sedition

sedition

never could resist a landscape metaphor …

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It still surprised me

It isn’t that I think the sky will fall. Or that I wouldn’t know what to do if it did. I am not afraid of anything, you should understand that. But I don’t know that I have ever felt safe. Safe seems like a promise someone broke, and the worst part is that you believed them. With promises, it’s only a betrayal if you believed them.

I don’t believe I’ll ever be safe.

Do you know how aware we have to be? Girls like me? The man ahead who slows down, who disappears into doorways. The man behind who walks too fast, his encroachment felt on your skin, creeping. Vans with dark windows and streets with alley ways. A park at dusk, or just emptier of people than you thought it would be, any old time of the day. The teacher whose hand lingers, or the group of boys with beer on their breath. The door closing and the room spinning. Do you know how aware we have to be?

(I suppose I let my guard down. At the end. When the sky actually did fall. The crack, and the flash of light, and the wet like rain drops. Air heavy like a boot on my chest. Dirt, and metal and being pushed down, down into the earth. It still surprised me. The shock of how little you can mean to another. How an entire world can be discarded for someone else’s storm. I was right not to believe I’d ever be safe.

But it still surprised me. At the end.)

~ Alice, What We Have Left

Next Year … Some Year (this year)

Millay was right when she said they all have lied.

There hasn’t been any day, in any week, in any month – not a single day since then. I would take just one – a series of 24 successive hours where you don’t invade my heart thoughts.

A solid sleep, a quiet morning, an inconsequential afternoon. An evening where you cannot be tasted in the vodka and sadness that burns in my throat … and a night where you do not come to me, unbidden, when I first close my eyes.

I would take just one of these days from back, before.

There is absence and then there is this. The silent, suspended ever-presence. The way the saxophone mourns on my favourite song. The hundred little ways you won’t go away. They said there would come an easier time, the scientists and the lovers too. But it doesn’t heal a thing, you know.

I suspect it merely drives it deeper.

Rock Bublitz at body, remember

What I was writing five years ago. FIVE YEARS! Always interesting to sit down with my ghosts …

Untitled

What if. What if. What if.

Words like a heartbeat. Tapping in his chest, pulsing at his temple.

Can you ever be sure? He is sure. But.

What if. What if. What if.

Words like footsteps hitting pavement. Lift and fall, lift and fall.

He cannot, must not let the rhythm be a question.

To change somebody’s life, you have to first change your own.

Did he read that somewhere? Is it something he just knows? Perhaps he has always understood his destiny. What he was put down here for.

Not much longer, now. Either way.

There is something he must do.

NYC Walk

Playing, playing, playing. The idea for book #3 has been fizzing around since a stranger told me a magical story some bright night in Oslo. Let’s see what comes of this invitation.

What if. What if. What if.

The exact equation

You know what else is funny? How the ache is so strong, you think it will never go away, that something set so deep couldn’t possibly fade. Then later comes along. At some point – later you no longer feel what you used to feel.  And when you think about what you came through, you can’t remember just when that ache went away. It didn’t feel gradual; it certainly didn’t get easier one specific day or time. Two months in, you were just as likely to be sobbing on a Friday night as you were when your heart was first split open. Still. At some point it wasn’t there anymore. At some unidentifiable moment, it all slid off you. You were no longer sad. It … he .. was gone. What was the formula? What was the exact equation of distance and time to take you where he wasn’t?

I need to know this. Because I’ve carried this bright, new sadness across the ocean with me. I’ve put the distance between us, once again. So how long before time meets that distance? When? How long before I stop feeling like there are strings playing under my skin, a mournful dirge that pulls me down?

Back when it ended, I listened to that music on repeat, it was my constant refrain.

Am I really back there now?

~ El, What We Have Left

tinkering …