Thursday, November 29, 2012

Might I Suggest.

Might I suggest...

1.) Toasting yourself when you drink a glass of wine at the end of the day, even if you're already in your pajamas, at 7:30, and the only company you've got is the dog. Make a toast to yourself, and the pajamas, and the dog. He's listening, and he agrees. Cheers.

2.) Thinking about buying the first season of Bewitched at Target. Ten bucks, why not? Samantha's kind of a strong lady, what with that nose twitching thing and all, and black and white love is simple love, not much can go wrong there. 

3.) Saving your ten dollars for something else.

4.) Having french toast for dinner. Or waffles. You can have a salad, too. Green equals good. 

5.) Being okay with not knowing how to say what you feel, or how to ask for what you want, or why it makes you afraid. For that matter, being okay with not knowing how you feel. Or what you want. Or being afraid.

6.) That you don't say 'I'm sorry', quite so much. It's okay that you dropped your change at the cash register. It's okay if you need a minute more to decide. It's okay if you want a little more, or a little less, or something a little different. In fact, most of it is okay.
7.) Loving your possessions like they have life: thank your car for getting you there. Thank your computer for starting up each morning. Thank your radio for keeping you company. Your bed for cushioning your body. Your home for letting you inside, out of the cold, into its safe space. Thank the heat for coming on, the water for running, the fridge for keeping the milk cold. 

8.) Talking to the woman next to you at the laundromat. She's already seen your underwear. 

9.) Re-reading the books you loved when you were ten, or thirteen, or a senior in high school. Judy Blume knows her shit. 

10.) Saying what you feel. Asking for what you want. Being afraid and doing it anyway. 

Thanks for reading. 


Thursday, November 8, 2012

Some Days

Some mornings, far between, your legs take on a life of their own, and say, "we've got to rest". 
On those days, get gentle if you can. Listen, and say, "Okay. Tomorrow." 

Some days, your ribs take on a life of their own, and say, "there's not enough air in here". 
On these days, open the door and find the air. 

Certain hours, your heart is nothing but a floating house, inside of you. It has no doors and the windows are dark. It's a mystery house, and you sneak around its edges, curious and cautious. 
In these hours, sit and wait. A curtain flutters. 

Some midnights, you wake and can't shake the dream that held you breathless. What have you done? 
There's a dead body, and a highway, and an envy that wraps you like tightening wire. 
These midnights, feel the warmth of the bed, reach across the space, find the other being who sleeps beside you. Spread your palm across his back, which is solid ground, which shakes you free. 

Some summer evenings, you go swimming in a lake so calm you are guilty over breaking it, pushing outwards into its heavy depth. 
On these evenings, give up your guilt to the water, and know that it takes it all from you willingly. 
It washes you clean of the midnights, the things you've done, the breathless body, 
the house that is your heart that is sometimes unknown to you.