Thursday, July 23, 2009

We Are Born To Love, And Wonder At The Stars.


Daddy, can you hear me up there? I'm never sure.
Daddy, I have something to tell you, but you know already.
Daddy, I am scared by this.
Daddy, I am crying, just a little bit. But I cry every time I talk to you, and damn it where are my tissues.
Daddy, life is confusing and overwhelming, and how dare you leave me to do this on my own?
I'm sorry Daddy, I'm emotional at the moment.
I laugh, and then I cry, and then I love a little bit.
But there's a light space in my chest. In that spot. The one that used to be full of grey, and made smiling difficult.
I smile more now Daddy. But you knew that too.

I wish she'd understand. But I don't think she can.
I know you loved her for a reason, and the reasons still shine through. From time to time.
But she lost herself a bit, when she lost you.
Daddy, someday soon I am going to break my mother's heart. A little more.
And you're not here to fix it.

Daddy, I dreamed last night that I was in a bathtub. I sank to the bottom, and looked up through the water at the stars.

Oh and Daddy, I'm getting a kitten. His name is Norman. He looks like marmalade.
I have a feeling you were a cat person.

Friday, July 17, 2009

A Formerly Paper Post, Once Lost, Now Found.


I want to run away, to Australia;
to Quebec;
to a small bookshop nestled in the Left Bank.
Sleep huddled in a corner, surrounded by dusty words.
Walk along cobbled streets while the dusk mingles with smoke.
Or run in the opposite direction.
Away from everything I have built my life upon. Hung my mind around. Like so many sticks, draped over with a many-holed canvas.
To somewhere heavily populated, where no one knows my name, or sees my face.
Or somewhere remote.

Run to Nowhere.
Where the words I know, have never existed.
To sit with people, while they make sounds, and I make sounds and that's all they are.
Sounds.
And then maybe I could do it.
Say "Hey! Listen, I'm not okay"
or
"So many mornings I wake, and lie here. And there's nothing to get up for, so I turn and will myself back to sleep. Until noon. Until dark. Until the next morning rolls around. But, I never make it that far. So I sit alone in the night."
"Some days I convince myself that life is good. But other days I know that society is flawed. And people are flawed and I am flawed. And we're all going to let each other down in the end"

And they would maybe laugh and nod, and talk to each other.
"Her hair is a strange colour"
"Listen to the sounds she makes.."
"Poor child, she is all wrong. But it cannot be helped"
And their words would tumble around me, violently. Like water through a storm drain, like falling wooden blocks.
Shattering noise, the trees in the forest.
And then, they would teach me to make sago.

I like the Left Bank idea best. If Mouse will come with me?
Something to prevent me from falling into a life of paper dreams, and words that stop at my throat. Hands that do not move, except to brush away the flies.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

A Not Very Full Of Birthday Post.


I've received several gifts today.
From everywhere, and nowhere, and the sky.


A midnight happy birthday, as the night slid through my open window.

This song. And this.

And this,

O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et, O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc'd.
Tereu

Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

T.S.Eliot,
The Wasteland; III The Fire Sermon

(And the earnest man who stood at the front of the room, and said "I'm not going to try and explain it. People...they dedicate their lives to this.")

Rain that fell lightly, caressing my face, with the lightest of touches. Misting against my eyelashes. Then heavier. Drenching, burrowing through my clothes to lie against my skin. The most affectionate and attentive of rainfalls.

Monday, July 06, 2009

I Missed You Yesterday, And I Miss You Today.



I'm reading this and thinking thoughts, at the end of each line.
For you. Saving them, to say later.
I wish that you were here, or I was there.
I still don't like Pink Floyd.
That's all.