codenamewanderlust | Entries tagged with prose blog

200 Word Letter Poem To Myself

Dearest Self:

That feeling in your stomach

The aching hunger bordering on nausea

It’s trying to tell you that you are alive

Time is running out

The deadline on your life is undetermined
but it’s set in concrete nonetheless

Your inevitable headstone already exists

So when the pain in your back and the strain in your eyes make you want to curl up and cry

Remain resolute, have faith in the strength of your spirit

Start with intention and find your motivation

Not in the outcome but in the creation

Make an outline

A first draft

Have an epiphany

And delight in the mistakes that turn into wonders

Stop being afraid of your own imagination

leave it flowers and shiny things

and tell it it is welcome to dwell in your room and sleep under your bed

or in the swaying limbs of the tree outside your window

Give it a name and invite it to tea - or coffee as the case may be

But allow it to be beautifully twisted or saccharine depending on the day

Just remember that you have a voice
and say everything you’ve ever wanted to say

Because any day could be your deadline day

--------------------

Crossposts: https://liminaltraveler.livejournal.com/1238.html

You fly, Butterfly

Soar now on the wind

Never give up, Buttercup

Because you know
You’ll always arrive in style

It's okay to sit still, sweet Daffodil

To take a moment of silence

Just don’t let the fears buzz in your ears

When your own inner power overwhelms you

Go back to the page
Maybe, stop hovering in doorways

Hoping the faeries will mistake you

(For one of their own)

Get high, Honey-bee

Take flight and let the currents guide you

Alight on the air with nary a care

Because you know exactly who you are

And if the most that can ever be said

Is that you sprouted wings and fled

Then let it be said!

Don’t let the stories they tell of you define you

Fly now, little Bird

And let not your worries deprive you

I want to be a message in a bottle

Full of mystery

Sent out into the wilderness

The wild greens and blues

Riding the boundless current

For so long I forget what

it feels like to touch the earth

Until you would delight in finding me

Plucked from the gentle tide

An unexpected surprise

A welcome distraction

And a sense of connection

So fragile you would weep with joy

To read the salt stained words

Tucked inside clouded cerulean

Uncorked

Unraveled

Liberated

Purified

Given sanctuary

Taken to a place

where you feel happy

To be read

curled up in an armchair

Or at a breakfast table

between sips of coffee

Trying to find the meaning

The first and final macguffin

The pot of gold

at the end of the

Mobius-strip rainbow

To be spoken about with reverence

The line between philosophy and poetry
To be brought to life in your imagination

There’s a portal to Puerto Rico

by the back door

my Tío tells me

And I understand

If you stand just so

while it is raining

he says,

leaning against the open metal grate

The door-frame becomes the inbetween

Between here and there

I don’t tell him about the portal to Faerie
under the wash-line and how I keep loosing clothes pins

Instead,

I have been drifting

I tell him

and I know he understands

Even though he has been getting lost

somewhere between taking flight

and making plans

He knows I've dedicated my life

to pure adventure for a long time

I am someplace always

Inbetween

Time is currency

That I invest in experience

And I have little to spare

and too much to die for

Giving meaning to the passage of years

Those magical numbers:

2019, 2012, 1999…

The Autumn of 2011

seems like a lifetime ago
Tramping the streets of New Orleans

Decades now

of standing in open doorways

Of planting port-keys

among the memories

The accumulation of possessions

and possessions

As if by some means to anchor myself

to some moment in time and space

Flipping through the bookcase of memory

Like Matthew McConaughey

On the interstellar highway

The fluorescent thrum of the incarnate motorway

transports me beyond the boundaries of time

Without leaving my bed

On a sunny afternoon

A young witch is cleaning her cauldron

Thinking about unfinished projects

Notice: the sewing machine in it’s case

Notice: the shelf of books waiting to be read

Notice: the typewriter

She’s better than this, she thinks when she has a premonition

Herself; later that night trying to reach a deadline

Plundering her own journals for profound one liners

Sitting on the bed surrounded by so many pocket sized notebooks

Bindings worn thorn, filled with paragraphs of run on sentences

In multicolored ink

This is called procrastinating

She is told

As she cleans the cauldron

To avoid the pen

Doesn't chase the plot bunnies under the bed

Even though words are her addiction

She contemplates fabric and stitches, instead

The half made skirt wrapped up just so

in paper

in a box,

also under the bed

Needles trailing at the end of threads- seems unfinished

She knows she is only digger her soul deeper into karmic debt

by not giving proper action to anything she truly desired

Scraping ashes off cast iron

She sprinkles in a layer of black powder and sweet incense

Always starting over

Always a new beginning

She believes in impossible dreams

Secretly revels in happily ever afters

and loves rainy days

And coffee

And baking magic into cookies

And flying broomsticks

She takes too many pictures of the delightfully ephemeral sky

She collects new words,

like matchsticks waiting to be struck

But who am I kidding?

Because you already know that the SHE in this story is ME

And most of the time

*I*

have the bad habit of writing in first person

And you (yes you)

can hear this bird ~~singing~~ spitting rhymes

Sometimes
Even into a microphone

Up on a stage

But mostly

Only ever when she thinks no one is listening

Because
no one

Ever is

Ever really

Doing anything

Except living in their own story

~~Like most of you reading this~~

~~who have gathered to share this thing we call art~~

You know, how like

the not-so-young-anymore-actually witch in THIS story

got too comfortable living out of boxes
because she grew up mostly on the run

because her mama couldn't always pay the rent

Or how she became an avid reader

As a way to escape reality

Or how cleaning the cauldron becomes a metaphor

And how long it took to write

~~and then rewrite and then decide to share~~

this prose

Or even how I thought about you while writing this

And how I came a long way to be who I am today

But truly who of us hasn't?

~~Before you go think of your favorite color, if everyone who reads this thinks of their color, after awhile we will have manifested a rainbow~~

We haven’t spoken in almost two years

There is so much I want to say

But I know you won’t hear it

We are ghosts caught in our own feedback loop of arrogance

Existing on separate planes
of the same home

Sometimes I am terrified that I have died

And this is my life flashing before my eyes

But YOU are the one haunting this house

A black cloud

Navigating through hallways in an effort to reduce emotional traffic
Avoiding responsibility

I’m feeling like I’m loosing time

Loosing the pages of this chapter

As my half present self remembers to keep my shoes off the furniture

For the sake of your mother

Who has taught me the meaning of unconditional love

Is it too much to ask for a little gratitude?

Could you shrug off your pride

Just this once?

Just this once could we make it about me?

Cause see

My DNA is linked to yours and I’m tired of paying your karmic debt

At least I’m working on my shit

Coming to realizations and shit

About the status quo

and status-es

And the place where I am counting days like dollar bills

Buying and spending time like currency

The rainbows that reflect in from crystals hung in the open windows that you could no longer see because you had boxed yourself in
Refused to let in the light

In the cottage house on the edge of the property built for you

By your mother with love and blessings

All of which you have taken for granted

The first time I left
You fed me lies, to bring me back

Planting seeds of false hope
All while demanding my 16 year old half-sister give you all of her very first paycheck because she was supposed to be “helping” you

Except being the father

kind of works the other way

Especially when your youngest daughter, my half-sister

was being raised by her late mother’s grandparent’s

And you are still being raised
by your still very present
saint of a mother

I wonder sometimes

About the blood in the water

When she dies

And weather I’ll stay and fight

Or fly away for good

Once her soul has departed

Because everyone else here

is giving everything they have in tithe

And then there is you

the “crown prince”

Once upon a time

You and MY mother were high school sweethearts

Who were history even before my third birthday

Your mother tells me I was conceived in love I have never felt

But this is MY story

And this is the sunshine I surround myself with

While your head is too big to fit in the goddamn house

It had been a pattern for awhile.
As soon as I would make a space exactly right I would suddenly have to move

Take it all down

Start over in some other place with the barest essentials usually

For years this would happen to me over and over

I would find just the right way to arrange the furniture for efficiency of space and energetic flow

Perhaps it’s a nomadic tendency held over from being born poor and having a complicated family history

I got used to living out of boxes

But I couldn't help making any new new living situation my own in some way

I've become sentimentally attached to furniture and cried over thrift store clothing finds I had to leave behind

I have one small steamer style trunk that has followed me somehow

From home to home

Even after a brief stint “on the road”

My friends passed it from closet to basement until I landed on my feet

Books were the hardest to lose

Adopted from curbside free bins
or bought at witchy boutique shops or sidewalk sales

Mémoires and travelogues mostly skimmed

Underlined and highlighted

Out of print novels with enticing covers vying for attention

Coffee table photography books of the strangest homes money could build

And abandoned railway stations

I’d take as many as I could carry when the time inevitably came to choose

I buried my favorites in the bottom of the trunk; read and unread unlike

I’d get somewhere new and begin making it home

Stack books on the floor until I was gifted a night stand by a new roommate

Or that time I found a sturdy wooden desk spray painted silver and purple left for the trash collectors that I carried three grueling blocks all by myself because I didn't have a car

I have two shelves now

That came with the small non-permitted diy back porch room in my grandmother’s home in Florida for I have returned like a boomerang for a third time
This time I got myself a job as a bookstore barista and have acquired more books to add to the ambiance of the room

I took all the books out of the steamer trunk and lined them up by genre, and size

I’ve got a stack of unread library books next to my bed though

Somewhere along the way I gifted myself a kindle paper-white - I treasure it,as a literary gormandizer and minimalist lover of efficiency to me it is magic

but I still can’t turn down a good cover, or the musty scent of old pages

Maybe I will put up more shelves

One of the shelves I can barley reach because the room wasn't originally built for me
I hope to afford just the right folding step stool that could double as a seat to maximize the space

I have put up art on the walls

Made curtains

I recently bought a minty colored folding table to use my gram’s shiny black Singer sewing machine from the 40’s that still stitches like a beast as I sit on the edge of the bed

I call the room the Rainbow Oasis
I am afraid to get it set up exactly right

Musings 6.25.17

One of my favorite things to do is write in invisible ink

I change the font color to match the background

so I can’t read over what I’ve written so far

and have to just keep forging ahead

It’s all I can do to turn off the criticizing voice

Who is always afraid that I’m wasting my time

Writing nonsense

A useless and unsuitable hobby

But it’s all I can do

Keeping all of those way more interesting realities

Shifting around in my brain from constantly distracting me from real life

( Read more... )

Current Mood: Alec is riding to Watermead and Seregil is staying behind in Rhiminee
Current Location: a state of confusion
Current Music: Alex Schmidt aka The New Guy

Of All The Topics So Far (500 Words)

I wish for my writing to be fearless if not effortless

I wish to write for the fun of escaping and the perverse joy it brings to me

Never mind fame and fortune when hypergraphia overtakes me in the middle of the night

Too many tales wanting to be told

Universes full of elegant airships

An underground dance club in a retro-futuristic dystopia

A post-apocalyptic romance, a Mary Sue

In search of a brother who found himself on the wrong side of the law in a barren outpost far from their own

Along the way, Mary meets a handsome drifter who is also the “Traveling Judge” presiding over the brother’s trial

( Read more... )

Full text below audio link

there's a string of curse words near the end
https://m.soundcloud.com/rswndrlst/the-main-character

Sestina: The Main Character (MC)

This is a story about an MC afflicted with passion.
Who, like the restless needle of a compass,
was forever seeking the Horizon.
< spoiler alert > the ending of this story is already foretold
and is the same for every single being in creation.
It’s been said we’re all just players of some unseen narrator.

A nameless, unknowable, spiteful, narrator
who in the throes of passion
might decide to kill his creation.
So, this MC has a heartbeat like a needle of a spiraling compass.
For as is true for all, inevitably, death has been foretold.
Even for this MC who loves a thing known as, horizon.

They’re forever stupidly longing for that ever distant, damned Horizon.
Yes, damned, is the opinion of this narrator,
Who is actually wondering if there is even a point, if it’s all been foretold?
But I digress and the MC curses the will of my passion
as we drop them on the shore with naught but map and compass.
Do you see, that this MC is a stubborn, monstrous creation?

(I do confess I also find this fixed verse form to be a monstrous creation.)
What would happen if the MC ever reached their figurative horizon?
Perhaps an HEA* is greater than my abilities can compass?
But what good is an MC to a narrator
if they do not have passion?
We must all live with knowing that eventual, ending foretold.

From your very first breath, there being a last has been foretold.
It’s a bargain; the uncanny act of creation.
But back to the MC with all that all-consuming passion.
(Wanting so badly to reach that god damned fucking gosh darn horizon.)
The one who would dare defy the narrator
but is just a feckless wanderer lead by a faulty compass.

There are always dropped stitches and pricked fingers within the compass
of the tapestry woven as it is being foretold.
Does every narrator
hate his creation
for seeking beyond the horizon?
Being able, as the other is not, to fulfill their passion?

In the end the MC lets passion become the compass
and each moment a horizon. The last moment cannot be foretold,
the MC learns, for any man, or his creation, or even a humble narrator.

_{*HEA stands for Happily Ever After}

with much thanks as always to lolaslaughter for being the best cheerleader a gal could have

Alive and Well in The Sunshine State

The smell of the breeze through the open windows

The fading light being swallowed by the darkness

The the hum of the highway

The susurrus of swaying palms

Brings me outside

It’s still too bright for the street lamps, casting a cozy orange glow on the atmosphere

The honeyed shadows of the golden hour

Fading to blue

And then black

Florida

You are trying to seduce me

With your sunsets

When

Watching the sun sink behind the waves of the pacific ocean
on the beaches of California

Is still so fresh in my memory

Means you don’t stand a chance

You are trying to tell me your secrets

Standing on a knife edge

I am the fireflies of my childhood

in New Jersey

Caught between palms

Innocent

Curious

I am trying to belong

Trying to confide in you

The restlessness in my spirit

The pain in my heart

You have given me a safety net

Florida

You fill me with this

An unexpected stillness

I am captivated

By the white hot glow

Of the crescent moon

Framed by the clouds

The stars that hide in the daylight

A place for sleep

A final rest

Florida

I beg you for another sunrise

Wake me with a gentle caress

Tempt me with mornings full of expectation

Give me anticipation

Make me proud of the sweat on my skin

As winter becomes spring

I want to burst forth

Like the jasmine blossoms

And the avocados

Florida

I’ve been down before

And afraid and alone

In the inbetween spaces

Is where I have made my home

This time

I am ready to fight the darkness

The scars of a life

Having been told

Having made the journey

Finding myself

Florida

This is not the final chapter

This is not the thing that breaks me

________________________________
300 Words
;

She Takes To the Road

She zips up the bag and slings it over her shoulder wishing she had some whiskey to wash down the regret. She grabs her felt hat and resists looking over her shoulder as she heads out the door; tying her bandanna around her wrist and tightening the knot with her teeth.

She walks along the side of the road judging the cars that come around the bend; turning to walk
backwards and holding her thumb up in the air when she feels the right vibe.

She keeps moving. Trying to put as much distance between herself and that mess she left behind.

She looks up and sees a hawk circling overhead. She raises her arms and closes her eyes. Imagines for just a minute that she could lift off the ground and fly away.

She takes a deep breath and gives in totally to the fantasy for a moment, tilting her arms as if she where a small child pretending to be an airplane.

She hears another car coming and turns to look. It’s a white minivan. Soccer moms don’t tend to pick up hitchhikers but the woman slows as she approaches.

“Give you a ride someplace?”

_________________

She makes up a story about who she is and how she came to be walking along the side of the road with her whole life in a backpack.

She’s 25 (give or take six years but somehow being under thirty makes her seem more trustworthy and like less of a fuck up). She just graduated college. She just came to the area to visit family.

She smiles. She laughs at jokes; watches the scenery. Calculates the miles in her head against the cash in her pocket.

She hops out at a strip mall. She waves until the car turns onto the highway. Then she crosses the street and goes into the greyhound station.

Thankfully there isn’t a security guard checking tickets at the door so she finds a bench to sit on and leans her head back cradling her back pack on her lap.

_________________

They pull off into a coastal rest area with fire pits and campsites. She says her goodbyes to her traveling companions and she hops out to pitch her tent. Her new neighbors offer her scrambled eggs and rice wrapped in tortillas.

She’s only a few hundred miles from the punk house.

In the early hours of dawn she peeks out of the tent flap to watch a few of the caravans drive on down the highway.

She stays wrapped up her blanket listening to the waves in the distance until the fog burns off and then crawls out of her tent. She breaks down her camp and hikes up to the highway on-ramp. She makes a sign to prop against her bag and then changes it after an hour.

_________________

She sends postcards to the addresses scribbled on the inside cover of her notebook. Dropping them in postboxes like sowing seeds she will never get to see flower. Her boots kicking up dust. Clinging to her like memories, stamping her feet on the dry earth trying to shake it off, trying to forget.

Getting lost in the dirt roads off I-5 into Bakersfield.

It feels like a hedge maze and they consider they made a wrong turn but the GPS is telling them to turn left and she thinks about the satellites circling the planet plotting a trajectory of the car inching along the the bumpy terrain.

It’s the mountains in the distance that she longs for, getting high enough to look down; beyond and further than she’s ever been. Fading into the horizon. Betting the world against her courage.

Stories About the Jersey Devil

You're three thousand miles away from where you want to be so you decide to get drunk.

You wander through the back-streets and back-alleys of San Francisco with the bottle in one hand and the stub of a joint clutched between thumb and forefinger of the other.

You circle the blocks not really paying attention to your turns but it would be pretty hard for you to get lost in this city anymore. You know the neighborhoods by the architecture and can navigate by the weather. The sidewalk never ends here.

You're trying to find a story, chasing an idea:

An old woman passes peacefully in her sleep. At the gates of heaven she's greeted by her husband who had gone ahead of her eight years earlier.

“What took you so long?” he asks, leaning against a chrome and black motorcycle.

She's too awestruck to answer but when he calls out to her again using a nickname she always claimed she hated in life she feels herself laugh and is surprised when it doesn’t become a shuddering, rattling, rasping through her chest.

She leans on her tip toes to kiss him on the cheek, inhales the scent of pomade slicked through his hair.

“One of these for me?” she asks tapping on the pack of cigarettes rolled up into the sleeve of his white t-shirt.

He tucks his aviators into his pocket and pulls out an engraved silver Zippo holding the flame out cupped between hands.

She blows out the smoke asking, “So where's this boat I've been hearin' about for so many goddamn years?”

His grin lights up his eyes and he swings a leg over the motorcycle kick-starting it to life with a growl.

“This road trip's just getting started. It's still miles until we reach the ocean.”

The sound of the engine fades and you find yourself with your forehead against red brick; fist clutching bottle pressed into the wall.

You push yourself up and start walking again, fishing for the Bic in your pocket.

You decide you can't remain objective when recounting the tales of your grandparents who raised you on National Park Stamps and Highway Atlases, gave you a nickname to use over the CB radio, a taste for greasy spoon breakfasts and retro roadside attractions, and the bittersweet curse of wanderlust, that would one day give you the courage to live on your thumb and a prayer.

She was only fourteen when they met in a boarding house and he used to knock on the floor to signal he was home and they should sneak out together. Eventually, there was a shotgun wedding and four more children.

He had a heart attack when he was thirty-six and lived on disability for the rest of his days. He became the neighborhood handyman and an avid fisherman.

They liked to scare you with stories about a woman who gave birth to a monster that still lurked in the Pine Barrens and an eccentric heiress who was so convinced she was haunted that she never stopped adding rooms to her mysterious house in an effort to confuse the spirits.

To you all they ever seemed to do was fight but after he died suddenly and unexpectedly, while patching a hole in their roof, at the ripe old age of seventy-three she was never the same; and you learned that for them “leave me be,” meant you're mine forever my darlingand “why don’t you take a long walk off a short pier,” was I still love you so much my heart might burst from the saying of it.

Three thousand miles away from New Jersey you mourn her death in your own way and hope she knows all the stories you never got to share and stumble drunkenly through through the city of San Francisco thinking that maybe, just maybe, when your grandparents threatened to leave you on the side of the road for the Jersey Devil they were saying: be brave kid, we love you.

_____________________________________
675 Words
Dedicated with love to Robert and Mary (who is not a horse)
*You can take the girl out of Jersey but you can never take the Jersey out of the girl*

Edit: Here's the link to the poll and other entries for this round: http://www.livejournal.com/poll/?id=2062272

TW: Self Harm, Suicide, Childhood trauma, Panic Attacks and Anxiety, If you gave birth to the author you should definitely not read this, you have been warned

( Read Entry )

My grandmother is standing next to me, looking down at her own grave.

She is pointing to the filigreed bronze lawn marker embedded into the ground. Her birth date on the left, under her own name in block letters, across from the blank space to be filled in; the words Beloved Mother beneath it all.

It doesn’t say Beloved Mother and Grandmother because she’d had it made up ten years ago before the oldest of her beloved stepsons had his children. Six years before she and I were reunited.

I read the stone again and start to slip through time and space as I have done before, existing at all times, feeling all things at once; a vaguely psychic awareness, or maybe just a symptom of a melancholy disposition.

We are here to visit my great grandmother who is interred two spots over. I miss her so much, my grandmother says and I touch her arm gently.

The warm southern winter breeze blows through the low hanging palms.

Some unknowable but surely inevitable future is reaching back to me from a day when I will be standing here and missing both of them.

My grandmother motions again, this time to the grave above her final resting place to tell me that this man never has flowers. They grow up, move away, never make the trip out, she explains.

Again time and space contracts around me. I make a promise to myself to make the journey back to this place when the time comes wherever my tumbleweed life leads.

I take a final look at the stone before we turn to walk back toward the car.

I feel her then, the specter of days yet to be, a thought form who will be born on the day that the blank space is filled in but for a moment I see her clearly, she is holding the hand of a lover; they are just passing through town.

This future incarnation looks younger that I would wish for her to be keeping our vow but then I’m constantly told I look nearly ten years younger then my actual age. I take after my grandmother. She never admits her age but her birth year is engraved in my memory now. I look over at her, dyed red spiky hair and meticulously applied makeup. The woman whose example has saved my life more than she knows.

The car pulls onto the paved road and the early afternoon sun spills over the dashboard. When I catch my own reflection in the passenger side-view mirror I close my eyes until we are back on the highway.

__________________
Inspired by the

therealljidol break week topic: A possum ran over my grave.
Based on a roadtrip I went on with my grandmother yesterday,
I couldn't resist posting it even though I had decided not to enter the break week challenge.

**reposted becasue I totally acidentally deleted the orginal!

A Pirate's Life for Me

I have this awful habit of jumping on sinking ships.

I end up as an eternal castaway. A diaspora of one; a nomadic lone wolf moving through life with all of my material wealth compacted into the space of a single steamer trunk that I grasp onto for dear life while trying to keep my head above water.

Marking the years by the beds/couches/corners I have slept in.

It’s a curse, I realized eventually, but the thing about this curse is I never know until it’s too late; until it’s time to plot a course through the storm.

I wear out my welcome and I mosey on down the road. Riding out on the very bridges they’d built to bring me in on, letting the fires burn infinitely in my wake.

I keep my eyes on the horizon and never look over my shoulder.

I learn I thrive under pressure and find the most peace in the days it comes down to my basic needs for survival. I keep a bug out bag and carry a water bottle wherever I go. Semper paratus*.

It’s all the same story and I live it over and over again until I am running out of money and vices.

I send out a distress signal.

I wake to 5am alarm clocks for eight hundred days; commuter busses and packed lunches. It begins to wear me down, like sea glass, dulling the senses. I’m squandering time and my own fullest potential.

I’m homesick for moments spent around campfires with guitars and complete strangers and for a time I burned through notebooks like forest fires; pouring whiskey on the ground. My heart beats a bluegrass ballad for the wind under the wheels and miles of Americana passing me by.

I cry out for mutiny.

______________________
* Latin phrase, meaning "Always ready". It is used as the official motto of some organizations, such as the US Coast Guard.

AN: This was my attempt at trying to write "flash fiction" and is exactly 300 words. (Not including the title)

Edit: Here is the link to read all of the entries and vote for your favorites: http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/953518.html

Just breathe

She whispers it to herself. It’s a worry stone, a call to mindfulness.

She flicks ash off her fingertips; blows smoke into the air.

She needs a place to hide; thinks the pain in her shoulder is a pinched nerve.

She is given permission to seek refuge in the beat up beige and blue, faded but still mostly functional, Ford Conquest parked along the side of the sprawling corner lot community where she currently hangs her pointed hat.

She tries to remember to introduce herself by the right alias, making sense of her tumbleweed life: The place where she is Sparrow; the place where she is Rebecca, Becca, Bird, Faerie Ann, Wanderlust.

She flips through her latest notebook searching for inspiration.

She feels unoriginal. She is the metallic creak of the step up into the wood paneled and brown carpeted interior of the decrepit caravan.

She catches her reflection beyond the herons etched into a decorative mirror, runs her fingers through the bright purple spikes that took thirty two years to grow in.

She wishes she took more chances when she was younger.

She’s jaded and armed with sharply edged rhetoric but still afraid of the mundane nothingness to which her path could lead.

Who knew it would be the pound sign and not bar codes that would brand us, she speculates as she opens the windows against the oppressive mid day heat.

She’s trying not to forget she has wings and not so secretly wishing for rain; resisting the impulse to run away again.

She is the most at peace when she is in motion.

She reminisces about highs and bad trips. The most expensive thing she owns is her pair of hiking boots. She writes tawdry romance novels that she never lets anyone read. Has let countless cups of coffee grow cold at her elbow. Would almost always rather be reading.

She longs for wild Oregon forests, dusty Arizona truck stops, San Francisco rooftops, her best friend's front porch.

She reaches out across the wires and they trade favorite iconic cinematic introductions:

“Thank you Max, for that marvelous introduction.”
“How do you do? I / See you’ve met my / faithful handyman…”
“When I introduce you, and tell them who you are, I don’t think anyone will stay for dinner.”

She can feel Saturn moving forward again. She has been reborn in the cosmos. She lives in a perpetual state of forgiving and forgetting and not actually giving a fuck.

Surrounded by blood this time she is trapped among palm trees and plastic pink flamingos.

She watches her grandmother conjure bubbling pots of the most delicious food to feed the tribe of lost souls the woman has taken in, and who fill the rooms of the way-station community that have currently sent her into hiding.

There is nowhere for her to write here.

She contemplates the park a few streets over but instead lays down on the flower print pull out couch. The sun slants across her face and she recalls that sensation of waking up covered in sweat as she tries to find a comfortable position for her shoulder.

Just breathe, just breathe, just breath… She whispers to herself.

---------
go read other entries for this week:
rookies:http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/947581.html
Vets: http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/947738.html

signups are still open (join in the ~~madness~~ ~~fun~~ madness ): http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/945807.html

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Codename: Wanderlust

February 2020

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LJ Idol 11: Week 0: Resolution
LJIdol / LPF: Week 12: Write Off
LJIdol / LPF: Week 12: MacGuffin
LJIdol / LPF: Week 11: Long Distance Dedication
LJIdol / LPF: Week 5: Not My First Rodeo
LJIdol / LPF: Week 4: Ghosting
LJIdol / LPF: Week 3: Tsundoku
LJ Idol 10: Week 21 Home Game: Turn back or forge ahead?
LJ Idol 10: Week 20: Open Topic
LJ Idol 10: Week 14 Sudden Death Write Off: Open Topic
LJ Idol 10: Week 11: The Blue Hour
LJ Idol 10: Week 10: Take A Hike!
LJ Idol 10: Week 7: Where I'm From
LJ Idol 10: Week 5: Fear is the heart of love
LJ Idol 10: Break Week Home Game**
LJ Idol 10: Week 1: I need the struggle to feel alive
LJ Idol 10: Week 0: Introduction
LJ Idol Week 13: Open Topic

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Sparrow in Saturn R̶e̶t̶u̶r̶n̶i̶n̶g̶ Reborn

"It’s always exciting living in Fraggle Rock. That’s what’s wrong with the place."

Entries tagged with prose blog

LJ Idol 11: Week 0: Resolution

LJIdol / LPF: Week 12: Write Off

LJIdol / LPF: Week 12: MacGuffin

LJIdol / LPF: Week 11: Long Distance Dedication

LJIdol / LPF: Week 5: Not My First Rodeo

LJIdol / LPF: Week 4: Ghosting

LJIdol / LPF: Week 3: Tsundoku

LJ Idol 10: Week 21 Home Game: Turn back or forge ahead?

LJ Idol 10: Week 20: Open Topic

LJ Idol 10: Week 14 Sudden Death Write Off: Open Topic

LJ Idol 10: Week 11: The Blue Hour

LJ Idol 10: Week 10: Take A Hike!

LJ Idol 10: Week 7: Where I'm From

LJ Idol 10: Week 5: Fear is the heart of love

LJ Idol 10: Break Week Home Game**

LJ Idol 10: Week 1: I need the struggle to feel alive

LJ Idol 10: Week 0: Introduction

LJ Idol Week 13: Open Topic

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February 2020

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