Drifting through time
salt of experience
hardening my skin
I've landed on beaches
white sand and brown
pebbles and boulders
(more) breaking my surge
I've seen loves flame kindled
in fountaining bonfires
And depression wreath spirits
in ripe green seaweed
Seagulls dropping dreams
and eating their innards
freighters like whales lost
in the infinite sea
Moments stolen by
consuming lives in
roiling oceans of
Tears and impotence
raging inside petrified
bodies unable to speak
I meander with the tide
for the land is a memory
too painful to hold
Right this very moment in time I'm petrified.
It's the damn weather. It's scaring the hell out of me.
For as long as I can remember I've been fascinated by the weather. Not in an I-wanna-be-a-weather-girl way, it's more like I have a healthy respect for the(more) power that is nature, specifically, the weather.
As a pre-teen tomboy I would climb to the top of the highest hill in the clay-pits up the street to watch the summer storms roll in. After a few years I could figure out exactly when to start running home to beat the first torrents of rain without getting a drop on me.
I once rented a house on the beach for a week and an out-of-nowhere-out-of-season nor'easter blew in the first night lasting for seven days. The huge back deck was left with a carpet of seaweed and three-foot piles of sand. I watched most of the storm curled up in the window-seat wrapped in blankets to ward off the chill and devoured a long-neglected pile of books by candlelight.
I walked through my neighborhood in complete silence as everything was muffled by the six-foot snow-piles along the barely-passable streets after a blizzard dumped several feet of unexpected snow.
As I flip through the channels I see Mother Nature ramping things up daily, just now my local news channel decided to freak me out with a rather frantic weatherman breaking in with a special report.
Tornadoes petrify me.
Sadly you only have to turn on the television to see why.
Instant destruction out of nowhere. It's difficult to wrap my mind around the horror that emanates from these deadly tornados. My harmless encounters with weather are child's play compared to what I've seen on television lately.
It's not the Wizard Of Oz.
They laugh, sure. It's ridiculous to be afraid of something that can't exist, and she knows it.
But in the middle of the night when she can hardly breathe for the panic in her throat, it's all simply too real. Her limbs are frozen and tingling with electricity(more) because if she moves even one inch, she'll be discovered, and even though the air conditioner is broken, the heavy, suffocatingly warm comforter is pulled completely over her head because then maybe, just maybe, their decomposing brains will fail to recognize the human-shaped lump on her bed.
So she lies there, petrified, and every sound in the house is a wheezing groan or the thud of a body dragging itself up the stairs. She'll hold perfectly still, hardly breathing and hardly daring to even cry, until the sun rises and she has to slide, muscles twinging at the sudden movement after so much tension, out of bed and into a fresh set of clothes so she can face another day full of people who will never understand why she is so bloody tired.(less)
My laundry has gotten out of control as has the leather loveseat in the corner of my room. It's the catch-all for all. And, in all reality, it's not going to get clean. Maybe more orderly but not clean. I am a slob. My flat mate can vouch for(more) that. I seldom clean, the dishes being the one exception. I blame it on my mother having a housecleaner from the time I was 5 years old, but my flat mate says it's no excuse for living in squalor.
I don't mean to say I wear my underwear twice or anything. It's not that bad. But I do let the bathroom floor get rather furry and think nothing of the clutter on the dining room table.
Does this make me a bad person? I think it might, just a little.
When I took over the position from Marley, I took over his office, too. His old lady had done a good job of clearing the suite out--probably even personally supervised the scrubbing of the walls--which is why I was so surprised to find that chunk of petrified wood under(more) the top-left desk drawer's false bottom. Because of Mrs. Marley's crazed fastidiousness (see aforementioned walls), paranoia (nothing else under the false bottom), and vengeance (scotch gone, cigars gone) but also because, yes, it was a chunk of petrified wood. Marley'd intentionally had it and Mrs. Marley clearly had intentionally left it for me.
For that whole first week, I kept my meetings to a minimum and my secretary (I called her Mistress Marley) on particularly vigilant guard, so I could spend some uninterrupted time with the petrified wood. I could hold it easily in one open fist, and I'd like to say its heft and coloring made me think of the desert, though I suspected I was really just thinking of the Petrified Forest.
Marley and I had met in the exact opposite of a desert--the jungle. Very far from here. We met Mrs. Marley--then known by a very different name--there, too. I thought she had been a hallucination, until she showed up Stateside one day.
If anything, that was what this chunk was--a reminder of the infiltrations of the past, elements that forced us to become something different than what we should have been.
Me, sitting in that office, I slammed that petrified wood onto the desk and called in the ex-mistress of Marley. I'd figure out what that hunk of crap meant, but I needed to stop pussyfooting around now, and get back to work.(less)
I wouldn't call it petrified exactly, at least not in the experience of it, but to see me, you could think that, narcotized petrification, inert and dreaming ambiguities. The sun, lost to Southern migration and cloud cover, the persistent mist of all those gray months, a prodigal sun (forgive(more) the pun) coming back for cross-cultural praise, a-religious though so like worship. Me, bedded in grass, pinked skin, eyes closed but not asleep, body still but not asleep, breath slow but not asleep. Spring arises like the Christ, that story better told by a reanimating nature than some old fiction, and that fire in the sky moreso than any supposed all-powerful is one to be loved, and in turn, feared. My movements are slow, when they are at all, and they are attempts at pursuing some further temptation (margaritas on some sun-soaked restaurant patio, a cold pasta salad bought from Whole Foods and eaten on the curb, canoeing across the bay with a cold cheap six-pack in tow) but they are slow and expire quicker than they can be acted upon. Maybe I should just stay here a bit longer, burn a bit more, suffer the sticky aloe gel and the uncomfortable showers, the pain of brushing against strangers. And I do. I burn. Cover it in salve. Ply my pain with iced vodkas. Find sleep and dream about the sun. (less)
Sometimes I feel emotionally frozen, thick or action-less. Is there an escape from this stone-like state? For me being petrified is already a reaction from another historically triggering emotional association. It's like being in a house of mirrors.
The projection is my mother, my(more) father, the ex-boy friends, brother, sister..... These projections overlay my interactions with others, like a filtering lens on a camera. This happens to you too; I am not your ex-girlfriend, ex- boyfriend, mother or sister.
Being frozen is not owning what comes up. It is an emotionless state that lends itself to my inner child. Then the child takes control running around the house breaking, burning and pillaging. Like Thing 1 and Thing 2.
This petrifies me because until I am completely aware of my own projections they will continue causing havoc in meaningful relationships and friendships.
The counter intuitive part of all this is the only way out is in. I must experience to learn. We only learn about ourselves in relationships with each other.
Your humble servant. (less)
It was something he had gotten used to--this feeling that, in a dastardly ironic twist, wasn't feeling. No caress, no punch, no impalement made him falter. He was implacable, because he could not be slowed down until his limits were reached. Things like, breaking his kneecaps; things that physically(more) would cause him to fall over and stop. Even the tears in his raw throat lining, that with use of his vocal chords would cause bleeding, he was shielded from feeling.
It was something he had gotten used to by now. His other senses had picked up the slack tenfold. He was truly, as the rest of the mix-matched household often call him, statuesque, in both aesthetics and being.
Inasmuch is had become a strength, all it took was that one encounter for him to see it was also a terrible weakness.
A gruesome fight, that if it were anyone else they would've surely been defeated already, succumbing to the deep gashes and swelling bruises. Something in his chest was either broken or torn, but all he could feel--or perhaps hear--was the sound of his heartbeat. As long as he had that, he was alive. He could keep moving, and keep fighting. He managed to get to his feet just as the spellcaster finished his mantra, and the sharp gust of wind that radiated from the sheer magical energies was cold on his skin.
He shouldn't have felt the cold. Or the drip of his blood spilling out over his limbs. The tears in his skin, the bones in his chest that were broken, yes, probably broken... His breath was hitching, then an onset of convulsions before complete stillness. No, he was not quite dead. The onslaught of immense pain he had taken for granted not feeling had left him frozen.(less)