Swinging Away, This Childhood

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written November 2008

I went over to my friend’s house this Friday. At the park, I walked over to two kids that looked about eight and six at the park, asked what they were doing, and invited them to a game of tag.

It ended up in a swinging contest. I was the judge.

I called the picture Swinging Away, This Childhood, because I know being a kid isn’t going to last, and you’re just swinging in the air, all free and happy with the wind messing up your hair. And then, before you know it, you have to get off and your childhood’s gone.

Maybe it’s not like that. But maybe it is. I’m not the one to speak. After all, I’m still swinging.

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Reverie

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Sometimes I find myself lost in paintings: the best pieces, I think, are transportive. You’re no longer in the pristine museum with white walled divides or the living room with its gaudy frames. You’re on some field instead, climbing over oil globs and brush marks and resting in blended shade. You’re on the rainbow trail dotted with pink painted flora. You’re somewhere else instead, dancing in visual reverie.

ghost ships, grandmothers, icing on cake — erased narrative

tonight I felt briefly, for the first time, that poetry is dance. spoken word poetry. the expressiveness that is embodied in physicality, carefully emphatic bows of the arms, deliberate fingers drawing gliding shapes in the air, brushing the temple, cupping the ribs, curling into undulating waves against the precipitous cliffs on the coast of ireland.

and the voice is its own rhythm, lilts on her lips.

I’ve never felt for poetry the way I do for prose; too many teachers in stuffy classrooms prompting inane interpretations of line breaks and stressed consonants and the breath a phrase takes as the narrator’s brother rattles a last inhalation in his chest. too many rules drawing lines around the emotion, too many thematic analyses bleaching the colour out of the words, too many lists of technical jargon flattening the paper. but the spoken word sings.

via ghost ships, grandmothers, icing on cake — erased narrative

This was so beautiful, well-put and apt that I decided to share it (My first share! who knew you could repost on WordPress?)

Shout out to erased narrative, one of my favorite bloggers/writers here.

Lost in my Mind

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Scarlet scarfs frayed at the edges. Orange-yellow bulbs of life, warm against the blue black bruises of the cold outside. Home is a phone call away.

The coffeeshop is empty, save for the hawkish worker with the light eyes who started a few years ago. He wasn’t here when I was ten, when this place was new, and I only ever asked for mango smoothies.

And it’d come out artificial-creamy sweet, rich sun yellow against a dollop of white. I’d scoop out the whipped cream with the outer edge of my straw, slurp it into a pathetic heap at the corner I couldn’t reach.

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Familiar strumming overhead. A lollying tune, an indie low-whine. Drawn out wail of a banjo and musician who sounds like he sports a beard and wears pea-green jackets with camo sleeves,

Lost in my mind, lost in my mind, I’ve been lo-o-o-o-st—

They play this song every time I come in. It’s on the coffeeshop playlist, and it always has ben, unchanging, carved in time, shaping my own musical preferences as I bury my head in words.

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Insomnia. There’s a softened edge to memory, to memory’s memory of insomnia, to memory’s memory of the insomniac’s late-night thoughts. Other things mattered then, trivial things, mind-numbing replays of the inconsequential, and that was what kept me up.

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The things that matter now stand in sharp relief against the mindset I’d held then.

Sun streams in through the window. On five hours of sleep, I crawl out of bed.

At this coffeeshop, littered with people working hard and hardly working, I order nothing from the bar. I bring a water in. I peruse through reddit and creepypasta and play psychic word games. When I pass the counter, the barista jokes about throwing out my water container, but I can’t tell if it’s a joke, so I laugh as though it is, and throw the water out.

Overheard, Lost in my Mind plays. And for a moment, I’m enmeshed in the warm cocoon of nostalgia, buried in tunnel vision.

Summer Putty

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Lately, time’s been this weird amorphous blob. Putty melting and shifting. Sidewalk glob. The sun doesn’t set until eight each night. I’m tricked into thinking I have more time than I do. Then, before I know it, it’s dark and eleven.

So I’ve been toying with the putty of time, driving down winding roads with the windows down and radio up. I love when time takes on this kind of quality. She’s whizzing by, but in this languid mellow way, telling you not to worry about days passing by…

June 2018