Monday, September 26, 2011

Strung up and Stringing the Lights

Absurdity, frailty, vulnerability, inevitability—a thousand subtle voices screaming. The once and future susceptibility to fail—regardless.
“Should I worry?”
“No, Olivia. Worry is for the weak.”
“Worry is a human emotion.” She countered.

She walks; the softly swaying movement of her hips lulling her. A heavy pitter patter of rain on leaves penetrates her senses and memories reach. Small scenes of laughter, disappointment, anger, joy, sorrow, confusion. Somehow stained with the unwanted—those emotions which surface time and again, unwelcomed yet intimate: her longing rises—that tangible sensation where her surrounding motion increases: clouds scuddle across the sky—too fast, leaves twitter, falling, rain stinging, the trees shuddering…she clamps her teeth, and swallows her rising bile.

“Mother, Father,” she shouts to the water-saturated trees. “Where are you?” Her world answers as she knew it would—twilight descending—magical and frightening.

Strung up, strung out, stringing the lights, strung fragments…She reaches for her emerald sister and is embraced greedily, exhilarating in the pure numbness of her. And within her dark reveal she becomes emboldened and she discovers. Somewhere between the circles that ensorcelled her, she finds him. As her sylvan surroundings wrap her in their damp, leafy approach, the realization pierces and a gasp escapes her lips. Years and more years, infinite, but so disturbingly short.

The finding was easy she muses to the heady soil; the journey rife with confusion and angst. And yet knowing it, no, experiencing it, makes that difficult journey all the more sweet, like black liquorice finding the tongue.
She frowns.
“Too late?” she asks.
“Never, Olivia, never too late.”

It was a fitting sobriquet she earned, never sanctioned lightly. Extricated as she was, with the noblest of purposes. Fitting indeed—years of self-doubt, longing and with just a hint of madness. But that’s my purpose she quipped to the leaf rot. My cross, mine alone so the moon child can revisit, recapture…

Her breath releases and again memories rouse. She remembers those days. Young, many years ago; Isn’t it always that way, the ferns remark.
“Yes,” she answers, a bit too slowly. Vulnerability lurks in the clinging moss, and for an instant she falters.
“Did you know,” she cries to the babbling brook, its cool, spring-fed water warmed by her proximity, “that moon children are protectors? They are unselfish with their love, asking for little, on the outside looking in, unstable but somehow dynamic, transitional, transitional scapegoats…!” Her voice rising, chest heaving—the babbling brook creating waves, timed to her erratic breathing.
She turns her head, eyes closed, a darkened shadow falling upon her face—cloud over sun. Her violet eyes open, hooded, staring.
“Becoming,” she mouths.


Peter, Paul and Mary, I wrote this five years ago and it still sucks.  If anyone can find any redeeming qualities about this piece, by all means comment and I'll send you a bottle.  Late-night desktop cleaning uncovers the darndest things... (Oh man, I just noticed the date--wow.)

" black liquorice finding the tongue."  krikey


  1. Hey Tina!

    I wouldnt say it sucks, it's actually very descriptive in a beautiful way. It kinda feels mile a waltz of words. Xxoo Deirdre

  2. You're sweet! I like "waltz of words" I'm totally using that.
    Whatcha been doing with yourself these days?