All posts tagged: prose

The Best Place to Cure What Ails You

Oh, I have so many things to tell you… Dreams are slowly coming into realization this 2016.   I had become so encumbered by negativity, it was hard to keep my head up or my eyes dry. I’ve been dealing with some “personal issues” since about 2009, and, unfortunately, there does not look to be much light at the end of that tunnel. I won’t talk much about this because there has been so much light elsewhere. 2016 has already given me so much opportunity and has opened her arms to me in kindred creativity. I have been working at a tea place here in Austin, with an absolutely amazing crew of co-workers (a rarity for the restaurant industry…at least from my experience) but yesterday was my last day. Now I am  making way for more exciting endeavors this spring. First off, I will be back out in  the Lower Pecos Canyon Lands later this month working as an archaeology intern and I just can’t wait to get back out there. I will also be taking …

A Content Disconnect

Cling to the long Branch of the world. Stars sway the tree Whose roots Tighten on an atom. ~Ted Hughes   We could live in such a way, cash in our chips and head for the hills….but modern living gets in the way more than we’d like to admit, maybe even more than we know. I’ve recently quit social media to focus on other, more meaningful things. I was never a huge fan of Facebook, or Twitter, & etc… mostly because I never really knew what to say on those things…. But I admit, I liked Instagram. If you haven’t already noticed, I’m sort of a sucker for pretty pictures, and that gave me a particularly nice social outlet (if you can even call it that.) I’m relatively reclusive and sometimes it’s just nice to show the world/whoever happens to be looking, some creative piece of yourself, so I enjoyed social media for that reason… However, lately, as the days go by, it just seemed increasingly worthless. I got tired of checking my phone, I got tired of …

Summer Thus Far…

Talked to a friend on the phone, told her I’d forgotten how to write. It’s true. Maybe it’s just that I have nothing to say really. Who is it I’m speaking to now, exactly? I’ve been told too often that I’m overly vague. But my life isn’t exactly something that can entertain pages upon pages, or even a handful of people really. To be honest, it’s just scraps, feathered pieces of paper torn on each end. Sometimes I wonder why I even write things here…. And then I remember: because it feels good to write things down. Put words down on a page that only really half-exists. Anyway, back to the content of my life, I’m ambiguous and indistinct. Maybe that’s why I’ve taken to poems. The right people to seem to understand them (or at least in my mind they do.) It’s like a type of codex; poems unite likewise minds flowing down the current of the universe. But in attempt to be a little less vague, let me share a little piece of …

Nothing More to Want

I sit & watch the dawn creep Through under the door The tin roof flapping like a starved lark Breathing air into a set of broken lungs My hands stay warm around my glass And I take notice: I am whole There’ s nothing more to want, & if that’s so, there’s nothing left. I’ve escaped to towns that No one comes from Babies born on the road to Unburdened mothers It’s a half-handed happiness To have nothing more to want Laying on the floor of an empty Room recalling a season spent In a sleepy town, the cold Lingers on your lashes The skies taste of ponderosa pine Press your fingers between the bark & smell the vanilla Snow catches in your ankles As you stumble home Dizzied by jewels in the sky Maybe I will find myself stumbling back there one day… The thought fades & the tin roof Slams again The warm summer Sits still like a promise Yet whispered Beetles fall from the Cracks in the ceiling Dogs bark as the  …

Roots

Some people have roots in their homeland, they hold a sense of belonging… A sense of purpose, the will, and want and need to nurture. Others, do not. Others take their roots with them; they harness them to the bottom of their soles and walk on, unknowing, but proud into that forethought, be it out of necessity or needlessness. I fall somewhere in between. The gypsy in me, like all of us, was born before into once solid bodies surmised only by the existence of their faith, their paths erased but their souls forever survived by the essence of one thing: Purpose. I’m relearning my purpose in the world, I’m recognizing my inner need and yearn to help others, and I’m slowly cultivating my outlet for that. The past year or two has been a roller coaster. I’ve traveled from one end of the country to the other, in a less romantic way than it may seem. I’ve abandoned ideas and embraced new ones, I’m learning and praying to the goddess to help me see my obstacles …

Ode to Earth

Love hides in loneliness, in the hollow parts of the soul. It sits there, in the dark, waiting patiently for distant murmurs to become vivid voices.  But it does not call out, will not call out.   That is the law that governs the heart,  It is for the seeker, Alone, to find Looking or not.  Sometimes you’ll see it shining between blades of grass,   or glistening on overturned stones at the bottom of riverbeds. Sometimes, it flicks back and forth in the flame of a candle, But other times, it stays lost and forlorn.  I went away this weekend. I packed my car & hit the road at midnight. I like traveling by myself, I like the freedom of just going, without fear, without resilience. I drove through the indigo dark down desert roads, and abandoned railroad towns. I passed weigh stations, and souls slumbering in their semis, like dragons guarding their hoards. It rained off and on & I kept a watchful eye on the creatures of the night (deer, and rabbit, and …

An Ever-small Collection

I remember when love was young and I was young right with it. But the sun would rise and set and rise and I began (though ever-slowly) To forget it. I used to have this belief that one should never try to write, & so, I didn’t. I waited. I waited for the words to come naturally, to wash over me like a summer rain, but when they did come, they were nothing more but drips of scattered showers. I still, in my self-proclaimed Bukowski-esque mindset don’t try to write. But I am trying to give myself time. I’m getting older, my hands are becoming increasingly calloused. Greys are sprouting up at the top  of my head. I thoroughly enjoy the quiet. I seek it out & embrace it when it comes running to me. I savor the smallest moments, morning coffee, rainy day walks, my window rolled down in traffic. I used to believe that remaining stagnant and becoming satisfied only limited what one was capable of achieving. I don’t know if I believe …