the letter

My biological aunt sent me a letter today, a most unexpected suprise. I have not seen Linda since I was a child, since I last saw my father over 12 years ago. In her letter she said this...

"We can always ask - is it Nature or Nurture? But I think it is the combination of both. Yes, you have the physical looks of a Snow. But you have the emotional well-being of your family. You are a lucky woman to be surrounded by all this love."

Indeed.

core

“Now I know what loneliness is, I think. Momentary loneliness, anyway. It comes from a vague core of the self-- like a disease of the blood dispersed throughout the body so that one cannot locate the matrix, the spot of contagion.” -Sylvia Plath

apathy

It is Saturday morning, and I have about a million things that need to complete today. I have friends to visit, community to build, conversations to have. And yet, it all seems so exhausting. I would rather spend the morning on my porch, the living and breathing recluse. I didn't sleep well last night. In fact, I haven't slept well in weeks.

I haven't talked to God much lately either. I'm not angry, or doubting, or bitter, I'm just bored. I am weary of the same circular spiritual conversations. I sick of reading spiritual books. I have this faith, and it appears almost unshakable, and yet with all my faith why do I have no desire to speak to Him. Really, the only time prayer crosses my mind anymore is when I need something, or I'm depressed, or stressed. And in these moments I usually stop myself midsentence, when I realize how utterly selfish I am being. I am like the friend who only calls you when she has nothing better to do, and just needs someone to listen to all their woes and issues.

I hate that person, and yet I am that person.

whispers

I find myself on my porch soaking in the glories of the day. I am not usually an outdoor person. That is, I am not the type of girl who needs to spend time outside on a regular basis. I have been known to spend entire days in my apartment without ever setting foot outside. However, this porch has become my safe haven of late. Perhaps it is the aged wooden planks beneath my feet, which speak of years gone past and many walks of life trodden. Or maybe it is the canopy of trees that partially obscure the suns glaring rays, allowing just enough light for it to play across the floorboards and stream in through the leaves. The squirrels are an added bonus, scampering through the trees, fighting and bickering all the while. Little snippets of the life outside my own.

Normally I come out here for the silence. Not the deadening silence of my room, that often becomes a tomb reverberating my obsessive thoughts and depressing ruminations. When I escape out here it is usually with a mug of steaming coffee, and some distracting fiction book. Today is different. I came out here with the intentions of eating my tuna sandwich and stale chips and to read Nick Hornby’s How to Be Good. However, after only a few turns of the page I found myself repulsed by the bitter and anguished humor of its pages. Moreover I was sickened by how easily I related. God, when the fuck did I become so terribly cynical? I set the book down. The silence out here is different today. Living and breathing. Alive and whispering...

fierce

Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned.
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.
-William Congreve

dancer

I cannot stop the persistent feet
Of the little dancer in my head
Adagio! Arabesque! Plié!
Sir Cavalier. Leading and pushing.
He treads on the right side of my brain
Doing tap dances and pirouettes
Fucking with my intuition, my emotions.
He saunters to the left. Gracefully.
There he moonwalks and shimmies
Distracting me from logic and reason.
Leaving behind footprints and scuff marks.
Permanent reminders of an unpredictable dance
Others cannot see his leaps and jumps.
Cannot hear the constant beating of drums.
In vain desperation to stop his performance,
I try to smoke him out.
With a clove. Or two. Or three.
Or maybe I could drown him?
In a glass. Or two. Or six.
Perhaps a scalding shower?
Another feministic diatribe?
Soothing songs of melancholy?
Meaningless fiction books?
Doubtful. Fleeting distractions.
It's all bullshit anyways.
I suppose... I could just run?
Doing my own pirouettes and pliés,
As I sprint for the fucking door.

father of lies

This time I will fight it.
The stronger demon inside,
constantly spewing his lies,
Blackening my soul.
Hardening my heart.
I will fight, I will try.
It will take all my strength,
Not to disappear within my self.
My struggle for stability.
Self-preservation
Becomes an harmful act.
Self-destruction
Resulting in a prophesy.
Self-fulfilling

"You belong to your father, the devil, and you want to carry out your father's desire. He was a murderer from the beginning, not holding to the truth, for there is no truth in him. When he lies, he speaks his native language, for he is a liar and the father of lies."