Tag Archives: Room to Write

My Story as told by Lilith

This isn’t me. Or rather it isn’t who you think. I’m Lilith. The unseen twin of our author.
Growing up we used to spend a lot of time together. It was him and I. On long walks we got to know each other. No one else ever knew me. No one at all. The rest of the family didn’t understand.

Going to school was hard. It tore us apart. He was often mocked by other kids. And it hurt me to see. All I wanted was to get back at those kids. But I couldn’t. And he wouldn’t. So I had to watch. Knowing it hurt him, made it worse. Did anyone pay attention to him like me.

In the sixth grade he was dying for attention. I saw him do things he shouldn’t have for others. I wanted to stop him. Tell him to love himself. But I didn’t love myself. I did love him. And I felt like he loved me. We always would have each other. And I always stayed with him.

In high school we would eat together. Just the two of us. His other sister has her own friends. So we had each other. And it was all we needed.

And I went to college with him. At first it was like he didn’t need me anymore. Though we were always together. But then we got closer and closer. I know the tart Harmony broke his heart. And I know it was his fault. And yes it still hurt to watch. I wish I could have told him it was coming. But would he have listened. He listens to me more now.

On the streets we kept each other warm. Closer than ever. When M came around, I was still there. She was someone who was good for him. And I loved her as much as he loved her. She made him happy. And this made me happy. We weren’t as close. But I preferred it to his being so sad all the time. Sad and alone.

But M also broke his heart. And mine to be honest. I trusted her with my best friend. He took it hard. It was hard to comfort him. Over time he healed. He met Heather, and I never trusted her. But, she made his life a little better. Until she didn’t.

We had moved to Portland. He had a job he enjoyed. And was making a decent enough income to support us. His first place was a dump. I hate dogs, so I hated the house. Dogs in and out and messing on the floor. In the next house his roommate was crazy. I liked him, but never trusted him. Soon we moved again. Then we traveled.

Rainbow Gatherings are my favorite. And the one in Pennsylvania was grand. We played. We read. We ate and slept. It was an adventure. An adventure which lead to another adventure. Meeting Laura, Pam and Shaylyn. Then a couple months later moving in with Shaylyn and Pam in Upstate New York. There was something I liked about Ogdensburg.

Problems caused us to move again. And again. Then to live alone. It was just him and I again. We still had each other. We would always have each other. He had some friends for a while. But they drifted away and we spent our time together.

We moved back to California. Went to another great gathering. And fell in love with Boulder. I think I loved it even more then he. It was my idea to name the kissing bridge. Maybe someday we can kiss someone on the bridge. He started talking to M again. And fell in love again.

His plans were to move back to Portland. There was another girl he liked and was moving with to Portland. But they didn’t work out and he fell for M hard. Even harder than last time. I accepted her. But I couldn’t love her again. And I couldn’t trust her again. They broke up. She told him on the answering machine she was pregnant. And I feared for him. There was no baby in the end. He never shared much about his feelings.

We moved back to California. Went to a gathering. Found a great job working in the High Sierras. I loved it up there in those mountains. And I could live up there forever. If only he would allow us to leave the city. The next stop was Yosemite. Which I also loved, but not as much. He was happy in Yosemite too. But then he felt like it was too small. After saving money he got us out of there, to Stockton. I hated Stockton.

And I never saw him. Work, work and school. All the time. No time for himself and no time for me.

Things slowed down when he moved to Arcata. I loved hiking in the forest. And he enjoyed it too. The college wasn’t hard for him. Working still took a lot of time. The first year it was a job he loved. Until they fired him. And he hasn’t ever loved a job in the same way since. Well, until Walmart. The next job he worked was at CVS.

Then we moved away to Wyoming. What an amazing place to live. Snow and cold. Mountains and open plains. Take me home to Wyoming. This is where I would choose for us to live. But the job let him go. We wondered around for a while. Not lost, but seeking. And landed back in Arcata.

There he fell again. He doesn’t fall often. But when he does it is hard. I liked this girl. And I thought we could be friends. But it isn’t as easy for me as it is for him. And it really isn’t easy for him. They were close. Seemed like there was so much they had in common. And I started to believe she loved and cared about him. Maybe I could lose him to her, but then she tore his heart in two. This was a dark moment for him.

But we still had each other. We still held on to each other. In those days he hung on to me closer than ever. We only had each other. His friends didn’t really know his feelings like me.

We moved to Colorado. And Nebraska. Then Texas. Those states were hard for both of us. We were both alone. And only had each other. It was worse than high school.

But now we live in Vancouver. He has a job he loves. Working at Walmart. The sad part is the pay is not enough. I want him to do better for himself. I encourage him to seek another job. And he does, but you can tell his heart isn’t in finding something new. He wants to get promoted. But I don’t trust his managers to see him for the asset his is to them.

We shall see.

The Grand Canyon

The first time he saw it. It was sudden. The desert lay around him. A sage brush filled blankness. He drove along  thin road. Keeping with the traffic. The sky was wide and blue. Then at a bend you could see it.

There was a Grand Canyon. Falling away from the floor. A unbelievable depth. He stopped. He stared. It is like looking at the stars. They are so far away your brain doesn’t understand. And away out there was the bottom. A river wounding though the land. But it was so far. How could it be so far. He stared. And feared falling to his death.

The cliffs were layers and layers of sand. Rock created over an senseless amount of time. The layers like sheets of paper. Adding a feeling of depth. He almost wanted to count the layers. But knew it was a fools errand. The sun was beating down. His head turned this way. And then the other way. Staring down into the giant hole.

But it wasn’t just deep. It was wide. Could he even see the other side. How many ions was the ocean working on this in secret. Imagine the first person who found this place. Did they lose their mind. Could they even believe their eyes anymore. The canyon wasn’t a hole. And it wasn’t a crack. Though poets may call it both. Not even a fissure. The canyon is multiples of anything you can think. Canyons, cracks, holes. Because it was so wide. A fractal of canyons falling into canyons. Holes sunk into holes. And cracks which just kept cracking.

He couldn’t stop staring at the depth. Like this time I will understand. But he didn’t. And he stared some more. It wasn’t an empty landscape. A trail could be seen. The thin line like a con-trail cutting across the sky. A comet path in orbit. And trees. Like baby trees. Like ant trees. Down there so far beneath his feet. But were they trees at all. He stared from this rock, and then from the rock over there, and then another rock. He was drawn to the edge. And feared the edge.

Could a person even take a picture. His camera was with him. And he attempted to capture the canyon. But failed over and over again. He couldn’t photograph it any more than he could understand.

Standing before something so big, you turn to others. It makes you feel small. And you know your mind can’t grasp what is sees. You talk to others and they talk to you. People don’t speak to each other in public. But along the edge of this spectacle you talk. The various features have names. And they are named after gods and goddess. They look like temples. The god and goddess having come to earth. Made themselves homes with their own hands. And dug a ditch to keep humans away. Those mounds look like humans have never touched them.

He felt like he could stare for hours. But he wanted to move along. To see from another spot. Maybe he could understand from another angle. And every look contained the same raw power. The same vast explosion of being. Every look was the first look. Your mind can’t hold what it doesn’t grasp.

Over millions of years. Layer after layer. Winter and summer, winter and summer. The water washed its way into the very foundation rock of our planet. At the bottom is the Vishnu Shale layer. Rocks close to two billion years old. Half the age of our planet. And layered deeper than anyone knows.

There are almost 2 billion years of history written on the canyon walls. You can see traces of seas. And traces of deserts. Deep traces of history. One can’t imagine a timeline so long. As long as the life of those rocks at the bottom. And what kind of world gave birth to those rocks. The heat and the pressure they have existed through. They sat for so long. Under oceans. Under sand dunes. And they still sit beneath our feet.

It makes him dizzy. Again he fears the edge. But he can’t keep away. Won’t stay back where it is safe. Because he still hasn’t grasped the view. Hasn’t come to terms with its being.

On day two things aren’t any better. It is still the same. And his mind is still too small. In fact years later he makes a second trip. Which does nothing to help him understand. This canyon. One could wonder in its lives for ages. Disappear like Everett Ruess. In this incomprehensible labyrinth there is no exit. And there is no Minotaur. I’ll be honest. The subject of this story is myself.

Years later I sit unsure of anything I saw on those trips. And I want to go back again and again. To re-read it like a sacred script. Find the secret passages of truth. Seek the depths of our world. Crawl into the hole and come out like Alice in another land. Anything seems possible in a world where the canyon is possible.

The first time is like sex. But better. You remember what you thought. What you saw. How you felt. And there is something deep inside. A longing to return. There is a taste and a desire remaining. As long as I breathe. Even now it pulses. Return.

If I ever see it again, I am certain it will feel fresh. Once again the first time. In the long years between these years of my youth and my death. I hope to visit it again and again. In the shadow of the canyon, humanity itself is always in its youth. The layers representing our lives, our whole history. They would be a couple feet. In a mile deep timeline. Maybe another people, or race will follow us in a thousand years. The canyon will still be there in the dirt. But traces of ourselves will have washed and blown away.

Three different but accurate views of me

Loner: I spend my time alone. Much of it reading or sleeping. My best friend is my cat. Together we lay on my bed. I watch Netflix, old shows on YouTube and she naps. Sometimes for holidays I reach out to friends. But on most days they don’t contact me. And I don’t contact them. I feel tired and busy a lot. And never feel much like going out into the world. I feel awkward and uncomfortable when not at home. I have a deep regard for good art. And of course good writing. When I get motivated I write good things myself. Crowds make me nervous and tired.

Socialite: I know everyone at work. It is natural to take a moment to say hello to people. I’ve been there over two years. And I work a range of shifts. But I also just am outgoing. There is a natural interest in others. “hi, how are you today?” I enjoy people. And feel an affinity with most people. This is part of what I like about customer service. The ability to work with the public. To be able to serve people. Walking through the store I often stop assist people who look confused. Not only do I seem to know everyone at work. It seems they all know me. And I like to think most people like me. I try to be friendly, even to people I like less than others. But I accept most people openly as friends – at least at some level.

Tyrant. I get upset by people who don’t seem to do their fair share at work. And by fair share, I mean something close to the amount of work I do every day. People who lack a work ethic, or a concern about a good job bother me. And I find it hard to be friendly to these people. I can be short and abrasive with people I don’t respect. And there are a range of things which can earn my disrespect. One is disagreeing with me. But I try to put those feeling aside. When I don’t get my own way I can be unreasonably upset. Most of all when I feel like the person is being unreasonable themselves. Or just being obstinate. It makes me angry and I don’t always express myself in a positive way. I tend to direct people, and this can upset some people. While I don’t like being bossed around myself. I know I can come across as bossy myself. I make an effort to be a team player. My understanding of teamwork means giving input to team members. I try and often fail to do this from a space of equality. My idea of teamwork means accepting input too. But it isn’t easy for me. It is getting easier as I age. I need to learn to allow others to reject my input more gracefully.

My Water Bottle

Twenty details about my water bottle.

1) It is made of a solid glass. It feels firm in your hand.

2) The brand name, VOSS, is written along the side in large letters. The writing is a san-serif modern font.

3) I buy this brand for the re-usable bottle. And to avoid plastic chemicals.

4) It is cylinder shaped, with a plastic silver coloured lid.

5) The bottle says the water is artesian. An artesian water source is deep, and protected by solid rock layers.

6) The bottle is 800 ml., or 1.5 pt, 3.1 fl. oz.

7) I used to drink a lot of warm tea from VOSS bottles.

8) I like the feeling of the bottle in my hand.

9) And I think water tastes better from glass.

10) The bottle could come across of snobby. If you were going to personify the bottle.

11) VOSS comes from Norway. While there is a town of Voss, the water is bottled somewhere else.

12) There is a cold feeling in the glass of the bottle.

13) I never re-fill my water bottle with anything but water. Or tea.

14) Right now it is empty but for a few drops at the bottom.

15) I started buying VOSS when I lived in Arcata.

16) All the letters on the bottle are white.

17) The mouth of the bottle is narrow, and threads into a narrow lip inside the lid.

18) VOSS is my favorite water.

19) But it isn’t cheap.

20) The bottle is between 1 and 2 feet tall.


Langiebe: To miss and love someone far away, but feel close in spirit and love.

She had been far away for so long. But also close to his heart. The feeling of langiebe was natural. There were few he loved in a deeper way. Just the a picture of his shining face made him smile.

Yes, langiebe. He knew they had a connection. Even though he missed her. He longed for her physically at times. Why must the people he loved be so far away. Was there a moment he could have changed their fates?

A moment in Boulder? A moment in Stockton? But all those moments were passed. And the present was still beautiful. Their love spanned the space between them. Over the years though far apart. They became close and closer friends. Their hearts were always one.

Just the word langiebe brought he smiling face. A wreath of blonde hair to his mind. He couldn’t imagine a life without her. A life without her spirit being a part of his life. Without her heart close to his as they chatted online.

He told her often he loved her. And told her how amazing she was as a person. Told her she was beautiful. And she was free. Sometimes he doubted the words he said. Never did he doubt his feelings. But he knew words were like paper boats. They could only carry so much meaning across the water.

What did she hear? What did she feel? Did she ever feel langiebe for him. Missing him with her heart, her body and her soul. Wanting him to be closer. Like he wanted to be closer to her. To her heart. And body.

At night alone in his room the feeling of langiebe was the worst. But it was clearly brought on by his isolation. She was a woman of the world. She always seemed stronger. And she had more people in her life. No man may be an island. But he felt close sometimes.

And in those moments. It was the feeling of langiebe which brought him comfort. There was much he didn’t know about the world. And he didn’t know much about her. But he knew she loved him. And he knew she valued their connection. Time and space could do nothing to break the bond it was so strong.

But the time and space didn’t go away. It sat there like a ghost in the room. Powerless but still present. Langiebe was the name of the ghost. He could touch her heart. But he would never touch her.

Maybe it was his own fault. Did he spend too much time absorbed in langiebe. Was he missing something right now. A love which tomorrow he would wish he hadn’t missed. A person he could touch in body, soul and heart. Was she there beyond the void of langiebe in his life. But he wouldn’t see.

The problem with langiebe is how easy it feels. You can sit and wonder about the lover across the sea. Think of how things would be if this or that was different. And all the time you are lost in a fairy tale. While the real world is going on around you. Like Snow White you dream away in your own sleep. A dream of langiebe. Like Rapunzel, you are locked away in your tower. Where the ideal love is langiebe. Where the ideal love is far away.

But the ideal love is outside your door. You see the ideal love every day. If the universe had wanted you to be with the lost lover. Then it would have placed you together. But it placed other people in your path. And you should choose to love them. It may not be langiebe. It may not be the deep connection. But it is here and it is real. And it is a love you can touch. And even the largest oak starts its life as a small sprout.

An acorn falls on the ground. And from it comes a mighty tree. When you pay attention to those around you. When you allow connections to develop. You never know where they might take you. And who they may lead you to love deeper.

And maybe you can have you langiebe and wedding cake too.

The Stranger

I saw her at self check-out. She was a rush of energy. Full of power and chaos.

There was a vibration around her. Like the only person living in colour in a black and white world. There was a grace about her. A style and efficiency.

When I walked over to assist her I felt something inside me move. Just the nearness of her beating soul. Like a flame on a cold beach.

And she looked at me with such a clear vision. A look of love. But not love just for me. It was the look of loving everyone. And I wanted to love her back.

My heart was beating. My hands were sweating. There was a spark on the air.

Her eyes were so still and a deep green. I looked at them for a moment. And they radiated something deeper. An open door to another world. With a welcome mat.

When she turned her head a cascade of red hair swirled. It carried the passion of her soul. And I wanted to touch it, to keep a strand of it for courage.

Her light dress was flowing like her hair. And while I only talked to her for a moment. I felt like I knew her. And like I wanted to know her better.

I walked away on lighter feet. She smiles a beam of light and departed my life.

Thoughts on television

They used to play outside. As children. The world was so full. Young minds in search of adventure. And they spent hours on their own. They played games, and ran around. Then one day things changed.

It was years later. And he was thinking about the change. One moment the world was the stage. Then the next life was different.

One day he rode his bike down the driveway. He turned sharp to see what would happen. The small plastic toy rolled. He stayed on the toy green machine. As it turned over and over in the dirt.

When he got up. And he saw he wasn’t hurt. He was excited. What fun it was to roll your green machine. But he was a little scared. This was a moment he remembers as fun. But he doesn’t know the feeling now.

Thinking back it is hard for him to feel what the child felt. Maybe it is just because of age. But it feels like something deeper. When young and exploring the land it was all new. Many things were new to him, and it filled him with pleasure. Life was an adventure. So much awaited to be discovered and learned.

As he got older the adventure faded. Life began to feel tired. And it took too much energy to go outside. Inside his home life was still. There were new ways to pass the time. A new form of adventure had replaced the old.

Where he used to spend hours alone with the trees. He now spent them alone on the sofa. It wasn’t a book grabbing his attention. The way a new path once grabbed his imagination.

He used to love hills the most. When you walk up a hill all you can see is the sky. What lay on the other side is a mystery. It could be anything. And he would dream of what he might find. Each hill hides a new discovery.

But the hills are steep. And he has taken to not climbing them anymore. A new vision is available and it doesn’t need so much imagination.

The new friend in his life was television. And it was a friend taking more and more time. It took time from his adventures. It took time from reading. It took time from writing thoughtfully. And it gave nothing in return. Hours and hours faded away in front of a lighted box.

The days dimmed into nights. The world was the same as the day before. But he wasn’t interested in hills. The feeling of adventure had been supplanted by the need for television. He had to keep up with the Kardashians now. People at school talked about TV. They didn’t talk about adventures in the woods.

If only he had gone to school with Christopher McCandless. Or Everett Ruess.The great John Muir would be the teacher. Trees would be text books. And teach more than any book ever printed.

Television becomes like a drug. Like methamphetamine. You wonder why you started. You once loved it. Now you need it.  You promise to quit tomorrow. And tomorrow. Then the next day. Slowly your life is eaten away from the inside.

What if life could be the adventure it was years ago? The TV a useless device of story telling. We live in a world which must know. We must see. We must. But is all the things we must see good for us? You watch your neighbors home burn on live news. Does it make you feel empowered or helpless. What can you do but watch?

Television news crews aim for deeper veins. They aren’t drug pushers. But themselves caught in the pointless drama of their worlds. And it takes part of their humanity.

Why else would you hunt people in pain. Looking for trauma to share. Try to make people cry for the news. There is a human response to grief. It isn’t to broadcast it for the world to see. It is to treat it like a wound. Take it close, hide it and heal the hurt. But news crews ravish private lives. They ransack lives for the story.

When you ask someone to recall a memory. The memory itself is changed. You become a part of the memory. Are you adding compassion to their memories or fear?

Why do people slow for an accident?

There is curiosity like he had as a child. And there is voyeurism.  Maybe it stems from natural instincts. A desire to help others, but the world limits our ability to help. Or a concern about a larger threat. But the world is full of threats. Many of which are too far to be of harm.

He still does’t own a TV. And people think this is odd. But he isn’t immune to the world’s drug. The two have found other ways to meet each other for a fix. In this new world your phone is a TV. Your computer is a TV. Your tablet is a TV. Maybe one day your watch will be a TV.

Meanwhile he hasn’t put his bike together in six months.

(Room to Write exercise)

Baby Girl’s Life

All I want is to be on his lap. To be close to my human.

He sits there on the computer. And I want to be close to him. Near him. Have him pet me. I get up and go to the door for attention. But it doesn’t work.

Maybe I should get up and get some food. He has been feeding my great food lately. He loves me right?

But why won’t he just let me be close to him. All day long I sit in this room alone. There is nothing in here. I nap and dream of him.

And he gets home and pets me for a moment. Then he does his own thing.

I’ll sit near him. As near as I can. I’ll put my paws on his leg. And kneed his fur. Isn’t this how I should express love.

He feeds me good food. Gives me water. And makes sure I don’t have bugs. But my favorite thing is sleeping next to him at night. We keep each other warm.

I think I help him to sleep better.

But sometimes he is restless. Tosses and turns and I have to sleep away from him. It makes me sad.

Right now I am grooming myself. Just sitting next to him. Feeling him next to me. It makes me happy.

I can smell him on his stuff. Even after he cleans off my hair. I have been shedding less since he gave me good food. And it is nice not scratching for bugs.

There was a time when I lived with a woman. She was nice to me. But I had to live with other cats. It was good to go outside. Sometimes I want to see more, to get outside the room. He never lets me out. But a lady outside will open the door if I meow.

I like her. She is sweet and friendly. Of course she isn’t my adult. She pets me and I like it.

It is a good thing I like napping. Because there isn’t much else to do in this room. I had a toy which chirped like a bird. But I haven’t seen it in a while. I wonder if the dog took it. Oh yeah, the dog.

Well there are two of them now. One is a bit of a pain in the ass. The way dogs are known to be. He has gone at me a couple times, but I can show him who’s boss with my sharp claws. The other dog is new, he doesn’t seem like a punk. He leaves me alone when I see him. And that is the most you can ask for with a dog.

I guess I miss my cat friends sometimes. But I like it here with him. He calls me Baby Girl. There was a lady I lived with a long time ago, she called me Baby Girl. But I don’t know him name.

I wish he would go to bed soon, so I could cuddle next to him.

(Room to Write exercise)

The Storm

And when he looked out the window he saw inside. Across the plain a wind waited. But inside all was still.

There was an openness in the sky. Like anything could happen. In fact anything must happen. A bolt of lightning. A funnel cloud of energy from the blue. A tension was felt waiting.

He felt like a rubber band waiting to snap. Stretched past the limit. His life was a spinning wheel. So fast it was still. There was an energy in the wheel. It wanted to move. It wanted to roll across the plain. Like a thunder cloud. But the thunder was quiet.

A war was being negotiated. On the most passive terms. They drew lines in the sand. And crossed lines in the sand. And drew more lines. And the lines still got crossed. But the parties stayed in line.

A wind was brewing. You could feel it in your pulse. If you sat next to his thoughts. The way he sat alone with this weather. Then you would feel something was heating up. Looking out across the empty landscape. He swears he can see the heat rising. Through the stagnant air.

The land almost thirsts for the release. Like a lover hungry for a lover. The air dry like your mouth before a kiss. They reach for each other. Long for each other. The land and the sky. A mood is deepening. A tone is changing. The winds are blowing. But the grass is placid.

Since the last coming. People wait for the next coming. Will it be today? Will it be tomorrow? He waits for the storm to come. And wash away everything he is and loves. People don’t know him. They see the still, but his heart is beating. And it is beating for the land. The land stops.

The flat land. It gives us all our birth. And it takes us all home in the end. Beating in the land is the source of life. And it beats in the clouds. And it beats in the ocean. And it waits for the right moment. A passionate moment of storm and fury. But the storm winds are calm.

How can a sunflower burst forth from the soil. And reach with its love for the sky. How can words fall from empty mouths. Books full of blank pages support grand ideas. Wisdom of a thousand years. The wheat doesn’t need wisdom. The corn doesn’t teach. And the soy beans don’t learn. Man learns and needs wisdom. But wisdom is found in serenity.

He beats his heart. And beats the air. Beats the sounds inside his head. All the voices with their wisdom. When all he wants to listen to is the land. The heart of the storm. The wash of the rain. The song of the siren tempting him to his fate. There must be a fate for man in this world. Could his fate be empty?

Rise. Rise and shine. A thousand stars shine in his soul. But across the plain of darkness there is nothing. The wind blows one way. Then it blows another. The moon sits like a pie on a table. Waiting for the ice cream. How can the land be so far away. The land beats with passion. The sky throbs with desire. But they remain in their own worlds so often. When the storm breaks they touch. But where is the storm holding itself now.

More words don’t call down the clouds. More noise doesn’t bring the thunder. He dips a broom in water. And takes it into the field to sprinkle it on the ground. But the corn mocks his gesture. And the wheat turns its head in shame. You can’t move the storm like you can a mountain. In the end the land is taken away and the sky remains.

He touches his body. A heart beats in his flesh. The thin arms and legs carry his wounded pride. There is a passion inside of him. Like the birds flying in the sky. Or the ants living inside the earth. A passion so deep and reckless he fears it more than a storm. A passion in chains.

Even the sky has consciousness. And it is offended by your nakedness. Well the devil himself. Pan and Dionysus turn their backs. The wheat drops its head. And the sky is unreachable and proud. What a storm he would unleash into a glass bottle. He fears it all. And longs for inner peace.

But outside he turns the windmill. He runs up and down the hills. Lighting fires and dancing. He chants the name of Shiva. And runs naked across the empty plain of his imagination. Only there in a world of power and chaos. There in the wind is a home for his passion. But across this plain are only the doldrums.

When he desires the wind. He knows the wind is blowing away on its own journey. No cage can hold the wind. No fence can hold the earth. And the wheat and corn find their own escape. Dig deep and he finds himself a liar. The storm he projects on a still world. It is the storm in his own heart. And in his frozen eyes.

What if the sun could arise and kill the envious moon? Can our dreams every be snuffed by reality? The winds calmed by the land. Two hands find each other in the dawn. Two lips hold each other in the starlight. Two hearts create a third. And passion grows and changes. The world is full of passion. But the storm of passion for him is dry.

Don’t touch me, she said. And he hasn’t eaten since he was six. But they sky has waited. And waited with a gift. Like the doorway to the law, made only for him. But he doesn’t know how to ask for heaven’s promise. Doesn’t know so he waits, until to door is closed.

The storms bring water for the soil. A biosphere of unimaginable life and complexity. There may be more living things in a single foot of soil than people in New York City. But like a separate dimension it is locked away from our view. It is its own reality, and it is perennial.

Every door has a key. A password for the gate. The window has a latch. But he doesn’t open. The view he sees of the landscape is through the glass. Always on the other side of experience. In a house build with dull pencils and old wheat stalks. The corn sits in the weather. But he sits on the inside alone.


Between the lines

“We are alone.”

“Does anyone know?”


“It feels good doesn’t it?”

“With you here, like this alone? Yes.”

“And why can’t we…”

“Please we don’t have much time.”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes, I love you. But I…

“There is no but is love Charles.”

“I love your butt.”


“May, please.”

“Don’t please me.”

“Okay, then I won’t.”

“No, no please do. I wait all week watching you across the hall.”

“And I watch you dear.”

“Why are we so silly?”

“Love isn’t silly…”

“Not love you fool. We’re not loving, we are silly.”

“What are we doing now?”

“Hiding, and love doesn’t have to hide.”

“I know.”

“You’ve known for ten years Charles.  But in all these years you haven’t changed.”

“I have changed.”

“Not towards me dear, and I think it is time I changed.”

“But May, my life without you?”

“I think you’d better get used to the idea. Tonight may be the last night we will be together.”

“What can I do? How can I…”

“You know what, you know how, but you won’t.”

“The kids, the house, my career. How can I throw it all away?”

“And what have I given up these last ten years? I could have started my own family. My own man, my own child, my own life.”

“You want a child May?”

“Not with you! Not now, and I am starting to think not ever.”

“But May, I would…”

“Would do anything unless it is something difficult. I think you want to have your cake and eat it too.”

“You aren’t being fair.”

“Fair, you disgrace the word by letting it form on your lips.”

“And what about your husband?”

“My husband is different. I would leave him, I have before.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

“And be alone when you turn me to the cold? You’ve said you couldn’t leave her. You said it Charles. You said it.”

“I want to leave her. I want to be with…”

“No you don’t, stop it. If you wanted to do it, you would. At this point I have to believe you like a little on the side. And you like your life with a safe woman, children and job.”

“But we could have…”

“I am not and never will be your safe woman. I hope you remember tonight well.”

“You going to walk out of my life? Go back to the putrid fellow you married in high school?”

“He is a good man. He is…”

“A drunk who doesn’t love you. Who spends all his time at work or on the golf course.”

“You have no right…”

“When was the last time you made love? Made love with passion the way we make love?”

“I don’t know Charles.”

“Any wonder you don’t have children.”

“I can’t stay. I can’t go. What can I do?”

“Don’t cry dear. I am sorry. I really don’t want to lose you. I would…”

“Stop it you asshole. I don’t want to hear anymore of your ‘I would’s. Because you never do any, and I doubt you.”

“Doubt me?”

“How can I not doubt your love for me? I lay awake at night with my pillow. The tears are the only thing real.”

“What should I do?”

“Take my hand from me now. Take me body and soul. I want all of you.”

“You barely took all of me last time.”

“Stop being an asshole. You know I am not making some childish joke.”

“I am sorry.”

“I know you are, now apologize.”

“You’re funny.”

“Don’t touch me, and keep your pants on. I don’t want you to touch me. I am nothing to you.”

“Nothing. After all these years, how can you say such a thing?”

“After all these years, exactly. What have you done for me? Flowers on my birthday Charles. My fucking mother sends me flowers too.”

“You know if I were to…”

“Yes, what would people say? Maybe they would see we love each other. Maybe they would know it is the right thing.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care. I just need space and time.”


“Take your hands off me. Stop trying to hold me.”


“You know how badly I want to kiss you right now. How much I want to lay down in this cheap hotel bed with you? How much I want to feel you inside me.”

“I want it too baby.”

“I know. But not today.”

“Fine, you walk out the door. Walk away from everything we have together.”

“What do we have together? A hour of sex on your lunch break every Friday. I spend more time with the barista at the corner.”

“You fucking him too.”

“Her, she’s 16 and hot. And she would be better in bed than you.”

“I get it, you like girls.”

“Hey prick, it was a joke. What I really want is a man who loves me.”

“I love you dear.”

“Love me on my back. Love me with my underwear around my ankles. But you have no idea who I am. Where did I grow up?”


“Nebraska! Have you been hit in the head? I was born and raised in Alaska.”

“Isn’t it close. Out west some place.”

“Why did I ever fall in love with a east coast snob like you.”

“I don’t know geography, so what?”

“My favorite colour?”


“Have you ever seen me in blue underwear? They are all green, do you even pay attention?”

“I am just tired.”

“Tired. Me too. Goodbye.”

“Please Nancy.”

“Nancy is your wive’s name.”


(a Room to Write exercise)