cycle
(8/09)
breaking down the word- the world, into tiny scraps and fragments
pieces of a human shell
jagged and torn
we put back together with glue
and bits of ingenuity
and hope they fit
but usually
no
breaking down the thought- the train- the tossing and turning of words and images
in hope of creating one
single
thing
but creation is never simple
isn't that the truth
breaking down the questions- into smaller ones- into half-questions- into
huh
and
what
and
how
but never
answered
the sky is a light silver, today
and the rain falls down as if from a lawn sprinkler
quickly and delicately
my thoughts race
about the state of the future
and sustaining a family, a home, and a life
when will I let the rain in to my pacing/racing brain?
When will I let the peace into my being and breathe deeply?
When will it ever be enough?
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
"did i just hear an alarm start ringin?"
"Did I just hear an alarm start ringin? Did I hear sirens go flyin' past? Though I don't know what tomorrow's bringin', I've got a singular impression things are movin' too fast."-jason robert brown
I don't know if it is because I'm American, or I live in the NY metro area, or what, but I feel like life goes flying past so quickly, and we are constantly being pushed to keep up with the pace. It's not that I want to take my life leisurely and lay back on a farm all day and watch the birds go by. It's just that so many things have happened, even in the last year, and I wish I could have more time with them, to digest them, to absorb them, to revel in the glory and the bliss of getting married, and to be grateful for the miracles, like my Grandfather (Poppy) and Aunt Babs having major brain surgery, and both recovering quickly and well!
I remember, when our family used to go to Philly to visit Grandma and Papa, and we would walk along the streets by Rittenhouse Square, and my dad would hold my hand and always be pulling me, as if we had to be somewhere and I was holding them back. When I asked my dad if he would walk slower, he would always tell me that his sister had long legs too, and she used to drag him around, and it helped him to walk faster, so that's what he would do with me. There are a few differences here. I am 5'2'', my dad is 6'3''. My aunt is at least 6'0". Besides that, I don't know why my dad felt the need to justify the fact that he was basically making me race all the time. Sometimes, the leaves would be so beautiful, in the fall, and we would walk by Urban Outfitters, or a park, and I would want to slow down and enjoy it, or I would want to stop to watch,and he would rush me along, telling me to take longer steps. Take longer steps? He told me my steps were too small. I wanted to yell at him. What was wrong with my little steps? I had little short, legs that made little steps, and I liked my pace.
Now, as I walk the streets of the town I live in, I do so slowly, but aware. I know that my pace isn't the fastest, nor the slowest on the street. But what I do know is that I'm comfortable in my shoes, and with my pace. It took a really long time to get here, of feeling judged, pressured, always rushed, never good or fast enough. But I'm here. We have to accept people for who they are. I am short and chubby and I walk slowly. My dad is tall and neurotic and walks quickly. This is the way things are. Some realities hit you at odd times. I realized, about a year after I moved out of my parents' house, how much their judgement wore me down, and made me feel so horrible about myself. My parents are really good people, but with the best of intentions can also come heartache and frustration. I don't blame them in any way for how they raised me, because I know they did their best. But, sometimes, when I get out of the car and walk into a store, I turn around, worried that the world is passing me by, that people are staring, that I am indeed, this freak of nature with the short, stubby legs.
Is this a creation that my dad invented to try to motivate me to lose weight?
Or am I just what I am?
I don't know if it is because I'm American, or I live in the NY metro area, or what, but I feel like life goes flying past so quickly, and we are constantly being pushed to keep up with the pace. It's not that I want to take my life leisurely and lay back on a farm all day and watch the birds go by. It's just that so many things have happened, even in the last year, and I wish I could have more time with them, to digest them, to absorb them, to revel in the glory and the bliss of getting married, and to be grateful for the miracles, like my Grandfather (Poppy) and Aunt Babs having major brain surgery, and both recovering quickly and well!
I remember, when our family used to go to Philly to visit Grandma and Papa, and we would walk along the streets by Rittenhouse Square, and my dad would hold my hand and always be pulling me, as if we had to be somewhere and I was holding them back. When I asked my dad if he would walk slower, he would always tell me that his sister had long legs too, and she used to drag him around, and it helped him to walk faster, so that's what he would do with me. There are a few differences here. I am 5'2'', my dad is 6'3''. My aunt is at least 6'0". Besides that, I don't know why my dad felt the need to justify the fact that he was basically making me race all the time. Sometimes, the leaves would be so beautiful, in the fall, and we would walk by Urban Outfitters, or a park, and I would want to slow down and enjoy it, or I would want to stop to watch,and he would rush me along, telling me to take longer steps. Take longer steps? He told me my steps were too small. I wanted to yell at him. What was wrong with my little steps? I had little short, legs that made little steps, and I liked my pace.
Now, as I walk the streets of the town I live in, I do so slowly, but aware. I know that my pace isn't the fastest, nor the slowest on the street. But what I do know is that I'm comfortable in my shoes, and with my pace. It took a really long time to get here, of feeling judged, pressured, always rushed, never good or fast enough. But I'm here. We have to accept people for who they are. I am short and chubby and I walk slowly. My dad is tall and neurotic and walks quickly. This is the way things are. Some realities hit you at odd times. I realized, about a year after I moved out of my parents' house, how much their judgement wore me down, and made me feel so horrible about myself. My parents are really good people, but with the best of intentions can also come heartache and frustration. I don't blame them in any way for how they raised me, because I know they did their best. But, sometimes, when I get out of the car and walk into a store, I turn around, worried that the world is passing me by, that people are staring, that I am indeed, this freak of nature with the short, stubby legs.
Is this a creation that my dad invented to try to motivate me to lose weight?
Or am I just what I am?
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