This is going to be another free-write--the truth of my gut feelings can come out freely. I beg for them to reveal themselves and exit my body so that I can clear my head, feel my lungs, taste my breath like wildflowers in the gutter, sleeping in the sidewalks and walking on my bed. These are the hours of conversations on phones, computer screens, living rooms, car seats purged onto pages.
Sometimes all we want is for an ear to hear our silence, for our gaze to speak operas that cry tears at subtle pauses, for our encores to be brought on by an applause of every moon, every morning, every dawn of a new noon.
Sometimes old trees are our best audiences.
Sometimes I wish I could stop thinking strong and start breathing love. Sometimes I wish I wasn't moving already, that I still had yet to begin, that the rest had not already been done; that the lessons were yet to come, that for now I could remain young, that my reflection would not present me with wrinkles of wisdom on my brain; that my heart would still be two-dimensional, paper-thin construction, paper mache, gentle, soft, light and trusting that the wind would carry it away; that my heart would not be afraid that without a solid stronghold it would be blown asunder, crumbled, folded, or framed as an invitation for someone else to be a valentine on any given day.
Sometimes strongholds come in the shape of push pins, staples, wooden stakes, or moving boxes, king sized beds, clothes worn second-hand. Sometimes strongholds can also be friends. Sometimes they are nothing but dreams and illusions.
I wish that the tissue of my young paper heart would not dissolve so easily in tear-water, cried at operas of the drama that seems to fall with the leaves, perennial as the seasons. The colors of autumn were at their height before I could write them tonight. I fear that when I return to read them their passion, their fire, will have already been lost in transcription.
I wish that I, too, could naively ask for another to 'be mine.' Won't you be mine, to have and to hold, to cherish and love until death do we die? What would a vow mean if it was recognized that words are most powerful only in the instant when they are first stated? Is that why we write things down, to have them to hold, to cherish and preserve, so that we don't touch the fear of it dying? Our love. Our life. Our selves. Our truth.
This is my night. This is the noontide spectacle of dark light that struggles to recognize the strength it takes to reconcile the temporality of changes, the flux that life makes as the Earth continues to move, as the leaves fade into the dirt, below my aching feet that sometimes beg to be carried.
Sometimes I feel too old.
Sometimes I wonder what it takes to be fearless falling.
From limbs full of faith. From heaven stripped of grace. From love lost in speech.
Is this what it is to let go--passionately?
--10/30/09
Sometimes all we want is for an ear to hear our silence, for our gaze to speak operas that cry tears at subtle pauses, for our encores to be brought on by an applause of every moon, every morning, every dawn of a new noon.
Sometimes old trees are our best audiences.
Sometimes I wish I could stop thinking strong and start breathing love. Sometimes I wish I wasn't moving already, that I still had yet to begin, that the rest had not already been done; that the lessons were yet to come, that for now I could remain young, that my reflection would not present me with wrinkles of wisdom on my brain; that my heart would still be two-dimensional, paper-thin construction, paper mache, gentle, soft, light and trusting that the wind would carry it away; that my heart would not be afraid that without a solid stronghold it would be blown asunder, crumbled, folded, or framed as an invitation for someone else to be a valentine on any given day.
Sometimes strongholds come in the shape of push pins, staples, wooden stakes, or moving boxes, king sized beds, clothes worn second-hand. Sometimes strongholds can also be friends. Sometimes they are nothing but dreams and illusions.
I wish that the tissue of my young paper heart would not dissolve so easily in tear-water, cried at operas of the drama that seems to fall with the leaves, perennial as the seasons. The colors of autumn were at their height before I could write them tonight. I fear that when I return to read them their passion, their fire, will have already been lost in transcription.
I wish that I, too, could naively ask for another to 'be mine.' Won't you be mine, to have and to hold, to cherish and love until death do we die? What would a vow mean if it was recognized that words are most powerful only in the instant when they are first stated? Is that why we write things down, to have them to hold, to cherish and preserve, so that we don't touch the fear of it dying? Our love. Our life. Our selves. Our truth.
This is my night. This is the noontide spectacle of dark light that struggles to recognize the strength it takes to reconcile the temporality of changes, the flux that life makes as the Earth continues to move, as the leaves fade into the dirt, below my aching feet that sometimes beg to be carried.
Sometimes I feel too old.
Sometimes I wonder what it takes to be fearless falling.
From limbs full of faith. From heaven stripped of grace. From love lost in speech.
Is this what it is to let go--passionately?
--10/30/09
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