WordPress having enlightened us about how we did last year, made me think about my two sites and what I want for them (or shall I say, myself) in the new year. The only thing I feel like sharing at the moment, is my quest to get better at putting the words together.
Since I haven’t much else to say about these works in progress (or any of my others) and because my last post was a Christmas story with more words than many would deem prudent, I decided to begin Sparks In Shadow’s new year with a few Words One Hundred posts that meant a lot to me. They’re different from the ones WordPress says got the most hits, and that’s okay. Things get lost in this internet sea of words.
Even when found, the words don’t always mean the same things to readers as they do to writers. This is the reality that’s currently burning me into submission.
Through the glass, she sees an earthen footpath wending to the right behind golden mums, fuchsia roses, and trees rising higher to the edge of her view. She presses her palms against the hard coolness separating her life from the scenery, dreaming of lives beyond her reach.
To the left, sidewalk, lawn then busy artery, three lanes worth in both directions, reminding her of trips downtown, to an airport once, and flight.
Wanting either side, anything elsewhere, she removes her hands and massages a fist to keep it from cracking secret gardens and roads away. Today’s dream burrows farther down, and waits.
Balloons, a high sea of indiscriminate hues, dot the boulevard, straining upward from straw-colored strings. Afraid for the birds, I walk away rubbing my hands, warming the tips of my soul, as the memory of mimosa reaches my nostrils. I hold my hands to my face to inhale more, navigating through parted fingers toward the museum’s entrance. I haven’t planned to see the canvas, but I drift inside to escape the visual cacophony outside.
Searching through galleries, unknowing, I walk into a white room and find myself alone on a wall, naked, swathed in sadness for posterity. I’d been seen.
Breathe. Now. Learn to hide.
While playing piano in his apartment downstairs, my little girl footsteps assaulted like substantial stones striking wood.
Music, rising through floor and upholstery, warmed like saturated color when my ear pressed against the sofa. Loved even before discovering my trick, it stole something from me I didn’t want back. I reproached my feet for offering upset in return.
Afterward, my fate intertwined with books and music, I understood in ways that ached every time someone didn’t. Strange, this link to one who went away to escape children in motion.
I searched years for Beethoven, for Für Elise, without clues, humming.
debris detritus grit
gristle (because I’m bigger than the bug
but it scared me anyway)
bits of truth, clinging.
Why would I lie?
Why am I scared when tiny beings enter my space?
Are the ones I see ugly to their mothers?
Does sharpness rub under their exoskeletons?
every mama bug word for “you disappoint me”
pinching before cutting again into bug meat as they remember.
is that why I see ugly
because like sees like?
human words for “I don’t care”
grit detritus debris
Soap doesn’t wash them away.
this is true
Why would I lie?