Knocked.

We get

Knocked up

Knocked down

Knocked around

Too rarely does one 
ever actually knock, 
and wait to see if we'll open the door
to ourselves
by ourselves.

And I'll be honest.  I'm not sure I want anything to do with knocking.  I don't want anyone to get the idea that there's a door to me that I'm hiding behind, or a secret passage through a seamless wall - just tap on the right space and slide across it goes.  Revealing.
No.  
I'm not the one you'll knock up, that's not a path for me.  I've been knocked down, probably only due to my own weaknesses, but I achieved a strength in struggle to get myself back up.  I've even been a little knocked around, only to learn that I fight back.  But, no one's knocked, and I like it that way.  There have been a couple who have considered knocking, but I'm not sure even they want to know what would be behind a door of mine.  There's something horrifyingly satisfying in that truth.  But, I'll acknowledge that being what I am, the sex of creature that I was born as, there is a temptation in the air around me to - knock.  Knock, knock.

Who's there?

There's a joke here.  It might not be funny.  It could be hilarious.  It could cause Seth's hair to stand on end and him to charge at the door, barking.  My fierce protector.  Nope, you're not getting in.  Not without a little bit of fear, a whole lot of courage, and a pinch of stupidity.

Knock, knock. Here I am. 

Lack

This air between us has been
spawned of a single child family.   

Where -
Father works all day, comes home grouchy.   

Where -
Mom is tired, lonely.   

Where - 
They never embraced in front of their 

still, 

growing, 

seed. 

   

Then -
Dad begins to stay out later than the
accepted, expected, nine to five.

And -
Mom lies that work keeps him,

reheats reheated leftovers

and goes out for book club on Saturdays,
the only day he's home.

So - 
They all-ways just miss each other

and eventually, inevitably, forget their son-seed

Who is beginning to think 

drugs might help 

with the emptiness.

Who -
is making the grade

not overachieving or lazy  

But he can’t feel anything, 

and he’s too afraid to cry.

   

Dad thinks they all just need to get away

from it all

for a little while.

Mom just wants to be kissed 

while standing up.

He says my breath is too hot

and not to look at him, 

after.  

So I turn my head on his pillow

tighten my body

and wonder why I feel 

lack.

He's afraid, he says
Another knowing lie
that I entertain in an effort 
to nourish the seed to the surface
So that I might embrace him.
So that he might embrace me.

But, I cannot sleep beside him
my body uncomfortably warm
Something inside uncomfortably cold
So I crawl out of bed
Creep down his stairs
Curl on his couch
and I dream of hugging trees.

Suggestions, Orders, Messages and Signs

The message of the day, courtesy of Arcade Fire and a tap on iTunes’ “shuffle,” is “Wake Up.”  Someone told me not to cry.  Someone else told me not to toughen my skin.  I’m not sure how wise it is to listen to that second voice, no matter how soothing it is or how well it echoes in the chambers of my hidden sides.  Amendment: I cannot listen to the second purely because of how it echoes.  Never trust the echo.  I know a cute blonde who was slapped in the face by one.  True story.

But, it's as my mother says: pull yourself back, launch yourself forward.  

I spent Saturday with a friend from junior high, both of us crying silently, laughing loudly, at the memories we’ve made since we last saw one another and the things that separated us in the first place.  When his two great loves in life both consider me their best friend, it’s a little difficult not to have a lot to discuss.  It's a little difficult not to wish things turned out differently.

He asked me about Fate.
I told him it's unavoidable, and I'm not sure he caught the annoyance in my voice.  He just shrugged it off, thinking he'd have a choice in the matter of life decisions, large or small.  

I just don't know.

While my body's laying here, you can be pretty certain that I'll be floating somewhere else.  I usually am.

"Fate is Fake" Written on a Bathroom Wall

This glorious
wonder-lust
Oh, did you say I hadn't warned you?
What was that?  I cannot hear you over the sound of
Those questions you will not dare.  
Over the amplified, harmonized mutterings.
There's a question already lingering in the space between us, and the answer you're looking for is "none of the above."  
Check that one, and fill in your own answer when you're ready for me to read it.


This wine is sweetly rotten, but I promised myself a drink.  I promised myself that I'd only spend a little while in that limbo of feeling.  Sober, I feel nothing.  Drunken, I feel nothing.  Is that funny?  I'm not sure, either.  But, occasionally, I risk making a promise, knowing I'll have to keep it.  So, here I am, rotten wine and a hunger that has nothing to do with my stomach or lower, and I'm repeating the line over and over in my head, my tongue rolling without need for completed action.  This glorious wonder-lust.  What does that even mean?  Of course I know, but let's be honest, wine makes me sleepy and it's so much nicer to be left pondering.

Stranger and Stranger

I know him like the back of my hand.  His laugh, what sunlight does to his eyes, the exact thickness of hair on his chest, the direction he tilts his head when he’s thinking of his father.

In fairness: I only know my right hand.  The left is ringless, now.

A picture of Seth to ease ache of the 50 word short above.

Bitter Brews

Tea time.

I've had two cups of Tazo Zen green tea this afternoon in an effort to quiet the hunger within me for some unnamed unknown sustenance that might balance the dawning of allergy season.  It's not so bad for the thirst for warmth and comfort, either.  But, for me, drinking tea has always been so much more than a bag of herbs dunked into steaming water with a bit of sugar.  When I'm drinking tea, before anything else, even the flavor of the dew as it tempts my tongue to taste, I am aware that I am not drinking coffee.  Coffee is combined with whole milk and sugar and becomes the scent of my mother's breath.  With excess powdered Coffeemate, it's visits to my brother Paul.  It's the excuse I need to see my best friend, or someone I haven't seen in weeks months or years.  Taken hazelnut ground and black and suddenly it's a reminder of the little yellow house and a head of curls I haven't seen in over three months now.  It's the safe place of first dates.  It's the coffee house on Graham Road that I glance away from rather than rush into, however nice that hug was or the words unsaid.  It's the, "let's take a walk, you probably need your coffee," on Sunday mornings as Seth hops around with elation, though it's hard to say if it was "walk" or "coffee" that revved him up.  Coffee is solace, memory, comfort, and hope.
When I drink tea, I am all the more aware of coffee and how much more I prefer that particular warmth.  But, after I've gone through the flash-collage that is not-tea, I am reminded of playing cards with my grandmother on Wednesday afternoons, of the glass tea pot given to me by Patti for Christmas several years ago so that I could watch flowers blossom into drinkable joy, I'm reminded of long days spent writing, and then the last which creeps over me like that first dip into a hot bath.  While my mother drinks coffee, it was my father who drank tea, and with that thought, suddenly I'm softened long enough to savor the drink rather than gulp it down as if only to have it gone.
Tea is usually steeped and sipped.  I have always rushed the process, too eager for its comfort, constantly left lacking. 
I was younger than seven when I entered the kitchen and looked up at my father as he moved his weight about the room, carrying a mug from stove to the counter beside the sink.  Dipping his spoon into the heated water, swirling the bag he had only recently opened, Bill Rogers looked over his shoulder to impart on me one of the great secrets of life.  "Lipton is the best tea," or something to that effect, and I was handed the knowledge that everyone has their own opinions, and sometimes they are wrong.  I'm not saying that Lipton isn't the best, but when the doctor suggested to my father that he ought to quit smoking, I imagine he shrugged inwardly and believed he knew better.  My father, I like to believe, was a wise man, but sometimes clouded in his beliefs.  
Lipton, no matter how much sugar I put in the base of the cup before adding my water and bag, always tastes bitterly of snatched time.  Though, if I were to steep it, allow it the time, it would only taste bitter.  Still, in just about every kitchen, there is a bag somewhere, lingering, taunting.  When I pass it in the grocery, I too am tempted to purchase and brew it.  So, I imagine, on this particular Wednesday afternoon in May as I was preparing my first cup of Tazo, Nick and his father were hovering over the rising steam of stolen time.

What is it about dying, stubborn, stolen fathers and a cup of tea?  I think I'll ponder this with Nick over coffee.

Returning to the Path

On the Thursday night of May's dawn, as I prepared to go out and aid a friend in drowning her sorrows over Fireball and a crowded dance floor, what I thought was the potential for a breakthrough in my relationship became a break-up.  Via text message.  In reflection, I was probably as surprised to see him suggest it as he was to have me respond with "okay," but I told myself that what's done is done and likely for the best.
Rather smoothly, Orion and Artemis decided to go their separate ways.  As it turns out, Artemis is a bit needy, and Orion needs to start thinking about settling down with the right womb-an, preferably one confident enough in the relationship not to need what was fondly referred to by him as Awkward-Wednesday Talks.  It was not really how I had preferred to spend my beloved Odin days, either, by the way, but I am and will always be hopelessly and stubbornly fond of the idea of open communication.  This particular evening's attempt just ended badly, is all.  It's 10:40pm when I set my phone aside and take another look in the mirror, a bit satisfied to not see Artemis on the surface.  But, there again, Thursday nights belong to the Morrigan in my soul.  Seth goes into his cage just before 11, and I lock the door and wait amongst the stars for Nick and Rick to pull into the drive.  I do not look up at the sky.  I refuse the attention of a winking constellation.


Arriving at Thursday's Lounge by 11:30, I text Allee to see if she's already inside.  It didn't take long for the petite blonde to find me, beer in hand, ex lover following closely behind.  How so very quickly one can become the fifth wheel.  But, truthfully, I didn't mind.  The dance floor is a hunting ground for my Morrigan, and though I really wasn't up for anything, I needed to dance.  I needed to remember to move for me, to celebrate my self.  I needed to appear like I was collected and prepared for the next stage, whatever that held in store.  

If you had seen me, I may have fooled you.  I seemed carefree, happy, open.  Nick knew.  He watched me carefully, too.  Five shots of Fireball didn't get me into as much trouble as one would expect, however mixed as it might have been with my emotional disruption.  I was fairly pleased with myself.  And distraught.  And afraid.  Of morning.  Of mourning.  Of morning.  But, first there's sleep, and dreaming, and before that - dance.  A quick text message after shot two and four slaps on the butt by strangers I didn't return attention to, and I was surrounded by my best friends in Ohio and no longer wheel five.  The look Nick gives me is one of "behave," but I don't need the reminder.  Artemis is pining, or pouting.  The Morrigan just wants to dance, and maybe show that she can be desired.  But, the night is empty.  The lights do not feel the same on my skin.  Still, we stay until Thursday's closes and we're nearly three hours into Friday morning, and I try to pretend as I fall to sleep on Patti's couch, I won't have to wake in the morning.

But, eyes open.

When the sadness started to creep over me like a low wave on Friday morning, Seth sat himself in front of me and lifted a paw for me to hold, his ears back against his head.  As I reached out to pet him, something beautiful (and a little awful) dawned on me.  So, I asked myself, "How would you feel if Seth were in a place that he wasn't petted, held, adored, or complimented as often as he is?"  I cannot tell you, truly, how many times I find myself letting him know he's gorgeous, but with beauty like his it's a bit difficult to keep it in.  But, back to my question, which I answered with a bit of outrage and a whole lot of hugging, it turns out it's a two-parter.  If I can't stand the idea of Seth not receiving the care he deserves, why would I allow myself to go without the same?  I'm not sure why I didn't think of it before, but I have decided that from now on I will demand to be treated as well as my dog.  I try to keep this in mind each moment I realize I won't be seeing the grin I'd become so fond of.  It almost helps.  But, no, not really.  The grin still taunts me.   

As is my habit when I'm going through an emotional spiral, I made plans for the day.  Plans for the evening had been added to my schedule the Monday before, but four in the afternoon was a long time away when I woke so pathetically at 7:30.  After a nonexistant breakfast and half a cup of coffee, first on my list is turning in a job application.  A peaceful mile walk by my lonesome seems to be just what I need.  I find that I'm smiling as I walk, listening to music and the breeze.  I'm smiling as I call Patti asking if there's some chance I might be lost, since I don't recognize any of the houses or apartments I've passed along the way, then laugh a "Never mind, I'll find it," more to myself than to her.  I'm smiling as a goose watches me with only the briefest interest as I pass his pond.  He doesn't have a mate either, it seems.  Cars and trucks move by with occupants that I do not glance at, and I continue to smile.  In the store, a stranger pauses to tell me that I have beautiful eyes, and while I appreciate the compliment, my mind triggers a gut response of wishfulness that it had been Austin who said it instead.  But, it wasn't.  I have a text message that says something about how my lack of input suggests agreement that it's a good idea, the break up.  I disagree with his take on it, but agree objectively with the end result.  There's a hawk feather in my purse that I found along the way.  The significance of this is still only half revealed to me, but in the past I marked my certainty of being on the right path, heading in the correct direction, or being where I was supposed to be by feathers found as I went wandering.

"Were you on the right path?" Patti asks me as I greet Seth after my hour absence to turn in an application at Drug Mart.  I laugh, a genuine projection that I've rather missed the sound of, and answer even as something like Guidance switches a light in my head.  Yes, I was on the right path.  I just thought I was lost.

Allee sends a SnapChat suggesting we go hiking, and I'm grateful for the intermission between a smiling morning walk and the slow restlessness of meeting a friend for coffee and catching up in the evening.  She picks me up before noon, and the three of us -- I the third wheel between Allee and Seth -- head to Quail Hollow for a couple hours before we introduce Seth to her dog, Tucker.  

The whole day holds possibility.  The evening, when it comes, is no different.  I'm reminded of my self, I'm reminded of what I've missed, and who.  I hug a tree and wonder if it hears me whisper a plea to let me stay.  It kisses me and finds evidence of my longing.  But, timing and fate tend to seem rather fickle when you're waiting for them to strike.  I still say, "Whatever will be, will be," even if I'm saying so with gritted teeth, or while wiping away evidence of emotional leakage.  Have I ever mentioned my aversion to "happily ever after"s?


Long overdue, I'll admit.
"Que Sera" by David Grey and Damien Rice.

Dance

I developed a confidence for teasing

Pulling him close and turning away

In a lovely

Torturous

Ceremony

I didn’t understand, but pretended

rather flawlessly.

As I moved in contrasting measure to him

We sang the lyrics loudly against each other’s mouths

He summoning courage or balance

To close the distance and mumble words

until they were a tangled embrace of lips suffocating sound

But before his daring reached maturity

I lost patience for my game

Tip-toed to taste

his thin boy lip instead

and I reveled in the feeling of a kiss

While drunk on white gummy bear shots

the ego

and heartbreak.

A poem that is from a longer nonfiction piece entitled "The Little White Book," which I am trying to write in this evening.  I thought this blog deserved a little action on a Friday night.  For context, this should be placed after my breakup with Rachel.