sitting still

For another minute I'll remember why I'm here, in the usual place. Then I'll forget. These are lapses of time I'll never get back... no matter how hard I try. But there is always the place I return to in the in-between moments of time. I somehow escape there without anyone knowing. I drive to a place inside that doesn't have paved roads. I've seen the wreckage of youth. It is scary. Who grows up with a perfect life? Who is wanted and who is saved? I've always wanted to know. Then again... there is the place again. It sits high up... as a steep window ledge. I sit and wait for the right time to tell her that she has to go now. Sometimes I don't like being aware of things. I don't like the world to know what's going on. Sometimes I'd like to fold over ... neatly, squarely... like a box taken down to the right foldable shape. Then again there are other shapes to inhabit. Other places to be. But this one place... will always be my escape into who I wish I could be.

a natural sister

I never felt obliged to discuss my earliest connections to the madness of creative spark. I only know that from an early age I was dreaming nonstop of things that didn't exist in my everyday world. I remember rain drops and puddles and long gutter streams becoming oceans of fun with makeshift vessels in hand. We romped every part of the street looking for new bodies of water to be our sea. In these springs, I remember very vividly the feeling of newness. The smell of spring, water and dirt and the warmth sneaking into the old winter air. I remembered the first opening of a window or clap of thunder. All of these things enhanced my wishes to dream more. Books provided windows as well. I remembered illustrations of lush front gardens guarded by iron gates. Mysterious old houses and strange statues. I lived in these wild worlds in my mind as a kid and so the outside world and the inside world became one. I loved the images of the mundane streets as I suddenly would turn them into boardwalks or at night, in the fog, they would become streets in London. I've never been to London but I've been to my version of it. I would come up with scares that didn't exist. Here it is. My magick was my spark and one person who put early imagination in motion was my sister. Being older, she introduced me to strange stories and writings and so as a youngster these dreams and images became real to me. She brought to life Halloween. She would tell me delightfully strange stories as a twist on ones she had read. All of this got my mind seeking and stretching reality, kinda like playing with clay.

fevered empath

From a different time I would dream about adventure. I would hope that life would have more in store than just the everyday. Within the mundane life I was able to find a rip, a tear in the fabric of the everyday. I could explore worlds without ever having the money to fly. I found that art was it early on but didn't know what it was or how to access the materials. As time went on I was able to work with others however still needed to find my own groove. Beyond art, at a young age I also developed an interest in writing. These things kept me sane when we were too poor for the basics. When things got rough, I had access and that counted the most. On the wings of birds... in the darkened windows of churches... I could imagine. And imagine myself in something very special.

to meet my parents

You'd have to understand that I am totally split down the middle. I truly am inbetween. I feel that life led me to understand certain truths about myself. All alone in a dark room I could conjure feelings and then I light the wick and it's the same old crumbling room I lived in before. My bedroom was in shambles. I was alone with candles. These things came to me when I was very young and I think before I was able to speak I had a connection to them. For a long time the sun would burn a hole into my soul as I spoke to it. I remembered thinking I had a diamond heart. When I was older, I thought I could feel the sun ticking the time and shining a little brighter to burn into my mind the remembrance of it. It was spectacular and dying all the same. I spoke to it then, too, in the early morning air. Keep moving through your zodiac because you still have time. You still feel young. You will rise. Your rays will reach. You will die. Back then I also remember chasing the ever-elusive moon around my yard and later caught it in a necklace my mom bought for me. These two images somehow made sense when I thought of mom and dad. You see my mom would have been that sun to me, following my shadow. And that rare moon. That was my dad.