This & That

With a map in my hand, I can hardly tell what is to be discovered. The red lines point me in multiple directions concerning where it may be best I lay my head and during which season, so I lay it everywhere. Like having many pillows yet never enough blankets my depiction of home is comparable and fluctuates like the uneven ratio of such needs and wants. The deep cold in the middle of the night is really cold when you don’t have enough blankets, ya know?

My brother, he cannot wait to see me. My mother worries how I can afford to see my brother. But Tennessee beckons because I’m pressuring it to. Wherever I am called, I found I will surely follow. Cuz here I am, You. And though I follow, I wonder of the things, from time to time that I have left.  But that’s kind of achy and uneven so I go to bed often with the prayer that things will be well. That they are well. That Tennessee has good Fall weather. And that I’ll one day have enough blankets.

I woke up today in the state of hardly knowing what is to be discovered. Again. What has discovered me may be a better indicator of what it must feel like to get a good night’s sleep in living your life to the fullest, form. Among the population of my friends, family and simply neighbors in my neighborhood, there is a reflection I’m not too mad about. A reflection that is simple blessings. Simplicity like a neighborhood that nests common and odd folk, who gladly retreat from their homes to roam their greenish grasses on sunny and even wretched, hot days. Their greenish grasses have got me  thinking lately about the idea of greener grasses and if I am to forge a field or try and be faithful to the stuff underneath my feet presently. Good things can come from both. And good things have come from much less. And they all seem happy. So I probably should follow.


Knots in my head, on my head.

I feel impending like the lack from the knotted twine lugging up a love weightier than it’s counterpart. Like the sum of my misplaced heart and an abstract heart, I’m a whole disguised by a half by something holy and woefully indebted to Eternity’s gift of eternity. I can grasp the lesser Known more than what I call my own. And this protects the anxious I call my hunger, my posture, my heart. But the bright circle turns into a dark circle and a new day is born, torn from a “no” and a “not yet” and a times a “never”–but torn. And so my hunger, posture and heart are in a civil war because I forget my grasp is from my hand, and my palms are often human. Sometimes it is I who lack when I do not accept to know the Known and so the unknown takes hold of me. And now there knots are in my head, or on my head–but they are knots, tangled within each other forming treaties to obstruct my pace and my peace. Knots that loosen me to drop below and far from my counterpart, from my Love.

But the dark circle, of my eyes while more the sky, turns into a bright circle. With or without a head nod, there lies a circumference of comfort that corals any impending into arrival.

Remember knotted head, remember.

Long Hair, Don’t Care

“Your hair is getting so long.”

“I know” I say in an affirming meets tired tone.

“I love it!”

“Oh, thanks..”

This is the essence of the many initial conversations that take place when meeting friends I haven’t spent longer than a hi with. My hair seems to be the main thing to stop people in their tracks when inquiring what has changed in my life as of late. I suppose it’s harder to notice my better erected back due to my increased self-confidence or my calloused fingers from the sharpening of my guitar skills, but my hair indeed serves decently as an indicator that I am indeed growing and changing. Whether it’s the length of my hair or the progression of my character, as long something is noticeable, it’s validated as real. And I’m not lost. Or something akin to feeling such a way.

I couldn’t swim deep enough. My ponytail had to stick out above the dark blue squiggly lines turned waves. Like a thumb that throbs, my head stuck out. Afraid of going too deep? Or afraid others will see me plugging my nose because I cannot dive eloquently for a woman of my stature? Even at twilight, I know anyone could catch me, nose in hand, if they wanted to.

I couldn’t make you believe I could swim deep enough. Towards the darker black that was a stagnate bottom. As we’d unknowingly race, my mind would pace the ways I could persuade anyone into believing I made it back so swiftly because simply, I was a good swimmer (even with all the long hair). If I could swim as good as I lie, the black would be no threat, the deep my  ebbing enemy. And you, a feeble competitor. You–heartache, distance, change, a loser. Me–heart broken, consistently yearning for others and routine-ridden, a winner.

I hate this ponytail, but it makes you search elsewhere for some shimmery fleck of impressive. And I wear it also to see the sea better, you see? The salt can burn, but at least the brown tendrils do not get in anyone’s way. In my way; I seem to get in my way often. On the way down, a glance is made at the girl descending delightfully. “She’s different” they all whisper in their heads.

I need to grasp the person I was a few moments ago and the person I will be in moments to come. One I find, meant for the ethereal gleam, beside her, behind her and above her. Some call it the moon, I call Spirit. The other, a beguiling blunder disguised and maneuvered by handsome temptation, or  a coy enchantress. It’s hard to think under water, but I can see both are fragile and fortunate and relevant.  And so I’m aware of the humanness and abundance that surrounds me. And also aware, maybe my improvement do not need to be seen, just claimed.

I don’t swim deep enough and I hate this ponytail, but I trace the steps before me and meander forward, slowly but more importantly, surely.  My breath become the tokens that create ripples towards you, towards better. My body the shore that keeps order and direction.  I can’t swim deep enough, but found when necessary the deep surely finds me. And for a breathe’s moment, I’m not lost.