#20/30 - 2016

They say

good things hide in the quiet

but pain lingers there too

lurks larger

shadows bold and writ large

under your silent eyes

#21/30 - 2016

I brought an umbrella today

but it hangs limp

unopened 

at my side at this bus stop

as I let my face feel the pelting

of the bullet rain

sweetly stinging

#22/30 - 2016

Tina Turner is not pump-up music. 

And yet--

belting along

time after time 

verse after verse,

I feel calm enough to take this game

this beating. 

I may not make it around the track

Time after time, 

but I know I'll get up

time 

after

time

#19/30 - 2016

I did three chin-ups this morning.
Strange to think
something so small
can be such a milestone.
Three times
through the strength of my arms alone
I have pulled my body up.
Three times
through the force of my muscles
I have raised myself high.
Three times
through the power of my determination,
I have broken through.
I am strong.
I am athletic.
I am revolutionary.

#18/30 - 2016

I have a list in my head
of words left unsaid.
It has been rewritten
time and again,
but never made it past
the red-penned gates of my lips.
So I stay quiet
and edit
and watch

#17/30 - 2016

beer garden sunshine
reflecting off the pints,
golden amber mahogany liquid
heat rising to my cheeks

#16/30 - 2016

Sometimes
all you need is to cuddle in the back seat of a pickup truck
your friend's arms around you
one hand smoothing your hair
the other giving your shoulder a squeeze every once in a while
to remind you
you're not alone

#15/30 - 2016

Ink

You can tell a lot about a human
by the books on their shelf
and now mine
are inked in my flesh.
My skin is made into a canvas
one that I hope will never again be blank
and fresh
and clean
because its marks mean something
They mean everything

#14/30 - 2016

Retrospect
is an interesting thing.
Sometimes
you forget things that you thought
you would always remember
the tasted of things
the way they breathed
and it is all you can do
to hold on

#13/30 - 2016

Mental toughness
is an ever-evolving skill
a tool to be honed
every time you lace up your skates
sometimes, a night hits you
off-kilter
and you have to have a sit-down
over and over
until your voice cracks
and deep breaths don't fix it

These are the nights to remember
that breath alone cannot patch you
sometimes you must push at the cracks
even though they may shatter
because even if they do
you will still be standing

#12/30 - 2016

Sometimes change can come
in a rectangle of amethyst purple
just the right shade
just the right time
just enough of something new
to kick-
start

#11/30 - 2016

Is there a word for
what I don't want to
can't ask
Am I so numb
that I have lost
even my words?

#10/30 - 2016

Enveloped in white cloudy blanket
blanket nest
of my own design
slipping
back and forth from dreams to
waking
the lowering of a lid
the choice to shut out the
world
for a little bit
longer

#9/30 - 2016

Early rising Saturday
calls for
a few hours of some hard-core
adulting
washing the bed linens
pine-sol the floor
clear off the surfaces that have gathered
more than dust--
papers you'll use for art someday,
found bobby pins soon to be lost once more,
that magazine you keep meaning to read.
Take a deep breath
Take a step back
and get rid of that shit

#8/30 - 2016

Forecast
for the weekend:
freezing rain and snow.
Isn't it supposed to be April?
April showers bring
May flowers,
or so the saying goes,
but I don't think snow showers
were quite what the bards
had in mind.
Forecast
for the weekend:
blanket nest and books.

MAR - Somewhere In Time

March review for Eclectic Reader's Challenge 2016: Somewhere In Time by Richard Matheson, 1980. [Paranormal Romance category]

Warning: This book is fuuuuuull of angst. Such angst. And I read it while I was going through some pretty heavy angst of my own, so I will most likely keep this post relatively short for fear of inundating you all with my feels.

So, the basics. Somewhere In Time is a story about Richard Collier, presented as his manuscript which was published posthumously by his brother, detailing his account of the last days of his life, wherein he falls in love with an actress popular at the turn of the last century, and subsequently traveled back in time to be with the love of his life, said actress Elise McKenna. It is a story of violent and unquestioning love and yearning, of the possibility of a love that can stretch across and shape time with its very forcefulness.

One interesting thing to note is the use of the frame story, of Richard Collier's brother publishing his manuscript. There is a foreword inserted, assuring the reader that this is almost exactly what Richard's manuscript was, although he has edited it in some spaces--and this editing comes through later. The brother's voice butts in, especially during the mantra section, where Richard describes his attempts to lull himself back to 1896 through repetitive writing/thought. For this beginning portion, and again at the end of the text, we are constantly reminded that this is most likely a delusion, and this engenders a certain skepticism in the reading--at least it did in me.

It is relatively self-aware, and/or postmodern, for example Richard addressing the way he is taking things down (through recorded dictation, hand-writing, etc). The writing of the text is part of the text itself. This lends itself to the idea that a love story is about the experience, the journey, the "how" rather than the happily ever after.

Themes of love and belief and death are all intertwined here, and messily. There is a rationalization of everything at the end, when his brother describes what probably happened rather than Richard actually traveling back through time. How is this rationalization supposed to make us feel about the story that came before? I was unsure what I believed about Richard Collier and his fantastic love story, whether the skeptic in me would beat out the hopeless romantic, and this uncertainty left me feeling rather unsatisfied at the end. After all, aren't love stories supposed to end with some degree of "happily ever after"? I have recently been trying to remember the phrase "everything will be ok in the end, and if it isn't, you're not to the end yet," and that sort of struck a chord with me in terms of how this book is sitting. I don't have any answers to any of this, granted, but I'd like to believe his story, in the end.

#7/30 - 2016

It is 11:23pm
and I have an uncontrollable urge
for pancakes.
It's just
the making of the pancakes
that is not attractive to me.
It's just
the mixing and the constant monitoring
the consistency checking that
inevitably ends up
with far too much batter
and far too much time
over a hot griddle.
It is 11:24pm
and I can feel my stomach turn over
growling for pancakes
golden and thick and reminiscent
of mornings
mornings that range in intimacy
a stack of pancakes can mean
many things,
you see.
It is 11:26pm
and I am caught in the flames
of remembering pancakes past
too paralyzed
with hunger and angst
to consider
pancakes present

#6/30 - 2016

Ever notice
that the songs that get stuck in your head
are the ones
you do not
actively
learn
lyrics
to
?
They are the ones
that sneak in
the SBDs
the ear worms
that somehow show up
fully formed
when you're trying to hum
that Robyn song you like

#5/30 - 2016

You will still be beautiful tomorrow

and tomorrow

and tomorrow

For all the Tuesdays and Wednesdays

yet to come

because you are trying, love, and that

is all that matters  

#4/30 - 2016

we are not a species

meant to last

warning labels brushed by

like ticker tape at a finish line

so really, every single day is
a study in survival

#3/30 - 2016

I am here.
I exist.
Sometimes, with the rush and rumble
of the day-to-day
you can forget that.

Try to cultivate
a small voice inside you
to remind you
you are here.
You exist.
Keep going.

#2/30 - 2016

You helped me.
I remember.

Today I will remember
that feelings can come out sideways.
Mouths are sloppy, haphazard things,
not meant for precision work.
Teeth grip the syllables too long,
and some get left behind,
as yet too raw for consumption.
Sometimes feelings can come out
too big
they break the jaws that hold them back

leaving sharp edges to

cut and bloody

the ones that may come next. 

There's rosemary, she said, that's for 
remembrance
Pray you, love, remember--



and I do.

#1/30 - 2016

I've often been told
your body is a temple--
do not desecrate it.

over the years
I've learned to assuage those voices casually
to smile blandly and nod,
acknowledging their obvious concern for
what I do with my own body
and then continuing on my quest
to decorate.

to decorate
not desecrate
this body of mine is an empty room
a brand new apartment
one that I can paint
and adorn
and renovate
to my interior decorator's delight