The Centre Cannot Hold

A forgotten doorway.
Forgotten on purpose, dismissed with intention. Lock rusted and key thrown away.

But these things we do have a way of undoing themselves.

I peeked through a crack in the door and expected to hardly recognize you. I expected to be a simple voyeur peeping at nameless characters. A decade passing would have destroyed your features and rendered you a stranger to me. Perhaps you would have a wife, children, new hobbies, friends I had never heard of.
I thought it would be like watching a play and leaving before the houselights came on, the actors never knowing what they unfolded before me as I hid in the darkness. Where would you be living and what kind of work would you do? I expected to get away with it, you see. I expected my presence to leave no mark, for any hint of recognition behind your eyes to be completely eaten away by the tides of over 10 years gone by. When I crept close and pressed my face against that crack I expected many things.

I did not expect to see my own face staring back at me.

And I did not expect to stagger back from the sight of how young and beautiful we once were. And I did not expect you to have changed so little. And I did not expect the flashbacks of us in New York, drinking and fighting in the streets. And I was not prepared for your love to be as hard and fierce and desperate as it had been then, and I forgot you are a poet and that pathos does little to destroy our love, instead feeding it and using it to fuel the fire that keeps us up scratching our way through stacks of paper at 1:00 in the morning.
And I was overcome with a dark longing to rip the door open and expose myself to all your rage and all your love and all your sickness because you used to say I was the only one that could save you and I always scoffed, but seeing you now, and seeing myself, I'm beginning to wonder if it's true.

There is no wife. No children. No idyllic house up north. You do not build tiny ships in bottles or work in the telecommunications industry.
Instead you move from town to town, slinging drinks and making friends you have no intention of keeping. You're fit and age has not touched you, except in the eyes, which are dark from too many parties and too many late nights, and too many highways burned beneath you. You are hiding your weariness and looking for the next escape.

We are so much alike. How could I help but despise you?

But you were too great for me back then. You were a sad and wild thing and I couldn't withstand the fierceness of your love or the calamity of your affection. I didn't have the rage that I have now, and I couldn't cope with your darkest moments. I gave you up and ran away, first from boyfriend to boyfriend and then from town to town. I was afraid of the things I thought you would bring forth in me, not knowing that the grating of time would reveal so much more.

I am as sick as you are, and saving you is the only thing that will save me.

So come to me you obsidian lion, and lie in my arms like a lamb. Sheath your claws and hide your teeth in wooly subterfuge. Bleed in my hands and roar in my ears and this time, this time I will stay. You will finally have what you want and I will be just as disappointing as you need me to be. And I will watch as the sheepskin falls and the teeth come out and when you lunge I will be ready, I will be ready, I will be ready.

And I will eat you alive.

There's a reason Joan died at 19

There is a hole in the world where you used to be. And you. And you and you.
As we get older everything begins to decompose. The pockmarks of those we loved, the creases of lessons learned, both good and bad...

Of course the scars, always the scars.

But scars are signs of healing and maybe you just don't have enough yet. Perhaps your sickness and health is yet to come and right now you are a blank canvas, awaiting your wounds.

I strain myself to understand but your words make no sense to me. Why? Why can't I understand you?? It's not for lack of trying, or desire, or research or meditation or any of the other things we fine intellectuals try to fill our holes with. Is it because you are great and special and unique in ways I can only hope to discover? Or is it because you are fragmented, broken, and (perish the thought!) simply not on the same page as I am?
Perhaps you have tunnel vision, and I am not at the end of your tunnel.
Perhaps you need convincing, and I am a terrible salesman.
Maybe you are a bad communicator and so am I. It's not us it's we.

So tonight begins the final vigil. I will wait and I will have faith and I will hope and I will pray and I will try, I always try god knows and may they write it on my gravestone--she tried harder and fought harder for the kind of love that makes death tremble. For she was born to be a soldier and that was her great downfall because how many soldiers truly taste victory? If we are lucky we survive to watch our red hot scars pale to white and know that next time we will be ever so slightly weaker because what doesn't kill you only kills you slowly. Every fight takes a piece away until you are almost certain there are no more pices left, no more chances, no more tries.

So let this be the final battle, as I have grown too old for crusades. The armor is heavy and the weapons are dull and all my scars are burning tonight.

These are the candles I light for you.

"The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places."

You know how some words echo in your head forever after you read them? Hemmingway echoes in my heart.

I like to see people reunited

I like to see people run to each other,

I like the kissing and the crying,

I like the impatience,

the stories that the mouth can't tell fast enough,

the ears that aren't big enough,

the eyes that can't take in all of the change,

I like the hugging, the bringing together,

the end of missing someone.

--Jonathan Safran Foer

Hello Trickster

Once upon a time, love, you were real. Before I turned you to myth. Before I filled your memory with spices and wrapped you in linen strips. Before I entombed you in thick walls and left no crack for reality to shine through. Before I left you to lay there in the darkness... preserved, perfect, pointless.

Sometimes I visit your catacomb. I creep in when no one is looking and I trace the outlines of stories I've written on the walls. Some of them are true, some are not, but I never touch the ones that actually happened. I lie alongside you in the dark and listen to the scarab beetles burrow for the sun. I tell you secrets that you already know and you become more godlike with every word I sink into you. But your kingdom is limited to these four walls and since I am the creator I cannot worship, so your divinity remains unexercised.

But you, the real you, you walk this earth like any mortal. You know nothing of the hours we spend in the dark, you've never heard the stories I've scratched into the walls. You move about in the waking world, putting to shame every moment I lie in the dark.

Only one of us lives in a tomb.

When Baldr died, the gods all cried

for his end was harbinger of Ragnarok

But you and I, hidden inside

even Herne and the Wild Hunt we would mock.

For they cannot find us in el-Kurru,

they do not look under a desert moon,

and they would not think to search a tomb.

Such is the way of every myth.

Muse....Ing

Not every night is fraught with inspiration, and more’s the pity.

“For the love of god, write something cheerful for once!” he shouts from the kitchen. I try to think of a happy story. A really moving happy story. Once upon a time…

… there was a blank sheet of paper.

I think of myself as a generally happy person. I try to be cheerful. I study optimism and follow it’s doctrines religiously. I know that it is up to me and me alone to make myself happy. I accept that responsibility and work hard to fulfill it. So why are my books full of sad tales? I only like to read books and watch movies with happy endings, so why do all my stories end in tears? I don’t do it on purpose. Once, I purposely tried to write a sad story. A real tragedy. Where the only person who wins in the end is the bad guy.

“Did you succeed?” he asks, gazing over my shoulder and munching cereal. Did I ever! It was horrific, dashed dreams and slaughtered hopes from beginning to end. The innocent were punished, the guilty were rewarded, and every likable character died in a truly heart-wrenching way. It was so awful, I never wrote it down.

“Chicken.” he munches contentedly.

I can write funny stuff, no problem. I find it somewhat boring, unless I’m writing to someone specific and tuning it just right to their sense of humor, but I could write funny stuff all day long.

“Yeah but funny’s not really the same thing as happy, is it? I mean, lots of times a joke is funny because it’s magnifying a negative emotion to a comical degree. Or you’re making fun of something, being derisive, being sarcastic—” Yes, okay, yes that’s true. Fine. Let’s think of something happy.

“Puppies.” he suggests. Not particularly moving.

Love. “It’s been done to death. Come on, think of something new.” Flowers. Clouds. The Cabin. Dancing in tall grass with a tambourine. Driving down a tree-lined street and the sun flashing through the branches into your eyes. Being on a night train with a good mystery book. Eating a cream puff and drinking coffee in a café. Sitting in the window seat while it rains outside…

But wait! What about conflict? Isn’t that the basis of any story? There has to be conflict! It can’t all be clouds and cream puffs! “Sure.” he shrugs, “If you want to write stories like everyone else. If you want to go down in history as a formulaic wannabe. But if you want to write something that actually matters, you need to break the rules.”

I don’t even remember the rules anymore. I just write what my brain spins out, as it spins it, and I don’t believe in second drafts. Second drafts seem to rip the soul out of a piece. Or at least change the feel of it completely.

“Well, that’s one thing you’ve got going for you.” he says over his shoulder as he heads back to the kitchen.

Once upon a time…

She: This is no place for a human being to live.
He: It's the suburbs.
She: Exactly.

Dame Luna

I remember you, Ellie, the way you would float around. You were delicate like a white dandelion, any puff could blow you away. And I remember your voice, as you sang your songs in the garden. Sweet songs, about birds and flowers and springtime.

And I remember when your songs changed and they were about love. You sang slower, lower, milking every word. You were like a white rose then, your petals peeling back one by one as you unfurled.

And I remember that glorious day, when you were like a cherry tree in full bloom. Tiny flowers swirling away like sheets of snow, you were everywhere, in everything. You lit up the world and you sang like an army that has won the war.

I remember you. Warm, laughing, translucent.You sang about birds and flowers and spring, but your eyes would wander toward the sea.

And I remember another day, when your songs changed. You were like a tiny snowdrop, tears sliding down your cheeks like dew. Your song was a vein of silver deep underground; beautiful, but cold and far away from the birds and sunshine.

Nothing bloomed that year, and the year after you left the seaside. You said the music of the waves tortured you. You had stopped singing by then.

Yes, Ellie, I remember you. I remember you like a blown dandelion, scattered in the wind, fading as you fell. I remember you like the stars remember the moon, even as they watch her wane. I remember you, Ellie, I remember you and cry.

Chaos is Comforting

New Mexico has won it's place in my heart. It has fought tooth and nail for a piece of my soul, and for a long time all I saw were the teeth and nails. But there is a warmth and gentleness here that I've never found anywhere else. A suspension of judgement, a tolerance for all things human--good and bad.

New Mexico doesn't want anything from you. It has no demands, no expectations. It doesn't need constant attention, the way New York does, and it doesn't require exclusive devotion, like California. All it wants is to walk beside you and be your companion. To greet your feet with soft soil for an afternoon walk, to surround the porch with gentle rain on a summer evening, to splash a giant blue sky with burning colors at sunset. This is what New Mexico wants: only to be loved for what it is--different.

It's not the most beautiful place, nor the most entertaining, nor the healthiest... nor the worst. But if you don't judge it, it won't judge you, and you can walk together in peace.

Welcome home baby.

Happy Wet Sunday Eve

Through the drops on the window I can see the green hills slide by, riding on a swollen river. The oranges sparkle under a winter sun and everything smells like soft soil and damp growth.

We ran through the orange trees, laughing, light flashing between green leaves and bits of rainbow filtering through our eyelashes. A cloud bursts, pelting us with soft bright rain, and we are driven to the trees, huddling among the green leaves and sweet smelling citrus. Screams of hilarity echo across the grove as we realize the gentle drops have transformed into tiny hailstones and the car is a long way back. But the sun rescues us, his shining children in the orange trees, and watches as we race back to the high road to continue our journey up, UP the mountain.

Sometimes, not having a photo makes the memory so much better.

Truth Story

"There's something between us, isn't there?" he asked quietly from the passenger seat. I glanced over quickly, but was unable to read his face in the dark. "I mean, there's a sort of tension." he continued. "A bad tension?" I asked cautiously. "No, no, not a bad tension. I mean, well, have you ever wondered how things could have been? With us?"

Yes, I had wondered. And yes, there was something between us. I had met him when I was 14 years old and I had loved him immediately. We dated briefly when we were 16, until we broke up for reasons that I can no longer remember. Eight years later he moved to California, and within a couple of years I too found myself on the west coast. We took turns driving the three hours to visit each other. Things change in ten years, even if friendships stay the same. I had dedicated my life to God, and he was pursuing several life-absorbing careers at once. Whenever we got together we'd talk about science, literature, philosophy, psychology, music, politics, pop culture, and, of course, religion. Like a lot of people, he was fascinated by my strong faith and personal relationship with God. Unlike a lot of people, he was actually familiar with the bible, knew an incredible amount about world religions, theology, history, and modern Judaism.

During one of these discussions we happened to be at a diner in Hollywood. I remember looking across the table at him, we were debating some minor detail about the Mosaic Law, when it dawned on me: He's the most brilliant man I know. He's dazzlingly intelligent, and yet totally unaffected by it. He's hilarious, light-hearted, and extremely deep. He's much smarter than me, but never lets me know it. This is a man I could spend my life being inferior to, and be happy about it!

At the time, I felt quite certain these feelings were entirely on my side. It never occurred to me that he might feel the same way. A burst of love over the pancakes and maple syrup was something that I could easily accomplish with little-to-no participation from the second party. So the next three years moved along much as they always had. He had girlfriends, I had boyfriends. He travelled extensively in Europe, then moved to Moscow with his Egyptologist girlfriend. I moved back to New Mexico. We kept in touch a little, the way two people do when a friendship has been so long established that it no longer requires maintenance. But the realization I made at the diner never fully left me.

"Oh," I responded to his question, "you mean that thing where I'm madly in love with you and would marry you in a second if you were a god-fearing man?" Yes. That was the "thing" he was referring to. As it turns out, he had had a similar realization during our time in California. It had been eating at him for three years since, and he had decided to finally bring it up on this, his first trip back to the states in over a year. He explained the frustration of being attracted to someone because they had a rare faith and spiritual depth, and yet knowing that it was that very faith and spiritual depth that would forever be an insurmountable obstacle. Because, in a way, we had the same values. We both believed passionately in truth, in love, in finding one's way, in learning, in creation. In all our long years together we had never had a single fight. Sometimes it felt like we agreed on everything... except we didn't. We didn't agree on the makeup and state of existence of the human soul. We didn't agree on holidays, homosexuality, or interfaith. We agreed that there was one true god, but we didn't agree that there was one true religion... the list went on.

But here we were agreeing again. Because "what could have been" is never "what is" and we both knew--had know for a long time--that the thing between us could never be developed, or even explored. We agreed on the most important thing: it would never work. Not in this life.

We talked late into the night, looking at the night sky and making up new constellations. He hadn't seen the stars in fifteen months. I told him stories about the petty Greek gods and he explained how communism would have worked if any group of people besides the Russians had attempted it.

If you are right, and when we die our soul

bursts into a million pieces, only to join

up with the pieces of others and be reborn

as a new soul; then in the next life your

soul pieces and mine will find each other

again.

If I am right, and there is a greater life

than this awaiting our living souls in

a world where God will wipe out

every tear, and death will be no more,

neither pain, nor sorrow; then we can

live happily together, and we'll never

worry about our souls bursting

again.

THIS IS THE FAITH THAT I HAVE.

People are such complicated and fragile beings. Tonight I tried that whole "open, honest communication" thing. You know, where you're really scared to say something, but you go ahead and say it anyway. I'm not sure what I hoped to gain by doing so, reassurance I suppose. I sort of got it, but more importantly it prompted the other person to be more open, which helped us both sort out some misunderstandings.

It's just hard to be riddled with all the fears and insecurities that come along with being human. Not that we were ever meant to live like this, with the strain and the abuse of a satanic system and over 2,000 years of dumb homosapien ideas. When you consider things like capitalism, atom bombs, and chia pets, it's really no wonder that some people think we descended from apes.

But as fragile as we are, and as silly as we are, we've got a secret weapon. God made us in his image, and his name means "he causes to become". We have just the shadow of that power in that we are highly adaptable creatures. We weren't built for this system; for stress and for death and for loss of family and for loss of identity and for overwork and overplay and jacked up food and imperfect brain functionality... We weren't built for it, but we were built strong. We were built to last. God calls us his sheep, and while sheep are generally considered to be somewhere on the level of highly clever dirt clods when it comes to brains in the animal kingdom, there are over 1 billion sheep on the planet. Clearly you don't have to be smart to make it in this world. You just have to use what god gave you. You have to pull on your woolies when the cold wind blows.

Bad Kitty!

*sigh*. It is rather hard when you've had a good day and you come home full of things to share, only to find out that you are in the dog house for something the cat did. Something you had absolutely no control over. Something the cat had no control over. It was just one of those no-one-is-to-blame accidents. And yet, someone WILL be blamed because someone MUST be blamed because otherwise where would the victim direct their pain and anger? And since the cat cannot understand what it did (and has already been given a life-sentence of exile) YOU must shoulder the remaining animosity because there is still pain and anger galore! Oh the sulky looks... the refusal of peace offerings... the numerous "sorries" that make no difference... the expectation that you should be very apologetic and contrite and eager to make amends... except that it was the bloody CAT that did it!!

Anyway. See how the negative energy just keeps going? First the cat gets it, then I get it, then you have to read about it. Sad really.

On a positive note: today was a good day. I cleaned the house and talked to my brother on the phone and prepared a pork roast and let a beetle go free (only after a strict inspection by our local Beetle vs. Vile Unmentionables Panel was it declared by all present (myself and Cinder) that it was, in fact, a beetle and NOT a baby cockroach). I'm not sure how the roast will turn out, it gets done around midnight. I have my misgivings about it.

I also learned today that while it is NOT, in fact, possible to burn tofu, it IS in fact possible for the bottom of the square to stick to the pan over and over again so that you end up with tofu crumbles instead of tofu squares. Kind of like scrambled tofu. But crumby-er.

Tomorrow my mom and I are going down to Los Lunas. I'm going to the Amish store to buy farm-fresh raw milk, pastries, and spices. I'll probably be making damage-control stew out of the remains of the doubtful pork roast. I will try to remember to take pictures.

What Dreams May Never Come

I dreamt that I shot myself.

I wasn't me, I was some other girl, and she was desperately unhappy. She didn't want to die, but she was caught up in her own stubbornness. No one believed she would do it, they weren't taking her seriously, and one boy challenged her by putting the gun in her hand. She was enraged. She waited until everyone was gone, then she counted quickly to 3 and put the gun in her mouth. She squeezed the trigger once and nothing happened, she squeezed it again right away, and that time she knew the bullet had gone through her neck.

At that moment in the dream, I became myself again.

I didn't feel any pain, or hear any noise, but I felt myself slip gently to the floor. There was no impact, it was just like passing out, or falling down when you're really drunk. I laid there on the floor and listened very closely to my heart beat. I didn't know how successful I had been, and I was hoping my heart would keep beating so I could live. At first I could hear it pounding, racing from the adrenaline. Then it started to slow. It skipped a few beats and I held my breath in anticipation for the next beat, hoping it would come. It didn't, but I reasoned perhaps it was because I was holding my breath. A man then came rushing into the room, called by the sound of the shot. He was trying to stop the bleeding, and I felt relieved because he had phoned for help and I knew my brother was coming. My brother is an EMT and I felt sure that he would be able to get my heart beating again. I felt sorry for all the people who would be disturbed by the sight of me. I couldn't speak, but in my mind I tried to tell the man fussing over me that it wasn't me who did this. It was that other girl who no one believed, and that she did it out of frustration. She didn't want to die either, she just wanted to be seen.

Everything started to get grey and I knew the black was coming. I didn't fight it because I knew my brother was on his way and I had absolute confidence in him. Everything was golden, soundless...

...then it went black.

Things will never be like they were, because I am not who I was.

Lots of dreams lately about being in love. Weird how intensely you can feel something in your dreams. You think you've all but forgotten that feeling... then it shows up one night and you wake up feeling so peaceful and happy... even knowing that it wasn't real, it's reassuring to know you at least still have the capacity for true love.

Ninja-Vampire perhaps?

Tonight my brother came in from Austin and I made sweet potato home-fries, but I didn't have any brown sugar, so I dowsed them in cinnamon, which kind of worked, but they still really needed sugar.


He's writing a screen-play and it's his baby and I'm sworn to secrecy so I can't tell you what it's about, but it will most likely be a hit. It cracks me up how similar we are (I told him about the screen-play I wrote back in December) and yet with me being out of state, and now him being out of state, it's like we hardly know each other. I mean, the love is totally there and we laugh together and we can tell each other anything and we always rescue the other when everyone else lets us down (even the rest of the family), but when it comes to that general, day-to-day knowledge of what he's into and what he did last week and what his girlfriend's name is... I come up all blanks. It's really sad and I know it's a result of just not keeping in touch.


Having a sibling is so special and such an amazing relationship that can't ever be duplicated, it amazes me how much we abuse it. But, that's kind of the comfort of it. No matter what happens, no matter what I do, he's my brother and he has to love me. There's not much else in life with that kind of security. :)

StoryPeople

Most of the stuff I say is true because I saw it in a dream and I don't have the presence of mind to make up lies when I'm asleep.

The plumber was digging around in the pipes and he saw something shine in the muck and it turned out to be the soul of the last tenant. He gave it to me and I said I wonder how we can return it and he shrugged and said he found stuff like that all the time. You'd be amazed what people lose, he said.

I once had a garden filled with flowers that grew only on dark thoughts, but they need constant attention and one day I decided I had better things to do.

She kept asking if the stories were true. I kept asking her if it mattered. We finally gave up. She was looking for a place to stand, and I wanted a place to fly.

Public Service Announcement

Tonight I was viciously attacked by one of the most despicable creatures on god's green earth. No, it wasn't an insurance salesman. It wasn't even a middle school teacher. This vile little abomination is none other that most horrid of insects, the Cockroach! I want him dead. I want them all dead! I wish plagues on their houses and suffering to their kin! Death, DEATH to roaches everywhere!!!

Do I feel this way about all bugs, you ask? No. I do not. Take for instance, the common beetle. It is a large, black bug similar in shape and size to a cockroach. But i don't have any beef with beetles. Why you ask? Because beetles know their place. Beetles stay outside. You will see beetles climbing in the grass. You will see beetles digging around in the dirt. You will see a beetle disappear around a fence post. You will NOT open your silverware drawer and see a beetle crawling across your forks. You will NOT hear strange noises coming from under the sink and open the door only to discover two beetles in the midst of copulation while another angry beetle looks on. You will NOT be sitting at the piano and feel what you believe to be the cat's tail brushing your leg, look down and see a beetle crawling up your leg. These things will not happen, because beetles respect me as a superior life form! Beetles are not arrogant little bastards that think they have the right to be in all places at all times! Beetles do not use witch-craft to make themselves super flat so that they might hang out in filthy places, such as behind the fridge or under dumpsters! Beetles do not live in city sewers with thousands of their immediate family members and come out at dusk to cover 3 square feet of the sidewalk around the sewer cap for the sheer joy of giving unsuspecting pedestrians the almighty heebie-jeebies! Beetles did not, through some evolutionary injustice, develop wings and try to attack me through the window as I innocently typed at the computer!!

As a result, beetles may live with the secure knowledge that i will not squash them, spray them, pound them, curse them, or set the cat on them.


As for the rest of you... consider yourselves warned.

I laid on that hardwood floor, and you played sweet music to me.
And I didn't know your story,
but I felt I was part of your glory,
I felt you sorely,
I felt you.

I rode that train deep down, and I saw you in the flashes of light.
I knew you were right,
I knew you not by sight,
because my eyes were closed, whenever I felt you.

Happy Wet Sunday

It's half-past the witching hour and it's starting to rain outside. I love my huge bay window and having the room on the end of the house. The chipped crystals I hung in the window are perfect not just in the sun, but also the moonlit rain.

It's so interesting to me how houses fall down when no one lives in them. Only the movement, warmth, and energy of a human keep them living, like organic things.

I remember the rain on this house. On this land. I remember the smell of the earth waking up. It smells like fairy tales and adventure and little elves. It smells like the great grey sky shot through with the barren branches of elms. It smells like wild roses and stubborn crocuses. It smells like an old wool coat and a clever north wind.

This sleepy gypsy wants to take a ride up the mountain, but there's no one to go with. No one to drive as she drinks in the stars or cracks the window to put her hand out in the rain. With a good song on low and the beams on high she could self-mythologize until it all made sense and she felt the peace creep over her of a tale beginning to unravel.

UP, up the mountain until the water drops freeze and we find ourselves in the center of a softly humming snow-globe. We'd go as far as we could, till we came to the rim of the world, then we'd look out over the trees and misty valleys. The snow would shine like rough glass and give off more light than Dame Luna in her sky. Then we'd get cold and have to come back down. Down to where the silent snow gives way to the rapping rain. Down to where the glittering path gives way to mud and bubbling puddles. Down to where the night stars give way to city lights, down the shining side road to my house, down, down under the covers and into bed!

Goodnight friends. :)