Light Weave

Lightless stories
woven from the heaviest fabric
in rough linen, scratchy
with tags of the past,
still unremoved after several eclipses
of sweaters pulled over heads
and hair mussed up by woolen static
in the eternal winter of space
where threads unravel quietly,
uncovering more silent moons
to orbit dead eyes
in sighing haloes and singing stars
covering the knit lightyears of scarf,
the rough tapestry
alive against cold cheeks.

Raven Day

A raven on my way to work, early in the morning. Sitting in golden treetops, following me for a few short moments.
Walking through the park in a cloud of dark thoughts, alone with the pain of things going wrong, of life going wrong, wrongs of the past physically hurting again. And again, a raven. Following me, from tree to ground to rock to tree. Alone with my darkness and a raven in a Japanese garden, black clouds and black feathers beneath the red fire of Japanese maples in October.

grey days

Some days I wake up and the world is grey. Sometimes this coincides with a flat grey sky outside, but it doesn’t have to.

I wake up and feel too tired to sit up, to open my eyes, to be happy about the chances a new day might bring.

I wake up and everything looks like out of a dark movie, more black and white and sepia than actual colours, and even hazy morning sun turns into massive clouds and cold rain. I see the world in cold greys and feel too old for my age.

Some days I wake up and go about with my daily chores as far as I manage, but usually I don’t get far. Too cold inside out, too monotonous, too monochrome in low-key grey-scale with raspy noise like rain on ISO 1600.

Some days are dark and all I want to do is cry and sleep and eat, sometimes not even eat because there is nothing to be found tasty enough to be worth the effort of opening a tin, putting a pot on the stove, reaching for bowl and spoon.

I silently cry out to the walls, cry without real tears while knowing it will be long hours until I will see people I call friends, at least secretly, while being afraid of being told they hate me as soon as I will be bold enough to tell them how much I love being around them.

Some days I sleep away and ask myself why I can’t just quit this and instead work nine to five and be done, because the world is too cold and grey to move bold ideas and blurry concepts in a cluttered mind, trapped between black concrete walls. It takes hours to force myself to start concentrating on the task at hand, and by then the clouds are so heavy I feel I won’t be able to wake up ever again.

Some days I try to pray, while already knowing I’ve shut myself down so far I won’t hear the answer, shut down to feel only the cold surface of all the jagged emotions threatening to pierce the last remnants of calm sea, curled into a tight ball to keep the harsh winds from the raw landscapes of a bared soul.

Today is grey on both sides of the windowpane in my small corner of our study. Even though I know I will have to start and finish this work and then I’ll be able to play I can’t remove myself from my stupor. Writing helps a little, so does the faint hope of someone being there to offer a smile tonight, but I’m scared the clouds will be too black with rain by then to be able to walk the line between opening myself and not conjuring up a full force flooding sweeping away every tiny offered token of kindness.

Grey days mean not knowing when there will be warmth and sunshine again, hardly being able to believe in these concepts at all no matter how many people talk about these. Still, I know that I have to wait and do my best to stay in touch with this day, because it might become better. Playing is the only thing I look forward today, because music and sweat and laughter will push everything away if I stay strong until then. Writing, praying, waiting for the familiar rhythm of movements to grasp me, carrying me to faraway places of sun and sea for a while.

 

you can’t bottle me

When you come close to me, don’t expect me to smell of the lily and the rose, the sweet sugary fragrances of multi-layered artificial compositions. This isn’t me. When you see me you should recognize how my scent couldn’t have been born in a test tube, a laboratory, how it can’t be bottled in diamond-faceted flacons and tied up with a pale pink ribbon.

I want my scent to remind you of sitting next to a camp fire under a starry sky, smoke curling up to the milky way, and maybe a full moon rising up over a vast, mysterious landscape.

I want my embrace to carry you to mossy woods, deep and green with warm sun on rain-drenched logs, a smell of comfort, of safety and freedom.

I want to make you feel at home in fields of cornflowers growing on heavy, dusty soil, with a whiff of herbs and spices carried over by  the breeze; maybe from the Provence, maybe from a place far away full of cedar wood and pines.

I want you to take a walk by my side, inhaling the faint aroma of old leather, of hay on meadows in late summer, and of trees turning into crisp red and golden flames on the hills with the onset of Indian summer, all being threatened to be swept away by the veil of mist rising up.

I want you to stand next to me and inhale the powerful perfume of thunderstorms making rain fall in big, lazy drops on sun-hot pavement, bringing dreams of old days and new adventures, mixing ashes and the ocean in one single breath.

I want you to think of evening sun turning the world golden, making you forget the time, the place, the season, and when you look up I want to make you wonder what huge white clouds taste like.

This is me. You can’t bottle me, and neither will you ever be able to capture all of me at the same time.