Herb Garden in Bloom

I wilt under the pressure of my own potential.
In a long awaited summary: I am the end of my own self.

I suppose this conclusion has some nodding their heads,
Thinking: well, of course, we knew all along, it was obvious.
As I nod along with them accepting my fate.
Sometimes, in moments that seem a little too quiet,
I wonder how it would feel to take so much power into myself that
I could step over the edge towards the end.
In those moments, it does not matter that I am willing to patiently wait for the end to find me.

I watched the chives I planted years ago sprout again in the spring,
Growing taller and more robust for it's neglect.
As fall came upon us the flowers went to seed, gradually giving way to the pull of the earth
And when I brushed by them on some important errand I could hear the seeds pitter-pat to the ground.
With bowed heads the plant shaded those precious seeds and I could almost hear the whispers of encouragement.
I brushed by them again, just to hear the sound as the fell and then it reminded me of sleet against the window
In wintertime.
The air is cold and damp and I am sad for those seeds and that plant, because they
Fell from the raised herb bed and onto a wooden deck; there is no dirt to root in.

Children's book assure me that some of them will make it, somehow, because that is
The nature of these things.
There is hope in there, somewhere, and so
I scatter my words along as
I nod my head.

One more thing I didn't get from my parents

Marc just mentioned to me last night that Google is asking folks to stop using the word as a verb, it is a noun. I wonder if they had parents like mine, who could turn any word into a verb.

I apparently lack this skill, as I tried to think of an example of this phenomenon. Without using "google," of course, because that's been done.

Sometimes, I google your name.

I Haven’t Lost You

When I think of you a part of me goes very quiet inside, as if in some kind of sacred remembrance, though
I know I don't feel it and you don't deserve it.
I wish it would be as easy as placing a phone call and saying "I was just wondering how you are, if you wonder about me from time to time."
I'm trying to remember what is the truth and what is the lie in my history and I can't quite
Sort it out. I've been wondering if you could help me with that.

When I think of you a part of me pauses, as if I have sprinted to the top of a mountain, though
I know I can't feel that again and you are long gone.
On really bad days, I can feel the hint of a tear forming and I quickly cut it off;
I refuse to cry for either of us or those times again.
We were so quick to move away we never gave ourselves a reasonable opportunity to love.
I know; we couldn’t then.

When I think of you a part of me slows, as if lethargy is taking me over, though
I know we are distant now and the spell has been broken.
I’m still pulled down by your abandonment, the way you stripped me of my strength.
How I’ve changed since you had any power; I’m still afraid of succumbing.
I keep thinking of you.

Quick moments, happy ones or bad ones, stolen from something else.
I keep thinking of me, and how I’ve grown and of how you would still recognize me anyway.
I’m secretly relieved you have stayed lost to me.
I don’t want your memories, mine carry me away quite adequately.
Lies are just the truth you choose to believe, and so I think that all memory is suspect.

I wonder if you wonder about me from time to time. I wonder if a part of you reacts at all.
If you do, you should know my heart hurts a little every time you cross my mind.
How I loved you in my own way.
How you loved me in yours.

Hiding

And how true: "Like a coward, I write this hoping you will see it and understand."

From Now to the End

I've been yearning for the past lately.
Like a long forgotten addiction, it has caught me off guard and left me feeling defensive and defenseless.
To be honest with myself, every day I wish for something from some time before, but this has been different.
I've been wishing for things I had thought I had left behind somewhere, and with good reason.

While you and I were talking tonight I wanted to actually talk. I wanted it to be like it used to be, late night conversation about the importance of
Life.
But I was a little drunk and a lot afraid and couldn't find the words to say.
Like a coward, I write this hoping you will see it and understand.
It made me realize that I am afraid. Afraid of losing you.

You see, my feelings have changed. I used to think that I would be in love with you forever but
I was wrong.
You are dear to me, important, and I miss you every day you are not here. But
We've moved on.
That's ok with me, now.
Except.
I am afraid.

I want us to have a present and a future, and not one based on reminiscing about the past.
I want us to have more than stupid jokes that have been said so often we've forgotten the original laugh.
I wish we had more than stolen moments together, like friends who
Just love, who haven't
Lived through fire together.

If you happen to be wondering...

Maybe this little dialogue can somehow sum up a few things in my life right now.

Ari, holding up the food she mooched off me: “What’s this?”
Me: “What does it taste like?”
Ari: “Potato.”
Me: “That’s right. It is potato.”
Ari: “Is it a potato chip?”
Me: “Nope. It’s a fry. A french fry, only cut into a waffle shape. So they call it a waffle fry. It’s made out of potatoes.”
Ari: “Why isn't it made out of waffles?”
Me: “Then it wouldn't be a fry.”
Ari: “It would just be a waffle.”
Me: “Yes.”
After a contemplative chewing moment, Ari muttered: “Pancake!”

Oh yes, my friends, she is only 3. And this was a real conversation. I almost fell off the couch laughing at "Pancake!"

Fly Away Thing

I've been thinking a lot lately. It's got me all tangled up inside,
As this thinking has blown me from place to place.
I can see dark roads twisting through starlight calling me away home.
We were sailors loosed on ribbons of asphalt, not worried about such mundane things as the money to pay for gas,
As we weaved our way along.
Each deep breath carries the smell of coffee and burning nicotine and acts as some kind of
Balm.
And I’m so tangled up inside I barely make sense to myself, and
I know the context of the message.
Every time I think I’ve left those days behind they sneak back up on me and
Give me back a piece of myself.

Indestructible power, Activate!

I just read an article from CNNMoney.com, and I wanted to share. I encourage all of you to click the link http://money.cnn.com/2006/10/17/commentary/mediabiz/index.htm?cnn=yes

and give it a chance. Seriously, I'm asking you to do this. Then in a month from now I can say "Garbage disposals don't chop off people's fingers..." and one of you can pop back with "People chop off people's fingers." Doesn't that prospect alone make you want to click the link?

Click on it. I Dare Ya.

Garbage disposals, Menace: fact or fiction?

Frustrations

The words are still all jammed together in my head and it makes me very tired. It's a lot like this:
You've got 1.5 hours to sit with an old friend to catch up and remember that someone loves you so completely. Then the plane leaves, taking them away again for some undetermined time. You got on the road late, because the phone rang with another distant crisis, the dog ate the last pop-tart, the trash was overflowing, the garage door wouldn't open, you just couldn't quite get going. So you rush. You speed anywhere you can, you wonder if you should call and tell your friend your late, you just hope and pray and will that you'll make it in time - with enough time. Then highway traffic locks up. So you take the next exit ramp, plotting a course in your mind that you know will help you arrive faster despite the street lights and school zones. And when you finally make it, there is no place to park. Not even a bad spot, just no spot. So you circle frantically hunting for someplace to stow this cursed vehicle that is just holding you back until - there! Grab your stuff, run inside.

In the end, there's enough time for a quick hug and goodbye again. And it's not enough, but it has to be enough because there is nothing else.

It's kind of like that, this word jam in my head. I've been writing this last week and a half but it's not enough. Not good enough, smart enough, flows well enough... but there is nothing else. The beautiful words I want to use to explain everything just don't come together right.

Moments like this make me wish I had the capacity to truly growl.

In some kind of effort to hold the line, I toss this little piece out. It's older, and probably doesn't say what I want or wanted at the time.

Sanity

Quiet space is a foreign place
And peace is farther than I can reach for the
Clamoring in my brain.
I hear people around me and none of it makes sense for the voices in my head.
Dancing pink dragons distract from reality until the only peace I can conceive is blindness.

Fortune has taken turns chuckling at my failures
And I learn grace as I dodge streams of fire that curl my eyelashes.
Emptiness is something I carry yet do not know
And like those filled with a madness sense, I question the voices in my head; their mere existence, and their truth.

******
And yet, while I read this, I believe that is some sort of masturbatory crap; just stroking my own faults, inconsistencies, and mental ill-health.

In case you're wondering, I keep typing because I'm hoping it scares whatever is killing my muse and let's me be free again.

But I hear Gene Eugene singing 'Stone' - which means so many things to me I can't even begin to approach it. If you've never heard of the band Adam Again, take a look at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adam_Again

I shall leave you with a better crafted piece. After all, if you slogged through all of this, you ought to get something decent out of it.

Perspective

I remember walking along an overpass in a city where I once lived. I remember the cold, and the wind, and the dark.
I remember being so weary that a nap, right there on the sidewalk with the broken glass and shreds of paper, seemed like a gift.
But that was a long time ago. I've left it behind. I've moved on.

If I could go back and gather the pieces of myself from all the cities, at each overpass, I might understand a little better, though I'm not sure what it is I would understand.

As a child I played those guessing games, trying to figure out what the real picture was under all the noise. Eventually, I got really good at putting it all together.
But those were simple concepts, and life is rarely simple.

Darkness is an interesting thing. It breathes, feels, reacts. It exists out there, and in here. And sometimes I find myself reaching towards that quiet dark, even though I know that once I've wrapped myself in it's safety, it will seethe with pain.

I remember a house, near a creek, with flowers along the front and grapes along the side. I remember something else, too, but I don't know what it is. I spent time in those rooms, creating things, and I wonder if someone looks at the paint I applied to the walls or the glue I dropped on the floor and feels the way I did.

I trust what I know. I trust what I feel. Sort of.

I am an antique porcelain doll, whose dress is frayed and filthy. I speak volumes. Mostly, no one hears.

It's been a week

...and the creative thoughts are all dammed up in my head. They'll shake loose -eventually. It's been known to take awhile, though.

I'm feeling pretty distant from myself right now, and that makes the words seem all confused. I wish I had a cookie.

The other night, I drove to a gas station at 12:30 am to buy microwave popcorn. It was darned tasty, too. I was proud that I didn't buy a chocolate cake like product and eat it on the way home in the car. Small accomplishments, I suppose.

Feeling fractured and so completely uncomfortable with myself.

Grrrrrr.

Days like today I miss everyone I care about and I wish you could all just pile in and eat some popcorn with me.

Just dropping by.

Changing From a Reluctant Product

i.
The rain never came today.
When I stepped outside to check on the caterpillar making a home in my parsley plant, it felt like the sticky humidity of early summer;
I ran back inside.
With the windows closed tightly and the doors barring the way I can agree with the calendar that tells me it is Fall again,
Again.
Circles inside mazes inside darkness - when I close my eyes it makes me feel dizzy.

The haunted house around the corner employs a spotlight that you can see flying down the highway towards home.
Apples are everywhere, and they taste good, too, reminding me that sunshine made them ripe.
When I wake in the morning I want my Fall cup of tea - not too hot, I'm not freezing just yet.
But then summer came back and knocked on the door.

ii.
I don't believe I have ever transitioned well.
I loved all of you that I abandoned, in my way and time and I miss you every now and again.
If I had been different it all could be changed but the point is that I always felt too different from you all.
A parade of faces and names marches through my head and I wish I could arrange it so you all could meet each other and perhaps understand better my failings.
A train of ghosts making merry with anecdotes and corner whispers, as if you cannot speak ill with the dead.

Every now and again I miss each one of you, profoundly, and I regret the choices I have made.
In my imagination, I believe that you feel that same way.

iii.
I've started preparing for the cold, bracing for the wind.
My cedar infused thinning cardigan is calling for me to wash it clean again,
Again.
Soon I can justify baking things, filling the house with moist, fragrant heat, making it smell like home.
Turkeys are waiting to be purchased and gifts to be brightly wrapped
And the thing I love most is that it brings us together as we look to each other to chase away the cold.


*****

I thought I'd let you all know that you can comment on anything here. I do appreciate critique - as long as it's preceded by a ton of flowering compliments.