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Conversation swirls around the room like cream in dark coffee,
and I envy the richness added.
My conversations are staccato, confusing and brutishly short,
my tongue like pinking shears,
clipping the words off,
leaving the edges ragged and trailing,
not suitable for tying up in pretty ribbon,
not welcomed into jolly remembrances shared out around the table like chocolate and marzipan,
a saboteur on my own behalf.
I am tight clenched with wincing as my mouth fumbles them,
as if my lips don’t form in the natural way,
and my eyes can only see the pounding waves dead ahead,
no safe landing,
just drowning in a sea of mashed consonants and misplaced vowels.
If I could rework each blushing remark,
each fractured exchange,
like a sculptor,
I would fill whole rooms with granite palavers,
all perfectly formed and forever beautiful.
My mind holds hopefully tight to the baubles and the glitter and scarves that dress other discourse so prettily,
yet the way remains closed,
and my tongue remains tied
and I sit with my sad, safe silences,
and furtively filch any leftover swirls from the sideline,
drinking them down and wondering at such richness.
We met at midnight,
or maybe it was morning,
it was a transitioning time,
a changing time,
and we held hands and jumped,
falling gently into the good night
that everyone else raged against.
I wrapped the darkness tightly around us and counted the stars as they were
popping like old light bulbs,
and the silence piled up until even my heartbeat was muffled
until there was no way of telling where I began and it ended,
if it ended.
It may be that it was a raft and the only thing keeping me adrift…
Do we love the night?
Do we count the words we drop like guillotines?
And when poetry paints every wall a different shade do we match them to their
or leave them to make their own galleries,
to search out different walls to hang upon?
Will I roll off this raft and drift into another changing time,
or must I stay here
wrapped up to keep you safe?
Sleepless nights that bring no comfort at their ending,
just another type of dark,
are all I can see as I look towards the shrouded, silent horizon,
straining my eyes to see if there are any stars still left…
The summer flew by in a time bending kind of way. Days crept passed, long and slow and piled teetering high with busywork, but then POOF! the week would have somehow disappeared and the months were changing as if someone was shuffling the pictures on the calendar. And all my good intentions jumped ship at the first sign of my wobbly filmy resolve.
So. Here I am still waiting for some things, still wishing for some things, still working, still wanting, still plotting and pacing and ……drinking tea. (Couldn’t think of another “p” word, except for the obvious and that would ruin the whole tone of this. (I kid myself) Because… High Toned R US lol……..
I am now to be forever known as The Still Lady.
Sounds awesome doesn’t it?
Deep and mysterious.
The Wise One who imparts crucial Truthes to those who seek her.
Man…..so not me.
But it’s my blog and here my whimsy may wander where it will…
This summer has been a deep one in other ways. Deep water, deep levels of bullshit fed to us, deep feeling, deeply rooted hatreds, deep suspicions and the deep compassion and courage of those standing firm. Standing loud. Standing against. Helping us remember that where you find the worst you also, invariably, find the best. Like dock weed growing near stinging nettles. I would like to see the ones who stepped up and stepped forward – without being coerced or shamed into it – be the focus. Show them for what they are – the shining best of humanity.
Let’s give them the credit and put the pathetic, cowardly, self interested ones on the back page. In small print. They don’t deserve the light.
And now….back to work.
The Still Lady signing off.
I wish you peace,
How can one stand at the window and turn away while locking the shade safely,
Who can lock the doors
as the waters rise,
while wiping the good words from sculpted lips
with a fine and flawless linen cloth?
What cold flint has replaced the soul
that can calculate the carpet cleaning bill and the AntiVogue photo op,
and deem it more salvageable,
than a last breath,
a desperate shiver?
And how do you face your god,
without punching through the glass
and wanting to shatter
the inhumanity staring back at you?
Who can lock the doors,
how do you lock your doors,
as the waters keep rising….
I wished upon a falling star,
and it landed in my lap and when I tried to pick it up the edges cut me,
so I knew that what I wished for must have been you,
and the pain reminds me that I can feel,
and if you would have just wished me back maybe we could have bandaged each other,
and healed together…
But that never happened
and the stars grew sharper
and dropped more frequently.
I watched the sky,
and counted the leaves on clover
all the while knowing the good luck couldn’t find me
not when I’m still hiding most of myself…
When I peer around corners I can sometimes see the light building in the distance and I think,
it may be warm,
it may be bright,
but can it shield me from the monsters?
The ones that count the missing stars and
pass sentence on anyone trying to cache them,
trying to cloak them,
trying to believe that their last chance is in those sharp edges,
and that their bloodied hands will heal,
and it all will have been worth the time spent stalking the sky.
I wished upon a falling,
it’s always the ones who fall that get the notice,
and the blame,
but picking myself up became harder and harder,
and my arms would shake just knowing they would have to try again…
And I am still hiding most of the time,
I have dipped a toe into the light,
a small part of me expecting to burst into flame,
but it was swiftly done,
and left no welt,
and I may try again,
somewhere where the sky cannot spy,
where the stars only flicker and cannot harm,
and where my hands will be allowed to heal.
Well here I am. Another year older and another year….wiser?
Maybe just leave it at another year older.
It’s been a roller coaster year, the last few months especially. My gift or goal to myself, I have firmly & finally decided
(just now. Yes, procrastination is my super power)
is to try and be more ordered. Work on clarity and….and…. (omg, can you tell how hard I am trying to avoid the word “mindfulness” which has been used way past the beating a dead horse stage) and deliberateness.
Yes. Deliberation shall be my new mission statement.
How so you ask?
Have you ever seen the meme “My brain is like a computer with 84 tabs open….” or words to that affect?
All day every day and most of the night.
Too many projects, too many ideas, too many words.
I am finally becoming (in my old-ish age) adultish and orderly.
I have a list of half assed half finished ideas. These need prioritizing and concrete-ness. This means…..*drum roll* MAKING.A. LIST.
(please – do NOT start singing “making a list and checking it twice”….or I won’t be able to get it out of my head for days….)
My new book is done – quite a departure for me (watch this space!) I am just waiting for the artwork to be sorted and the godawful task of editing done. And instead of moving on to the next item in an orderly (there’s that word again) fashion I am just floundering because I have too many ideas and too many other things started. NO COMPLETIONS. Just balls in the air ready to come down and knock me senseless.
And, if that wasn’t enough, I have other New! Exciting! Revolutionary! ideas trying to cut in line…..
Time to take control. Fifty some odd (cough splutter) years…yeah…its definitely time.
The New Jaye. Pretty much the same as the Olde Jaye….but just better record keeping maybe? More productive? More businesslike? But still me, the short, bookish woman with the box free, technicolor imagination?
Order and Method in a Whimsical Way. OMWW.
(Man, I can’t even get a cool acronym….)
Wish me luck. I’m so glad you are with me.
I smiled with a breezy what can you do faultline to my mouth,
and laughed and walked away,
as if I had a purpose and those words weren’t important,
mere droplets of water sliding off a ducks back,
so no one would notice
that I was skewered to my soul,
Why did I allow it?
So easy to ask.
So easy to condemn.
But impossible to explain.
I went shopping,
looking for something warm and bright and comfortable,
and instead wound up imprisoned,
a dummy in a window display,
frozen in a pose and outfitted in a style
I never wanted.
Yet I invested so much in time and energy
pulling back from the chasm became so complex it was easier to stand still,
even as it was cracking wide open,
even as the tremors made me stumble
back and forth blindly,
Too much gets buried when the landslide takes you,
so you hang on to what you can,
and you promise yourself that it will all be worth it when the earth finally settles.
And hope that the scars will fade,
before you have to explain them,
before you have to explain