I found some cool new people!
Smoke Signals
yaohong
teach us to love.
How to Live
Verbosity to Me
. . .meg. . .
Guess what? Tomorrow, Stephen Baker and I will turn two years of correspondence into there-you-are-in-front-of-me reality.
If 'there-you-are-in-front-of-me reality' weren't such a mouthful, it'd make a cool band name.
***
My heart hurt for real this evening. Physically instead of emotionally. But then I thought about it and realized it hurts a little bit in both senses.
I miss God.
I got really far away all of a sudden, and now my legs hurt from running back with such force.
It's the sort of burn one's happy to embrace.
"You know, I can't think of anyone else who hurt me so much that I made moves to willingly erase them from my life. But you did. Right before you said you're sorry, you miss me, and hate making enemies.
Tough."
...shame on me for loving you like a Pharisee. Shame on me for being content with not forgiving you, for being content with offering only earthly love. I have been redeemed more times than anyone who's not God can count. How dare I, though you're no prodigal son, refuse you due to pride, anger, and contempt. I have done away with these words. You do not treat me like a friend, but I will not treat you like an enemy. I forgive you.
- - -
[Aside from that, I wish I had more writing to offer you. I think once Literary Magazine starts up again, I'll catch on fire. I'm looking forward to it :).]
bare foot in front of bare foot
down to the edge of the dock.
toes glean the water's ripples,
rendering a nearby skimmer bug
unemployed.
the very same ripples turn moonbeams to serum
fawns to mirrored siblings
trees to towers.
the lake's boundaries never breached,
for the body knows its place.
nature's measure of silence flows freely as wind
always chirping, chattering, chiding
but she is not offended.
this new kind of quiet surrounds.
lonely is an impossible feat.
into a cold sweat breaks,
caffeine-free pulse pumping
--fingers extend past their prime
typing love letters to a squirmy future
that writhes beneath its mask.
musical shards of glass sprinkle brows
tricking melodies to tear at tears
as ear canals flood gates of wrath.
thinking digs the rut the mouse built
while foresight dismantles fairy tales.
Ernest Hemingway was once challenged to write a six word short story. He offered, "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." He sparked an eternal literary provocation to those who value brevity and multiple meanings. An original:
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
My love,
There's been a misunderstanding.
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
I bet you can't write one.
[oooh, blogger trash talk.]
*See Stephen's here.*
This is the 2nd 4th I've been alone for. "Alone," though, is a relative term, and one of the ways in which I am is quite apparent. But when I dance around the kitchen while my dad bakes cookies and Skye raves in her aviators to "That's Not My Name," I can focus on what and who I'm surrounded by. Really, I always should. It's gotten a lot easier these past weeks.
To the Lucy who ran around the block yesterday to Regina Spektor's melancholy beats, fighting tears and ignoring her target heart rate because 193 bpm cemented her vitality, listen to me. You can be happy. Choose to.
Happy Independence Day, loves. While holding on to the force, reach for peace.
