“And I’ll be here by the ocean
Just waiting for proof that there’s sunsets and silhouette dreams.
All my sand castles fall like the ashes of cigarettes
And every wave drags me to sea.
I could stand here for hours just to ask God the question, ‘Is everyone here make believe?’
With a tear in his voice, he says, ‘Son, that’s the question.’
Does this deafening silence mean nothing to no one but me?”
Re-loving Mayday Parade right now.
Goodnight, big world. Let’s figure you out in a dream somehow.
“The Internet is global and seemingly omniscient, while iPods and phones are all microscopic workings encased in plastic blobjects. Compare that to a steam engine, where you can watch the pistons move and feel the heat of its boilers. I think we miss that visceral appeal of the machine.”
~ Scott Westerfield
who else lets their indoor cat in the back yard after dark?? Only the coolest cat mom on the block, of course. Plus, we have an agreement. No jumping on walls, no talking to stranger kitties, and stay where I can see you!
Yes, I’m pretty certain Montana is my new calling. We can jump the border to Canada from there whenever the time feels right. If only there was a way to hurl yourself into the future and never look back…
Submitting this new version to Elephant Tree:
——
She rolls over and I wipe the gold stars from her cheek. Their plastic surface sticks to her skin so I kiss them off, kiss them off; I leave a wet lip print as I kiss them off. She moans in that heavy way that says I’ve kept her up too late with my whispers, my kisses. She’s been sweating in her sleep, I’ve been watching, gently. I’ve been wiping it off as it comes with single strokes. My fingers leave a trail of wetness like the sticky wake of a snail, shimmering, like glitter. Gold stars, gold stars on her cheek. Gold stars on my finger and I kiss them off, salt. Our skins are old, from last year, two years ago, three years ago, fifteen years ago. Our skins are our withering history—leather-bound books with dark wrinkles that deepen with the passing months. She lifts her face and her stars flake off, gold stars, plastic gold stars that break free from her cheek like a flock of birds.
He’s kept me up too late and now he’s bringing me the morning sun too soon and it’s all blurred together so I can hardly tell the difference. I feel his eyes on my lids like I felt them last night, last week, last year, five years ago, fifteen. Fifteen years ago. I lift my eyelids. Close. Lift. Close. “Honey,” like a hot breeze. Lift. His arm reaches for me and I’m cold so goose bumps rise on his skin like a mountain range, rolling, large, and then melt into his heat like sinking sand. I smile but it’s heavy like the morning fog, thick, weary, tired. “Honey,” like a hot breeze. Close. Lift. Close. He lifts me, lifts me into his arms. I’m heavy, like the fog, breathing white, milky air. “Honey,” like a hot breeze. We are winter and fall, together.
I cradle her like I did last night, last week, last year, ten years ago, fifteen. Fifteen years ago. I wear the years we’ve spent together proudly on my chest like a badge for some honorable act, heroic. Admirable. I admire her. The gold stars. Her eyelids are heavy, made of cold steel or iron, but precious like diamonds. “Honey,” I breathe, pulling her hair into a thick blonde ball in my hand. I release it and the gold strands tumble to the bed like a waterfall. The gold stars. She moans, heavy again. I cradle her, wanting desperately to breathe the morning life into her so that she’s ready for another day with me, awake, smiling, brilliant. “Honey.” She opens her eyes. I smile, kiss her. She closes them. Moans. Heavy. She’s difficult this morning, like the fog, stubborn. I return her heavy body to the white sheets, the bed, and she folds up like a baby. I move close to her heavy body, pressing against her shivering back like a shell. “Honey,” into her ear. Little blond hairs on the nape of her neck rise like the flame of a candle. She moans. She’s thick, confusing, heavy, like milk.
Like milk, soft, fluid, he hums a song about the rising sun but I don’t feel the sun and I don’t see it through the sheer white curtains that dress our window. Everything is white, the walls, our sheets, the curtains, his skin, like milk, like bubbling sea foam… Ah, my dream. I’d managed a dream last night in the few hours he let me sleep. I want to pull myself up and turn to him and tell him of my dream, but I can’t—it won’t lift. My mind is too heavy, too dense, like a rain cloud all full of darkness and gray. I moan and try to turn, then, “Honey,” like a hot breeze.
I tighten my body’s hug to her back like a shell, like another skin. I press my face to her cheek, the gold stars, her shivering skin, I feel it all, cold, shimmering, beautiful. “Honey,” I whisper, pressing. I remove my face like a stamp from an inkpad and feel the mark she’s left. I’m branded, tattooed, the gold stars. I smile, touching my cheek softly with my hand to make sure that it’s real. Gold stars on my fingers, my cheek, my face. “Honey,” I breathe, tightening the shell. She’s cold, like milk, shivering. Heavy. Like the fog. “Honey.”
He breathes hot into my neck, my cheek my ear, “Honey, honey,” but I’m stuck on the dream that had me only a few moments ago. The sea foam, the birds! I try to remember—the birds. The birds were mine last night when they were chirping on the sand. The birds were mine last night when they chased the water as it receded into the wide, heavy ocean. The birds were mine when they ran back up to the dry sand, ate the fleas, ate the seeds, the birds were mine. The birds were mine last night, in the depths of my slumber, when they ran back again to that wide, heavy ocean. They were mine when they chased the single wave, the foam, the water. They were mine when they dipped their sharp little beaks into the wet sand and ate the crabs, ate the seeds, the birds were mine. The birds were mine last night when they flew away with their wings over the wide, heavy ocean, they chirped and chirped and I didn’t know what it meant but somehow I understood. The birds were mine last night. On the beach, beneath the blanket of my heavy, winter slumber, the birds were mine. Oh, what a dream.
“Honey?” I breathe. Gold stars fall from her cheek as she lifts her eyes to the white curtained window. “Honey,” I sigh, my smile swells. She’s beautiful with her plastic gold stars. I love the way they stick to my fingers as I graze her cheek; they glimmer in the sun, but this morning there is only fog.
“The birds,” she moans, heavy, like milk.
“No, honey,” I say, “You don’t need them. It was only a dream, love.”
I’d managed a dream and it felt so real but it’s not and now I wish it was. He lifts me into his arms and his hand cups the back of my neck. He cradles me like an infant. I am an infant. My legs haven’t carried me anywhere on their own in a week, a month, a year, five, fifteen. Fifteen years I’ve been leaning on him. He’s cradled me, carried me, cupped the back of my neck, for fifteen years. “The birds,” I moan, heavy. “No,” he says. Just no. I need the birds, their wings, their escape. Fifteen years. Fifteen years and I haven’t even used my own two legs.
“The birds- the birds.”
“Honey, no.”
Just no. Like milk, like a hot breeze, “No.” But I need their wings.
Gold stars break from her lips like an explosion of fireflies. “But, the birds—“ she moans. I cradle her heavy head. “You don’t need them, honey.”
I need them. The way of the birds, the ocean, the escape, I need it. “The birds-“ I cry, heavy. I am weak. I fight against his tight hold and roll to the edge of the bed. I turn my face to meet the sheer white curtained window. “The birds!” I point.
“No,” he calls, loud. I resist, pushing against the wooden floor with my feet. I press on my knees with my hands and emerge from my fifteen-year sleep. Tiny steps - my first in fifteen. Small, small. “The birds—“
“No!” but I’m too far away to catch her. Her knees buckle and she collapses to the wooden floor. Gold stars burst from the crash.
“The birds!”
“You don’t need them.”
I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life!
To put to rout all that was not life…
And not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived…
Definitely missed this when I was in London. But good ole’ Maddy came through, after all. A beautiful picture of the statue of Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens.
