3/31/12

She woke early, creeping down the stairs, out the door, lost as to where she was. Surrendering herself completely to the arms of the rain. Feeling the soft sensation of each drop enveloping each separate individual thought. Following the murmur of each voice, each step, following the scent of lavender out to the garden.

Something in the Garden of Eden that drew her out, drew her further in, as if the garden could read her despair, read the grief within her, reading every word of life on the delicate form of her cheek. The ignorance of the truth became her face, the face of a photograph frozen in time, the solemnity of something stained in her eyes.

The last trace of a broken being, a shy smile, the impossible direction of a world pressing in, rested on the bare iron bench of her escape. Wanting to lie down, fall asleep, if only for a short while.

3/30/12

My Own

In a brief moment, the poem crushes me, bringing me right to the edge of a cliff, not just any cliff, but my own cliff. My own right in the face moment, when the day is bleakest, grayest, when I am old and feeble, and the words " touch me" come loud out of the silence, not just any silence, but my own silence. My own right in the center of the universe silence, where I stand, all alone, under a cold hard rain, wiping drops from my face, my hand wet, touching me in memory, not just any memory, but my own memory. My own shadows of past, my longing to be felt, seen, heard, on a snowy path, in the dark of night. Not just any night, but my own night. My own darkness of suffocation, of pillaging through the forest, my search for air to fill my lungs, not just any search, but my own search. My own soul emptying search, my own silence, my own shadow, my own darkness, my own memory, the unimaginable edge of a cliff, where I stand all alone in purest solitude. My own..

3/29/12As I catch myself falling

As I catch myself falling, without dwelling, I reinvent myself. Shelf that other person, spiritually connect under the shower as the warmth of the water runs across my body. No longer feeling the need to save everything from washing down the drain.

3/28/12

 I pulled from the colors, the aged smell of the frames, the ripped corners of worn photographs. I smelled the paper, the processed ink of digital photos. My arms weren't long enough to reach beyond the concrete wall, the one that held my blindness, choked me every time I attempted to stand up on my own.

     The flight of how I went from there to here still baffles me, strips me of my breath, as I admit how close I was to....

3/27/12

Every voice I hear has it's own palette of color as I embrace life and resolution babbles from my soul. Running as if I am leaping for the moon, spring is theatrical as it throws back thirty-degree temperatures in absence of yesterday's tease of summer. My teeth, a bit more clenched today, my fingers, a bit more drawn into the sleeves of my shirt, as warm blood surges through my body. The goose bumps on my legs enough of a sacrifice to the gods, so far from my past life that it's hardly even recognizable in the rear view mirror.

How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.

Henry David Thoreau

3/26/12

Signs of Life

 

If you could see me at this moment..if you could hold me close..if moments of memory washed away the despair..if bloody hands were to stroke me..if I smiled past the wet of my eyelashes..if I drew clumsy, lost, hungry, but no longer afraid..if I forced myself up..then set my chin down on your shoulder..slipping out of my skirt..the earth soft as clay..myself, tattered and torn..faint with thirst..famished with hunger..would you lie down with me next to the river..uttering another life..would you pull back, gaze up..brushing the hair from my face..is it then, that you would think that you know me?

3/23/12

Unbosoming my life in the fingers of my hands, an unknown bookshelf coming to life, recognizing the largest book, as now my own. Typing away, with unsure fingers, I begin to understand. I thrive in the silence; my pen sweaty in my palm, as blood pulsates faster, recovering to my calm.

3/22/12

What one can decipher from the nude canvas of my face, is beauty, sudden sadness, gratitude, pain, forbearance, solitude, destiny, awkwardness, calm, panic, love, loss, strength, weakness, emptiness, fulfillment, passion, empathy, discernment. What one can see are the aches of life worn on my sleeve, as my fingers run themselves along the rim of my coffee cup, thoughts glowing through the early darkness of dawn, poignant, sharp, and repetitive. Turning the page, getting on with life, as my words pull together in paragraphs, strength narrates the darkest corners making them less intrusive, less harsh. Softness of sun now breaking through on my doorstep..

3/21/12

Craving morning sunlight, as I step onto the curb, arcs of warm rays caresses my skin, closing my eyes in absorption of them. The clattering of birds breaks the overcast of silence, as their controlled hymn echoes everywhere. My walk is hard, deep, seductive, convicted, as the click of my high heels pronounces the hardened black pavement. I clutch my workbag so tightly it pushes back leaving indents on my fingers. The birds only a whisper now, so faint I no longer hear them. Opening my shoulders, lengthening my back, my heels seductively penetrate the line of ligament running up my calf..

3/20/12

    Eyes downcast in subtle gentle movement, theatrically paused, pondering, tottering on my high heels, leafless trees give way to feng shui surroundings. The churning of the train fills my ears with loudest roar. Stepping from the platform, crossing through the doors, a poignant silence which seems to last forever. A woman starring out the window, in a far away dismal look, then the gushing of her streams of tears. I cannot make the words, so I offer her a tissue to wipe the darkened rings of mascara dripping down her cheek, in a need to abolish them to the nearest graveyard. The doors once again open, commuters in eager rush to get on with their day, their work, and their ornate lives.

     I think about the woman later on in my day, the mournful face of her tears, I should have asked her, was it death, or a love affair now over? I should have asked her, should have comforted her, and should have offered her something for her fragility, her tiredness, and her pain. Should have told her, that this too shall pass. The salt of her tears rest in the unhurried questions that still linger through my thoughts, as I believe the weight of the world now rests on her delicate shoulders.

     I file my life neatly back into my work-bag, first day of spring, unfolding of new beginnings. Purest of air, silence of sound.

3/19/12

 The warm weather of early spring must just be answer in itself for my getting up this morning, full of purpose, skin aglow with an inner change. Pursing my lips on an ice-cold glass of raspberry green tea, scrubbing off my bull’s-eye, moving on with my life. As I turn my face towards the sun, letting it spill back over me, harnessing truth that lies beneath it. Calm, serene, blissful even, not finding reason to disengage from this enchantment any time soon.

  

3/17/12

  Perpetually harmonious as I submerge into the warmth of the sun, the toxic infusion of sunshine moving over me, through me, around me, bringing me into a season where I improve, deepen my thought, reach into the bottomless chasm of reserve where my most private dialogue spews from. Closing my eyes, staying in the present, fragmented thoughts piece together in vibrant color.

 Slinking dangerously close to new ideas, as titles for books troll inside my head.

3/15/12

 Stillness of silence moves inside of me holding my bareness in the heart of my hand. Falling into escape, the world a trillion miles away, clouds now a canvas for my writing. My face glistens in borrowed wetness of each softened raindrop.

 Another compulsive shifting moment, time and place, in a day of writing, in a day of changes, as another chapter of my life completes itself.

3/14/12

Walking into the water,  into a depth which scares me,

satire that is yearning to quench my palette, pausing for a moment, mesmerized by the solace of morning’s light.

3/13/12

...and therein lies the fact that until now, I have not always exactly been an open book. Not releasing too much of moments, sliding into stretches of time when I let you in on some of what happened, and then, leave you groping in the darkness for the rest. Tasting what it feels like to feel whole, as the whole of my life story sits on the tip of my tongue. Lavished in jewels, recognizing the face in the mirror as my own, my body in stronger than usual heat, as I smell my own perfume.

3/12/12

 

A sweet awkwardness, endures, as I wake before sunrise, graced by the day's mellifluous smile, something remarkably seductive in the air of predawn light. A slight breeze blowing over the curved frame of my face, as I sneak out for fresh air and time alone. Long journeys of guilt abandoned, photographs left, waiting for years, then a few short words, so few words, which in a remarkable moment change everything about my life. 

     I think I have writer's cramp. If there is such a cause to be called, then I absolutely have it! My fingers churn in twisted spasm as words spill faster than my stemmed fingertips can type.

3/10/12

Light filters in through the curtains, gathering myself up, slipping into the bathroom. Life never ceasing to amaze me, often swathed in trumpet like contempt. Day light savings opening up...

3/9/12

 

As you hover at the door, unsure of what to do, climb towards something, or decline towards nothing. 

  *That sliver of advice became for me, a symbolic poetic gesture.

***

A dance purrs through me, as I hold out my hand in a burning crush, blindfolded by my own want I cross into his feel. There is nothing else to do, but wait, wait until he notices me. The silence of the air punctuated by that first smile, that lasting kiss, as I draw up into myself, a secret now kept.

 

3/08/12

< Excerpt >

….My life planned out in one long unbroken stitch, and then the stitch snipped, cut, left dangling. Was my memory correct, was I rescued by a ghost, led into a windowless room by light diffused through marble slate? Was my memory correct or just a corrected memory belonging to someone else? Somewhere between the long stitch and the unstitching, I had experiences that are difficult to describe. This ghost never bothered me; I just never knew why she came. Saints and angels with their holy faces, their wings worn, flew around my head. Morning dew coating cobwebs with silver drops of water, making the air damp, chilly...

3/7/12

Waking after sunrise, hedging back the covers, slipping into shoes, and steeling myself against what the day might offer. My voice speaks louder in gentle motion trying to coax myself along. Pulling down positive energy, one day at a time, one slithering day at a time..

3/6/12

 I hope you think of me every time you feel air brush up against your skin, that moment of denial when you think I have gone, that it did not matter, because it did matter, it always will matter.

****

I was sitting on a beach, when first struck by a flash of genius. Journal and pen in hand, scratching out raw pain, sadness, hope, joy, a plan, a path, an execution for that plan, guided by a seagull purging on lunch droppings, as he eyed me in puzzled stare. Legitimizing my hope that I might someday, actually, reach my destination, through the dark storm clouds which gathered like an angry mob, the clouds which reminded me of how long I had stayed in the weeds before being pelted by hail and delivered into a landscape that grew green and lush again, until it opened to a broad expanse of writing. 

     Writing is what happened when I was trying to escape from something else, taking me far away from any point in my life, transporting me into a farthest place than where I started. Every road that led me to detour, a dead end, and in my life, turns out, there where a lot of those roads, because they now compile a series of books. As opposed to the writer who sits steeped in stare, lost without words, I have endless dialogue, the story, my story, hasn't always been an easy one.

      I run to taste my sweat, practice yoga to harness my breath, write so words stay still and silent, these are the benefits to being on the front lines of soul searching, as each pivotal point in my life finds its way to a tag line for a journal, a book, a story. Small steps have seemed to legitimize my journey, to my destination at 'author's corner.' I have approached people I might never have approached before, some remain,  some I've since let go of. There is a sweet awkwardness to the moment you find a parachute for your feelings, and then you take the leap.

My next life, well, I am hoping it will be riddled with romance, conjecture, and a life fitting of a writer.

3/5/12

Half of my body still sprawled in bed, the other half menacing toward the floor as if knowing my toe is soon to hit the cold dank floor. My hips begin to sashay sideways as I am reminded of my workload for today, the desperate exhibition of writing I need to tend to. In cowardly fashion I eye the cardboard boxes skewed all about, the ones that still remain hollow and empty throughout my apartment, the ones I need to begin filling if I am ever going to be ready to move a week from now. Savagely, angrily, the boxes begin to call my name, as I employ the need to close my eyes and pretend they are not there.  Pretend that..

3/4/12

 

My head dropped back breathing in the sight of a first crocus in bud this morning. I arced, I spun, I simmered in the breeze as it took hold of the silver in my hairline. Everything about the crocus, small, delicate, feminine, has me glistening, savoring luscious thoughts of spring. This is my string of hope, a string of hopeful disillusion that the wreckage of winter is over, for now, for me. Under the weight of winter, chained in solitary, pangs of regret crept in beneath my covers,as I layered in longing for warmer weather. Longing for waves to dwindle in and pamper my feet, to stare into the blank canvas of nothingness while looking out over a hissing sea, as the salt spray leaves tangs of seaweed on my lips. Periwinkles crawling over muddy ridges of sand, as broken shells feel the splendor of my nude feet. Longing, for the silence of a beach and rolling waves to take hold of me once again. The air warm, sun hot, as it plays on my shoulders, as I dismantle every crevice of the crocus, as a sign that spring is soon to arrive, making headway for the security of summer. Winter never has been my season of color; it has always been my reason to cover, my season of waiting, for..

Saw a great art exhibit last evening of photography from Ireland on the Yonkers Waterfront, accompanied by mixing and mingling with some new (well new to me) and interesting artists.  Art form comes in many medians, and I enjoy them all, as well as the varied artists that present them.

**

I have been blogging for exactly one year now, since March 2011. I am not always inclined to blog on weekends as of late, as my Saturday and Sundays have become quite hectic with book related agenda.

Today I have no eager, or meager, thoughts to ponder, or short paragraphs pressing at my brain to get out. Today I am vegging and enjoying the sunshine!  Changing up my routine and attending mass tonight rather than tomorrow....AND I am off !