More poems.

bassinet

Always empty
always on the move
cradle her head
make sure
that she can breathe
the room
is silent at night
the door open
only an inch
to let
the light
from the hallway
crawl inside
and drape over
her body
holding her down
until everything
is still

Sin
There is a place
deep inside
where nothing makes sense
anymore
holding the rail
hand slides down
metal loops
carved out
before the house
was built
before the doors were carved
from wood
scene by scene
plays out
it empties itself
from folds of time
where we do not
want to go
closing eyes
in bed
we pretend
that nothing happened
white walls
but there
is nothing
pure

Smear
Looking onto you
faces twist and turns outwards
I roll down the grass

Insomnia
Roosters crow
the early morning coffee
at hand
sweet cream
sugar
in my bowl
I lag towards
the cold side
of the bed
you haven't returned
and I wonder
where you are

Molly
Burp
curls
four
legs
bowl
empty
sit
come
and
see
me
cover
up
go to sleep

Chapter 20

Answering Ian’s question; why today’s horror movies aren’t as good; using depression as a tool to write; the end of “The Control Room or the demands of Heather,” ending a chapter of “The Ever” and beginning a new chapter; Next time: new poetry book “Searching for Solace";  more information on Comicon to come.

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A few new poems.

Breaking
Walking down the long
and heavy road
I hold your hand
as we begin to sink
covered in water
drowning with the current
afloat in a mass
of gray colored sky
I am invisible
glory and guts
screaming out in open
fire burning from my belly
I wake
early the next morning
and you are not there

Keys
Secret crying
the nurses don't understand
folding into bed
feet hanging over the edge
the heat carrying itself
long piles of bricks and stones
upon its back
the fan brings some cool air
I hug my stomach
and try to stand
as the valet drives the next car
to the curb

Caution
There is an echo
over the distance
words that were lost
straining to be found
they press on
across the snow encrusted mountains
curving into the wind
and bending down
as their shadows take over in the dark
pressing into the ground
they hope to feel arms take them
gently and with love
with love that they have never felt before
a first time for everything
crawling into bed
they slumber
but they do not dream

Dead
I am awake
I run to the window
I stare out and see
all and nothing
the noise that woke me
cannot be found
curls on my pillow
her red fur
soft
on cotton
I hear the screaming
from below
and close my eyes

Alcohol
Take a sip
let the liquid stir
ice melt
forget all your problems
become Superman
or
Wonder woman
an invisible jet
filling up your living room
fly
out amongst the trees
it is dark now
and we only have each other
against the cold

Chapter 19

Daily activities; Being persistent in your work as a writer; David Hayes and his new book "American Guignol"; Readings from "The Control Room or the demands of Heather" and "The Ever"; Becoming older.

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Impasse.

  What do you do when you are finished?  Liking saying goodbye to an old friend, you embark on the journey alone and try to remember all the good times that you once had and how it-they-changed you as a person.  You try to admit that it might not be time to leave, but every time you start to step towards the door you feel a bit more free and your heart (which hasn't sung in years) begins to jump up and down like a child being picked for a team.  Sometimes, you can't identify with the person that you have become now.  This person so willing to put up with so much and receive so little in return.  It's best that this ended years ago, but it's been dragged out to bloody hell and there is nothing that you can do now to return to those innocent and ancient times.  Keep feeding the monster is what you say.  Keeping telling the monster that there are virgins coming to sacrifice, when all you have climbing that lonely hill is a whisper of wind and a pile of dirt.  There is nothing more sad than not being able to face you and tell you the truth.  Selfish hands that walk the beaten path filled with hot coals that blaze against the cold ground.  You are the smoke that lingers, that I wipe away with my raw hands.  You are the cold and distant relative that I hate seeing and only spend time with out of kindness.  It is true that in my doubt, I have found nothing left.  There is only this space between us and the unending Earth, which rotates and conjures up thoughts of fire and ice and meaningless notions of what defines love.  I created this silence because I didn't want to talk anymore and although it went away for a time being-I knew that it would come back because I don't want you anymore. 

Nightmares.

  I'm having nightmares all the time now.  Ones where I try to wake up, but I can't and I am stuck in this world of limbo where I am useless and afraid.  The nightmare was worse today.  I was surrounded by blood.  Thick walls of it that covered my face and hands and that I could not run from.  I couldn't breathe and even when I tried to breathe, the blood came into my lungs and pressed hard against my spine.  My hands turned into claw like shapes, as I grasped at nothing to help me.  As the liquid entered me, I was terrified but then this strange calm came over me and I took more blood into me and did not scare so easily.  I closed my eyes and placed my hands together, as if I was chanting and prayed for death to come soon.  I did not see my life flash before my eyes nor did a bright light or a tunnel begin to show itself to me, but in the dream I could tell that I was happy for it to be over with and ready for the end to arrive.  Finally, I let the waves push me over and knock me to the ground and I gave up and in this surrender I found the sleep that I was looking for and hoping for and dreaming for and the lights went out.  It's not unusual for me to have persistent nightmares.  Once I had the same nightmare for years, the same reoccurring dream.  I was a little girl walking down a long street with houses on either side.  I had walked down this street before, but this time it was becoming stormy out and the wind had begun to fiercely blow.  As rain began to drop, I went to one of the houses to look for shelter.  I knocked on the door, but it was already partly open and so being a little girl....I walked inside.  The house was strange.  It held doors on either side of a long hallway.  Door and only doors.  I walked down the hallway and began to open each door.  Behind it was a rotted corpse and behind the next and the next even more corpses.  I tried to run, but I heard whispering from upstairs and as this being came down to get me I woke up.  I am at an impasse.  An all or nothing stage.  I have to go with what I feel and know to be true and I can't get it back-not again. 

Writers.

  I am sinking.  Waves of foam wash over me and I have nothing to hold onto-nothing to keep me afloat.  Strings of thick sea weed cover my arms and my legs, pulling me downward.  The salt water has begun to enter my lungs and try to stop me from breathing, but I am kicking still.  I am motioning to those off shore, the ones that have made it to land and trying desperately to get their attention but they do not see me.  My feet feel something swimming by, but I cannot see it and I can only hope that I won't be eaten alive.  I push and pull the sea weed from me, as it clings and finally I am able to free myself.  I swim, barely breathing, to shore and throw myself upon the sand as if I were dead.  I am finally seen.  Typewriters sit nestled into the beach.  Pieces of paper in them; their keys beat down from repeated use.  I see that those on shore have clustered together around the base of a palm tree.  Struggling to get up, I press my palms into the sand and rise.  My heart beats faster as I come to my feet and I see that those around the palm tree have pencils and pieces of paper in their hands.  They are writing.  Emerged in their work, they do not see me.  I know because I am one of them.  I stand and look back at myself, wet and battered.  I do not know who that person is, for I am neatly dressed and fabricating a story on the pieces of paper nestled in my hand.  Who is this person from the sea?  What plans does he have for us?  I warn the others and run at him with my sharpened pencil, like a dagger.  I run at me.  I stab his flesh and pierce his heart and all awhile, the crowd lingers on to speculate the happenings and to record and after "I" am dead and thrown into the sea, my bloody body holding onto the waves in lumps and bumps, he turns back-walking to the palm tree-recording what is important.  He never mentions me or what has become of me or what he has done to me.  There is only the beating silence of what has happened.  The crush of the sun to recall what was said and the rotting fruit on the vine. 

Becoming old-er.

  I am embracing my age.  I am embracing the fact that sometimes I forget where my glasses are and if I am still wearing them, so I had to attach a cord onto them to provide me with their whereabouts.  I am embracing my lack of sight and the fact that one day, I'll probably go blind and lose my way in the dark.  But, hopefully there will be hands to guide me to my destination.  At least I know that I'll always be surrounded by dogs, so with their help I will find my way.  I am embracing the small wrinkles that have set around and underneath my eyes.  Their gray circles reminding me of how old I really am and of all the years to follow.  The letters of my books look small now.  I might have to request a larger print.  My bones ache, so I have decided to change the way that I eat.  I am going to get more healthy.  I am going to lose this weight that has been plaguing me all of my life.  I am going to get tiny and kick some ass.  I have waited long enough.  Waited for what-I cannot understand or fully explain, but I have waited in vain.  The time has come to make my life my own.  I am never going to be a mother, a mother to my writing but that is all, so I might as well live how I like and make this world remember me when I am dead and gone.  I think that sometimes I get overlooked because of the way I look.  I think that people don't see me.  In a thinner body, I will be seen and finally my words will be heard.  Mainly because that's how the world works these days.  But, I will be a powerhouse of thought and when people turn to look at me they won't expect what they get.  I am becoming older, but it is never too late to turn over a new leaf.

Chapter 18

The hardship of a writer's life... looking for a job... continuing to dream. Readings from “The Control Room or the demands of Heather” and “The Ever”.

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Special.

  It's so wonderful when someone makes you feel special.  Maybe it's a girl thing.  But, being loved and needed makes one feel as if they could die right now and everything would somehow work itself out.  The older that I become, the more I don't want to play second fiddle.  I want to be your choice.  I want to be the first person on your mind to talk to after a long day.  I want to be the one that holds you and gives you advise.  I wonder why age is so much a part of not being second?  Perhaps, in my age I am becoming more selfish and more aware of the fact that one day I'll be dead so I better make use of my life-of being alive.  I used to not want to get married, but now I do.  It's hard to explain, but I find it romantic.  Not the aspect of the piece of paper, but of speaking to your signifgant others in regards to committment and telling each other what you think of them, in regards to your love seems really beautiful for me.  I would never have a huge, money draining ceremony either.  Just something very simple that comes from the heart.  Maybe, this will happen one day.  Maybe, someone will get down on one knee and ask me.  Maybe, I'll say yes.  We can only hope that one day, we get what we want and in some many ways I am still dreaming. 

Chapter 17

Becoming more assertive with my work; The powers that be are running out of ideas; Being brave with your writing; Expand your focus when you write and keep going; More poems from “The Control Room or the demands of Heather” and Chapter Two of “The Ever”.

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Taking chances.

  My whole life has been based on taking chances.  I have never tried to get away from a new idea or a way to improve myself.  Okay, back track-maybe when I was younger and thought that I knew it all I told myself that I didn't need any help and that I was great just the way that I was-but that was a lie.  I needed work.  I was so angry and upset all of the time.  I needed to deal with that anger, but once that I truly realized that I had worked myself into a corner I dealt with the situation and took a chance with medicine and therapy.  In one aspect, I am happy.  I am writing and working on new projects and I find that fulfilling, but my income is terrible and I need to help my family, so chance has come along again.  It's funny how many things could happen to us in a single day.  So many different people and ideas float by us and often we do not pay attention.  Sitting in the back of the bus, I watch the people come on and find their seat as the bus moves across the busy intersections.  I hold on tight, as we turn and realize that I have accidentally hit my bag into the person sitting next to me so I apologize.  We start talking.  I realize that we have things in common and we become bus friends for weeks before my job closes down due to the economy and I never see her again.  But, these are the chances that we take for the relationships (however small) that we forage.  I am taking a chance by doing this podcast and writing this blog, but I do it...it is the way that we interpret these choices that matters.  Never give up.  Just don't.  Fight.  Survive.  Keep your head up and pay attention to the world around you.  No matter what-even if things appear mundane.  You just aren't looking close enough.

In the trenches.

  How much do we as writers ask from our loved ones?  Do we ask too much?  It has been a hard couple of years for my family.  Three family deaths.  One household income.  No car.  Corey's health dealing with his epilepsy.  My surgerical procedures and getting back on my feet.  Depression.  Therapy for me.  I try to hold my head up most days, but it is hard to do when you feel as if you are being kicked back down repeatedly.  Sometimes, I think that I should just quit it all and try to live a normal life, but there has always been this dreamer in me that keeps telling me to keep going-keep traveling, keep moving ahead as much as possible-try everything-hope-pray-chant and no matter what listen to your gut.  But, I think that I am getting too old for all those big words.  My best friend said something to me this morning.   She said that she didn't have the luxury of thinking like that down in the trenches.  Yes, she is the only one working right now and bringing money into our household and yes I felt so guilty for even being alive after she said that and sorry that I wasn't running off to work...wish I wish that I was.....but, I also felt as if it might be time for me to close up shop.  If I can't catch a break, if this new book doesn't do something to help my family then I should just stop altogether.  I wish that I could find a teaching job and that way I could do both all of the time, but every teaching job that I find seems to be out of state or out of the U.S.A. and my family doesn't want me leaving my home.  I feel so stuck and isolated.  I wish that I could find a great job teaching near my home and be able to write too.  So far, no one will hire me.  So, here we are in the trenches.  Shots coming from multiple directions.  One bullet left. 

Asking for help.

  When did it become such an issue to ask for help?  When I was younger, I tried to do everything on my own.  I was foolish to think that I knew everything and that nothing could stand in my way.  As I have become older (and hopefully wiser,) I realize that I am not the sun, moon and the stars.  I do not know the answer to everything and now, I realize that asking for help is sometimes the best idea.  But, it seems as if this idea does not sit well with others and I am religated to feeling like I am being a bother.  I don't think that asking for help is a sign of weakness.  I think that it is the opposite.  It takes a great deal of strength to admit that you are not good enough at something and ask for help.  Not everything is a competition and I believe that working as a team is the best way to usually get the job done.  I wouldn't say that I failed when I was younger, but I would say that I was foolish.  I did foolish things and didn't think about my actions.  I loved too much and too hard.  I trusted my heart with so many things that I never should have and that if I had to do it again, probably wouldn't have been so naive again.  I made some mistakes and it is those mistakes that I hope to never make again.  My father never asked for help and when I did, in his eyes, I was something to be taken advantage of-something that he could control.  I remember asking him for help with my homework.  In my younger years, I was terrible at math and he was a math genius so I asked.  Due to my lack of understanding what he was saying, he hit me repeatedly over the head with my math book.  It was humilating.  I remember crying in front of him and asking him "why" repeatedly.  I just didn't understand.  I couldn't do that to someone that I loved, so why was he doing that to me?  After I left my house (I won't call it a home,) when I was seventeen I had some time to reflect.  My father felt as if I was weak and powerless and he took advantage of that assumption.  Now, I share my experiences through my writing and I am provided with all of the strength that I need to continue.  But, still every time I ask for help this situation runs back into my memory and gives me grief.  Guess the best thing to do is to remind myself that I am strong and full of spirit and that I survived all of it to get to this point in my life where I have family and friends that support me.  It is true that he haunts me most days, but I try to overcome his shadow and walk in the sunshine. 

Too much information.

  Sometimes I wonder if we are giving away or sharing too much information with each other.  Do I really need to know what everyone is doing every second of the day through posts and tweets and blogs?  This coming from someone that shares her life on a podcast and a blog, but sometimes I wonder if it isn't too much.  Being a private and normally shy person, it has taken me a great deal of courage to open up and try to share my thoughts with the world (well, with my few loyal fans, ) but is that progress or should I just be a private person?  I was giving this some thought last night, after I did my podcast and stared down again at the scars on my hand.  I wanted to share why these scars on my wrist seem to bother me so much, but then I stopped myself and asked why should anyone care?  But, to be perfectly honest I think that even though we appear to have what seems to be an open dialogue-it's not really open.  We have become more withdrawn and more likely to keep secrets from one another.  Maybe, it's because we are expected to share every little and last thing.  I myself, like being open with my audience and with other writers but even I have my limits.  There are certain things that I would probably never share and even though that might be what makes or breaks me, I think that a bit of mystery never hurt anyone.  The scars on my wrist are from my IV when I was just recently in the hospital for my surgery.  They remind me of the day that I felt as if I lost my womanhood.  Yes, that sounds crazy but it is true.  Being hacked apart does something to you as a woman, and you feel quite lost.  Should I share this with you?  Yes.  Because I want other women who experience the same surgery to know that they are not crazy.  This emptiness that they feel exists and it does cause heartache, and even when your period doesn't come the next month and all that pain that you felt and bleeding is gone...you still feel empty and all used up.  I am working on these feelings and incorporating them into my writing.  I am also trying to look at the positive sides of sharing details of my private life.  The truth is that I like sharing my thoughts with everyone.  I like getting feedback and hearing from my audience and from fellow writers and even though it takes every bit of strength that I have to write and blog and podcast about my personal life and thoughts, I do think that it's worth while.  One less secret to have to worry about.  One less burden.  I give it all to you. 

Chapter 16

Characters and how to work on writing them, the new book, goings on, readings from “The Control Room or the demands of Heather” and “The Ever; “ Corey and his epilepsy.

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Creeping.

  It's funny how things work out and how we don't necessarily see the patterns as they are fitting together, but as time fades onwards things start to make more and more sense.  It is this crazy and chaotic force that drives us and makes us want to dream.  It may seem silly-all these hopes and fantasties we have-and we present them to ourselves through waving wands and visions of escape but these are the things that make us whole and allow us to climb through the gravel and the wet mud and creep through the slime filled passages with purpose and force-these things are what make us crave.  When I was five, all I wanted to do was to be a writer.  I wanted to write and to get paid for it-everyday.  This was my dream-my ambition.  I wanted to have book signings and read my work in front of crowds and get up early and stay up late working on new projects.  I wanted to work with other writers and fine tune my skills and hone in or what made me as a writer.  I still want all of these things.  Writing is what keeps me going during the rough spots.  It's what makes me think that things will work out in the end, even though I have been up all night crying.  It is the glue and facets me together and the mother that holds me close until my heart stops beating so fast.  This world that I create breeds all that I need to survive-I just have to pay close attention and widdle through the muck to get to the good parts.  For years, I was told that I was just scribbling and that nothing would ever come of it-of anything that I wrote.  No, I haven't seen all my dreams come true.  I haven't be able to dream as big as I wanted to and time is running out, but I haven't stopped keeping these hopes under my rib cage and pressing them close to my chest until they burn through the core of me-keeping me warm on those cold winter nights.  I am my writing and my writing is me.  We are one and the same and the fuel that keeps us alive coltivates us and makes us strong.  It is the strength of other writer's that renews me and I feel a sense of pride whenever I see an accomplishment, even if it is not my own.  For sombody broke the barrier and made people pay attention and read.  They reminded them of their own dreams and of the possibility that somewhere down the line they forgot theirs.  They reminded them that not all is lost and that first you have to believe before you can fly. 

Blue.

  Been feeling a bit blue.  Was told that I responded in a little girl voice today.  I guess I just couldn't find the strength to make myself appear loud and adult.  I wanted to keep quiet and slither back into my shell and forget about bursting upon the world with idle threats and well placed words.  I wanted to keep the air in my lungs and expand my cheeks, until the blue of my eyes ran like paint down my face and into my cheeks.  Curled into a small ball this morning, listening to the house become loud and busy, I closed my eyes and didn't want to face the bright lights but everyone has to wake up and straighten their bodies and walk upright in the fetal position.  Sometimes, the depression gets so bad that I feel crippled and useless.  My muscles flinching at every touch.  My head dragging upon the ground, a fragile and empty box on shoulder who no longer stand up tall.  I am emptied of every imaginative idea or purpose.  I am fueled by nothing, but the urge to sleep and my dreams-my nightmares-are heavy and cruel.  I dream of death.  Of long wooden crosses and strange spiritual scenes.  Knives and cold metal and coffins being placed in the ground.  My coffin landing in the dirt, long and thick.  Of wood and grooves in strange and miraculous places.  A bell hangs just in case I wake up and begin to breathe again.  Quickly, I remember how much I need to treasure the little things.  A warm bath.  The water racing in colorful streams over my scars.  Bubbles of soap with blue and red and pink.  I creep down into the mirrors and clean my eyes out with the burning sticks of glass and the pain is not enough to make me forget.  Slitting the envelope open, I rush by your words and hold onto the good parts-the words that make me feel brand new-I cram what used to be under my bed and allow it to be eaten by the monster that lives under my bed.  I am not really ready to be an adult.  But, I am not a child.  I am stuck in the fog that lies between and caves into the rich, deep and dark soil that is the Earth.  What is left but our youth and the wonders, the discoveries, that we make everyday which transpire through our fingertips into the palms of our hands and reveal themselves in moonlight patches of grass on long summer nights. 

Chapter 15

Recovery; thank yous; “The Ever” and “The Control Room or the demands of Heather; “ Johnny and chapter seventeen of the new book.

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Something crazy....

  So, I am slowing trying new avenues to get my work noticed and asking for advise and help from those that I admire.  It sounds crazy, but I am hoping that someone will give me a break and help out.  I mean everyone got a break, that's how they made it one way or another, and there are so many things and people and animals and children that I want to help but as of right now I can barely financially help myself.  The time is now!  No more diddling in the corner and hoping that someone pays attention.  It seems to me that what is needed is new ideas and I have a ton and new stories, which I have written and am still working on writing as well.  I don't know about you, but I am sick of seeing the same thing-over and over-in films and on the television.  We as writers need to work together to produce new and inovative ideas.  They are out there.  They are just where you would least expect to find them.  But, you have to open your eyes and take a step back and read and listen and watch.  I mean for the love of God and all things holy-they are making "Jack and the Beanstalk" into a film.  They have run out of material.  This explains the remakes and the redo's and the reruns...it explains the return casts and the smell of desperation in the air for a good idea.  They think that everything has been done.  Let's prove them wrong. 

Long day....

  Three hours cleaning up the mold that surrounded my walls.  I didn't know that it was there, but because of the extreme heat and then the extreme cold it filtered through.  Late start on everything from then on and trying to play catch up with myself.  It's not that often that I hope for something better, but it would be lovely if life would give me a break so that I could take care of those that I love and give back to the community.  It's been eons since I remember seeing a paycheck with my name enscribed on it and even longer than that since I checked my bank account since the depression that comes with it lies deep and for days afterwards.  I just want to do what I love for a living and get paid for it...is that so much to ask?  Sometimes, I think that I should have chosen a different path, but from the age of five all I wanted to be was a writer.  It was the only thing that I could envision myself doing and being happy at it, but as an adult I know that I am getting too old now to try and make it and that there has to be either a turning point or a point where I stop altogether.  I've worked my whole life on my craft, now it would just be nice if someone were to give me a chance.  It's earlier in the morning when this all hits home for me, as the sun is starting to think about rising.  I stare around me and listen to Autumn get up and wonder when I'll be able to take care of her, like she has taken care of me for years now.  I am so glad to have her as a sister in my life, as a friend, and even though we are not bioligically related she has been there through almost everything.  It hurts me not to be able to tell her that everything will remain the same-as difficult as it is-and that we will never be able to catch that break that seems to come to others.  Perhaps, if this new novel has no success it will be time to throw in the towel. 

Waiting....

  Sometimes I feel as if I am waiting for my life to start.  Waiting for all the life I could be living, if I had more money or more time or my left side didn't hurt so badly (still).  There have been so many images of the past flooding through my mind today and sometimes I think that Corey is lucky that he doesn't remember certain things in his life, but with the bad come the good I guess.  I was in the shower when the memories hit me and I had to collect myself and remember where I was and how I was safe.  I almost forgot, but then Corey walked by and I smelled his beard and I heard the dogs out in the living room and I knew that I was alright.  The last time that my father hit me we were in the NAU parking lot in Flagstaff.  I was eighteen at the time.  I had been admited to the university honors dorms and I was trying to move into what ended up being a large room that I shared with two complete bitches.  But, I didn't know that at the time and I was excited.  Not many people know this, but I was pretty isolated at the time and I didn't have a great many friends so when I asked my "friends" to help me move my stuff....no one showed up and my father being angry about having to move all of my things into the dorm room alone, slapped me in the parking lot.  I remember feeling so embarrased, as if everyone knew and I didn't want that "reputation" following me.  My family is so much more messed up than anyone knows.  I don't tell people the half of it.  What I realized today was that all of my questions (well almost all of them)-that I have had about my family-had been answered.  I didn't like what I heard, but now I know where I came from and how I got here and everything.  One day, I'll share it with you.  If I am still thinking about it, I'll say a few things on my podcast but for right now I have to remember that I am safe and that all of that bullshit is behind me-way behind me.  I don't have to wake up screaming anymore.  I don't have to wonder what new horror remains hidden.  I am careful and cautious, but I don't have to be.   I can laugh and no one will get angry.  Nothing bad will happen.  And when I go to sleep tonight, I am destined to sleep well.

It's funny...

  It's funny how much you look back on your life and wonder.  What if I had taken a different step?  What if I wasn't at that bus stop or reading that book?  What if I hadn't left my house that day?  Would I still have met you?  Are we destined for these things; are they coincidence or is our future mapped out by us?  So many questions.  So little time.  The music whispers to me to close my eyes and remember how much I love you.  It seems to strange to me that everything could have gone so differently.  I don't know how I would live without you.  It's been a while since I grew my hair long.  I haven't felt safe, until now.  My father pulling me by my hair down the hallway.  Throwing me into the bathroom mirror, a piece of glass forcing its way into my head and the blood pouring out as he pushed me into the shower and held my head under the water.  I don't know what made him let me go.  I do remember the air as it returned to my lung and how I was so scared, scared beyond words to even move.  I crawled into my room and closed the door, hoping that I would bleed to death.  But, I didn't.  I survived and made my way to now.  You are the one that allows me to grow my hair long because I know that you would never hurt me.  I can be myself and there isn't any violence-no matter what I say or how I say it or what I do...nothing bad can come of it.  I am loved.  Nothing is perfect.  We have a bad car and no money and I am still searching for a job, but I can know everyday that I will be alright because I am loved and I am new to this feeling.  I am not used to being held close and told that I am beautiful.  I am not used to kidding around without being hurt for what I say or for laughing at each other or for being sarcastic.  "I see the ramifications of what your father did to you everyday."  I hear the words and I want to argue if they are right or not, but I can't argue what is true.  Someday, everything will be a bit clearer.  Someday, I won't be as faceless.  But, I will always remember with pain in my heart how I lost the trust of someone so dear.  Please don't go.  I hold out my hand and you take it, sitting with me in the darkness and it's alright.  Nothing will be shiny ever again, but I can feel your heartbeat in your wrist and that is enough for me. 

A new chapter...

  Just finished a podcast, but I feel as if there is so much that I still want to say.  I can hear Corey out in the living room listening to music.  I am going to go join him before he stops.  Live life to the fullest and never forget how important everything is and will be...and how much you are loved.  Sometimes, I think that it becomes easy to forget with the hustle of life how lucky some of us have it and how much we should be happy everyday-for just the sake of being happy.  Things come and go.  Jobs change.  But, our true friends and family never abandon us or forget us.  I think that for a while there, I forget how lucky I have it.  I just kept concentrating on the loss and the lack thereof and I was guilt of not remembering how happy I could be and have been.  Then the surgery hit and my mind didn't want to work for a time being.  I wanted to be silent and still and to hold my breathe, not expecting anyone to stop and save me but I was wrong.  This is a new chapter in my life.  This is the beginning of something awesome (did I show how old I am?) and something deliberate.  This is my time to try and make sense of it all, and to make sure that I don't miss a thing.  Gotta go...the music is calling me....:)

Chapter 14

Corey’s health; looking for a job; answering Ian’s question; sharing parts of “The Control Room or the demands of Heather” and going into Chapter One of "The Ever"; reading Ian’s poem and sending good thought to my friends.

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Heart

  Today my heart feels a bit weary, like it has walked miles without any rest.  The gears in my chest haven't been cleaned in years and rust has now set into the small fixtures.  Pumping away, I am not sure where it is going or if it is working any longer but I know that it has traveled a long way to get to a simple place.  The air is cold and someone close wraps their arms around me to protect me from the bitter wilderness, but it is too late.  My skin is shreading into long flakes of dust and soon, some part of me will be dead.  I can feel your fingers on my flesh, but I don't want them there.  I want to push past and crawl into a small space beyond what I know, but the passage way has been closed long ago and there is no way out.  Making myself small, I follow what I lost a long time ago into the damp floor and out along the beaten path.  Footprints are solid here, showing where I have been trampled over-again and again-but I am not afraid this time to kiss you goodbye.  I carry myself into the trees and fall in love with the open air.  The birds wandering in the branches, fluttering to say hello.  I catch my voice in my lungs and pluck it from my throat.  I want to say what I feel, instead of keeping it all at a distance but it is too late.  My heart stops and my body turns limp into the land feeding it my aching heart.

Possibility

  It's hard to determine the possibility of what we can accomplish.  Sometimes, even the smallest feats seem impossible to overcome.  We wonder if the pressure of it all will weigh down on us and crush us to death while we pray for relief.  It is the rare man that can say that he is happy.  Happiness usually comes with a price.  Waves of guilt or remorse about what we did or could have done, as if we can predict the future.  I wonder if I would have been a good mother.  After seeing my uterus and tubes on pictures after the surgery, I wonder if they were built to carry life.  The pain that I felt every month destroyed my life for those days, those hours of agony.  I would lay there and try to focus on something else, the sound of someone's voice, as my muscles tighten and flexed in short spasms.  It was everything that I couldn't do not to scream.  In fact, I think that at one point (somewhere in the nineties,) I covered my face with my pillow and let one out.  Picture feeling as if you were being hacked into little pieces.  Your blood framing your shape and pouring from your veins in long and loose spurts.  This killer does not care about you.  He has been watching you for some time and has grown to hate you.  Everyone of your mannerisms makes his hair stand up on the back of his neck.  He does not find you cute or handsome or delicate with your small wrists and everything that you say or intend to say to him to try and get him to stop, won't work.  He just wants you dead and he wants to be able to smile over your corpse.  That was my period-every month.  I should be happy that he's, she's, its gone but I can't help of think of what might have been.  My period was killing me with the numerous drugs that I had to take for the pain and the days that I spent in bed, laying in the fetal position and wishing that I were dead.  But, death never came.  He would hold the knife above my head, but never bring it down and that relief that one may or may not feel when their life is over was never allowed.  It's funny to think that all of this is over with now, and that soon and over time I might forget what I used to go through every month in the name of possibility.  In the name, that one day I would have a child of my very own.  Someone to care for and love.  Someone to watch grow up and discover who they are and what they want to be and someone to take me along with them, by my old wrinkled hand, when we go on walks to the park.  I wonder if it would have been a boy or a girl and I wonder what I would have thought the first time I looked at it?  Amazing.  My first response I would think for the life that came out of me.  Beautiful.  As I held its hand.  Its fingers touching mine.  For now, I only dream of what could have been and it is always the same.  Right before I can see you, I wake up.  My head lifts off of the pillow.  The light from the hallwall rushing past me, as if he is late to catch a bus and I am filled with silence.  I climb back into bed.  My fingers brushing against the sheets.  Cotton-soft and tender.  I clasp my hands together and search for the words to bring you back, but it is over now and all I see is the sharp corners of my bookcase falling from the sky and sticking into the ground.  Kiss me.  I ask.  Lips on lips sink into my pores and at once I am free. 

Chapter 13

Life; post-op doctor’s visit; what they found during surgery; readings from “The Control Room or The Demands of Heather” and “The Ever.”

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Saturday morning....

  Been feeling tired and a bit run down today.  All I want to do is be still and silent; sit in life and let it wash over me and try not to fight it too much.  I stayed up late last night with a loved one.  Watching a bit of television and hanging out; trying to forget how much life has sometimes bullied us and beat us until we are black and blue but for the most part I am happy with my loved ones and accept for the money factor I feel good about the life that I have been a part of throughout the years.  It's funny when you think about how short your time is here.  It's only a second and then we are gone-food for worms and perhaps something else.  We can only hope that we will go someplace after we die, where we will be reunited with our love ones and surrounded by happiness.  It is this odd thing called faith that we hold in our pockets, like a shiney is new coin and try not to lose.  I sometimes forget that the life that I have now will one day be over and all those that I love will be lost to me one by one, until maybe I am the last one standing.  I never thought that I would ever be the last one standing.  I never thought that I was strong enough for that or brave enough, but in the last couple of weeks I have found this power inside of me that I never knew existed and it has carried me through to the otherside.  I always thought that I would be the one to end my life early, to cut out of the game because I was genetically programed to do so but maybe I was wrong.  I have ignored what my blood lines said so far and gone against the grain, so this shouldn't surprise me but what makes me excited is that I never knew I could be this strong.  I always thought that I was the weak one, but maybe I was wrong about that too.  In the darkness of the early morning, music rises from the living room.  The notes run down the walls like ribbons of blood, as if this house-this home-is alive.  The pace of all of our heartbeats as we sleep or sit typing or collecting our thoughts through scraps of dusty paper make this a home.  Embrassing what is ours, we find support for another day and place our powers into tight and tidy spaces.  We feel love and it is this wooden beam that protects us from the rising day; it is this cohesive thought of comfort that we take with us into the fight-into the war-praying for another day that we can rise from the ashes and sleep again in our beds-safe. 

Friday morning....

  Just about to do a new podcast for "Myriads of Thought."  The house is quiet and I will probably be alone for the rest of the night, accept for some furry friends.  Time to watch all the television shows that I missed and get into some writing with a cup of tea.  There is nothing like a quiet house and unfortunately, in not having children that's one of the things I will always have in the future.  Pain came back again up my left side, like being surged with a lightning bolt, like Frankenstein's monster being poked and prodded without even knowing the why's or the for's.  Medicine used to be like that.  Sometimes. it still is.  Corey is probably going to be okayed for the Vega Pack and that means he'll have to go through surgery and probably tests to see if this thing can control his seizures.  I am scared for him.  I mean, they don't even know how this thing exactly works.  All of it is random.  Like being in the stone age again.  That's the glory of discovery and the fear of it...you might save the world or a piece of it or you might hurt everyone or quite a few people.  Medicine has always interested me.  If I had to go back and start from scratch, I'd be a neurosurgeon.  But, this life has a different plan for me.  I am still waiting on the blueprints, but I am certain that it will show it's face sooner or later.  Alright, onto the podcast.