Crow and body.

July 26, 2017

 

I opened the door

And there as though waiting stood an overlarge black

Crow (his glossy eyes barely visible and swamped in his inky face)

His wet-looking feathers lay stock still and his miniature

Toucan-shaped beak frozen agape at what I did not

Know

 

He peered at me alas frozen

And then a shock seemed to ring an alarm in his

Body (his form convulsed and he quickly hopped off to disappear)

I shuddered and thought It is a sign and like the

Bird now unseen I longed to be

Away

###

Malaise.

July 23, 2017

She read that a good writer keeps a journal, one that is honest and raw and says all the horrible things that can’t be said in polite company—scratch that, in any company. For a writer to produce something worth her time and worth her readers’ time, she must have the guts to go for broke at least with herself, to drop to her knees, hemorrhage on the keyboard, and leave her heart sitting there, pulsing and glistening.

 
Ok, that’s just gross imagery. She can do better than that. But, it’s her journal: She can say anything here.

 
A journal is where secrets are told, and her secrets are secret-secret, mysteries even to her. To bring them to the surface means writing about the things she wishes she had but won’t do anything to get. Because, she has everything necessary. She wants to feel grateful for that. Well, she does feel grateful, the attitude is real and alive in her. She knows things could be worse, or could get worse. So – she feels compelled toward gratitude.

 
She’s afraid to not feel thankful and to make sure everyone knows she does. It’s as though her wanting something more or different is like shaking a belligerent fist at the heavens and daring God to deliver something catastrophic, something that will make her look back and think, “I had everything and I should have appreciated it.”

 
God doesn’t really work like that, she knows. That’s not his jacket. God is benevolent and wants her to be happy (but, she wonders, what about a starving child in some war-torn country, or that kid with his face covered in dirt in Syria, shell-shocked and lost? Doesn’t God want him to be happy?) and she knows that being glad for the things she has isn’t some fool-proof protection against future pain.

 
So, she works on being grateful.

 
That established, her gratitude firmly planted, she gets down to writing her journal, exhuming the bones of her life. Pen in hand, she pauses. What to write? Something about passion, surely. Only, modern life does not really include permission for the depth of feeling that the great romantics of past eras (for all their oppression) allowed themselves. There is the notion that those in contemporary America who examine their own sentimentality, at all costs–consequences be damned–are altogether of questionable intelligence, or somehow strange, or terribly naïve. Who are they to trade their comfortable, be-thankful-for-them spots for magic?

 
“Dear Diary,
The arts and, thus, all humanity suffer because great personal pain of an emotional nature is devalued in the modern age. The focus on superheros, Wonder Women, flying men, and on tales set in fantastical faraway worlds and imaginary post-apocalyptic lands seems to imply that great stories do not belong to Ordinary Time.”

 
She rolls her eyes. That’s some great philosophical drivel right there, she thinks. But what about the bones of her own malaise? What about her own itching for change, her own discontent? (Unbidden, the chant begins: “Be grateful!” roars in her heart, her head. “No questioning! No complaining!”)

 
Dear Diary: That mantra is falling apart.

###

45.

July 16, 2017

Waking from the middle of a dream set in outer space, she found herself in her usual position, curled on her side and she imagined the alarm going off. Soon, she would stand and begin to get ready, making herself up for the day. And of course she worried about her appearance, turning 45. There were the obvious things to throw her into a spiraling fear-fall: the skin just that much more worn, stomach that much more slack, and silver threads sparkling through the dark cloud of hair that was hers.

But those weren’t really the topics about age she cared about, lying there in those last moments in that surreal space between sleep and wakefulness. She thought, “What about the unseen things?” Doesn’t 45 mean some kind of wisdom and having got somewhere, finally? She was faintly embarrassed by the truth: She was no more wiser than when she was a young woman. Yes, she had more compassion, but more cynicism, too.

She sat up from the bed, pushing the sheets and blankets aside, wanting to see the tableau of her life. The sun had not come all the way up and it was partially dark, but from her viewpoint, she summed up her achievements, proud of so many, and also unable to not notice the spaces she had not visited and the aspects of terrain she had never mapped. She sat in the middle of life and saw that roads appeared in every direction before her, roads downward and roads upward, paths she wanted to walk and learn: inner peace (45 and still restless), satisfied disposition (45 and still wanting), a deep understanding of self (45 and still surprised to be meeting herself), a sense of completeness (45 and still wondering what and who she will be when she grows up).

She got off the bed and walked toward the start of one road, visible in the starlight. She unlatched a gate and stepped onto it’s dirt path. In the pale dark, she could make out that it was worn and cleared by others’ having walked it–a million artists and daydreamers and seekers before her.

Taking a step, she asked God, “Shouldn’t I be settled in by now, 45 and comfortable?” Shouldn’t the desire for bigger sentimentality and more intensity and deeper connection and magic-magic-magic have either been fulfilled, or realism and equanimity put in its place? Shouldn’t she have successfully achieved that thing always talked about: loving yourself?

She looked up for answers and spied a satellite. She was surprised, she thought her satellite would have docked by now, by 45, having learned enough out there in the galaxy. Instead, there it was, continuing its orbit, still gathering data, still researching. She reached her hands up and out, waiting for the satellite’s message. It poured light downward, illuminating the path under her feet. She took a step.

###