Before I began to heal,
I wasn’t angry–
no, I couldn’t touch that
because that required will
and a kind of passion
You gotta outsmart
and that is where
I began burning.
Trauma doesn’t run
its course and
You don’t bloom from it.
You bloom in spite of it.
And there is something to be said about a body that keeps moving.
The hours between midnight and three
I take you out beneath the icy stars
with me where I see
my breath beneath the
bald street light, casting its white
luminescence across the
cracked faces of the sidewalk.
I find solace in these places.
Stillness in the rustling silence
of November leaves
curled and dead, scuttling
across the black seas of
grass in shadow.
I press play.
“…who’s agonized and gnawed through it all/I’m
underneath your tongue…
I’m standing in the street now/and I carry your guitar…”
The strangeness of this one song
I can’t seem to stop playing, the drawn-out
acoustic and monotonous siren of a sax
fill the night around me
it doesn’t matter anymore
I’ve given up on sleep for some time now.
I wait for the lyric that shows up–
“…to walk aside your favor, I’m an Astuary King…
I’ll keep it in a cave, your comfort and all”
I should be numb.
This is the only place I find you-out in
a deranged landscape that only seems to feel like
the engines of our lonely molecular madness
–how many nights like this
had we spent confessing —together.
Where one neurological disorder remedied
I miss you.
I am not lost by your absence.
I am, if anything, tossed about–my cheeks
flushed, and the only thing I doubt
is not the you and I and we,
because even if only for a while,
I had found my own
apocalypse that ended something so lonely
and breathed a part of myself back into me I never knew
I ‘d been missing–
camaraderie on this solitaire planet,
desires and secrets in the dark
like ghost stories giggled and whispered
I step onto the smooth pavement.
A gust of cold air blows my hair
out of my eyes, and I face that direction,
my body weightless and alone and so small
in this space;
he stole my gravity
and I don’t want it back.
I start walking, probably until just before sunrise.
I don’t know where or when.
Morning all–….very early. Here’s some acoustic/live renditions to start the day. How’s about a peculiar mix-but I really have to hear Mona Lisa’s and Mad Hatter’s this a.m.
Dermott Kennedy singing “After Rain,” Stateless unplugged on “Bloodstream,” and Bon Iver on “Skinny Love”–I love this version.
There is just something that happens to me with music like this–acoustic and live, the way he spits out the meaning to the song vocally. It’s raining and gloomy today and I am in my element, writing and listening to this over and over. It started with an early morning walk in the rain listening to Radiohead’s National Anthem, and I ended up finding this when I got home. I am smitten. Guitar has always felt like some form of writing to me–if I could make my memoir a song, oh how amazing that would be to create. I was inspired by how acoustic guitar and memoir connect by a video I saw on Vimeo–a beautiful song played as a tribute to a friend who passed away. The song flowed like water, like the sea, like the stories of ourselves.
That Radiohead song is what got me thinking–because I love writing about music, to music, with music. I’ve written many poems and essays that include music and lyrics, like Beauty Walks a RAzor’s Edge (an essay about my best friend with severe arthritis set to Bob Dylan lyrics), Something Dark Like Jazz, She’s Come Undone, and oh there’s more somewhere. Most all of my essays and memoir refers to music I grew up to, like The Oak Ridge Boys, Eddie Rabbitt, Deep Purple, Carly Simon, Led Zeppelin, Bob Dylan, The Nitty Gritty Dirty Band, The Guess Who (Undun–and I saw them live and lost my damn mind at Rockfest).
Radiohead’s song “National Anthem” is truly art in my opinion. The backdrop, steady bass is the only sane part to all the chaotic jazz letting loose in the song, but eventually somehow that steady heavy bass becomes the insanity. It reminds me of how you feel like you are holding it together, and the very steady thing you tell yourself to make yourself feel right and true to yourself is actually a rhythm you dissociate in, like that bass, and your thoughts are that chaotic mass of jazz and trombone and sax. But then a moment hits you–you are walking in the rain downtown at five in the morning and you are suddenly just a bystander–a camera to the landscape, the feel, the smells, and your own solitaire body in the street. And that always brings a kind of calm, and then a bit of awareness. The bass I’d been guiding myself by for a little while was far more fucked up than the truth, and the truth is that I am a chaotic person–in an organized way-ahahahhah. Okay, let’s just say I am a late bloomer, I am 35 and only now figuring out who the hell I am and I am solid and confident. I know it’s a lifetime’s journey, but it’s nice to finally own myself. I am also awakening to parts of myself I never knew existed. I am also finally well enough to note my responses and behaviors and reactions and accord them to how I want to be and feel, and I adapt to what serves me. These are all big new things for me, so yes. The “healing” has been well on it’s way for a long time. Now I’m sort of… I wrote a sexy, dark poem the other day (Paramour, My Lover) for the Real Toads blog, and I am surprised first, by how quickly and naturally it came out. I wrote it seconds after I read the blog prompt, it’s the first draft, and I hit “publish” before I could think twice. And I am glad I did. My appetites are…peculiar, but in no way does my past cripple me sexually anymore. Nor fear. I am…hungry. There is something so freeing for me now that I am finally opened to what I’d always been afraid of–sexuality. And back to the Paramour poem, I am also surprised I am not ashamed or embarrassed to share it. It’s a part of me.
I have rambled long enough but it was nice. Take care everyone.
New favorite song my friends–Bon Iver’s “Blood Bank.” Enjoy!
Bon Iver's “The Wolves” I just can't stop listening to this as I write: