Tag Archives: Writing

December 12, 2009 · 17:35

Up from down…

Often, I find this all to be a bit overwhelming.  What is this? you ask.  I am learning to live.  As an adult.  This is a battle unknown to me and I am entering a great fight, a strange chapter, and a circumspect mind.  Great changes are one their way and I haven’t the slightest clue as where to even begin.

I am bracing for the six month day to arrive.  Yes, it is almost six months of life in Florida.  Better yet, six months since life in Oregon.  For some reason, numbers have always been a daunting figure in my days.  Whether it be time in minutes or time in years, I have never received them with the joy at which many of my co-patriots in life have taken such.  I have found myself saying recently, almost in wishing or hopeful manner, that if I could start over and do this – all of this – over again, I would.  I am exhausted.  I have been thinking too much, reading too much, learning too much.  There are pieces of me that have never felt better or more stimulated, and then there are the eyes that want to close, only to reopen when all of this is said and done and I have found that semblance of peace I have so been longing for.

It is odd to look over the past six months in whatever strange documentation I have gathered of it, and relive it.  As I am now knee deep in cataloging my book, I am bracing to dive into the words and give the final prose of what I have spent the better parts of myself working on.  When I finally hand her off, I don’t know if I will find that to be a moment of joy or of sorrow.  I’m sure it will be somewhere in between such, but alas, my mind will be vacant of her.

With the exception of that book, it is hard to say what I have really accomplished in six months.  I came here – correction:  I ran here – a woman in love, a woman broken-hearted, only to slowly remove myself of the coma my vulnerable heart had fallen asleep in.  I broke hearts in this process.  I drained my bank account.  I added miles to my car, probably a few lines on my face.  I grew out my hair.  I cut off my hair.  I ran from what I once thought to be a lonesome existence only to discover what the definition of solitude truly is, and better yet, to live it on a daily basis.  Friends, I could tell you I made a mistake, but I would be lying.  This was the best decision I ever made.

The next six months will not parallel these previous six by any stretch.  It would be difficult to describe this year as a hill in the up and down sense.  I don’t know which direction I have necessarily taken, only that I have accomplished at least parts of which I had intended to conquer.  What was once so irrevocably broken: gone.  Book: progress.  Learning to be alone: success.  Realizing that running is not the way to battle your dæmons: an expensive, emotionally and physically exhausting process, but a necessary one.  I will not do this again, I won’t run again.  I will however learn to live and love without any fear.  Maybe I am a bit on the uphill climb for that part but no matter how overwhelming it feels, when this is all said and done, I will have known a better side of me for it.

Yes I long for you, I glide,
losing myself, out of my own hand,
without hope of conquering
what comes to me, as if out of your side,
grave and stark and undeterred.

…back then: O how complete I was,
nothing calling, nothing that divulged me;
my stillness was like a stone’s
over which the brook makes its murmuring…

But now in these spring weeks
something has slowly broken me off
from the dark unconscious year.
Something has given my poor warm life
into the hand of someone random
who doesn’t even know what even yesterday I was.

Rainer Maria Rilke – Woman in Love

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December 6, 2009 · 20:06

Not just…

The weekend is finally over and my version of a weekend is about to begin.  I must say, I am delighted.  While still mildly recovering from whatever stomach bug decided to plague my holiday weekend, it has been rough.  I am beyond ready for two days away from the bar, Bloody Mary’s (I have not cut myself this weekend so I assure you I mean the drink, not my ever so awkwardly bloody knuckles), and all things vodka, shaken, and garnished.  Just my luck, my mother is going to throw a holiday party this Christmas and of course, I will be in charge of drinks.  What joy!

I had a rather in depth conversation today with a customer about my recovery process.  This customer has come in on a rather consistent basis over the course of my employment and he was interested to hear today when I told him that I don’t drink.  He was boggled that I am able to bartend and in all reality, be covered in alcohol yet still summon the will to not consume.  My friend, it is simple: those that cannot do, teach.  Those that cannot drink, serve.  I cannot omit a slight side note of honesty in that truly, I enjoy bartending.  I really need to finish my book and get on with it…

My book has hit a slight standstill over that past week.  As I struggle to write and work at the same time, I wonder when I am ever going to finish this monstrosity that has so distressed the once calm corners of my mind.  I feel as though I am in a race against time to finish it, almost in fear that if I don’t get it all out now, I am going to lose the very pieces that so quietly made up the story.  Honestly, I ask myself daily what on Earth I was thinking to even start it in the first place.

But back to bartending I go until she is done.  In the same conversation earlier, I mentioned my book to my customer.  He was intrigued by what little information I gave him of the story and I may have thrown him a bit of a curve when I initially told him of my novel intentions.  What he said next was interesting:  “I chalked you up to being just a bartender.  Thank you for proving me wrong.”  Pressing goal: finish book, get book published, quit bartending, don’t be ‘just a bartender’.  Oh age, while you are but a number, you are a daunting figure.

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November 30, 2009 · 07:59

An ending of sorts…

I would love to tell you that the nausea and overall feeling of illness has subsided, but that would be a lie.  I have not worked all weekend, have been fighting off this bug of sorts, and I am still circling somewhere between wanting to jump off a bridge and curl under my blankets and hide.  The only relief I have had from all of this has been when I am asleep.  Needless to say, I have caught up on a years worth of missed sleep in the past four days.

In between my communions with the god of porcelain, I have found some time to write.  As my friends have all returned ‘home’ from Thanksgiving, I can now settle back into my routine that is not so much dripping in solitude.  I have missed them.  These friends, these wonderful people, have become my muse, and it was a struggle to write without their presence over the holiday.

The book is making progress.  Albeit still pulling out my hair a bit, I have drifted off into my peaceful land of writing where I am entirely encapsulated in words, story, and at times, overwhelming emotion.  This is a beautiful process.  Painful, but beautiful none the less.

I took time off when I first moved here from the book.  I think I really needed to adjust to new spaces, sounds, people, and the general change of life.  As I gave you all words of my thoughts surrounding the move here, I knew I was not in the accurate frame of mind to write a story.  I was so lost in the present and almost shell-shocked if you will, that I could not wander back into the novel land to tie up even a loose end on my story board.  It was certainly a challenge, but I feel I am returning to my roots.

As I am sure I am not the only person to remark on this, but I have been writing this story in almost backwards sense.  I have the beginning, the middle, and the epilogue covered, but not the true ending.  Yes, I have what happens after the end, just not the end.  In my mind, this makes sense…but I don’t know how to end her.  It’s like I am almost scared to write the last words knowing that it will all be over and my love, she will be done; that the story that has been overriding my thoughts for close to two years will be at an end.  Where will I go from there?  Yes, I could get into the technical side of publishing and editing, but needless to say, the creative aspect that has been my blood will no longer be harnessed.  I imagine it will be something like an empty nest.

There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!

Emily Dickinson

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November 28, 2009 · 08:48

Thanksgiving, round two…

I  could give you all words of my past week, but alas, I will maintain with the present…well, the past two days.  In brief, I tried to write, but I could not.  I have spent the past week working on my book and as my mind has been flooded with words, almost in overwhelming sense, I could not bring them to page other than that of my book.  Great progress on the novel front.  Horrid progress on the blog front.  I’m back.  I have missed this.

As Thanksgiving has now passed and the holiday season is officially upon us, I am reminded of the dear old stance of tradition.  This was the first year in six years that my mother and I have spent Thanksgiving together in her house and we certainly held true to our bizarre sense of traditions.  We Burger Women, we do holidays a bit differently.  Our traditions have always been a bit off, but are endearing none the less.  I always break something on Thanksgiving, usually when unloading the dishwasher.  This year, my mother was reminded of this and I was given strict orders to stay out of the kitchen.  That was not a problem at all.  She and I always get into a fight and instead of the annual Thanksgiving blow-out, we decided to start the fight early this year and fought the day before.  It slightly carried over into the day but once our friends arrived, we put all feelings aside and had a lovely day.  Strange traditions they are, but they are ours none the less.  It was great to be home.

Something new happened this holiday though and I would have been very happy to live without this feeling from now on.  I must warn you, this could be very graphic and for that, I apologize.

I was scheduled to work yesterday morning at 8AM.  My alarm started going off around 6:15 and as I turned to reach the snooze button, my stomach turned and suddenly I was flooded with nausea and sweat.  I rolled around until I could get comfortable again and the feeling subsided.  Well, temporarily.  Within five minutes the feeling had come back in full force and a strange metallic taste entered my mouth.  Shit, here it comes…

Thanksgiving dinner is not so pretty when it comes back up.  I spent twenty minutes crumpled on my bathroom floor, sweating and vomiting until I could no longer think.  I managed to get my act together long enough to head down to work to set everything up before I was forced to come back home.  I have never called in sick to this job before and I felt horrible, but I knew there was no way to bartend and be as sick as I was at the same time.  I drank a glass of water on my way home and within thirty minutes of being home, the water came right back up.  My poor mother and I could not determine what had made me sick as I ate nothing that usually upsets my stomach (dairy, yes, I am one of them).  Our first thought was food poisoning and as she made calls to the other ten people that had joined us for dinner, it became clear that I was the only one sick.  Great.  Leave it to me to get violently ill the day after Thanksgiving.

I spent all day on the sofa rotating somewhere between vomit, wanting to stick my head in the oven, and hot flashes.  By the evening, I was finally able to keep a bowl of cereal down but needless to say, I wanted to curl up in a ball and die.  I don’t remember pneumonia being this bad.  I was miserable.

I still don’t feel 100% today.  I haven’t thrown up, but have not had a meal yet either.  Fluids have stayed down thankfully.  I never thought my day of thanks would be followed by a day of vomit.  I think next year will be the beginning of a new tradition.  To be honest, I don’t know if I will ever eat a Thanksgiving meal again.

Welcome back, friends!  Happy Holidays!

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November 18, 2009 · 07:12

A novel idea…

I am going to do something today that I have put off for the past few months.  Well, ‘put off’ may not be the appropriate choice of wording there, but needless to say, I have avoided doing this for quite some time.  Maybe it was the emotion involved, the process in and of itself, or simply opening the Word files…I don’t know.  My friends, I am going back to my book today.

I have shared very little of my book and I will maintain that stance.  As many writers are aware, it is not the safest bet to share your book until completion, and I know how just one small change in environment can shift the course of action for the writing process.  And I thought solitude was tricky business…

What I have learned so far from writing as much as I have is that this is a painful process.  As I have taken a fall back into my lonely road that is solitude, it is a perfect air for writing though.  Thankfully, I am beyond the drawing board and can press on and tell the story I began writing two years ago.  Yes, two years.  It is exhausting.  It is painful.  To have to remove myself from the present and dive back into old emotions, places, times – another life for that matter – brings a wave back of positively bizarre feelings.   Solitude is necessary in this process.  Maybe anti-depressants should be next on the list…I kid, I kid.

My book has sat in its file moderately untouched since I moved here.  I say moderately as I have made a few pages of progress, but I feel they are not the pages I should have worked on.  They were the ‘easy’ pages to write.  If I wanted to write short stories for the rest of my life, I could have books and books of that information by now.  I don’t though, and now I need to press on through the ‘hard’ pages, where the bulk of the story is told.  Somewhere behind the emotions, simplicity of words, and story, there will be a writer that was simultaneously crying and pulling out her hair in sheer frustration.  And as I am not the only writer to say this, please let a legitimate publishing house find this, please publish me, please like my words.

So today, I am going to neglect all better aspects of business (A, the house is clean), Skordo is going in to be groomed, and I will be left with an empty house, offensive amount of coffee, and three computers, simultaneously writing a story that has brought me this far.  I can only hope that when it is all done, it was worth it.  When in doubt, I will be very awake.

where are we?
what the hell is going on?
the dust has only just begun to form
crop circles in the carpet
sinking feeling

spin me round again
and rub my eyes,
this can’t be happening
when busy streets a mess with people
would stop to hold their heads heavy

hide and seek
trains and sewing machines
all those years
they were here first

oily marks appear on walls
where pleasure moments hung before the takeover,
the sweeping insensitivity of this still life

hide and seek
trains and sewing machines (oh, you won’t catch me around here)
blood and tears (hearts)
they were here first

Mmmm whatcha say,
Mmm that you only meant well?
well of course you did
Mmmm whatcha say,
Mmmm that it’s all for the best?
of course it is
Mmmm whatcha say?
Mmmm that it’s just what we need
you decided this
whatcha say?
Mmmm what did she say?

ransom notes keep falling out your mouth
mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cut outs
speak no feeling no I don’t believe you
you don’t care a bit,
you don’t care a bit

(hide and seek)
ransom notes keep falling out your mouth
mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cut outs

Imogen Heap – Hide and Seek

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October 27, 2009 · 10:35

A day away…

So far today I have gone running (two miles without stopping to breathe or walk…my lungs are begging, pleading for me to quit smoking), fed and walked Skordo, bought him new bones, bought more gauze for my finger as I attempted to cut it off at work on Friday (which probably needed stitches), broke an entire candle display at Target, purchased super glue for my mother’s plate that I broke, did Pilates, and choked on water so much that it came out of my nose.  Good day, friends!  This should be fun…

I find that I cannot write on the weekends.  Try as I might, my mind is elsewhere and somewhere drenched in my alcohol soaked clothing, I am exhausted.  I tried to write on Saturday and couldn’t find the words.  I tried to write yesterday and couldn’t find words.  I guess it takes more than a morning off to really collect my thoughts.

As Skordo is now devouring his second rawhide of the day, I am able to take a few minutes and gather myself again.  I have been staying a busy as possible to avoid certain thoughts, actions, and words.  In between working three jobs (for those struggling to find a job, I’m sorry that I have been greedy), Skordo, and my new-found fitness routine (I swear, everyone warns you about the Freshman 15 but never the 10lbs you pack on after you’re done and have to live with your mother to pay off your student loans…oh, and she cooks with butter), I am left only with small minutes to read, entertain, and keep myself motivated.  I have re-read a fair share of my last posts and realized I was making him – the irrevocable heartbreak –  too much of a reoccurring theme and I was forgetting myself and the progress somewhere in my solitude.  Alas, I am giving him, my head, and heart, a much needed rest.

As I have spent the past two mornings off, I am finding that this solitude is not so much of a rapture as I once feared it would be.  When I first moved here, the level of anonymity I possessed and stillness that was surrounding was all-encompassing; I felt I was drowning.  I no longer feel that way.  If anything, it was a pleasant reward to come home, to not say a word, climb into my empty bed, and read until my eyelids cannot keep their strength to stay open.  To drive around alone and without a voice in my head is refreshing, and as the days pass since life with, near, and because of him, I am taking a stronger sense of pride in my own actions.  I must say, this is a pleasant life.  Even if I do despise South Florida with a passion, I am coming to grips with the fact that I came here with a purpose in mind, and leave with purpose I shall.

You would not believe your eyes
If ten million fireflies
Lit up the world as I fell asleep

‘Cause they’d fill the open air
And leave teardrops everywhere
You’d think me rude
But I would just stand and stare

I’d like to make myself believe
That planet Earth turns slowly
It’s hard to say that I’d rather stay
Awake when I’m asleep
‘Cause everything is never as it seems

‘Cause I’d get a thousand hugs
From ten thousand lightning bugs
As they tried to teach me how to dance

A foxtrot above my head
A sock hop beneath my bed
A disco ball is just hanging by a thread

I’d like to make myself believe
That planet Earth turns slowly
It’s hard to say that I’d rather stay
Awake when I’m asleep
‘Cause everything is never as it seems
When I fall asleep

Owl City – Fireflies

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October 22, 2009 · 07:39

What moves me…

I was given a challenge not too long ago.  A friend gave me the task of describing myself.  I was not able to give him immediate words of said description and if anything, I needed time to really distinguish exactly what it is that moves me.  My friends, I am going to present you with a list.  I guess this is the better part of who I am, what moves me, and what drives me to absolute hair-pulling.

Who I am (in a nutshell):

  • I am a musician.  I often lose sight of my music as writing has played a pivotal distraction.  My first love, and greatest love, will always be my music.  “...find truth in words, in rhymes, in notes…”  I find no greater joy and peace than in the simplicity of sound.
  • I am a firm believer in always thinking.  I have been described as an over-thinker.  Great.
  • I don’t cry like I should.
  • I hate sleeping.  I never nap.  I have severe sleep issues and suffer from horrible nightmares.  In turn, I no longer find joy in sleeping, hence my caffeine addiction.
  • I am a bit of a gypsy.
  • I want to challenge others to think outside of themselves.  I am known to ask the question “is it a risk worth taking?”
  • I find few things better in life than an evening breeze.  I would sit outside all day and everyday if the weather would allow it.  I am in turn never without sunglasses.
  • I embrace my solitude.

What makes me cringe:

  • The word ‘crisp’.  Can’t.  Stand.  It.
  • Ignorance.  Intolerance.  Overall disrespect for those around you.
  • Television.  I have stopped.  I don’t miss it one bit.
  • Text message conversations.  This is entirely unnecessary and a phone call is much easier.  I am an inch away from getting rid of my phone and living in a hut.  But this hut requires internet…and running water.
  • My blood begins to boil when I am interrupted while I am writing.  I think I need a hat or sign to wear that says “I am writing.  My attention span is limited.”  It requires a certain element to write appropriately and when this serenity is disrupted, I am lost.

I going could into further detail of likes and dislikes, but I find it unnecessary to share with you all my reproachful contempt for cooked vegetables (really, all), and my obsession with leather boots and flannel shirts.  I was challenged to say what makes me, and in the briefest of prose, I feel I can share enough.

The last part of this is a bit tricky.  As friends of my new life in Florida have now read a bit of my blog, their curious minds ask me about my broken heart.  I have been careful not to go into great verbal detail as I feel I cannot properly share the better parts of him without his presence.  If anything, having left this man three and a half months ago, I have only glimmers of memories of this man.  To describe simply what he once was to me, he said something to me that nailed me right on the head.  With these words, I knew he understood me and if ever I had questioned my belonging, that thought was abandoned at that very moment:  “Mary, when I catch you staring with what many would believe to be a blank expression, I know this not to be blank, but more.  You are always thinking.  You are always off somewhere.  It’s as though you are forever writing and cannot stop for even a moment just to catch up with your breath.  When you hear music, you will close your eyes and I know you are not sleeping or resting them, but feeling the notes, words, and story being told.”

It’s all I have to bring today –
This, and my heart beside –
This, and my heart, and all the fields –
And all the meadows wide –
Be sure you count — should I forget
Some one the sum could tell –
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.

Emily Dickinson

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October 20, 2009 · 20:41

Coffee with my confusion…

I fear this may be a bit forced tonight.  I embrace the moments when inspiration comes to me and dwell on the moments when I am without.  Right now, I am somewhere in between the two.

I tried to write yesterday.  I had the morning off and I piled my books, laptop, and beach towel into a bag and went in search of water.  The air here has been cooler and it is almost bearable to sit in.  Needless to say, I found water but I did not find the words.

As the air finds its breeze here, the humidity level drops.  I stepped outside two morning ago and was slapped in the face by wind and an initial chill.  The air was deceiving in that for a moment, I felt as though I had stepped out of my old apartment, onto my old porch, and into my familiar Portland streets.  I had almost forgotten I was in South Florida and it was at though the palm trees were there to remind me that I am a long way from home.

With this change, I have found myself in a peculiar situation.  I am surrounded by high school students five days a week.  My students, or my kids as I prefer to call them, have challenged me and I, in turn, have challenged them.  It is shocking but I am finding a strange level of patience for these children.  I am amazed everyday by their words, curiosity, wit, and overall zest for life.  I am tested by them and tonight was particularly challenging.  I find though that as their curiosity seems to get the best of them, I can give them a little bit of life to learn from.

I never expected to be here.  I still have to shake Oregon from my bones every day and the past few mornings have certainly created a level of confusion mixed in with my morning coffee.  As I bundle myself in my now unpacked boxes of scarves, boots, and flannel shirts (for you Oregonians reading this, feel free to be ashamed that I am bundling to go into 65 degree weather…), I am reminded of wearing these same clothes and wandering about my blessed city, her bone chilling rain, and the scenery of an everlasting Christmas tree farm.  Oh Oregon, you were good to me.

It will be a sweet level of salvation when I get back to her.  Though I have found calming waters here and the life I knew I needed to experience in order to find the simplicity and calm I was looking for, I don’t think I was level headed enough at the time to realize I possessed these things all along.  I was selfish – I still am – but I will go back to her with a better appreciation of life, those around me, even if that presence is simply a stranger.  Most importantly, this move will allow me to further myself and allow me to live with distraction as it nettles its way into my days.  Never again will I disappear from all I know because of a broken heart.  I guess I am learning to live with less running.

Mission accomplished.

Mission accomplished.

I’m caught
Somewhere in between
Alive
And living a dream.
No peace
Just clicking machines
In the quiet of compazine.
The walls caved in on me.

And she sings
My bird dressed in white.
And she stings
My arm in the night.
I lay still
Still I’m ready to fight.
Have my lungs
But you can’t take my sight.
The walls caved in
Tonight.

And out here
I watch the sun circle the earth
The marrows collide in rebirth
In God’s glory praise
The spirit calls out from the caves.
The walls fell and there I lay
Saved.

Jack’s Mannequin – Caves

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October 15, 2009 · 05:20

The wrong side of the bed…

I have 20 minutes before I must prepare myself for another day that I will without a doubt, end up saturated in alcohol.  I enjoy my job.  I can handle being around alcohol (as this should be as no surprise by now).  Truly the most upsetting part of all of this is the amount of laundry I do every week.  Riddle me this: why would you wear white as a bartender?

As I am still pulling myself out of my slightly deprived coma from last night, my words may be a bit off.  I am nursing a two hour old cup of coffee as I missed the fresh batch at 6:30.  I look like the quintessential writer right now: sleep deprived, coffee on one side, cigarette pack on the other, and overall a general mess.  But I woke up to news this morning that makes me want nothing more than to go home.  I wish so much I could have brought Oregon with me on this adventure.  Or at least, the most vital pieces and characters of her.

I have settled into much of a routine here and life is becoming ordinary, if anything, a bit bland.  I am finding great pleasure in living with my  mother and I will eventually make attempts at telling you all just how surprising I find this to be.  I must say, I look forward to nothing more than our Friday and Saturday nights together (the only nights we are both home).  I just still pick up little tastes of Oregon throughout the day and I still question why this Oregon Girl had to come all the way to Florida to learn how to live.  Well, I don’t know if I fully question it for I suppose I know the answer, but I could have made my leaps and bounds of progress in say, Seattle.  That would have made a bit more sense.

Today just feels like one of those days (yes, already) when I am E.T. and something, somewhere is calling for me to phone home.  It is just strange to have the first feeling of the day being that.  I thought I had crept away from such a tugging so early in the day.  Today may very well be one of those days…

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
enough
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
enough
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everday jug,
like my mother’s face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm.

Rainer Maria Rilke

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October 14, 2009 · 09:18

Books, books, and more books…

I made a wrong turn today.  By wrong turn, I mean my bank account suffered slightly from this but by the end of the day, I will be finding great joy in this mild costly endeavor.  I found myself in the Borders parking lot.  Inside I went.  I left $45 poorer but with three books that are sure to occupy my thoughts for the next few days.

I am hopelessly in love with books.  It was without a doubt the most expensive part of my move.  I spent days packing and getting rid of random items, kitchen utensils, clothing, and furniture.  When the time came to go through my books, I found that I was able to part with only one: The American Political Dictionary, a fallen soldier of my first year of college as a political science major.  Needless to say, I found justification in parting with it, but the remaining hundreds of books, stories, selected poetry, autobiographies, and a few self-help books found their way into liquor boxes and off they went to Florida.  I went over my weight estimate on my van and I assure you, it was all because of these beautiful, heavy works.  Well, here they are now, neatly organized in the garage, still in their boxes but most importantly, they are with me and not on the shelves of a used book store.

I have considered purchasing a Kindle.  My aunt has one and I was fascinated by it.  I initially thought that this would be perfect for me and certainly a more environmentally aware way of reading.  I can’t do it though.  Re-use or forego plastic bags I will, but I cannot bear to part my fingertips from the blessed pages that await.  My bookshelves read as almost my treasures; stories that have captivated, disappointed, furthered, and inspired the course of my life.  It is going to be an even more expensive move home.

Lately, I have taken to books of selected poetry.  I find that I can never tire of a brief sonnet, prose, or poem.  I find the greatest inspiration in these brief passages, as often noted by my overwhelming use of Emily Dickinson.  If I could bring a dead person back to life to have dinner, I would invite her to dine with me.  Her poetry has captivated me.  It’s remarkable.

Today I purchased a selected series of poems by the German poet Rainer Maria Rilke.  I was introduced to him a few months ago by chance and needless to say, I have absorbed great time into his words.  Again, I have found energy from these words and cannot seem to rid my mind from these sentences and passages.  I am hooked.  Reading has been my most pleasing addiction and certainly the most rewarding.  I long for the day when I am home, in my own tiny apartment again, surrounded by my numerous bookshelves of my little pieces of gold.

You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don’t even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of the next
moment. All the immense
images in me– the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,
cities, towers, and bridges, and unsuspected
turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods-
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.

You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house–, and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me.
Streets that I chanced upon,–
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and, startled,
gave back my too-sudden image. Who knows?
perhaps the same bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, seperate, in the evening…

Rainer Maria Rilke – You Who Never Arrived

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