The snow covered my soul just as much as it covered the porch. They both were cold, one to the touch, the other to the heart. I shoveled until my shoulders ached. But what could shovel my soul of the heavy cold weight that fell upon it in endless tufts.
I want to tell you a story about a short stout woman who lived on the island of Lemnos in the Aegean Sea. She fished barefoot next to her shadow just before the sun found her copper face and presented her to the world. By the culture’s warped standards, she was not pretty. But she was a clever moonlight witch with a cauldron for each day of the week, including a special Sunday cauldron meant specifically to raise something dead. She knew that at the rate the world was going, she’d spend many Sundays searching for the left tooth of a hippopotamus and the right hind leg of a field mouse, the primary ingredients needed to raise the dead. Then there was the distilled water that could not be purchased in plastic gallon bottles from a supermarket shelf. Those were tainted. They’d been sitting too long and around far too many fearful souls who believed in too many gods. The energy was all wrong; so she, Alda, had to distill the water herself, a process that took several days and a large beacon handblown by a sad naked virgin with butterfly tattoos covering most of her body. Alda had watched the process many times before and sometimes joined the virgin, her clothes tossed over chairs and tables in solidarity.
(to be continued)
I built a story that was tall and wide, stretching across miles of land like the Great Wall of China. I did not use brick or stone or plastic or metal or wood. I used the purple haze of stardust, sprinkled on sea foam paper that chewed my words into wide-eyed children, nutrient rich and ready for the mind. The paper sang to me, calling me through time, reminding me that it too has a story to tell that even the stones would bend to hear.
I re-flesh the ancestors with naked language that sometimes wants to forget itself; but remembering is the only panacea. I re-flesh memories, piecing together what was forgotten, clothing forests with leaves and branches and ancient trunks, and the dead things that cover the ground to re-life the soil with nearly forgotten ichor. The words grow up through it all, breathing through time to reincarnate, if even for a moment, what fibs tried to erase. I picked the fragrant words that bloomed, and built a story, tall and wide, stretching across miles of existence like a galaxy, big and aged gray, ancient and ready to tell tall tales about its life and what it had seen.
i’ve decided that i don’t want to write, not with my hands anyway.
i want to think words onto paper and screens and leaves and stones and skies. i want words to fall onto the sand and clay soil, carved into ice and cave walls.
i want words to appear on my skin, spinning stories of a life lived and yet to be.
i don’t want pen and ink. no, that is not enough.
i want the words to manifest, conjured from my soul and eager to find themselves atop anything that is not immortal. so they can one day fade, fade, fade, then join the ancestors.
i want my words to live for a million years then without warning meld into the akashic records that house everything we have ever known and ever will. yes, even the words must leave here.
mortal words seeking immortality.
so don’t ask me to write with my hands. it is not enough. it will never be enough.
i am the stream…
it is 2:38pm, monday, the In The Beginning day of the week
august 14. twenty seventeen, whatever that means
it is the day when i want to forget the days and seconds and step into infinity,
when will my day come. this is not a question. not anymore. when will i be the well versed and well fed writer who need only spill ink onto the page and the letters and words figure skate to my thoughts, shaving ice into paragraphs
i stream across the un-pulp, the bits and bytes that give life back to the trees, so that i can write guilt free. still, i am guilty. the words have not yet transformed nations, creating a quasi peace, something i could leave to my children’s children
my words don’t bleed for them, not yet. my words don’t bleed, so they will never need to bleed, and sweat and cry for what could have been
i bleed for the horizon i have yet to reach, for the words that need to be found to conjure beauty and caste a spell upon our heart so it will grow eyes and wings, to see each other in the mirror, to fly into infinity
i seek the un-time, the edge of tomorrow
there is where we will find a wasteland of mondays, their bones almost dust
i will save words for you. bottled and pickled words for you.
then feed you synonyms of me, so you will always remember my taste.
i will flavor your life until all your tongue remembers is what it is was like to come…to come…to come
…into my dreams.
and stay a while. a long while. until you are…
…exhausted from eating synonyms that uncover every inch of me.
I had a satchel filled with poems that I tossed into the sea. I wrote them on tiny circles and squares and rectangles woven with jute, some in permanent gold ink, others lovingly stitched on over the course of many sunrises and sunsets.
It may seem foolish, but I believe the fish will read them then dance and weep.
We all seek freedom in one way or another. But in the end, we live in an age where none of us know what true freedom feels like. We’ve never lived it beyond our mind and flowering imagination.
Although I don’t know what freedom feels like as a tangible experience, I know the swing of its hips, the scent of its hair and the song in its voice. I know how deeply freedom wants to find me. I know how desperately I seek it.
Whether here or in that place we go when we leave here, I will find freedom. It waits for me, in that place we’ve forgotten exists.
The words leave, drifting atop my misconceptions. I am looking backwards.
Why did we come here?
Was it only to see if being human was a strange fad, something new for our soul to do? Or was it something real and lasting and developed from a wanting, from a need to exist inside a space filled with wonder and amazement?
Why are we here? Ask yourself that question without waiting for the answer. Speak the truth to yourself without hesitation. Let the wind hear you, me, us. Because at the end of it all, even the gods will kneel before us, endlessly wondering how we made it through.
They will discover that we fought our way through with the sword of love. Because that is the only thing that could keep us here, the love-fight; that need to recreate our authentic soul existence on Earth.
We came here because of the remembering.
In the space of memory resides the fence we stand atop, teetering on the edge between hard ground and water. In that space we remember the moments that embrace us before we have a chance to embrace them. They catch us unaware and ask us the hard questions we’re not ready to answer.
Why do you feel?
I feel because my joy stitches the wounds of my pain, and salves them into healing. My joy mercilessly threads itself through the flesh of agony, reminding me that in time, the scars may not fully disappear, but they will no longer be noticeable to the world, nor to me. They will be seen only in quiet moments, when the sun is high, or the night stand lamp casts a light over the flesh of my ancient wound.
My joy spoons itself into the mouth of my sorrows, provisions to save it from starvation and death. I am intertwined inside myself, mixed in with everything I have ever seen or known. I am my happiness; I am my disappointments.
Another word is needed, one that melds this essence of me; a word that says, I am everything all at once, in this moment—in this parallel universe.
Writing Prompt: Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt. Expectation.
I am sometimes filled to overflowing with a cauldron of expectations. Ideas mixed in with opinions and beliefs that don’t belong to me or the soup overwhelm every aspect of my life. Which expectations are real and true; which are contrived notions created by someone else’s way of seeing the world?
I place in neat little rows all my expectations on the table. I examine them and wonder about their origins and why they’ve followed me to this point in time. Why do I need them? Do they need me? What are they? Why are they?
I want to detach myself from them so I may watch them from a distance. And see what expectations do when they have no one to hold on to.
The silken network of threads thin inside me; those webs that stick to everything that I am. They thin, inch by inch, but strengthen, holding on to heart and lung and liver and spleen. They hang on to sinew; but muscles and bones don’t groan. They hang on to elusive time and love spent dry. The thinning web spreads through veins, lengthening along a stretch of miles, traveling at the speed of blood. The blood needs the darkness to cleanse and the light to live. And breathe. It needs me inside you, nestled into a place we thought we’d lost forever.
I have lost the words, their life force spilling at my feet after slipping through disconsolate fingers. The letters tumble and roll, trying to find a place to come together, to find sense in the falling and flowing outward, away from center. They want to cohere, create, give light and life to ideas and long lost emotions. They want to become sentences that snake their way into minds and hearts. Yet, they continue to spill, seeking the light, and sometimes the darkness, anything that will give them life and voice…and birth.
Strong, sturdy hips receive hungry thrusts.
Authentic sex is not for the weak.
Fainting hearts are not welcome here.
Moans crescendo, vibrating leaves and rippling rivers.
Bodies transform, like werewolves under a hunter’s moon.
Two bodies cast a single shadow upon the leaves,
a single shadow spread eagle under star filled skies.
Animalistic echoes part the clouds and create light,
a bright light that gently cuts the night.
We are one shadow, one soul,
parting only after our sweat has watered the Earth.
Parting only after we have melted into ecstasy and are left there,
like puddles at our own feet.