October 29, 2012

capture, release

I went over the list, saved it on my computer. Read it again, closed it again. I am an avid photographer, like it or not; I could have completed the project easily enough. But in the end I didn't feel compelled to. It might have helped, early on. But grief is not something I want to capture, anymore. Those particular relics are not what I want to keep.

I am still the face. I have been captured by grief -- and then, without quite knowing the exact moment that it happened -- released. And I find I am able to return that favor, finally. And I am pleased, and pensive, and content.

October 25, 2012

we learn nothing

We think of color blindness as a defect, but it enables those afflicted with it to see through camouflage.

Tim Kreider

October 22, 2012

never have I ever

He has said it to my back, in passing, or maybe into my hair. Quietly, experimentally; softly enough as to be easily missed. And I have missed it, intentionally, a few times before. But this morning when he said it, standing there in the bathroom, half shaven, kissing me goodbye, he was so sincere and adorable and I felt so happy my fears weren't big enough to stop me anymore. I grabbed his face with both hands and looked him straight in the eye and I said it too. The first time I've said it to him or to anyone: I love you.

And oh, I do.

October 21, 2012

st carmel

1. St Carmel monastery 2. P in the olive grove 3. Self portrait
4. Brave rose undimmed by blight 5. Photo of me under the arbor by P

October 18, 2012


No, just lay here quietly, and hold me as tight as you can. Hold me like if you weren't holding me I'd float away. Because I feel like I'm retreating, against my own will; and for once I'd rather stay.

October 16, 2012

soggy quilts and jackals

Jumped ship, escaping. Fuck this shit, I'm out. Swept away in a deep, deceptive current, struck and stuck against sloping rocks. Thick blankets, useless now, soaked and cold and burdensome and onerously heavy, dragged out painstakingly and laid flat to dry. Night falling. Small fire, no food. Unexpected, unwelcome, unhelpful company. Will not be hushed. What will find us in the night if she will not hush? Jackals. Pitch black ones, ears perked. Slow and steady and menacing and coming straight for us through the dusk. There's a shotgun at hand, but it's old and empty, and cocking and firing for show of strength produces only the faintest click, a sound so inconsequential as to be simultaneously insulting and intensely embarrassing. Strike out feebly with the blunt end. Give the alpha a mild headache, at best. Prepare to have your face eaten.

Or maybe just wake up.

October 9, 2012


Inspired by Angie, and talk of crutches.

You, faceless you, are dependent on others; I see that all too clearly and I shake my head (inside my own head) and feel slightly to highly superior, contingent on your level of dependence and/or co-dependence, because anyone could see that I myself am thoroughly independent, I am as independent as they come. And yet I have realized, suddenly, annoyingly, unwelcomely, that it is only because I am dependent on being independent and I do not know of a way to be any other way.

I need to not need you. I am terrified of needing you. Of needing anyone.

You could try until you drop dead of trying and it is entirely possible that I would still stubbornly, tenaciously, vehemently not-need you but I sure would cry when you were gone. Not-needing is my crutch, my old habit; a mostly invisible one to be sure but still a clear and present sign of brokenness.

As long as I need so desperately not to need you, I am leaning on a temporary solution and I'll never know any other kind of strength unless I learn to lean another way instead.