There will be no 7 for seven again this week, as I am more guarded in sharing my personal life than ever, and I’m learning to be gentle and forgiving with myself by knowing that’s okay. It’s needed. It’s deserved. However, I am less guarded than (almost) ever in my in-person connections with other humanoids — the less guarded we are, the quicker we weed out the ones who are meant to walk/run the other way. Go ahead, run, I keep only the like-minded or the I-welcome-your-unique-mind kind of people within my reach.
In my new age number of 35 (because isn’t that all it is!?), I’ve definitively decided I want to do the opposite of disappearing, so I’m posting something in lieu of 7 for seven (though of course gratitude is a continued practice). A new friend of mine is a musician, and we’ve decided to work on a project together by responding to each other’s art. He sent me a music sketch, and I’ve written a poem sketch in response. I’ve double-pinky sworn not to share his sound bites, as they are a work in progress (he’s planning on doing much bigger and better things with his), but as a blogger, I’m a little more masochistic I suppose (ha!) and am willing to share my works-in-progress. Here’s the first one (baring in mind it IS a work-in-progress):
Before my time,
lines were silent and invisible, but people
were aware of them.
People sailed by the lines like breathing
and putting one foot in front
of the other.
They knew to move
because meanings only materialized
and became audible when limbs were pinned
to the sides of their respective
bodies. When the lines connected in waves and spoke in a language only the inbetween understood,
people’s mouths were used for nothing
Then there was a history of string.
It held together the words that often got lost in contemplation.
Despite what one might think,
the physical distance between two people
using a string
was more often than not
the nearness only detected by skins;
sometimes the smaller the distance, the greater the need for the string
people needed it to guide their words
to their destination without knocking off lazy limbs dangling almost without connection
left to try
too many crash up on the rocks
despite the foghorn’s warning, “I care about you and go away.”
When the thickened air makes the string disappear once again, and we don’t turn around, it is the opposite of disappearing;
we are St John’s at dusk.