Imperfections

February’s been a rough month. March too. I ping between okay and ‘oh so over it’. I’ve hit the wall. All I have left is to write about it.

On one hand, I have a small box called apartment. It’s crammed full of left over bits of past life and the one I’m trying to live now. Creativity wages war with it daily; art and writing supplies, music all fight for space.

I write regularly, paint occasionally. Mostly my keyboard and guitar cower against one wall, asking me to practice. I paid for a month of guitar lessons, tossed a penny into the well of expectation and hope it brings good things. Last week, encouraging words from my teacher assured me that regardless of my frustration with ‘only’ practicing one song and one scale, I have done a good job. Okay. I’ll bite. I’ve done well. Now believe it.

I want to improve my art. Create paintings I love and learn to part with them. To do that, I need a better grip on money and budgets both for home and sales. Even if it’s just for fun, I’d like enough to replenish supplies, I need to let myself learn the basics of give and take, hobby or business.

I want to release things I’ve written. Send them further out. Not just the one or two places I know who are open to it. I want to push past the barriers and broaden my reach.

What scares me about writing? People tell me I’m good, I have a raw way of writing. It draws people. They see it in pieces I’m doing for a memoir. Say, I have a strong, staccato style to my poetry. I read a list of possible literary magazines suggested to me. I probed their online offerings and re-read. Decided to write a cover letter and choose some poems to send.

But then, a tangible restraint on my arms. typing has weight. sleep falls upon me, passing out like with a migraine. and less obvious shut down, internal, my body folds in on itself, origami folding into invisibility. impossible. i need to move. i need to …. submit …. ringing past intentions, rules that bind. breathe swallowed up within lungs that strain hesitation.

Words. They lean towards poetry. They leap at opportunity, but cringe at expectation. Dear words, can you help? I want you to know full expression. I hope this year to let you fly.

Perception / Flashes

Pictures draw me. A while back I saw one, done by a friend on Instagram. It caught my eye. Perception is strange. Sometimes we see what we think we see without looking closely. This was that day and that look. I pursued it. Curiosity leading the way. A block of images, a pink pig. A hat. I see a heart on his back.

My mind flashes images. At times, I forget things. At times, I worry about it, but I admit, I have more things to forget now than when I was young. More to forget than before my ex, than before he hurt me. More to forget than PTSD cares to remember. More to avoid, let slide or quickly drop.

Avoid, slide and drop are curious components of my PTSD. A tangible experience when it happens. Movements as things vanish; seemingly down or to the left. I’m sure there’s meaning there – hidden behind the flash of movement, behind the sudden jolt of recognition, a realization of something gone, rush of emotion, fear of loss, of cautious longing. More curiosity than care to know.

And so, on this day, I stare at the pink pig, smelling his flower, an odd almost heart shaped red burst upon his back. And wonder, what is that, and how is it he stands so still, intent upon a single flower?

 

[Photo by permission of Meredith Rose]

 

 

Time/Wasted

This, a few days ago. A little wasted time births poetry from tired mind.

I
Weeping, the face of your brightness now obscured, beauty in despair
Aranea glistens as frosted morning fades


II
Within the grey, eyes still bright … stars remember the glory of the day … ah morning, come softly into the quiet of our dreams


III
I pale as stagnant waters puddle behind my eyes, tired dregs of longing, th3se yesterdays and tomorrows struggle in endl3ss eddies, desperate for release

Reflection

pexels-photo-405238

pexels-photo-405238

As today is one of my down days (non work days), I slept.  When I woke I sent a brief note to an art group keeping each other company through emails … and wrote this:

Poem / Reflection

A cup of tea to toast the day and hope to wash my yesterday whose isolated state was bathed in lysol-laden gestures drawing hope upon the air and touching light on momentary contacts I hope we do not share.

All stop and start and wait and run exhausts my inner gears. Ah rest, you’re welcome,  though in bursts a little hard to bear. I have forgot, but toast and tea and quiet gives me time to think and stare at mental notes and images; reflect upon them here.

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