The Sixth Year Apparition

In the guiltless hour
between
    sleeping
and waking,

I forget to remember
your collusion
with Death.

Your
ethereal understudy
treads heavily
on my   latent
    consciousness—

the weight
of cold footsteps

bruising
  the callous interior
of my skull.

This remnant of you,

   his facial contours
   blurred,
dark,

once concrete,

   bleeding
into my delusion,
making me
Memory’s fool.

This visitor
imparts on me his
enigmatic truth

     without a word:

My reality is
no longer written
on bones

   or skin,
where only the
ink
of your blood
made sense.

Within
this stifling scope,

you still exist—

  a brutal miracle.


I gasp,

a desperate

    waking—

caught between a lavish,
frightened dream
and prodigal nightmare.

[He is too flawless,
and his exit is too clean.]

∞ Lo Elizabeth

(Source: protagonistpages)

1.     What would you do with your life if you didn’t have to pay the bills?

I would travel, write, and volunteer at about 10 dog/horse rescues. Then I would write about traveling and all of the beautiful animals I’d help who would, in turn, make my life more beautiful.

2.    What cuts you the deepest?

Cruelty to animals and people. Inequality. Racism, sexism, bigotry. Mostly just ignorance in general. I also really fucking hate feeling/being patronized and/or being lied to.

3.    If you were going to die tomorrow, what would you do today?

Leave this godforsaken office. Go home and be with my animals and my family ( this, of course, includes my fiancé). Put on comfy clothes. Watch silly movies. Cry a bunch, probably. Write a little. Put on some vinyl and listen a while. Stay awake until I couldn’t anymore, then be at peace.

4.   Who do you love and why do you love them?

I will only ever be able to love my family. My family isn’t just my blood—there are a select few people in the world who’ve gained access to the place in my heart that is reserved for family. Family means trust, and forever, and limitless, and unconditional. All of those things equate to love. I used to give love and trust too freely, but I’ve changed that about myself out of the pain of necessity.

5.    What do you quote?

Paulo Coelho, Sylvia Plath, Anäis Nin, Shakespeare.

6.   In those rare but life-changing moments, how do you act?

Usually overwhelmed, undeniably (but covertly) anxious, articulate because that’s the one thing I can have control over. If I am angry (incensed), sad (inconsolable), or happy (ecstatic), I don’t hide it very well.

7. What do you think about most? 

Being (not getting) married—with children who are old enough to converse with, related and read to. And teaching. Just being content to be back in the classroom (if only part time) with my home full and fulfilled. And being secure in my finances so that I can help my parents be secure in theirs. 

I want to be a moonshiner’s daughter.
I want to be a cohort of Calamity Jane.
I want to be a Vietnam war protester on Pennsylvania Avenue in D.C.
I want to be a Freedom Rider.
I want to be a Freedom Writer.
I want to smuggle people of different ages and races and genders and religions and sexual orientations into the basement of my farmhouse on the way to Freedom.
I want to nurse wounded Patriot soldiers back to health during a revolution.
I want to do the right thing.
I want to do what the masses think is the wrong thing.
I want to make history.

1. I’m freezing. ALL. The time.
2. I’m making a list because I can’t seem to cultivate more than one coherent thought at time—let alone two related coherent thoughts.
3. I don’t even know if I’ll post this once I feel like the list has come to an end.
4. You think you know what nightmares are, but you don’t. You probably don’t even really know what night terrors are (maybe you’ve never heard of them). And I promise you Kid Cudi doesn’t, either. Nor does he want to.
5. It used to be easy for me to throw myself into work when I began to feel this way, but now I don’t love my work, so I feel like throwing my head into my keyboard or my desk. Repeatedly.
6. People are insipid. Feel free to stop reading now if you please.
7. I can’t count how many times today I’ve said (read: lied), “Good, how are you?” to someone in response to some pleasantry or other. I’m a robot.
8. Today at lunch I ran into a curb with my car and blew out both passenger side tires. Ice and shit. I couldn’t get a hold of my boss on voicemail, so I told her via text message. Luckily the bf was on his way to meet me anyway, so he gave me a ride back to work after taking my Jeep to the shop—wasn’t even late getting back to work. Boss still hasn’t looked at/spoken to me since I returned. I’m fine; I don’t need any sympathy, but I don’t really feel like a human being in her eyes, either.
9. I really just want to crawl into bed. Like, two hours ago.

This is going to be a rant. Fair warning.

Am I a complete neurotic if it bothers me to hear people in my office talking about hunting and “itching” to try out their new shotguns/shells when only hours ago there were 18 children and 9 adults killed and more injured in an elementary school shooting? Who robbed you of your innocence and capacity for empathy and armed you with a gun? When did this become so commonplace that people my age are able to shrug their shoulders and flippantly declare that as long as they are “responsible gun owners,” they could care less about anyone else who chooses to turn a gun on an innocent victim—it doesn’t directly affect them, so why bother giving it a second thought?

I will never understand why it is so simple for people to go on about their lives and continue to rant about gun control and “bleeding heart liberals” wanting to take away their precious weapons and their second amendment rights. Would it kill you to have to go through a few more steps to purchase and fire a gun legally so that a few more lives would be saved later on down the line? Has it ever occured to you that no one is going to stomp up to your doorstep wearing rope sandals and smelling of hemp and singing Kumbaya and take away all of your expensive artillery? I just don’t understand how people have become so disensitized to this tragedy. It happens more and more, and it makes me sick to see residents of this beautiful coutry and this world, members of humanity take human life for granted in this way. The fact that you can shrug your shoulders and chalk this up to “just another psycho” taking revenge into his own hands makes me physically ill.

This is not a political rant. This has nothing to do with leftist or rightist philosophy. This has so much more to do with empathy and kindness and compassion and stopping for two seconds to contemplate the reasoning behind tragedies like this one. There are ways of preventing more senseless deaths like this from happening. Yes, mental illness in some form or fashion, I’m certain, has played a role in what has happened today and what is still happening as a result. This is a real issue that cannot be ignored nor dismissed by any human being. But excuse me for questioning your mental health and/or priorities if upon hearing news that 27 people are dead as a result of senseless gun violence, all you can think of is nailing your next 10-point buck.

If you find yourself

having to remind someone that you were there for him(her) when (s)he really needed you…

that person’s probably not someone you should count on to be there for you in the return.

//

I admit it.

I haven’t written in far too long. 

I mean, other than a cluster of words here and there, or some clever or poignant lyric I’ve heard recently, I’ve been avoiding writing anything down. 

I don’t do it actively—or consciously, rather. I mostly just want to for a split second, at which point I usually realize there’s a grain of you hidden in the line(s) somewhere—some tiny sliver you’d know, or love, or appreciate, or empathize with. 

I’ve been hiding from you. I’ve been trying my best to drown whatever glimmer of your face and thoughts I feel resurfacing in the murky pool of my mind. I hardly remember the contours of your face anymore. 

So…I guess the best I’m allowing myself to do at this very moment is acknowledge the fact that writing is part if who I am, and you are a part of writing for me, and I can’t keep trying to murder the thought of you. Because it’s part of me. 


And I miss it, which angers me. But entertaining the thought of you angers me, too. 


This has all been quite the exercise in futility.

I can’t find you. I need to hear you.

When I read her poetry, I can hear Sylvia Plath’s melodic drone in my ears. I can imagine her words—see her stained lips curling around terse lines and mourning lullabies—but your voice is lost. I need the sounds of you that I’ve forgotten.

I cannot find you in the recesses of my memory, though you lived in me for so long. To know and access her is merely to think of her. How can I find her when I’ve never seen her lips move, never touched her face? I have the contours of yours memorized. Taught angles framed the countenance I thought I’d always know. Why is it that I feel haunted by you, but can’t call fourth the small sounds of your breath as comfort? How does my mind assume she may reside there, but attempt to banish you?