Over exposed. That is how I feel today. There were other words written that carried that title, once upon a time…
I don’t know.
Poem: Black & Red
Black & Red
The cards are on the table,
I’m too tired to hold back the bluff.
Call me on it,
I dare you now to try
and play it tough.
(I became this mess
of stained thought
waiting long past
the point I broke apart.)
I couldn’t be the hero;
Instead, you made me the one
who brought down the day;
because you only said
I was lovely,
when I was in complete
and total disarray.
If you could have heard me singing
to the angels in your head.
maybe – just maybe -
you would have believed,
that the only thing I wanted,
was to stop painting your world,
in these shades of black and red…
Poetry: Post-Lapse
Post-Lapse
There are traces
somewhere still,
where the light
cannot follow me through,
or past everything
made whole in the name of…
(…you, me, us…)
Now is the time
to post-lapse
your memory away
and find again
my faith
in something better.
Today,
I release myself
from your condemnation;
and today,
I finally cover
these butterfly bones
beneath the days
when our love
meant more than dying.
Personal Blogging: A Long Look At What I Want In My Life…
I keep having dreams that either leave me incredibly sad or angrier than I’ve been in a long time.
Reminds me of bad times. Past times. Also makes me more pensive and forces me to reflect on the things that I want in my life.
I’ll be the first to tell you that I’m not sure moving to Savannah has been entirely a good experience for me. Sure, I have started college (that’s HUGE) and have my own place (another comfort) but I’m lonelier than hell. I am so far out of the age range of the kids here that I’ve latched on to none as friends yet.
It’s not because no one is nice or open… It’s just that the maturity level is so much different than where I am in my life. These are 18 and 19 year-old kids. It’s not something I blame them for – good God, I hope they have a hell of a time at SCAD.
I am just having a moment, I guess.
I feel very much alone. And I hate feeling like I have to fight for any time with those I care for and love. *sigh*
So, that leads to the question… What do I want in my life?
I want to stop feeling so damn lonely. I want to be able to spend time with people on my terms too. I want to stop dreaming/nightmaring of the past. I want a damn piano but can’t seem to figure out how to make that happen. I want to stop feeling like a ghost passing through a closed door.
I want to look at myself and not always have regrets for the things I’ve done or the person I’ve become.
A Fascinating Article on Premature Births.
According to a study by The March of Dimes:
13 million babies are born prematurely worldwide on an annual basis. While the highest rates were in Africa (for obvious poverty reasons), the country coming in at a close second is the United States. And just HOW does one of the most powerful countries in the world fall prey to that statistic?
Problem plagues wealthy, poor nations.
Different factors fuel prematurity in rich countries and poor ones. Wealthy nations such as the United States have sophisticated neonatal intensive care units for the tiniest, youngest preemies. That produces headlines about miracle babies and leads to a false sense that modern medicine conquers prematurity — without acknowledging lifelong problems including cerebral palsy, blindness and learning disabilities that often plague survivors.
That is one of those “facts” that used to get thrown at me when I was having a “tough” moment in life. People, not sure of what they could do to help me pull myself up would always use the line “You’re a fighter, Kate! Look at where you came from!”
I directly attribute my need for heavy surrender (by force) to that exact thing. All my life, people told me to suck it up and be strong because “you’ve been through so much worse when you were born…” It always felt wrong to want to just be able to let go – to be weak, completely opened and raw.
It’s also what taught me bottle my feelings and to stop trying to communicate how I felt.
By the time any of my strongest negative emotions surface, it’s usually after they’ve built beyond my own capacity to hold them at bay. Of course, this usually is a recipe for disaster.
I digress…
Just thought it was an interesting read considering I am one of those premature “headline” babies mentioned and despite it, turned out… okay. Not perfect. Not flawless. Just okay.
Personal Blogging: Nothing But a Page of Black Butterflies…
I went to a materials trade show today.
It’s a chance for art companies to display, demo, and sell their items to students (at really good prices). I guess they figure it’s a pretty singular market (i.e. to artists) and if they take “a hit” on profit but are able to sell more to a town of a higher artist percentage, it evens out.
At one table, I watched the woman dip a small brush in water and dance along the paper’s drawn lines. In moments, the lines blurred and melted into one beautiful stain of sculpted colour.
I needed to have them and thus, a $40.00 set of watercolour pencils became mine today (at a mere $15 dollars for students).
There was a hesitancy to my trying them out upon the return home. They are a bit zen, so far as art is concerned. Less concerned with technique (watercolour can be very forgiving in that regard) but so very concerned on simply the art of letting go unto itself and seeing what simply becomes…
I sat at my desk, Ludovico Einaudi playing in the background, and stared at the blank sheet of paper. A single breath and eyes closed, I reached blindly for a colour – any colour – and began to draw.
The texture through the pencil felt uneasy but open to the pressures and layers of whatever I seemed to be drawing. I chose to keep my eyes closed throughout the entire exercise to give my aching and so underdriven subconscious self some freedom.
Today, this is what I set free:
(A page of black butterflies..)
What does it mean?
Prose: The Nightbrook & Tempest.
(Image by: BramLeech)
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The walls here are bare. Stark white. Aching for colour. Aching for meaning.
… oh, how I understand them.
In these lonely moments, I find myself wandering from room to room – a mere wraith – watching the sun set from every window.
I never want to forget the feeling of when night becomes me.
It has been so long since I’ve been able to sit down and really try to capture the things in my own mind to give to you. I have missed it in ways I am not sure you will ever know.
When I sleep (the few moments I can somehow manage), I dream that you come to me as the rain, sometimes gently (a nightbrook) with your subtle songs… Other times, you find me as the tempest and beat against me until I melt into the soil and sand.
I rarely go anywhere anymore without a part of you close to me. The cilice stays clawing at my thigh, morning to night. The first time I pulled it hard enough to break skin, I felt something inside of me change,…
No… it wasn’t change. It was re-discovery – back into a part of me I keep tucked away too often.
… the truest part of me.
I wonder… Are as many people blind and aching for sight as I am?
Wish List: Perchance…
Perchance to dream, Kate. Perchance to dream.
Poetry: Mare Nostrum
Mare Nostrum
Did it make my words,
a lesser song,
simply because I couldn’t,
touch sun or sleep,
until the flowers,
of our scorpio night,
stirred?
It could have
been anyone,
fumbling (for you)
through sullied skins
to rouse the day
from an impossible night
but
my veins still taste of
you,
and it’s left me
a broken saint of nothing
save, mare nostrum.
