Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow

 

Yesterday, a book came to my door, and I held it in my hands last night.  It was a new book for me to read about Virginia Woolf.  It’s called A Moment’s Liberty, The Shorter Diary....Virginia Woolf’s diaries, abridged and edited by Anne Oliver Bell, with an introduction by Quetin Bell.   I do have the whole of the fifth and last diary, but can’t bring myself to finish it.  It will end her life, when I do.  I held A Moment’s Liberty in my hands last night, and cried.  Why did I cry?  Because a life of 59 years, she took it into a river and ended. 

This note to her husband, Leonard:

"I have a feeling I shall go mad," the note read. "I cannot go on any longer in these terrible times. I hear voices and cannot concentrate on my work. I have fought against it but cannot fight any longer. I owe all my happiness to you but cannot go on and spoil your life."

I’ve read many books about Virginia Woolf.  I’ve read many books by Virginia Woolf, but as I held this one, I knew it could be the last.  I cried.  I became angry at Virginia Woolf for taking her life.  I cried as I threw this book across the room.  Yes, I was angry that she took herself away from me.  But, I can’t stay angry, knowing of her illness, and the intimate details of this woman’s life.

Her illness throughout her life was both a blessing and a curse, yes, a blessing, in that her writing was a reflection of who this woman was, in her mind, her heart, through all circumstances, every day that she breathed,  she dealt with this battle of wanting, needing, to know the answers to the question, “why?”.  She took nothing for granted, in her need to know these answers, especially as they reflected on the life around her.

I can understand this.  I’ve felt, and do feel, this need to know.  It’s hard for me to admit that I’ve tried to put my feet in her shoes.  I’ve felt what she felt, as she walked those paths she’s talked about in her stories, fiction or non fiction, these paths live on.  I felt, for a breath of a moment, the cold water that washed over her, as she stepped into that river that day.

We can’t take anything for granted, especially in what this one and only life holds for us.

What is Beauty?



Beauty only goes so deep.  How deep, you ask, as deep as one allows, until ugliness takes a firm grip.  It oozes, and drips, and seeps, until it has revealed to you its worth.  What is its worth, you ask, it says, nothing, nothing at all, in its silence that mortifies the living, and assaults the dead.

From Nowhere With You

A million miles from nowhere, she placed her hands upon her lover’s face.

A million miles from nowhere, she said, I’ll take you to a place across the miles to nowhere, she said I’ll love you until forever through all the years, she did not fear a million miles from here.

She only feared what was near.  

A Cloud



The air was still, that is until a cloud rolled across the sky, and sat; watching this moment, a moment is all it took to want to look back.

you drive me to tears

you twist, you turn around in my heart

you tied these strings in knots

you plucked and twanged

Shadows, of lights and darks, looking for a place to sit, and wait, and stay; it was quiet, until a cloud rolled across the sky that day.

you torment my life, the cool and the quiet of my life

you heat the air, you boil the waters of azure

you batter the earth, reckless with torrents

you turn a cloud from white to black

The rains came down, down; earth sucking the life out of this cloud, and every drop drenched the dry parchment of leaves.

The butterflies flew, the frogs jumped; the rabbits bounded away looking after a cloud which rolled across the sky of cerulean blue that day.

The Marionette

Around and around, the marionette danced, her arms in the air, her legs going here, then there, as the music played on, and on, and on.

Fingers pulled, each length of string, one by one, and one by one she danced to the music, and as it played she would swing, on and on, on and on

The face of the marionette looked up, then down, then all around, with eyes of paint, the color of brown.

The hair of the marionette was black as the night, face fringed with curls, it wound round and round and round her face, ever so tight.

The strings of the marionette twisted, and wound, her arms hung limp, then taut, she danced to the music, a puppet forgot.

She was real, she was alive, with music infused, she could smile, she could laugh, and she danced as she cried.

To the left, to the right, as she turned she stirred, she bent, she skipped, and they danced to the night.

With a twist of the thread she was real for a moment, she dipped, she swayed, she swung, she performed in her strings, until tangled she hung.

A Voice

  

Hush, hold your breath

Don’t move, I can feel you

The heart waits

The mind waits

Delirious, cacophonous noise awaits movement

Dissonant chords, twanging vibrato

Delicious, drumming and humming to

Invisible, silent beats

Don’t speak, she said

Don’t make a sound, she pled

She waits

A limb quakes

I’m afraid

I’m frail

I’m full

I’m overwhelmed

Don’t breathe, she said

Her exhale rocks the sea

but all she said was

hear

me

Catching Life in a Butterfly Net

 

Running though the field of green, yellow, and brown

Hanging in mid air, waiting, waiting, and waiting-----for what?

Throwing my arms, and slinging my net over my shoulder from the ground

What do we wait for? 

What is this thing called life? 

Can’t be a butterfly, can it?

Stumbling, climbing over the ground strewn with boulders

Net in hand, suspense waits for no one

Holding my breath, taught limbs and shoulders

Scratched, I aimlessly thrash about the foliage

Looking, looking, and looking for what this thing is we call life

Swing the net far and wide, make the move, and show the courage

Resurrection

Hop, skip and a jump

Snap

crackle

pop!

The air vibrates -

electricity whistles a tune

come hell or high water

come midnight or noon

no escape the flowing

Joy floods the unknowing

Love soothes

 shapes

 molds to the heart

love pulls

 then tears it apart

Love

hesitates

inundates

translates

to

snap

crackle

pop!

Pleas

Love soars and fills the air, taking its place

in a darkened room

Love travels upward, higher and brighter

until flashing lights illume

Love takes the heart, eager to breathe

wanting to cry

don’t let me go

you and I

Love whole and complete

you hear yourself say

Don’t leave me now

stay somehow stay

Night pulls at the soul

days hang in the balance

voices out loud

this teetering valence



Tears Speak

Down, down across the fullness of the cheek, catching amongst the lines weaving their way down from the eyes, tears fall.  Down.

Into the corners of the mouth, salt gathers, licked away by the tongue, across lips, the edges of time, come down, down, spoken sublime.

Burning the throat, tears fall across centuries of battles, gifts, and strong holds of love, salt laden crystals flow faultless morsels of hurt.

Not dusty nor dry, barren or battered

Tears of love swell with elation about all

Not to be mistaken for hatred.  That matters

Eyes look down, down into the heart, where tears must fall.

Resentment

I mean what I say, when I say goodbye

The roller coaster skims the track

Up

Up one side

Down

 Down the other side

You say not a word, when I say goodbye

I mean what I say, when I say goodbye!

No, I’m back!  I’m back!

Don’t let me come back!

I meant what I said,

Goodbye!

Down, down to the bowels

Up, up to you I fly

skim the track, suspend in air

hovering silhouette

the voice howls

Don’t come back!

Rain - Wind

 

Rain

My heart was hung out in the rain

Pull it in!  I cried.  Pull it in!

It vanished like frost on a window pane

Too late, too late, simply too late

Too long in the rain! I cried

It melted like frosting on a cake

Wind

The wind blows harsh currents across the seas, oceans turn, twist, rise, move to the swell of surface white caps, secretly placing shiny crystals upon these lips, as they tell you their secrets. Are you listening to the wind, is your ear close by?

Do you taste the savory, do you feel the bite upon your skin, all the while wind batters your side, telling you, whispering to you, saying to you, don’t cry?

“You don’t have to understand”, it speaks in a low, tremulous voice. 

“She doesn’t know how to die”

the voice is heard over the wind, in a sigh

“I’m here to make it clear “

the wind murmurs in her ear

Deception

I see a shadowed outline of a face by the window, a small lamp in the background throws a back-light, making it difficult to know just who this person is, and my eyes begin to deceive me even more than before, when the ripple of the old hand-blown glass pulses distortions...

The figure moves, weaving objects in the room, from here to there, what do you see....where....through the view of the old glass in the window...? 

Are these the secrets hidden within, from behind, from without, and when you see in, and then out, do you feel the bile--is it vitriol, is it real, this picture framed with guile?

A Journal of Indulgence

 

A stranger no more

I pulled an all-nighter, indulging myself in thought.  Nights are the best, when eyes are closed, looking inside of dark halls, and having the ability to light up a room..  Skirting around a complicated issue doesn’t exist in these lighted rooms.  It all becomes reality. 

It can be shocking to see what I indulge myself in; in these written words on the walls that I see, and manipulate into forms - I see myself, but can that self only live in our minds until these words are spoken, allowing them to become real, seen as truth to a world in which we live?

I write words to satisfy my thirst; I drink the reactions these words have on others. I’m probably no different than these vampires everyone seems to be so obsessed with, and as I play in the oceans of my mind, I also swim in everyone else’s, driving myself to finding out who that self really is.

Obsessed is what I am, with a short circuit in these connections to all feelings which are thrown into pieces of my self.  I have to express these obsessive words in some form, art preferably, before that connection can be welded together.

Every single word I write, feelings become a light switch to illuminate that dark room inside of my head. The more indulgence, the more obsessed – Has it become over-indulgence?  Is it a progression of eating everyone’s words, until I’ve become so bloated; making me look at each word with feelings so intimate it hurts?  Is it necessary for me?  The word feelings, as I say I feel this way or that way, is just a word until you identify its depth, attaching a form and space to it.  I indulge myself until it becomes painful.

What is it to feel this kind of pain, and if I say I hurt, does this pain mean something different to someone else?  The word obsession is a strong word, and what are the reactions of people who hear it?  When I light up a room for all to see, does it become a room for all to understand, and are you able to explore this room from within, which contains those feelings?

Yes, I am an indulger. I test feelings as much as I can when writing about them.  I’ve shown them; I’ve gorged and bloated myself until I’ve exposed them all, whether ugly, or beautiful, until I have to throw them up for everyone to experience.

The rooms are lit.  I feel satiated knowing a stranger out there is no more.  Is that stranger you, or is it me?

The Kiss

 

The train tracks shimmer in the afternoon sun, stretching long lengths of steel into the distance of the sun scorched day. 

I listen, I wait, I sway.

One o’clock, one-fifteen, one-thirty, it's a lifetime.  You will be here, I know.  I will not cry. 

You’re due at one-forty five. 

From this barren earth, eyes cover in mist.  I listen, as my heart pounds a beat.

I watch vibrating waves of heat.

Is it the sun reflecting the wet of my eyes? Then a glimmer, a glisten, something moves towards me.

I cannot see.

The gate starts its downward motion, the bell rings its toll, and I wait to hear the rumble as it nears.

I feel my fears

seeing through my tears

too many years

Wait!

I step onto the tracks

we kiss our fate

The Hand

photograph by Kathleen Shattuck

The hand reaches out; fingertips touch the uneven plaster on the wall beside the bed; the moon seeps through the curtained glass, casting ominous gloom upon this hand. Stare at this hand, it belongs to a stranger. 

Who is this stranger that lives in this room tonight? 

The shadow of the moon feels cold against the warmth of this hand.  Does this hand belong to this arm that holds it upright, straight, and away, flat against the undulating prickle of sharp edges on the wall?

The hand turns, slowly, palm facing towards this stranger, fingers curling, nails biting into the palm, which seems to be saying, do not touch me - then stretches out until each tip extends and spreads from inside, into a breadth of vulnerability it opens the width of the fingers; opens, opens wide, wider it stretches until pain sears into the sinewy muscle, as sharp teeth may gnaw into a bone. 

Come, soon, look at this hand; watch as it beckons, watch as it moves, before it moves toward the cold shadow of the moon.

How Can I Say Goodbye

when I still see you sitting there, when I still feel you lean into me, when I still absorb the light from your eyes, how can I say goodbye---

when I can touch the shine of your hair, hear your breath in my ear, see the impression you’ve left in the chair, how can I say goodbye----

when I still smell your sent floating near, when your love has become my whole, when your shadow moves away to fly, how can I say goodbye?

We were two as one

you lied

now we are two

you are gone

I am

one

I

died

goodbye

Memories Made

Here is to beautiful memories made, the sea, the sun, the wind, the shade

The sun is rising on an ocean’s crest, sparkling surf, foam and mist

Birds catching the wind – reach for the sky!

Majestic white winged gulls, calling a high-pitched cry

Clouds gathering slowly together, becoming one

A sun setting lower, brilliant colors, a blinding sun

Footprints on wet sand, pressing shells out of sight

The moon comes up – causing shadows, reflections, giving light

The sand is warm, then cold, once hot

as a blanket, the sun is sought

Cold is the sea, warm is the wind

it dries the water but stings the skin

The sea, endlessly pounding, never quiet, never stopping, never still

it is always changing of free will

Thundering waves, gentle waves

obliterates thoughts, castles, but making caves

Erasing words, washing in and washing away

these are the memories here to stay

To beautiful memories made

the sea, the sun, the wind, the shade

Lost In Love

I touch your hand, and feel you near

I touch your cheek, and the world stands still

I feel the pulse of a heart that beats
I hold your thoughts, and sense the fear

This beating heart, close to mine
saving time, but moments lost

keep the night away

 keep the demons cast

keep the day at bay

you are here at last

Hold me to you, hold me now

feel where we must be

take the chance  

take it somehow

our cheeks touch

feel the warmth

Our hands touch, so we can share

feel the night, tonight

hold these memories

we threw away

The Cobweb

I wrote this story one evening.  I was confined to my TV, and my thoughts.  I had a painful tendon problem in both of my hands for more than six months, and was told to use my hands as little as possible.  I'm a potter who lives in her head, for her clay.  I also write.  I couldn't play with my clay, but I wrote anyway.

Chickpeas, Bulgar rice, fresh roasted red peppers, that’s what she is cooking.  I’m watching the Create channel, no sound, just watching.

I’m eager to try some of these menus, ones I know I can create. And the serving dishes are all of a beautiful design and color.  I know I can duplicate.

I turn away from the silent TV, I look towards the empty wall at the foot of my bed.  Empty wall, until my mind dumps its load upon it. Then something catches my eye.  A moving object, I must take a closer look.  It could be a spider.  I get up, out of the solitary confined position in which I must keep my hands.  Moving my hands, contained in braces, is a pain.  It hurts.  I inhale, deeply, then let go of an over-sized exhale against the wall.

I pull myself to a kneeling position on the bed, only to inspect a small cobweb that has snagged a corner of the plaster wall.  At the foot of my bed, it moves, a little, as my breath extends to seek it. 

I watch its grace, in the way it sways back and forth. 

I am far from graceful; I am awkward in my pain, so I leave this cobweb alone.

In watching this cobweb, I back away, feeling the pressure to compose these menus, or construct these platters for serving. I can’t help but pine.  Now I must turn off this television. Now I must lie down, seeing and feeling the pain in my mind.

Face reality

Continue resting your hands

But don’t think

My heart wants to sink

I’m struck through and through, propelling pieces of me, summoning the air, not with my hands, you fool, but with a whisper.

Exhale

This cobweb appeals to me

It moves

It beckons me move

I’m tired of hearing my doctor telling me

Keep those hands still 

Not one more word out of you

I want to write

I want to create art

Stop, my hands tell me

Again the cobweb moves to a fro. 

How long is this pain to last?

I suppose forever, if I cannot stay motionless

Go to sleep

Lifeless 

Emptiness

That’s all I’ve come to know

A story, alone on the shelf

Myself-alone

The exhale becomes the rhythm of the cobweb’s sway