Tuesday, November 18, 2008

As I let my friends down, I realize how long I've been holding some of them up.

Friday, July 25, 2008

An Elbow to the Heart



Bump again.

New Yorkers weave fast-paced trails through mass groups of tourists, looking for holes in the foot traffic like my granny's knitting needles look for the next stitch. Their bodies move and bend, hokey-pokey style toward the subways... toward something.


No "excuse me" or "sorry" as elbows find their ways into my side, hit my bag, knock me hard. I move forward, am pushed back, know bruises are surfacing in angry response, feel my body tense up to defend itself... but my heart just isn't in it.


I am nothing... no one... another beating heart beating the pavement in search of something with nowhere to go. I would say I am lost, but have no destination. No friends to meet after work, no work to meet new friends... a transplant from anywhere-other-than-here-USA. I head North, wander the streets, ponder the lights, feel a tear slide down my cheek, hear myself sob - not one person notices.


"Look at me!" I want to yell. "See me!" No eye contact, no existence. This is the only time in my life that another human being has physically touched me and has not felt my heat... my life.


I have never been around so many people.


I have never been so alone.

Sunday, March 09, 2008

I only hear her calling me

Her words chase each other across the screen with a competitve fervor. She gives her fingers a pep talk and powers them over the keyboard - DON'T STOP, DON'T STOP - it hurts! - DON'T STOP.

When I read her journal it's like looking down into a deep pot of chicken dumplings, her mind stewing and bubbling and fire hot. You can't really get closer than that. She won't let you and you'd burn yourself anyway. Peek inside. That's it. We get to peek.

Her words run effortlessly. There is no over-thinking - WHAT IF HE READS THIS? - there is just gold truth.

She doesn't write for anyone but herself. It's a quality like cashmere, stands on its own, needs no validation, knows there is nothing like it. Knows proudly that it is a quality that you can't help but admire. She writes - we admire - she doesn't give a damn.

Freedom. Maybe something I forfeited along the way while looking for security and love and stability. I peck out phrases more carefully, choosing my words - since when did I ever choose my words? - more aware of his feelings than mine, of their morals than mine.

Sometimes I feel my feelings rally my brain, my fingers, my gut and they drive me to my journal, to the computer, to the telephone... but my mind is a brilliant source of overriding control... and I put them all down. All blood has thinned to ink as my innermost genius channels through my body, words shoving thoughts from limb to organ to vein til my smiles crack and tears flow and loneliness is welcome.

But I do not let them out. Not anymore. Not anymore.

Vulnerability has become alone time.

But the world sees hers and cherishes it. She beckons me.