I suffered for their art

I listen for the silence between the sounds
They make more music
They bring great shame upon these instruments

I close my eyes as if to drown it out

They stand and bow at the end
Pleased as punch with themselves
I blame them, though none are composers
They’ve been complicit
They brought it to life

At the end I open my eyes
Just long enough to tap two fingers together
And glare at each and every one of them



From the archives:
Take This Inspiration And Shove It
I answered my own question
I Stand In Judgement 

Satchel

I’m competent.

Until something happens. Which did. Happen.

I feel bad. I’m staring at a blank wall, but only realize it after the fact.

I scroll through a bunch of adjectives in my mind. I cross out all of them. Finally, I find my words. This is despair.

Now what?

I’m in one hour at a time mode. One thing I like about me is how easy I slip in and out of that.

I’m not at full throttle. Really what I want to do is to continue staring.

I review what I planned to do today. I’m overdue for a winter coat. My state of mind is not conducive to walking over to the River Plaza and shopping for fashionable, practical bargains.

The thing that crushed my soul hasn’t gone anywhere. But winter isn’t going anywhere either. Last year’s coat, which served me for many seasons has already gone to fabric recycling.

I have just enough bandwidth to anticipate how I will feel out in the elements underdressed. It won’t be pretty. I’ll be freezing and also angry. Frangry.

So I go. I tell myself that despair and grief are portable. I don’t have to deny them. I can take them with me.

They are pretty easy to manage on the walk to the River Plaza. As companions they’re almost quiet at Marshall’s. They allow me me choose a greenish, shimmery, warm as can be winter parka with fake fur around the hood and collar. I also get a dusty rose hat with a giant pompom that has just enough bling to be fun.

I wait on a long line that moves quickly. I am able to negotiate with myself in the usual fashion. Yes this line is long. Would I rather pay retail? Which would be no, so I go on Facebook and chill out while inching along.

I then take my despair to Target, where it’s mostly okay until such a time when it does make itself a major nuisance. I sit on the edge of a shelf in a slow part of the store that nobody cares about.

It lifts enough for me to shop quickly, get in line and go home, model my new outerwear and do some other stuff that can accommodate what is a burden but is mostly behaving itself.

Until such a time that I’ve had it for that day. I watch the movie Joy for the millionth time, which is what I do when there’s nothing else to be done.

I go to sleep and in the morning I evaluate the situation, carry what I can, heavy or not, to what I can do and where I can go alongside it. I leave the rest for another day when I have a lighter load or a bigger suitcase.

From the archives:
I walked to the end of the driveway 
The very second you lost me
My Future Crappy Work

Take This Inspiration And Shove It

Somebody said people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime.

And my response is this.

Fuck the reason. Fuck the season. Yes to the lifetime.

If I care about you, I really want you to stay. If I love you, I demand it.

The reason and season, do not inspire quietude, deep thought, peace, or introspection. They do not evoke acceptance. When I hear about them I’m stinking mad.

If you like it, I’m happy for you. And also, fuck you!

The entity responsible for the reason and the season is an asshole.

I’m saturated with carrying people in my heart, eliciting memories, making memories because you know that time is limited, and you know that you’re doing that. I’ve found enough meaning in loss to last a lifetime, and now I’m done.

Making the best of it? No can do.

Stop dying! Stop retiring! Stop leaving!

People come into your life for a lifetime. How about that? Is that too much to ask?


From the archives:
I answered my own question
All of the roads, they did lead here
The High Cost Of Being Me

The sun it did rise again

Like when you make new friends but keep the old and the cream always rising to the top, things have their way of sorting themselves out.

But at two o’clock in the morning, when one door closes and another one hasn’t opened yet, you’re thinking that when one door closes it stays closed and another one closes and another one closes.

What if what doesn’t kill you doesn’t make you stronger but kills you just not all at once but a little at a time? And then once you’re good and awake you realize that what doesn’t kill you does makes you stronger and it will still kill you a little bit at a time because that is what life is and we all have an expiration date.

And then you manage to fall asleep but damned if you can remember the transition or what worked and what didn’t. The alarm goes off the next day and you’re tired from time spent awake last night but you have rested and slept some of the time and there’s some magic in that. And wouldn’t you know the very start of some burgeoning sorting is evident and you know that sleep, a little or a lot, is a sweet elixir. What life has taught you, namely to take  what you get even if it’s one step forward, two steps back is doing its thing and lifting you, if not to seize the day, at least to meet it where it is.


From the archives:
These Books Carry Me
Chicken Scratch
No Trophies

Modern Narcissus

Today it's you. There's always been you and others like you. Recently, and stretching way back.

I'm smart.  I've avoided some of you. They threw up red flags. Or I was paying better attention then. In other words, I don't fall for it every time.

When I'm savvy, I know which one of you is friend material and who is only good for some fun on social media or at a party. Because people like you are always fun.

I know who to make excuses with, whom not to be one-on-one with, who is charming with an edge. When I know I'm being manipulated, I'm immunized.

Then there are the other times. Maybe I get together with you when our mutual friends aren't around. We exchange email addresses. We take it up a notch.

We share some laughs and a confidence. There's two ways it goes bad.

There's the slow burn. Something doesn't feel right. It's a flower blooming, only ugly. It happens gradually and I never get to see the unfurl. I put the puzzle together as clues come in.

There's the quick scorch. I figure you out in a flash. Instead of the pieces connecting methodically over time, I'm hit over the head with you.

Once I have you figured out, whether it's the fast way or the slow way, the next few hours will feel like crap.

I'm pretty disappointed in myself for not heading it off before.  Here's what softens my critique.

One is that I picked it up when I did. I could just as easily be commenting on your post, meeting you at Shake Shack or giving out unilateral support. Now is infinitely better than never. Or later.

You have no shortage of friends, so it isn't just me.

Social media can make the sifting harder, but I'm getting wise to that. You and your brethren are putting up signposts.

You're good at what you do. It's easy for you. This is your stock and trade, your shining talent, your decathlon. Nature, nurture or a freak accident made you this way, and that's how you'll stay. I speculate then stop. It's useless.

I inventory what happened and say I'll know better next time. And often I do. It's important to mention that.

But there will be a next time. You're all cut from the same cloth but you come in a dizzying array. You're all viruses. You morph.

Still, I found out not long ago that there's a name for what you are. So I slap the label on you. It's not personal. It is what it is. And it helps.

That is when things turn cordial between you and me.

There is no fanfare. No recriminations. There's no conversation or long goodbye either.

I wait. I'm patient for the moment, an easy opportunity, predictable as rain. You become absorbed, rapt either in yourself, or someone else. I steal away, on tiptoe, the trained dancer that I am and the one I've become.

I've turned the tables.  You're the mark now. You'll never even know what happened.

If you could craft the words, you'd say you miss seeing your reflection in me. But if you were capable of that, I wouldn't have such  a problem with you.

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