I am on a 13 day streak – a flamingo… and I am not sure why I didn’t post here yesterday.
I wrote outside first, and came up with these words:
Will my stowaway poems, words, images break free, to join the others roaming around on the upper decks? I can’t fathom curiosity staying locked away, contained – abridged, condensed, in mask and costume. Silenced.
Check the laundry. I did.
They touch base, sometimes
Want to be heard, sometimes
I swat them away, mosquitos or flies or
children’s repetitive nagging requests
buzzing about my ear
“leave me be” my mouth mutters
most of the time, though…
They stay buried in the box
within my chest, barely audible
only rolling and bumping about
when the storms get rough
stowaway memories
lost within the blue lines
words, images, textures
and colors – -
I notice the footprints scattered
about in the dust or its nibbles on
or bread crumbs, unremembered
left behind, unswept
= = =
Stowaway. A worthy prompt when not tied into the arghs and ahoy maties that make so much stuff not quite worthy, not really right. Just sorta sluggish, those times. I don’t think pirates leaping or sword fighting or fleeing criminals, I think stowaways as in the ones I tuck away, the ones shame ignites.. the ones I hope no one finds or unearths as it may cause pain to me or to those I love. These are the stowaways which come to me.
Sometimes physical stowaways but more often energetic. Or thought stowaways.
Some people won’t stop talking to me, they are like physical “I wish you would stowaway out of my memory, out of my present, PLEASE go stowaway someplace!” Otherness.
Sitting on the porch, I watch the sun rise over the house which is for sale on Linden Avenue. The voice keeps nagging at me, much worse than my children. Rumble mumble humble gaudy, that voice.
Today in Psalm 8 my verse to take away is, “God, brilliant Lord, your name echoes around the world!”
What patterns am I enslaved to, Anais wonders in her quote today.
It is my pattern to disreguard what drains me (that words is misspelled – to ignore, to file away, to putter around but not inside what drains me. I cover it up with tangential activities, conversations, connections which I find more pleasing that cleaning up the gunk that gets stuck in the drain pipe. It starts to get smelly or foul and I just cover it up, ignore it.
I want to come to know Anais Nin. I want to know her more. I want to feel her presence, simmering in me, lusty and aware. Poetry. Until recently I never thought to wipe paint off the page. It seemed so odd. It just didn’t, wouldn’t didn’t think to come up. Forefront shows up, there. Right there, unstowed away. Attempting to not use the first person pronoun so often, wondering how that will work?
Tomorrow Sunday School is the task at hand. I will do it, with some level of excitement and enthusiasm. Eegads. That pronoun, pesky thing, popped up again right before the five-hundred word mark was cracked. Phew. Back. Darn.
Whenever the surname without my family name is used, the bile rises up. Makes itself tangible. Burns the throat, urges more vomit. Now that is a potent image.
Anais Nin had a stillbirth. Hurt washes over. Spray fixative on box, after lined with paper, the beautifully painted papers. Order new book. Thoughts of her in Nebraska. Remembering confirmation class and making faces across the sanctuary, more than likely noticed yet never mentioned. What is it?
What brings you to the heartland? What makes you stay there?
B/W selfie. Under, painted. “You’re not in the closet? You’re not in the hallway? Fuschia. Flowers. Never thought of painting flowers. Wouldn’t elect shouting. My knees, bend. The neighbors, slightly angry, hedges of anger are their moats or motes not sure how to spell. Less than one hundred words to go.
Do they hear the birds?
The tree trimmer tore the shade from the face here, when he shore the limbs from the pine tree, the gratitude garden tree.
Korn video exploits continue to amass. It needs to stop being the topic of conversation so frequently. Blahdy blahdy blah? Yes, something like that. “Life is a process of becoming”.. I check the laundry. It is close to ready. Run the water. The pronoun showed up again, but not pushed away for a change.
To do’s. Line box with backgrounds.
Post poem. Comment. Connect. Source.
Fix letters. Make plans for mothers day.
Prepare for Sunday School.
Allow gratitude to wash up around your feet your arms
your belly.
I am on a 13 day streak! This is so exciting!
No comments:
Post a Comment