[Please excuse me for choosing my own blog. Felt like something I needed to do today.]
*I have 57 drafts and only 38 (39 now, actually) “published” … things. So? What is a published thing anyway, for many of us, but a draft that has somehow tripped the system, slipped through our over-zealous, ultra-self-censoring, hyper-critical inner critic? Anyway, here’s one that slipped through.
38 published, 57 drafts, and my blog’s goal’s
“Due date” has gone by, so by, that I
No longer see clearly the [X] on the horizon. (That dot that was my goal.)
But I look often. Things I’ve seen:
A fallen tree, an empty house, a man walking, hands in pockets, and a
Windmill, still. Once, I saw a fox with a rabbit in its mouth!
That was my favorite.
Today, though, I don’t know. Can’t make it out.
But, oh!, I know it just moved … closer no less. Or was it me, toward it? (Ha! Noooo.)
I’ve been moving lots lately but not in that direction. I’ve been wishing lots too that it — my goal, that dot — would come to me, for me, at me,
Any way it wants, with or without rabbit. I’ll take it! But I know. I know. I’ve always known.
And I’m actually accepting the “failure,” for now, have taken my hands from the throat of she who failed. (I need her: me.)
And with that grip loosened, I see her becoming beauty-full again, feel laughter pushing up through her throat (words to follow?), eyes opening wide once more, synapses (many? most? all?) firing up, firing one another up,
Stretching out to meet, connect, grab hold, and go. Someplace new. Again and again!
So I’ll stop looking for that leaf that wasn’t loosed when fall came early this year, a guest of spring and now summer and soon to be master of the house.
The sun has said go ahead: stop. God, I’ve heard, likes (loves) me after all — no matter what I say or (don’t) do. I hear someone, many, saying, “rest.”
And yet: that dot, my goal. Can’t wash the (imagined) taste of rabbit from my mouth.
And yet, there was nothing here before and now:
38 published, 57 drafts, and me.
We’re still here. I have my crown.
Posted in blog rationale
, Poetry (?)
, Real-time memoir
, Story/prompt response
, The problem
, The project
and tagged Art and artists
, Bad habits
, Daily prompt
, Life event
There is always “burn” here now.
There is always “burn” here now.
Door knobs burn in my hand as I turn them, so I leave the inside ones open. Even the floor burns the bottoms of my feet, so: shoes, but they burn also. These words too, all words, whether I think or say or read them, they all burn now. Sometimes./
To hear them, these ones here, spoken aloud in this room today — w/ no one aside from me listening, no music playing, nothing baking — to hear them without burning, what I would give for that! To be back there, here but back then, in my dream of life again, where it was plenty warm enough, what I would give./
There were times I’d think I must have come from there to here through someplace really cold. I’d think, could I have died that day? That day I “wakened” to the smell of all my pies burning and you knocking as loud as you could on the door. “What’s burning? Are you okay? What’s going on with your hair?”/
We threw the pies into the garden, laughing. You cut my hair in the kitchen to help fix me back up as we aired the place out. “What happened, though? Did you fall asleep? Since when do you bake pies and for what?” I opened you some wine and we spent the rest of the day together./
But I watched the pies slowly disappear alone. It took weeks and then one downpour finally carried the rest away./
Today, I know I came through someplace really cold to get here. Why else, how else, could touching these now — these plastic keys — burn me so? So that the plainest words/thoughts, uttered as plainly as I can manage, are birds barely escaping a flame and then at the very last second returning or just stopping, letting it happen, letting it wrap them and hold them in its hot hands until they turn to ash?/
There is always “burn” here, but I’ve begun to wonder if it might be okay for a time./
After all, crying now is like climbing a tree—but on another planet. Crying: Why? How? It doesn’t happen here, I don’t think, but I’m not completely sure (having learned about evaporation so long ago). I do know it’s not okay not to cry ever./
I know too that today nothing is baking, no music is playing, and no one knocks or doesn’t knock at the door. And I know I didn’t die that day. I am being still and quiet, no more words aloud for now, dreaming of when I was “just warm enough” and wishing I could cry, here or on some other planet, any planet (except Mercury, Venus)./
And yet. Even though these words, my memories, the door, the floor, the bottoms of me feet — ALL of it burns, all of it is burning me — I begin to think it could all turn out all right, that one day I will be just warm enough again.
THIS is a repost, thanks. I’ve been gone from here for SIX long months. I consider it a bit of providence that I log back in tonight, after several days (weeks? months?) of thinking about this blog AND THIS POEM especially, and find that BURN is the one-word daily prompt. Today. When I log back in … But so, I have nothing new here now, I don’t think, am exhausted, but I jump back in to this — everything — holding the hand of my 47-year-old self from two years ago. I trust no one more.