Old Writing resurrected

I am completely unable to write these days.  I wish I knew why...it's very frustrating.  So instead I am posting some old writing.

This is from March 2005.  No title, kinda goofy, but it makes me smile. 

Fear is a low-flying fog clouding my head
zero visibility
squinting and shuffling
hands outstretched
looking for a safe place to land
hands clutched and released become
landmarks on the map
of places I've already been.

(keep going there's more to come)

my sneakers are wearing thin, but
still holding up.
frayed at the edges and
holes beginning to show

and then I met a man with
a bottle of super glue.

he fixed my shoes.

now he walks beside me with
steps sure and confident
holding my hand
my feet are snug and warm
and the fog lifts.

Moments

I have a vision in my head of you and me, sitting by the train tracks under the stars, looking out over the highway, a bottle of cheap red wine being passed back and forth. I wanted to bring glasses out with us; you wanted just the bottle. I remember having my hair blown out of my eyes by the wind kicked up by a passing semi. We made suppositions and guesses about the driver's life, discussed our place in the universe, and  decided that maybe your reason for existing is in fact to father that little boy who may someday rule the world. Or maybe he'll only rule his own world; it doesn't matter. The possibilities are endless. The possibilities matter.

Another: Standing on your balcony, overlooking a vacant lot filled with weeds and wildflowers, the neon light of Burger King half a block up. Cigarettes shared, a bottle of Jack Daniels at our feet, the stars once again eavesdropping on our conversation. Discussing our blessings and our failures and what we have learned from them.

Doesn't everyone do this?

If they don't, they should.


Another: Laying on our backs in the courtyard of that church up on the hilltop. Surrounded by grapevines, rolling green hills, blue sky, and puffy white clouds, it was still and perfect. We hiked up the hill that day, feeling the muscles in our legs being used, and the cool wind in our faces.


The massive wooden doors of the building were warm under our palms; the pale stone walls were cool. The terra-cotta tiles of the courtyard were smooth. The sun peeked out from behind a cloud as we lay there, and the world was so still and quiet I heard the sound of the air being displaced by the wings of a passing hawk. I almost became a believer in that moment.


Another: sitting at the bar while you play a gig. Your fingers flew on the strings of your guitar; the movement still holds my attention just like the first time I ever saw you play. Every now and then my eyes would roam over the crowd in front of me as they mosh and shout, bouncing off of each other like pinballs. I wondered what they are trying to escape from as they chugged their Budweiser until they couldn't stop smiling? Maybe they see a better version of themselves in the bottom of that bottle.


The glass at my elbow held no such promise and I knew that, but I drank it anyway, until the room started to blur and you finally got off stage and came over to me. All those girls that were watching you with bright eyes, licking their lips and whispering to each other drooped with disappointment when they saw you kiss me... until they found someone else to lay that bright attention upon. The morning light found them tarnished and tired, their makeup smeared under their eyes and their hair in hopeless tangles. But maybe that boy will want them anyway. Is that what they are seeking? I wanted to ask them, but I knew that it wasn't the time or place for a conversation such as that.


I discussed it with you instead, standing on the balcony with shared cigarettes and a bottle of Jack Daniels, stars winking at us as we counted our blessings instead of them.

Old Writing resurrected

I wrote this in 2005.

***

I am in one of those strange, unexplainable moods. The kind of mood where I know I want something, but don't know what it is. The kind of mood where I want absolutely nothing, but feel so restless it's as if my bones are trying to jump out of my skin of their own accord. I want to throw myself on the floor and pound my fists on the carpet and wail and scream and cry and claw your eyes out.

This is the kind of mood where you and he overlap and I can barely tell you apart. Should I run? I ran last time. Ran and ran and ran; for 7 long years I've been running. He's still there though; I can't get away from him. Who knew he could run faster than me?

The kind of mood where I look at our relationship from behind the sights of a loaded gun, and I'm not afraid to use it.

If I still smoked my apartment would be littered with empty cigarette packs. At least I can have the whiskey. I haven't denied myself that pleasure yet. And why have I done this, denied myself the pleasure of smoking? I know I had great reasons, but right now I can't remember them.

This is the kind of mood that dictates I do not speak unless spoken to, and then only in monosyllables. This baffles you for some reason. Don't you understand that sometimes I just need to be quiet? Don't you ever want to just be in your own head for awhile? The only person I want to talk to is that person who communicates through my speakers, crooning and stroking with a voice dripping with honeyed sex and doe-eyed sadness.

This is the kind of mood where I could stand in front of the mirror and examine my eyes for hours. They are green and brown and gold and squinting against the light from the too-warm heat lamp.

My mind is filled with racecar beds and exploding animals and sticky fingers and penguins and why won't she see reason and how can I make him love me and visions of terrified faces in the mirror. Mine. Mine. Mine. Houses and rings and scuba diving and macabre corpses dressed in wedding finery and bodies clutching and writhing and moaning and bank statements and divorce papers.


And no one will understand this but you.

Lazy

This is an old piece of writing that crossed my mind a few days ago.  I miss the days when things like this just popped into my head.  I'm hoping it will come back.

Lazy

We went to the beach yesterday at sunset, the first time we left the house all day. The air was clean and sweet in our damaged lungs, and we smiled at the smell of saltwater on the breeze (we're so lucky to live here).



One person approached us wanting a cigarette (sorry, man, don't have any), another for marijuana (naw, dude, it's not me that has it...yeah, I smell it too) and we went into a little shop for something warm to sip on (two large cappuccinos and this candy necklace. thanks). We were lazy and had fuzzy heads from drinking and smoking too much the night before. Our steps were slow and heavy as we walked out to the end of the pier. Everyone else was walking in, as if the show was over - but it wasn't. They just weren't looking in the right place. People rarely do.


We held hands and stared down at the water, both of us thinking about the little boy who should have been with us, and the little girl who lives only in our imaginations for now. Her dark wavy hair and green eyes are always in the back of my mind, especially when I look at his blonde curly hair and bright blue eyes. He looks so much like his mom that it makes me want to cry sometimes.


It has turned chilly, and I was bundled up in a sweater under a sweatshirt and a beanie covering my newly-short hair. I could feel the wind caressing the back of my neck with chilly fingers, and your fingers even colder as you slipped them under my shirt to stroke my belly. The surfers below us were starting to go in, one by one, as it got darker and darker.


You started a drumbeat on my shoulders (ready to go? yeah - let's go) and we turned and walked back to the car with our arms around each other, swaying slightly on the uneven boards.