Writing from Another Time

a work in progress

-for an old friend-

i know now.
august of last year would be the last time
i would ever see you.
i crave that night street cool breeze lane
where my captivity first began
to begin that night again
just to slow the second hand
as it made shadows multiply
on familiar concrete under possessive summer skies
the sun had started to fall, the air no longer thick and heavy
but moving swiftly over my skin
we were on the creaking wooden porch
me in a swing
you in a chair
blocking my vision occupying my thoughts
while talking to your sister, mouthing inconsequentially,
i intently stared at your face
a face I could remember from
pages of twisted words and compressed thoughts
all this in order to figure out when you started to look so old,
when i started to fell so distant
staring across empty space i found lines, rugged and sharp
that my fingers had never known,
stubble creeping along your chin
that had never brushed against my cheek
i wanted to reach out trace the outline
so i could remember what you felt like in air
what you looked like through the lens of my hand
sitting in that chair so unaware
the old wood creaking, keeping time
i glanced at you once finally
face to face only to find myself bombarded
by my bondage to you
at that moment my eyes decided
it was too monumental to ever do that again
profiles are safer when the stars are out
safer than the dark pools i had to face,
the dark pools that keep me chained to that swing
oscillating perpetual limbo with you in the same scene
only we pretend to be adults now—older than our memories
when time ceased to matter, the house lights extinguished,
we drifted into the street, a ritual we had learned
when we were still new
when the sky always threatened to keep me from you
your friend who had always lived up the street
joined us as we sat staring at the stars
talking about the past, about the lives we longed to relive
this was not the space where one spoke of the future
or the present that was running us down, hunting us
the street was a time machine keeping us frozen
in old fears and comforting insecurities
you eased down beside me with familiar weight
i felt my body relax under your presence
i couldn’t look at you or the moment might steal away
into the cover of the trees never to be recovered
never to be felt as it freed my skin
up the street friend raged on about money and capitalism
fuck the system mantras we had come to dwell on
over years of jaded living
nothing matters dropping on the wind
why am i here’s scraping on the cement
i just considered the holes in the sky
thinking of a night a few years past
when we still had intentions.
i had stood under those same stars
and watched you disappear a thousand times over
the stars had not changed and neither had i
i was older in my skin less happy
less aware of where my feet were
where my mind had traveled
but i was still frozen with you there beside me
still the same person who held your face in my hands
so i wouldn’t forget who you were
so i could always find your face tattooed on my hands
while my mind moved miles above us
you placed your hand over mine
i couldn’t even look at you
for fear that I might break and seep into you
i just smiled and linked my fingers with yours
it didn’t matter that we no longer were
it didn’t matter that we may not ever be
in the early hours of the night i just wanted
to remember what safety felt like and
how the stars looked hanging in the sky--EAC 2004

A Bird in the Hand

Today a bird flew into a window while I was a work. I found it laying on the ground gasping for air and immobile. I picked it up and gently placed it in the palm of my hand. I ran my fingers over the soft feathers of his chest, willing life back into his almost-still body. I tried to place him on his tiny, two feet, but he fell over onto his side and silently opened and closed his beak in protest. I was overwhelmed with sadness. I set him on the table, on his side, watching him, praying for him not to die. I rubbed his back with my index finger, hoping that a little love would bring him to his feet again. Minutes later, he hopped up on his two feet, but still refused to move off of the table. He sat with his eyes closed, breathing rapidly. I took drops of water from a cup and let them fall into his open mouth. Recover. Recover. Recover. Finally, he found the strength to fly away.



Recover. Recover. Recover.

Words and Image

something i've been "doodling"

Dreams

I woke up remembering a dream. This rarely happens. Dreams cling to my memory, usually, as blurred images and events. Faces without names. Events without purpose. Mostly, they are just a feeling. Something my body can recall, but cannot place.

In the dream, there is a man floating in the water. I see him, but can't move. I turn to the woman beside me.

"There is a man floating in the water."
"I know. I see him, too."
"He is dead."
"No, he is just floating."

I turn back to the water.

"Why would he be floating."
"Because it is better than being dead."

I try to move my feet, but still am immobile. I start to cry. I turn back to the woman.

"We have to save him."
"Why? He is only floating."

At this point, my feet are able to move. I wade into the water.


At this point, I woke up. I don't truly know the meaning of this dream. Only, that it is the only dream I have had where I can remember what is said. The only conclusion I can come to today is:


Maybe we are all just floating.

The Infinite Winter of My Discontent

daily staring at the walls wondering where my home is. they say...home is where the heart is. then how do i cope with the always present fact that my heart is thousands of miles away. most days i am okay...i stumble along hoping for anything...but this. it's hard to talk about the past year. i try not to talk about it all, but it eats away at me every night when i lie awake staring at the neon glow of the television, because i'm too scared of what total silence and darkness may bring. there are ghosts in the hallways and in my head.

but it's much more than "this"...the "this" that i won't mention. i feel stifled. i feel unlike myself. i feel unable to express what's in my head in a way that is authentic and unhindered. i feel inspired but cannot find the right outlet for expression. writing has become hard, because it is too painful and too personal. i write and find myself depressed for days, because the words carry weight that i cannot hold.

and what is talking

when compared to sleep

the few hours of staggered conversation

a life raft

to the woman drowning

in the harshness of hot sheets

and loud silence

fragments emerge from dialogues

slipping past

slipping out and over the tongue

while the ever aware

minute hand is always striking

always screaming of some hour

that should be missed

behind savage dreams

and locked eyelids

she burns tonight

lighting up the darkness

that surrounds her

tonight it is safer not to sleep