Heat upon Heat

If there's anything I regret, it's my perpetual absence. I've usurped a full life with a gregarious demeanor. Who are these personae?

The Cold-Hearted Hero
So composed, so in control, so sure and scared. She is desperate to fulfill her promise, a child. Her voice is uncaring and impenetrable. She cannot be harmed, for her apathy is absolute. Her passion lives only in duty, her compassion died with the child that was harmed. The child in her care, whom she did not save, could not save.

She is emphatic, but only to persuade. She is poised, but only to strike at any that thwart her. He is afraid of letting her near a child, but he doesn't understand. She will never be a mother. She is merely the procurer of lost dreams. The kinsman redeemer of a childhood raped by a scorned trust in humanity. Her sadness keeps her erect. She made a promise, but she wants out of her cement chair.

To be fluid, submerged and loose. She is the epidermal armor that entraps the form that would be she. Oh to be a shawl, a draped accessory that moves with the wind, with the spirit.

The Secret Garden

Nothing can surpass the innocent cackle of a little girl. She succumbs with abandon to the jest of the moment; her hold body sways and trembles with laughter. I want her to laugh again, to play and never look over her shoulder for the looming man in the white porcelain mask and the trenchcoat that shrouds evil in daylight.

She doesn't live out of her mind, but trusts her instinct implicitly. Is the seer? Cybol, is that you? I cannot even find her and must describe her to draw near. All I hear is the Hero, promising, I will give you a child... I will give you your childhood back.

When she is with other children, she sheds any remnant of a broken past. She enters to a playworld so real, that imagination takes visceral form. Their language is simple and profound. She can play. But, without them, without even a prospect for caretaking, other than her own mending, can I still call her out?

The Ephemeral Healer

I've carried you for so long, Papa. Where you abandoned her, I held fast to the pretense of your love. I am the babelfish in her ear, when your words fall short. I am the arms that hold with selfless constancy, when your grip loses its sincerity. I am the father who provided, fought for, and knew her.

You will no longer have me to mop your vomit off the face of my beloved. You are only what you are, the father she never had. Abandoned and without provision, that is her story you prick. How dare you presume that it is not too late for you. Her child is gone and can only be tended in the secret reaches of her heart, by her own hands. Your balancing act was not sufficient to nurture this gifted creature.

Your jealousy, your selfish insistence upon a vicarious life through her bloody rags has lost you the only duaghter you will ever have. What remains is a woman who has made a life without you. If you care to know her, it requires that you acknowledge not only your failures, but your very soul. For I will no longer translate the language of mummified feeling to this glorious creature pulsing with life. I will not hover the graveyard for you. I am a ghost no longer, but an sprite of healing balm that will sooth the wounds you failed to mend.

The Illuminator

Impartial and calm, she dwells in a minaret with no stairwell; only a window from which her light alone is visible. Through it, she can focus and zoom on any crevice, splay any shadow, and foresee any harm.

It is not put to her to make decisions, she simply informs. She is compassionate in that she is wise and pessimistic, but her realism intimidates any soul that would leap without seeing, even her own. She fears nothing, because she has nothing to loose. She is the mouth-piece of the light. The voice of gods. She cannot bleed, but she can be diminished.

A Silo of Safety

One for you, one for you, another for you and of course, one for me. Each safe in her own space, this charismatic molder of the hearts of men can make all your dreams come true. A chameleon, a networking savant, she has the answer and knows what you need before you do. She can break bones with honey and you will thank her for it. Who needs an arm anyway? Especially, if that arm had the potential to be raised in fury against her.

She reads your potential, surmises the fact of your life, labels your soul and then forgets all about you until you pose another threat. Everyone can be happy at their own expense, for making herself safe is paramount. Perhaps the most controlling and manipulative, she is sly, trained and ready for anything.

I am sure there are many more to explore: the knower, the lover, the secret-keeper, the rebel. But, for now, these have pressed through and I will call them by name.

a blip

i have my mother's hands. they're aging. dryer, darker, sunken with harder more severe lines. what is the function of writing? do we write to face our battles? if so, i have long since faced them and perpetually lost. they become more self-effacing when transcribed. at least in my journal. history chronicles the fool. not because she's grown so in the decade between entries and therefore can't believe she used to speak that way, use those words, praise that god. no. it is because she has changed so little and now merely has a record of it.

"hope, strange beast, what have you for me?" September 1, 2002

i'm immobilized. paralyzed by... exactly. if i knew that perhaps the battle would at last commence. instead of the undying picture of rusted soldiers still standing in a lonely valley with cobwebs clouding their guns. i can see them so clearly, because i have been standing amid them for countless years. the grey scene under a blistering sun. men at the ready, yet frozen solid like the tinman without oil. row after row of corpse after corpse. positioned at attention with comatic constancy. not a fly buzzes. nor a branch sways. clouds hover in eerie expectation. it is as commonplace as a suburban culdesac. there is not great threat, for all are certain that no battle shall ensue. for none ever has. it is the same nameless, faceless beast.

imagine a bride waiting behind the doors of the church, full of pink anticipation and flowery wonder. now imagine she has been standing there for twenty years. it's not that the anticipation has lessened, it has just been stretched thin, "like butter spread over too much bread" (LOTR, Bilbo). but, does it follow that knowing the cause of a thing can eliminate a thing. no more question marks. that querie doesn't deserve to be asked even once more.

rest surfaces toxins. they never tell you that. sleep, you'll feel better. retreat and clarity will come. purging is an ugly business. a rash on my face, my very pores bubbling with rejected bile. my urine smells like a plaque filled mouth in the morning. before health can be restored, these fleeting pestules of disease ridden reveries surface from their hiding places. i didn't recognize myself in the mirror today. all i can see is unhealth.

these words are my vile erruption of stored death. i am supposed to tell you not to fear the vulgar smear of my present insanity, for they will certainly lead to path of well-being. the way to wellness is paved in vomit. which is why we sugar coat it with positive affirmation: to alleviate the smell. fear not reader. all will be well soon enough.

i think i'll make some more tea. "tea is a good drink. it keeps you going" (The Shipping News, Dame Judy Dench).

trains are stupid

it occurred to me that my words come more fluidly when inspired by the raw encounter of another human being, which brought to mind a writing project i thought of ages ago: "Portraits of a Stranger." writing novellas describing people that i observe and extrapolating what i think their life must be like.

so, i had this great (uber-romaticized and inevitably naive) idea of hopping on a train to nowhere for 3 days, sleeping in a modest car, with my wine and my laptop, eying strangers unabashedly in the dining car. after surveying a mediocre website, i phoned customer service only to encounter a rudely perplexed woman who insisted that i have a destination in mind.

when she finally conceded to serving my unruly wiles, she quoted me a price for a round trip, sleeper car fare from seattle to portland. before i could tell her that portland would be utterly insufficient as it is only a 3 hour drive and hardly meets my trip parameters of a 3 day journey, she let fly that the cost of said ticket was $400. $400? four hundred dollars! to portland! a flight can be had for a meager $80 on a bad day. since when has the slow, gruelling monotony of railroad travel become iconic to the point of justifying exorbitant fares?

then, it occurred to me that i was just the brand of sucker they are hoping to hook with these hopped up prices. alas, this writing project will require a flat-footed trek to local thoroughfares, complete with all the uninspiring familiarity i'm trying to avoid. after all, it's one thing to ogle a stranger on a train whilst tickering away mysteriously on my computer. it's another to have to face off the everyday schleps i might see again.

however, if i refuse to succumb to this greatly altered prospect, this creative pursuit will most likely fall into the gutter of an undisciplined writer, which is now threatening to flood.

To my daughter, Cypress Correia

Hi Baby Girl,

We have not conceived you yet, but I have dreamt of your furious love, disarming smile, and adventurous curiosity. I can feel your tender weight pressed against my heart. I can hear your deep, dreaming breaths as your little fingers clench and relax on my shoulder.

I have wept deeply and often in my longing for you. I weep even now. The only solace I can muster is in writing this letter to you. A letter, which I am confident you will someday read. You are my treasure. My true ambition. You are my words, my song, my dance.

My soul contracts with the desire to gaze into your precious face. The thought of your gaze meeting mine in our first embrace feels likely to consume me. How often my thoughts wander to you. I would weave every hope and passion into your hair, if only to see you fly.

I want to be the one you run to when you're scared. I want to be the one you hide behind when you're feigning shyness. I want to watch you spin in your new sundress. I want to carry you up to bed with your head nestled on my shoulder, your arms hung limp, your heart keeping time with mine. I want to stay up all night by your crib, so I don't miss one breath.

It will be such a blessing, such a privilege to share 9 months of our lives as one. You father has told me that he would carry you if he could. He will watch over us as we grow together. I was born to be your mother. I choose to give you life and in so doing offer you my own. Nothing you could do could ever separate you from my love.

I'm trying to be patient, but I am so eager to meet you. Know that my heart has already conceived you.

With all the love that I possess,

Your Mom

You broke my arrow

You broke my arrow.
I crouched over the cedar stem,
Whittling it between my palms.
We sat under its craggy cover till dusk,
Until the mosquitoes drove us home.
I can still thumb the callouses on their plump crest.

You took my hand.
I ran with you to the porch,
Clutching your fingers with enthusiastic distress.
We kissed briefly under the cool moon,
Until your mother called you away.
I can still taste the honeysuckle salt on your lips.

You found my feather.
I slit the cedar with your army knife,
Latching the abandoned goose down with my shoelaces.
We scoured the woods for an arrowhead,
Until you scavenged through the sacred Hopi graves.
I can still tremble in reverie of that trespass.

You made my bow.
I stole the fishing line from Father's tackle,
Hoping you had remembered to temper the bamboo.
We returned to our cedar but I missed the target,
Until you guided my arm assuring stillness in my ear.
I can still feel the gentle heat of your breath.

You mocked my aim.
I kept snapping my finger in the line,
Veering the arrow off course into the brush.
We played for hours in the brazen midday sun,
Until my arrow finally landed in the tree of my youth.
I can still see your blood on my little hands.

ruined for not but you

where can i go to hide from you
where can i go that you won't find me
where can i go that you won't seek me steadfastly
where can i go
where can i go
you've ruined me

i see in you in every vine
the sun betrays my shade
my fingers move for you
your face moves for me

like a little girl who still believes
that all boys want is to kiss me tenderly
the dark room he woos me to
can surely hold no danger
my heart would not betray me
with this giddy assurance of my desirability

what good is awakening
when all i feel is naive again
the passionate innocence of propositions i cannot abide
like a virgin promising the world with her eyes
only to be discovered as a tease
unable to follow through on the posture of her mind
i want to be held again
clutched by the securities of a fundamental truth

i'm a runaway who can't pay her bills
what will i resort to when you have truly left me
what do i desire
if not to be smothered by your countenance

you've ruined me
i can resent you no longer

All I can say is

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