Berries and Sugar

All the jars in all the galaxies.
all the words in all the damn world.
the girlies in all of the spaces and places.
Jam.
In a damn jam jam.
And not at all, not even a bit.
Writing to write and speaking to speak,
to be spoken to and of and with.
A dang sticky weirdo in a dang sticky world.
Testing the limits of pectin and sugars,
introducing atypical ingredients and fresh variables.
Like resurrecting forgotten fruits with a delicate, healing touch.
Out here makin' pies. Makin' jams and jellies and jams.
And just when I fear a sweet tooth might get the best
I'm reacquainted with feeling rebuffed and angry.
Feeling scared and angry and isolating.
Know it well now, I do.
Are you rebuffed? Shall one withdraw?
No answers that ever really are answers.
No promises. No masters, nor gods.
Only berries and sugar and that too-often-bitter lemon.

Little Things and What-have-you-nots

38 entries in 2011 and 66 in 2018. The years in between ranged from 1-25, as if I need another reminder of the ways my spirit gets set ablaze and ripped asunder from the breaking of affections and chains and years together. Lights and incites.

As if there weren't a million other even little things that inspire me, daily. That set me on course, that cause me to spout sonnets. And it does seem that writing keeps my focus, causes me to encapsulate and reflect on moments. To more or less eloquently synthesize and capture aspects of what makes it tick, what gives it meaning, what agitates and invites me. Towards growth and newness and insightful[ness] or what-have-you-nots.

Picking up tricks and trends of the trade along this winding way. You're eloquent and well spoken, they've said. Mama used to say how good I was at writing and maybe I am, maybe it's true. She said many things, but that feels instructive and directive. This chance meeting of souls seems to enforce it, likewise. And I'm sensing lately new words and alternative phrases and creative approaches to description. Set ablaze, smoldering in a way.

irritated as I am enthralled

I wonder what a word cloud of my most commonly used phrases might contain. Reading even just a few passages I know it's of love. Ugh. Blasted L. Which however close or far always seems limiting. That women come to define themselves. By others. By bending. And many others do nothing of the sort. Make it their business to be distant. Too cool to be cuddly and cooing. The priority is work and the priority is surfing or being stuck. And the truth is, that's ok. It's ok as ok as ok. As I am here and you are there. The distance from here to there has often felt immense and expansive. Between me and so many, chasing affections and molding and morphing away from the Alex Mack that I am. I did something recently, I set a boundary and time for myself. If it causes displeasure and distance, well then. Oh well. Well. I did well. And I woke to find smiles. Growth is an odd thing, hard to gauge. But I recognize it most when reflecting in the moment in how I react. I never would have been this wise and collected before, I know that, I think. Like a cucumber, like a delicious fucking salad I consumed like mad just last night. I like doors and soft lights and plants and gushy eyes.

And am I the one who drags myself off the bottom of the sea, who's appalled at what I see? That ghost woman I came to be. It's my distance and degradation that draws some in, like a crash from which you cannot tear your glance away. Perhaps something to covet, no? But those damn gushy eyes, they get me nearly each and every damn time. As irritated as I am enthralled. Already prepped for a downfall at any moment, preparing to find things that can't be ignored. Red flags or orange flags and the green ones, all the same. Then what, then what. What to do with it, where to go and move. And sure going with that flow, going with it and with it and onward and away. The flow is the flow is the flow. Aches that once seemed to have all but dissipated reveal themselves present and to be accounted for. Listen, listen in. Listen some more. I don't like what you're telling me, but I listen, still. The cruelty and the beauty, wrapped tightly up in one. Learn to see it as more or less par. Jealously and insecurity and pondering and joys and those happy sad tears. All of those and them there. Opening up and reminding me that it's possible, it exists. I'm a resilient, brilliant motha. I am light.