Monday, July 12, 2010

It's late

The following is an excerpt:

I'm trying to find a way to wind down tonight and writing seems like the best bet. My ankles are achey from the long day at the "French Fest" in Cape Vincent last saturday. (12 hours on my feet selling hair pins) Never again!
Anyway, I don't think I'll be able to wind down until I write about the river. Something about the way I thought If I went to the river when things were bad, some sort of guide would rise up out of it and give me a small slip of paper that had directions on it. I would run to my car and throw all the broken glass in; Then, drive home and pray my house was empty. My first command would be to fill a clothes basket with all my belongings - neatly pack the trunk and back seat with everything you need. Fill the front seat with the things you want. I would do it. Just as rehearsed. And the last sight of my house would imprint an outline in my mind's eye, black and white and brown.
But the guide never came with any paper. I never got directions to a place where I could escape. So I brought my slips of paper to the river. I brought the most incriminating letters. And while the sun was sinking I would tear them up slowly and precisely and set them under the surface on the rocks. Ink bleeding, letters dripping, my skin burning in the late afternoon rays. Shifting to find a more comfortable place on the slate. Bruised ankles. Bruised wrists from fooling around and not understanding a way to explain that I love and hate equally.
I needed a friend and some physical reassurance. The cold water was perfect for a hug.
The last time I went down to the river, (I didn't pray) I knew I was never going back. There weren't any closet smokers treading the banks. Except for me. But maybe my memory filled that in accidentally - maybe I was just sitting by my tire. Sobbing at the grasshoppers and flies. Yes, for sure.
I thought I could be free. They told me I was free now, when I was withdrawing. Free from what? Over and over and over. What am I free from? What am I free to do? What is anyone's freedom? The day I jumped in the river was free. But it didn't last.





BOOKS


I would like to begin by offering a word of thanks to my dearest friend, Joyce. Without her I would be many steps behind the joy and peace I now know, and none of these books would be here! ( She taught me. :) )
These books were all made with love and will be continually produced in such a manner.
I love my Joyce
Grass cuddles your poetry
Owls
Morning Tea
Japanese Intuition
Elegance Scattered on the Pavement
"Bend the rod while it is still hot." - Anon
Detonate
A real pile

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