he called her thursday

How I long to write you in all of your shifting
but its interminable nuance is impossible to pin down
and these glasses like tunnel vision are cramping my mind.
I could take off my glasses, I suppose,
but maybe you are just not meant to be written,
only spoken,
and probably in an ancient language’s complexity
with those musical scales we don’t even use anymore,
and that celestial spectrum our human eyes fail to see.
And then I started thinking about Jesus cooking breakfast on the shore after everything he had been through. If anyone’s profundity and humility came close…

He thought for a moment, that he was over doing it. But he wasn’t sure because of the compartments in his mind.
She didn’t have those compartments. And it moved him. Moved him.

He decided he wouldn’t work on his rhyming on Friday, afterall.

 

Part one – wednesday

 

wednesday

It felt so much like a Wednesday – porous and drifting…
It wasn’t quite cold enough to start a fire, which kind of threw him. It’s always nice to have a fire to work by, when the Wednesday dig starts.  But he reasoned with himself that the digs were getting shallower. Dr. _____ said that was a good thing – the need was lessening, you know, to build defences from the debris he found. They thought he was inching closer to jumping off and grabbing the drifting instead.

He wasn’t sure. He looked down at his journal. Apparently he had been writing in it.

those notes are soaring above me, but there’s blood all over my un-reach. This is the refrain. I need to re-write the refrain. I need to let it rain.

I also need to work on my rhyming.
Maybe Friday.

 

part two – he called her thursday

 

 

Scrambling…

say no to clowns

through her mind’s thesaurus

she searched for other words for her wrists, singed

her edges smouldering, smoke fringed

internal edges, that is.

Scrambling through the messages in his eyes

he finds the one he wants to send her, hopefully

she’ll read it without doubt, earnestly

not doubting him, that is.

The other he, she should be doubting

he holds that glass, sun’s rays re routing

to warm her, that is

what he’s always told her…

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She was driving to this song. Her CD player was broken, and kept playing it over. Or maybe she was just controlling that with her mind. Who knew? She didn’t care. She had spent the morning reading and listening and watching and drinking and barely eating, she realised for a moment. She pulled over to get a healthy sandwich or salad, it didn’t matter really because she was only tasting the words of her day, which were stretchy like bland. So the chocolate muffin was perfect.

She laughed to herself when she saw the naked, silhouetted tree. Fact is stranger than fiction, after all.

Her head was full of clever people’s recycled words. And she, silent more often than not, confused the clever people. Why did this tree have no leaves?

Full of memories of echoing words, in canyons, on lonely family holidays, she got back into the car. On one of those trips, she had stopped yelling into the canyon, and had started throwing leaves instead. It was autumn, the tree was beautiful like everything you never had, and well, she wasn’t sure why. Or, she just couldn’t remember.

Tears were falling now, as the harvest moon was rising in front of her. She started driving faster, because darn it, she was going to drive through it this time.

 

 

dehydration

He wanted to insert the right words, but they were deftly eluding him, and he was weary of the chase. So he started tracing the outline of the knots of his depletion. They were particularly prominent this time.

He knew he was full of them and it would take time and effort to untie them, or rather, to hydrate them again to loosening.  He wondered long and hard about it, as he tried instead, to un-knot your words.

I mean, the ones in your silence.

 

 

 

No One is Around, pt 1 of 2

 

"Can we just lie here for a moment? She knows what 
to do and it's so much easier to make out the words 
if you press your ear against the stone." 

He hated this place. But she promised it would 
be the last time. And it had started to snow. 
It would hopefully slow the others down. 

They needed to leave. He was too scared to look 
at his watch and now he was struck by how beautiful 
she looked in this light. That pink light, reflecting 
from the tears frozen on her face. 

He pulled her gently up from her mother's grave.

 

 

 

Lyrics:
 mother they are coming again
 they come to shoot what we already lost
 mother they are coming again
 our silver covered by their rust

father they are coming again
 they come to jail the things that i have seen
 father they are coming again
 burning minds to keep the ruin clean

no one is around

„little girl there’s safer ground
 follow the sea and you will find that place
 little girl there’s safer ground
 come take your years and put them in their hands“

Safer Ground, part two

 

Safer Ground, pt 2

 

no one is around (part one)

She didn't say anything. Why wasn't she saying anything?

But she had. She just couldn't hear her. She had always 
heard her through her heart, and now it was frozen 
to her cheeks.
He lifted her up as her chest was caving in. He sang 
instead. The words she had taught him when they met, 
years before.
The ones she had heard from her mother's friend. Before 
they never saw him again.
 "Little girl, there's safer ground..." 

That ground. Rising up out of the sea of him.

 

 

 

Lyrics:

Continue reading

those middle paragraphs

Rushing to the coat check, she was trying hard not to obsess over him not believing something she had said in the car. He had said it was absurd.
It was making the skin on her arm itch.
Irony did that. Well, in particular contexts. She wasn’t sure what this was.

She had felt so warm while they were driving and had wondered if she were overdressed. But then, he was the one who was filling the car with decorated axioms, making sure to remind her how insightful he was.  She had cringed wearily, then chuckled at the awful jokes forming in her mind – she started thinking she didn’t need her wisdom teeth when she digested his words, only her incisors. She could try to be environmentally friendly, she supposed, and recycle all of this packaging, but it wasn’t even pretty.

And now he appeared with two effervescent glasses, as her arm started to bleed.
She was allergic to champagne, she had told him in the car

disappear

this rake isn’t as heavy as I thought it would be,

I feel your suggestions as you’re watching me

make these corrugations –

portal permutations,

at least,

they were in my dreams,

the ones

bursting from the seams

of my mind’s eye.

 

From here below periphery,

silent door’s epiphany,

you hear my eyes as you look at me…

 

one of my current ear worms. if you need a little energy boost, or a push through a portal or something…(and if this video doesn’t play for you because you don’t live in the best country on earth 😉 there is this acoustic version:)

Lyrics:

Continue reading

the tears, like that sky, were blue,

balmed in a constant, gentle stream.
Filled with achingly quiet strength, healing purpose. Vibrating with the tenor of a generation.

He carefully strung his violin with them, using the instructions in the back of the book he was holding.
A journal he had found in, of all places, the attic.

His beloved father’s journal.

Sigh. What a beautiful performance.

 

Featured image: my husband’s

Assiduous Respiratory Therapy

She drew back the curtains with all the care that wasn’t in the world. It was the only way she knew how. To stop the time. To restart his breathing.
(I could have that wrong – it might be, that she was the only one who knew how to do it. No one remembered. No one cared.)

The air was so thick with the calligraphy they had forced out of him. She uncurled it and  admired it in the twilight/non-time.  All things considered, it was still exquisite.

She had a new idea. And when he read her thought, he sat bolt up right, smiling.

 

 

fraud

He nodded. With his eyes. Cloudy with the beers they hadn’t shared yet. And she heard it all through the phone.
She hated letting him down again.

The walking out of the ocean. She, wearing the heaviness like a medal. Then she hit the no resistance of the air.
And she flew.

Until that last wave hit.
Filled with shells and rocks, or maybe the debris of shells and rocks. And the clawing of it inside-outed her.

Lying in the sand of her authenticity, she’s exfoliated down to she’s not sure what happened. But the ocean took that medal back.

Or maybe, she gave it back.

 

He wished she knew.
Those clouds burst, and ran down his cheeks.

 

 

pilgrim

Now the dune crescendoed right in front of her. Had she climbed it? What side was she on? Did it matter? This weary could not answer.

Sifting it through her fingers, she couldn’t find the piece she was looking for. So she let that gentle wind catch them all instead.

She wrapped herself in the cool of the breeze. And when she woke, she smiled, for there was nothing left. Of this dune of memories.

Nothing, that is, but him.

 

Scrambling…

through her mind’s thesaurus

she searched for other words for her wrists, singed

her edges smouldering, smoke fringed

internal edges, that is.

 

Scrambling through the messages in his eyes

he finds the one he wants to send her, hopefully

she’ll read it without doubt, earnestly

not doubting him, that is.

 

The other he, she should be doubting

he holds that glass, sun’s rays re routing

to warm her, that is

what he’s always told her…

He knew it.

This would be the place. The place at the end of the wrong road. And somehow, it was exactly how he pictured it. It looked just like the other fork where he made the wrong turn.

His favourite music particles flew past in perfect, mesmerising harmony with his non astonished gaze, landing at his feet. Forming those pages. He just wished he could remember which was the wrong page turn.

 

she had her grandmother’s laugh

“Nan! I woke up from a dream where I was looking at the postcard you sent me, and the subject was missing.”

Her grandmother nodded. She often did now.

She knew she understood. They had standing appointments to meet in the narrowing corridors of her mind’s labyrinth. Because, just when it seemed they couldn’t get narrower, they would suddenly open to cavernous, multi faceted rooms of beauty, with the aura of home she had never known, and she wanted to be in there with her. It was captivating.

She had challenged her once to find the heart of the story. Especially in the biggest “rooms” or, heaven forbid, if she found herself in rooms of smoke and mirrors.

She looked at her with those eyes. From her childhood.

Then she made her laugh. For the first time in too long.