Candor's Price

Silhouettes of things

I'd wished to say

float above the page

and drift away; 

twilight weeps, wind shivers,

and the damp will stay

while eye grasps for the last

splash of bright left by day . . .

as I await that strange burn

in the depths when pride pays

for author's confessions

of blues, blacks, and grays.   

Undone

A disappointment I have been,

I feel it in my bones --

a gap within the shoulder joint

taunts "Failure!" while soul groans. 

So much undone both left and right,

so much to overcome,

one side of body forced to rest, 

one side straining toward the sun.  

(Speaking Colloquially) 1st Step: "Yo"

Yo . . . . .

or

Hey . . . . .

Yes, that would work. 

I mean it very nicely, not intending to be rude or disrespectful at all.  I have trouble, in certain cases which remain mysterious even to me, uttering first names.  This difficulty, when it arises, also carries over into email -- email being a parallel genre.

I've tried writing, "Hello, So-and-So [first name]."  This, however, doesn't fit because, due to my difficulty, I don't habitually greet people by their first names.  I've then tried writing plain old "Hello."   But that just hangs there. 

Of course, I can always resort to my no-fail tactic of simply launching into dialogue.  But this has its drawbacks, such as when my intended recipient occasionally must ask (when I do this in person), "Are you talking to me?"  And, in email -- well, I don't know how this tactic comes across in email.  I probably don't want to know.

Now, "Yo" -- humble, perhaps even despised, monosyllable of slang though it may be -- would really help to ease me through this challenge.  Sometimes I can even manage a first name after the "Yo."  (Fringe benefit:  The "Yo" helps you slide right into the first name painlessly.  Like anesthesia.  You don't even know you've done it, but there you are.)  

Of course, there are those who simply will not tolerate "Yo" or "Hey," or whose age or status clearly forbids such relaxation of expression.  In similar category are those with whom we are newly or more professionally acquainted, either in person or in writing. One must obviously retain common sense in such circumstances and obey the higher standards -- no matter what.  However, there are other, more fluid circumstances which might actually permit one some degree of slow, steady progress from the bottom up.  

It's not "new" for me, this "Yo."  It's old.  I eased out of it over time, thinking that age, alone, had conferred the readiness to give it up.  But, honestly, the freedom to slip into "Yo" or "Hey" with forbearing others, when needed, would make speech and emails so much easier.  After all, I can't expect to move upward on this ladder of difficulty unless I first meet myself where I really am.  And, as you can see, I'm at "Yo."

~ Turquoise

Courage

The two hardest words

can sometimes be

not "May I?"

not "Thank you,"

not "I'm sorry,"

but  . . . 

"Help me."

Humility

Out of this chaos,

make your plan.

     How on earth?

     Is this a joke?

No, and please,

make that plan.

     But with which pieces

     of the chaos do I start?

     Top first, or bottom?

     Left first, or right?

A plan will solidify,

impart direction.

     But which way?

The plan,

don't you know?

It flows from you.

    It does?

Like this --

     I don't see anything.

Try this --

     Nothing's happening.

OK, let's start at the top.  Got a ladder?

     No.

OK, then, let's start at the bottom.

Got a dumpster?

     No.

Why are you dusting that lamp?

     Because it's dusty.

There are thousands of dusty things here.

This is not a strategic choice.

Why, out of everything, are you starting with this?

    Because I can reach it.

Teacher to Student

And so you have a poem.

But it is not the poem you wish to write.

Yes, it is an "acceptable" poem.

But you --

you are not "acceptable."

Nor should your poem be.

No, your poem should shock and scandalize

with truth,

chortling loudly over shallow propriety,

raising hairs on complacent heads,

shattering illusions,

uprooting delusions,

and electrifying through connections

musically charged,

configured only

by your unique and unrepeatable

mind.

So close down the poem --

close it down until you're ready

to fling wide the doors of petty convention

and look words in the eye,

choosing only those that

sizzle like shooting stars

and burst like flares,

showering the world

with your own personal fire.

Shy Struggles

"Say 'hello!'"

Can't do it.

I'll look the other way.

"Knock on the door!"

Suddenly tired.

I'll come back another day.

"Use the phone!"

Please, no.

Somebody might answer.

(This fear is becoming

a spiritual cancer.)

"Smile and nod!"

I can't.

My head will get stuck

in some awkward position

with my kind of luck.

"Do nothing and wait."

Ah, thank you!

I will.

(And here I sit,

petrified, waiting

still.)

The Moment

And they didn't hear you, anyway.

Your choicest words shouted,

pleaded,

but they never picked up the thread,

never looked back.

So the words sit inside you,

needing to spill, spill

perhaps to ears more open,

more caring,

perhaps less.

Perhaps, in the end,

the tsunami force of waiting words

takes over,

regardless of who's listening

and who's not.

Perhaps, when you are so broken

that the vessel of self cracks open,

words flying pell-mell onto the page

at breakneck speed,

dictated with urgency

from the depths,

perhaps then -- and perhaps only then --

you have become a 

writer.

Under the Cloud: The Hidden Toll of Multiple Chemical Sensitivity (MCS)

An unspoken -- often unrecognized -- and painful aspect of MCS:

I've found that, within the 24-to-72-hour window after a significant chemical exposure, emotions can loom larger than usual.  The chemicals seem to act directly on the brain.

I had three back-to-back, strong chemical exposures last week, paving the way for an unexpected, unnecessarily heightened sensitivity to something a friend had said.

When I began to detoxify, the matter looked and felt so small and manageable, even negligible.  Before I'd begun to detoxify, however, I'd nearly wrecked a beautiful friendship by speaking my mind while "under the chemical cloud."

This pattern has occurred before.  I realize now that I must postpone airing my thoughts on "emotionally noteworthy" matters until I've at least begun to detoxify from a strong chemical exposure.  (At which point there may be nothing "emotionally noteworthy" to discuss.)

My friend responded forgivingly to my verbal mishap.  This really made me cry.  What a mess I'd made.  My lovely friendship now has a scar which needs to heal, caused by my speaking out in haste, and definitely at the worst time.

To all those equally ravaged by MCS:  Hang in there until the emotional "cloud" of the last chemical exposure passes.   And feel better -- soon.