storyrainthejournal: (Default)
sometimes it's the only way I can say what's in me...

Standing here

Wondering where exactly

Here is

Thinking of my ancestors

Thinking, should I leave now—leave

This here, where now the nightmare drifts

A deadly gas

Promise of horror

Do I fight on?

And writing—how

In this midst, this here, this now

Write my far flung, deep-set

Stories of others and self, self as others

Adventuring, fighting the dark forces

How do you fight a deadly gas?

Go always masked

Wear clown noses

Bury your face in the cat’s soft fur and breathe

Only the scent of love and warmth?

Hide in the woods

Deep in the water, breathing through reeds

Listen for far off music

Listen, for hope, for love, for strength, hands to hold

An embrace of comfort in the dark—


Weren’t those
Only stories?

storyrainthejournal: (what?)

I have a little cat in my lap

He is bony in places and

Has shrunk a bit in the last year

As have I

Both of us

A little more fragile

The white parts of his fur

Aren’t always as clean

As they once were and


I have to wash a little schmutz off his nose

He still puts a paw over one of my hands to hold it there

So I must type one-handed

And we both sigh

Only, I think, because there is comfort in a sigh, because it is a breath

Taken deep


storyrainthejournal: (colette'shandw/cat)
I will wear my moon hat
And dance in the shower
And hope someone sends me a forest
Lonely ever after

I will wear my moon hat
And dance with a blue bear
Singing warm and moody songs to one another
We’ll pretend to be without a care

My moon hat shines so softly
White flowers grow on vines twining up my arms and legs
Drinking salt water and turning it sweet
And all the animals dreaming, like to crack my heart


Nov. 27th, 2012 02:46 pm
storyrainthejournal: (luminousrain)

Sometimes you don’t trust the words

You are all inchoate longing

And a rifted crackle of insecurities

Sometimes you can only cry

Curl up and hug yourself to yourself

For who else will embrace you when

You are this mess

Of unlovely hurt and insecurities

Ludicrous things these insecurities

Misshapen and comical if they were not so


Sometimes only music or silence or breath

Speaks your soul your mind your blood

Sometimes you only wish want need to go

Home to be loved wanted accepted nurtured not

Left behind abandoned rejected ignored alone

Sometimes you need to be quiet

Because all that will come out is a wail

Bloody cutting gems

Crying orphaned birds

Other things best kept

Private silent relic

Things to use when later words come back

Logic and pattern return and

Beauty finds its way behind your eyes into your

Voice again

storyrainthejournal: (fable)
Loneliness is a thing that happens to most people. For the unpaired, once-abandoned children among us, e.g., me, it's a companion in its own right.

Last night's dreaming contained an element frequent to my dreams, a strong sadness, near desperation, in the search for a place to live in the world where there will be support and comraderie. This has been amped up lately as I've been thinking about how I'd like to move to Portland, Or. Except there's no dayjobs there and I have to have a dayjob, and moving is scary when you're alone.

Austin's been a good place for me. I love my loft. I know a lot of folks. But they're all paired off and many have kids and they're just busy with their own lives, not really very there, in that supportive, community-feeling way. I reach out, invite people to go to dinner, movies, etc., but they just have too much already going on.  

A lot of the time, that's okay; but also quite regularly, it is not so okay.

Enter this Mary Oliver poem, excerpted on Terri Windling's blogpost today (*you know about the amazing auction raising money for the amazing Terri, currently in need, right? Glittering scads of remarkable items and services on offer there.)

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

© Mary Oliver

This is, btw, one of the elements that contributed to my becoming a writer at an early age, the desire to participate in this offering of the world, the vast and inspiring natural world, to my imagination.
storyrainthejournal: (mehat)
Here is my mom, April of last year, with me, my sister, niece, and step-dad.

My mom has always been more the waterwoman mother (also known as the dragonfly mother) than the earthwoman* mother. I've had abandonment issues, as it were, since six. But I love her very much, and I'm very glad she's in my life now. And really, would I be the me, and the writer I am, without her? No.

*from the poem by Denise Levertov, included under the cut
if you feel like a spot of poetry )from those Levertov poems (sans proper spacing, sorry) )

if you feel like a spot of poetry )


storyrainthejournal: (Default)

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