~Sidelined~

Sidelined
So you may shine
Brightly
Lightly
Stepping in
The spot light
Awakening
From the dark night
Or so you think
As you drink
From the flask
Behind the mask
Of ego
I am incognito
Watching you
Through and through
As you climb
This paradigm
Of powerless power
In a towerless tower
Hour by hour
The higher you go
Hour by hour
The lesser you know
And yet I allow
This now
Somehow
For when towers crumble
And egos humble
And you are falling
I’ll hear you calling
Catch me
Hold me
Love me
Please?
And I’ll reply
To clarify
Until there is no tower
You will have no power
And that is why
I feed your lie
Everytime you cower
Upon destruction of your tower.
One day
May you say
You are my power
And in that hour
May you see
You are me
We are we
And that is all
BeIsBe.

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~The Fork in Your Road~

I see the man
Aware of me
Aware of
The dichotomy
Of this way
And that way
On one hand
Listening to
What they say
Quietly
Stoically
“This is how its supposed to be”
Says he
Convincingly
Some days
Unconvincingly
Other days
Wondering
Blundering
Covering
Up
The fire
Of desire
To walk
Another way.

On the other hand
Theres no listening to
What they say
Loudly
Proudly
Out loudly
Speaking
“I honor a different way”
Says he
Convincingly
Some days
Unconvincingly
Other days
Driven
Ambition
Admission
Of
The fire
May dim
Within him
If what he knows
Becomes not
What he chose
Silently opposed
He will stay.
Quietly grey
He will say
“I was brave enough to know the other way.”

~Almost~

I nearly missed
The leaves this year
Thier colors falling
Thier cycles calling
For me
To pay attention
To my apprehension
Of seasons
Revealing
The bittersweet
healing
That comes
With the frost
When all seems lost
The suffering cost
Reveals to me
The sacred reminder
Of this valiant fighter
Who walks amongst
The light
“Do not forsake
Even when
you break
Wide Open and
Frozen in awe
You withdraw”
I shake my head
For I am aware
Of this thred weaving
The deep believing
Of lesson once learned
Until feeling the burn
Of inattention
Then intervention
Felt painfully raw
In the winter withdraw
Now clearly i see
You will forever be
Blinded by darkness
Not worth the fight
For defeat is unknown
To a warrior of the light

~nj

Our Unwritten Story

Memories of our story, drown out the voices in my head. Maybe someday I will unlock this place, and write the story that spills out. Maybe it will be the masterpiece of my life unwritten. I like what it is for now.

STORY YET TO WRITE

On Not Being Able to Write It–Wendy Rawlings

JUNE 23, 2014

In 1988, fresh out of college and working at a macrobiotic deli in a health food store, I had an affair with the stock manager, a married Irishman living illegally in the United States and the father of a three-month-old daughter. In the mornings, when we met before work to make love in the back of my car, he smelled of baby powder and the beer he’d drunk the night before at what he called his local, The Dribble Inn. We flirted through the workday, French-kissed in the walk-in freezer. One day six months or so after our affair began he didn’t show up for work. Just like that, he was gone. This was in the days before cell phones; he didn’t get in touch to tell me that his wife had found out and given him an ultimatum: quit his job or she’d take his daughter away and make sure he never saw her again.

Two years later I’m in graduate school in Colorado, sharing an apartment with some guy working on his MBA. At seven in the morning I get a phone call. It’s the Irishman. He and his wife have split up; he wants to see me again. In his wallet he’s been carrying a note I wrote him. He has read it so many times that it’s falling apart.

He flies out to visit me. I’ve just gotten over the chicken pox and my face is still flecked with scars. We’re massively in love with each other. I have written down everything that’s happened between us, since the day we met, and in his absence I’ve imagined him and dreamed about him and probably misremembered him in a hundred thousand ways. Now we’ve found our way back to each other. I spend most of the next summer in the tiny house he rents with three other men, two of them English and living in the States illegally. For its cesspool problem the house has earned the nickname, “The Swamp,” which we have to navigate to get inside and make love on his twin bed with the trundle pull out for when his daughter stays with him.

I move to Utah to pursue a Ph.D. We maintain our relationship long distance. Two years later, on my birthday, my friends take me to Chili’s for dinner. I’m sitting there wondering why my friends have taken me to a shitty fast food restaurant on my birthday when a waiter steps up to the table and places an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne in front of me. The waiter is my Irishman. He has come straight from the airport and he’s here to stay.

I’m one of those writers who draws from my own life to write fiction. My first book is a collection of short stories, Come Back Irish. Versions of the Irishman appear in many of my stories. But someday, I tell myself I’ll write a memoir. That memoir.

I have tried for thirteen years to write that memoir.

I have not written that memoir.

http://bendinggenre.com/2014/06/23/on-not-being-able-to-write-it-wendy-rawlings/

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Bending Genre

In 1988, fresh out of college and working at a macrobiotic deli in a health food store, I had an affair with the stock manager, a married Irishman living illegally in the United States and the father of a three-month-old daughter. In the mornings, when we met before work to make love in the back of my car, he smelled of baby powder and the beer he’d drunk the night before at what he called his local, The Dribble Inn. We flirted through the workday, French-kissed in the walk-in freezer. One day six months or so after our affair began he didn’t show up for work. Just like that, he was gone. This was in the days before cell phones; he didn’t get in touch to tell me that his wife had found out and given him an ultimatum: quit his job or she’d take his daughter away and make…

View original post 1,185 more words

10 of the Greatest Essays on Writing Ever Written

Flavorwire

If there’s one topic that writers can be counted on to tackle at least once in their working lives, it’s writing itself. A good thing too, especially for all those aspiring writers out there looking for a little bit of guidance. For some winter inspiration and honing of your craft, here you’ll find ten great essays on writing, from the classic to the contemporary, from the specific to the all-encompassing. Note: there are many, many, many great essays on writing. Bias has been extended here to personal favorites and those available to read online. Also of note but not included: full books on the subject like Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, Stephen King’s On Writing, and Ron Carlson’s Ron Carlson Writes a Story, or, in a somewhat different sense, David Shields’ Reality Hunger, for those looking for a longer commitment. Read on, and add your own…

View original post 1,395 more words