Thursday, June 20

Of Desirable Objects

Seeing the moon when it's still light outside is always strange.
It's as if the night just can't wait any longer to come out
      with all it's mysteries
      and fright.

          I can feel little ghosts of creepy-crawlies on my legs, like they can't wait to emerge either.
Something shifts in the vines behind me. To my relief, it's just the cat and he hops out to join me on the bench.
          If I could stop being afraid of the dark...that is, if I didn't have to be awake when it falls, it'd be much easier to give the cat a scratch behind the ears and lock the front door behind me. It'd be much easier for me to leave this empty and beautiful house, with it's familiar creaks and shadows--even the poltergeist that walks around upstairs feels safe. Like home. But I'm trying to be an adult here, and in a minute I need to drive back to my house. The one that has all of those awkward ankles and low ceilings and the doors that slam.

          Most of my time writing this has been spent listening and looking behind my shoulder. More sounds are starting to surface and my cat's eyes are beginning to glow.
          Even though I'm not wearing enough to keep from being just a little chilly, I think I'll try to stay out here until night completely takes over.
          I can do that much.


   Look...I'm not photographer. I usually leave that to Claire and Christopher.

Wednesday, June 12

Without those shoes

          Allow me to be straight up with you from here on out: I'm very sad. I'm aware that my posts for the past... well, year have been riddled with some combination of angst, and bitterness, and darkness, and I am so sorry. I want to shake it off, but trying to be optimistic is utterly exhausting when I'd give almost anything just to sleep off the days until The Blues pass.

          I don't sulk and wear heavy black eyeliner and creep people out in coffee shops while writing poetry in a cursed-looking leather notebook. (Okay, full disclosure: I do wear a lot of black eyeliner.) Quite the opposite, actually. I like to think that I'm an approachable person and a engaging conversationalist. I know that I entertain everyone at work, like, 24/7, which is why it's difficult to make people understand that It's still inside me. (The Sadness, that is.)

         Logically, you'd think the frequency of my depressive and/or terrorizing episodes might diminish their severity. It seems like everyone, myself included, is getting tired of caring for me or taking me seriously. I don't blame anyone for this. It is all getting SO.OLD.
         I look at what is happening to me and I'm so over it that it's all I can do not to ask everyone to join me in a insolent and moving round of applause. We'd all point and laugh, saying, "Here she goes again! Here's that WOE that she's so good at!" 

          My indulging makes It worse, if anything. My soft, tender approach is not enough. Perhaps a controlled dose of cynicism could scare It off. Maybejustmaybe we could boo It offstage. (The Woe, that is.) Would you help me?


Thursday, June 6

'A' is for Absolution.

'B' is for Brighten.

I'm waiting for the darkness that's been clouding my mind to dissolve and make room for [something]--'--'------I vaguely recall.

          I do remember how it feels to fall asleep with good feelings and accomplishment. Just the smallest hint of satisfaction. I do recall catching my reflection in the mirror and not only being content with who would look back, but being proud.

          I'm waiting for myself to leave the house without seeing the perils from outside running at me. 

          I'm waiting for the shadows under my eyes and the tired look my skin has to liven up again.



          I'm waiting for the day when 
         I see pictures of old friends and old lovers et al. and 
           I can smile instead.
           I can be happy instead.

I can move on instead of
[anything but!!] this.