I don’t really do flowery stuff.
I don’t do gory or cruel stuff either, of course, but I love dirty and crooked and how odd things can be sort of bent to become even more beautiful in their oddity.
Bouquets are lovely but I’d rather collect the shadows if I could.
I like the wet peace in the dark. I like the cool quiet in the stillness. I tend to feel like where the crowd is is the beginning of the end of a thing but I couldn’t really tell you why.
So I like to go another way; the way things haven’t gone yet. Just to see how it might look there and what comes with me or falls off.
How to slow a rainstorm:
Watch the way the water falls.
Watch the way the raindrops catch on leaves,
Do you ever talk with angels?
Wait, hold up – if you aren’t sure how you want to answer that just yet, let me roll this out another way:
I have the weirdest thing for wires right now. As in: power lines. (Barbed wire, too, but that’s probably another conversation.)
I keep snapping pictures of them. I know it’s springtime and the thing to do would be to photograph flowers but for me, for some reason, it’s wires. They fascinate me.
My eyes are shoved shut so tight I can physically feel the skin pulling taught behind my ears.
The first pristine pricks of the threat of a shattering cry are stabbing at the backs of my thin pulsing eyelids.
Even against the massive concrete resistance I’ve barricaded up, or maybe because of it, scorching tears pierce through and streak inky, crooked, blackened tracks across my cheeks.
Every drop of pent-up anger, shame, loss, greed, regret, jealousy and confusion plunges out of me onto the hardwood floor beneath my naked knees.