I write about things.
He was sharp, a paring knife. Slicing through the weakest point of the heel, through flesh. Into bone, splicing the cartilage, into shortcomings, flaws, inadequacies, errors, faults, failings, deficiencies, insufficiencies, weaknesses, limitations.
Knowing him was like taking a boot off, rolling the sock down, and exposing the pink flesh of the heel. Here, right here. Draw your edge right along this delicate bone. Nick at the soft underflesh.
(Limping to the drugstore. Need bandages.)
Bird and Storm.
There was a place of lonesome days.
There, the days were unchanging, one the same after the other.
There, a bird flew low, her abdomen almost touching the ground.
Her feathers had become marred, tattered from skating across rough earth, edged in frayed silk.
(She cried and trilled, until no animal in the forest could distinguish her joy from her trouble. The melody in her music had bled out.)
She stopped, else broken to fly, landing upon mulched and coarse grasses.
The forest floor, loam, dark, all was—Crack! the light flung through the trees!
The light illuminating a starless sky, from beginning to end, the light washing white the grasslands.
The bird’s heart beat fast, painfully within her breast. She tucked her head under a bent and broken wing, on tenterhooks.
(This was a surprise. No trembling in the earth’s floor, no mist in the air had prophesied a Storm.)
The bolt thundered down, voltage-bearing and alive, harsh.
Revealing rays sparked a fire, burning a path through the forest:
Just there, a new-formed corridor, pristine, unwalked, waiting for her steps.
Storm/lightening fostering light. Storm, a welcome rain.
(The little bird opened one eye from behind feathers. All daylight, everywhere, and a lyric hovered in the spray.)
###
Diane,
I wrote something tonight, a little tribute to you. It goes:
What is space, or time, but chalked lines taught to us in our childhoods? Because over all the hours and footsteps that have separated us, you are ever near to me, ever accessible, ever Diane-like, ever the same. And that particular sameness is all one needs to be reminded that life is texture and angles and creativeness tempered by practicality. You remind me of doll-boxes: delightful in their whole form, ever more delightful when opened. I thank the lovely doll-boxes and the Dianes of the world for all the little truths and reminders that comfort a nervous soul: jobs are JOBS, kids are worth the work, books transplant us…and mostly, that we are never as far away from one another as we’d at first believe.
Thank you.
It has been a very long time since I’ve written. But that’s not really true. I write everyday, but the things I write lately are not fit for public consumption. They are all about the private triumphs and disappointments one experiences in their inner life.
I have thought seriously of deleting this entire blog. It feels…not relevant, a chore, frivolous. It feels like something “other” or apart from real life.
Are you like me, you blogger, you? Do you read sitemeter like I do, searching for clues on who’s searching for you. Who’s that faceless person in Baltimore trying, day after day (though you don’t post every day–not even nearly!) for you. All when the ONE you want, that particular someone, ignores you–their longs&lats never showing up on sitemeter–an insult and a rebuke by their daily absence.
Are you like me?
A few readers have emailed me, wondering what’s happened to several recent posts. It’s nice to know people are paying attention…as one wonders at times if the words are simply going out into the ether.
Some of my recent posts explored matters of the heart: the hope, exhilaration, disappointment, frustration, confusion, vulnerability, hurt, butterflies, giddiness, inspiration, et cetera, et cetera, etc. And some of you found it interesting, and some of you found it worrisome: where’s the commentary on our girl’s daily life? Did our friend go out to LaLa Land? (Yes.) Did she ever get to Limantour? (No.)
So I’ve deleted some things for the time being. Those posts may show up again, when I release my Greatest Hits collection, but for now…they collect dust.
So I am, what now? On a scale of 1 to 10, what?
I’m a seven in prettiness,
a six in brains,
a two in articulation,
an eight in presence,
four in emotional brattiness,
five in the ability to be realistic,
three as compared to your peers,
nine when compared to my peers,
a one in confidence.
Come on. Come on, multiply me. Make me more than the sum of my parts.
Here’s what you’ll need:
Writers,
Go here: http://www.duotrope.com
Publish, publish, publish…then sell, sell, sell. This is a proven strategy for new (and not-so-new) writers. Publish in the smaller periodicals, get established, then start in on the paying markets.
Just a thought.
Use your words.
Take heart, broken sad heart. Autumn is on its piper way, and with it, orange-red something somethings
no no no
(Deep breaths, girl.
Okay, try again. And a one, a two.)
Take heart, sad heart. Autumn is on its way, marching forth, and with it, fire-crossed embers that seal off pain. Isn’t that what they did? Sear the skin with molten coals to prevent bleeding? And didn’t they
… tttttt
Didn’t they—
Um, didn’t they used to (something poetic and profound to be written here)
(Deep breaths, honey)
Oh God. I cannot write.
mary june brown 