August 30, 2010
September the fourth. A whole night spent writing from within the rings of fire, at the circus. A whole block of hours spent suspended from reality, the nets below disintegrating and unraveling. September the fourth is the anniversary of her spirit’s inward collapse, the reckoning and the tallying up…it is the day she lay down her masks and her costumes, the day she stopped flinging bright glitter from her hands so that those who looked at her would not look into her eyes, but out into the air all around her, where magic and color swirled.
September the fourth. The day the jesters stopped dancing, the night a Phantom Spectre cracked a whip and all the lions ceased their roaring, the entire circus coming to an abrupt stop, the trick walls and paint and electronic cannons all illuminated.
August 3, 2010
No hay a quien culpar.
Tonight. I stood unsteady on my feet, as though I had my fifth glass of wine in hand and searching for the sixth, but I had no wine left, and here is what I thought: I’m surprised at this, this day…that this day is here and I stand like this alone, a tree trunk sawed off and blackened out in the verdant forest. This is where I am. Unsteady on my feet, rooted and burnt, my bark felling its blackened crust all about me. But poised where I’ve never been poised.
I feel the wind upon my oaken mask, the skin underneath thin and bruised. Settled like I never was; oh, I eat it up, this day, the newness of it. Scooping it in huge bites into my mouth, into the pitted whirls in the wood. Using my fingers, no patience for utensils or spades.
Things move along. No blame and no recrimination. Some more love waiting out there for you, some more love out there for me, too.
It’s true that things move along.