Her hair shines in lamplight, hangs down to the floor. She kisses the hands of the old.
She brews water late into the night, makes the kettle whistle in the silence, utters strange prayers through hands splayed wide like the wings of doves.
She weaves apologies into her hair and tries to remember that nighttime is not a death sentence; the sun falling below the horizon in no way resembles the executioner’s blade.
Mouths are beautiful to remind us to speak beautifully, to talk kindly and bless each other with our mouths. She reminds herself that fingers are so long and fragile to allow us to gently cup fallen birds’ nests. They’re soft so we can caress the curve of another’s body.
Hands are for helping and feet are for walking gently on this earth.
She feels like the cup of tea tipped over on the shelf, Earl Grey leaking out and pooling at her feet.
She feels like the rabbit the gunshot killed.
I’m lucky to have the father I have, though we speak rarely. He’s a bastion of strength, a serious force of goodness in my world, and I’m thrilled to have him on my side.
Big things have been happening, sweet reader. I’ve been moving and shaking things. A couple weeks ago, I said that I am tired of doing work I don’t love, for people I don’t love. Well, that has been my rallying cry for the last two weeks. The more I thought about it, the truer I realized it was. I want to live up to the future I see for myself.
Things have been falling into place. I’m on the verge of being offered a new job, in a line of work I never considered before. This job is everything I have been looking for and then some, only it came in a package I never would have recognized, a form I wouldn’t have chosen. It’s funny how life is like that.
As wonderful as this opportunity is, I’m still feeling some uncertainty about leaving my current job. I’m not good with change. I don’t like it. I’m an anxious creature, and routine makes me feel safe. Leaving the comfortable for the unknown is scary. And that’s where my dad comes in: “It’s not about the money,” he told me. “Life is too short to do work that doesn’t make you happy. And too much stress will make you sick.”
Yeah. Yes, exactly. This is where I get it from. It’s comforting to know that people are rooting for me. There are always more people rooting for us than we realize, but it’s nice to hear the words sometimes.
So, full steam ahead, I guess. Like steampunk. Expect to see a lot more of me in the coming year.
I’m rediscovering the poet and spoken word artist Stacey Ann Chin tonight. Jesus Christ. This woman speaks God into being, for real. Her words kiss you on their way past, gently coax the tears out of your eyes.
Here’s a lighter poem of hers that I heard tonight, “Tweet This, You Small-Minded Motherfucker.” All rights are hers; I just like to share.
I’ve been doing some deep thinking lately, almost in spite of myself. I took a hiatus from the world, and the world kept doing its thing. I’ve been thinking of starting a small bakery out of my house. I can’t imagine the logistics of it. A pop-up cart serving coffee and breakfast would be bomb. I’ll be thinking on it, to be sure.
I’d like to call it Underdog Bakery. This is what America feels like right now. We’re the down-and-out, the middle children, the dispossessed and unenthused. It’s hard out there, a hard hustle. I keep trying to find a way to go around the outside, to find a way into a more human way of living.
A sound like a bomb just went off outside. Now car alarms are ringing. Say hello to the underbelly of America. Do we need a revolution or what?
I’m thinking of calling the trilogy I’m writing “A Victims’ Revolution.” The story of the Mad Scientist’s wicked climb, and the far-reaching consequences that abuse and power can wreak.
An underdog bakery and a victims’ revolution. See where my head is at these days?