night when I was journaling I decided to start at the beginning in case my story ever needs to be told. I don't know why it would other than it might help some poor soul going through the same thing. So, the beginning begins at age seven (years, not months although I can't be certain if anything out of the ordinary happened when I was a baby.) For the sake of getting these details down on paper, I'll call my episodes "dreams." They're more than dreams, I just don't know what they are (but I have a couple guesses.) OK. At my seventh birthday party, when the cake was brought to the table and family and friends shouted 'Happy Birthday!' I blacked out. When I came to, I was in a dungeon (remember–this is a "dream.") There was no food, no water, and no toilet judging from the stench and squishy pile I stepped in when I got up off the cold, wet stone floor. I looked down at my body and I was naked. Blood oozed from scratches and what appeared to be bite marks all over my skin (it was dark, wherever I was, but my eyes adjusted.) I lifted a hand to my itchy head and felt stubble all over my scalp. I'm pretty sure I screamed. A slash of yellow light split the darkness in two and I heard voices. A man asked, "Is the bitch still alive?" His question was followed by laughter which turned into grunts and howls. Then I was blowing out the candles on a big sheet cake with white frosting and small plastic barnyard animals as decoration. But that's the thing. I can't tell if the birthday scene with cake and party guests is part of the "dream." None of it feels particularly real.
Stella can't admit she is an artist. How presumptuous and downright impractical! Where's the money in watercolors and song? Stella's mind and soul are always in a state of agitation over this deep, dark yearning of hers to make beautiful things that people really care about (again with the recurring theme–care enough to part with their hard-earned cash.) All that want and restlessness is very bad stuff. It puts the world in a sickly grey-green light. People and objects once precious are now given the same consideration as a pound of dryer lint. Our Lady of Privation deserves a lament to be sung in her honor ~
The stars are heavenly imperfections strewn across a black, beautiful vastness. I wish it were true Stella did hang her dream on a fixed point of hope. But she was so easily given to despair because stars are very far away. Stella's heart was meant to be bigger. Then the door to the world would have opened for her.
I don't wear a watch. Easy enough to get around without one. Besides, I don't trust a measurement of time that does not leave a twinge in my belly or an ache in my bones. My local crone told me it's a much wiser move to keep pace with cycles.
"Somethin' worth the wait can't win no footrace. All you can do is get your hands dirty and pay no mind to church bells and calendars. A timepiece in your pocket ain't got nothin' to do with doin' right."
I get her point. Nothing but my own process, perseverance, and nature's pleasure can measure true progress. Round and round we go and still the road is long.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 