reflection

A MASTER OF FATE . . . CAPTAIN OF MY SOUL

By D-Davis

i. (a mirror cracks)
their brilliance too loud—
my beauty dressed in soft
shapeless, round, thin skin
with too many thoughts.
a house of money language
silencing my second tongue
mistaking quiet for ignorance
weight for waste
mind for nothing worth mining.
tried to be a daughter
a little girl in pastel
but always a thunderstorm in lavender—
half-boy, half-dream
named 'two spirit' girl.

ii. (unseen echoes of the family table)
raised glasses to promotions
to “success” 
to what neighbors thought
but no one toasted the mind;
ideas—uninvited guests—drowned 
in gravy and selfish gossip.
retorts dismissed as overthinking
silence mistaken for sulking
writing called nothing.
the art of being invisible
the science of shrinking—
swallows insults whole
as the throat forgets to sing.

iii. (a single heartbeat of body and illness)
as cells staged their own rebellion
pain moved like a permanent tenant—
rent-free, loud, merciless
body—a house I never chose—
leaking its secrets through the skin
while doctors stared through me 
like I was smoke or a prop.
onstage girls pointed tongues
friends faded into pixels
reflection became a rumor
too painful to chase.

iv. (leaving to a drumbeat)
riding the rails at fifteen—
no note 
no apology
journals in a backpack
hungering, grieving
outgrown pain 
what could have been life.
in the back rows of buses,
cold stages of half-lit theaters
trembling hands of people—
like-minded 
too much and not enough.
We live in the spirit 
of unmistaken light—
not as mess
not lost
but flying—
above the sky.
 
v. (becoming a breath)
I am not a product of pity.
I am the architect of becoming.
my body breaks
the voice—endures
call me what you will:
girl, ghost, heretic—inured
I am all of them 
and none of them
to master fate
and captain my soul.

Raven and I

hand in hand remove our public masks, but the other Raven slips out of doc martins in scrap metal doorways; they are a fan of underbelly crowds, flowing applause on cement pathways spinning sounds that afford access to theatres of moneyed benefactors. I let Raven sport their dangerous mixes sounding off ambition, grinding dark goth scenarios, and write my script about the other side of growing up in suburban. Ours is a tense relationship, a ying and yang, each dancing across a stage; I, wanting rainbows to color my black and white life, while they slither out of Eden and sway from daredevil chandeliers.

Raven lives for late-night clubs under lipstick red lights, and the thrill of dangerous thoughts; adoring chic heeled laughter piercing the air like glass crashing. I on the other hand live for writing workshops and ballroom dances with a day’s happy ending cooking gourmet dinners for two. Once, I tried to escape and listen to Raven’s dark loud orbit drowning out my pulse.

For years I survived Raven’s anti Lilith grinding grunge of sharp fender strings churning femme possibilities that I was told could never be touched. Forgive her grand theatrics; she thinks herself an artist. I think it’s true she penned most of this, but I’m unsure— I sit in her shadow, just a line-break away from my spotlight daydreams hoping to fill fountain penned journals.

This other Raven dreams of limelight and hailstorms, with her face reflected and refracted in stage hall mirrors, while I pore over the ink of Letters to a Young Poet, Metamorphosis, or Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Dynamic though they are, queen of an entrance, they’ve got that soft spot for corners in literati dive bars. Their broken dreams, like smudged mascara, leave marks like smoke on a blank night for empty walls. See what I mean?

Raven, never much for stillness, left behind quiet nights and happy ending bedtime stories in her high school daze. Admit their charisma, and you’ll have an ally forever. They’ll send you roses from their dressing room (possibly true), and though she never learned to play the drums to bang through a tune, her soundtrack spins like an all-night DJ behind their mask; and while she lives on stage, year-round, in the theater of self-renewal, I remain their playwright.

Navigating

A girl . . standing . . . on the sidelines . . . watching a parade . . . of family . . . a celebration of sorts
Sunday evening . . . after church . . . weekly ritual of gathering . . . those that belong . . . as opposed to those who do not
Women . . . fixed . . . in-between . . . sharing . . . dreaming . . . and watching
Do they see the little girl standing on the sideline?
Can they hear her thoughts?
She sees them . . . notices cat rimmed glasses . . . the a-line skirt . . . uncomfortable curves shifting . . . in preoccupation . . . small dialogues . . . interchanging ideas of smallness . . . small talk . . . nothing important beyond that moment
They look past the girl . . . speak to someone else . . . feel for themselves . . . in selfish pursuit . . . feigning empathy for the world . . . the girl watches . . . realizing her otherness . . . standing . . . alone . . . unafraid . . . recognizing the materialism in trying to defy nature . . . navigating its eclipse . . . feeling confident
She watches life . . . then integrates into it . . . taking a step forward . . . her momentous moment . . . transitioning . . . a single synchronicity . . . in alignment forward . . . in time . . . moving toward a future . . . telling a story . . . her story . . . a waxing . . . or waning . . . a wanting . . . as the moment of a reckoning passes.

The Root of It 

Whispers speak of secrets
Mentioned ... not to be heard
But traveling down the ear
Through a secret thread meant to hurt,
A judgment in pointed words
Pushing their narcissus
with delusion at its root
Refusing to claim any guilt.

Their chin-wag venomous
Digs, push false confines, in  
Name of righteous art, as
Their toads kill ingenuity
With calculated turmoil
In nicknamed allyship,
denying their bigoted
Fear-based duplicitous gossip.

Lies they tell themselves lace
Targeted darts, stabbing
Deep to censure voices
Deemed as enemies of their truth.
Denial is easier
Then facing forgiveness,
So, they lift misaligned swords
Thrusting in righteous defenses.

Quietly, while my pain
Fought understanding, and
Aimed to be understood,
I saw their skewed injurious courts,
Guised as collaborators
loathing artist otherness
As roots they denied in themselves.

The continued hush-hush
Whisperings inure that pain
In opaque gloss veneers
That cannot be breeched, making me 
More resolved in transforming
the ossified rootless truths
into grace with enough-as
enough postures to raze the root of it.

Blotting a Blank White Page 

Dawn stirs a waking body, without REM, 
frustrated tossing, back and forth, 
in nascent reckoning, as light breaks preoccupation.

Animals move in sounds, made in branches and woods,
not far from the window, where ears lean in,
awakening beating and stirring vibrations, connecting heart.

Hands shield, then rub away shuttered thoughts.

Slippered morning feet shuffle forward,
creating carpet lines, as memory of a journey,
to kitchen where hands ignore foisen, fumbling a brew.

Hidden under dark cabinets, with shaded crevasses,
next to a windowed sink, diminishing sun-rays
form silhouettes of the countertop infusion.

Dripping waters smell of nutty grinds,
as brewing takes time, and hands wait
with a “hurry up” never "fast enough" waiting.

A warning signals the move to the next station.

Pouring. Seasoning. Drinking, while
the blue room screams for attention, begging
hands to the mahogany desk to companion obsessions.

Feigning to start something, hands on the leather blotter freeze 
against a frenetic mood, but pushes forward, against trust,
clicking inanimate plastic ideas, or dodging turbulence, forward.

With blind expression, angst spills on white page, 
letter after letter, a deep blue ink, absorbing, 
creating blue walls, a sealant closing an inner room.

A bird hits the window, hands stop,
a momentary solace, a recognition of conflict,
animate and inanimate clash.

The clicking resumes, and blotting continues.

Preacher King

I crawled home. On my own. Bloodied and dying. 

No one came to look for me when I went missing. 

No one came to pick me up.

I crawled home. On my own. For days.

When I finally arrive, no one came to the gate to welcome me.

Momma scolded me for being late. Pops threatened me with a whip. My bloodied body bruised and broken was my fault.

 I went upstairs to wash. Slept for days.

Woke up in a rage. 

Grew up into that rage.

Found a needle to pinch my voodoo arms. 

Took a lifetime to end that shit. But finally got ended when I accepted the truths I never wanted to see.

Went to the desert. Let the burning bush burn away the pain.

Celebrated the possibilities.

I became a part of my now.

I am the Preacher King.

In Progress

moon_card

In an instant one post can send you into a tailspin. Scrolling thru the mulch of social media, and coming across an innocuous post celebrating something or other in someone else’s life, far from my own world, I confronted myself in a way that struck me with fear.

My feelings, digging deep into my psyche, in an instant, told me my path was a beeline to Loserville.

So conscious of the negative feelings, I held myself, trying to figure out what to do with them. Conscious of fear’s growing depth, with a feigned denial I continued forward, posting a few ‘hellos’ on various friend’s Facebook pages.

When uncomfortability continued, despite my efforts, I then switched to Instagram as a getaway, tring to shift up my point of view. Although I moved deliberately thru the mundane, my body quivered, with regret, fear, and loneliness rolled into one giant pit in my stomach.

After realizing the computer was only making things worse, I texted a query to someone about their apartment hunting. We started up small talk about the business of searching for a place to live, and while winding down, my text blurted a — DO YOU HAVE TIME TO TALK? I NEED TO SPEAK TO SOMEONE.

A message of such intense magnitude quickly garnered a “call” response. As soon as the voice on the other end of the phone said hello, I knew that I would be OK. I believed because that person believed in me, when I could not believe in myself. They loved me, in some odd but incredible way,  and that sense of connection, helped me to right size myself.

I’ve always been good at talking to myself, and grew to celebrate my solitude. Tonight however, the power of conversations, of talking things through with people you can trust, became the very medicine to reconnect with my true best self.

My dilemma is that I need people, yet in so many ways, constantly reject them at the same time.

I recently finished a fantastic writing group with amazing individuals. We found a safe space to open up our craft to each other, and in the process I made new friends. Small collectives binding each of us by our common purpose, but not forums of indoctrination. Working as a group, our support of one another provided each a needed sounding board. Here a new voice emerged from within me, which tempered my tenacious arrogance, while at the same time, allow me celebration of my individuality. So exciting, yet sad to end.

The picture catalyzed the fear of losing those I shared my heart with, as if the emptiness that followed became an invisible, impenetrable wall shutting those very people out.

Fear must be stopped. The solution rests upon faith it can be stopped. While the place of becoming grazes my horizon, the only foundation that must persist is to stay in the game. If one stays, and remains open to building sober references, then overcoming eventually wins out.

Reflection on Downtime

Photo on 7-20-14 at 1.09 PMNot sure how the times pan out as we roll along this republican joy ride; however I am sure of my feelings of depression, which sit in the very back row of my room, veiling forward over each conscious notion of hope.

To get thru the bleak flash that sneaks in during the day, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, and not worrying in that very moment what is beyond where my feet stand.

The pall that hovers affects the way I interpret my life’s daily reflection. Today, questioning writing dirty tricks. Wondering why I ended up standing in this limbo spot; contemplating whether there is another spot I should be in: or should the conversation be something else which I cannot see or have been excluded from.

Am I a casualty of clearing the swamp of UN-notables? Should I be content with my mediocrity, and see my creative as just another self-indulgent grandiose hobby? The fear of fear plays tenacious tricks that never seem to let the thinking remain in any place of contentment. Stay on the move, traveling forward  thru the delusion to safe ground, is consciously to conscious.

I have to re-affirm that the next mountain is right around the corner, bordered by the sea of opportunity. I enjoyed sailing on the masthead with my spade flag, and want to continue the ride across unexplored oceans and byways.

Upon giving name to this angst, I realize my guttural voice – that which the stars aligned from inception – always there – was preserved by my years of neglect and brewing, and re-imagined and re-born by recovery from the debauchery. I try not to be afraid of myself, or worry about acceptance. But I worry anyway. In the end, my intellectualism understands that me is me; you are you; and they are the others. Yet only one sits in the chair and types.