Dripping Past

I know loving me is hard. I can feel it sometimes when you look at me. As though you are trying so hard to understand what lies inside. I feel clear as glass when you are in the room. And the more you accept, the more you get.  So please be careful what you wish for.

I know I send you a thousand words, most contradicting the others. I’m always moving and I feel hard to hold on to.  Yet I seem stuck in the same place. Its quicksand really…and I heard I better move slowly.

Lately I’ve been slippery as silk and the past drips from me like water. I can feel myself wet and exposed, and this is all taking entirely too long.  I’m saying prayers that your threshold for love can bare all I’ve lost.     Because with each thing you give me, I whisper goodbye to another thing stolen from me.  I forgot to tell you that you are loving me back to life.  And I know it is taking entirely too long.Don't let go.

What I never showed and you’ve always seen, is just revealing itself to me.  I’m circling it, dancing around it, peeking inside and mostly I’m scared of what I see. With each confusing glance, I look to you to explain it all because you are the only person who has never looked away.

I know the answers are out there, waiting for me.  And I feel you urging me forward.  But the only time I feel strong enough to move, is when I’m lost in you.  Keep calling my name and please don’t let go of my hand.

Gravity is a Pebble on a Beach

There must be a moment, right before death, that you relax and give in to the inevitable.  I imagine this most with drowning.  The body, immersed in that which gives life, violently opposes it. Your legs must kick desperately, and your toes must point toward the ground, searching fruitlessly for something to stand upon.  Your arms, reach upward, grasping for air it cannot harbor.  And then the calm must come.

Lately, I’ve been tripped up with gravity and my need for it. The weight of it is only opposed by water.  There is something magnificent about the pressure that pulls us to shore, that unopposable force that ties us to who we are and what we need.  But what if the truth floats more within the water than it does amidst the pebbles on the beach?

Is gravity the devils advocate, the noose around my neck…or my safety, my oxygen.  Does my body search for the ground beneath me out of habit, necessity, or trickery. I don’t think I know yet.

Saying goodbye feels  a little like the water.  Perhaps not leaving the shore.  The violent opposal of the inevitable is exhausting.  Kicking, screaming, aching…I tried everything to find a ground to stand upon. Staying felt more like seeking gravity…leaving felt alive.  No one understands this and I feel tricked.

Naivety of Flying

There is a naivety to flying, as though I thought the wind would never change.  I can’t remember how long I’ve been up here, or what I did to find this place, but I just realized how far I have to fall.   It seems it’s been months since I couldn’t find my breath, and now I find myself choking on it. It is both my vessel and my obstacle at the same time.  Flying

I think wind must be like the seasons. It’s tides change with the earth below it.  As though it is urging fall forward, bringing with it crisper nights and mornings that seem newer than the one before.  I watch my hands desperately trying to harbor it.  I want to hold the wind in my hands. I want it to urge me forward. But it keeps tricking me. It comes and goes, dances and waits.  It is teasing me.

There are moments that it urges me upward, tossing me into new atmospheres that tickle pieces of me long forgotten.  Pieces never rounded, still jagged with youth, expectation, and dreams.  Here I want to take a chance, and I forget there is no one left to catch me when I fall.

Other times the wind pushes me downward. Reminding me I have no wings, that I am small but heavy.  The pieces here are more familiar.  Their edges have been worn smooth by my hands.  My fingers and thumbs tensely working to smooth away the broken promises and lies you still won’t admit.  The irony, I suppose, is that the sleek edges of these pieces no longer fit together.  They slip on each other and fall away.

Down below…with my feet on this earth, I dance on the broken pieces and wait for the wind to catch me again.

Yes, there is a naivety to flying…as though the wind will never change.

Coming to My Senses

Somewhere around my 14th year, I forgot I had five senses.  Trusting only my ears, I lived life believing what I heard.  Words became more than simple units of language, but instead, they created the way I saw the world.  My dreams were made of thousands of small yet powerful words, dancing together…choreographing the mural that would become my life.  I suppose this makes some sort of cosmic sense, considering the second definition of word is unit of meaning.

Coming to my sensesI’m starting to know better. Because the unit of meaning, the promise behind the words, if you will, lies not in the word itself, but in the soul of the one using it.  It lies in the action…what you can see, what you ultimately get.

Yes my ears are tricksters, paying more homage to your soul than to my own.

My other senses are much more loyal, even if I was not loyal to them.  I’ve recently discovered my nose.  Taking deep breaths…cleansing smooth, quiet breaths…sends chills down my arms.  A vessel for the oxygen this body needs, my nose is my greatest life line.

In truth, I’ve always had a sense of my eyes, except that I misunderstood them.  My eyes feel like the sea, with specs of hazel no one has ever noticed.  They busily search constantly for truth. They realize the subtlety in a nervous action, the way a smile hesitates on nerves.  But they cry at sappy movies and remain dry when my heart breaks.  They are constantly trying to find answers, but acting alone in doing so.

I’m embarrassed to say, I forgot I had hands and a tongue a very long time ago.  I got little enjoyment out of the textures of my life. The nuances fooled me. I searched for silk, but felt sand.  Now I try to catch water in my hands and am mesmerized when I get to watch it leak.  I can feel water in places as dry as the desert.  I am thirsty for things I cannot drink.

The madness, I now understand, exists in a place where your senses contradict each other.  When what you hear is not what you see.  When the salty taste of his skin reeks of her floral scent.  I imagine I had a choice, go mad or turn them off.

I turned my senses off and rested on my ears.  I believed the words I’m sorry more than anything else I’ve come to know.

Lying dormant for so long, I yearn for a life where I taste and feel my way along the path. Perhaps my coming to my senses journey, means walking through life backwards for a while, allowing my hands to smoothly sweep away my footprints, because I no longer think getting lost is a waste of time.

And when I’m ready to stop walking backwards…I’ll feel myself forwards.  I’ll become the incomprehensible silence that lies at the moment your senses no longer collide. My coming to my senses journey When the smell of fire is the same as your lovers touch, eyes that don’t turn away, a kiss on the nose, and the words I love you.

Until then, I’ll ride the textures of my experiences.

And I will not name them.

The Whirlwind

Standard Armenian carousel, 1930s-2000s
Image via Wikipedia

Time passing is supposed to be slow, yet I can feel its movement on my face.  It’s a cool breeze, the type you don’t notice until it stops.  It reminds me of a slow whirlwind, as though my future is stuck chasing time’s past.  This is happening around me and in me, I can watch it happen and feel it happen all at the same time.

As it spins me, I try to find my footing.  It reminds me of the first few seconds on a merry-go-round.  I’m not dizzy yet, but soon will be. I try to  find my barring, focus on something on the horizon, and wait as I gain momentum.  I’m stuck going slow, but anticipating fast.

While searching for that stable place on the horizon, I swear I caught a glimpse of who I was supposed to be.  She’s different, has hair made of fire.  She’s on the run, swiftly embarking on the journey I forgot to take.

I’m trying to find something common between that girl and me.  Something common in that journey and the one I chose.  But it feels now like the life I never chose, chose me.  A moment of pause to take stock of my life. I never wanted this and thank God for this all at once.  Here I am again…refusing to choose the pieces of me that are the loudest.

I used to think broken things were meant to be put together again.  Pieces confused me, I needed things to be whole. And so I repaired the items and people in my life with glue and a lot of pressure.  I heard once a broken bone renewed was actually stronger than its previous self.  Cracks adhere to each former piece and literally disappear.

But the idea now that I am a unique, stable, whole self is laughable.  As the merry-go-round turns, I see piece after piece after piece of a changeable, confusing, complicated me.  I am that girl with fire hair, and I am that woman trying to find a stable place on the horizon.  I am the future and time’s past all at once.

Catch me if you can.

Enhanced by Zemanta

A Certain Kind of Mind

“To a certain kind of mind, what is hidden away ceases to exist.”

My mind is not like this. It is a vault, a well, a story.  It lives in my memories, in my heartbreak, my happiness, and in you.  It surrounds my body and is my body.  My mind is my hands and my eyes.  Mostly my mind is my ears, but I am changing that.

Lately its been thinking about seasons.  In a month, the leaves will fall, the wind will quicken, plans will change.  Most people mourn the death that welcomes fall.  I’m waiting for what it reveals. When the foliage falls and bitterness comes, I can see forever.  Out my back deck, stands tree after tree after tree. Home to the birds, the owls and squirrels, it’s a beautiful homage to fullness.

I can see forever.But I don’t feel full anymore.

Soon, the yard will stand vacant, and I will see the horizon.  When the temperatures fall, my body will work harder to keep me warm. I will shiver away the cold.  I will see forever.

My mind is the one who knows this, my hands listen and I refuse to water my plants. I want to hurry the pace of winter.

Some people think you cannot mourn that which you never had. I have had it all and I have had nothing all together at once.

My mind mourns them both.

The Barrier

I am not here to verify.
I am not here to answer
.

I feel now like I am lying in the ruins of a place long destroyed.  Dressed sparingly, but not cold, I feel like a child confused…but not scared.  I think its all in my eyes…spanning slowly, taking it all in.  I tell myself this will all make sense tomorrow.  And I don’t panic.

Opposites require small distinctions. Never and always are  really just a breath away. I am both here and there, all at once. And it is just a breath away. One choice, and everything alters on a dime.

Water and fire are not alike, but they both destroy.  Small distinctions, and where you see it from is always the question. I am still the same as I was yesterday, except that I am not.

They say most snakes shed their skins once a year.  Losing the hard, semi-transparent skin requires a process.  A barrier is formed between the new skin and the old, requiring this resilient creature to rub itself against rocks until the old layer is loosened from the barrier. Once ready…the snake literally walks out of its skin.

I am in the barrier.  Slowly massaging away this old, tired, semi-transparent skin. Moments of suffocation give way to moments of breath. I am both new and old at the same time.  And i continue to massage, until the rest falls away.

Early on, I thought it would happen slowly and not at all at once. Now I see I will massage, bend, twist, feel…until I get up and walk right out.

For now, I will consciously occupy this place, for it is not fate that brings me here, but will. My will, my choice.  I’ll hold it in the palms of my hands and it will hold me, as though I am in and of this world all at once.

Forever Young

May you grow up to be righteous,
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you.

It felt like it would be the last time he held me. And as I focused on how that felt, I was struck by the stiffness in my arms.  They couldn’t find that familiar place~ the place they always rested during an apology.  They would lie lightly at first, afraid to touch too deeply. But as he squeezed tighter, I would latch on again…let out a deep breath, and all would fall away.

That didn’t happen this time.  I didn’t want to touch him. I know how his body can pull things from me, convince me to believe, turn me into dough.  And since I can’t go back, I must find new places on his body to touch…nothing familiar. I found a hip bone…and I rested there awhile.

May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong

But he squeezed tighter still. He knows me and he’s relying upon that knowledge…but I have changed.  Every time he pulled me a little closer, those breaths came out.  And so did the sobs.  Finally. My dreams came feverishly now, the ones I’ve always had and must free.  The ones that confuse me and trick me to stay.  Say goodbye.  The sobs were growing, taking over the silence, and at times I actually gasped for breath. I didn’t want them to stop.  I wanted the tears to fill the bedroom and wash away the lies, the past.  And those dreams…take them too.

May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift

And without a warning, his sobs came last.  Mine and his together, the only thing left to be shared.  The sobs danced with each other, slowly sifting the songs of a dream that never quite came true.

May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung
May you stay forever young



Down comes the rain

cartoon again violence
Image via Wikipedia

I’m still suspended here, quietly waiting for the sadness to come. It usually comes in small pieces and this confuses me.

Years ago, I would sob violently in moments such as these. Always on my bed, one hand clenching my comforter, and the other in a fist…pounding the bed beneath me. The salty taste of my tears would fill my mouth and my ears, staining the pillow with mascara.  I could have wiped the tears away, but doing so would require releasing that comforter…the only thing left to hold on to. There I lied, all night…drifting in and out sleep. Riding a hazy dream that was never certain if it was beginning or ending. It was always there and never there at the same time.

These moments seem quieter and much shorter. I focus on letting them come.  I am comfortable with the violence of these tears. The pain they wash away. But I can’t seem to cry.  My sobs trip on that breath.  I try to free them, but they can’t seem to come.  They take 2 seconds, and then let me rest.

I don’t know what this means, but I think there is a lie here somewhere. Deep inside me, still haunting this body. Not ready to be released.

Enhanced by Zemanta

The Release

Types of electric current
Image via Wikipedia

It shouldn’t take much to tell your fingers to release.  I practice often.  I imagine that my brain has magical powers and if I stare long enough at these fingers, they will let go. My concentration and sheer determination is remarkable, but it does not work.  There they sit, clenched, veins pulsing…they will not budge.

I’m trying too hard, I’m making the simplest of gestures…large. I am giving them the power.  Let it go, let it be. These are no longer questions. Here, I find that breath again. The cleansing kind, the kind that releases.

I always thought the moment after I let go, would be a mad panic.  It isn’t. It feels quiet.  I’m more humming-bird, dancing lightly on the wind, then a large flailing body crashing to the ground. The tight rope held the pain…charged with electric currents. The fall frees the wind…and I sway silently.

Enhanced by Zemanta