Put the secret back into the day. Shape the clay frantic, drive the doubt back into the ground. And remember: "Feeling sorry for himself, isn't suffering."
It means that I'll be okay, with or without my lover--being my lover. But it also gives cause and allowance for his being so. It means that I am a many faceted creature, full of Spirit & Earth & Emotion & Mind. All, and even in balance. And though this remains true of me, this balance is of course encouraged and brought to gracious fruition through my relationships.
I like reading cards frantically until their stories can be seen through relation and pattern, as though repeating their words through their truths. I like that I might be a Queen as easily as a King; a Page as much as a Knight. I like seeing the same cards, and being awed by the strength of my particular 'universal' meanings--all the better for just that moment's possibility!
[So here's the deal: we got into Law School on the other side of the country. If I'm picking up and leaving everything, indeed, I need to know it in six days time. This isn't merely a matter of 'where the cards fall'; the touch of my hand shall be blindingly apparent.]
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (4/16/09) <--!!!
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6 minutes to go and counting...
Where'd that feeling go? Where's that irremediable joyous glow that shined a warmth from your belly outside? Just recently we feel half off, don't we? Sometimes we can be reconstituted by the borrowed beauty of music passing us by, but where went its source out of our frame of vision?
The old tricks still apply. Several times a day, like a habit-trodden path is wrought, I find myself visiting spots that up-heave the soul like a sand bar launches its waves several feet into the air. I exist now and then, like this, and in between feel barely necessary. It's not a sorrowful space to inhabit--more like the push of darkness, against you and on all sides. In some ways soporific. And in an offhanded vague sort of way, sometimes worrisome. I'm calling it a phase, if you're asking.
In the mean time, revel in the words already spoken even before your lips shape the sounds. Take a measure of solace in the euphoria you still inspire in the dog that waits for you by the raised platform of your front door. And stick it out, one step at a time, to avoid whatever potential damage might potentially be avoided.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (4/5/09)
The old tricks still apply. Several times a day, like a habit-trodden path is wrought, I find myself visiting spots that up-heave the soul like a sand bar launches its waves several feet into the air. I exist now and then, like this, and in between feel barely necessary. It's not a sorrowful space to inhabit--more like the push of darkness, against you and on all sides. In some ways soporific. And in an offhanded vague sort of way, sometimes worrisome. I'm calling it a phase, if you're asking.
In the mean time, revel in the words already spoken even before your lips shape the sounds. Take a measure of solace in the euphoria you still inspire in the dog that waits for you by the raised platform of your front door. And stick it out, one step at a time, to avoid whatever potential damage might potentially be avoided.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (4/5/09)
Glimpse into history.
[Come on, love! You must shape these things into something...]
Stare at a fabric folder (perchance purchased in Persia?) and consider this, your predicament. Paint her deep orange--bruise her bright yellow--and our masquerade fades off.
These words...these words...all you know in the dimness of day, and surrounded by darkly-writ sunshine. Where else could there have really been to go, then? And how can we think to express this? Oh abstraction! Fucking cowardly distraction! When commitment threatens a worthy conclusion we run at blurring speeds somewhere far away. Such eventualities bite into your shield of pride, good darling. We love & we don't! We love & we don't! What then?! What of it?
No. I don't want my time in between that bliss of loving you--to anymore resemble waiting. I exist even without you, love, strange as this is to express. The green of the trees look not so heavy here, almost floating their tips to the lightness of beige. And then suddenly we're working--oh yes, again. How we don't make sense with such dedication! (To be taken every which way.)
You'd think to express any feeling that runs so deep--you'd think it would have to be easy. (Ah, well.)
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (12/12/07)
Stare at a fabric folder (perchance purchased in Persia?) and consider this, your predicament. Paint her deep orange--bruise her bright yellow--and our masquerade fades off.
These words...these words...all you know in the dimness of day, and surrounded by darkly-writ sunshine. Where else could there have really been to go, then? And how can we think to express this? Oh abstraction! Fucking cowardly distraction! When commitment threatens a worthy conclusion we run at blurring speeds somewhere far away. Such eventualities bite into your shield of pride, good darling. We love & we don't! We love & we don't! What then?! What of it?
No. I don't want my time in between that bliss of loving you--to anymore resemble waiting. I exist even without you, love, strange as this is to express. The green of the trees look not so heavy here, almost floating their tips to the lightness of beige. And then suddenly we're working--oh yes, again. How we don't make sense with such dedication! (To be taken every which way.)
You'd think to express any feeling that runs so deep--you'd think it would have to be easy. (Ah, well.)
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (12/12/07)
...
Threading string spins delicate the blanket. Woven through fibers chained unbreakable, its links fragile as the reciprocal breath of eye contact with a passerby. And in that instant you recognize your own tread, rocks rhythmic and signature, and just as easily passed by. Quiet the glance given the mind's eye from behind, over the wishful shoulder, beyond what would be there. Driven frantic, next steps solidify a wake; white rapids, salvation of unawakened seashores.
...
See what I've created.
Look at what I am,
at how I seem to be.
Deep breath difficult
still so sweetly desired.
Dear frozen/thawed/perched
pen, above the thirsty page.
Indifferent? (Please.)
Look at what I am,
at how I seem to be.
Deep breath difficult
still so sweetly desired.
Dear frozen/thawed/perched
pen, above the thirsty page.
Indifferent? (Please.)
"We do not feign tortured, my daughter and I."
And anyway, the prayer of the priest is to make peace with the lot of his life. While the girl on the motorbike too big for her, she talks dirty (of engines) with the fellas she rides with.
Just then, and when the light turned rosy, the stalking women spoke loud of ambrosia! Filled the sky to its atmospheric brim, with claims of last sight at first whim.
[Peole think it right to opine on what is offered them... Even so, what have you to offer?]
To allow--What magnificent madness is this?! To stay awake, and in waking give free reign to the things you've really no power over anyway. Indeed, to allow, and of course to enjoy, each moment's beat; the flow of perceived time with its singular rhythm. And to write within the inherent limitations of context? Gratitude endless, allow me to be grateful.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/20!/09)
Just then, and when the light turned rosy, the stalking women spoke loud of ambrosia! Filled the sky to its atmospheric brim, with claims of last sight at first whim.
[Peole think it right to opine on what is offered them... Even so, what have you to offer?]
To allow--What magnificent madness is this?! To stay awake, and in waking give free reign to the things you've really no power over anyway. Indeed, to allow, and of course to enjoy, each moment's beat; the flow of perceived time with its singular rhythm. And to write within the inherent limitations of context? Gratitude endless, allow me to be grateful.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/20!/09)
For the day preceding a birthday.
Love to write beside the fact of lines. Sleep so quiet in the midst of chaos like anarchy's latest dream. Just try, just for an hour or so, and decide to last that long. Along the river's panel of glaring critics, be blinded by the fading light, if only for the round of night, and shirk the girth of day. Dream dreary if you'd think to dare, make allies of the light and dark, still one, still un-unified. Ewe-music, not silky like love's version of sex, but wool-fuzzy instead, and really much warmer than need be admitted.
Imagine being caged--designated animal, and left to chew at your rapidly healing flesh. Where would you end up? Who could you easily trust, then? Or carelessly converse with, when each person's eyes ever hold the silent, eager nature of intention? And when do you stop wanting, somewhere within yourself? When does one cease falling for life's promised offerings? Maybe it's ungrateful to wonder.
You should know that I love an awful lot about you. Your compassion, if not pure love; the question, grave, of whether you can think of me without the aid of my absence; your spring-endless source of creativity, without wonder; your messy soul, and artist's fingers with critical glance; your selective silence, hidden between the barrage carrying over of never vicious sounds--not quite aggression in music, but determinedly determined, having somehow learned to separate the two, my dear? Oh, I do love you, even though I want more from myself than I've any right to expect you to supply, as though in supplicant offering. What do you have to do with that? Only that i wish the answer were 'something'.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/18/09)
Imagine being caged--designated animal, and left to chew at your rapidly healing flesh. Where would you end up? Who could you easily trust, then? Or carelessly converse with, when each person's eyes ever hold the silent, eager nature of intention? And when do you stop wanting, somewhere within yourself? When does one cease falling for life's promised offerings? Maybe it's ungrateful to wonder.
You should know that I love an awful lot about you. Your compassion, if not pure love; the question, grave, of whether you can think of me without the aid of my absence; your spring-endless source of creativity, without wonder; your messy soul, and artist's fingers with critical glance; your selective silence, hidden between the barrage carrying over of never vicious sounds--not quite aggression in music, but determinedly determined, having somehow learned to separate the two, my dear? Oh, I do love you, even though I want more from myself than I've any right to expect you to supply, as though in supplicant offering. What do you have to do with that? Only that i wish the answer were 'something'.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/18/09)
Confessions of a misplaced home?
When I was sixteen years old, my mother began seeing other men. 'Other', meaning not my father; 'my father', meaning her jaded husband. There was no deceit involved, never the behind-his-back affair. It was not her way--she was always very open about her infidelity. Wanted to share it with the family. Encouraged him to pursue similar past-times. She was so caught-up in the illicit excitement of all of it, or so I tend to think, that she never particularly focused enough to see the daily hearts being bruised. Thought this "new development" of their "relationship" would ultimately prove a deeper bonding between her and my father; as a transcendental step in their evolution.
She believed this, I believe, wholeheartedly. Even when she moved four-hundred miles away from him, "temporarily" leaving her kids and the only home they'd ever known, to take a new job in the same city as her at-the-time lover. Even now, she thinks she believed we would all have been able--let alone willing--to follow her. The fact that there were five of us kids, three dogs, a cat, & two cars living in a house that still needed to be re-hauled, cleaned up, and sold in the wake of her absence, somehow didn't seem to stop or strike her as unlikely odds. Even so, I can't help believing her: we just never crossed her mind.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/17/09)
She believed this, I believe, wholeheartedly. Even when she moved four-hundred miles away from him, "temporarily" leaving her kids and the only home they'd ever known, to take a new job in the same city as her at-the-time lover. Even now, she thinks she believed we would all have been able--let alone willing--to follow her. The fact that there were five of us kids, three dogs, a cat, & two cars living in a house that still needed to be re-hauled, cleaned up, and sold in the wake of her absence, somehow didn't seem to stop or strike her as unlikely odds. Even so, I can't help believing her: we just never crossed her mind.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/17/09)
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