Sunday, April 15, 2018

Fleeting Obsession

I don't know what happened,
the how or why of  it,
but I have become infatuated with Fleetwood Mac's Rumors album,
and it will 
not
leave me alone.
I listen to it over and over and over and
over.
I half-remember ordering it on vinyl last night as I settled into bed.
I play it in the car,
and in the kitchen;
As soon as I get to my desk,
I fumble for my earbuds and
sigh with relief when I've crammed them in,
reuniting me with the current soundtrack of my life.
I don't know why I bother,
since it's always in my head -
I know there's nothing to say
Someone has taken my place
When times go bad
When times go rough
Won't you lay me down in tall grass
And let me do my stuff

(and the answer, of course, is yes -
I would lay you down in the tall grass and let you do
whatever stuff you have in mind. Obvs.)
Listening doesn't make me want to hear other Fleetwood Mac;
it doesn't make me crave "Landslide" or "Edge of Seventeen;"
it doesn't make me think about the lives of the band members,
and their deeply intertwined love lives -
well, ok, maybe a little...
I mean, Lindsey Buckingham was quite the stallion in 1977,
and Stevie Nicks was a goddess 
(according to reputable sources), 
so it's worth a little thought.
Like, did they love each other, 
or was there just too much coke flying around 
to keep track of who you were supposed to be sleeping with?
I don't know if they even did drugs,
but I can picture them all in someone's artsy loft:
Lindsey picking mindlessly at a guitar 
on a bean bag near a large window,
Stevie barefoot in gauzy skirts and jangly bracelets;
I can see her standing with a bottle of beer in one hand,
the other resting lightly on her hip.
She is mesmerized.
Lindsey's fingers dance across the strings,
and Stevie starts to sway, 
hums a little 
as her feet pick up the beat and her hips follow.
Mick or somebody intercepts her,
hand on her back,
pressing her into an improvised waltz,
spinning and dipping her with insistent gallantry.
Her eyes linger on Lindsey, over Mick's shoulder;
she lets him steer her moves, 
and when he sings along with Lindsey's melody,
Stevie harmonizes with him and ducks under his arm, 
kneeling on the pillows beside Lindsey,
holding his eyes with hers.
He was the one she really wanted.
So what happened to them?
I guess I should read a biography or something....

Well did she make you cry
Make you break down
Shatter your illusions of love
And is it over now, do you know how
Pick up the pieces and go home.


I can't seem to shake it,
and I don't think I even want to anymore.
I don't know know why it's gripping me so,
but now I'm gripping back.


Saturday, April 14, 2018

Desire Triptych, Part 1: Stripped

She spun on the stage
wearing only glitter
and absurdly high-heeled shoes.
Each curve exaggerated,
her features accentuated with unnatural colors -
almost beautiful,
almost garish,
too real,
but imaginary.
She smiled at you,
then twirled around the pole,
and leaned toward your outstretched dollar bills.
I half-smiled,
squeezed your thigh.
I couldn't take my eyes off her, either.

Desire Triptych, Part 2: Fire

The carnal need to be desired
can lie purring and dormant for long stretches.
But then.
Something
someone
will slip through a crack
into the place inside
where desire used to scorch the walls of you -
a dragon in its lair, sleeping beneath piles of gold
in the shape of contentment,
affection,
satisfaction,
commitment...
and you'll feel a spark, 
taste smoke at the back of your throat.
You'll suddenly want
(with a sharpness that surprises you),
and you'll lean into it,
willing the object of your desire
to desire you.
You’ll revel in the fire of it,
The way it burns through you,
But then,
you'll let go,
forgetting again what it is like
to have every cell filled
with anticipation and preoccupation;
to be saturated with lust 
and blind, panting need.
You'll turn away from the dragon,
relieved to settle back into the wholesome wholeness of your life.
But then...
you'll catch yourself daydreaming about touching, tasting...
and in a panic, you'll shift your focus to something else,
evading Desire, for now.
You'll find your inner calm,
your zen,
your drive.
You'll channel all that unspent energy into self-mastery.
You'll think you've outgrown the grasp of desire,
as you smoothly move along the track of your life,
until the next time the embers begin to glow under your skin.

Desire Triptych, Part 3: Dreams

You.
You seem to be just a man,
but out of the corner of my eye,
I see the hint of glitter that is visible
around the edges of your casual confidence,
or swirling just behind the gentle authority you exude.
You quietly speak magic spells
that draw out desire in those around you.
With the deft hand of a conductor, you create need,
pulling heat to the surface like a slow-building string section.
I look around, wondering if I'm the only one
with a symphony of lust
pounding across the stage of my mind.
This thought unsettles me,
and I drift away,
but I always drift back,
settling into the familiar current,
floating along, wanting -
wanting with a pervasive intensity
that fills my imagination with scenes of first kisses,
and pulling your face to mine –
I'll imagine you pressing me against a wall,
or I can slip one arm around you,
and press my face to your chest, then undo your belt.
In my daydreams,
I can kneel before you,
worshipping you with my mouth.
I can lie in tangled sheets and look down
to see your eyes peering up over the perfect curve of my breast.
I can kiss your neck, letting my teeth graze you as I withdraw...
I can moan your name and insist that you shift positions
because I need you inside me, now.
These scenes
(created in vivid sensory detail and playing on a loop)
do not quell my desire,
they feed it like dry wood on a pyre.

This.
This is desire,
this is dangerous and all-consuming.

Desire - Epilogue

One more thing about desire, though...
All this pondering has led to a new insight.
I have long operated under the assumption
that attaining the object of my desire was the ultimate goal.
That only when the item has been purchased,
food has been eaten, or boy has been fucked--
only then is satisfaction achieved.
On an evolutionary level,
the whole point of desire is to propel,
to motivate,
but once satisfied, there will just be another object to pursue.
It's a slippery cycle,
and can rule your life for you if you let it.

Desire burns within, not a fire that needs quenching,
but a fire that needs careful maintenance -
a fire to warm a house, not turn it to ashes.
I've been missing the point all along...
struggling to tame this beast,
but only because I thought society
(and the constraints I've subjected myself to)
required it,
not because I understood.
I don't know if I'll be able to remember this,
and maintain a balanced fire,
or if it even makes sense yet in print
but I'm glad it has clicked for now.

Sunday, April 8, 2018

Virginity, Vermont & Stevie Nicks

And then there was the time Stevie Nicks took my virginity.
Well.
Not directly, not personally.
But I was home for the first summer of college,
and I'd had my first broken heart,
and I was hell bent on making someone pay.
I wanted that sweet boy who'd loved me for two years,
and then married someone else without bothering to break up with me,
to return from his Presidential Support duties with the Marine Corps
for long enough
for me to punch him
so hard
that my heart would unbreak,
to the rhythm of his cracking mandible...
but he didn't.
He stayed thousands of miles away
and he stayed married to someone else,
(someone I would later find out he loved with a pale immitation of what he'd felt for me);
maybe if I'd known those things sooner,
I wouldn't have felt the need to punish him vicariously,
but
he stayed a villain in my mind,
and a haunting memory of sweetness in my heart.
And so,
when I arrived home for the summer,
heart in shreds,
I was just trying to survive.
So when my new crush introduced me to his less attractive
(and also less gay, as it would turn out) friend,
I let myself date him, passively hoping it would help me to heal.
I pushed and pushed him
to tell me how many times he'd been in love,
how many girls he'd slept with.
I was sure I was the only one who'd loved so deeply, and lost;
I was sure that I was the Last American Virgin.
And I was sure I would always regret not having
my one and only First Time be with my first love.
Instead, I had his unworthy successor,
his understudy, the imposter who'd shown up
to try to fit into the Charly-shaped hole in my heart.
When he told me that he'd loved three times;
had sex with three girls,
I saw the symmetry
and the intense desire to be loved again overtook me;
I believed that if I could get him to have sex with me
that would mean that he was in love with me,
and I would have avenged that spineless Marine of mine.
To throw a little more fuel on the fire,
my best friends were describing
in glorious detail
their various sexual pursuits from our year apart,
at colleges spread across the country like a handful of rice thrown.
They made it sound so much better than
eternal salvation
or whatever the fuck it was
that my Bishop insisted would be mine
if I didn't let a boy put his hand above my knee
or under my shirt or
whatever other dirty little images
that (adulterous) asshole painted for us.
Their giggled details outshone his stern threats
by a whole spectrum of light.
Their instructions on how to give head sounded like the map
leading to the mending of my poor little heart.
Their eyes sparkled and I couldn't stand to not know why.
So.
I spent time with the Replacement Boyfriend all summer,
mildly disgusted by his tobacco chewing,
not terribly comfortable with his thrash metal,
slightly scared of his older sister,
but unwilling to be deterred.
I can still see the cloud of smoke hanging lazily above the small kitchen,
as I learned to play Hearts with his parents and him that summer
(which is kind of ironic because I was definitely playing with his heart).
I didn't set out to hurt him,
I just needed to be needed,
and he felt lucky to have such a sweet girl,
so I told myself it was fair.
But really, we were from different worlds -
our Venn diagram was two circles skimming each other's surface -
and we just didn't belong together.

Despite his preference for music that scarred my ears,
he admitted to a secret Stevie Nicks fetish.
She happened to be touring that summer,
but the closest venue was a 6-hour drive,
Saratoga Springs Performing Arts Center
in upstate New York.
So, the second choice and I headed inland, and west, west, west -
over Maine's mountainous border with New Hampshire,
across its forests
(which should not have been distiguishable from Maine's,
but somehow were)
and made our way to the far edge of Vermont.
We were welcomed by his college roommate,
his hand-crafted log cabin nestled deep in the forest
(but, really, isn't every house in Vermont nestled deep in a forest?)
Sometime the next morning,
we got a call from the amphitheater:
there would be thunderstorms all day and into the night,
so Stevie Nicks would not be performing.
He was
disappointed?
annoyed?
(angry)
something like that...
He went to bed early
and I sat up talking to his friend
over a firepit and wine coolers.
When I went upstairs
I undressed and slid into bed next to him.
My bed was untouched, across the hall.
He stirred and I kissed him until he kissed back.
It was so dark, a starless night behind the crowd of trees outside the window.
He didn't taste like Charly,
he didn't feel like Charly,
with his scratchy beard and stocky build...
I kissed him and kissed him
trying to conjure up the lean, wiry boy I'd loved with all my heart
(and most of my body).
Mr. Penultimate knew I planned to have sex soon,
so when I started to pull his boxers away from his body
he paused, asked if I was sure -
I almost growled, or maybe did,
because his voice was threatening my illusion -
I pressed onward,
and he reluctantly followed.
The poor guy knew I wasn't really ready,
and he knew I was breaking a rule I felt strongly about,
he knew I felt I was committing a huge sin.
But, he was only human...
so he kept pace with me
as the ferocity of my kisses grew to envelope us both.
I remember every sensation -
because they were almost right,
with what I sought remaining just out of reach.
My body responded, even if my heart didn't.
His rhythm slowed as he pressed into me,
my breath catching at the discomfort, the fullness.
He tried to talk again, some gruff pronouncement of adoration probably,
but I didn't hear him, lost in the echoes of my own mind.
Tears slipped down my cheeks and took with them my hopes -
to hurt Charly with this,
or to ever be worthy of my religion's blessings again,
or worthy of real love again.
The thunder clapped and rain poured down on the thin roof.
He got up to find a towel, and to close the window.
I felt hollow and restless.
I wanted to go home,
but really what I wanted was to go back in time.
I wanted to be a child again and start over;
I wanted to have never loved, so that I would not feel the pain of loss.
I wanted stupid Frank to disappear in a puff of smoke,
and be erased from my memory forever.
If this was one of my fantasies,
here's where I would let him fall asleep,
then slip into his friend's room,
and look again for the missing piece of the puzzle,
but it's not a fantasy, it's just the sad truth.
I did continue looking, though, with greater and greater success.

Saturday, April 7, 2018

Roots are for Trees

I have spent my adult life
dragging my Self
and my stuff
from one corner of the country to another
and back again
and then plopping down in the middle,
a pouting child –
but then one more jagged run toward the northeastern coast,
flopping down a bit too far inland,
stubbornly finished with all the upheaval.
Each time, I left a chunk of Me behind.
Each time, the landscape of my dreams was altered in irreversible ways.
I can’t find my desire for Maine’s crushed-rock fingers of land
or the choppy gray-blue ocean they press into;
I can’t find my certainty
my roots
my belonging –
or even my longing.
I float, adrift on this giant land mass,
remembering the rumble of my father’s lobster boat
and the swell and surge of the unending waves beneath us;
I have lost my sea legs,
instead stumbling and swaying here on the firm ground,
willing it to be a blustery, frigid day in early spring
on a white-capped expanse of deeper colder water
than most people I’ve lived near could even imagine -
water that they would only want to skim over the surface of,
or, better, look at from the fog-shrouded wharf 
as they await the return of the catch-laden boat.
I sit
(like an empty lobster trap
hung with sea moss, 
drying in the cold gray light)
smelling of salt, 
tears for the home I’ve lost my way back to.


Wednesday, April 4, 2018

Hunger

It fills me
and gnaws its way out through my laughing face.
My joy pulls you to me,
luring you close enough for me to
bite.

Monday, March 26, 2018

Spring/Sprang/Sprung

Winter didn't seem to want to start this year
then it didn't seem to want to end.
It kept fading away under the warmth of the sun,
then charging back in to blanket us with white.

Today the sun was brighter than expected,
the tinted glass weakly shielding my eyes against it;
the wind was colder than expected,
my light fleece jacket failing to intercept it
before contact with my pale, hidden skin.
The sky was bluer than expected,
no clouds to mar its completeness.

My walk along the busy road was muffled –
music came between the whoosh of passing cars
the rumble of halting trucks 
and my ears;
the world was blurred around the edges,
since I'd left my glasses on my desk.
I was cocooned in my own thoughts,
bobbing along the shoulder;
you were there.

Sunday, March 25, 2018

Saturdaze

The afternoon spread out before them:
a gift.
They lolled in soft chairs, 
delighting in the lack of structure.
They had no where to go,
nothing to do,
just the luxury of time to squander.
Then she got some startling news
and he leapt into action
while she scrambled to gain purchase -
somehow she needed to fully comprehend it,
digest it,
before she could overcome inertia
but he
he was sheer velocity,
hurtling through the seconds, minutes, 
minutes stacking up as he lifted, carried, wrapped, moved
things -
his temper rising with the tempo of his movements
as she stammered and stalled and tried to hold time at a distance -
wait!
just let me!
hold on!
But she couldn't find her footing.
They volleyed in a stilted fever pitch -
each trying to make their case -
out of sync, and overlapping,
his fear like a wind at his back,
hers an anchor dragging her under the ocean's choppy surface.

Later,
the threat contained, neutralized for now,
they would retreat upstairs,
naked,
since their clothes now baked in an angry dryer.
We might as well...
he smiled with a mixture of suggestiveness and a shrug, 
as if to say, I mean...we're here, so why not?
They giggled, and dove for the crisp white-with-blue-paisley sheets,
sweeping the puffy white duvet  to the far side of the vast bed.

After,
she snaked a hand out from under the pile of bedding and satisfaction,
finding the top drawer pull by touch,
and slipped the small choclate bar out of its secret spot.
She let the medically infused confection disolve on her tongue,
the flavor of the plant a wicked reminder 
that she would soon be floating on its currents.

The afternoon had crept into evening
while they were distracted,
and they tumbled into pants-shirts-shoes
and out into the dimming world.
Dinner tasted better than usual,
the Nutella shake might have been the manna from a christian legend...
it felt like heaven on her tongue, 
and she was connected to its Italian provenance,
and to all the other devotees.
A new religion.

Sunday, March 18, 2018

What Life Hands You

She drove with the beach at her back 
and the sun in her eyes,
heading for the desert --
heading for Leo and his lemons.
She looked forward to collecting the sunny, rough-skinned fruit,
and to seeing her fella.
She was too old to have a boyfriend,
(but she hadn't planned on being a divorcee again at 75).
The citrus trees dotted the perimeter of his parched land,
keeping out unwanted gazes,
but doing nothing to deter the rattlers
which in turn kept her from ever feeling quite at home there.
She peeked around every bush she passed,
carefully stepping across the porch
and taking the last few steps quickly, in case a coiled beast lay in wait.
She hated snakes,
but it was worth it
for Leo
and those lemons.

Related image

Monday, March 12, 2018

Do you remember when...?

Do you remember when blogging was
kind of a big deal?
Do you remember when we poured our souls into keyboards,
and connected like our own mini worldwide web?
We were a microcosm of art and beauty and sex and rock n' roll.
We were raw and joyful and angry and loud.
But
then
we all grew up.
We got too busy to
get busy, wink-wink,
and worked too hard 
to work it hard, nudge-nudge.
But it's time for another round.
Past time, maybe.
Time to dig in and shove the Self out into the public sphere again.

--Artist Formerly Known as the Bored Housewife

Saturday, March 10, 2018

Identity Crisis

What am I? she howled, 
with the silence of a gust of wind
in the night sky. 
Without your contours to form against, 
how am I anything? 

Friday, March 2, 2018

Restraint

Self-restraint and I,
we aren't exactly allies...
We tend to pace angrily
in opposite corners of a vast ballroom,
each aware of the other
and a possible symbiosis that should exist between us--
who the parasite,
who the host?
If I advance,
self-restraint retreats;
if that holy asshole approaches 
I writhe in agony,
like a demon splashed with blessed water.
Sometimes,
I dance so close to my nemesis
that our cheeks almost touch,
our steps so synchronized
that we are almost one body.
But
there are times
            when I feel ripples of self-restraint roll across my skin,
like when I manage to keep myself from
going to you,
dozens of small times a day;
as I manage to not
reach out
to touch your face 
while we chat about the weather 
or the athletic achievements of millionaires.
My arch-enemy crawls across my landscape
slicing into me with the assertion of his-way-not-mine,
not my greedy, devouring, lust-filled way,
I lose, I lose, I lose
                               to my foe,
as I refrain
from dragging you from your pedestal
from holding your face in my hands
from pulling you with me into a vortex of skin and panting...
My adversary defeats me
and I smile,
sigh with relief
and gratitude
for his unwelcome presence.

Thursday, March 1, 2018

Smoke and Mirrors

She dashed through the rain
and settled into the broad front seat of his car.
She felt a sneaky delight -
one of those times
when she would slip into the space between.
She wouldn't be all the way in one world
or another -
just that place where they didn't quite touch.
She smiled and inhaled deeply,
choking and laughing
and coughing,
because this was a literal inhaling).
She felt the day soften around her,
the fears and worries melting into the air outside the car,
fading away with the light of the afternoon.
Her face became a smile, and she felt the world smile, too.

She said, Don't you love the Lumineers on a rainy day?
She stretched and yawned a little,
her fingers brushing his shoulder as she settled back into herself.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up
and he gripped the steering wheel tightly.
He kept his eyes on the road,
even though they weren't driving.
She pulled one leg under her and turned to face him.
They're kind of perfect, right?
She pressed him for an answer;
the world was made of dim gray cotton,
and so was her mind,
but the Lumineers were
illuminating it all,
a melancholy joy bouncing across her tapping knee.
She poked his leg with her toe,
Riiiight?
He relaxed and turned to smile at her, nodding slightly.
Yeah,
kind of perfect.
He cleared his throat and suggested they go inside.
They splashed along the sidewalk,
avoiding the deeper puddles
as they traversed the packed parking lot,
aiming their zig-zag trajectory at the front door of the pub.
They tumbled into the protection of the awning,
and he pulled her into his embrace,
leaning down to press his lips against hers
for one reckless,
urgent
moment.
The foggy world pulsed around her as the kiss lasted an eternity,
in the blink of an eye.
She clutched his shirt in her fist,
eyes wide,
but he turned and threw open the door,
ushering her in and stepping back into real life.


Thursday, February 15, 2018

Sweet Jesus

And so then the idea was born
to write some stories about what kind of lover Jesus would be.
I mean, have you SEEN some of those paintings of him?
Pretty hot.
But then I giggled,
because
what if
he was really bad in bed?
Or just selfish, you know?
Like one of those uber cocky dudes
who acts like the sun rises and sets at their command
because,
like,
it does in his case
(if you believe in that sort of magic)
and so,
what if he was one of those dudes
that just sort of flops down on the bed
and grins up at you lazily
from his throne of alpha arrogance,
expecting you to worship his ridiculous boner
and you just kind of stand there smirking
with your own sheen of haughtiness
(bursting with naughtiness)
like,
seriously, man?
Not going to participate in this situation at all??
It can go one of two ways in those moments--
you either roll your eyes and walk away
or you hang back,
and make him come to you...
this is a two-way street, you vain motherfucker.
I could see Jesus being kind of a douchebag like that.
I would still fuck him, though.
Because
they do say
he's hung like
thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis,
so maybe it'd be worth the effort.
It's also rather lovely to imagine him a 40-year-old virgin,
kind of shy and sweet,
maybe it's his wedding night
and you're Mary Magdelene...
you usher him through the bases,
slowly savoring each one -

so you have to focus,
really pace yourself as you kiss his ear lobe
and lightly graze it with your teeth.
You leave most of your clothes on
for as long as you can,
so that neither of you
will accidentally
finish
too
soon.
You marvel at the deified perfection of his body -
those gnarly scars making him sexier
and you pause in awe -
maybe he's really a god after all.
You light some candles
and pour some wine
(it did start out as water,
but he winked and the color deepened
to a rich scarlet).
You show him how to touch you,
and where.
You whisper the sweet things
and the sweeter things, dirty around the edges.
You whisper his name,
then shout it -
slightly dizzy at the absurdity that this urgent chant
is his actual name as well as the right thing to utter at the height of ecstasy.
You collapse into a heap of sweat and satisfaction beside him
and he smiles indulgently,
I forgot how much I liked that.
He winks, and rolls over,
the wave of his hand extinguishing the candles and drying the wet spot.
Jesus. What a night.

Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Bought a Ticket

Every time I hear Soul Asylum's "Runaway Train"
I think of that night in August, 1993,
when I went to say goodbye to Chris.
I would be leaving for Brigham Young University in the morning 
and he would be starting at MIT the next week. 
High school already seemed like a distant memory,
and the future lay crackling like an exposed wire
just out of sight, behind the next sunrise.
I pulled into the driveway in the deep darkness of a Maine summer night,
fog rolling up from the harbor, and pooling around trees and parked cars.
I sat in his parents' driveway, 
and took a deep breath 
as I scanned the shadows in the vast yard beyond the porch light.
I remember slip-sliding down the wet grass on the small hill,
heart pounding as I wondered if he remembered I was coming.
I made my way to the hull of the sailboat where he was living that summer 
in protest of his parents' choice to not put it in the water that year,
for the first time in his life. 
I reached up and knocked three times -
the sound dull but loud in the stillness.
I heard movement inside,
and soon my best guy friend was peering over the edge of the wooden deck
the broad whiteness of his smile illuminated by the scant light.
He put a finger to his lips
ssshhhh
and motioned me toward the ladder on starboard side.
I carefully climbed toward the emptiness above,
and he led me across the deck and down another ladder,
into the darkness of the confined space -
he sitting on one bunk me on the other 
our knees touching as he told me 
how strange and lonely it had been to live out there all summer,
in forced exile,
and how it hadn't helped him forgive his parents.
I tried to make out the features on his face, through the shadowy darkness
and I wanted this space to be familiar,
to have been where I had spent dozens of nights that summer,
instead of this last
final
only
visit.
I wanted to reach out and grab his hand,
to still his voice,
to whisper all the ways I loved him,
beyond friendship,
surpassing the boundaries of my relationship with Charly, or his with Suzie.
I wanted him to hear me speak the bare bones of truth that I somehow 
didn't know 
he already knew.

We ended up taking my car through the car wash, instead.

It was something we'd done before,
something to do,
in this too-small town after 9pm.
We stood in the dark,
spraying water at the car and each other,
laughing from a hollow place.
The jokes were all call-backs to our massive, 
era-long, 
brief 
4-year friendship,
less funny now,
as they echoed into a future without each other.

And then we were standing in the shadow of his sailboat again,
dragging out the final goodbyes,
shuffling our feet and trying not to be too sappy,
but wanting to savor it all.
He didn't want me to leave,
but knew I had an early bus to catch.
Finally it was time, and my heart felt physically heavy,
sagging against my ribcage,
dragging me forward - 
and when I leaned in to hug him goodbye 
I
realized too late 
that he had been angling for a kiss. 
The moment was lost 
and probably for the best that it was 
because I would have been in agony 
to have to say goodbye after that, 
although, I don't know...
maybe finally scratching that itch -
having a nice long make-out session of some kind -
would have been incredibly healing.
I guess we'll never know.



A Tree Falls in a Forest

This blog...
I feel like I am whispering into a hole in a wall,
and there is nothing on the other side of the wall -
it is just a closet or another cell, devoid of an occupant.
I miss the old days of blogging,
but there is something comforting about this -
talking to an audience, but having the freedom to say anything and everything because no one's really listening...

Sunday, February 11, 2018

Full

A foggy walk
in the soggy woods
fills my afternoon with sunshine -
the kind that emanates from joy,
not from our sweet little star.
I wander along,
connecting to the world around me through the lens of a camera,
pulling the scenes I savor through the aperture and onto the microchip inside
(oh, how I ache for film, a darkroom);
I hold the trees and moss-covered boulders in my pocket.
The misty air settles on my skin and blurs my car's windows.
The world is soft around me,
muted like eyes filled with morning sleep.
The river pounds along,
over the dam and under the bridge,
filling the air with its song.
Image may contain: tree, sky, plant, outdoor and nature

Saturday, February 10, 2018

Carried on Currents

Sometimes
I get carried away -
by my thoughts,
by my feelings,
by my ridiculously wild
imagination.
Sometimes
I forget where
when
who
I am.

But I'll just ride the waves and see where they take me.