I read a friend's article about journeys today--new journeys--toward one's creativity. For some reason, reading about journeys about to be or journeys never had causes the sockets in my eyes to get soggy.
I sit here at the computer on a rainy New Year's Eve in the no light of my kitchen. My daughter's dog patiently rests at my side one moment and then rustles to the window to check out the chickadees and tufted titmouses at the feeders the next. I find myself wondering if dogs think about journeys.
Dogs' journeys consist of waking up and licking their owner's face in the bright light of a morning, searching out the dish for food twice a day, sipping clean water from the bowl, taking extra naps for good measure (especially naps basking in the sunbeams coursing through the window), playing well with others and their toys in between, and keeping watch for exciting happenings like birds at the feeder or the squatter squirrels who try to act like birds and steal their seeds.
Maybe each day of a dog's life is a miniature journey where they carry on and into whatever that day brings. Dog medicine in Native American beliefs represents loyalty. Dogs are loyal to their owners and to the day--the day they open their shiny eyes to and the day they curl into a warm slumber with at night. Dogs take the journey as it comes. Their creativity comes in the living of the day.
Some of us never take the journey at all--creative or otherwise. I think that's what my friend was saying.
Some of us open our eyes on the new day's sun only to let a foggy filter keep us from seeing our true selves--that little girl who always wanted to take tap dance lessons and wear red-fringed costumes with sparkles--the lad whose one wish was to hike across the country but whose only hike is to and from his desk at the office.
We know those dreams. We dropped them behind us in little pieces of bread crumbs like Hansel and Gretel hoping we would always be able to find our way back. But when we're ready, the crumbs are gone and the dreams diminished, barely recognizable, so we keep doing what we do instead of being who we truly are.
And the sad thing, between all these mixed metaphors of dogs and Hansel and Gretel and lost dreams, is some of us never find our way out of the murkiness and mediocrity of our own lives.
Why? We're too afraid what we'll find in the glory of who we are sparkles more than any glittered costume we ever could have worn as a small child. We're afraid if we let ourselves shine it might cause someone else to go blind.
Our answer to all those fears comes in the living of the day. If we awaken to the sun and truly see it, bless it, revel in it, then we begin to know. If we eat our three or however many meals in thanksgiving for the peas, beans and squash prepared before us, we begin to know. If we hustle to the window to welcome the day’s excitement, we begin to know. If we take those we love and cradle them in our arms, and laugh and play and dance twenty-four hours in joy, we begin to know. If we, upon our slumber, realize we have given to that day everything we are and have and might be and will be, we begin to know.
And if we are able to do all these things, rest assured we've rubbed the mediocrity from our eyes and have begun.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Holding On/Holding Still
Sometimes in life we feel stuck. We drudge through the murky mud of confusion--confusion definitely too muddy and murky to get unstuck.
I've spent much of the past ten years stuck--stuck in fear of moving into all I can be, stuck in refusing to look at life and relationships with a magnifying glass of truth, stuck in failing to lift one dirtied foot from the mire and step in action as a method of moving on.
Sometimes mud on our boots can appear safer than a clean pair of Keds on a mission.
Don't get me wrong about being stuck though. It's not like my life has been on pause the entire time. I have done stuff--finished my masters, now teach English to Freshmen in college, have written a novel.
But this stuckness is a pattern--a pattern of holding on to what is--whether or not the clean after the mud might offer growth, light, love. The mud--it's just too thick.
So I hold on.
I wrote about holding on in my journal the other day. This is how that went:
November 27, 2006
In this moment, my eyes feel like heaters blow inside the sockets drying them out, causing pain. I hear the faint roar of car engines on the highway, of people headed back to their jobs post Thanksgiving. I hear Sunny (my white fluffy dog) moaning and snoring. I hear the faint call of birds through the morning's dark.
I feel my hand on the page of this journal, holding it down, holding it in place, and I think about how I'm always either trying to hold my life still so I don't have to change, or change and get my life to a point where I want it to hold still while I revel in finding what speaks to my soul's essence.
I remember as a little girl when my mom tried to comb my hair or pin up a hem on a dress she was making for me, or measure an outfit against me while in the process of sewing. I'd squirm. She'd say, "Hold still a minute so I can do my work."
But I always had the propensity, the coquettish nature to move around and flirt with my image. Whether attempting to stand still for my mom or while gazing at my image in a mirror or my reflection in one as I passed by, I couldn't hold still. Even in professional photographs of family, I was the one turned in the opposite direction, my head tilted just so unlike anyone else in the picture.
I've been trying to hold still forever, to contain my body's fever and passion and desire. I figured if I held down the page of the journal securely enough or tried to hold myself still for my mother or for a picture or for my life, maybe I wouldn't catch up to what I wanted to be.
So what do I do with all this trying to be still when my spirit wants to splash barefoot in clear streams? I need to let go. Let myself go, my life go. I need to give myself permission to mess up the photograph, to be prissy in front of mirrors, to find that girl in me who couldn't be contained, but somehow, over the years, learned to crave the safety containment offered.
She's in there somewhere. She's not sure what she wants exactly or how it will look exactly, but it will offer a chance for opening to all she is rather than telling herself over and over "just hold still a few more years."
I've spent much of the past ten years stuck--stuck in fear of moving into all I can be, stuck in refusing to look at life and relationships with a magnifying glass of truth, stuck in failing to lift one dirtied foot from the mire and step in action as a method of moving on.
Sometimes mud on our boots can appear safer than a clean pair of Keds on a mission.
Don't get me wrong about being stuck though. It's not like my life has been on pause the entire time. I have done stuff--finished my masters, now teach English to Freshmen in college, have written a novel.
But this stuckness is a pattern--a pattern of holding on to what is--whether or not the clean after the mud might offer growth, light, love. The mud--it's just too thick.
So I hold on.
I wrote about holding on in my journal the other day. This is how that went:
November 27, 2006
In this moment, my eyes feel like heaters blow inside the sockets drying them out, causing pain. I hear the faint roar of car engines on the highway, of people headed back to their jobs post Thanksgiving. I hear Sunny (my white fluffy dog) moaning and snoring. I hear the faint call of birds through the morning's dark.
I feel my hand on the page of this journal, holding it down, holding it in place, and I think about how I'm always either trying to hold my life still so I don't have to change, or change and get my life to a point where I want it to hold still while I revel in finding what speaks to my soul's essence.
I remember as a little girl when my mom tried to comb my hair or pin up a hem on a dress she was making for me, or measure an outfit against me while in the process of sewing. I'd squirm. She'd say, "Hold still a minute so I can do my work."
But I always had the propensity, the coquettish nature to move around and flirt with my image. Whether attempting to stand still for my mom or while gazing at my image in a mirror or my reflection in one as I passed by, I couldn't hold still. Even in professional photographs of family, I was the one turned in the opposite direction, my head tilted just so unlike anyone else in the picture.
I've been trying to hold still forever, to contain my body's fever and passion and desire. I figured if I held down the page of the journal securely enough or tried to hold myself still for my mother or for a picture or for my life, maybe I wouldn't catch up to what I wanted to be.
So what do I do with all this trying to be still when my spirit wants to splash barefoot in clear streams? I need to let go. Let myself go, my life go. I need to give myself permission to mess up the photograph, to be prissy in front of mirrors, to find that girl in me who couldn't be contained, but somehow, over the years, learned to crave the safety containment offered.
She's in there somewhere. She's not sure what she wants exactly or how it will look exactly, but it will offer a chance for opening to all she is rather than telling herself over and over "just hold still a few more years."
Friday, June 23, 2006
Seven Commandments of the Goddess
I wrote this at a writing conference held at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico taught by the truly gifted, award-winning writer Eunice Scarfe. It sort of "came" one early morning while I inhaled the beauty of that much Red Rock form in one place. I love how this writing calls us to journey always toward our true selves.
Enjoy your day!
Karen
--------------------------------------------------------
Seven Commandments of the Goddess
I went to the mesa.
I saw the goddess.
The goddess said, “Bow down. You are on holy ground. For every place you are is holy and every place I am is holy and one is not holier than the other. So bow down low and rest your head on your own holy of holies.”
Then her breath came as a cream wind, but it came and lifted me off the holy ground of me and you and her, and it lifted up my arm as if it was a puppet of the cream wind, and placed a thin stone in my hand. Then the voice, gentle and hers, that matched the cream wind again spoke.
“Carve.”
I knew what to do.
1. Always look back at Gomorrah. You don’t want to miss one thing. If you turn into salt, then salt the earth with your body, a human shaker across the bland lands.
2. Don’t wait for the sunrise to come on your dream. Arise, it has come. Look out your window. It has raised its balled fist of fire to say, I can. I will. No one can stop me. Just behind the mesa it rose and surprised us all. The power of it.
3. Abandon any thought of others “doing” life for you. You are the carver, the Red Rock your tablet. If the Red Rock remains without story, the etch of your four elements—air, wind, earth, and fire—nations will not know. Go alone. Do not fear the mesas.
4. You may want to bring your mother or father, brothers or sisters, or significant others to witness the holiest places you’ve been shown. You may do this if you wish. Know the price of pinning miniatures of your family to your garments for the journey. You see, they have their own journeys as well where you can’t go. They have their holiest place and you have yours. Allow. Allow the split in the rock to occur naturally.
5. About saving the world with whatever it is you carve in the Red Rock. Bow your head in humility—the world is saved as each one of us takes up our thin stone driven by the cream wind of goddess and drives epics into the walls that have held us captive. Save yourself. The world is nourished by one woman telling her story and the next and the next until we’ve created a weaving of story, a vibrant shawl of light we can wrap around the world as love gift. Remember, wrapping something in love and trying to save it are two different things.
6. Go where no woman has gone. That means if you stand on Kitchen Mesa, reach on your tippy toes as high as you can, your hands trying to touch the secrets of the lowest stars. Don’t stop there. “Bend and stretch. Reach for the stars. Stand on tippy toes. Reach for Mars." Reach farther, even though it may hurt a little, for the nine planets of women that haven’t yet been discovered. Be an astronomer of women. They sparkle about the earth undiscovered. They live in wells as holy water never drawn. They are embedded in rock waiting for lullaby hands. They smother underground. You see the sprig of their growth atop the desert. Dig down under the smallest green and you may find a vegetable or root you’ve never known.
7. Never forget each of you have the cream wind—no one different from the next. The cream wind blows the same for all. It comes down to who is willing to be on the mesa alone, take the tool in her hand, and change the shape of the Red Rock forever.
Shelnutt Copyright 2006
Enjoy your day!
Karen
--------------------------------------------------------
Seven Commandments of the Goddess
I went to the mesa.
I saw the goddess.
The goddess said, “Bow down. You are on holy ground. For every place you are is holy and every place I am is holy and one is not holier than the other. So bow down low and rest your head on your own holy of holies.”
Then her breath came as a cream wind, but it came and lifted me off the holy ground of me and you and her, and it lifted up my arm as if it was a puppet of the cream wind, and placed a thin stone in my hand. Then the voice, gentle and hers, that matched the cream wind again spoke.
“Carve.”
I knew what to do.
1. Always look back at Gomorrah. You don’t want to miss one thing. If you turn into salt, then salt the earth with your body, a human shaker across the bland lands.
2. Don’t wait for the sunrise to come on your dream. Arise, it has come. Look out your window. It has raised its balled fist of fire to say, I can. I will. No one can stop me. Just behind the mesa it rose and surprised us all. The power of it.
3. Abandon any thought of others “doing” life for you. You are the carver, the Red Rock your tablet. If the Red Rock remains without story, the etch of your four elements—air, wind, earth, and fire—nations will not know. Go alone. Do not fear the mesas.
4. You may want to bring your mother or father, brothers or sisters, or significant others to witness the holiest places you’ve been shown. You may do this if you wish. Know the price of pinning miniatures of your family to your garments for the journey. You see, they have their own journeys as well where you can’t go. They have their holiest place and you have yours. Allow. Allow the split in the rock to occur naturally.
5. About saving the world with whatever it is you carve in the Red Rock. Bow your head in humility—the world is saved as each one of us takes up our thin stone driven by the cream wind of goddess and drives epics into the walls that have held us captive. Save yourself. The world is nourished by one woman telling her story and the next and the next until we’ve created a weaving of story, a vibrant shawl of light we can wrap around the world as love gift. Remember, wrapping something in love and trying to save it are two different things.
6. Go where no woman has gone. That means if you stand on Kitchen Mesa, reach on your tippy toes as high as you can, your hands trying to touch the secrets of the lowest stars. Don’t stop there. “Bend and stretch. Reach for the stars. Stand on tippy toes. Reach for Mars." Reach farther, even though it may hurt a little, for the nine planets of women that haven’t yet been discovered. Be an astronomer of women. They sparkle about the earth undiscovered. They live in wells as holy water never drawn. They are embedded in rock waiting for lullaby hands. They smother underground. You see the sprig of their growth atop the desert. Dig down under the smallest green and you may find a vegetable or root you’ve never known.
7. Never forget each of you have the cream wind—no one different from the next. The cream wind blows the same for all. It comes down to who is willing to be on the mesa alone, take the tool in her hand, and change the shape of the Red Rock forever.
Shelnutt Copyright 2006
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Pages I completed in Linda's book Winter Garden for round robin
CLICK ON IMAGES FOR A LARGER VIEW OF PAGE
From Linda's Winter Garden Altered Book
"Queen of the Winter Garden"
From Linda's Winter Garden Altered Book
"Queen of the Winter Garden"
Pages from Altered Book Round Robin/Sheila Frank's book What is Art?
"Art Attack"
"Artsy"
"We are born as works of art."
"Art Freaks me out!"
"Art is getting naked on the page"
"Naked"
"Art Stat"
"Art is swimming to the deep end."
"Art is in the eye of the beholder"
This is the first page I did in Sheila's What is Art?
book. I loved working on this theme. This page
is a pop-up.
"Art is Poetry"
These pages are from entries I did in Sheila Frank's
book in a round robin. Her book was called
What is Art? Some verses from a poem I wrote
appear on this page.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.
January to February. February to March. I'm counting it on my fingers and it has been two months sinced I've dared open the doors to the blog space. Why? Who the hell knows? Well, I have some ideas. I got this feeling that I should only write happy, smiley-face entries. I could hear in my head the many times adult people had told me when I wasn't an adult people, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."
So I haven't. The thing about me is--the way the part of me that wants to say something nice arrives at the point of saying something nice is by allowing some of the not nice to find its splat of space too. Okay, I hear you saying, "But do you have to tell us everything? It is sooo depressing?" And you know, I don't have to and I haven't for two months. This past two months hasn't been overly visited by the smiley-faced fairy, and what I might have written here wouldn't have been pretty. Not at all.
I have conversations in the winter wilderness, during those chilled and sunless months, with God or whomever will listen to please keep my mood-meter at least on the moderate-to- operational level. I struggle with seasonal depression--it's kind of like spring allergies except you don't sneeze--your brain just goes into some odd incubation period for three months of the year. I try to cop a deal with God about borrowing the sun and putting it exactly inside my house for those months--who else really needs it as much as I do then--I think having the sun to myself for the winter would pretty much take care of seasonal anything.
Usually, by late March my brain tissue begins to thaw and all is well and all matter of things are well, or however that goes. So you've caught me in thawing mode--which I guess could be good or bad--but here I am, feeling better and looking at the daffodil my husband placed beside my computer this morning all contented in its crystal vase. Have you ever noticed how much some daffodils look like smiley faces? Now that is a scary spring-like thought for you.
So from my cocoon of winter slumber I say, "Hello, world!" Thank you for not giving up on me. Thank you for smiley faces even when I don't get them, even when I wish I could collect all the smiley faces in the world and distort their gleeful countenances. Everything is better after March 21--even though it's 32 degrees in Atlanta--I guess God did let me borrow the sun--I am well.
And to those adult people who told me to say nice things or not say anything at all when I wasn't an adult people, "Look, I finally did it." :-)
Happy Spring!
So I haven't. The thing about me is--the way the part of me that wants to say something nice arrives at the point of saying something nice is by allowing some of the not nice to find its splat of space too. Okay, I hear you saying, "But do you have to tell us everything? It is sooo depressing?" And you know, I don't have to and I haven't for two months. This past two months hasn't been overly visited by the smiley-faced fairy, and what I might have written here wouldn't have been pretty. Not at all.
I have conversations in the winter wilderness, during those chilled and sunless months, with God or whomever will listen to please keep my mood-meter at least on the moderate-to- operational level. I struggle with seasonal depression--it's kind of like spring allergies except you don't sneeze--your brain just goes into some odd incubation period for three months of the year. I try to cop a deal with God about borrowing the sun and putting it exactly inside my house for those months--who else really needs it as much as I do then--I think having the sun to myself for the winter would pretty much take care of seasonal anything.
Usually, by late March my brain tissue begins to thaw and all is well and all matter of things are well, or however that goes. So you've caught me in thawing mode--which I guess could be good or bad--but here I am, feeling better and looking at the daffodil my husband placed beside my computer this morning all contented in its crystal vase. Have you ever noticed how much some daffodils look like smiley faces? Now that is a scary spring-like thought for you.
So from my cocoon of winter slumber I say, "Hello, world!" Thank you for not giving up on me. Thank you for smiley faces even when I don't get them, even when I wish I could collect all the smiley faces in the world and distort their gleeful countenances. Everything is better after March 21--even though it's 32 degrees in Atlanta--I guess God did let me borrow the sun--I am well.
And to those adult people who told me to say nice things or not say anything at all when I wasn't an adult people, "Look, I finally did it." :-)
Happy Spring!
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Woman Carrying Papason Chair
On Tuesday night, I had my composition class write from prompts of a poem of Tony Hoagland's called "Man Carrying Sofa." I wrote along with them. This type exercise, which I learned from some wonderful writing teachers, always offers the most amazing writing by students.
I thought I would type Hoagland's poem here and then type my response. Of course, Hoagland is the professional poet. What I have written is not a polished poem as Hoagland's is, but a form to loosen the unrelenting phlegm the writing critic produces inside us which keeps us from our words. This exercise then allows a space for more imaginative and creative words to be written.
Man Carrying Sofa
by Tony Hoagland
Whatever happened to Cindy Morrison, that nice young lesbian?
I heard she moved to the city and got serious.
Traded in her work boots for high heels and a power suit.
Got a health-care plan and an attorney girlfriend.
Myself, I don't want to change.
It's January and I'm still dating my checks November.
I don't want to step through the doorway of the year.
I'm afraid of something falling off behind me.
I'm afraid my own past will start forgetting me.
Now the sunsets are like cranberry sauce
poured over the yellow hills, and yes,
that beauty is so strong it hurts--
it hurts because it isn't personal.
But we look anyway, we sit upon our stoops
and stare, --fierce,
like we were tossing down a shot of vodka, straight,
and afterwards, we feel purified and sad and rather Russian.
When David was in town last weeK,
I made a big show to him of how unhappy I was
because I wanted him to go back and tell Susan
that I was suffering without her--
but then he left and I discovered
I really was miserable
--which made me feel better about myself--
because, after all, I don't want to go through time untouched.
What a great journey this is,
this ordinary life of ants and sandwich wrapper,
of X-rated sunsets and drive-through funerals.
And this particular complex pain inside your chest;
this damanged longing
like a heavy piece of furniture inside you;
you carry it, it burdens you, it drags you down--
then you stop, and rest on top of it.
--------------------------------------------------
Now my turn:
Woman Carrying Papason Chair
by Karen Shelnutt
Whatever happened to Ernest Angely, the Elvis-hair lookalike
TV evangelist who I watched heal thousands as I lounged
on my papason chair at the Chateau de Ville Apartments
when I was in college in Birmingham, Alabama?
I haven't heard a thing about him for 25 years.
Maybe his hair fell out, or he married a prostitute, or he got a
huge illness called reality and stopped doing crazy religious TV.
Myself, I don't want to change.
It's January and I'd give anything for it to still be my
junior year of college and to be eating rice slopped with butter
and fried chicken breasts from Piggly Wiggly and watching Ernest Angely
and then Family Feud hosted by Richard Dawson.
I don't want to step through the doorway of the new year.
I'm afraid I've never gotten over being a junior, drinking spiked
punch at law school fraternity parties, and finding out way too
late for me what sexuality feels like. I'm afraid I can never
go back to exploring life and my vagina quite like I did it then.
Now the sunsets are like mushroom clouds, and yes, the
bright light and radiation are strong and it hurts because,
well, I told you, I can't find Ernest Angely on TV anymore
and now that bearded guy, Al, from Home Improvement hosts
Family Feud.
But we look anyway, we sit upon our last 25 years
and stare,--fierce,
at the sunsets of destruction in between like we just heard
there's an atomic bomb drill and we're in fifth grade
and we crawl under cafeteria tables and giggle to disguise our
fear of being blown away.
Years ago when David was still my friend,
I made myself to seem like some intellectual, but needy,
goddess, because I was still wanting the papason chair and
my junior year of college.
but then he left and I discovered the raw smell of aftermath,
of rotting eggs in my heart, and a mannequin life--which
made me feel better about myself--because after all, I don't
want to go through time untouched.
What a great journey this is,
this ordinary life of sleep and sleep,
of sleep and more sleep. And this particular complex
pain inside your chest, this damaged longing for
the papason chair and the junior year of college, is
like a heavy piece of furniture, you carry it,
it burdens you, it drags you down--
then you stop and rest on top of it.
--------------------------------------------------------
If anyone is interested in the prompts for this exercise, let me know and I'll send them along.
To our words,
Karen
-----------------------------------------------
I thought I would type Hoagland's poem here and then type my response. Of course, Hoagland is the professional poet. What I have written is not a polished poem as Hoagland's is, but a form to loosen the unrelenting phlegm the writing critic produces inside us which keeps us from our words. This exercise then allows a space for more imaginative and creative words to be written.
Man Carrying Sofa
by Tony Hoagland
Whatever happened to Cindy Morrison, that nice young lesbian?
I heard she moved to the city and got serious.
Traded in her work boots for high heels and a power suit.
Got a health-care plan and an attorney girlfriend.
Myself, I don't want to change.
It's January and I'm still dating my checks November.
I don't want to step through the doorway of the year.
I'm afraid of something falling off behind me.
I'm afraid my own past will start forgetting me.
Now the sunsets are like cranberry sauce
poured over the yellow hills, and yes,
that beauty is so strong it hurts--
it hurts because it isn't personal.
But we look anyway, we sit upon our stoops
and stare, --fierce,
like we were tossing down a shot of vodka, straight,
and afterwards, we feel purified and sad and rather Russian.
When David was in town last weeK,
I made a big show to him of how unhappy I was
because I wanted him to go back and tell Susan
that I was suffering without her--
but then he left and I discovered
I really was miserable
--which made me feel better about myself--
because, after all, I don't want to go through time untouched.
What a great journey this is,
this ordinary life of ants and sandwich wrapper,
of X-rated sunsets and drive-through funerals.
And this particular complex pain inside your chest;
this damanged longing
like a heavy piece of furniture inside you;
you carry it, it burdens you, it drags you down--
then you stop, and rest on top of it.
--------------------------------------------------
Now my turn:
Woman Carrying Papason Chair
by Karen Shelnutt
Whatever happened to Ernest Angely, the Elvis-hair lookalike
TV evangelist who I watched heal thousands as I lounged
on my papason chair at the Chateau de Ville Apartments
when I was in college in Birmingham, Alabama?
I haven't heard a thing about him for 25 years.
Maybe his hair fell out, or he married a prostitute, or he got a
huge illness called reality and stopped doing crazy religious TV.
Myself, I don't want to change.
It's January and I'd give anything for it to still be my
junior year of college and to be eating rice slopped with butter
and fried chicken breasts from Piggly Wiggly and watching Ernest Angely
and then Family Feud hosted by Richard Dawson.
I don't want to step through the doorway of the new year.
I'm afraid I've never gotten over being a junior, drinking spiked
punch at law school fraternity parties, and finding out way too
late for me what sexuality feels like. I'm afraid I can never
go back to exploring life and my vagina quite like I did it then.
Now the sunsets are like mushroom clouds, and yes, the
bright light and radiation are strong and it hurts because,
well, I told you, I can't find Ernest Angely on TV anymore
and now that bearded guy, Al, from Home Improvement hosts
Family Feud.
But we look anyway, we sit upon our last 25 years
and stare,--fierce,
at the sunsets of destruction in between like we just heard
there's an atomic bomb drill and we're in fifth grade
and we crawl under cafeteria tables and giggle to disguise our
fear of being blown away.
Years ago when David was still my friend,
I made myself to seem like some intellectual, but needy,
goddess, because I was still wanting the papason chair and
my junior year of college.
but then he left and I discovered the raw smell of aftermath,
of rotting eggs in my heart, and a mannequin life--which
made me feel better about myself--because after all, I don't
want to go through time untouched.
What a great journey this is,
this ordinary life of sleep and sleep,
of sleep and more sleep. And this particular complex
pain inside your chest, this damaged longing for
the papason chair and the junior year of college, is
like a heavy piece of furniture, you carry it,
it burdens you, it drags you down--
then you stop and rest on top of it.
--------------------------------------------------------
If anyone is interested in the prompts for this exercise, let me know and I'll send them along.
To our words,
Karen
-----------------------------------------------
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
