Saturday, July 23, 2011

and it's gone. again.

I swear, I'd lose my head if it wasn't attached. Oh wait, It's not and I did.

There's this whole victorian aspect of the thing. Kind of sweet and surreal, a darker shade of white. And a shadow in the doorway begging me to seek shelter from the heat and humidity.

There's an air of southern charm and a deep sense of comfort in the drifting of these dried vines across the pavement.

Though my path is not crossed the way is not clear and I'm perfectly content to live in this strange state of almost torment. I enjoy the sensation of labored breathing through the sticky air and the tiny beads cascading downward across my flesh after only a few short seconds in the blazing sun.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Forewords for chapter 29

Burnt to a crisp and absolutely stoked about it. Saturated completely with words, concepts, ideas, ability, and hope. Motivitated. Driven. Focused. HUNGRY!

Friday, July 15, 2011

Chapter 28ish

Lately I've been trying to inspire myself. Soft voices carry through the back of mind and beg me to return. Full force. To all of that brilliance that was life before the broken wrist, the surgery, the job change, the car accident, the dead friends, the month of home repair from hell, the son's operation, the client's bed bound madness, the daughters rape. In short in the brilliance that was anything before ten months ago. With the seemingly constant state of chaos that my world has been producing one can only reasonably conclude that it will continue in this fashion for the foreseeable future. I suppose I shouldn't complain if it does, after all I have managed to maintain a 4.0 gpa during this time as well as keep my children housed, clothed, fed, and moderately happy for spoiled American children anyway. I've also churned out some really fantastic yarn work. Crochet has become my crack, my only real coping mechanism.

I did something new this week though. I got some books from the library that I ordinarily wouldn't be caught dead reading and I intend to read them. Why not? At this point the only thing I stand to lose is a really bad attitude. I'm going to need a better one if I'm going to survive even one more catastrophe. So it's better that I put on my cognitive conditioning hat sooner rather than later.

I have external help this time though the full extent of it remains to be seen, at this point I am just grateful to have a soft place to land that I didn't conjure up on my own in a moment of witchy reality alteration, and doesn't seek to alter me by my continued dwelling there.

So this is me, scanning the page before turning it. Turning, turning, turned.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Lobster tail

No one blames me. Isn't that wonderful?

I've tried. Oh, how I've tried.

Honestly, I recognize the futility of guilt. Unfortunate things happen. I have all the information I need to construct a map out of my madness. I'm just not sure I'm ready yet.

How do you work through having left such an awful place only to find that the place you ran to had as many dark, moldy corners as the place you left. Sure there's still more sunshine here. Sure, the advantages are clear. Sure, it's not my fault.

She will bear this scar for the rest of her life and as much as I would like to blame her child rapist, as much as I would like to blame his parents, as much as I would like to blame the world, I can't. I've never been very good at the blame game.

There are a number of people who feel that I should be doing more. A number of people who seem to have answers. A number of people who appear to have the capacity for handling things. I do wish they would shut up.

The only thing I know is that I know too much to not try to help her. The only thing I know is that I know too much to let it be swept under the rug. So I'm up early filled with an uncertain amount of anxiety because things happen that I am not trained to deal with. I hope American psychology offers her more healing and hope than it offered me. She's much too young to know this sort of suffering.

I'm looking forward to the day when "How are you doing?" doesn't feel like "How are you holding up?"

I'm fine. She's fine. Let's go play. Life is short. Horrible life experience doesn't make it any longer. It's only more reason to go suck the marrow out of the living. Even at the age of seven, she knows that. She amazes me every single day.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

shores expanded, uselessly

paper butterflies swarm
to explode an already escaped soul

bliss that was once there
died in a fit of raging incompetence
and returned half hearted
and fragmented

blood stains sat too long to fade
tainted mourning drops of dewy expressions

reminders of the world beyond
the imagined beauty

violet adhesion, vascular deformity

cuts like the serrated edge of a circular saw
infinite destruction

disintegrating napkins transformed to purified gold
giving peace to another
another other

lines in the sand
I crave a high tide
to wash me free from them
my invisible prison

Funny face

So I remember this jackass saying something about how poetry has to be this formed fucking bullshit and how all the fucking elements have to line up to create this most magnificent painting with all the right shades and hues and shapes. Fuck that. I suppose he missed that scene in Dead Poet's Society where poetry was born and rules were ripped out of the book of his precious admiration.

Fuck all of that limiting nonsense. I still say that it's all poetry, most especially the things that never get written. But even still, anything that is motivated from any place primal or articulate or emotive or hell even just empty. All. of. it.

Where was I going. Oh, nowhere really, just freely writing some seriously non poetic bullshit because I feel like it and I can't be stopped tonight. Not tonight.

I used to think there was some value to it. While I'm not sure of worth, or any other type of measure I am always sure that I knew more three years ago than I do now. Before that it's all just plot points and story line.

The day my car was sent spinning into smoldering oil and crushed glass I remember that my life did not flash before my eyes. My life has been all together as meaningless as any ones, but every thought I ever had that I ever found to have any relevance... I had them all all at once... and it's still fucking with me.

The being trapped was awful, but only because I had this underlying urge to get to the place where I could make sense of the cataclysmic event that had just transpired behind my eyes.

Funny how I still haven't done that. Funny how I spend so much time living and surviving and trying to enjoy something that I still can't figure out how to articulate a halfway coherent conceptual thought. Funny how I'm still better with ink than I am with verbalization. Funny how the look in my eyes remains unchanged and as crazy as ever despite my new found apathy.

Funny how this isn't helping.
Funny how there's nothing to be helped but I use the word helping.
Funny how easily we forget.

Sunday, July 3, 2011

Stockholm syndrome

Somewhere beyond the realm of this one
there is a place where I always go
It's similar to a redwood forest
but the trees are not so tall
and there is no fog to cover anything
Enough sunlight to illuminate shade seekers
while still providing protection
from a flesh searing heat
Captivated by a past of dark figures
Chasing us through white rooms with tiny doors
in valleys of unknown depth and beauty
A shared nightmare, a common dream
Bound and boundless

We love