Looking back on my summer thus far, I think I have accomplished quite a lot, considering all that needs to be and should be done! I completed 2 books and am anxious to start another! The moving process will be complete next week!!!!! AND I have had some extraordinary times with friends and family! I just subscribed to the Writer's Market online and have found it to be an extremely useful site for anyone interested in writing and finding a job centered around writing!!!
When I finished Krauss's The History of Love, I was speechless and left with an overwhelming adoration of her writing and style! Is loneliness ever so bad? I could not be happier that Dr. Sexson recommended this book!
I have met some extraordinary people this last year, or I should say the last five years, in Montana. Who would have guessed that so much talent could be held in that small town!
Back to the job search, reading, writing, and enjoying today.... but first one of my favorite passages from Krauss's book:
"At times I believed that the last page of my book and the last page of my life were one and the same, that when my book ended I'd end, a great wind would sweep through my rooms carrying the pages away, and when the air cleared of all those fluttering white sheets the room would be silent, the chair where I sat empty."
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Thoughts of you cloud my mind tonight
Wanting to sleep is it real or not
My dreams are my reality,
Reality my dreams. Or not?
Can I sleep to forget all this?
Wake up, fog lifted. Hello and goodbye.
Why do you call to me? I will tell you no.
Deep sigh I step into this world.
Off an edge, an unknown bliss.
Friday, April 15, 2011
I walked Down the street in the early morning light.
Juggling books, phone, scone, and coffee. It splashes and burns leaving my hand red and throbbing.
The sunlight shot between the buildings, bouncing off cars as they passed slowly.
I caught a glimpse of a girl I knew.
A girl I thought I knew. But it couldn't have been.
This girl was tired and sad. Her head was down, shaded by her hair.
Sunglasses hid her normally bright eyes that had now turned a dull grey.
A forced half smile that cried for RELIEF replaced the gleaming space Where ruckus laughter used to erupt.
She passed by quickly, not saying a word.
I turned the corner- looking back and she was gone.
On that old abandoned bench, I sat. I paged through eliot's wasteland.
Closing my eyes and breathing, The cool morning air refreshed me. The sun relaxed me. I faded into a dream.
I needed something more. Desired something more.
Heading back towards town, I contemplated Beckett. Too absurd. Something else.
Windows glared from the sunlight of the late afternoon.
I could get more coffee, but I'd be up all night.
Thumbing through the dusty books. Old ones crumbling like dried up leaves rested near new ones, craving to be touched and used over and over.
Poe. That might do. Something dark.
Drifting through town that night as the fog moved in, I felt a presence.
I turned around and saw nothing, but something stirred in the air, yet their was not even the most subtle of breezes.
The moonlight created faint shadows that danced among the trees.
I edged towards the pond. Just clear enough.
I gazed down, trying to see to the bottom but Vegetation and ripples obscured my vision.
The moonlight danced on the water. There she lay at the bottom, among the rocks. Powder white, sadness frozen upon her face.
I reached in to save her. She disappeared. She is both dead and living. Staring back at me.
I call it day. Rest my head only pillow. Her face haunts my dreams. I wake, wanting no more to dream.
And another sun rises.
Friday, April 8, 2011
I was lucky enough to sit and listen to Henry Real Bird speak on writing and life. He spoke with emotion and hope, from experiences of his life, and he was a great inspiration to us all.
"Me, I do not look like myself, I am lonesome"
I had to put my head down, hearing these words. I looked at my reflection and saw nothing satisfying today. I saw nothing that even remotely resembled me. I was able to ponder that a bit, then brush it off thinking it was probably just fatigue. Walking into class though someone looked at me and said, "Are you doing ok? You look horrible!" My eyes welled up because I knew he was right. This time I couldn't let it go. I had realized that how I was truly feeling was catching up and was as transparent as glass. I have a lot of reflecting to do, but not even this blog will suffice at the moment.
"Thought is from the shadow of the flame"
"Whatever we do, the good and the bad are there."
I have accepted the good AND bad in the people I love, I wouldn't change a thing. But it's hard to love someone who can't accept it themselves.
Monday, April 4, 2011
I just read Shel Silverstein's "where the sidewalk ends", I have not read his poems for years but picked it up tonight. This poem specifically took on a whole new meaning for me. I am finding that my sidewalk is coming to an end as well. But I think instead of cautiously approaching the end, I need to simply run, skip, jump and risk the fall. Children and their carefree smiles, days of playing only are such an inspiration.
"Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends."
I also read his poem, invitation. I have always loved this poem, possibly one of my favorites!
"If you are a dreamer, come in.
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer . . .
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire,
For we have some flax golden tales to spin.
Flames rise from the fire and I decide which to fill my night with, Silverstein or Eliot. Difficult decision but I could add some fun and lightheartedness to my week- Silverstein it is!
Monday, March 28, 2011
"and the day came when the risk it took to remain tightly closed in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to bloom"
"I want to say somewhere: I've tried to be forgiving. And yet. There were times in my life, whole years, when anger got the better of me. Ugliness turned me inside out. There was a certain satsfaction in bitterness...I was a human cancer. And to be honest: I wasn't really angry. Not anymore. I had left my anger somewhere long ago. Put it down on a park bench and walked away. And yet. It had been so long, I didn't know any other way of being. One day I woke up and said to myself: 'it's not too late.' The first days were strange. I let go and something let go of me."
~ The History of Love