Conversations with a Human Heart.

Category: Uncategorized

until I lasso the moon.

prozac

artist: unknown

 

Sideways, I’m spinning stories until they’re lassoed around a waning moon—quickly, quickly now, before she disappears.

I secure them proper like—the honda knot, hangman’s knot, that fucking fisherman’s eye—each splitting thread of a reluctant noose. I try spinning anywhere, spinning nowhere, spinning in and out of line until the stories refuse to be spun a moment more.

These stories.

I take your stories and his stories and his stories, too. I take her stories, most of their stories, until the outside stories look like my story, the one I’ve been dreaming for all thirty-something of these years.

And for a moment I think I’ve got the pulse of it all—this blistering human collective—until a grand mal moment unravels each darling thread from a tipsy-turvy crescent.

She’s a propellor now, moving further from this crooked sphere.

I’m an anchor now, treading neck-deep in this unforgiving earth.

These stories.

Though I know tantrums are unbecoming in a world bloated with nice-to-meet-yous, I rage against the poppy bloom—a prayer for fields lit red with the fires of transformation rather than the savage whispers of pacifying petals.

A crimson wild enough to resurrect the moon.

For tonight, I suck back with force to wipe clean the stained glass of a wicked history; the story of the girl blurs as the story of the woman comes into focus.

Lines dissolve and the word “habit” lingers in a charcoal sky.

These stories got away and mother moon is disappointed in me again.

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promise you’ll let me go.

 

Original Printable 18 x 30”

“The Leonids” by Felipe Posada

 

If you need me, I’m going back to the space between illness and wellness—that magic place where reality bends in the periphery until it snaps, sharing fractals of what you thought you knew and so much more of what you didn’t… but someway, somehow, most certainly did.

The place where the least sense makes the most sense. A language the heart finally understands.

And in this place, the micro-things in an un-micro body wage an infinitesimal war for their infinitesimal lives. An infinitesimal existence that somehow eclipses the purpose I half-assedly proclaimed for myself in this thirty-second year. As their duty to the greater good drives every moment of their microscopic lifespans, I’m here, glancing—left and right and left again—worried the invisible-but-must-be-there, rushing monsters will sweep me away when I take that first barefooted step out of bed and into the chasm of what could be.

“What could be,” it seems, is always at the cost of what is—a relocation, a moving on, a letting go. And “what is” happens to be the street address of fear, who isn’t so easily evicted.

But in this cosmic space between health and frailty, in these twilight hours of existential expansiveness, I find myself falling, somehow dancing—tiptoed, turning, tapping, twirling—through the stained glass version of what very well’s supposed to be.

Though single frames, cut in on themselves, there’s a harmony to this moving montage. A comfort in distortion, an uncertain certainty I’d never know in the normal place. Because when shapes move outward from an unknown center, I see them in unison—and one by one, all the same—a streaming vision of multiple everythings. And instead of sun rays, I feel stories shoot from fingertips, eyelashes, toenails, and lips. The birthplace, the life-giver, the soulshine mama, who radiates with a setting love.

These, mind you, the same realities that in normal time and space would criss-cross and intercept each other—an intellectual rape of what simply is.

And the taste changes in my mouth in this normal place as I consider how much easier it was elsewhere; I danced in on a stellar plane, and watched with glimmering eyes, the true things, traveling away from this small, single frame. Parallel lines, pregnant with stories. Moonbeams shot from peepers. And all the tales, all the assumptions of what this life should probably be, arranged themselves in a hopeful spectrum—a vision of art and love and possibility.

So let me go back to that place.

Where November is the new date of due. Where unkindness can’t penetrate a sweet, fleshy armor. Where there’s no need to ask, as the yeses already rain from the skies. Where certainty, though uncertain, is reliably so.

When the moon comes for me again tonight, promise you’ll let me go.

because, really… cats.

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I’m leaving this place.

I’m saying farewell to the mean streets of complacency, goodbye to the relentless dwellers of unhappiness isle. you’ve had enough time to vent and expound and corroborate. you’ve had enough space to lay it out, to hit ’em hard, to beat ’em down.

you, with your dribble… your misdirected rage. I’ve been made to feel small for my compassion, all because you need to dish “lessons” on the regular. you’ve all but pushed out the beautiful parts of this wild and delightful existence.

your influence ends with this sentence, you bastards. my good nature is worthy of more than this filth. because my soul’s got bigger plans for this life.

so, I’m gone. solar winds carrying a fragile heart to higher plains, I’m seeking fresh air again—the kind of breathing that keeps you nourished, well-fed on oxygen and joy. because there’s so much more than you want to believe in, so much more. your battle with resentment is no longer my burden. I’m free.

there are riches in this place and I refuse to shrug gratitude. I refuse to engage with the naysayer army.

when’s the last time you noticed something grand? the smile offered (free of charge, mind you), the way the trees bend along the river as you pedal by, the smell of summer in a too-tiny house filled with laughter, an ocean who wraps her fingers along a loyal shore. and cats. because, really… cats.

this post was grown on the gram

gather your broken hearts.

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sometimes I wish I could gather all the misshapen little pieces of all the broken hearts of the world.


I’d collect them with a dust pan and hand brush, whispering words like “there, there” and “don’t worry about a thing” before letting them slide to a free fall with a tinkle-tinkle-tinkle to the bottom of a velvet-lined pouch.


I’d walk those pieces home while humming bob marley’s greatest hits, and when I arrived at my doorstep I’d promise those little pieces that miracles—the likes of which they’d never believe—were to take place tonight.


steady hands would guide their fall to an altar, pieces of my steadily singing heart set out, waiting to receive them.


with ginger swishes of painted fingernails, I’d stir and heap the pile—a tiny mountain of good intentions and banished dreams.
I’d cry songs of forgiveness for all the fragments holding tight to broken promises, I’d cry songs of hope for all the shards missing their once-familiar prayers, I’d cry songs of redemption for all the slivers tarnished with the residue of shame.
and for the ones who now knew only the wretched pain of long lost love, I’d let them wail, and I’d wail too, until every last cinder ceased to rage.


under the watchful eyes of this restless soul and her loyal moon above, I’d wait. for hours, for days, for relentless weeks, until the hurt made its way past mournful curves and angry edges, settling at last for good. only then would I exhale the tender breath I had stored safely away in the pit of my belly, freeing the pain from every last crevice. “your work here is done,” I’d whisper to wandering ashes. “this is where we say goodbye.” I’d watch with unbearable anticipation as the pieces, wrought with a lightness they’d all but forgotten, softened into one another, reclaiming their space in this world.


and when I was certain the moment had finally arrived, I’d lift the now-beating mass to the heavens, transformed to a wholeness, a new heart for growing beautiful things. a new love just begun.


artwork: collete saint yves

—this post was grown on the gram