Not a Writer

I wanted to be .. a writer. Yes, a writer. However, I’ve discovered no story-lines, no imagination to assist. Only descriptives.

• A tanned, defined man treads back and forth upon the asphalt as he talks with someone on his phone. His sleeveless, baggy undershirt is neatly belted into shorts; the white trails down his top stopping abruptly at his waste, cut-off by the solid band that secures his dark canvas shorts. The late afternoon sun is cooking. He’s in the parking lot of a cheap, hooker motel, oblivious to the fitful, crawling, homeward-bound traffic.

• She twirled the long-stemmed leaf between her teeth while lazily looking up into his eyes, playfully tracing circles in his arm hair. The meadow’s soft grasses swaddled her bare legs. He watched her, remembering this woman as a child and the times they spent playing on the monkey bars, jungle gym, teeter-totter and swings. When did life change, exactly? One moment, playmates. The next, friends and then..?

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Some Kind of Peace

I’ve made some kind of peace with the cemetery. She’s not there yet, but a bronze plaque with her name and two dates is. Having been a person requires two dates. Being happens between those dates, but having been requires both. Speaking in the natural, of course.

I find myself looking at the top of the hill with it’s beautiful green grass, trees, stone. I look and think of her there. She’s not…yet. Doesn’t matter. The name plate tells it all. She WAS (a person)!

 

Track Switchers

I’m little. With no warning whatsoever. Little. I hear my verbal expression, words chosen, cadence of speech, pitch of my voice. Emotionally …little. Who plays havoc, standing near the tracks, throwing the switches willy-nilly, waiting for me to discover that once again, I’m little? The time in between has been longer these last few months, wooing me into believing I’m finally normal, whole, together. Then, BOOM! Back to 3 or 5 or 7 or 10 or 17 or 21, again. argh.

Other rooms and places.

I dream about being in rooms, buildings, locations, places. Often. All new to me. What’s that about? I’m busy doing something, maybe work from a previous career with at least one other person in the focus. Others are in the background, disconnected. I manage to get the new or old routine figured out and then the inevitable happens. I walk away. Anywhere. Usually down a long hallway. Then I remember that I’m responsible for performing a task and must return to it but the direction is impossible to discover and retrace.