Sunday, March 30, 2014

In the Dusty Corners

“Pulvis et umbra sumus. (We are but dust and shadow.)” ~ Horace, The Odes of Horace

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Slim bare feet walk silently into the room, tickled by the powdered dust winding between toes with each delicate footfall. She knows this place, every crevice, and nook in this abandoned chamber. Her shadow dances with the dust motes of long forgotten words, as she makes her way to the windowsill and gently parts the inter weavings of a spider’s repast. Gossamer strands wind about her fingers and wrist as if to hold her prisoner until she finds what she’s searching for. She lets out a guilt ridden sigh and places a five fingered pale handprint into the grime of a windowpane. This is her doing, these corridors of desolate bleak forgetfulness.
                                                                       
I close my eyes and concentrate on the sunlight slanted through a dusty handprint, watching the air dance with movement. Triturated webbing and motes coat every pore of my exposed skin like a fine mist of nourishment. Kansas Dust In the Wind serenades the lost memory of hearing, stretching the silence into refrain.

I close my eyes
Only for a moment and the moment's gone
All my dreams
Pass before my eyes with curiosity

Dust in the wind
All we are is dust in the wind

I am the woman lost in the dusty corners of her mind. Pulsing veins rising like tattoos through the epidermis, cutaneous markings with a message for me and me alone. I breathe deep, choking on particles of paragraphic nuances I’d long packed into hidden trunks of my subconscious.

The woman I parted words with a while ago awakens within me and words condense into the meaty bone she wears beneath her (my) skin. I clasp her hands in mine and we dance like mad women, dust motes rising and drifting in a hurricane of remains. I am her, she is me, we are the book of my life. Words are sketched skin deep into the recesses of who we were, who we are, and in the shadows of who we are yet to become. The sunlight glints through a handprint, in the attic of a dusty mind and I smile. I’m home. I’m forever home among these writings. ~ Indigo

Picture From Here

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

These Quiet Shadows



“I've begun to realize that you can listen to silence and learn from it. It has a quality and a dimension all its own.” ~ Chaim Potok, The Chosen

Smoke twists and churns from a fluted chimney across the wooden fence like hand shadows entertaining a child. I’m mesmerized watching this dance of shadow play as my mind escapes into innocence, away from reminders, dates, and traumatic anniversaries… I’m well aware, some days carry a heavier weight than others. Chasms which at any given moment open up one self to heartbreak and gnat infested nitpicking introverted despondency. Not today. Ambience distorts the smoke shadow silence into a dance for an audience of one and I’m easily entertained.

Nine years doesn’t seem like much time, yet exactly three thousand, two hundred, and eighty five days have come and gone in an incandescent time suck. Days passed in idyllic disorientation without the calls of wildlife, birds, laughter, music, and so on into the depths of what passes for mute in a world devoid of sound. And on one singular day of each of those forlorn years I misplace my belief and dare to ponder a miracle. January 8th - a day in which I crave a wild debauched desire for nothing more than to wish away a nightmare; a nightmarish realism I can’t escape, as if the fates would bestow a magical cure proclaiming, “Enough sweet child, for you have paid your dues in full.”

Smile.

To quote an Eurhythmics’ song, 
Sweet dreams are made of this
Who am I to disagree
I travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something.

Oh, I disagreed for years. I guess, some part of me still does, but time distorts things, giving my victim terminology a strange perception. Could be human nature for all I know, pushing the whole, ‘I can overcome any obstacle’ to survive mentality. Some days that thinking is a joke and others awe inspiring, carrying a rootless spirituality that leaves you the sole worshiper. Three thousand, two hundred, and eighty five days later I’m not the same person shouting from the rooftops about how unfair my life is. My views have canted toward a very different outlook.

So what does nine years get me? Serenity. There is no right or wrong way of thinking in my situation, it’s not even about acceptance, but choices. I could let the world dictate my value or I could name my own price. My deafness is a priceless experience. True, I spend more time in my own head than most people do in a lifetime. These days, I can’t think of a better place to be. I’m comfortable in my own skin and forever inspired by the journey I’ve undertaken. The silence is so loudyou should listen in some time.
~ Indigo


Monday, September 9, 2013

Silence Turned Up High


Smile. Words – the visual elixir to my silence. Today's reading brought about an emotional entourage, with a touch of too much reality thrown in like a pinball machine in an arcade TILT. In a good way, in a bad way, in a this-is-your-life waygentle memory shakers.  Silence, my two-fold blessing curse, even after all these years I still haven’t figured out which. The dichotomy? Curses can bless us in the strangest ways.

I see depths.

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(picture from here)

The branch sways in tender protest, as leaves tug autonomously, waving in the winds breakers. On a tree's topmost limb, deeper still, a tawny squirrel flag tics, tiny wind surfer with a branch for a board. With each breeze the twig vaults higher, small claws grasp for the elusive last pear of the season. A diminutive damp nose twitches with success. Below my feet squish in the sweet rot aroma of fallen discards.

3-D perception is a dance of silence in visual cadence. Would I choose this, to hear with words, to visualize the unspoken eloquence of movement against a soundless tapestry of thoughtperhaps? There are days I want to hear a mischievous squirrel’s bellyaching chitter as they rappel from one branch to another. I want to hear the sound crabapples or pears make with a suicide pact as they pinball against branches, to bounce against a wood fence and hard earth. More than anything, I would give it all up to hear the rain fall. Small visual etiquettes with a soundboard

I see depths, beyond sound in the deeper silence of the heart. My eyes turn up the volume. Everyone has at least one ‘what-if’.  Would this word espouser, see so clearly if I heard? Blessing or curse, does it matter in the long run.  To quote Anne Lamont, “The most subversive, revolutionary thing I could do was to show up for my own life and not be ashamed.” To show up and own who I am, as a person, as a writer, and let others hear the essence of my worded silence. Subversive, revolutionary.

No matter how many times, I question my deafness or find fault with the silence, my words smooth the jagged edges of a soundless life.  No curse finds beauty strewn among the broken places. I hear one word at a time in each indelicate perception within echoes of movement. So yes, I do show up for my life, in so many words. And I would be remiss if I didn’t share the brain fodder which espoused this bit of introverted prose:

EXPOSURE

Rain, you said, was silence turned up high.
It has been raining now for days.
Even when it stops
there is still the sound,
of rainwater labouring
to find some way into the ground.

We lie in grim embrace: these
two halves trying to be whole, straining
for this break in the static,
in the white noise
that was rain falling
all day and all through the sheeted night.

Silence is rain with the sound turned down,
And I stare out on a clear view
of something left out on the line:
a life, snagged there_
drenched, shrunken,
unrecognisably mine.
~Robin Robertson

Thanks to a dear friend Diana Matisz for introducing me to his work.  ~ Indigo