The knowing look

A voice lost is a voice that hasn't been used. Hoarse, broken, shady - not excess of use but a complete lack of use. Preceded by a brief attempt to reside in an octave that is not usually yours. Signaled by a breakdown of the system you know so well. Tongue, palate, vocal chords - all rendered useless - not by a misuse of power but by an ignorance of power.

That is when you are asked. You must, of course, be asked.

Do you know what would be said with the voice that has been lost? Do you want to know?

Hello, Goodbye

You are standing in the middle of the longest goodbye in history.

Spanning decades, continents, lives, choices, futures and pasts.

Learner's curiosity makes you wait to see how it ends, exactly.

How uncomfortable is that? Watching yourself amputate the one limb you cannot live without. Even gone it will still be there. A phantom limb, shock at the root, ache at the tip.

Will you answer?

Time has come to this place you've made your home. These flatlands you call yours, shadowless, lightless, no valleys or mountains - you need to see everything here and so you do. You've anticipated, strategized, planned, maneuvered.

Time's up though.

Swerve if you think you need to, detour if you believe it will help. You don't and it won't.

The time will come and time will come and show you what you haven't seen.

It will be a knock at door, like any other.

Travel

You've been welcomed into a new land. The invitation you received ages ago finally removed from the refrigerator door where a quiet magnet held it close to you but far from your attention. You brought it with you, just in case, your name engraved in the vellum. In case someone might think you don't belong here. In case you might think you don't belong here.

The border crossing was simple, no formalities. There is an easy, automatic feeling of home here. Well, except for the fact that you don't speak the language and can't read the signs.

Blind here, your hand stretches out, a five-legged spider who knows the lay of land without ever having visited.

Le bilan

You returned your favorite book to the library.

You left your favorite pen on the counter of a music store.

You forgot your favorite shirt in a hotel room in Arizona.

You put away boxes of memories when you left your life.

You gave away your chances when you started doing math.

You wasted your luck when you started being practical.

You own nothing, not even the time you've been given.

The why

Why do I write? I'd give a different answer to that question than to why do I have a blog.

So, JMH and Philippe, I write because I can't not write. The answer is something along the lines of yours JMH - I feel better when I write. Not in a self-psycho-analysis way, just in a constructive, creative way. I take an idea or a sentence or event that I like or don't like at all and work backwards to the beginning of a story or a tale or picture taken with words. It's an exercise I like, a task I enjoy. And I like being able to describe something really specific - experience or event or feeling - in a way that lets someone else read something entirely different and personal into it. Being able to share something that is both open and closed in nature. Something that, in the end, is both mine and yours.

Moments

Prepared to work, even to struggle, this is familiar to you. Prepared to wonder, worry, wish - those too.

You are taken aback, maybe even 2 steps, when a flash of complete satisfaction, despite the missing parts and unsolved equations, is upon you. Incomplete paths and misguided choices mean nothing here, which also surprises you. Their presence is usually so central.

Brief and alone moments, suspicion used to file away the memory of their existence as day dreaming once they were gone.

Now you look for them and wait, will, want. For them to string together, a necklace you will wear.

On the nature of house guests

I will have visitors this week. First friends, both old and new, and then family, both old and new.

Brief visits but that's ok. Being so far away means you take what is offered and feel lucky regardless. And I do.

It will be a slice of home. Not the place home, but the feeling.

In my house, they will be the ones to welcome me home. I love that.

Twisted

For the ease and comfort of everyone involved, let's make this about you. Let's paint the world your favorite color.

Let's make the tales you tell bedtime stories we should all find solace and safety in when we're alone at night. Let's call the excuses you give soulful mantras we could use to find peace when faced with pictures we don't understand. Let's call the compromises you require tithing- a ten per cent levy of ourselves we must give up without question - knowing it's for the good cause - it's your cause - how could it not be?

Let's call the manipulations you execute maneuverings designed for our own good - you're thinking we should be grateful - good idea, we'll try that. Let's call your deceptions magic tricks - we should just enjoy the show, we bought the ticket - how could we not have expected a show?

Let's call your arrogance confidence that makes us feel safe when you're around. Let's call your cowardice kindness - a battle not fought means that no one dies. Or does it?

Darkness

You realize it doesn't come from the night, from the lack of light, or even the heavy clouds. It comes from the places where truth was never allowed. How many of those you've held close. Swirls are just shadows that move in those places; adjustments to illusions you've loved. Or needed.

But on this day, a ridiculously banal day, you can no longer believe in power of that darkness, its comfort, its ability to shield you from every truth you do not want to know.

And so you let it seep in, the truth - not the darkness - there's no need for that anymore. There is nothing you're not willing to see. No, not exactly that. You're not happy about it, it is not a joyful act. But you can now will yourself to do it.

Passages

Path. Channel. Duct. Along, through, over.

From this to that and then to now. And finally, beyond.

Most are landmarked, landscaped, roadsigned and indicated.

And then there are those that you walk through without even realizing you're doing it. You like those the best. You discover yourself to be both more and less than you ever thought you would be. There is no judgment in that balance - it is as neutral as math.

Forevermore

You got it all wrong, didn't you?

Piano played on your skin, no keys to be found. The braille you wrote was seen, not felt. The silent gestures heard, not seen.

Back to the river, you scrape your hand along the bed, dig your fingers in, see what you can pull up.

The cold water feels so good, a memory your palms bring to your surface. Down below you expect to find ground rocks, sand, dirt - you do not. Only smooth stones are left, black, white, and 27 shades in between - shades whose existence you've never admitted.

Your waters will never be muddied again. Freedom feels nothing like you thought it would.

Bénéfices secondaires

The nights are cold, colder than you remember. You usually like nights, you still do, these are just different. You add a layer. Maybe two. That makes a difference but not really the kind of difference you were looking for.

You're warmer now, closer to comfortable. But that's just a secondary benefit.

You realize it's not the warmth they provide, but the weight. The feeling that you are grounded from above.

Minor crisis

Of the blog variety.

Just meandering out loud. What to do with the blog.

Having come up with no answer, I'll ask you.

What to do with the blog?

Crossroads

Time has been on your mind lately, you cannot say why.

Traditionally neutral in your life, time has now taken a stance.

September is given to stances, it's that kind of month, it always has been.

Your life will be so different in one month. Because in this month of stances, time meets justice, her best friend. Not justice in the punitive sense. Justice in the harmonious sense.

Time and justice will do their work and your life will never be the same.

Hmm

Days after the twelfth anniversary of my arrival to stay in France - which was marked by twelve white roses quietly left at my door - I received a reminder that no matter how long I've been here, I'll always be a foreigner. Which is how it should be, shouldn't it? I mean, I'm not French, I was raised by American parents in a monocultural household. Well, relatively speaking. My mother is from the South and that did have its influence on my life.

Anyway, Saturday evening at a lovely dinner hosted by a lovely friend in a lovely setting, surrounded by interesting people of all nationalities and varieties, I was told I was, "so very American."

I started laughing, at least on the inside, although I may have worn a look of WTF irritation on my face. That is the one thing I never hear, have never heard once during the past twelve years. I took slight offense, I admit it. Not because being perceived as very American is always a bad thing, but that such a judgment could be delivered after ten minutes of conversation.

Having said that, I'm sure he was quite right.

Hide

It has been your nature to avoid endings. Too final, too hard, too permanent, although you do realize the finality, the hardness, and the permanence are yours - not inherent to every ending.

You've decided to be willing to let an ending be otherwise. To let yourself be otherwise.

It has been promised - everything outside that door is good.

And promises mean the world to you. Literally. Neither words nor intentions, promises are diamonds to you. The clear, sparkling, hard, future truths of your world. Anyone who doesn't know that about you doesn't really know you.

Whiplash

You stand, still for once, watching the ground that has been covered. Distance and ash evidence of your trail. You see an elaborate labyrinth. Cleverly made, brilliantly even, you can see neither beginning nor end, just its heartbreaking beauty and integrity.

Convinced this was your lesson, you've navigated this adventure like the student you've always been, good overall performance with your tendency to procrastinate still intact.

The possibility that the lesson might be someone else's to learn never occurred to you. Not because you're egocentric but because you're chronically hard on yourself, you just assumed this was your river to cross. In fact, you may just be a supporting character.

Another incidence, although some say occurrence, at a different Owl Creek Bridge, how many miles will be covered in the inch you've been asked to give? Years in the seconds you've been asked to yield?

A place for you

You've been in this place longer than you've ever been anywhere. This one place that has never really felt like home is the place you've spent more time than any other. You cannot explain this.

You could detail how ready you've been for a change. You could describe the goodbye you've already said, the thanks you've already given. The nod of acknowledgment you received.

What were you being being told? That change, as ready as you may be for it, is not ready for you? That there is something you still have to do here or perhaps something that must be done to you?

As is always the case, time knows better than you which page is really the last.

Timing

It began with once upon a time. Hmm, you say. In good time. Ok, you say. You think you can live with that. Time heals all wounds. Yes, you say. Time will take care of the things that you cannot. Fine, you say.

You breathe differently. Just in time. How does your body know that times are changing?

Everything there is outside that door is good.