Friends

Ah, friends.

I finished reading Stargirl last week.

Todays morning pages made me think of this...

Shunned
I am different
I think different
I act different

You want me to be
What you want me to
I try
I try

What's the difference?
I am who I am
Does it matter what I look like?
I am different

I will always be different
Some get it
Most don't
but it does not matter
You want me to be, to do, what you want me to be.
Sort of...

Talking

When I was 18 months old I started talking,
(That's reeeeaallly late)
I started talking in complete sentences!
Not mama, or dada.

I did not talk much when I was little.

I don't talk now, unless I have to.

I ponder.
I think.
I wonder.
I form complete thoughts.

Sometimes, it is not important.
And when it is,
I say what I need to.

It's not always in the moment...
It's not always in the day...
Maybe, it's not even in the month.
Or 18 months...

Seashell

Please press!

She is a seashell. Hard, beautiful, something to decorate the house,
perhaps the bathroom, make that room a theme, something that doesn’t exist,
but we will all pretend it does.
She is a seashell, smooth on the inside, hollowed out, nothing
there, expect the beauty of stark white, like a beautiful plate
without any nourishment.

She is a seashell with perfect imperfections, the ones no one seems to notice.
They run their fingers
over her, feeling each ridge under their prints, and
some use a fingernail to scratch down, hear and feel the sound
they make together: it’s not unpleasant,
but a sound you’d ask to be repeated in the name of knowing
what exactly it is, build a simile to name it.

She is seashell left on the beach.
A seashell someone would pause over, maybe
enough to crouch down on their haunches and look at.
Not beautiful enough to pick-up and wash off and
take home, but one that will hold a short memory,
shorter than a poem, one you won’t remember
in the car while you drive home, but will
remember the sand between your toes,
the rushing water, a few nameless left behind.

Morning Pages Prompt

As a result of the Thursday Morning Pages, a piece from a Tom Robbins book, the following mini-rant came out...

__________________

He didn’t speak to me… for two hours. He didn’t say a word. The pleasantries and big overjoyous smile was replaced by disgust and a look that I can only imagine many have given as a reaction to racist rants on Oprah. But this was no racial issue. This was political.

I still don’t get it. How can we as a nation stand so “United” yet so far apart on so many issues? I’m all for the melting pot, the checks and balances, debates and dialogue if we can still call it civil discourse, but the pundits I’m tired of. I’m exhausted by the singular viewpoint and censorship of FOX News. I’m tired of CNN often giving the exact opposite side of the story. The selling of story and image has become much more important than truth. The picture of Tony Blair speaking to his people with the odd image of a halo behind his head crowned by a flag that just happens to be in the perfect place. The anti-Barack pundits accidentally calling him “Osama” and the consistent mentioning of his full name allowing us all to constantly associate him with the former leader of Iraq, a man that we, as a country hate, at least we are constantly reminded to. The anti-Cheney press constantly focusing on his Darth Vader alter ego and the forever remembered shotgun incident. Let’s discuss whether or not Hilary was under sniper fire. How could Barack ever have gone to the church? Did John McCain really once say that? Who cares? Do we actually even pay attention to issues anymore?

And then there is my favorite… after any presidential debate the pundits, all of them, speak to the public and react from a place known as Spin Alley. They actually tell us in their headlines that they are trying to deceive us. Spin Alley. Why not Deception Street or Liars Avenue? So now we stand on either side of the aisle not allowed to cross to consider the other side because the image and story matter more than the reality.

So there was my uncle choosing not to speak to me at my cousin’s wedding for two hours, because I voted for a different presidential candidate.

Home

Home
Jenny St. Romain

Floating lives, floating houses—broken
Dark and menacing—the heavy clouds are still here
I know: far, far away is hope, a little sun on the horizon
But it’s not coming soon, coming at a snail’s pace
Heavy you are—hushed we are—struggling to pick up the broken pieces of our windows,
our plates and bowls, our grandmother’s tea cup
Trying to pick up a shattered me
We came back—we are here—we stay together—remain
And we remember: far, far away the sun is on the horizon