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January 31, 2006
January 24, 2006
Where the Wild Bees Swarm
I was talking in my sleep last night.
Nonsense. Mad ramblings of a free mind wandering around in the soft dark safety of sleep. If only my bed had been empty. My poor lover lost some sleep staring into the dark reality of the bedroom corners wondering what I would say next. Or puzzling over what I had said.
He called me “hostile”.
I wondered why he was staying to his edge of the bed when I woke sometime closer to morning, there was only the sheets touching me.
Something that strikes me as interesting is how I used the word “ka-ching” . (If that is a word at all and not just syllables.) This is not a word I use in my every day vocabulary. It’s actually a word I cannot even remember using, ever. And in the context of my night rambling, it has an odd reverberation. Odd. Really odd. You would think that night talkers would use the same series of sounds they use all day, something familiar and easy to pull out of a hat.
I think the only thing that could top this is the night I woke my ex husband, head under the covers… frantic. Looking for the spiders. I would not turn off the lights until I had made sure there was nothing creeping around. But in my sleepy state, I was having a psychotic episode. Completely convinced that the bed was swarming. He did manage to wake me, but I still checked under the bed.
Hostile.
As a child my parents were told not to wake me when I sleepwalked. I can’t remember the rational behind this, how it would harm me. I guess the reality of the situation was that I never went outside, instead taking the same route night after night. I vaguely remember how the light from the moon would make the furniture look. But now I don’t know if that was a dream. Perhaps the doctor was worried I would lash out. Act hostile.
I need to add this one to the disclaimer. If you love me, expect the following MAY occur. (Kind of like, this product MAY contain peanuts.) This woman MAY be slightly hostile if approached when sleeping. This woman MAY steal covers. This woman MAY cause you sleepless nights.
Isn’t life fantastic? You never know.
Thanks Forrest… life IS like a box of chocolates, unless you poke your pinkie finger into them first….
G.
Nonsense. Mad ramblings of a free mind wandering around in the soft dark safety of sleep. If only my bed had been empty. My poor lover lost some sleep staring into the dark reality of the bedroom corners wondering what I would say next. Or puzzling over what I had said.
He called me “hostile”.
I wondered why he was staying to his edge of the bed when I woke sometime closer to morning, there was only the sheets touching me.
Something that strikes me as interesting is how I used the word “ka-ching” . (If that is a word at all and not just syllables.) This is not a word I use in my every day vocabulary. It’s actually a word I cannot even remember using, ever. And in the context of my night rambling, it has an odd reverberation. Odd. Really odd. You would think that night talkers would use the same series of sounds they use all day, something familiar and easy to pull out of a hat.
I think the only thing that could top this is the night I woke my ex husband, head under the covers… frantic. Looking for the spiders. I would not turn off the lights until I had made sure there was nothing creeping around. But in my sleepy state, I was having a psychotic episode. Completely convinced that the bed was swarming. He did manage to wake me, but I still checked under the bed.
Hostile.
As a child my parents were told not to wake me when I sleepwalked. I can’t remember the rational behind this, how it would harm me. I guess the reality of the situation was that I never went outside, instead taking the same route night after night. I vaguely remember how the light from the moon would make the furniture look. But now I don’t know if that was a dream. Perhaps the doctor was worried I would lash out. Act hostile.
I need to add this one to the disclaimer. If you love me, expect the following MAY occur. (Kind of like, this product MAY contain peanuts.) This woman MAY be slightly hostile if approached when sleeping. This woman MAY steal covers. This woman MAY cause you sleepless nights.
Isn’t life fantastic? You never know.
Thanks Forrest… life IS like a box of chocolates, unless you poke your pinkie finger into them first….
G.
January 23, 2006
Quit Your Bitching....
Drink up baby down
Are you in or are you out?
Leave your things behind'
Cause it's all going off without you
Excuse me too busy you're writing your tragedy
These mishaps
You bubble-wrap
When you've no idea what you're like
Are you in or are you out?
Leave your things behind'
Cause it's all going off without you
Excuse me too busy you're writing your tragedy
These mishaps
You bubble-wrap
When you've no idea what you're like
January 19, 2006
Confession
Is there only reality if we feel pain?
Do I only know love if it bites me back? Do I only know a good wine with a hangover? Do I only know light with shadow, sky with clouds, lips with teeth?
I love the lack of drama, but I keep looking over my shoulder. Waiting. You know, that kind of waiting. Suspension. Remember when you were a child and you stayed up too late telling ghost stories in the dark. There was that kid who would scare you with the flashlight, or by scratching on the tent… falling asleep you kept waiting for that scare. The inevitable rude awakening.
Sometimes it comes. Without drama or reason. Just like Tom’s sadness followed by the cold of numb. Or by him telling me that she was pregnant, or that he was in love with someone else… or that, damn you were lovely… but… not for me.
Why is it that the present pulls even the murkiest photograph into sharp focus?
Are we junkies for what makes us feel alive, even if it hurts. Over salting our food until we need more and more until we can no longer taste what it was meant to be.
I am afraid that love is like that.
And here I am. Loving. In this quiet way. Everyday. A green shirt hanging in the closet. Resisting the salt. But… parts of me are waiting for the sudden scrape of the branch against the fragile shell of the tent. Frightened by the boogie man in my head more than the reality of truth.
The truth is, he is a good man. I am grateful. I am loved. I love.
There is no sadness here that is not of my making. How about you? What kind of sadness do you keep?
G.
Do I only know love if it bites me back? Do I only know a good wine with a hangover? Do I only know light with shadow, sky with clouds, lips with teeth?
I love the lack of drama, but I keep looking over my shoulder. Waiting. You know, that kind of waiting. Suspension. Remember when you were a child and you stayed up too late telling ghost stories in the dark. There was that kid who would scare you with the flashlight, or by scratching on the tent… falling asleep you kept waiting for that scare. The inevitable rude awakening.
Sometimes it comes. Without drama or reason. Just like Tom’s sadness followed by the cold of numb. Or by him telling me that she was pregnant, or that he was in love with someone else… or that, damn you were lovely… but… not for me.
Why is it that the present pulls even the murkiest photograph into sharp focus?
Are we junkies for what makes us feel alive, even if it hurts. Over salting our food until we need more and more until we can no longer taste what it was meant to be.
I am afraid that love is like that.
And here I am. Loving. In this quiet way. Everyday. A green shirt hanging in the closet. Resisting the salt. But… parts of me are waiting for the sudden scrape of the branch against the fragile shell of the tent. Frightened by the boogie man in my head more than the reality of truth.
The truth is, he is a good man. I am grateful. I am loved. I love.
There is no sadness here that is not of my making. How about you? What kind of sadness do you keep?
G.
January 12, 2006
Witness
She Waits
There is a kink in her hair
where
she released the tension
of a tortoise shell barrette
felling
a silent waterfall
of amber light.
G.
There is a kink in her hair
where
she released the tension
of a tortoise shell barrette
felling
a silent waterfall
of amber light.
G.
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