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.
Not 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.
Not 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.
The Experimental Writings of Diane Davis 