Monday, March 15, 2010

(un)spoken word

words are just words. they can be sharp, empty, deceptively hope-filled but lacking in their own true sense of gravity. they may not be full enough to attract, to pull their own match in emotional weight.

i put more stake in feeling.

your touch is immediate in translating what you believe our relationship to be.
honest to our fingertips, trusting between our lips, we taste the meaning of our kiss and create new ways of experiencing what it is to be present with another and to feel at ease.

your smile, your hands, your kiss all speak love to me.


the seed: of potentialities

Reflecting back on the truths of last night, I heard in my voice a wish to be home again.
I've never felt connected without holding on to a future friend of possibilities.
Actualities can be
at least
At worst
they are scary.

Sometime, in a horizon of maybes, I may find myself settling into a warm bed of skin sensations
a kind of opening
a newness of finding place on my body
peace in my being.

There may even be a day when I stop thinking.

For the past month I have been moving.
and growing and learning and progressing
but slowly.
I've felt like this time it's been under ground
under control
There hasn't been a sweeping up and away

I'm feeling mindful of the steps I take
of the way that my body shifts its weight with each passing day
and within a space that remains always open.
Potentialities lay before me and my breathing keeps up
with me
in you
there is a quietude, a sense of ease
a non-questioning
not worried.
not groundless so not afraid

There is only a risk that you will be healthy
a healthy risk that I've never had the opportunity to appreciate.


remainders and the backbone that stays

I can commit myself to perforated pages with ease for these days can be removed at the seams of indentations.

But for now, so long as I can, I will let them remain intact since the dimples along the inside ridge allow for flexibility. These pages can lay flat and bend. At the same time. I can write.

And then, I will see that the marks, which could appear as wounds, are actually those parts that line up within the inside of this tree-body of thoughts and feelings. They create the backbone that replaces the sewn-in spine of all the other books.

It's also true that perforated pages can be easily removed. Maybe this is where confidence swells because what words may fail me are only temporary. I can remove them from my personal journal and report a different story. Maybe by then I will have forgotten what was even said about the last pages before I lost my patience, my space to write, my room to breathe, my openness to create. I can tear out these thoughts and never remember, except for the fact that there would be the remainder. The part that was already sewn to the cover, the brown outside that is exposed. It would still be there--truncated, amputated, cut from the rest of the story.

But it is also the case that perforated pages are those that can be cleanly separated from the rest of the past, delicately wrested from the words of days, months gone by in redundant incantations. They can be intentionally freed, one vertebrae at a time, with the pace of an old tree's resuscitated heart beat. slowly. deliberately. gracefully with patience. So that the page torn out becomes the one that is carried away in my pocket, or in my hand, or folded and neatly tucked away in my heart so that I will remember how easy it can be to flow when there is security in multiple possibilities.

I remain open to the chance that I might want to hold on to this particular page. Maybe for just fifteen days. But maybe for longer. Maybe there is a chance for even more maybes.


been quiet

but a lack of activity does not necessarily indicate a nothingness. it also reflects dormancy.

a germinating seed.