swimming in the lake, drying off by a fire we made,
singing softly
supping on chowder and french bread
sharing wine and secrets, wrapped in blankets
watching the hypnotic movement of flame and star, sky and tree
sighing,sleeping, savoring every morsel of evening
waking to the sun, the music of the woods
seeking corners unexplored
packing up, leaving for home
returning to work
starry-eyed
tired
over-scheduled
pining for chowder and french bread
when i saw you last, we sat next to each other like adults, and not once did you dip your napkin in your water glass, and hastily dab it on my face, even though there might have been a speck of tomato sauce lurking in a crevice. We talked about careers and health insurance, and you gave me time to choose between poached salmon or muffin of the day…you wanted to read my daily posts…you viewed my poetry…we understood the necessity for coffee and a sense of humor, the quest for purpose, a bowl of cornflakes for breakfast, eight hours rest…we talked about love, God, and the breaking and the mending of the heart
~ i drove from south texas the day after christmas and they played black moth super rainbow on the radio and i thought it would be cool to purchase a guitar bag and a capo somewhere in austin so i searched for waterloo and gave up and drove up 35 mad at myself for not planning ahead as you would, and i sang along to wham as you would were you with me, and i remembered the hours we spent on pictures and stories and for that moment i wished you to be ~
when there is no paper or pen, i post memos on my blackberry. In these past seven months, that log of memos has been accosted with multiple irrationalities. My musings remind me of when i had to do vocal warm-ups: singing up and down the scales, and trying not to laugh at the funny nonsense words that were sung with such focus and resolve as i strained to hit every note with a perfect pitch. It has been a very sleep-deprived, emotionally charged, and short-wired seven months – months concentrated with revelatory moments, transitions, and lessons, lessons, lessons. There have been days when i have perceived, observed, internalized, and concluded to the point where i have felt fragmented into various characters. The blackberry memos are like cassette tapes – recordings of warm up sessions…tonight, i’m able to listen to it all with compassion and kindness – the notes sung off-key, the syllables improperly enunciated, and the nonsense words that were solemnly sung; I’m ready for a new piece to learn.
Tonight, we are
buried beneath college catalogues and vegetable peelings
smothered with bacon drippings and expired cream cheese
suffocated with paper towels soaked in windex and dotted with dead flies
compacted with moldy leftovers
sealed into a plastic sack
left outside for an early pick up
something is worth your while, when it can be enjoyed both hot and cold…
“Some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity…” – Gilda Radner
My life story is jotted on post-it notes, scrawled on a napkin, bound in a box of note books
Bits of it are stuck to walls, or safely tucked away in a drawer somewhere
My life story has been compounded into recycled coffee cups and a rainbow of construction paper.
It is a shadow puppet show…
It is stored on a floppy disk.
* I’ve realized that my purpose is to continue to trudge down this winding road, and discover, learn, contribute and embrace it with all of my heart and soul; I am so thankful to God for my own “deliciously ambiguous” journey.
Elbelle80's Blog 