i am nature blown small
the wind blows
i sigh
the trees bend
i lean
the earth quakes
i crack
channeled throughout with warm waters
tributaries of blood
ebb and flow in pulsing tide
on the spinning earth
my toes dig for purchase
running the surface
we lonely seek where we belong
how can we be alone
belonging anywhere we seek?
My cat sits on my computer and yowls in my face. She is smashing the letters.
“Diva, let me do my homework,” I say, pushing her aside and commencing the deletions.
Undeterred, she sidles back up to me, puts her paw against my thigh, and cuts her claws into my leg.
Enraged, I stand up, and she skitters a safe distance away, conspicuously near the food bowl.
I sigh and go to feed her. She always gets her way.
As I dole the food into the dish, Diva twining around my ankles in smug self-satisfaction, the phone rings. It’s Gina at the steakhouse.
“Yes?”
“Hey… will you come in today? Kirk was supposed to but it fell through.”
“I have homework to do.”
Diva meows her agreement.
“Please? I’m really in a bind.”
I massage my temples. “Alright… alright, but you owe me.”
I grab my keys, put on my work clothes, and head out. They still smell like the restaurant from last night.
As I shut the door behind me, Diva takes advantage of my distraction and streaks outside.
Fucking cat.
I get to work, put on my apron, and start taking orders. Of course Gina gives me more of the shit tables; the old church ladies who keep their change and never tip. The two-top tables, women who share a flatbread and drink a mimosa, then talk for two hours, picking at their crumbs. A poorly-dressed man with feral eyes who I suspected might be homeless. He asks for his steak cooked rare.
Wednesday afternoons at the steakhouse are never very busy, I don’t understand why she called me in. The way she was talking you’d think the place was on fire.
I go into the kitchen to find Gina gone. Gone. She’d just left without a word to me. I have to host now. It’d actually be an improvement, if I weren’t so angry at her. She might be my supervisor, but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve a fragment of respect.
I run the whole damn front for the next six hours, until Mina arrives.
“She just left you?” Mina says as she ties her apron on. Her terse lips tell me she’s been treated this way, too. She shakes her head and punches in.
“Yeah. I’m pretty worn out, so you don’t mind me leaving you with my tables?”
“Tables? You mean table.”
I glance out of the kitchen. The feral homeless man had dashed while I was talking to Mina. Bastard had gotten a free dinner out of me.
Well, that was coming out of my paycheck. I just made $34 for six hours of work.
I come home, Diva is waiting for me. She zips back into the house when I open the door.
At least I get tomorrow off. Thirty-four dollars. What’s the point.
I climb miserably into bed. I’ll shower tomorrow.
I wake up at eight AM. Diva demands food. I feed her, go back to bed, and luxuriate in my blankets, the warmth, the soft sheets. Diva lies in the patch of sun on my bed. I curl around her to share the rays. I’ll get hungry soon, and have to get up. But now, this is where I want to be. Today, I am free. It is a delicious sensation.
The phone rings. I look at the name. It’s Gina again.
Diva slumbers on my chest. She cracks a questioning golden eye at me, which catches the sunlight, lighting her iris in glinting amber flame. I am lost in admiration of her.
Maybe I’ll skip class today.
The phone rings again. I won’t answer.
I think I might start posting weekly instead of daily. Spending time on my work makes me create better work, which makes me post better work, which makes me a better writer and blogger, which spares you having to slog through too much mediocre crap, and that makes us all better people. But there’s something else.
It took something like *checks web stats* 2500 compliments, but I think I’m confident enough to start submitting work to publications. THANK YOU. This means I’m going to have to spend more time writing, redrafting, refining, etc.
I read somewhere (I can’t find the source anymore, sorry) about a girl who made a goal to get 100 rejections. I like this idea. I’m going to try it.
Narrowing of Time
Walking down the street
the snow is falling fast
gathering on my hood and the ends of my hair
filling my pockets, hardening on my shoes.
Nobody else is out in this weather
save for the occasional passing car.
I arrive
shake the snow from my clothes
make my purchase
and turn back
only to be confronted
by my previous self
her solitary footprints
perfectly traced.
I see her transparently
which step she is taking
where she is heading
Time holds us apart
but the snow thinned
our linear illusions.
I pass her through
over and over
caught up in her ghost
all the way home.
Stepping off the curb to cross the street, his foot lands on a piece of cardboard, and it slips under his feet. Everything goes off-center. He is falling backwards.
He slips into a familiar, momentary lapse of time. Weightless. Maybe like being in the womb. Maybe like death.
He remembers, in that one second, being someone else, a tiny child, whom his parents would toss in the air, eliciting delighted giggles. He feels again what it was to be a grinning kid who went sledding, who rode amusement park rides, who loved the loose sensation of roller skates under his feet, the dizzying slide of tennis shoes on a frozen pond, closing his eyes and jumping off the swing at its apogee, leaping from the monkey bars. As he got older, he needed to make bigger jumps: from the second story window of his bedroom, the stomach-dropping fall from the front car of a roller coaster, perilous speeding car rides down mountain back roads.
He used to seek that. The sensation of being stunned. The joy of getting turned up-side-down. Thrilling in the unexpected. Always finding a bigger risk.
Gravity returns with a vengeance. It knocks him flat, kicks the breath out of him.
He can’t breathe. There is something wrong with his tailbone. His toes tingle. This is the kind of fall that will leave traces for the rest of his life. Drawing lines of pain through his bones, down his nerves, trailing in his new limp, slowing him down. His routine will change. His shoes will change. The content of his conversation will change.
A college kid hunkers down beside him, concerned. “Are you OK?” She says.
He sees himself reflected in her eyes, distinguished gentleman with graying temples, ass over teakettle in the gutter, and finds his breath, taking in a great gasp of air.
He can’t answer her for his own wheezing laugh.
It was a lovely break, and I needed it! Thanks for being patient with me. I spent the past two months creatively BLANK. I petted the cats and watched TV and shopped and wrapped presents. I told myself I’d do something creative. I did nothing creative.
I think conversations with creative people helps trigger my own creativity.
In that light, let’s try kicking things off with a bit of philosophy:
What is wisdom?
Try to define it in your own words, without resorting to synonyms for wisdom (judgment, knowledge, etc). I’m curious about people’s personal twists on this.
My definition is below.
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What was your definition?
Sarah D. Silvey 