Archive for May, 2013


Dropping off the face of the earth (in real time)

May 22, 2013

I lack the ability to disappear
To slide between the cracks of the pavement
and follow the roots of courageous dandelions
which grow, no matter what they’re stomped by.

I don’t have the ability to be resilient all the time
To turn the other cheek
A blind eye
A shuttered heart

Water off a duck is a phrase for a good day
and not every day is a good day.

I open it up and it gets kicked in
The door, my heart, they’re one and the same.

The worst part is when my own brain
My own delightful mind
decides it knows what’s best.

It doesn’t.
There’s nothing merry about this go-round.

Sometimes the only option is withdrawl
To crawl away and hide
To find a shadow and slip inside
Not to find peace so much as to find quiet.

A break from the brain that will hold it inside
If I’m not careful.

Stepping away only works for so long.
Eventually the fingers I hold in front of my eyes
The ones I use to pretend I’m invisible
Will open
Just wide enough to let courage
Or at least a dandelion
Poke through.


These hands.

May 21, 2013

My hands are old.
Today they are weathered and leathered and tired and sore.
Most days, I never notice my hands.
I see my face, the skin tanned or pale or blemished or smooth.
I scan my chin, my breasts, my belly, my legs, my feet,
looking for an indication that time is passing more quickly than I am prepared for.

I don’t see it.
I see time all over my body, but I don’t mind because it feels earned, it looks right.

But these hands, the ones that I use to push back my hair and look at my neck,
that I slide across a tensed leg muscle looking for signs of weakening (none that I notice),
that I clasp behind my back, ensuring that age has not diminished flexibility, regardless of how often I don’t stretch (but I’ll start doing it again on a regular basis, one day when I love myself enough to make the time).

These hands that have caught,
have thrown,
have lifted and let go,
have clapped so hard the sting turned them red,
have high fived and celebrated success,
have gripped and massaged and touched with affection,
been balled into fists that didn’t punch,
played music that made me cry
and almost been ripped apart only to be saved by the miracle of another set of hands with skills beyond their own.
These hands that type these words my brain dictates, ever patient, hovering over these letters, the space bar, the backspace button.

Never to judge, only to perform.
When did they get old?

The lines that are not on my face are on my hands.
The wrinkles and creases and indicators of use and age and time are there.
They’ll touch and they’ll feel and they’ll hold and they’ll hurt
and they’ll continue.
My hands have borne the brunt of my experience.

They are, quite possibly, the most beautiful part of the whole of me.


Checking in

May 13, 2013

It had been a while and so she thought, more than once in a day, that she should check in and make sure the internet was still there, waiting to see what she would say next. 

There was much she wanted to say, much she wanted to share. The days blur and life continues especially when the time isn’t taken to catalogue an existence, to comandeer the written word in an attempt to make sense of what’s happening. Suddenly so many days have passed, so many opportunities to communicate missed, it seems a daunting task to jump back into the ever present flow. The fear that there is so much to say, it will erupt in a deluge, an outpouring of ideas and unexplored thoughts will overwhelm she who is tasked with the sharing.

So she opts out. Again and again. It’s easier to curl up with a book of someone else’s ideas, already formed and organized so neatly. Her own thoughts are a tumult of fact and fiction entertwined, an abundance of stories being written within a brain that is experiencing reality in some semblance of real time.

But the separation of those, the extraction of the story to the page while maintaining the functional existence can be a delicate procedure.

I’m working on it.   

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