I’ve been there.
on the serrated edge of the coin
one side stay
the other, go.
Several of you have,
Whatever Divinity changed our course
steadied us to remain,
I am, now, grateful for it
(though was angry and frustrated, then.)
On the bathroom floor (it’s almost always there, isn’t it? Those personal tar black come-to-Jesus low-points on tile or shag pale sky throw rug, in the dark regardless of time of day)
pills and booze
booze and more booze
(“recreational” my ass)
hollow hopelessness in
unfamous uncelebrity (who’d miss me? who cared) unsure unspecial
unexcused unnoticeable unneeded unnecessary unattached un-everything
Until the Divine or fear of angering my Mother(s) or what if or _________ whatever reason people decide not to go…I cannot remember anything other than not being as fearless as when I came into the bathroom. In my 20s before marriage before child before God and everyone, it was just misery and me and something else that needed to come through.
I’m glad it did.
My decision to share this odd prosery is not for comment nor criticism nor praise. But if sharing my imperfections and humanity, my vulnerability, with someone who thinks we think they have their shit together (when they think they actually don’t), and that person needs someone to talk to or just somebody to sit next to. I’d like to be that lighthouse for them.
You’re not alone even when you believe with every cell that you are.
DJD 08 June 1018
s’élevant en amour / rising in love.
acrylic on canvas
Perception is a funny thing.
What do you see?
Woke up staring “rushing” in the face.
I need to stop rushing, nudging things sooner than later and believing sooner is better. Sooner is, possibly, rushed not better. Sooner is, perhaps, an escape hatch from discomfort. Go through, not around – that is the learning process: through, not around.
Rushing causes accidents and butterfingers and necessary items forgotten in a hurry on the counter. Rushing makes people uncomfortable. They feel squeezed or claustrophobic or, well, rushed.
I do not want to rush.
I just want certain things now, but not at the expense of my self-respect and not at the loss of organic timing and growth.
the transitional girlfriend of the calendar.
Not like the other months. Her personality a mix of closing a door and lighting a bonfire; bittersweet memory and new imaginings. You meet her and instantly you’re comfortable–she’s a bit of extended December.
She is the palate cleanser, the slate-cleaner
she looks the other way and has regard for but no connection to your past. January only looks forward with you.
Halfway through you’re cozy, in love, comfortable hibernating from the rest of the year. You picture yourself being together another 11 and a half months.
When the birds start singing their wake-up call outside the window in those last few days, you realize it’s not forever. You need more. More than January can offer, and you miss the predictable familiarity of other months.
Like any bridge relationship, she helps us out of the used, the stale,
the old and into the full-of-potential, bold new year.
As much as you are grateful for her constancy and loyalty
you leave her
more turbulent, less kind and
marginally forgiving time. A time you already know.
with open arms
to welcome you back to the calendar.
Eventually, January will do what she does best: begin anew.
And they tell me the only thing I can do is pray.
It’s so powerful, so mighty, so positive.
So why do I feel so powerless, so scrawny, so angry?
(This is far from my usual mode of positivity and optimism.)
One of you has been betrayed.
It is clear from your posts that your heart is leaking pain everywhere you go
like an old car leaves an oil trail down the street.
Some of you are ill.
I do not say “sick” but ill. Your body is fighting a fight while you are held hostage by those ravages and maneuvers.
Some of you will have surgery soon.
I know you are afraid.
A few of you are having parenting issues — whether you are the parent or the child.
A lot of frustration and needless back-and-forth of not listening to each other and power plays. (This you can handle yourselves, but I pray about it anyway because it couldn’t hurt.)
Many of you are healing or lonely or hopeful Love will come through the door…
that your own prayers will literally be answered.
Honestly, I want to answer every single one.
Gratitude is everything, I know this.
(Where is that magic wand we had as kids? We could just wave it around and *poof!* everything was magically
time for supper and then a bath and story and bed.)
So many of us just want the very best for those we know and Love
and for those we hardly know but Love anyway.
I ask for better
I ask to be given opportunities to be a better person, mother, friend.
And they are provided hand over fist.
We mend what we can, as best we can.
After that, the only thing left to do is give in and pray.
Nothing haunts me more than the things I never had the courage to say.
Partnered with longing to take back spears thrown in the heat of battle, or the enmeshment of insecurities weaving a relationship fabric so warped, it serves as a battle flag to avoid that same slope and ditch in the future.
Destiny. Fate. Karma. God. Loneliness. Consequence. No consequence. Proximity. Repetition. Inebriation. Lust. Curiosity. Boredom. Challenge. The Hunt. The Ease. Familiarity. Chemistry. The Lure of What We Cannot Readily Have. The Urge to Fix. Genuine attraction. The Need to Disappear. The Hope of Being Found.
Many and random are the ways we come to each other. Complicated and baffling, passionately embroiled or dispassionately detached, waltzing in circles until one makes a move. Then another. And, still, another, until we are picking up speed and lowering eyes and taking down walls and dropping to our knees in gratitude that someone, finally, Loves us.
Flaws and all.
Secrets and perversions and all.
Quirks and habits and rituals and all.
Agendas, addictions, disintegration and slang and dented armor.
It all falls away
Layer upon layer
As the larch and birch shed summer
Leaving us raw, naked
Unhinged and insane
And out in left field, limbs to the sky,
one more time
Until you finally have the courage to come back inside
And sit beside the empty chair, lay
In the empty bed, curse
The words and venom and
Shamed by fear, ask, and ask
Dar Dawson 2015