My Leap Of Faith

Someday

2008-12-06T14:18:00.000-08:00

Idle dreams. Of camping and hiking, the Amazon and the Antarctic. Dipping toes in sleepy streams. Hammocks and sultry breezes. Noon-day suns and coyote moons. Company. Story-telling.
Adventures.
Sleeping in the shade of old, old red-wood trees. Fireflies and lady-bugs. Stillness.
And more, of course. Much more.
Sand castles. Finger painting. Strawberries in cream. Anklets. But first....
All of this, someday.

Cage

2008-10-01T21:37:00.000-07:00

You're teasing me, Life.
You shouldn't. I'm dangerous right now.
I sit outwardly calm, still. Feeling all the physical impact of having run into a (metaphorical) brick wall. I have just been taught a lesson in irony.
My nails are digging into my palms. Another's words echo in my head, beautiful as prayer.
If I let them look, what will my face give away, I wonder.
The Art of Losing?
Though....can one lose possibilities?
If a star died at the same time as a butterfly fluttered its wings, would I see a rainbow in my backyard?
Possibilities.
Surrounded...no..serenaded by talk of angles and stereoscopic lenses, and words speaking of loneliness that are only half-meant, I find my mind drifting. How easily it comes, this talk of sex.
Words or Art? Is it right to be impressed?
I struggle against it.
Maybe if I tried my own, made some art......
Like in kindergarten. My blue crayon is better than your yellow one. Is not. Is too.
My backyard had rainbows in it then. But magical ones, not metaphorical. The difference is, I suspect, one of age.
I realize my attention has been wandering for several minutes now. So rude, when there is still much to say about depth perception. I turn back to the conversation, to talk of impersonal hotels in far-away lands and polarized filters and not one in the crowd guesses that I'm dangerous right now.

Old Flames

2007-12-10T03:25:00.001-08:00

We're friends now. Now that we are no longer together. Now that the fire has burnt itself out. Friends who take long walks and go out for coffee, stay on the phone for hours saying nothing. That kind of friends.
"Remember when I told your mom I'd marry you?" Brown eyes crinkling at the corners, full of laughter at the memory.
I do. We were 6. I also remember when he changed his mind. Sometimes there's no stopping life.
"Remember that dinner we missed entirely because we were busy talking?"
Hours and hours of plans. Do I always want the things I can't get? I shiver.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I reply, "something walked over my grave."
Shaking his head at me. "You're so morbid."
Do you remember when I wasn't, I want to ask.
There are other memories. The first time he tousled my hair affectionately, a non-verbal 'hey buddy' and me blinking, wondering at the change. When had we become buddies? The first time I looked into his eyes and saw the complete absence of all the old excitement. Where had it gone? The moment of acceptance, it would never be the same again. Somewhere along the way I had been left, irrevocably, behind. And that silent moment in your living room, so innocuous and mundane, when you first spoke her name softly to yourself, as if your thoughts were far away, while I stared at the TV and held my breath so you wouldn't hear it changing.
"Give me your hand."

I stiffen, abruptly called back to the present by the demand. "Why?"

"Give it to me." Laughing at me, like its all a big surprise.

I extend it reluctantly.

He picks it up, makes a fist and turns it over. Then he picks a fallen eye-lash off my cheek and places it on the back of my hand, where it quivers helplessly in the wind.

"You always wished on them. Remember?"

And suddenly I hate him. A tidal wave of hot burning anger that has me almost shaking. I remember, I want to say, but why do you?
I say nothing however.
Instead I close my eyes and pretend to be giving my wish some thought.

When I open my eyes, he's looking at me intently. "Well?"

"I can't tell you or it won't come true."

He rolls his eyes, half-amused, half-annoyed.

"Well, I hope it was good."
He takes my arm.

"It was." I gently disengage myself and smile vaguely. "Feel like coffee?"
Thinking we have to be the strangest friends in the world, one so heedless, the other so yielding. One whose eyes look to the future, the other constantly trapped in the past. Life is not as simple and easily planned as it is at six. Life is not only light, but sometimes a blinding dark. And very often it is many shades of grey.

Damages

2007-11-19T00:54:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I feel sorry for myself. Not in the way that most people would think. Not from grievance or resentment. Nothing passionate there. No flashes of feeling, burning red-hot. But coolly, calmly. Even remote. Like it's all happening to someone else.
And now there are two sides to me. The one with the flayed skin, the flesh wounds, struggling hard to hold on to some modicum of control. The other, the spectator. So rational in the midst of a personal storm.
It'll be fine, I can hear me telling myself. It'll pass, it always does. In a hour or two, the tears will stop and then you need to think of tomorrow, cold compress to help with the puffiness round the eyes and a strategy, to look and sound normal. How about reading that book now, a little distraction? You'll forget then. Oblivion, while there are still pages to turn.
Horrifying, that little voice. A clean split. I'm no longer who I used to be last year or the year before, the good years. Instead I'm six again. A terrified six. Or thirteen. Fifteen and lying in bed, feeling all the horrors of a forgotten dream, deliberating on the damages.
Now the headaches are starting again. Once more, my body is turning against itself. It must suffer because in my head is a clean split. And the calm me? It is not concerned with scars, nor with splits. Even the self-damage, even that, remains remote. And for that, I'm sorry.

Between pages

2007-08-09T21:45:00.000-07:00

Life is strange like that. The long journey in which many things are forgotten. Then a half-turn and suddenly it's just as if you walked back in time. Like picking up a book you haven't read in years and finding a faded picture inside you'd forgotten was there. Or a pressed daisy, crumbled leaf and all.

This is my crumbled leaf and all.

"Sometimes it is possible to feel such grief that you think you cannot go on. And yet know you must. It is possible to see what's coming and then tell yourself I am prepared, I am prepared, I am....
Sometimes it is possible to build walls around yourself and think it is strong, it is strong, it is.
Sometimes it is possible to deal with a secret sorrow by reminding yourself that I've had practice, I've known worse, I've known worse.
And yet....how easy it is for the voices of your heart to drown out all the things your head is saying.
While trying not to think of the one thing you should be telling yourself...I have been a fool. Such a fool."

Someone once said that to be taken for granted is the highest form of compliment. That what it really means is that you have become such an integral part of their lives that they cannot imagine one without you, they expect you are always around, just like one expects the sun to rise at the start of each day and darkness at the end of each one.

What this really means, among other things, is that people tend to get accustomed to anything. What a good thing it is, and how convenient, that our hearts get used to things. People and places, love and loss, joy and sadness.

I stare at my handwriting, heavily smudged and sloppy, my turbulent feelings apparent even without the words. I try to remember when this was written. And why.

I know what it means, can even guess at the circumstances. But when I try searching for the particulars, I find I draw a blank. I'm more unsettled by this than by the finding of the note. For it means something. Of that I'm sure. But what?

Am I stronger? Or merely reconciled?
Is this self-delusion? Or was it wising up?
Are these walls? Or am I free?

The answers however, whatever they might be, will never change what someone once said. That our hearts will get used to things....

Such a very good thing.

Screaming

2007-06-28T16:33:00.000-07:00

I read a story a while ago. While reading it, my over-riding feeling was one of horror, like someone watching an accident happen in slow motion. Awful to witness but you can't look away. You're thinking oh my god, someone do something because the sense of helplessness is paralysing. And once I was done reading, I found I couldn't put it out of my mind. It's nothing concrete that you can effectively pin down, just this swirl of feelings in your head that doesn't let up and gives no peace. Phantasmic impressions that delight in eluding you. It was clear the author understood the power of words very well. And once I was done I thought I wish I could write like that.

The thought itself is not new, or even unique. It happens every time I am faced with a blank page. The need to tell a story, and tell it well. Sometimes it drives me crazy, this need. I stare at the words in front of me and it's my handwriting I see, and yet strangely enough they aren't my words at all. They don't feel mine. The thought behind it is mine but the words itself are those of a child just beginning to communicate. So I have to polish and sand, chipping away a word here, a word there. Throwing out everything that is superfluous. Worrying about saying too much, not saying enough. Trusting that ultimately what I feel will interact with the pen I wield and it will be as I ask. That ultimately I can use words not just to a sastisfying conclusion but to paint a picture in the mind that never quite fades.

Just lately my concerns have gotten more basic. Lately I stare at that blank page and find I have nothing to say. Nothing at all. Something that was as easy as breathing has now suddenly become impossible. There's a lack of emotion and a lack of inventiveness that scares me because I don't know the reason behind it. It's like trying to scream when you have no voice. In desperation I turned to my other long-forgotten creative outlet and sketched yesterday, for what just may be the first time in four years and it was awfully mundane. I sat there staring at the end result and trying not to panic. I make no claims of superior skill. My writing, just like my art is mainly for me. Other people may shake their heads at it but it satisfies me, it keeps me sane. I don't want it to go away. I don't want to think about what will be left if it does. A vacuum? A giant black-hole? And while my eyes absently moved over the grey, neatly pencilled wine glass and table, I wondered why. I wondered what happened to screams when you hold them in for too long.

Kay Sera Sera

2007-04-29T21:45:00.000-07:00

There's a moment of silence when she stops talking. I can sense her nervousness, her need for my approval. Best of friends, even with ten years between us. Her hands are toying with the napkin on the table, as are mine. Except that, on my part, it's a delaying tactic. Playing her words over again in my head. "He's a very nice guy. Good to me. We both know it's not going anywhere but....for once, I find myself removed from all the other drama happening in my life. When it's time, we'll deal with it."
Finally I look up. Because I can't not say something. "It's not as easy as you think."
"I know," she says, as only the young can. Pushing a strand behind her ear, relief that my reaction is so low-key.
No, I think sadly, you don't. Suddenly feeling old, so old. You can't know. Until you're there. It's never easy to walk away. Or be walked away from. You think you can 'deal with it' but only with an awful lot of bruising.
I've been there. Not that long ago either. The need to experience the stuff of poems and songs. The desire for flight. The thrill of excitement, of anticipation. Taking that first step off firm ground onto thin ice. Or a deep chasm. Nothing is as blinding as the illusion of control.
I can handle it.
Breathless with a new kind of excitement. Slipping and sliding, always gaining momentum. An almost fall. Heart pounding as you catch yourself, pressing a hand against your stomach, laughing nervously because wow, that was close. But then....
If I slow my pace a bit, I can handle it.
The fall comes too fast for comprehension. A blur of motion, till you hit bottom. Struggling for breath, feeling your bruises in bewilderment. How it all hurts.
I didn't know it hurt so much.
"What?" she says sharply, breaking into my thoughts . She's getting wired up again.
"I.." I stop. How do you tell her? I have half-formed ideas of locking her in a room until she's older, keep her safe from all hurts.
"Don't invite complications. There's no sense in that." I can tell though that she's not listening. She hears what I'm saying, but she's not listening. I fall silent.
"I know what I'm doing," she says, re-assuringly.
No, I think, you don't.
But there's nothing I can do. Her wings are eager for flight.
"Well, I'm here if you ever want to talk."
A glowing smile. "I know." Flicking her hair back again, in a smooth confident move.
What will be will be.

My favourite mistake

2007-04-04T22:27:00.000-07:00

It felt like spring was a long time coming. But it's here now and it doesn't disappoint. A perfect day. An explosion of colors. Clear blue skies, wild flowers of every hue dancing to the whims of an impish breeze, all manner of living things crawling at our feet, buzzing in our ears. Never is the world so full of hope as in spring.
It's infectious, this sense of gladness. I see it translated in the way people are walking, a bounce in their steps. You can see it in the way they absently raise their faces to the sun, the deep breaths they draw, the way they linger outside....concrete has lost its appeal. Only a precious few are cognizant of the magic in the air. But even unaware, we are touched by it. The never-ending cycles of birth and re-birth. Life growing leaf by leaf and the world, its enthralled witness.
Spring is hope. Spring is new life. Spring is to be finally free of you.

I sit on the park bench and watch you watch her. Maybe its her legs, maybe her silken hair. Maybe it's because she's greener grass. Maybe it doesn't matter why. Or maybe it does, and I don't want to know. Taking deep, trembling breaths to keep the hurt at bay. Still, I can't help watching.
As I think, I've been here before. Countless times now in our past. A never-ending cycle of depair and self-directed loathing. Nothing you do can make me leave. And you don't have to do a thing to make me stay. A craving that won't be stopped...but oh, the bitter taste. Now here I am again, watching you watch another. My favourite mistake.
It's been a long, long winter. Never has spring been so long coming. When it comes, I wonder..will Spring disappoint?

Labels

2007-03-20T03:49:00.000-07:00

I'm many things to many people. An introvert. An optimist. A passivist sometimes, a fatalist. I've even been accused of being an idealist.
And they all agree I'm a dreamer. Apparently that is a very bad thing.
Feeling little-girl whimsical because someone told me, as if I don't already know, that I dream too much. A habit, I'm told, I have to break if I'm to make it in this big, bad world. All my fantastic, impossible, silly, 80" queen-sized dreams....brushed away like invisible specks of dust.
On the phone with my mother, convincing her that I'm not going to settle for anyone described as being suitable. Prince Charming was a lot of things..tall, dark, handsome but 'suitable'..? I think not. Holding back a sigh as I tell her I'm not waiting for unrealistic dreams to come true, I just want to be happy.
At lunch with my friend as she spiritedly waves her fork in the air, in complete agreement because 'happiness,' she tells me, 'is everyone's goal. That's what all this mad rush is about.' Gazing at people rushing about, watching life pass us by while we lunch. Reminded of a class years ago and the professor's slow pacing as he said 'Very often in our relationships we're saying I don't want to be happy, I just want to be with you.' Thinking there's a contradiction there somewhere and an important lesson waiting to be learnt. Grasping at the intangible. Surely a job for the dreamer?
Watching students file out after handing in their assignments, smiling and murmuring until one of them gets my attention about the assignment they were given. 'I find it strange that people desire to feel a certain way. Life is about experiences. Live, then let go,' while smiling sweetly at me. Dazedly smiling back, feeling my gut clench and lunch-time reassurances withering away. Am I so wrong then that I desire to feel a certain way? He doesn't understand the 'I'm glad you don't know my mom' remark but smiles politely anyway.
And now, lying in bed, feeling the burden of my thoughts and the weight of my decisions, past and present...hesitant and unsure of the right answers. Feeling panic because I'm not sure I even know the question. Knowing that I can make all of this go away simply by clicking off that mental switch and withdrawing to a secret place where there are no questions and no answers. Where lines between reality and unreality blur so easily.....but no, I'm trying to break the habit. Thinking that everyone is wrong. I'm not a dreamer, I'm an escapist. But who wants to argue semantics?

Tuesday nothings

2007-02-27T22:25:00.000-08:00

Feeling trivial today...I wonder if that's even a real mood. Made a statement earlier in the day that I just know is going to come back to haunt me later. Arrghhh. What I really should have gotten for X'mas is a time machine. Also learnt something new. If you stick the word 'mouldy' in google, among other things it will lead you to J.K.Rowling's website, which I personally find very strange. Felt the need to let off steam because I have a really big test in two days so watched TV for 5 straight hours. Right. Makes perfect sense.
A random stream of thoughts lead to the topic of apologies and who I would ask for forgiveness if I could. And damned if I couldn't come up with anyone. This was shocking. Either I've bought my own public image. Or I'm due to sprout a pair of wings in a year or two. I wonder if you can wear pink with a halo.

The taste of metal

2007-02-11T19:18:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I sit there and worry about not feeling. And at others this appears as high comedy. Because really that isn't my problem at all. That has never been my problem. The trouble is I feel too much. My cross is that I wound too easily. Who knew words can be as acid on the flesh?

Sometimes I think I have no instinct of self-preservation. I remember a long time ago, watching in silence and some contempt, moths that couldn't seem to resist the flames. Now I understand better the fascination they can hold. Who knew something so pretty can be so deadly?

Sometime I lie at night listening to the sounds of distant laughter, to the faint strains of music carried on the wind, gay chatter muffled by walls that seperate. And the loneliness is a tangible lump inside me that restricts my breathing. Who knew pain has a taste like metal?

Lists and things

2007-01-28T22:58:00.000-08:00

Ever noticed how useful lists can be? Not just shopping lists and to-do lists. The other kind....lists that tell you who you are and how you got there, what you want and why. I like such lists. They sometimes teach me surprising things. Of course they work best if you ask surprising questions. My most recent one is headed "When am I faking it?" Different is not always normal. And normal is rarely interesting. My lists then aren't particularly meant to serve any purpose. They just exist..crystallized forms of my mind's meanderings. My soul's pilgrimage.

1. I fake attention when people are talking about sports. (I'm a girl, I don't 'do' sports.) And string theory, because..really, who cares.
2. I fake sympathy when I see someone who has so much, whining over petty nothings. I really just want to plant them a facer.
3. I fake concern when someone is telling me how they're too buzy to do a certain task because I'm too buzy dreading the request that follows.
4. I'm faking it when I tell people stripes look good on them. Or the color yellow, which I hate. Or both.
5. I am faking indifference when someone I care about is being delibrately mean to me, so they won't see how much it really hurts.
6. The look on my face that says 'whatever' when the people I love are telling me things that are good for me? Fake. Usually I'm plain mad. I hate when they are right.
7. I fake laughter when people on the ladder above me make innane jokes and remarks that I consider inappropriate and/or lacking in intelligence.
8. I fake politeness and curtesy to people who have stabbed me or my friends or my family in the back.
9. I fake understanding when the conversation is about the 'situation in the middle east'. (I'm never sure what that situation is exactly. As far as I know, there's always been a situation there. But maybe I'm just missing the finer points.)
10. I fake confidence because it seems like everyone around me have plans for their lives. I don't have a 'plan'. Unless you count eating breakfast and feeding the cat 'plans'. Where are they all going, I wonder? How do they know that's where they want to go? And who gave them a map?

Me? I live my life strictly on a day-to-day basis. Any day I haven't been run over is a good one. Any day I'm actually prepared with an umbrella and it rains, is a day marked with a red letter. I wander around...down blind alleys, unmarked streets, and sometimes losing my way. Turning corners and crossing bridges. Building sand-castles, watching them collapse. Crying because I really thought this one could stand the tide, I really did. Breaking the faith. Making friends and gaining enemies. Watching the relationships in my life change with time, distance, circumstances. Keeping the faith. Hurting and getting hurt. Trying to find myself, only to lose myself a little more.
But if you have lists, they can serve as markers on the journey. When you've lost your way yet again and you're really wishing you had that map, the lists can help you remember. Small things. Unimportant things. Things you'd forgotten. Things that will make you smile. Things that will shock. And it might not be a map but they're darned good at reminding you of what you've left behind. And the long way you've come. And somehow, knowing you've been there before or somewhere like it, and survived, makes it a little better.

Essay: In praise of days

2007-01-16T19:16:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since I last took pen to paper. Sometimes that scares me more than anything else does. Because very often it means I've run out of things to feel. I only write what...when...I feel...and when that stops, your mind becomes a scary place. You become aware of the vaguely formed bogeys silently holding a vigil on the edges of your consciousness. And the recycled thoughts. Like a tape that's stuck so you hear the same tune over and over again. And in 2/3 rds indifference and 1/3 rd fascination you watch to see how long it will go on this time. If nothing else a degree in psychology teaches you to catalogue well and keep good records.
When the lights have been turned off and along with it all the noises of the day, it's easy to believe that I'm at the bottom of a very deep well. From where I am, the surface seems a long away off and the sky even further. If I squint I can almost see the brighteness that lies just outside, barely visible but as beyond my reach as the stars. And with horror I see that my hands have been digging deeper into the earth, as if by their own accord and most definitely against my will. No, I tell my hands, that's not the way to go, it's up I want. They don't seem to care but I still do. I think. Then I wonder if maybe they've pledged allegiance to an invisible enemy. Why is it so hard to get your mind to listen? But then the sun comes out and you find it's another brand new day, with so much to do, so much to accomplish, a schedule to stick to..so you can cheat a little and not listen to your mind either. You may never win the war but there's a measure of satisfaction in knowing you're not making it too easy either.
And that is why I like days best.

Battle scars

2006-12-22T22:01:00.000-08:00

I remember waking up one morning, a long time ago, and finding a fallen eye-lash on my pillow. So black against the baby blue flowers. I remember smiling as I picked it up because I held a wish in my hand, and that's always something special. And I remember wishing...for you. With my eyes closed, before gently sending it on its way to wherever it is they go to make our dreams come true. You were going to come by that evening and take me out, so we could hang out with your friends at the local pub. I wanted to go dancing but no matter. You always made me feel like I was spinning. And the music never seemed to stop. But that was then....
And this is now. Now when I'm left with that sick feeling in my stomach like the one you get when you finally stop spinning. Now is when the music has faded into a dim memory and all I hear are faint echoes. Now is when we explain to people that we are 'just good friends'. Now is when I lean outside my window not because I think I'm going to see you waiting below as of old, not really...but because I'm wondering. Wondering about that eye-lash from a long time ago. Did it lose it's way? Did it stop at a wayside pool of dreams and forget that somewhere, someone was waiting? That somewhere someone was slowly losing faith in shooting stars and fallen eye-lashes and lucky pennies?
And yes, now is my new room where my sheets and covers are black. So I never forget...that all songs end. And a girl is unwise to buy only dancing shoes.

Story-telling

2006-12-18T20:03:00.000-08:00

A boy and a girl sit on the porch late at night, the only light coming from the tip of his cigarette. She hates that he smokes. It hurts that he won't stop for her. She won't say anything though, as always. It's one hurt in many.
He's trying to break it off with her. He's trying to let her down easy. She knows it. So she waits, a tight pressure in the region of her chest that just won't ease. She hopes he won't take too long. Already her hands are shaking in the dark and she's not too sure she can summon speech.
She remembers when there was laughter. She remembers when there were soft touches and stolen kisses. The abyss lay before her and she remembers thinking 'oh, this looks like fun.' She remembers the dizzy joy of the fall. The glory of it all. And for a while, it was. But now the fall is almost over and there's nothing below to break it. She tenses in anticipation of the shattering of flesh and bones. Heart.
Some day in the future she'll hear from friends about 'the one'. She'll feel her heart rip once more into little pieces. The knowledge that she wasn't enough...not for him. She'll spend days and nights praying there won't be chance meetings. She'll practice smiling before the mirror so everyone else won't see how much it matters.
For now, she sits waiting. Wondering if she can let him go without begging. Hoping the tears will wait until he's gone. Because he hates scenes and even now, on the eve of goodbye, she will do what he likes. Then she will go inside and write of her pain.

Coffee

2006-12-13T18:42:00.000-08:00

The other day my friend and I stepped into a coffee shop while we were out for a walk. Half-way in I froze in my tracks. 'We have to leave,' I hissed at her. 'Why?' she said, scanning the room for potential reasons. Finally she spied cute b in the corner. With a girl. A girl he had his arm around. 'Oh please,' she said in disgust. 'We're not leaving.' I glared at her. 'We have to. My heart is breaking.' She rolled her eyes. And walked right in. Since I didn't have a choice I followed, trying to make myself invisible while she ordered our coffee. I couldn't bear it if I had to talk to him. And what if he then introduced me? Horrors.
Tall. Mocha latte. Whipped cream on top. How prosaic. 'My heart,' I repeated, 'is breaking.' She gave me a look she reserves for the times I'm being a bona-fide drama queen. Her words, not mine. 'It is not,' she said, thrusting the coffee into my hands. 'You don't even know him. Not really.' I had never felt so indignant in my life. 'I so do! He's funny, smart and ......in my class,' I finished. Ok, so maybe I didn't really know him. 'And,' she said, over my words, 'he doesn't even know you exist.' I felt smug as I corrected her. 'Remember that day when he asked me what he'd missed from the previous class?' 'Ok, so he knows you as the nerd.'
My feelings were really hurt so I maintained a frigid silence. For five minutes. And you don't know how much self-control that took. 'And,' I looked up, 'for your information..' She grinned at me over her steaming mug. And I knew we were okay. The coffee was wonderful, warming me all the way to my toes, a welcome change from the winter cold that lay just outside the walls. We sipped in silence, each buzy with our thoughts and this time it wasn't frigid.
Every now and then we are reminded of the miracle of having someone like us for who we are, warts and all. That there are people who choose to stand by us when we flounder in this journey through life. That it doesn't matter if we don't know where we are going or that we dream impossible dreams. That we only eat the inside of a lemon tart or watch scary movies with a blanket over our head. And it's like the warmth of the coffee is all around you.
I threw a wistful glance over my shoulder as we left. 'Oh, common on,' she said, hooking an arm through mine. 'His socks are probably smelly.' I looked at her solemnly. 'Thanks for being my cup of coffee.' She stared at me. 'Sometimes I have no idea what you're thinking.'
And that's okay too.

Letting go

2006-12-12T16:47:00.000-08:00

I need a beach. A quiet beach...sand between my toes....the murmur of the sea. Eyes on the distant horizon, while the wind plays with my hair. Birds flying home...the sinking sun. Stretching my arms out because it must feel so free. To be flying home.

I need a hand. Fingers to hold on to, while I sink. Sink then come up for air. Dragging in a breath, though my chest is so tight. To gently unclasp my hand, keep my eyes open all the while. It must be so free...to go under and never come up.

I need the world to disappear. Everything gone in the time it takes to wish. So when I scream that's all there is. Echoing back to me from every side...bouncing off rocks and walls..returning to me. It must feel so free...to scream. And never stop.

I need to pray. Find a moment for silent communication....while I look up at the sky. Down on my knees...being listened to. For once...It must feel so free..to be listened to, really listened to..to know He cares.

While I scream.

Words

2006-12-10T20:29:00.000-08:00

The buzz of bees are in my head. Random thoughts crashing against each-other, all clamoring for voice. And I'm stuck thinking of defense mechanisms...psychology 101....my own mind fails me. Repression, Schizoid, SAD.....Does it help to have names?
I listen to the conversations around me. Everyone sounds so important. Everyone playing at grown-up. Big words. Long words. Important ones? Or more buzzing?
Looking at the girl with the lil' white pills....the brown eyes so blank...I realize I'm leaning forward, almost as if I'm trying to peek inside. Is it really all silence? And is it scary? I think of Alice.....so tempted by the cakes that said 'eat me'.....the bottles that said 'drink me'. And Wonderland takes on a whole new meaning. Around me, the conversations go on.
So easy to fake attention. Fake meaning. I toss some of my own big words in, like pebbles. Wait for a reaction. And like pebbles, they sink quietly out of sight...down, down. The murmur of agreement is deflating. And somehow funny. I carefully stifle my giggles. I look around at the faces I see....eager, earnest. And I want to shout, 'Show me the voices. I know you've got them. I can't be the only one who has an inside of a head that talks back...' But I don't because...because the big words are confusing me. It's such a good act. So I quietly play the audience instead.
Later, as we leave, the pill-girl grabs my arm, demanding 'did you have fun? Is something wrong? You look....'
I wait for the word...she's going to tell me how I feel...anxious, depressed, crazy.....spot diagnosis. It doesn't come. I smile at her, searching for words to hide behind. 'Just a diremption of mind and body'. She laughs, because it sounds like a joke and I'm let off the hook. I walk away, feeling more kindly towards big words. I like when they serve my purpose.

A day in Oz

2006-12-05T15:08:00.000-08:00

You know those days when something surprising and out-of-the-ordinary happens to you and you can't stop smiling? Nothing like winning the lottery or falling in love special...just a spontaneous hug from someone who couldn't possibly have an angle. A compliment from a complete stranger on the street whom I'm never going to see again and won't recognize if I do, but whose words will stay with me and get me through days I don't meet with a single smile. Feeling like a child again because you walked into a room and found it unexpectedly decorated with X'mas trees and tinsel and lots of happy things. And because you're alone and no-one can see you, you can take the time to touch and peek and laugh out loud.
That happened to me today....the universe decided to take the time to make me magic....
Strange how little it takes to feel so much...

One day at a time

2006-12-01T20:08:00.000-08:00

I sometimes wonder when people are truly themselves. I ask that because of the myraid roles we take on in life. The different things we are to different people. And surely some of them are not us. While some of it...why, some of it is so much us that it leaves you feeling stripped. And slightly afraid.

Even as I start this I think, can I commit? Can I give this project enough of myself, day after day, time after time? After all, the fact remains that I have 'commitment issues'...(psycho babble....because people expect it). And here...this here is the real reason I hesitate. Because already it has become about others. And I'm so tired of that. All that role-playing that you can't turn off. Everytime I write I know I'll be bleeding a little bit of myself over these pages and this only means the fear will be worse. Love me! Don't stop! Sometimes I cringe at what I see in the dark mirrors of my soul. And sometimes I think..well, you've gotten this far..just a little bit more...one day at a time...