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 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.
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.
Your lies won’t save you from death. You will die anyway. Death is the great truth teller. When it comes, all you will know in that moment is the truth; which is, you will soon be gone, into the wind, into oblivion, into another existence, into…
Whatever you go into, it will be the ultimate and final truth. You cannot lie to someone about your own dying.
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.
I do not celebrate culture created holidays. None of them.
I celebrate each day, all 365 of them, and find ways to make them beautiful and special. If I desire to give someone a beautifully wrapped gift on any given day outside of a holiday or birthday, I will do so and have done so.
Why? Because I don’t need society’s prompts to tell me when to enjoy family, or show/express love to someone with a gift. As an example, I abhor Valentine’s Day because it shows me that it requires commercials and advertising and marketing for my loved one to remember me in tangible ways. They need the prompt of a day and millions of people following suite on that day to remember (or show) what i mean to them. I do not care what other women (or men) think about that day. It is an insult to ME and how I want to be loved and remembered.
I want to be loved on random days, when nothing special is happening except my lover remembering his love for me. Give me a gift wrapped present while we sit on the beach in our bathing suits. Or while I’m standing in the shower on any given day. Give me a gift wrapped present while I’m in the kitchen cooking, hands dirty, back tight from the work of mixing and kneading. And when I ask what it is for, tell me, simply, “Because you are beautiful inside.”
Remember me because you need to, not because someone told you to. Allow remembering me to become as natural as breathing.
Don’t buy me a diamond. They are cheap soul gifts. Everyone wants them because they’ve been told they are rare. I am far more rare than a diamond. See my unique worth, my soul worth, the worth without a price tag, but a soul tag. Buy me a Lemurian Seed crystal ring, or an Azurite ring, something no one else would think to do, because you see ME and that I deserve (need) something outside of the cultural norm. Or, even more precious than crystals, invite me for a walk through the park, simply because you want to hold a space with my energy, just us, sharing presence. Don’t follow the crowd, follow my heart. Find the authentic me in the midst of the social construct and reach me there. Why? Because I don’t want to be your Valentine. I want to be the woman you see, soul naked and true, wanting love, not things.
I am not a holiday. I am a person. My needs are not confined to 10 – 20 moments on a calendar, that calendar that so many flock to to find camaraderie and…love…family…connection. Some seek the calendar even to find themselves. I do not live there. Never will.
I am connected everyday, in every moment, and want to live that with people who see that my worth is outside of time; outside the confines of the contrivances of limited humans who believe a day on a calendar is what I’m worth.
So on this day, I will not say happy holidays, or merry anything. I don’t need to. I give love everyday. I show those whom I love their worth everyday. I wish people well 365 days of the year. Today is just another day for me, and like all others, it is a moment for love in all its forms. So today, I say, I love you. I loved you yesterday. I will love you tomorrow. And I hope two weeks from now you wrap a small gift for your lover, your friend or your child. Or spend a day with them, just because they deserve it.
Don’t allow a calendar to trap your love within the confines of a day. Love fiercely each day…and SHOW it.
i collect beliefs and put them inside glass jars, rubber sealed and sometimes placed in the sun. i shake them to see if they will blend. some converge, others diverge. all are creations living inside us, changing us, moving us to imagine the seemingly unimaginable. each belief remembers its birth, others remember birthing nations; others remember death. i collect them all. they live in the many corners of my home and mind, atop shelves, inside cabinets, under beds and pillows, between books, beside memories, inside fears, under joys. still others remain in the sun or in dark basements. they wait for us. they remain.
Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.
The waters are not blue. They are the mirror for the royal skies that look down at an elegant white-blue swan reflecting off the mercurial lakes of a thousand lazy yesterdays. The swan glides across the time engorged waters, filled with stories of ancestral swans, regal, majestic. White feathers tinted to match the coming dusk and darkening waters. It rises above its own elegance. We are spellbound by the quiet and peace it exudes.
i want you to know how sorry i am that i could not save you. maybe it was never my job. i don’t know. all i know is that i wanted to see you flourish in a world filled with people fighting their way toward extinction. i wanted to see you transform this place into the paradise you live inside your dreams.
i want you to know that the god inside you is immortal and waiting for you to see her. you won’t need a mirror when you decide to look her in the eyes. you will be seeing inside self.
i want to tell you something more.
we are one, and all our dreams meld into each other, folding over time and space until they are inseparable. our dreams un-begin and un-end atop and inside a circle. in this place, we are one. always.
I no longer remember who I am, nor why I am. Inside this foreign skin I breathe. I inhale the world I’ve wished for in far away dreams and exhale the world I exist in, bedeviled by those who swim in blood red ego.
I am wanting yesterday, packed up to take with me into tomorrow. It is in that place ahead where I’ll find what I seek. I am wanting.
When all is said and done, we are all rendered mute.
Death does not care about our feelings nor opinions about our political leanings, religious beliefs, the latest fashion fails, even our existence. It is the great silencer. And one day it will silence our opinions and feelings, every thought.
All that will live on is an idea. Hope only for the greatest of our ideas to infect those who live on after us.
Burn with anger, woman. Your fire voice was temporarily extinguished with water, but you did not let it drown you. You turned everything that touched you to steam. The destroyers dissipated into the air, mixed in with the ancestors who lost their way and told un-truths about the place of woman. They now mourn their ignorance. They are gone, in form and thought, the ideas losing footing and the voices fading, with those few unenlightened left who are unable to grasp what is needed to survive the next great wave of time. They say there are 2,000 years in each season, and the patriarchy that has almost dried up mother’s milk is coming to an end.
The clouds interlace fingers seeking prayer, an impassioned supplication to the un-gods. They spread across skies gathering stories of un-time, spaces inside cycles that collect memories we will never touch, nor taste. Nor see. Clouds beseech the un-gods, begging for intervention. But the gods are children of a lesser world, Earth merely a blue and green ball in their sand, useless castles jutting toward the sky. They play. And laugh. But the clouds do not laugh. They watch as fingers interlace, knees bruise from centuries of thanking. And begging. The un-souls want to return to spirit. But tears are not the answer. The gods mistake them for rain. The gods toss fists full of sand to the Earth for those with the bruised knees who stand only to survive this un-World. The clouds watch and wonder, where are the real gods? The ones with love and power; and the desire to stop the pain, change the Earth channel, frequency, so that the violence does not outweigh the peace. So that potential is realized in the tomorrow. Change the channel now, so the un-World can shift into an awakening we can touch. The clouds drop tears upon the sandbox. Their prayers go unanswered. Their gods enjoy Reality Earth, because Reality TV isn’t where the real drama lives. So to soothe their unrest, the clouds cry down on us. Their tears bring growth to forgotten parts of the un-World. Maybe they are the gods we’ve been waiting for. Maybe their tears, like holy water, will cast out the evil that lives inside this un-World. Maybe.
There is nothing here. Only waves of memories folding over unrelenting experiences.
I will no longer question my thoughts, but instead, carve question marks into stones; and diamonds and gold. Carve them into clouds and raindrops and the wind.
My footprints will become question marks left behind as I crease the sands that endlessly wash away billions of forgotten lives; faces with no names; names with no faces, shadows of people without faces or names. Lives and thoughts never to be touched again live inside the footprints that lead back to un-yesterdays.
I am nothing here but a wisp of dust that dreamed it was once human. I am existing here, in the un-yesterday, a shadow cast upon myself.
This was the sky over my house yesterday. Such a beautiful sight.
The sky is a constant reminder of my mortality. When I am gone, the sky will go on, into millions of years that I will never live to see. Nothing from this moment in time will be recognizable. No one’s name will be known or remembered. In a million years, even the dust from our bones will be like smoke dissipated into the air. Someone in the distant future will find themselves digging up a femur, discovering it was from a woman, then calling it some strange futuristic name that will itself become meaningless a million years from their find.
We are but shadows and dust. More shadow than dust. A shadow dissipating with the setting of the sun.