Constriction

slowly walking down the hall
faster than a cannonball...

standing forward
rushing upright
freezing cacophony
collimating light

deciding singular
generating forthright
focusing beam
shaping tonight

hushing whispers
loving slight
asking forgiveness

dysphoria despite

Padma

sugar is smoking

by Jason Schneiderman

it's amazing how death
is always around the corner,
or not even so far away
as that, hiding in the little pleasures
that some of us would go
so far as to say
are the only things
keeping us alive 

___________________

Now there's a thought.
So, what keeps me alive?
...
< blinking cursor >
...

Ok.
Well, what could be taken from me that might make life unlivable?

< .. blink .. blink .. blink .. >

The obvious answer is involuntary heart beats and respiration.

breathe in. 
           breathe out
breathe in. 
           breathe out

No, no. That's not what I mean.
< .. blink .. blink .. blink .. >

What do I live for? 

< .. blink .. blink .. blink .. >

Sigh.
Honestly now. What keeps me going?

< .. blink .. Do you even want to keep going? .. blink .. >

Hold up. Of course I want to keep living. That's not what this is about.

The things I love are innumerable. I inhale deeply when sipping herbal tea at just the right temperature. I toss and turn without nightly terrier snuggles and I miss his acquiescence to my intermittent but smothering kisses. My heart stills when Jack tells me... well, anything, or when his lips brush my neck without any words at all.

I could begin recount them - my loves - but I fear that will not answer the question.

I have been through hell and back, you see. The house I built will fall. The people I love withdraw. The place I finally felt at home is in the rear-view mirror. And then what? Then should I say that I have nothing? No reason to live? What is the answer when you are a flower of a thousand petals left standing alone?

It is not the heavenly solitude of a morning walk under a canopy of live oaks. It is not the velvety rump of a brand new foal nor the way morning fog settles close to the ground so that grazing horses become apparitions in the sunrise. Not the indulgent fragrance of cinnamon wafting from the Mexican bakery. Not the low and slow lament of a wistful violin. It is not the creamy weight of extravagant stationary. Not the covert surprises in my luggage. Not Texas.

The answer, instead, is in the corolla of a lotus flower. For every petal that falls, there is another unfolding from within. To have a thousand petals is the richest guarantee that I will not be reduced to a sticky, quavering stamen after the blossom has been pulled, plucked or perished, one petal at a time.


he loves me
          he loves me not...
he loves me
          he loves me not...


It is not the herbal tea. It is not Jack, nor is it the terrier (though he is my favorite thing on the planet). But it is the delicate, linked array of all these loves that is keeping me alive. That keeps me going. That keeps life from becoming altogether unlivable.

As long as I love a thousand things, I am free of the weight of the world.
As long as I love a thousand things, I should be happy to die hiding in life's little pleasures.

Innocent

The page is from a pale lavender memo pad. I found it today, buried deeply in a box within a box. Today, I find it simple and naked, but unadulterated and sweet.

It was my first semester at college. I was still mixed up in some sort of complicated high school romance. (I don't believe high school sweethearts should stay together.) I wondered innocently what else the world would offer as I wrote the lines, propped up on an elbow and facing the wall. I remember the twin sized dormitory mattress, firm and uneven, covered in some sort of vinyl that would creak with every move. The mattress didn't bother me then because I had wrapped it up in the most predictable of leopard pattern sheets.

I was 19 years old.
How both everything and nothing have changed.

I like red painted toenails
     and independence
I like classic glamour
     and using words like
           fabulous
           marvelous
           scandalous!
I like feeling alive
     and music
I like learning people
     and being comfortable.

Don't lie to me
I want you to feel
my energy and
taste my passion

I like to be dramatic
     and honest

Be sincere with me
because I will love
you.
I am genuine. 

This Won't Be The Last -

First there is hope, shaded by silent promises and the warmth of being wrapped up in his arms.

This is followed by a pristine moment of clarity. 

(I had forgotten what serenity feels like.)

Clarity forges indifference to shield the war-wise heart, but leads directly to disappointment anyway. Thunder grinds away without the calm of rain. 

Sadness sets up and smolders deep inside, where there's no room for tears.