Accounting

Your stitches are all out but the scars are healing wrong. -Regina Spektor

She sits at the top of a cliff, pen in hand, an empty stretch of paper and seascape as far as she can see. She didn't want to start writing the letter because what is there to do with a finished letter but send it? And all those words would be just be more things to own. Tired of owning things, she was ready to rent--to try things on and discard them when need be, without the mortgaged permanence or weighty decisions.

But she owns a little piece of safety and she's not quite ready to sell low when she bought high. There is value in comfortable sweetness and there is terror in throwing it all off the cliff when she'd still be left with her two empty hands, and then what? Throw herself after the thing she threw away? Or worse, walk back to her car and go back to the way it will always be. She'd rather be broken and bloody at the bottom of the cliff.

Instead, maybe she should take stock of what's left in her tattered portfolio. Holding it tightly, her sweaty palms leave stains and soften the manila cardstock. Maybe she should open it and have a real good look around. How many years does it really span? They say the young can weather the peaks and valleys of the long haul. Invest aggressively because in the long run, it will even out. She's not convinced that these aren't platitudes meant to keep us all shopping at the same market, deluded and kept. She's not convinced you shouldn't run away from a looming storm.

And she's not convinced her face is pretty enough or her eyes bright enough. She's not convinced she has enough talent or soul to do it on her own.

She's not convinced that there's an alternative to doing it on your own. We're born and die that way. Now there's a platitude she can get behind.

Clutching it all to her chest, she makes her way down from the cliff. She takes stock in the wind and the sand. She wipes off her feet before returning to her car and admires the sight of the sun setting over the valley. She trusts very little, but she will always trust the broker of light.

Bricks

Bricks are hard. You could punch a brick and your knuckles would hurt a lot more than the brick would. You could accidentally crash your bike into a wall of them and the bike would be worse for the wear. You could scrape up against the edge of a brick and draw blood.

They’re not so big, but try moving a lot of them at one time. All together, bricks are heavy. By itself, you could pick one up and easily heft it about - play toss with a brick. Or you could take that one light brick and heave it as hard as you might through someone’s soft skull. Because bricks are hard.

But have you ever tried wearing away at a brick? It doesn’t actually take much. Something harder and a little time will make it give way. I could write your name in a brick with a sharp enough implement. Bricks are no match for water and air, given enough years of rain and wind.

Bricks are why we love fireplaces. It’s not the heat from the flames we feel so much as a brick’s capacity to take in all that energy and give it back to us one little bit at a time. I dare you to lay your cheek against a brick building on the hottest day of the year in the middle of a steamy teeming city. I promise you it will feel cool.

When you met me, I had carefully arranged a bunch of bricks around me to guard against the eventual onslaught of whatever you might bring. I had picked out my best ones and configured a convoluted maze of protection. I sized up your shiny skull and calculated how easy it would be to crush it.

But like rain, like water, you got in. Like wind, like air, you swept some of it away. And the feeling of you seeping in around my cracks leaves me wet and warm and this might be the softest I’ve ever felt.

Thoughts on Getting Published

For VMI and the rest of the writers in my life:

I read the words you wrote and thought, "more people need to read this." It's the highest compliment and the most cliched conundrum. If poetry is written and only two people hear it fall on the page, is it still important?

When I spoke of you tonight, you weren't there so you couldn't hear me. Some of you are miles and miles away, and some of you live around the corner. Some of you are dead. But were my words about you untrue or unreal? Didn't they exist, like fireworks, alive for those few vibrant seconds before they faded into the night sky?

I know that when I decided to be better I didn't even hear myself. Doesn't mean I wasn't exploding in big reds and greens against the big black backdrop. It doesn't mean it wasn't loud or didn't happen.

Maybe Heaven for us will be one big script reading. Perhaps then we'll get the feedback and validation that all these rockets require. Or maybe we'll just be dead and someone will stumble upon our words and nod knowingly. Or at least use them as kindling to light some fuse or maybe just wipe their ass.

Either way, I'm happy we're all matching up these thoughts with words and grateful for the moments we take it a step further and make art. I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure that's what keeps this big hot ball going.

Marathon

Standing on my friends' deck, late at night and out in the country, I could hear the wind before I felt it whipping around my body. The noise in the distance, not quite distinguishable, but foreboding, on its way. I wrapped my long sweater around my short body and cocked my head to hear what was in store for us all.

When the wind came, it was loud. I heard it come up through the untouched woods, breathing hard. As if wind could be a team and they were rounding the corner of tonight. So strong and low, I braced myself for the inevitable.

And before I knew it, it was gone. It just roared by me, not stopping for answers or peace or even a cup of tea. It took some leaves and scared a few small animals and then it was gone. I guess it was then when I realized that I was not even a rest stop in its quest.

I don't know what scared me more--the ferocity of a force blown by or the indifference it showed when it was blowing through. Ultimately I guess I find comfort in strong winds that blow by without blowing me over.

I guess.

It was a race, I think. It was collective and scary and whole. It sweated and groaned and bent branches. Its exertion and determination were inspiring and I clapped when it blew by.

But I was not the finish line and maybe that's what made it so disconcerting. It was going everywhere and would finish nowhere. But I happily applauded when it crossed my path, matching its intensity with a hearty "Bravo," as I thanked it for kissing my cheek on its way through. Because this is no mad dash.

This is a marathon.

Hard Rain

Last night, coming home from a girlfriend’s house, the proverbial skies opened up. I laughed as I walked down the street, an unopened umbrella hanging from my wrist.

“Seriously?” I yelled at the sky.

“Seriously,” she answered.

And with every cold drop that hit my face, I smiled a little wider. Because seriously? This is what it feels like when our hearts love a little harder? This is what it feels like when we finally get honest with ourselves and our souls? I thought it would be warmer. I thought I’d use my umbrella.

Remember when we transplanted all those plants last year? You taught me how to firmly grasp each root ball so as to save the center of it all. How to gently massage them, letting them know we were quietly waking them up, moving them to bigger and better places to unfurl. It’s a delicate process. When the rains came last night, they watered all those seeds I planted a long time ago. I didn’t know it would rain that hard. I didn’t know how it hurts to grow.

Last night’s rain took the last of the remaining leaves from the tree outside my bedroom window. This morning I woke to bare branches and missed the amazing yellow I’ve been so blessed to wake to for the last few weeks.

But I know that come next spring, green tips will push their way out of dark soil, strong and sure of themselves, regardless of how far they are from where they came. And they will breathe in the scent of a love well learned and they will bask in the glow of a heart well worn. And we will scatter our seeds again and again and again. Because we are perennial. And we are loved.

The Clown: A short short story

He thrived on impossible situations. Especially those of the love variety.

If there were a clear cut path to Mecca, he would blithely pass it by in favor of an overgrown artery just off to the side. Forging through the bramble, fighting burrs and bees, he would soldier on to the beat of his very own drummer. His heart thumps steady but slowly into the dark and cloudy night.

Rain soaked, lantern out, he makes his trek, despite the moon taking a well-deserved night off. She’s had a rough week at the diner, constantly attending to the needs of townies demanding recognition. She can see him but he can’t see her. She’s laughing at him, high above the insulation of her stormy ether. He laughs too, albeit unaware.

There are moments when the tempest lets up and the gales die down. He doesn’t take the opportunity to rest because he knows that these are the times when he can put down his pack and run.

Possessing nothing more, he is light and wet. His feet make squishy sounds as they slap through muddy earth. He’s lost his shoes but that just makes him move faster, toes making contact with the soft terrain, heels digging in to maintain his foothold. The rhythm of this run is redeeming him.

Out of breath, he slows. There are no obstacles in his path, but night is black and the moon is still laughing. Mysteriously, impossibly, he hears her. She didn’t mean for it to happen, but one of her giggles hitched a ride on a soft breeze and he’s caught wind of her revelry. She makes herself be quiet even though now it’s probably too late.

He doesn’t know what to think but knows he must keep moving. So he divorces why from what and keeps on. There are levels of knowing, and it doesn’t bother him that he is just on the second floor. If there is a penthouse, it exists regardless of whether or not he finds it.

The moon is getting sleepy and she really should just go to bed. It’s hard to take her eyes off his expedition, but time doesn’t really take requests. She has no choice but to tuck herself in and turn on the television, which will eventually give way to light.

The television stretches its beefy arms and its clumsy fingers wipe crud from its eyes. Its not all there yet, so it puts on a rerun.

Our journeyman senses the reoccurring of dawn and hurries his gait. As daybreak arrives, he notices that he is not on a virgin path per se, but rather that road less traveled. There is evidence of previous adventurers. One even left a thermos.

The sky lightens and he realizes he is nearing the end of this groove. In fact, there is a clearing up ahead and sounds of civilization are calling to him. His calves are spattered with drying dirt and he wonders what they will think of him when he finally stops to rest.

He has nothing to offer so he will have to take before he can give. Lucky for him, the cacophony of sound in the clearing is a large and mighty circus. Fearless acrobats and bearded ladies beckon to him and he goes to them.

He is welcomed unconditionally. Music wakes him up and freedom is served in hot steaming mugs.

“How was your trip?” asks the ringmaster.

Our journeyman pauses and thinks. “It was mine.”

“Welcome,” says the ringmaster. “We’ve been waiting for you and we’re happy you’re here.”

So our journeyman decides to become a clown because of his unusually large feet. He figures that at the very least, he will have an easy time finding new shoes.

A few days into his new life as a clown, he realizes that he is incredibly content and supported, but there is something that he misses. He looks around, but he is alone. Television beams bright and he stares at its screen.

***

He doesn’t quite know this, but he is missing the sound of the moon. He longs to hear her chortle, her cackle and her banter. She’s been busy serving slop. He walked away from her, but it’s he who feels abandoned. She’s just been trying to make ends meet.

The ringmaster pops his head up from the bamboo shoots and startles our journeyman.

“Don’t fret my young charlatan. Everyone misses her. But she visits at night. She checks in on you when you are sleeping. While soaking her feet in a salt bath, she counts her tips and sends you blessings.”

Dear Me,

If I knew what to write, I would right it. If I could, I would tell you how I've replayed the tape and identified all the instances where I went wrong. And once I'd found them, I'd want someone to judge them. Is there at tribunal? Because if there was one, I would prostrate myself before it and ask for its forgiveness.

How long do I have to be sorry for squandering you?

I read somewhere that when someone's wounded, the first order of business is to stop the bleeding. So I found a tourniquet for you. I can't be sorry for that.

But what's next, exactly? Explain to me, please, how I go about finding an experienced surgeon to suture up the holes when there's this big fleshy scar in his way? Who do I tell all the details to? Who do I direct how to save you? Who judges you now when I've deemed everyone else unworthy?

My mom explained how white knights are always in demand but she's pretty sure we don't need one anymore. She said it in a nice way, and I agreed.

I just wish I could tell you how I went wrong and why. I would make it all better for you and I would save us. And if I couldn't do that, I would tell you to forgive me and give us clearance to begin again. But you'd have to mean it, because I'm running out of patience. Aren't you?

Love,
Me