Journal, January 31, 2006

My memory is a song I tried to forget.

But the words haunted me, the melody always on my lips.  I tried to learn a new song to block out the old but the noise in my head became cacophonous. Slowly I had to let each false note drop - until all that was left was the same sad song I could not erase.

It was a song I could not sing but needed to whisper instead.  A song that would not let me sleep but invaded my dreams.  A song I could not change but needed to hear in all of its tragic wistfulness.

My memory is a song I wanted to forget.  Except for the part of me that refused to believe in the forced, out of tune harmonies that passed for beauty.  Theirs was a song full of violent ugliness, tears I had promised myself never to shed.

This is my song, and I refuse to forget.

Journal, March 16, 2004

Please be with me.  Please help me not to be afraid or resentful.  Please help me to accept where I am while at the same time never losing sight of hope.  Please help me to be grateful for what I have.  Please help me to see beauty when all seems so ugly.  Please never abandon me.

I knew Jane wouldn't fix me in one week.  But I was somehow still hoping it would happen anyway.

I think this sucks.

Journal, September 2006

Bits of stories that seep through the cracks of the doors - bits of stories I cannot in this reality ignore - will be lost forever - will be another lesson learned

Bits of stories do you see how I wanted to love them - why I now must betray them - like lava flow that rolls into the sea - this eruption must wash over me

Where does reality draw the line - fingernails against the skin - tells me which reality I am in...

The end of days

All of the followers had gone, sucked up into the girl’s funnel cloud and carried off to god knows where.  What remained lay on the ground, broken.  The restaurant would not be serving again.

I was wondering with a pang of regret where Marietta had gone when a dishevelled figure with a lopsided purple hairdo and an old face limped over to me.  The cruelty in her expression had now become mingled with resentment.  We just stood and looked at each other for a while, until she said, “You think you have won.  But the spell is broken for you, too.”

“I know,” I answered.  “But at least I can live with myself.”

“We’ll see about that,” she replied.  She then disappeared, rather against her will, I thought, into a cloud of foul-smelling smoke.

Waking up

They say riddles are clues

but clues in a fortress

If only the dragon would let me pass

Ah little girl, he says

you must solve the first riddle

to prove you are ready

I ask him what the first riddle is

and he laughs

He says that is why I am not ready

I cannot even hear the riddle

He says I know the words

He says no one stops my ears

but me

He says the riddle is my first clue

That I will hear it when I am ready

I say this is another trick

another stall

But he says no

he is the master of ceremonies only

I am in charge

I will know the riddle when I say it out loud

The Burden (excerpt), 1989

Every time I saw him, I questioned my judgment of him.  Could this tall, smiling, good-looking man be worthy of such negative feelings on my part?  He always seemed to be happy, and undoubtedly had some corny joke to tell.  Any friend of mine who met him never had anything but good things to say about him.  Of course, no one was ever around to witness this pleasant man become a resentful, whining, almost vengeful creature.  What had I done to be turned on in such a hateful manner?  I didn't think I had done anything to hurt him.  But he obviously decided that I was only 12 years old and I did not have the courage yet to tell him to leave me alone, he could take out on me the answer that racked him.  

The day after

Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.
--Desmond Tutu
(photo by C. Hornby)