This is the Story


I tell myself.

These are words that rumble around my head and I see them standing there stark in the mirror.

They hide in the curve of a spiral curl by my cheek when I look in the mirror and I see a girl, young, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, lost.

I say to her, you may always be lost, just get used to it kiddo.

You can always wear glitter when you feel down.

I crawled into my glitter tights and put on my striped blue and white slippers with the pink pom poms, I bought them on the way down low cheap in a tatty part of town, Paris does have la ghetto, I put on an episode of Glee.

I let myself cry.

I cry when I watch Glee.


See I react the same way that a teen ager does, still.  A trained child, a poverty strained child who will never have enough, run me barefoot through the Bastille, walk me outside through the market to lust at the things I cannot afford, waft me past the baker and the butcher and the candle stick maker and shine my fantasy on.

I decide today to subscribe to a different kind of belief system.

I would like a different design.

I give it all my go and it has not turned out like I thought it would.

I am too much for the movies and the dreams and the magic.  I turn myself inside out suffering for what exactly?

Words, experiences, love.


Yes, there, that.


Love me please.

Want me please, come save me from myself.

I keep moving though, you can’t pin me down on the pin, mister.  But you don’t get to run away from yourself, I hear my own voice in my head trying to eat me from the inside out, but you can be feverish, you can be sick, and today I am both.

Home today, haven’t been out, unless you count opening the shutters to let the dim mid-afternoon light strain in through the heavy rain clouds.  Or out to the courtyard, twelve steps, to take out the kitchen garbage.

That is my out.

No pictures today.

No word poems.

No thought as to where this is going or where I am going.  Just living life and wondering why this decision, that decision.

Live with it.

You made up your mind, you left, you leapt.

I do not want to be right, I do not want my head to win this argument, my heart must win this.

I get to win this.

I work too hard, I let go too much, I beat my heart out on a rock and left the viscera out in the desert to dry up and blow away in the mid day sun.

I let go and said ok, I’ll fly.

I am Solomon’s Song.

He flew.

I fly too.

A writer’s feelings are going to be mercurial.  Allow for it.  Let them in, cry the tears and know the feelings push the work forward and it is only when I am in the work that it feels that I am at home.

Then I can be anywhere, in Paris, in San Francisco, in the high desert, and then it is me and the words and I don’t need anyone else.

But I crave you.

I want you.

I do not want to be that seventeen year old girl sitting on the floor in the house in Windsor, listening to music that I did not understand, unless it was just with the aching emptiness that all girls feel at seventeen, I am not alone in this.  I may be alone in still acting like a seventeen year old, however.

What if I spent my whole life looking for an answer to the question and it never got answered.

Who’s the joke on then?

Tonight, blister throat raw and sore, even with all the tea I have drown, the throat feels like a wool sweater has been rubbed on it.

Wanna make out?


Baby, baby, baby, it’s all about the moon.

I saw the moon in there, I whispered to myself looking up into the window of a house last night as I was coming back to the apartment, fingers nipped cold and chill, stiff from holding my camera, I lifted and pointed and took a photograph of a large cream-colored globe of light that filled the window pane.

I wonder what that room looks like?

I know what the room in my heart looks like and I can take that with me no matter what.  I have an imagery bank and photos pinned to the wall and there is sunlight on one side when I need sun and a nook with heaps of white pillows and a down comforter and a soft cashmere throw, there is a rocking chair to sit in, there is another side with another window looking out into the dark woods in winter with black limbed trees and white snow flaking down crystalline and cool on the back of my hand when I reach it out.

I can be romantic, no?

I have my music.

I have my words.

I have my Paris.

I will go out again into the cold night and the clear days and the cobblestones and I will watch the mothers tugging children in one hand, blue mittens folded over with white snowflakes on them, ear flapped hats, and scarves of twilight periwinkle, and in their other hands, a hot smoking cigarette, a mobile phone and a black leather hobo purse, chattering in a voice that echoes the stiletto click of her patent heels as the boy turns, looks at me, eyes wide, nose a red button on a white pudding face.

I do not have to be this person or that person or any person at all, just me, just here, just now.

Soft and cozy in my glitter tights.

I tried to do something positive today and threw my pajama pants in the wash, that is all well and good, but they take a while to dry and I have a room-mate and unless I am climbing into a pair of jeans all I have are my glitter tights between me and my hello kitty pajama shorts.

Soft and crazy in the Paris rain.

Feverish and sore throated melancholic and silly.

I don’t have to know a god damn thing.

I tried to soar out of the nest and I may feel like I am just in free fall, but that’s how it feels before the updraft catches you.

And how well will I appreciate all the marvelous things that are about to happen if I don’t have a little scare first, eh?

I am not dying.


I am living.

Fancy foolish and salt silly, yes, cold, once in a while, scared, of course, but as I stand in front of the mirror and I see myself now, then, and somewhere down the line I know that what ever happens, where ever I go, it does not matter the why of it.

It just matter that I got here trying.

It’s not real until you fall down a few times first.


Love what you have and you’ll have more love, you’re not dying, everyone knows you’re going to love, though there’s still no cure for crying.

Tags: , , , , ,

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: