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The NaPoWriMo Journal
Getting caught up on four days. Two for now, and as is my nature, will definitely be lagging behind. Dust The heavy film along a dresser is thick enough, that if I wiped too much away would the bones of the room crumble? Or is it mine crumbling? Would everything that's light enough to have lived atop get jostled like a mind, fail to fall back into the same place? This membrane between me, and a room - a ledger, a socket and a joint that catapults me out when I leave - a consolidation of body and mind. There's no leaving in a polished room the way you do in an old - meandering along a sunray over the indifference of a splintering sill - a sill that has long since stopped looking. There is no being stealth enough. Clean they say. In Place of the Choir I think of a place where a song would've been - the collective voices have sometimes become candles, rows of wreathes, placed flowers. The people are always gone, there could be no echo otherwise, no thought of a
Ways to Help
How to help victims of the 7.8 earthquake in Turkey and Syria | PBS NewsHour Places where you can donate. Posting as a journal since status updates are rarely seen.
Worlds out of nothing - a stream of conscious.
What surprises me most are the dreams that'll have nothing to do with what's salient. The ones that pull something from twenty odd years ago off the floor and build a setting of which you know yet don't know. Of which you're familiar with because the mind has learned familiarity, and the mind has arranged a host of images of which you're supposed to know, and said 'here,' and so you do. How you fall into them exasperated, and somehow ready to start over again - an old crush. Their face disappears and blends into all past crushes yet remains just one - a lover is a lover, and here you are pure energy hoping for so much more than just a face. There was a charge happening somewhere in their eyes long ago, their hair - in any pigmentation which caught the light. You built a home around the light. You thought it meant something, but in the damp marsh of a dream you learn any name will suffice, and so you take it. Here you always seem to be young, pulled from
Must Read
(Better to go to the site and read, as the format is bungled here) In the Endless War Nasser Rabah Translated from the Arabic by The Brooklyn Translation Collective Put your hearts under the beds—exhausted neglected shoes not to be covered by the dust of war: “and you shall not know.” Put your hearts on the case of an old and broken clock, so the raid won’t shake them: “and you shall not be sad.” In war the heart expands, becoming a boat for the children, an hour of clarity, and a sky for writing. In war the heart chokes, words flee, and along its edge birds melt into red dew. It flutters on a tall post—a gasp called the homeland. In war you leave your heart aside and you salvage a bundle of paper: your old picture at the school gate, the deed of your demolished home, your son’s birth certificate. Your heart doesn’t matter
© 2013 - 2024 Moonbeams
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Be it March 17, 2013 or later than that - but if you've vanished into a coffee mug, then there might be hope for you yet - I'm just brewing fresh coffee, would you like a cup?