this is the house that i built

can they see that my house is built from a stack of cards? can I build a house from a stack of cards? can I live in a house built from a stack of cards?  If my house of cards is indeed a house, how do i make life in it, how do i live, how do i sleep and awake- with the a daily eagerness and a daily horror arriving side by side each night?

Filed under: after-shower-post, heartaches

blinking heart

Here’s a sneeze. Someone’s random wish–or a bothersome allergy? If someone’s random wish- who would it be, and for what reason, the pricze of a sneeze?

To this I ponder the ABCs.

A- I left (them:himher) a not too memory- not unpleasant: a warm glow in the recent drawers of the front-row cupboard -unpleasant: a stray thought first, and then a burgeoning corn I become.

B- My image is evoked amongst other thoughtful associations in the long eventful hours of a day, note: I am nothing much, nothing less, I could be functional utility.

C- I am the curator of awaited admiration, affection, obsession, the pirate’s plank of reasonable restraint, or?

A bothersome allergy. Born of me, and born by me.

I’ll have to wait for another sneeze.

…

..

.

And still not know.

Filed under: heartaches, quirks, written word

they were getting married. he died, he cried.

If meaningfulness counts in gold, then I am having daily windfalls these days. All the stories I have been seeking in my previously moody adult life- are swiftly arriving, slotting themselves through the letter hole of my previously closed-door life.  The dramas of my un-dramatic life are surfacing, still not my drama sure, borrowed stories yes–but still morphine for the hungryand unsharpened lens of the mind.

These bits and pieces are from the daily dosage of people I am meeting – stories sometimes told first-hand, otherwise relayed by a third party, or at times just plainly hypothesized. Sometimes the stories are painful (I crave), unexpected ( changes my tune), beautiful (when I get the big picture).

I haven’t realized how much I liked stories, until I hear a good one. That is when emotions need no summoning, it is the one narrative that grips your entire day- orchestrates your entire being- dictates your sighs and clogs up your heart- those are the stories. I am privy to them now.

All of which I am reading as a sign from our maker. “Here are your stories. This is life. It’s not monotonous. It’s sheer hard luck. Make yours happen.” Stories are my morphine- they make me tingle in my toes, and bring chills to my back. Pure drama rejects method of description. It doesn’t discriminate against the unstylish, everyone has at least one good one.  I am now the festival –goer with an all-shows pass. Full access, to this balcony of life.

Filed under: conversations, daily grind, heartaches, working world

you don’t think its happening? it is.

I know, the things cannot be hidden- although few, but they are assorted- household items big and small, quite impossibly imaginary.

Please, the things cannot be sold- ageing, malfunctioning, mismatched, obliterating.

Simply, there is no place for all of their things here – these appendixes and clues to a nest.

There is no place for these things, but here. My passive income, their mounting bad debt. If I didn’t have to sell it now. I see no other choice.  Hard luck. They simply must go, them and their things.

The night is deceivingly peaceful. But night will break and come dawn, I will be the one to show them the door- the one responsible for hauling a family out of their rented home. She will curse me (She thinks I am rich), and my family (I have none), and my ancestry (I don’t know who). The children- they might look at me with helplessness, their faces might be blank with seeming indifference; they might be missing sschool tomorrow morning (obviously), but they are learning their harshest yet life lesson in return. God knows what.

They will be separated by night- the boys will be at a home, mother-and-daughter will be at a shelter. If she allows their break-up. If not, they will all be at the park, against elements, against all odds.

And I will be uncomfortably glad that by tomorrow night, their things will have disappeared. All of it will be gone, save a lonesome fold-out table they will leave behind, forgotten perhaps, at the void deck. Or perhaps it will be intended abandonment- too big to haul away, of no use anyway. Who needs a table in such circumstances?

The table doesn’t stay. The people don’t sit. The food will not be served. The clock and its hour will never pause at dinner-time. The family cannot be sustained. Because their things cannot stay.

But my kindness no longer has means. God knows.

Filed under: daily grind, heartaches, written word

the strings of your apron

Apron Strings. You twiddle them between your posable fingers for security, they stretch up all the way to Above, apron-strings in hands- they make sure you don’t lose yourself.

What apron strings am I talking about ? You know, the ones which upon a child who grips on for far too tight and long- a childwho is might be much too old to be clinging onto apron strings. Those apron strings.

Apron Strings, they assure you of a safe zone, giving you a radius of comfort around the lighthouse in murky unknown waters. With your hands on aprong strings, you’re allowed to explore around you- but you never stray too far, anywhere too dangerous.

I am hanging onto apron strings. I am safe, sheltered, granted freedom and structured independence, I’m still loved, I’m still watched out for.  This should be true. Because I have blessed apron strings.

But I have only just begun to realize that only the exact opposite is true. That I am not safe. If I have to visualize myself as a person guided only by apron strings, hiding behind skirts; then surely this sense of safety is doing me more harm than good. If I have to imagine support, then I am a person who is already in murky unknown,  a person who is lost. I am a person who feels trapped by the safe perimeter walk around my percieved source of safety, but I don’t how to let go, because I fear of what happens when I do.

No, don’t get me wrong. Apron Strings to hang on to is generally good stuff.

Somehow sometime soon though, I have to find a way to let go, and venture beyond.

Filed under: heartaches, written word