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Posts Tagged ‘personal’

In one swift motion I set to emancipate the cavalcade of ideas that splintered the air whenever you were released from the weathered barracks of my mind.

I had actively intended on to burying the idea of you.

It was the irresistibility of flirting with disaster when I wrang your number just to hear your name, having nothing to say.

Irony is comedic only in time, where once it sliced.

The question hung: does purging happen in Purgatory, or do thoughts become mute? Paused. I wondered truly.

It was being somewhere on the cusp between “me” and “us” and I was caught holding thin hopes in one hand that we would withstand, and shielding my eyes from even picturing your image with the other.

Duality- a hard iceberg to straddle. Icy waters splash and are no friend, and it’s no fun to slide and fall when you’re all by yourself and not laughing. And there is nobody to pick you up, brush you off, warm you.

The wieght of one steam engine is what it took to pull you out of myself. But like ripping a  weed out at the base, disregarding the roots, your face returned, reliably.

Your face. A smooth pallet of yesterday. A memory of the fruit that never fell from the tree. And an understanding of how delicious I’de thought it could be.

Luckily there is time- the magic magnet- pulls heavy metals from blood. Gravel from cuts. Heals wounds, though occasionally trapping debris.

When you come to me now I don’t tremble anymore, but that doesn’t make me steady. You can’t expect to be let in and must know now that you will never know me. Count that. I am tied up in the back for safe keeping. Your embraces last too long, and you’re too small for this song, and the vacancy bulbs are all burnt.

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Something has got a hold of me. It’s bigger than my words can net. I’ll try to climb to the top and find a suitable description. Should be a good traverse…

Let’s just call it for now and say that there has been a shift. I find, as I grow older and step into my adulthood more that my capacity to love has deepened. Once again, this hails in the realm of reclamation~ (see Reclaiming Romantic post) when I say love, I’m not specifically talking about with a man, but love of ALL things, large and small. However, I do believe the next time that I fall in love it will be deeper than ever before… because why else go there at this point? Obviously.

The older I become, the more I cry in the name of beauty. Yes, I’m laying it on the table. I’m not a sap, I just get choked up at the good stuff. (I am not a crier in general, with the acception of movies. (Fine, commercials too if it’s around a certain time of month.) It’s kind of wild. I teared up at the park yesterday, all by myself, because the temperature was so beautiful, and the time of dusk was a favorite of mine. It was the time when the lightening bugs would have begun to flash were we in a place that had them. It’s a peek of my childhood; running in fields, catching and releasing. Marveling. It’s amazing how deep the memory and feeling go. If I was back east I know they would have been all over that park, in between the trees, hovering about the field.

A woman was strolling while I was having my moment and I wanted to share it. Every now and then I am compelled to reach out and have a completely random exchange with a total stranger. I asked her if she was from here (Portland, Oregon) and she told me no. We got to talking and it turned out that she too was from an area where there were fireflies. There was a vacant lot full of wild flowers across from the house where she grew up. We talked about the sweetness of them, and then the conversation shifted to bees. It was lovely. It was such a special, simple, and fluid talk. It was one of those things that was so fulfilling because of it’s true and pure nature. It brought me great peace…

Appreciation for the smallest of things- be it memories or stolen moments has simply increased. It’s nice to observe and allow it to run it’s course. Who knew I would become that person ((sniff))? Ah life, you’re such a wild ride.

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Sometimes it is the prospect of possibilities themselves that stop you dead in your tracks. The openness wallops you- you get  thrashed back into the cush lazy boy chair; assuming the iconic image of the skeleton sitting before the speakers- his skin blown off by the sheer volume.

That is how I feel sometimes when I want to access creativity.

I hit open mics often. I go. I sit by myself.  I’m in my own private little world….

I go strictly for contagion. The inspiration in the room rubs off as the gears inevitably begin to turn and I think to myself: “There are about a million things that have never been done that I could be doing right now…”

Like playing out languid daydreams, fiddling with the reel as it turns; Unfolding ideas.

 

If your hair stands up in a storm it could be a sign that positive charges are rising through you, connecting you to and reaching you toward the negatively charged part of the storm. It could be that the lightening has chosen you. You can be a conductor. This will be your most important job yet. The brilliance in bolts will be your inward symphony. Your rag tag orchestra will be ablaze with a gaggle of madness and electric splendor.

Will you run inside and attempt defiance in natural selection?

Will you accept the possibilitiy of surviving to perhaps become something of a Shaman? Native folklore tells of the lightening bestowing powers… So will you sit outside and feel the rain now? …Your self inflicted sacrificial moment of Russian Roulette….

I always had this strange feeling about how I might die. I’ve been close to it before. Colorado, where the sky was overtaken by sudden darkness. The clouds dragging greedily across, casting long shadows in their wake. Ponderosa Pines blowing fiercely, whipping their helpless needles about. The smell of ozone and storm welling up to the crux.

We ran like children home-alone, jetting up the stairs, afraid to look behind them, steeped in imaginitave fear of what terrible person might be chasing close.

I saw a deer’s dismembered leg up in a tree on that hike, not far above my head. The wieght of the omen pulling across my back, hindering my steps, slowing me down and shaking me deeply. I was in awareness that it was part of the wild. That I too, was part of it. Could be consumed. Be it by big cat or by the heavens. Part of the raw, unforgiving forces. Far bigger then me. Nature; filled with love but no pity, which by default pulls mercy out of the question.

The deer, a likely victim to a mountain lion, victim of the cycles. And I, running with adrenaline bursting through my heart. Death scenes delighting the caverns of my otherwise occupied mind, where the lightening would pick me,  pluck me, and freeze me, sending a specially made spark from below, holding me captive, propping me in place like a helpless doll.

It is all so much- making me want to go home to a place I’ve never been.

It is like being drawn towards a solid wall.

If I went fast enough would I override the tighteness of molecules? Would they forgive me and let me through?

Carry me back . Cradle me with out arms.

Take my orphaned soul and let me cry until I laugh and confuse my own self all over my emotions.

Fill me up and let me shake and burn with the greatest energy. Consume me if you must, but remind me in the interim- that I am oh-so-alive, and let my art explode.

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Amidst the raspy cattails and lobbing murky water is where I find you when I want to.

That night that we ran like hell, away from the world that we imagined to be watching, wanting to stop our mischief.

Where we scaled the rusted, cutting fence, making it over the barbed wire, thanks to Chris’s sweatshirt, unscathed some how. Always unscathed. Jumped down with out caution or fear holding us as we entered our familiar domain.

Encircled by resilient wild reeds, fat and abundant river rats, crackling speckled brown nesting birds, and decomposing, unnamed garbage.

The smell never mattered much because that was home and it was what we knew, and we grew up to laugh at it; holding our noses and running until we were inside, gasping for air, cracking up and seeing who made it to the interior last.

Those times while you had that janky-ass car with the doors that wouldn’t latch, and you would do donuts in it at the drop of a hat, making me crazy, forcing us to grab onto the front seats for dear life, leaving tracks on the pavement.

Looking back it’s like we were just living on our toes in those days.

Truly young, wild, and free.

But I’ll tell you Jim, you made a humbled believer out of me. And I’ve seldom told a soul because I would rather be unheard then unbelieved.

That night in the marsh where we all danced along the board walks, muddy, messy water on either side. Residue from Oil City seeping into the planks, making out traverse slippery and sleek. And we found that busted up 4 or 5 foot Graffix with the Joker base. And it was broken, but you swore to repair it. (Somehow it would wind up in my room, leaving me with the challenging responsibility of sneaky disposal.) And we made all sorts of wierd sounds that night because we finally felt alone.

And we settled in to watch the sky.

Finally.

And I’de never seen a NY sky so clear before.

Each cloud so disctinct, holding it’s very own proud shape.

And they took on thier figures before our eyes, entertaining us for what seemed like encapsulated hours.

And I saw Snoopy of all things. And we all watched and marveled, because Snoopy it was and there was simply no disputing.

And Kalinda saw something that is long forgotten, and Chris another… and it was all so crisp and vivid.

We watched together as Snoopy’s ear detached from the cloud parade and floated away as we all howled for him because the image was just so real. We could hardly believe it. Hard to believe. Grateful to witness.

And then you spotted, and I’ll never forget, the Grim Reaper. And you saw it first. And no one could dispute.

And we all self-assessed, inwardly, checking, after all, we weren’t tripping or fucked up beyond plain old weed and alcohol. Pills may have been present in our systems, but definitely no hallucinogens.

And in the night, clear as day, there it was.

And you got quiet.

It was eery but I don’t remember thinking that it was a sign.

I don’t remember anything else after that.

My memory draws a still, flat lined blank. Quiet and blind. Maybe with a soft subtle static to it. Until the day that I heard the news.

Perhaps a month after?

You had been killed. You were murdered. In Long Beach. At that bagel store in the East end. Crawling on your elbows through a ceiling shaft. In your early twenties.

A coke deal gone bad.

And all your hustle and your good intentions, all your far out, stoney epiphanies, your unstoppable language creation and invented and catchy phrases~ poof. Like a thunder clap into the air and back amongst the sky that first claimed you. And you were dismantled from this world as I could understand it.

You and your troubled ways; brawny and street wise with a sordid past and a secret tender heart that we knew so well.

You came to me last night during a peak of inspiration. I feel it is time to release you. I will never forget you and where you almost went.

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