In the glow of my tiny square Brooklyn bedroom, atop my golden brown sheets with its pink polka dotted comforter, I feel the crawl of ancient endorphins up my spine. To sit with this pain—to see her lying asleep in the blue moonlight, her brunette tresses scattered like sunrays across the pillow—is an odd sensation, which in the scheme of things serves only my art. And as quickly as it appears, the vision dissolves. The reverie fades, and I am again present with myself.
Our stories weigh the longer we have carried them. In the throes of it, or even those moments of latent sadness, it seems so real, and so inert. A stone within us. There was a time when we ached to remember who we were, on the other side of our wounds. But the scars never fade. They instead become stories. Tales of times far gone. And we hold them to our breast like our mothers did with us.
Eventually, however, we wish only to close the door on those memories—to leave them where they lie—and, if we so desire, have a laugh at the absurdity of it.
A summer had gone by since she’d written in the book, since she’d felt even the smallest glimmer of desire to look at it. From spring to autumn, it sat on the shelf hosting dust mite symposia and nothing else. More than a few of the mites had, in the process, acquired a deeper sense of meaning in their tiny lives just by perching on the cover, gnawing through the title page, while others still found simple contentment floating mindlessly in the sun beams that poured through Anna’s bedroom window.
It was November when circumstance finally pushed her back into the writing chair, when the silent approach of winter hung still in the doorway. Fall had come in a flash, almost without salutation. All at once the leaves yellowed and the skies grew awfully grey.
The day she returned to the book the weather proved rather mild. The wind moved like laughter through the air. And the moon had come out well before curtain call.
By this time, the Quartet had left House du Petit, no doubt in search of warmer climes–more specifically the climes of an invisible Hawaiian island, where, according to Anna, a stale apple pie spoke at length of humanity’s worst mistakes, and the honeybees were as big as your fist.
Meanwhile Anna had returned to the Midwest, hoping to lead some semblance of a normal life. The Shaman saw to it that she wouldn’t–and it was precisely his interference, an ongoing and increasingly vivid campaign of dream transmissions, that prompted her to sit down and finally write once more.
After all, the Book of Pie would not finish itself.
Came home last night and sat on my bed.
Got to thinking about my purpose.
Felt this immense amount of energy begin to move through me.
Up my spine.
Out my head.
I saw the star suspended above me.
It’s inconceivable light pouring down on me.
And in the ensuing silence,
The words, ‘please don’t leave me.’
Rose inside me,
Came to my lips,
From a place deep within.
And I sobbed the nameless sob
Until there was nothing left
But smeared mascara running down my cheeks.
There is a wound in me.
And last night it made itself known.
This blog has once more become a private sanctuary. I’m glad for it. Exposure is lovely. Solitude is better. Even still I worry for my privacy. For my ability to speak without consequence. Hence the physical journal that no one sees. The one in which I haven’t written a heartfelt thing in months. I have shied from it. I’m tired. Wishing I could sleep. Wishing that artistry wasn’t such a struggle. Wishing this world supported my craft on a socioeconomic level. Wishing what I did for money didn’t secretly ruin my sense of self while seeming to empower it. I live in a catch 22. Paradox is my middle name. Sadness haunts me when I cannot hear it. Body image issues hang like shadows over my being. A yearning to be what I can never be. A yearning to turn the clock back to a time before high school. Somewhere amidst the blossoming of my true self. To a time when I could have changed my fate. But what I am. The life I lead. Appear to me fated. Inevitable. Unchangeable. Fixed. Static. So again acceptance forces its way into my mouth. Forces its way into the meat of me. The core that demands peace. That is made of it. That is shrouded in illusory tapestries of misplaced suffering. So here I am. Alive. And that must be good enough. That must be sufficient. For I’ve no other option but death. And death is no option at all. Because it will come of its own accord at some point. There is no rush and there is no uncertainty about it. Only the necessity to live well and rightly and bear whatever the universe has seen fit to lay upon my plate.
The grey sky looks blue when you’re yellow.
I hope the rain cradles you
And makes you new.
Want to know something about the Shaman?
He’s not Jesus. He’s just a guy who stumbled by accident upon the waters of eternal life.
Making pie is not about immortality.
It is about leaving his burdens behind.
Getting out of his mind.
Away from himself.
From his sins.
But his past isn’t going anywhere.
It’s as present as the noon day sun hanging over the Pacific.
He wakes up and faces it every morning.
It’s his cross to bear.
And Anna has not come to set him free,
Nor has he come to enlighten her.
Of this we can be certain:
The two have things to learn from each other.
For they are more alike than either know.
I could be
Visions of suicide
Take me away
Help me erase.
What else is there to say of this world? It could be said that Italians do not eat peanut butter, that love is not what we think it is, that sex and music are humans’ two greatest languages, that blackberries have no qualms with blueberries, and spider wasps provide great metaphors.
It could be said that magic is real, that a girl with loose auburn curls and the smile of a child could easily arouse it in your life, but that it takes considerable effort and intention to arouse it within yourself.
It could be said that a cherry pie knows everyone’s deepest secrets and still has room left for filling, or that hamsters — given the right diet — could make an entire island invisible.
It could be said that the Shaman is actually the second coming of Jesus. But it could also be said that he’s a lunatic with a weird grin and a past too sad for movies.
It could be said that a caterpillar must become soup before transforming into a butterfly, that disrupting the process could ruin everything.
It could be said that she is happy, and fulfilled, and that you have no idea what’s real anymore.
It could be said that the wheel is finally grinding to a halt, and that something else is there winking at you.
It could be said that I am not a writer at all, but an animated clump of flesh that will one day make a great dinner for a family of worms. And that any attempt I make to articulate the seering mystery of things is about as useful as a carton of old milk. It’s not going to do you any good for me to tell you how to live your life.
I was a child once.
Big nebulous dreams
Some of them nightmares. And that child has grown into a tangled mess of paradoxes. She’s basically a box of Christmas lights wrapped in garden hoses. She’s basically the human version of an alien. Her curls have been known to pick up radio transmissions from space, and every one of them sounds like Don Knotts playing the washboard.
Zero is more of a number then ten will ever be.
Twin flames are real but that doesn’t matter much at all.
Sometimes angels will tell you important things but you’re addicted to your cell phone so you’ll miss most of it.
Sometimes you write in the second person when referring to yourself.
I could be