cellophane10

WDT photo #2

*Writing practice: to take a provocative image and immerse myself in the imaginary world, writing from a particular character point of view, emotion, or etc.

That’s me in the picture, looks like I’m sitting on a stump eh? I don’t remember what I was on, a stool under the carpet? I remember the smell of the carpet, slightly wet and the feel of it, itchy and don’t want to touch it. Balanced on the bulk of it but feels like a princess on a miniature throne!

Isabel is next to me, big sister near so I felt safe and wanted to keep clapping my hands. I was singing a lot of songs of that time and it was very hard for me to sit still.

We loved to run and play in the fields, we loved to sing and jump rope. Mama did my hair for me, helped me sit on the stool and balance there. That was a real tree stump behind me! It smelled like outside and freedom. When I saw the background I was amazed, it looked like I could run out into that world, it was hard to understand that I couldn’t just go into it. Isabel said, ‘No Macy, it’s pretend, it’s not real’. But how would a real tree stump be there? The line between imaginary and real was perplexing to me,

How could those stumps exist beside each other? One real and one pretend? One that looks unreal next to one that looks real but isn’t? And what did that make me? I often had philosophical arguments such as these going through my head.

WDT photo #1

*Writing practice: to take a provocative image and immerse myself in the imaginary world, writing from a particular character point of view, emotion, or etc.

Photo on 1-10-20 at 3.31 PM #3

See that fence in the background, the split rail one. I wanted it in the picture with me because that’s how I sprained my ankle, being funny, climbing over it and thinking I was so clever, trying to jump off and didn’t see that hole in the ground, stepped in and Ouch! Howl! I fell over then, into the wet grass, skirts tangled. Joseph carried me back to the house and Doc came in a few hours, I had a small packet of ice and had made a compress of herbs to soothe it. I could feel the twisting, my leg seemed to want to go the other way then it is suited for. Left foot up on the ottoman, feeling useless as Marie bustled in the kitchen, thank god this was her day to come in. I felt so young clambering over that fence, and so betrayed by a limb that decided to fold into itself.

So I want you to see that fence behind me in this photograph, four rails high – this was my undoing, my enemy, my windmill, all the battles against which were folly. Was my mind so deceived that I could not foresee any consequences? A grown lady, a woman in full skirts and of an age to know better, clamoring like a six year old. it serves me right to have gotten hurt, I deserved no less. In my life an injury is a liability, it will keep you down and—

The Family Sitting

*Writing practice: to take a provocative image and immerse myself in the imaginary world, writing from a particular character point of view, emotion, or etc.

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The family was all together for that picture, Ricky who now goes by Richard, Stella, Andrew, Bacon, Molly, Eliza, Betty and me, Mattie or Matilda if I don’t know you. Ma and Pa had been long dead but Stella really wanted us to pose for a family portrait before we were “scattered to the winds” as she likes to say. Elia and Betty and I coordinated our colors of dresses, maroon or a deep red, but Molly decided she wanted to wear green. Ricky talked about the possibility of pictures showing the real colors of things and not just black and white and everyone laughed at him except for me, I can imagine that future where the colors of everyday life are preserved and cherished by those to come.

Stella tried to boss us all into place as she always does, thinks she’s the mother which I guess makes sense since she did take over after Ma and Pa died. What is a true miracle is that they didn’t take any of us with them in their sickness. They just went to sleep one night and never got up. What was their sickness anyhow? We will probably never know, that’s what Stella says.

Kindness in the line

I counted out my money very carefully this morning.

I thought I had a dollar bill left, but I never found it. I scraped up quarters and dimes and nickels and pennies even; it was a scraping spree of the like that hasn’t been seen since I was a unemployed teenage smoker out of money for cigarettes. The desperation of searching coat pockets, household receptacles that collect change and pens, purses and bags that are currently out of rotation can be fun, like a melancholy treasure hunt.

All in the service of a cup of coffee.

I arrived at the cafe and after some friendly banter with the barista, ordered my drink and began my count-out of change. I counted a dollar. I added some coins. I forgot how much I had counted. I counted a dollar. I added some coins. I counted one dollar and seventy cents. I forgot how much I had counted. I subtracted some coins. I added some coins. I asked for help from the barista and he counted the coins and at this point I was wading through the pennies. And they weren’t even that deep.

And it wasn’t enough.

“You need another dollar”, the barista said.

Would they consider pouring out half of the Americano? Would I have money for half a drink? One sip?

The compromises, the humiliation of NOT ENOUGH.

I paused, caught in my poverty net, the coffee drink on the counter, unclaimed. Embarrassed to have portrayed myself as someone who had the money, who deserved to have a drink at a cafe instead of just drinking Folgers at home.

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I noticed the man behind me in line, subtly waving a dollar bill.

“Do you need this?” he asked as he handed it to the barista. I felt so much gratitude for this person who rescued me from humiliation and that was all I had to repay him with. I hope it was enough.

Distracted; a love letter

Why am I staring? Why am I making those faces? Well I’m glad you can’t read my mind girlfriend! I like to keep this close, I like to turn it over and over, caressing each moment until it becomes as smooooooooth as water in a bowl stroked by a gentle hand.

No! It’s mine I won’t tell you!

Ok ok. I can give you some hints.

A smell; woodsy, cedar ish or sandalwood, a cleanly bathed hippee. Earthy and sweet, dirt in the spring, boy-sweet.

A look; soft but piercing, blue, inquisitive and sure at the same time. Rays of love, of warmth and lust.

A feel; strength, possession, desire. Protection, reassurance, the World.

Well now that you know do you understand? What have you conjured in your mind’s eye? I’m glad you asked me about this, it’s moved from my brain to guts when I thought I would lose it completely if I shared.

May God Forgive Me

When I was younger I thought nothing I did could really matter, so I did whatever I wanted and knew I could get away with it.

DSCN4512 Wow does that even make sense? I was a dumb kid.

But I didn’t know what consequences were. You can’t really blame a kid for trying to find out what the limits of their world are.

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As I got older, the consequences came more frequently. I felt like I was punished for things I did, things I thought and things I never thought and never did! So literally, everything.

(I’m so nervous writing this, my stomach is knotty and my hands are sweaty.)

I was so afraid that people would find out what I was up to, even when I wasn’t. I was in a constant state of paranoia and fear.

Finally I let go. I developed a moral code and tried to live by it. I released the idea that I was a victim of the universe and that life was waiting for the shoe to drop.

DSCN4683 Maybe love really does exist. Maybe humans can be compassionate. Maybe I can be useful, and loving and authentic.

Has god forgiven me?

I keep having the same dream…

I’m walking through the woods, ok, over these hills and bushes and stuff and I run into my brother. He’s dead, right, but there he is, asking if I saw “that girl”. I said I didn’t think so. “Watch out for her,” he said, ” you won’t recognize her.” And then he left.

The the dream changes and I was in this cave with my sister, who also happens to be dead, and also this white guy in bondage gear. Crazy! We’re in the middle of these really intense negotiations that I can’t really remember, BUT there was another damn thing about some girl, the girl, have you seen this girl??

I walk, or kind of float into another room and THERE’S THIS GIRL, she’s all bondaged up with iron bands, lying on a stone slab kind of thing, and get this, she says, and I remember this very clearly, she says “I’m not the girl you’re looking for.” Crap. At this point I always try to wake up, but I can’t.

Then all of a sudden I’m on some beach, tramping along in the wet sand and then I see her. But there’s something wrong, she’s much shorter than she should have been, she’s stuck in the sand and all. She’s half in, half out of the ocean. She’s changed.

Then I wake up.

O, Romance! a meditation

DSCN5705 The heart bursting, emitting words becoming sparks of light of warmth of building lust, a tower of excitement and possibility and and and—

Loves me, loves me not, loves me, loves me not, loves me, loves me not, loves me, loves me not, loves me etc. where does this end? Whenever you hear what you want to hear.

The dead get flowers regularly.

A candle. A strummed guitar. A look in the eyes.

A note passed secretly. A ring. A plastic figure from a 25 cent machine.

A sweeping dance! A gorgeous moon gazed at in the warm night!

A whisper.

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I’m

keeping to myself these days. Kind of tired. Ever since that last exorcism, the house has never really felt comfortable. So much dust stirred up, bad memories, those crazy ones who live in the cupola. ‘Who needs em!’ I always said, and now I know that’s the truth. All the time screeching and clawing at the wall paper. They just ruined the lovely cabbage roses I remember them putting up in ’68. Always liked it. Now, after surviving for 150 years, it’s hanging in ribbons.

I just don’t feel like myself. I used to enjoy making a little mischief too! When those ghost tours would come through? Or before that, young people looking for a thrill. Kids, drunks looking for a dry place. I’d toss that old chamber pot around and moan and sometimes woosh by to cause a little wind. If I was feeling particularly spirited I’d pull their hair or knock one down. But it’s just gotten boring now, I mean what’s the point? Another person to scare, another producer taking a tour of the house going, “wow! Oh! Brr!” It just doesn’t thrill me like it did, watching their eyes widen, the hair on their bodies zinging up with electricity. There’s not much variety in their responses.

So I stay up here in what’s been a nursery, a sewing room, a bedroom, a room for punishment, an empty room, a room for art, a storage room. I may figure out how to get those freaks back to the cupola, but right now I just don’t have the energy. If they don’t tear this place down, I may have another 100 years to rest. That’s all this is, I’m just tired. I’ll probably feel better by then.

Before

Before I knew how to wear my new skin, I was pieces hanging on the workshop wall.

Before I was pieces on the wall, I was drawings in a book.

Before I was drawings in a book, I was free, sailing the air, a part of everything yet able to hover about the edges. I played in the sky and rustled the leaves of the tallest trees.