Stations
Walking to work this morning I find myself thinking about how the different projections of myself are like TV stations.
As a child, my parents tried to change the station, to something more socially acceptable perhaps, but I don’t think any of us knew where the remote was. So the show was sad, scary, super awkward and occasionally amusing. Mostly just confusing though.
In college I found a station I liked, but I still didn’t know where the remote was. Sometimes the channel would change, and that other projection wouldn’t know how to handle her predicaments. It wasn’t great.
A few years later I discovered alcohol could change the channel. Not a remote but gave me a feeling of power. A way to slip effortlessly into a channel where I felt good about who I was seeing.
Until it brought me to a new channel. And another. And another. And then ones I don’t remember. She exists though, in people’s memory and cell phone videos and security cameras. And she’s not always terrible but I never remember the show playing on those channels.
I seem to have lost control over my metaphor. Anyway.
All this to say that, I am still looking for the damn remote. I’m glad though, I don’t respond to the Universal kind.
Shattered Things (2023)
we talked of shattered things
that needed repairs
the window
the sink
but never did we mention
our broken souls
our yesterdays
the tears of alone
we talked all night
as if we knew something
deeper
profound
and come morning
we laughed
thinking
who needs yesterday
when every dawn
is born of love
what does your most confident self look like?
They
Are still broken.
They aren’t unbent or unbruised
Or unashamed or unbothered
But they aren’t bashful about bringing their baggage with them.
And they are stronger because of it.
They remember what rock bottom felt like.
How the bile smelt as it burst out of their mouth
How badly they wanted to give in and be done
How badly…
But how beautiful it felt to be held by their
[non-corny way of saying besties]
They don’t care if people don’t like their art
Or their body
Or the cccracks in their voice
Or their curiosity
Their curiosity creates life.
They create with conviction because they
Can’t help but be obsessed with beauty.
They’re going to read this when they can’t.
They endlessly think about the end ,
To ensure they are enjoying their present
They float effortlessly between feeling everything everywhere all at once
And nothing.
And they feel freed by the fact that even in nothing
There is something .
They find peace with the feeling that they are
Fading, floating, flying, falling
Away
And they feel grateful.
Humanity’s Last Stand
This is not an ideological endorsement or political speech, but just a simple wake up call to the immeasurable value of humanity that we must raise above wars, assassin’s bullets, morose tragedies and other perils.
Nobody wins in any type of war.
The collateral damage cuts through bone, touching
the soul.
Perhaps the political climate is inherently engineered to pit person against person, when partisan ideology is worshipped more than both God and loving our neighbor as ourself.
I don’t believe we should be blind to ongoing corruption and injustice that can straddle both parties, but we must divorce internal upset from hate, and utilize our humanity with composure.
For what it’s worth.
Beryl
When you said y'all would have all our power on by Wednesday, you flat out lied.
Day six looks like it's fixin' to turn into day seven - what spin you going to weave next?
Don't make promises you can't keep...leave that to the loco politicians
Here's a tip don't give an interview with a thermostat right behind you either...
Not a good look, it's not one that hot and angry Texans appreciate.
I know we cannot control Mother Nature as she is fickle.
Beryl was a beast that whipped winds like I have never heard nor seen from any Hurricane.
The mishandling of a bad situation well, y'all got room for improvement.
The "Be Someone" mural on I-45 is legend, and now there's a new kid in town
and it can be found under I-10
Kudos to the artist who expressed "CENTERPOINTLE$$"
Well done.
Sunday is For the Blues
Sunday is for the blues,
lay back and watch yesterdays fade away.
Counting shadows on the wall,
etching memories I no longer recall,
with the dust of by gone memories.
Sadness echoes in my soul,
when was it that I became old?
Where are my lovers these long winter nights?
And who is this daughter I no longer know?
And where are the tears that are yet to fall?
And where are the dreams I once called my own?
And who is ringing me on the stupid phone?
Is it the bill collector or my life that is on hold?
Sunday is for the blues, no doubt in my mind.
Watching raindrops fall,
alone with memories I just can't recall.
Watching children dance, innocence as their friend.
Enjoy it, embrace it, live it for it ends too quickly.
Tears on a pillow.., first love, puppy love...
A silent kiss.., rude good-byes...
And then, finally, Sunday is for the blues.
Ryann
He was my favorite middle school teacher. The best kind of one. Funny, charming, etc. Never raised his voice, never had anyone get into trouble. The day of his death was September 27th, a matter of days after my birthday. His deranged roommate shot him in his own apartment building, but nobody saved him. He was long dead before help arrived.
The school loved him, we missed him. The day before he died, I created a board game with chalk in my driveway. Since then, the sensory walk in my school hallway haunts me. Never once did I purposely try it, in spite of how much his death hurt my heart.
I was young when he died. I’ve grown since then, but I certainly haven’t gotten over him. Tears almost always come to my eyes when I hear sad music, reminding me of him. He will forever be in the hearts of my entire school, all the teachers, all his friends, his family, and me.
