When the smile moved to me it didn't lose (any of/a bit of) its warmth. I realized that this proved she didn't recognize me (after all). No more than I had expected, I had let myself believe--I had left her when she was barely six years old, mind you. She nodded at me, paused in a way that wasn't in wait, then immediately began signing to me, evidently knowing I'd understand: Hi mom.
I'd been wrong. I had misread the smile as though to a stranger, forgetting that's all I was to her--whether or not she'd kept a picture of my former self in her head (all along,) now to draw upon after all these years. Hi daughter. I signed back, bravely testing her emotion by claiming her, having indeed/in fact not/never lost this sleight-of-hand skill of communication.
Showing posts with label Janey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Janey. Show all posts
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Janey
"Not fair, not fair, not fair!" She'd raged against the sofa pillows for fifteen minutes, slamming her tightly closed fists into them until they flew up and dance-popped around like nervous kettle corn. Her voice was nearing ragged by now, but she failed to notice this, at least to the freezing point of cessation. She repeated her mantra (redundant?) in hush and harsh tones, not yelling so much as whispering with a solid force, and her tone was matter-of-fact rather than wounded complaint. So the injustice her words meant to express never got past her lips, and thus stayed within to stagnate and convince her rebellions to press on, avoiding relief at all costs.
But as suddenly as the tantrum had begun, the length of it came to an abrupt end. Janey sat heavily on the much-abused armchair and breathed the stale air in mouthfuls loud and slow. Head held high and with back bent not at all, she peered straight ahead, so that her glance hit incidentally beyond her gray apartment window. It lay upon the bougainvillea in fuchsia bloom, and (just like that,) she needed to be outside.
She remembered the wanting, and immediately after only the being there. Her eyes shuffled around then, locking on image after image, as though they were merely pictures of things that happen, (and not the things themselves/a thing in itself). She came to, (as) it seemed, standing on the steps of the building she lived in but seldom felt like hers, except between the pages of sleep and its absence.
Her whole self, as a sum of so many parts, suddenly felt simultaneously alive, and she drew in the blazing jasmine air through her pores, senses, lungs, as surely as the lowering sun set carefully on (the back of her) pale shoulders. The frantic feeling of loss slamming against her chest like a locked-tight door/window/cage, now soothed down to a frail tap--and while part of her wanted to panic even at the implications of this improvement, a baser knowledge led on by the breathing of her body kept the panic subdued/at bay. She watched her self-visible body meld into the/her surroundings, almost belonging there, and (again) she began to believe in what she saw.
"He wanted to write a song," she said aloud. "That's why I came."
But as suddenly as the tantrum had begun, the length of it came to an abrupt end. Janey sat heavily on the much-abused armchair and breathed the stale air in mouthfuls loud and slow. Head held high and with back bent not at all, she peered straight ahead, so that her glance hit incidentally beyond her gray apartment window. It lay upon the bougainvillea in fuchsia bloom, and (just like that,) she needed to be outside.
She remembered the wanting, and immediately after only the being there. Her eyes shuffled around then, locking on image after image, as though they were merely pictures of things that happen, (and not the things themselves/a thing in itself). She came to, (as) it seemed, standing on the steps of the building she lived in but seldom felt like hers, except between the pages of sleep and its absence.
Her whole self, as a sum of so many parts, suddenly felt simultaneously alive, and she drew in the blazing jasmine air through her pores, senses, lungs, as surely as the lowering sun set carefully on (the back of her) pale shoulders. The frantic feeling of loss slamming against her chest like a locked-tight door/window/cage, now soothed down to a frail tap--and while part of her wanted to panic even at the implications of this improvement, a baser knowledge led on by the breathing of her body kept the panic subdued/at bay. She watched her self-visible body meld into the/her surroundings, almost belonging there, and (again) she began to believe in what she saw.
"He wanted to write a song," she said aloud. "That's why I came."
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Janey
Jane stammered bodily among her things, bracing herself for the sudden wakefulness she still knew to regret. Her chamomile smile fluttered past her lips at the most unexpected of times.
When she awoke she had changed her mind again. Last night's late hour clarity had seduced her into sleep but now the morning had replaced it and she still didn't know what to do. Though she knew what was expected of her and therefore what not to do. [Which was to go at all...?]
Of course the funeral arrangements had been made far in advance and she and her love had played dress rehearsals with their eyes hundreds of times, but she was to be alone for the real thing. How could she have let herself forget this?
The phone rang downstairs to remind her that she'd unplugged the one on the nightstand across the expanse of the bed: his side, the left. She lay staring through that strange space at the quietly sitting handset when the answering machine next to it clicked on to talk to/speak with her in hushed tones, using the voice of her father-in-law.
"Janey... I hope I'm not waking you. Dear...Dolores and I just wanted to check up on you. Please let us know if you decide you want to come with us this afternoon after all. We can pick you up just like nothing and you can come back here with everybody after, if you want to. To eat something...you know. We love you Janey. Give us a call back when you get up, okay?"
She watched as the thing did nothing to commemorate the passing of Adam's voice, it's disappearance going unnoticed, like everything.
She'd only lied to him once when he was alive, and now with his death she found she would make herself a liar just once more. The first time was when she said she'd let him take care of her. This last would be ruining his expectation of her presence at his funeral. She wanted to sleep more but knew it would only generate/materialize people to put/with their hands on her shoulders and arms. She felt on the edge of a decision that wouldn't allow spare time. She didn't know how she could know this unless she knew what she was going to do, but whatever part of her already did wasn't letting on just yet. So she continued her scrutiny of the ceiling but didn't let her eyes weigh themselves down.
Although she now had the choice to let it have its way with her whenever she liked, exhaustion hadn't any real power ever since she had become a person she could no longer relate to. Sleep would always have to wait on her, she couldn't change this now.
She found herself noticing her breath for the first time in 11 hours. It was a shorter kind of the deep breaths and it filled her body with itself, solid enough to cause her left-center ribs to creak in a wince of pain. She allowed herself not to prepare for the end of the next ten minutes. She breathed instead.
When she awoke she had changed her mind again. Last night's late hour clarity had seduced her into sleep but now the morning had replaced it and she still didn't know what to do. Though she knew what was expected of her and therefore what not to do. [Which was to go at all...?]
Of course the funeral arrangements had been made far in advance and she and her love had played dress rehearsals with their eyes hundreds of times, but she was to be alone for the real thing. How could she have let herself forget this?
The phone rang downstairs to remind her that she'd unplugged the one on the nightstand across the expanse of the bed: his side, the left. She lay staring through that strange space at the quietly sitting handset when the answering machine next to it clicked on to talk to/speak with her in hushed tones, using the voice of her father-in-law.
"Janey... I hope I'm not waking you. Dear...Dolores and I just wanted to check up on you. Please let us know if you decide you want to come with us this afternoon after all. We can pick you up just like nothing and you can come back here with everybody after, if you want to. To eat something...you know. We love you Janey. Give us a call back when you get up, okay?"
She watched as the thing did nothing to commemorate the passing of Adam's voice, it's disappearance going unnoticed, like everything.
She'd only lied to him once when he was alive, and now with his death she found she would make herself a liar just once more. The first time was when she said she'd let him take care of her. This last would be ruining his expectation of her presence at his funeral. She wanted to sleep more but knew it would only generate/materialize people to put/with their hands on her shoulders and arms. She felt on the edge of a decision that wouldn't allow spare time. She didn't know how she could know this unless she knew what she was going to do, but whatever part of her already did wasn't letting on just yet. So she continued her scrutiny of the ceiling but didn't let her eyes weigh themselves down.
Although she now had the choice to let it have its way with her whenever she liked, exhaustion hadn't any real power ever since she had become a person she could no longer relate to. Sleep would always have to wait on her, she couldn't change this now.
She found herself noticing her breath for the first time in 11 hours. It was a shorter kind of the deep breaths and it filled her body with itself, solid enough to cause her left-center ribs to creak in a wince of pain. She allowed herself not to prepare for the end of the next ten minutes. She breathed instead.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Janey: The curvy mug peers seductively into its pool of icy innards...
The moment was, then, so she got up. She could feel every falsehood in the apparent solidity of the ground, as it rose up to meet the bottom of her father's boots, awkward on her feet. "You know we have to go," said her thoughts, " from this minute to another, on & on no matter how still we stand or stay." She smiled at this, and though no one noticed of the few smattered groups sitting around her, had they happened to, they would have thought blankly on it. "I was flabbergasted!" The stale sentence drifted stiffly past her and convinced her first step forward, then down the four pretentious steps that would lead outside.
She didn't know why she got like this--like she suddenly needed the relief of motion to take her away from nowhere. "You know often I'd rather not talk, and would prefer even less to listen--but even so I keep glancing around, planning on distraction." Oh! but where else to go?! This programmed to a destination, every beginning merely awaits its own end! Like how I wait for the conclusion of this thought, the period to this here sentence... . Whatever for, when I know I'll just write another, and hope always for another again?! Where else do I even claim to want to be? As a matter of fact, I'd like the answer to be 'nowhere', and identical to the question, wouldn't you just love this to be IMPLIED? Wouldn't you like to apply it to the days--all of them? we're always talking about somebody! If it's not ourselves, then of course it's someone not there to inconveniently disagree--or take a personal stake in the outcome of the conversation, and our final judgement. (Only admittedly dynamic after the fact of our decision. Ahh! try not to talk like this anymore, m'dear... Look how loose your writing looks, the more buried becomes your point. :)
She didn't know why she got like this--like she suddenly needed the relief of motion to take her away from nowhere. "You know often I'd rather not talk, and would prefer even less to listen--but even so I keep glancing around, planning on distraction." Oh! but where else to go?! This programmed to a destination, every beginning merely awaits its own end! Like how I wait for the conclusion of this thought, the period to this here sentence... . Whatever for, when I know I'll just write another, and hope always for another again?! Where else do I even claim to want to be? As a matter of fact, I'd like the answer to be 'nowhere', and identical to the question, wouldn't you just love this to be IMPLIED? Wouldn't you like to apply it to the days--all of them? we're always talking about somebody! If it's not ourselves, then of course it's someone not there to inconveniently disagree--or take a personal stake in the outcome of the conversation, and our final judgement. (Only admittedly dynamic after the fact of our decision. Ahh! try not to talk like this anymore, m'dear... Look how loose your writing looks, the more buried becomes your point. :)
Janey
Music pounds, echoing in her head like an unexpected guest. She starts up violently without warning her startled bed mate. Before she thinks to be aware of it her flailing arms are pressed firmly while still writhing against her abdomen, and just like that the weight of her terror presses heavy on her chest. Unlike so many times before the feeling fails to ebb immediately and Janey hears her scream-sobs vacantly as though they emit from a phantom radio transmission. Held tightly and unable to move, the tenseness in her muscles begin to throb their painful protests. The thump of them beating in her ears almost drown out the worst of the sounds.
"Love, love, love! Shh, be calm, be calm, everything's fine. Wake up now, love, open your eyes. Open your eyes, love... Thatta girl. There you go, there she is..." Clayton held her still a bit too tightly but now she was grateful for his grip. They sat on the bed with her in his arms while he looked both at her and as scared as hell, but his dark eyes were as intent as ever in their fixed gaze. "Hi," he finished with at last.
"Hi." She didn't even begin the string of sheepish apologies this time because by now she knew they had both outgrown them. Instead, she let her shaking arms wrap around his waist and squeezed with the last of her might. She burrowed her tangle-haired head into the the curve of his bent arm to press her cheek to his chest. Exhausted, she shuddered her gratitude into him and hoped that he understood.
"Love, love, love! Shh, be calm, be calm, everything's fine. Wake up now, love, open your eyes. Open your eyes, love... Thatta girl. There you go, there she is..." Clayton held her still a bit too tightly but now she was grateful for his grip. They sat on the bed with her in his arms while he looked both at her and as scared as hell, but his dark eyes were as intent as ever in their fixed gaze. "Hi," he finished with at last.
"Hi." She didn't even begin the string of sheepish apologies this time because by now she knew they had both outgrown them. Instead, she let her shaking arms wrap around his waist and squeezed with the last of her might. She burrowed her tangle-haired head into the the curve of his bent arm to press her cheek to his chest. Exhausted, she shuddered her gratitude into him and hoped that he understood.
Janey
The sheet looks like tile. The back of my arms are twin bundles of barbed wire and I push one forward to let my knuckles drag across the cloth. 'When he wakes up,' I think, 'he won't remember at all.' With an inward heave I lift the granite sculpture over my head, the one shaped like a clenched fist, and bring it down to crush the smile on your lips.
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