She forgot

The world has always looked different with him in it. When she saw him walking up the stairs, when she looked up from the text he’d just sent – I got lost. Bloody Melbourne alleyways! But I think I’m at the right place. Up on the roof, yeah? – and their eyes met, it was that same sudden, silver glow. Clouds moving away from the sun, and every particle of light directed at her.

She forgot, for a second, how to breathe.

Jacqueline Bublitz Writer at body, remember

(By the time she’s finished her third wine she’s taken to tilting her glass at him whenever she makes a point or declaration, flirting over her nervousness, drinking it away)

It’s that kind of morning, yeah 😉

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They are my stories

These are not suitcases. They are my stories. I carry them with me, yes, and at times – at 2ams and altitudes – my shoulders slump with their heft. The weight of past mistakes and all of the leaving. I spin the world backward, these times. Searching with my finger across the whirring, blurring globe for home. Are you nostalgic? she asked me once, and I said yes, as I understand it. I think writers, necessarily retrieve. I meant to say that memory matters. The past matters. But those words belong to another, so I left the thought behind.

I do – at times – have to turn myself around.

But these are not suitcases. I do not come with burdens, see. I arrive lush with autobiography. Stories spilling, swimming. I had a farm in Africa. I stood trembling at the door. There was a moment, just before. I sobbed and smiled. Here. And here. And here. I thought-. He was-. She was-. They were-. I was-. He sang in my ear. I shouldn’t have. I did. I came twice as he-. I saw the most-. I travelled to-. It made me feel. This is the … happiest I’ve ever been. Yes! I remember everything.

I remember every thing. I carry it all, swinging, dancing. Hands out, even to my sorrows. I never wanted a calm waters life. Though I waded through his once or twice. Just to see what it is to be light. And I found it heavier than I’d ever imagined, to carry no one thing at all.

Here, let me open for you now. These are not suitcases. They are my stories …

Rock2018

(Remember: Don’t believe a word I say. Just the way I say it)

♥ HAPPY NEW YEAR, dear readers! Here’s to all the stories in 2018 … ♥

 

 

 

 

 

 

Give her that

“Speak the words you have swallowed. We have – – years of silence to fill. Let us crowd this night with all we have not said, let us cover every last second with our secrets. Whisper them soft and sure against my skin. Tell me goodbye, and tell me why.

Dust me for your fingerprints one last time, hold me up to the light, and see yourself all over. Know that you were here. Here we are. Grasp at what we will leave behind. What we are losing. There are ways for us to end this.

Love me just enough. Then let me go. Hold tight all through these midnight hours, then stand up, be brave. And watch. me. walk. away.”

My darling, there are ways for us to end this.

body, remember

Good god. She went so far as to tell you what to do. You have always done what you are told to do. How could you not even give her that …

You are not the only one

Last night I slept with a man I met at the hotel bar. A Sailor visiting dry land for the holidays. He told me he lives weeks at a time aboard his submarine. Submerged in the deep and the dark. His world is a place most of us would do anything to avoid.

My God your body is beautiful, he said when we lay down on the bed, and I thought – living under the sea must do strange things to a man.

But I looked to see, just the same. I lifted the sheets to make a coy appraisal of my flesh, marinated in the salt and oil of summer, this skin that I will peel and shed back home. I took in the chipped red of holiday nails, the grains of sand in the curve of my foot, and the nerves still pulsing in my flexing toes. I looked at my pliant muscles, and the startling white of my hidden parts. I could see all of the ways the ocean had left its mark on me, too.

This man tasted of rum and cherries. And when he kissed me again I wanted to say –You are not the only one who has emerged from the deep.

Last night we both looked beautiful when held up to the light.

~ Lucy, LOVED

I posted an early version of this exactly five years ago. Like so many of my musings here, the scene found a perfect place in my novel. Eventually. Funny reminder today that you never know where you’ll end up. You. Just. Keep. Going. Here’s to an exciting second half of the year …

You have been loved

I imagine it’s something like lights turning on all over the world. One by one the illumination, as continents glimmer then glow. I see it as gravity pulling the stars back down. Collective sadness, collecting love. The bright flame of grief making our shared surface deeper.

Know this. You have been loved.

It’s not dimming, ever. To remember, to honour, to love in this way. We should do so well with the living. We should send out our sparks and turn up our songs while we’re both on the ground. Don’t you think?

You should know you have been loved.

lighthousekeeping

♥ Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping

I expect so much more from you in 2017. 

All over our skin

In the hours between 10 and 12

when limbs grow heavy and fingers light

when kisses stain with last year’s wine

and Venus can’t decide her name …

In the hours between 10 and 12

when toes protest and cotton clings

when lines are etched down threaded walls

and I cannot remember my name …

In the hours between 10 and 12

when hotels hum and cities dim

when bodies fuse under fervid heat

and melt the gold wrapped round your name …

In these stolen hours between 10 and 12

when the sun decides to look away

when darkness is poured all over our skin

– we baptise each other once and again.

Photo by Joanne Piechota
Image by Joanne Piechota

Eidyia’s note: Going over old posts this morning. Not sure what I was looking for. Maybe some way to peaceably remember?