Cordially Yours,
Morsels of nonsense and textual indulgence: the virtual plane of intellectual stimulation and trivial curiosities…Archive for Memories
Silent Screams
preening bottles of perfume, lined up on shelves, turning their necks like pageant queens, and we’re sifting through scents, turning smells like pages in books. i shake my head or nod, uncommitted to that, or arrogant to this. then i smell something from then, and it’s so fucking hard. i’m there again. i’m there! straight backed little girl with knocking knees and silent mouth, and under my red school uniform, i’m screaming. i’m in the bathroom with the bad girls, smoking and talking about blowjobs, and i thought about punching her in the face when she ridiculed a “naive one”, but oh, silent mouth. because all my life the firsts would be ruined with those doors kept closed with my crib for my baby dolls scooted in front. his melting blue face worse than unsolved mysteries or shark bites at sea. i wore my guilt laced through my hair, dirty unravelled ribbons, and the stings of a the wire end of the flyswat on the backs of my legs. looking into the sink back then, staring at my fuzzy reflection, silent, while punished for a crime that i wasn’t a part of…
above it all, i jumped off mountains, and ripped briars through my hands. above it all, i polished hate into smooth little stones. i know every bone, hair, and scratch on my self. i know every single story i’ve told. Every single life I’ve lived, i know how it feels to burn yourself alive; to be dead for so many years. and because of it now, i love. i love the flawed. i love the emptiness of my stomach, the wrinkles around his eyes, and the beauty of her dragging her crippled leg behind her. i love their lazy eyes, and i love their mushed brains. i love scars; i love the bruises. i love those shattered, with the hollow in the bends of the arm that holds a cupful of secrets that you’ll probably never know. because really, all these broken, all these survivors. They survive.
The Girl :: Journal Excerpt from 2002
The small skinny girl standing in the middle of a weathered dirt road, torrential rain pouring from the black sky. Long hair strewn across her face, mud on her hands, stains on her cloth dress. Dirt rubbed into her sullen cheeks, tears outlining her bright eyes.
Soul. Spirit.
The moon is full and reflects off of her glistening skin. Eerie silence engulfs the surroundings, except for the echo of thunder and dash of lightening in the distance. Thunder crashes to her pulse. She rubs her eyes and wipes her thick wet hair off of her face. She glances into the distance and witnesses nothing.
Nothing. There is nothing.
For she is nothing, full of nothing and has hope of nothing but escape.
It’s frightfully saddening, the lonesomeness, and emptiness she feels. She wants to grab life and mutilate it. She wants to burn and feel pain. She wants to live, but she doesn’t know how. She’s lost. Turned around. She doesn’t know how to walk. Someone should have taught her. But it’s too late now.
She must teach herself.
The Mask
My face is painted. Red, purple and green.
Red for my fears, intolerance and wicked sense of rationality;
Purple for expectation, empathy, understanding and heart;
Green for my eccentricity, novel, warmth, harvest and provision.
Wordlings from 2006 Journal Excerpt C12.3
Excerpt C12.3
Sometime I feel as if I am swimming inside myself. My body, a vacant carcass, simply mulling in this world of confusion and dismay.
I am entangled within myself.
Confusion swallows me whole.
I know no left or right.
I know no right or wrong.
Save me.
I must save myself.
My bright eyes no longer shine.
I sink within my skin.
My flesh curls from my bone, my bone dissolves to limp, useless muscle.
I ache.
My body aches.
My heart aches.
My soul aches.
Why does it feel like this?
So empty.
Soo very empty.
Vacant.
Lost / Lazy / Cornfields
Excerpt from Journal 2 :: CHICAGO :: Lost / Lazy / Cornfields
Have you ever had one of those moments when every thing in your life seems to fall into place?
A puzzle; where suddenly all the proper pieces are illuminated with precision. You know where each place belongs. As you, yourself, began to identify commonalities and a path for improvement. Last night, was one of those rare and beautiful moments. I was venturing home; rubbing my dry eyes, ridding them of any crusted sleep and pinching my cheeks for a flush of color.
Glancing in the rear view mirror to witness the blissful and unadulterated slumber of [the apple of my eye]. I smiled. For the first time, in a very very long time, I smiled. And not just one of those generic grins, but a smile that rumbled in my belly and manifested with sincerity upon my face. I had smiled from my soul. I watched the sun set behind the lazy cornfields. It was a magnificent watercolor, streaked with vibrant paint of the heavens. I suppose that God looked down upon his world, with a deep breath of relief, and hope for peace, he trailed his fingers across the dusky skies.
PART III.
