Moon Path

Could I follow, Lady Journey?
Could I follow where you go?
Could I jot down all the wonders that I know you're going to show?

Could I watch, Lady Wander?
I wonder wither where you roam.
I'd map your movements, map your footsteps like the wrinkles on my palm.

Could I whisper, Lady Listen?
Tell me, how would you respond?
Would my words come back as echoes like shouts across a pond?

Could I rest now, Lady Weary?
Could I slumber by your side?
I could sleep beneath the stars and have all the time to bide.


Once upon a time there was a wanderer. A mourner. A moonbeam dancer.
Such a delicate flower, some said. Fairer than most, they proclaimed. But was this fair flower as lovely in death? 
Was the willow form maiden pleasant to look at after the accident? 
Ghosts rarely are. It's not their way. To be a ghost is to be a monster. But a quiet one, a insubstantial fear, a cold breath and nothing more.
Ann Lyn Matter was not a pretty ghost. Ann Lyn Matter did not deal with the accident well. But the dead rarely deal with their own passing well. 
Ann had been a beauty, a flower, the kind of women you can't help but stare at. She had been clever and charming and was on her way to becoming a bride.
And now she was dead.
It had happened on the eve of her wedding night. As most tragedies do. What better time for a misfortune to come than one the brink of ones happiness? 
Her fiance had come for tea and after the meal they had gone walking in the garden. In a sheltered nook, surrounded by lilac bushes and dying elder trees, they had sat down for a bit. If pressed, Ann could recollect the exact texture of her fiance's coat, the feel of velvet and linen on her cheek.
A well. In the middle of the garden. It had been out of service for years but Ann suddenly craved the taste of fresh water.
A lean. Ann had leaned over the rough stone lip of the well, too far it seemed. As her hand touched the worn bucket rope, her fiance's had reached out to steady her. 
Water. Ann would never need water again. She still remembers the feeling of flight, downward flight. Of wet clothing pulling her deeper into the well's depths. How her betrothed turned away as soon as she'd lost her balance.
Ann had not planned to be a ghost. Not like that. To this day she still torments over the moment of falling, did her husband-to-be push or steady? 
No one will know.
And now Ann is a moon beam dancer. A twilight guest. Her wandering path is littered with ripped lilac buds. She waits for him.


Could I watch, Lady Wander?

Age

I am old past reckoning

I am tree rings, countless

I am the broken spine on a book that has had many past readings

I am wrinkled and I am frail, fingers sore from thousands of handshakes, millions of embraces, dozens of piano played notes.

I am 89

I am 32485 days long

My cast shadow droops and drags behind me, as tired as I. Weary of shading the ground I walk.

I have been wife, mother, maid, ruler of the roost, comforter, past my prime, sore, weary, temper driven, emotionally drained.

 I hold earth worms on the tops of my hands, blue- fat- age extenuated. Years before I would pull them out of the ground, dirt under my fingernails.

I forget and yet I remember all my past mistakes, all my short answers, my moments of regret.

I am tired and ready

I am a force of nature ready to wind down

Burrow into the ground

Sleep with the rest of my generation

I am old past reckoning, your reckoning  

You cannot remember the old times, vintage times, the good old days

And now my good days are old

I am old past reckoning, but I still smolder

Underneath the wrinkles, underneath the worm veins, the speckled skin, the droops, I still burn. My deepest parts hold a flickering match; I hold my breath because the slightest waver will snuff it out.

To you, young skin, fresh joints, light laugh, I look like a bag of bones. I look overworked, prone to snap, weak.

But if my memories were a wall and my experiences were a moat, you could never touch me. Never climb the wall of Aunt’s faces, Uncle’s funerals, thousands of shopping carts, grandchildren’s first smiles, millions of steps.

But sit down by me, hold my worm hands, maybe I will tell you what ‘past reckoning’ feels like.

The Texture of Words

Today, like most days, I sat on my verbiage till it behaved and sank into my word doc. I have to do this or else they'll up and run off. Little scamps.

Writing has been queer as of late. Like I'm watching myself write, out of body. And most of the time I scream suggestions and orders that my robot body ignores. Hello back space key.

But what I have written has been toothsome, crunchy. Like a toast piece spread with ink. I'm not entirely convinced that it's a good thing.


Chipotle with Faith.We hummed. We pulled back and forth on our plot strings until they aligned and behaved themselves.
Faith has a mind that would make a film producer drool. Cracking Box Office records kind of mind. Her worlds are like an inside out diamond. Equally as beautiful but in a way that makes you sit up and take a second look.

I love textured writing. I love writing you can listen to and I love the color haze they leave behind in your mind. Green and wet and growing as it roots into your memories and surfaces whenever you see their creator.

I have a little girl. Such a face. Such a fearsome little face. Human but with a personality that would be better suited to tiny fangs and stomping hooves and tendrils of heat flickering out of her ears. She does not write easy. No sir. I type sweet and she changes sour. I insist here and she reaches through the screen and hammers N O T   L I K E L Y.  So like most of my writing I end up going their way. Such is the temperament of words.

Cars and the idiots that drive them

I knew his car was going to hit mine about two seconds too late. Two seconds did squat. Perfect right?

Reflexes are for contemplation, not for use in the actual moment of need. Or at least that's what I found out last night.

Had just gotten off work, good shift, the boss man made me laugh. Had Wendy's sea salt fries, was helpful to customers. Found Twilight's third book for a lady that was going to give it to her son, not sure if I'm overly proud of that fact. But I was useful, see. I was adult, right? I did things on my own!
Left turn, signaled, two cars behind me went right around me, no trouble.

Rear view mirrors are the same as reflexes, too little too late. He hit me, going about 40mph, and it felt pitiful weak in comparison to the damage both of our cars sustained. Like bumper cars except I felt like crying and screaming less than complementary stuff and flexing my fingers till glass shards popped out the knuckles. And then beating his careless self.

It hurt. I got out of the car, rubber legs, breath coming in short gasps rather than ones that would actually keep the oxygen in my lungs. I wish I hadn't skipped lunch....and dinner, I wish I hadn't had pop for breakfast.

Was it raining? Of course. Was it bitter cold, you know it. Are there tiny violins prancing around my head as I type? A plethora of them.

"This blows." He grunted, hands on head. He squatted down by his mangled car. It dripped clear fluid like a fresh wound bleeds red. It died a quick and hopefully painless death. I am guilt free because I didn't try to drive it under another person's car, mainly mine. He them proceeded to try to pull the hood of his car off his steaming engine.

I know nothing about cars but I should've said, "Hey bud! Quick questions for ya! If you managed to knock out all the dents in your car would that fix your problems? Lemme answer that for you, NO. YOU TRASHED YOUR CAR! IT IS DEADER THEN MY HOPES OF EVER OWNING A PONY ARE!"

But I agreed with his "This blows." comment.

"Yes," I murmured cleverly, "Yes it does."

He apologized, then apologized again. And I agreed with him once more, "Yes. Yes you are."
WHAT AN AGREEABLE PAIR WE ARE!

Fortunatly an emergency vehicle flashed up and parked in back of us, I walked unsteadily over to him and weakly smiled.

"Hi there." GAH SO CLEVER AND WITTY JANELLE. so witty.

"You want me to call the police?" He asked, his eyes were kindly brown. But I acted tough, sniffled a tad and then nodded in thanks, "That would be great."

He smiled slightly and started to dial.

I walked back over to my car.

"You ok?" The guy asked me tentatively.

I did my best to keep my laughter 'crazy' free. Did my darnedest. "Yeah. Great. You?"

Keepin it pleasent till the bobbies show up. Nice.

They finally did, I was grateful, I don't know of anyone who enjoys making small talk to the guy who just trashed you parent's car, myself included.


So I sat in my car, and gave the police my sorry tale of woe, and swallowed back tears as Hannah distracted me with amusing antidotes.

Click, click, click. Went the emergency lights.

"The only 'B' I ever got at Harper was from that guy!" Hannah chirped, she was leaning close to me, not touching, but reassuring none the less. "He went on strike!" She laughed.


Hannah has greeny blue eyes and they are quite comforting. Hannah is my panther sister. Hannah is my 'every thing will be ok sister' kind of sister. Hannah was a good person to have called.


Drive the car home, burning rubber.

I can still remember the sight, I should probably try to forget. But it was one of those searing moments. the ones that your like 'Oh, never going to forget this!'
Remembering what a egg I am. Fragile, prone to crack. Easily strewn out on blacktop.

If I had my wheels turned I would've been pushed right onto Northwest Highway. 5:00.

God is good. The ending to all stories. God is always good.

So close...

49,239


Great leaping fish. Just over 10,000 to go.

Like a green leaf turns brown and drops to the floor

Like an ocean tide, I won’t be no more

Like the end of breath, the new one begins

The new color comes, the old one rescinds 

So close indeed. But my brain recently slammed its door in my face and I heard it laughing behind the wood work. The little troll....

I'll get him. My brain is a him, most of the time. And if you think that's odd then you should come visit sometime. 

It struck me to day that I have happiness bursts. Strange, yes? They're like heart attacks only...not painful and...not at all like a heart attack actually. But when they strike no amount of my scolding an thinking 'grim' will stifle them. Usually I just grin like a abnormally tall Gremlin, lips twisting like I just ate the sugar out of the bottom of a sour skittle bag. Quite embarrassing. 

For example, went to Hobby Lobby for some art supplies and one jumped me. I ended up wriggling with unexplainable joy for a good three seconds, made a few small children cry...just joking. Not really. 

But it's physical, like a shot of adrenalin. And there is usually no logical reason for them!! I was buying art supplies for Harper Homework. And no, that does not usually send me into thralls of joy. I suppose it could be worse. Unless I start cackling, that would only further the whole Gremlin image I'm NOT going for.
:)P GOTCHA BRAIN. HAHA! FOOT IN THE DOOR. I'M OFF TO FINISH THE BOOK!

ll/ll/ll 11:11 PM.

It feels strange. Strange that I will never write that series of numbers again. Unless there are pens in heaven.

Howl night.

Wave night.
Nerves crackling like Saint Elmo's fire.
Twas splendid. Surrounded by people I love to be with.
We were crazy- wake the neighbors- wolf howl- 11:11- kinda people last night.

Oh the costumes, they made me glad. Prance about and scream that everyone looked as goofy as I. And no one minded. It's good for insanity to have company.

My house was covered in people I love. Surrounding. Constant waves of smiles, touches, jokes.

Perform a Shakespeare kinda skit. Grabbed the laughs and stuffed them in my pockets to crunch and munch on later. My sister Alison is a rocky star.

Epic night.
Thanks one and all.

And now I'm insane....

Well, crazier than usual.

Dear nanorimo, you are a horribly efficient slave driver. Thanks for munching and crunching up all my free time.

BUT 26,000 WORDS! I MAKE PROGRESS. Yes I do...

I'm not technically doing nanorimo right, I started my novel in late Octoberish and will have the first draft of Turpintown done on the 20th of November! Whoowhoo. (me as an excited train) Red and tree jumpers and humming! OH AND POETRY! Much excitement. Muchly.
But no, I didn't really complete a novel in a month, just about. :)

Small excerpt:

There’s an island in the sea

With a cherry red tide

Lots of trees, lots of brush

But no safe place to hide

On those forest covered hills

Rooted in the blood hue soil

There are vicious, joint less monsters

That don’t like you at all

Faces blank as slates

You wish you never saw

Keep your eyes out of their gaze

Or they’ll snap your gaping jaw

The island is their life blood

Their voices, high pitched vowels

Abandon thoughts of mercy

Beware the humming Howls

SNIPPETY SNIPPET! 
84 pages. Longest I've ever written.


Also I am now administrator of Top Shelf Books open mic! Whoot! Come to the next one! Dec 8th! Thurs night! It will grand and splendid!