Archive for November, 2012

Time

November 30, 2012

Time

 

So little time. There is not much time left. No time for doing the things I so much wanted to do. No time for dreaming. Dreams do not come true. What else is there? What else can there be when there is exhaustion, day in and day out? What can there be when uncertainty is my constant companion? What to do when I don’t understand what is going on or why it is happening?

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Bark

November 30, 2012

The Dog

November 30, 2012

A garden. That’s where I saw him. He was big and he was strong. The weather was pleasant—almost like spring. He watched people walk by. Sometimes he’d bark at someone; other times, he’d smile. He had a nice smile, with his teeth all white. His tail—such a nice and fluffy tail wagged. A small dog came to the garden from somewhere inside the house. The pair stood in the garden by the fence. They were just looking, having fun.

The Beast is Coming

November 24, 2012

Coming

 

It is coming. I am not imagining the beast. It is real.  I expect it any minute. It is near. It is getting closer and closer. I try to deny its existence. If I know it is there 100% of the time my stress level will grow and get bigger and bigger. I don’t know how to deal with it. I don’t know how to act in a detached manner, as if it did not bother me. To me, it is a monster, all black, big, a lot bigger than I am. It can destroy with the snap of a finger.

 

Dread

November 24, 2012

Dread

 

I think about it and my stomach is all knotty. I distract myself for a while, maybe a few minutes and I think about it again. What is my fate? When will the knife-like situation do me in? Will I be able to survive it? Will I laugh and be on the other side, triumphant? Or, will I drop to the floor and cry my heart out? I did that once. I saw something on TV that reminded me of my lost home and the tears wouldn’t stop. I don’t think the tears can stop now, once I start crying again.

Bread

November 17, 2012

Bread

 

The loaf of bread—called walnut batard—dared her, challenged her. Buy me. Have the bakery employee slice me. Ask him to put me in a clear plastic bag. No, no. You cost $8. I love breads with lots of walnuts, but I can’t afford you. It doesn’t matter if you can’t afford me, if I’m on the expensive side. Come on. Do it. I know you won’t regret it.  She turned her back on the bread, on all the breads on display. It is awful not to be able to buy what you want. It is awful not to have money.

Storage Woman

November 9, 2012

Storage

 

I am storage. I live in storage. I left my real life somewhere and cannot get it back. The boxes, big, medium and  small, are before me. They stare at me and I stare at them. Some boxes are open, some are closed, ready to go. I have been looking at the boxes—at myself—for months, perhaps years. My eyes close. I shake my head. My eyes open slowly. I look at the boxes, then I look the other way. Makes no difference. The boxes don’t go away.

 

 

The 6 Dollars

November 6, 2012

The 6 Dollars

 

Late. Dark. A woman is standing in the street, waiting for the light to change. She had just left the corner deli. A bag with a dozen eggs, $1.99—all she could afford to buy. She paid with a $10 bill. Before leaving the deli, she thought about putting the money back in her purse. Instead, she clutched the change in her hand. It’s not fair, it’s not fair! Before the light changed, a strong gust of wind made a $5 bill and a dollar bill fly. She ran to try to retrieve them. Too late. The money kept flying away.

Worse

November 4, 2012

Worse

 

The tension. The feeling is inside me. It is just beneath the surface. I try. I try not to show it. Remaining calm is best, someone said a long time ago. I don’t want to explode. I don’t want this to explode me, as if I were a bomb. The coldness of the streets stops me. That’s the only thing holding me in a place, in a situation that has turned abusive. Too abusive for my taste. Too abusive to shrug off and pretend it does not exist.

 

 

 

Thrown off

November 3, 2012

Yes, I could be thrown on with my cat into the street. It’s like in a silent movie. I can see us now, my cat and I on the sidewalk. It is cold. The wind is blowing hard. I get up from the sidewalk and I look around. I am confused, dazed. Where to go? My cat does not know what is going on. She meows, asking for her warm place inside. There is none. I don’t know what to tell her. Things will be fine, I finally say, just to say something. We start walking to where the end of the block is. We wait to cross the street.