Unedited English version of the first part of my story, please feel free to share comments
have you ever met an angel
a truly celestial being
hiding in clothes so normal and drab your eyes slide over them before letting you perceive their holiness
god how i wish i could pray
i’ll never be quite so alive as i am now
with night between my trembling fingers
me not editing the things that i write—two went running
I got ‘em started when they were nothing. Back when the red ran loose around her legs, open and with fading heat. Like a queen’s victory upon being dethroned, she smiled as she faded with the warmth. And I had the two, screaming and squealing before they knew of their mother’s abandon. Take a drink. Take a drink.
Anonymous asked: Floating in orbit of Saturn, the endless rotation of some perverted philosopher's thought experiment. Why must I spin as an eternal 'maybe'? why must my existence rest on the ephemeral belief placed upon me? Can I not act for myself and shoot like a comet through the solar system, passing dandelions and moons who also have a freedom, a future?
oh the things i write when given a keyboard and a minute to type
Little Lady Sparrow
Little Lady Sparrow
huddled on my windowsill.
curled against the anger,
the anger of the world at night.
i cannot feed You, Lady Sparrow,
or hold You and
make You warm.
but i can watch
clattering beak and claw
on my window.
i can watch,
do You dream?
sitting to the side, thumb running over her fingers. i don’t remember her or how she really looked anymore. it’s difficult sometimes. her dirty green eyes, deceptively dull. and then the sun hits her, no, embraces her.
i just have these moments, i guess. moments.
seeing her emerge from the changing forest, swathed in soft greens and purples. materializing from the forest fully formed, head high with wonder. and the sun came out, holding her. i can hear her voice, light poetry. i’m staring quietly, intently.
thumb running over her fingers. knowing she thought a little more than i did on everything. and she thought and thought until she swore she knew. the light surrounded her and the clouds vanished and the wind bowed and the water shimmered.
it was cold. my breath was whipped away, her breath stolen.
i can’t guess how long it’s been. the sun doesn’t really shine anymore and the sun doesn’t remember how she looked.
one day when we were in her yard with the expensive haitian coffee she had been meaning to show me for a week. the moon was biting its lip, watching; i watched her over my too-hot drink, steam dampening my nose. the sun wanted to melt her, this clear ice. her glasses were off and her deep brown mane curled about her. she was alive, she was human. she was a part of the greater world and wanted to find out why she could be given such a privilege. why she would never see her dreams grow and change and why the sun was never warm enough.
the moon squirmed closer, fixed on her. and she took another step out of the dying swirl of fiery leaves. followed the speckled path worn by invisible others. her boot touched the water.
she said she could never end and i still believe her. sitting there cross-legged with scabbed knees and freckled skin, her mind quivered behind her tongue. and she took another step into the cold water. her thumb ran over her fingers.
the unsolved questions and wonder that rested behind her eyes, those deceptively dull green eyes, the ones that drank their fill of sun. it was settled: she would try to answer to this new curiosity, she told me, emptying her mug. she unfolded herself from beside me and flowed inside.
i always have this impression of her leaving, just remembering the back of her, the curve that somehow emerged from that angular body, the hair in need of a good brush, her scratches and scrapes and bruises she found for herself at the end of an idea. the thought of her sits still and shining in my mind, cold. another step.
it’s around her knees. i burnt my mouth.
i told her that i cared. her reflection swirled about her shoulders. i couldn’t do anything. despite all that i claimed, i was frozen, mouth burning.
i watched her leave. she smiled and the sun had her.
these spirits, they breathe too. well, last i saw you we were watching our lives change in a moment. watching the lives of everyone change. in that moment we saw the change. i feel a draft. i heard that the cold is what brings about those spirits. you know, the ones i was talking about. i mean, i guess they breathe, i guess they feel. did they change too? did they shift when we discovered that moment? all of this happening outside of us, outside of what we thought was true and real and wonderful, all these outer demons pressing in on us. we weren’t trying to change everything, right, we were just trying to keep everything the same. that wind made us see what we refused to acknowledge and we changed. nothing is the same, nothing is the same for anyone. i wonder if she is here. you know, like those spirits i said. breathing. don’t make fun of me, i mean it. those cold drafts? i think it’s a spirit sighing one last time before it dies again and again, always returning to exhale. the soul is in the rattling breath death steals, that’s why people used to capture those breathing souls in bottles, so they’d never be bothered by those drafts and so they’d always have their friend on hand. maybe she couldn’t breathe down there? maybe she couldn’t breathe her last breath and that’s why the wind was crying, it knew her and wanted her to join it in the welcoming of winter. stuck down there, under that icy water and all that stuff, she never got to sigh. she is stuck. and she changed us all, her soul envious of our breath.
you are the vessel of the greater, the stronger, the stranger, the foreigner, the darker. just an empty shell, never to see the sun without another tugging and prodding you, pointing your eyes. the greater good you think you work for, the greater good has no right to you, sweetest conduit, and you have no right to work for anything. you are only you in the corner of that quiet mind of yours. your freest moments are when the stronger has absolute control, when the surging, screaming power of the better goes far beyond your senses. you are there, always there, as it were, but you only are looking out of the smallest window in that cell. cherished conduit, you are kept safe and apart from the consequences of the better, you do not need to worry of serving your purpose. bridging the divide between the disordered reality you know and the greater surreality the better emerges from is your duty. and is duty not enough? is completing your only task in this life not enough for you? you, beloved conduit, belong as such. you belong to something else. nothing you wish matters, empty shell. a pretty package in which others place their goods, a delivery always to be made on time. the better is your master and the better has sole possession. the power that flows in you, treasured conduit, belongs not to you.
Static in the Well
Static hissing at the bottom of the well. Crunching leaves from a cold, cold autumn with frosty lace. Misted breath.
The white noise crackles and spits, crawling up the hollow cylinder.
Vine-ridden stone encourages the sound upwards; the call is placed.
Boots push the leaves aside, the hard dirt now grinding against their soles. Radio signals cry out and the static cracks with a word, a plea. Through the quivering chill on the late autumn day, gray skies and skeletal trees, boots crunch to the well.
Worn jeans sit on the crumbling rim. The cajoling voice of a young man and he flicks his spent cigarette down the well into the sound without a glance. Her rosy smile, white fog clouding between them. Her face growing red from the iced air, the hidden affair. She sits, thick skirt on his jeans.
The static growls and whines, aching for the touch of reality, for their smoky breath to breathe damply into its cold shell, for its husk to shudder into life, life that had been so completely removed and digested. A tight embrace of lips and the noise howls. Mouths move and their bodies shake with playful laughter, drowned. Push and pull and push and pull they rock back and forth, their pantomime denying attention to the broken shrieks. The stiff wind shifts and pushes them both. A quick inhalation of the stale air, the rotting reeking stench and they know. The static crackles and the word just on the edge of knowledge forms. The plea whispers up the shaft. Looking down in fear of falling, they know.
Green and glass, mouthless words. Swirling ink filming over a frozen pearl. The final sounds of a battered soul being tossed out, a spent toy. The glowing bloom of life littered with the scars of use. Glass stares out of the well, out of the anemic, pale shell webbed in cold blue. The roar of recognition ripped from their throats echoes into the frozen world outside of them.
Dear Future Michelle
I really don’t know what I am doing. I wake up and do something and go to sleep. I have no clue where I am going. I hope you end up happier than I am here; that would prove that I am somehow doing something right. I am unsure, however, if I am doing things right, you know? I want to write. I know that. That is all I know. What can writing be applied to? Everything, I suppose. Writing music, stories, papers, essays. So, from my position here and now so many moments from you, I believe I will end up as a type of writer. An author of many faces and topics. That seems like somewhere that I am heading. There is always the question of continued education and where and when and what I will study. I have no clue now. I have vague ideas along the lines of anthropology, philosophy, creative writing. Then again, I might not. I don’t know what I am doing but I have a pretty good grasp on what I am not, I guess. I hope you don’t feel mad at me in the future.
The New Now
Gentle: Strive in all activities and interactions with the self and others to be compassionately gentle. No boulder can withstand even the slightest trickle. Speak soft and touch lightly, hold close and listen fiercely.
Eloquent: Speak up and speak out. Do not raise your voice. Pick and choose your words, think quicker than you already do. Be sensible and clever and you will have your way.
Patient: Never hurry, never rush. When someone needs help, you will give it. You are not a master of time; clocks need not exist when patience rules your mind. Be considerate of others’ lives and activities and you will never run late.
Focus: Be present and one with the task at hand. Wandering minds are the seeds of accidents. When an issue presents itself, take it with your full self. When walking, walk; when drinking tea, drink. Do not let distractions flood in and you will be better.