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 …

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She’s Someone (let me remind)

She's Someone Image

She’s someone. Your sister, mother, daughter, yes. But more than that – she’s someone. She has a line deep in her bones that takes us back. And she doesn’t belong to you, or with … she’s someone.

You can carve her up, invade her – she’s someone. You can lift your virgins and trample your whores. She’s someone. She has a name not yours to revise … she’s someone.

You can call her a gift then give her away. She’s someone. You can mine for her diamonds then disgust that she shines. You can trade her and blame her but let me remind … she’s someone.

She. Is. Someone. On every continent you raise your flag – she’s someone. Underneath your gaze and your book she is someone. When you shout her down she is someone. When you order her body with gavels and clocks … she’s someone.

Revered. Desired. Punished. Reviled

You have too long chosen and called her mine. When she’s someone. She doesn’t belong to you, or with. This woman, this girl – let me remind …

She’s someone.


rockwithher

Eidyia’s Note: I first posted this back in July, 2013. Something or other would have happened in the news to prompt it. Too many examples, too many possibilities to recognize which misogynistic to and fro it referred to back then. The meme that inspired my post has been doing the rounds once again, thanks to that leaked tape. The original, unaltered meme may have been well-intentioned, but we’re beyond that, right? We understand that a woman – a person! – has value no matter her relationship to others. And that what happens to her matters not when it impacts you and your, but because she’s impacted, now. Peace, love and critical thinking to you all today xxx

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?

The warm body I left too soon

You can miss a place as you miss a person – with heart-held longing and aching arms. Stretching toward the place you were, the person you were back then.

Nothing stays the same, they say, but I’ve never met a memory that didn’t know better.

Some part always stays.

(You’re the warm body I left too soon, the granite rising in my dreams. Metaphors mixed and heavy as I feel you under foot, reading your roots like braille).

My roots. The way it rains. Everything – I remember.

Home NP

swinging from branches that were made for my frame …

 

A small stain

It’ll pass. It always does.

Right now, I’m a walking bruise. Staring into space and mirrors, seeing only you.

Right now the days are lost to hours spent. Isn’t that the way it goes? There’s no moving time when she isn’t ready to heal you.

But it’ll pass. It always does.

I’ll wake and dress and stare and smile and laugh and cry and ache, like I’m music you once played, over and over. I’ll be the melody you can’t yet get out of your head.

It’ll pass. It always does.

(but)

You left a small stain this time. When you poured your red and drank it from me. Right over the place they put my heart. Like we’d been doing it wrong till then.

And now.

There’s a small stain, you left.

It’ll pass. It always does.

Until we come around again.

Rock Bublitz at body, remember

All I ask is …

The hours that change us

The world has shifted in just a few hours. The way it always shifts in just a few hours. It’s not years or decades – that’s simply how we accommodate the axis-shifts, how we adjust and recover from them, before some other hour sets us spinning. We think in years – how was this year, what’s your new year’s resolution, I’m glad to see this year gone – but really it’s the hours that change us.

I was a different person when I got up just a few hours ago.

~ Elliott, Into The After

Melbourne City