Sometimes it reaches me in flashes. I'll take a breath or jump a stair and there it is like a coldness in my stomach. It's freedom. It's daring. Sometimes I smile and feel like I'm six again waking up to go play in the neighborhood, building worlds from stray boxes and spray paint. I remember waking up with this passion and apprehension for living. That was freedom. I've got to find a way to bring it to the present, catch it and contain it, make it mine. But then it wouldn't be freedom anymore would it? Ha.
Life's funny.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
The Empowered Don't Whisper II
The empowered do not fucking whisper. Whispers are for secrets and sins. And, anyway, the empowered are not afraid to exclaim either. So what was that I witnessed yesterday? I would call it walking on eggsells. Somehow it doesn’t fit.
I have always hated silence. Silence in schools, and in church, silence in tense and troubled conversations, silence in early day when even the sun screams mute it's ice blue tones, silence in regret. I always hated silence, but I hate whispers more.
Yesterday I sat with you on the stoop at midnight. The words were mostly the same, they’ve been the same all my life, but misery loves company and I’m vacant enough to be it’s vessel. We sat in that same old dead conversation, but this time something changed.
This time, you said, it was real. This time the words weren’t empty. This time you felt it and meant it, you said, because this time you had finally spoken it aloud, finally told him what you thought; that you couldn’t grow old like that. You couldn’t live to die.
I sat with you on the cold concrete and your hands were nervous and you filled your beer again, and whispered to me in a heavy lipped mess that you were finally happy. But people do not whisper when they are free, and tomorrow you will lay with him again.
I’m sorry I grew angry with you. I shouldn’t have yelled. You’re not ready for loudness. Maybe some day you’ll realize you’ve built your own cage. Maybe some day I’ll be able to forgive you, and realize I’ve built mine.
I have always hated silence. Silence in schools, and in church, silence in tense and troubled conversations, silence in early day when even the sun screams mute it's ice blue tones, silence in regret. I always hated silence, but I hate whispers more.
Yesterday I sat with you on the stoop at midnight. The words were mostly the same, they’ve been the same all my life, but misery loves company and I’m vacant enough to be it’s vessel. We sat in that same old dead conversation, but this time something changed.
This time, you said, it was real. This time the words weren’t empty. This time you felt it and meant it, you said, because this time you had finally spoken it aloud, finally told him what you thought; that you couldn’t grow old like that. You couldn’t live to die.
I sat with you on the cold concrete and your hands were nervous and you filled your beer again, and whispered to me in a heavy lipped mess that you were finally happy. But people do not whisper when they are free, and tomorrow you will lay with him again.
I’m sorry I grew angry with you. I shouldn’t have yelled. You’re not ready for loudness. Maybe some day you’ll realize you’ve built your own cage. Maybe some day I’ll be able to forgive you, and realize I’ve built mine.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Learning to Walk
When Daddy slammed the door, the floor and windows shaked, so I ran into the bathroom. I didn’t want to roof to fall down on me. In school, Ms. Armstrong said that during a tornado you are to run into the bathroom in case the roof falls in or the windows break. That’s the safest place, she said, so that’s where I was, waiting for the roof to cave in. I waited, but it was stuck real high and tight. Not even a piece came down.
I was glad. If the roof fell down I didn’t know what me and Momma would do. I didn’t want to go back to Grandma Clara’s. She smelled funny and her rice always burned to the pot. Her bathroom was too small for us to hide in if the roof came in. Momma told me to hush up and get out of the bathroom and into bed.
I hated my room. There were faces in the walls and they looked at me. They stared while I was trying to sleep, with big, scary eyes. They pretended they were part of the wood, but I could always see them, ugly,twisting mouths and mean eyes. I wished I couldn’t. I stared straight at the ceiling and thought of angels, like Momma said. Nothing can get you if you pray good enough, but sometimes I would think of a fairy godmother on her way to me, flying under the moon; flying in her sparkling dress. When she came I would get three wishes. I would wish for no more stupid faces on my wall. That, and no more rumbling roof or windows.
When Momma was done wiping the wetness from her eyes, she came to my door and looked in. She whispered goodnight and she closed my door just the way I liked it, with a little crack for the light from the kitchen. I pulled the blanket over my head, and heard the scrape of Momma sliding the chain on the door. I peeked my head out to see if the faces moved. They were smart and always knew when I would look. I pulled the covers back over my head and listened real hard. Momma was watching TV and I could hear all those big laughs coming from the set. Maybe Momma was laughing too. Maybe those small quiet laughs where you barely even have to smile, ‘cause I didn’t hear anything. I fell asleep.
I went to sleep until Daddy came back with his heavy hands and feet making noise on the door, making the windows shake again. This time I just layed still and silent, like at nap time in school. Daddy screamed and kicked and stomped and pushed at the chain and slid his fingers inside the door and then his screams were nothing and he stopped pushing the door and everything was very quiet. It still felt like the windows would crack.I pushed off my covers and got out of bed. I went to the slit in my door and squinted in the light. Momma was still standing at the door, still and small, naked feet on the linoleum. This time Momma didn’t slide the chain back.The door didn’t open and let the cold air in. She walked away.
When she saw me she picked up my doll by its little foot and the eyes looked at me sideways. Its hair hung down to the floor. She gave it to me and said to hush and get back to bed. I hugged her to my chest. It was my doll, my baby, my turn to say no to mean faces. I didn’t have to look straight at the ceiling, or pull the covers over my head. The chain was locked and I was big for my dolly just like Momma was for me.
I was glad. If the roof fell down I didn’t know what me and Momma would do. I didn’t want to go back to Grandma Clara’s. She smelled funny and her rice always burned to the pot. Her bathroom was too small for us to hide in if the roof came in. Momma told me to hush up and get out of the bathroom and into bed.
I hated my room. There were faces in the walls and they looked at me. They stared while I was trying to sleep, with big, scary eyes. They pretended they were part of the wood, but I could always see them, ugly,twisting mouths and mean eyes. I wished I couldn’t. I stared straight at the ceiling and thought of angels, like Momma said. Nothing can get you if you pray good enough, but sometimes I would think of a fairy godmother on her way to me, flying under the moon; flying in her sparkling dress. When she came I would get three wishes. I would wish for no more stupid faces on my wall. That, and no more rumbling roof or windows.
When Momma was done wiping the wetness from her eyes, she came to my door and looked in. She whispered goodnight and she closed my door just the way I liked it, with a little crack for the light from the kitchen. I pulled the blanket over my head, and heard the scrape of Momma sliding the chain on the door. I peeked my head out to see if the faces moved. They were smart and always knew when I would look. I pulled the covers back over my head and listened real hard. Momma was watching TV and I could hear all those big laughs coming from the set. Maybe Momma was laughing too. Maybe those small quiet laughs where you barely even have to smile, ‘cause I didn’t hear anything. I fell asleep.
I went to sleep until Daddy came back with his heavy hands and feet making noise on the door, making the windows shake again. This time I just layed still and silent, like at nap time in school. Daddy screamed and kicked and stomped and pushed at the chain and slid his fingers inside the door and then his screams were nothing and he stopped pushing the door and everything was very quiet. It still felt like the windows would crack.I pushed off my covers and got out of bed. I went to the slit in my door and squinted in the light. Momma was still standing at the door, still and small, naked feet on the linoleum. This time Momma didn’t slide the chain back.The door didn’t open and let the cold air in. She walked away.
When she saw me she picked up my doll by its little foot and the eyes looked at me sideways. Its hair hung down to the floor. She gave it to me and said to hush and get back to bed. I hugged her to my chest. It was my doll, my baby, my turn to say no to mean faces. I didn’t have to look straight at the ceiling, or pull the covers over my head. The chain was locked and I was big for my dolly just like Momma was for me.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
The Path the Mind Takes at 2:19am
Thirteen and sitting on the couch eating chinese food from the carton she looked at me with the eyes of a priestess or prophet and told me that one day I'd be beautiful. I believed her desperately. I've waited for that day. I've waited, but believe it now only out of habit. I am ashamed of the child I am, the child I remain. An atrocity, refusing to take life and make something of it. I wake up in the middle of the night hoping I am a nightmare I dreamed up.
It will pass. Yes it will pass. Everything does. The question is will it pass and take my life with it? Will I wake up one day at seventy- three and still be waiting? Does life happen to you or do you happen to life? Who can I blame for my own unhappiness in the end but myself?
Maybe it doesn't matter. Not everyone has the courage to be. Maybe that is the simple nature of things. Tomorrow I will wake up and meet the morning, and I will go out in it and maybe this is all the life I have to look forward to, and maybe it is not so bad.
It will pass. Yes it will pass. Everything does. The question is will it pass and take my life with it? Will I wake up one day at seventy- three and still be waiting? Does life happen to you or do you happen to life? Who can I blame for my own unhappiness in the end but myself?
Maybe it doesn't matter. Not everyone has the courage to be. Maybe that is the simple nature of things. Tomorrow I will wake up and meet the morning, and I will go out in it and maybe this is all the life I have to look forward to, and maybe it is not so bad.
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