“The future is now!”–Photovoltaics are the way in which one energy, solar, is converted to another kind of energy. The vibration of such power makes her heart beat faster, her fingertips tremble upon the keyboard when she goes to write.

And so it is discovered that energy, conduits, ions of feeling are still alive after such a long time lying dormant..a photovoltaic transfer, All the bravest writers from all the most typical places, for all time, have sought to find this very place.

Hope, it is the thing with feathers*, it soars past the earth, into the heavens, up up, higher, above…

Photovoltaic…indeed.
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* Emily Dickinson

At sea.

October 27, 2011

The word he used was “strife.”

strife: /straɪf/[strahyf]

noun

1.vigorous or bitter conflict, discord, or antagonism: to be at strife.
2.a quarrel, struggle, or clash: armed strife.
3.competition or rivalry: the strife of the marketplace.
4.Archaic. strenuous effort.
 
Strife meant, to her, that last one. The arcane “strenuous effort.” She had done that–listed for miles and miles, starboard,  in a ship constructed of strenuous effort. No land in sight. From the lookout from where she stood, there was no home. Just the vast ocean of gray sea.
 
But it was not always so. Once:

She was a girl who played library as a child. At the kitchen table, she quietly opened book after book and pretended to stamp a due date into their covers. She solemnly slid the books across the table to the invisible borrower, and would say in an authoritative voice, “Please do not be tardy returning your books. Enjoy reading this, it is one of my favorites.”

He was a boy who had a brilliant thought as a child. He climbed to the top of his mother’s house, to the roof. With faith born of magical thinking, he jumped off the roof, believing a garbage bag would be a suitable parachute. Perhaps he imagined his small form floating softly to the ground.

They had big imaginations, once. They didn’t know Webster’s entry for strife. They knew the particular latitudes of freedom, where the ocean met land and they could find their landlegs. She knew of books of poetry and stories where heroic acts take place. He knew the dizzing freedom of flying through the air without knowing what the landing would be.

(One life. You get to live it.)

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Magic tree.

October 24, 2011

Like a thousands-year old tree before it clear-fells in the forest, she is rising out of the earth to meet a sky, to show her face to the sun. Her hopes and desires are timeless. She only wants what hearts thousands of years ago also wanted.

But – a lumberjack, burly and bearded, swinging an axe, the heft of it comfortable and fully real in his hand, he approaches the majestic ringed oak and with a roar that scatters all the birds in the forest to all the corners of the heavens, he heaves the blade into solid trunk. He feels the reverberations in the handle of his tool, it travels up his arm, it finds the top of his head.

He repeats his labors. And in time, the tree succumbs, it is brought to its knees. (Does anyone hear its cries? The calving? If there is nobody in the forest when it finally acquiesces its fate…that old question…)

And so it is with her. If her story isn’t named, it still is. (The lumberjack for her is reality, or it is details, her lumberjack is time and space.) Her experience still exists in the verdant and loamy forest. There isn’t the need of spectators, of observers, it is a quiet time. It has no fury or direction. Her time carries itself in the natural world, outside of society, inside the beats and special tempo that nature commands.

Alive, her blood moves quicker, here in the woods where sun streams its lovely incessant amber heat down through all the green. She is sumptiously warm, here.

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Moving pictures.

October 16, 2011

Every fall she tends to do that thing, that lowered-brow thing, where she squints at the clouds and wonders about those random characters and precious hearts who have touched her.

The woman who she played mah jongg with after she graduated from college? That elderly neighbor who came racing out of the dark of his garage that one night to pick her up off the asphalt, her knees bloodied, and the handlebars of her bike askew. Oh, and the teacher in third grade who told her she had such pretty hair–that compliment carried her through that whole year of being eight years old. Her first lover, deceased now. The man who pulled over when her tire was out. Flash. The lady who came to clean her parents carpets and then stayed for dinner and wine. Click. The funeral director who passed her a pamphlet on grief and then ran his hand over her shoulder with such unpracticed tenderness. The minister who was found out having an affair and ran out of town, but she wished he’d stay. Click. The person who asked for a dollar for a cup of coffee, then came running to give it back to her because he found a dollar in his pocket. The boy she first wrote love poetry for, who can’t be found online or through friends, is he alive?  The doctor, the flash, the checker at the market, the singer at the college nightclub who dedicated  songs to her, the neighbor who helped her jimmy her door open, the flash, the flash, the whir, the snorkeling rental equipment boy who upgraded her to premium equipment because he liked her smile, the shush, the woman who snuck her extra cookies at hot lunch, the young girl at the, the chemist at, the whir, the belhop, the flash, click, flash, click, click, shush, whir.

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That bed isn’t on sale.

October 14, 2011

The bed.

By itself.

The sheets and pillows, the thousands of threads coming together to form that exquisite cool knit,  the sweet blanketing cover. First about a life put together, then twisted and all-aside, this bed a constant metaphor. (Somone took the corner of the blanket, where it feels velvet, and placed it to the corner of the eye–a particular habit.)

Far too long without words, without writing in the blog. All apologies, where due, to those loyal few readers who have wondered where she is. She is  here, only made smaller by the doubts and insecurities that begin as we age, as we accumulate hurts, and accumulate instances where we’ve caused hurt. LET her put forth: apology to YOU, whoever you are. If her words hurt you, she apologizes ahead of the injury.

So she goes back to the writing. To the seduction of it, a sweet and chemical shot to the blue, chickeny arm, an unforgiving and demanding lover. She worries Karma might have it in store for her–hurricanes and tsunamis, drownings, incoming, unbearable crisis, horrible batten-up seaboard storms. She hopes her God and your liberal other gods will go easy on her. Or that at least all her associates will know something about CPR. Personal protective equipment to get away from the blood that comes from hurting.

Hurry! Put her into the revive position, knees up.

There’s no reason for the sheets to lie without any body to warm them tonight.

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