Saturday, December 12, 2015

Doors

(This is really a response to 'Advent,' so I might be cheating a little bit.)



Doors


Having a door opened and not wanting to step through. It doesn’t feel real, doesn’t feel right.

 It was a tricky door; its lock needed a special touch every time you tried.  You only ever picked the lower lock. The easy one, the one you could reach. Time and time again you’d go there, more confident each time, more experienced with failures adorning your utility belt of adulthood. But it never quite clicked, never connected and each time you’d go away exactly as confused as the time before. So now, they are standing here, holding that door open that you struggled with for so long, swinging it back and forth like it’s nothing, and you hesitate.

You don’t like the look of the door anymore. It is no longer your door, you don’t recognize it. The scratches from your key have been painted over; you wonder who took the time to do that. This is not a metaphor, this is your damn door and someone else is messing with it. And you don’t like it.

Why’d you even bother trying all this time? So now this has become something else entirely, something sinister inside of you. You don’t want to go through and you hate that your door has lost its sparkle. And you hate it because you know this is all in your head, that you invented this villain, and you are the one stopping yourself from just playing it cool, staying calm and walking through that door.

But you see (you see), you have reasons. This is not your first rodeo. You’ve been through doors that have swung back around and hit you, ones that locked behind you- mostly you’ve just met more doors.  OK, this might be a metaphor now. When everywhere you look is a sea of doors, but never any keys, you’d think an open one would be a welcome sight. But instead it’s illogically suspicious.


There is no end to this story, this is your life and always has been: an endless tunnel of doors. You never exit or enter them the same way twice, and as much as you’d like to say you never look back, you do. Let’s be real: of course you do. 





Thursday, December 10, 2015

From Maria's 'the conversation stretched through the night'

The conversation stretched through the night
I failed to make it land almost right
It reached to make it but tipped at the last
Making me then wish for a past
That I never had then and now
That I am old enough that time has passed
I waste my foolish hanging with a bow
To what was then and how
I am a stranger to myself and perhaps a foe
The myth I need and cannot find to let myself go
To smile at the then while laughing at her maybe
Clasping the dream, I scowl at she
Who winks fondly from behind the glass where she likes to hide
Leaving my confidence blown open wide

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Before we had brains, we had hearts

Before we had brains, we had hearts

 Taken from bits of my journal


I’m in the future now, and it’s not like you’d imagine.

I hear the bulldozer getting louder as I swat the grass off my ear, scratch my leg with my other leg and wonder if the world is about to end.

“We belong only by doing,’ the machinery hums and I realize it’s too far away to affect me.

My skin crawls with the uncomfortable itch of all the things I’m not doing, but I don’t move and I think of you.

You once told me that someone said you were a static person.

This was back when we actually still believed that age would bring clarity and that picking scabs would help them heal. That’s not how scabs work.

The conversation relaxed through the night, and almost landed just right. But there was a lot of space between the things we felt and the words we said.

“I never quite can be what I’m trying to be,” you said, “I can’t be what I want to be. What I am is always an accident.”

“People who read writers like Chekhov are more empathetic,” I respond.  “It’s scientifically proven. So a least you have that.”

It never used to be this hard to get at meaning. Before we never needed permission to be big, to talk big.

I kissed you, which was always terrifying. There are so many ways it can always go, and half of them are bad.

“You just love making rules for everything, “ you said when I pulled away, and I knew you were right.

We stayed like that till dawn.

We are an accumulation of our rejections and failures.

I am in the future now, and it’s not like you’d imagine. But now, we have more important things to worry about.

All the givers are gold.

The way is clear and I am there for you.

“It was part of the game. It was important.”

“Flowers will protect us.”

I don’t know what it feels like to be unconnected.

“The love is in the fish guts, so I’m told.” My friend for life explained once, as coffee spilled and I pretended to understand. “Before we had brains, we had hearts.”

Embedding intentionality.
I know that you know.
I know that you know that I know.

Virginia Wolf is the master of this.

I know exactly what I want, just not what form it will take.  

My uncle says that everything we imagine is real. That’s a dangerous thought.

“I shall not exist if you do not imagine me.” There is no harm in smiling.

So here we go again, the same old thing.

I think I’d rather go play on the swing.