Entries by tag: sad

Sweet treat
Singing Agathe
Sometimes, on my birthday, I like to get a little bit sad and a little bit lonely.

Snippet: The Sad Man
Singing Agathe
He is a tall man
a sad man
a man in a blue rain coat
and he'll trade you a pebble from his pocket
for your sorrows and your sympathies

Among the Gods of the Playground
he is a minor deity at best
The kids do not hold their breath
or tap a popcan's lid before opening
in honor or in fear of him

But they know him
The tall, sad man

And they whisper his story
child to child
details shifting with each teller's own idea
of what true sorrow is

And they know to count him
among their Gods
for he goes unseen
by the adults

All the whispers
child to child
say he leans against a light-post
in the faintest
drizzle of a rain
And if you tell him what makes you sad
and if you tell him that you are sorry for what makes him sad
If you share with the tall, sad man
he will reach into his blue raincoat pocket
and give you a pebble

On the playground
a pebble of the Sad Man
can be a powerful thing indeed

Out of sorts and stillness
The Dime
In January I started rehearsals with Walking Shadow for An Ideal Husband.

Two weeks later, inspired by what seems a good house in the perfect neighborhood, we decided to scramble to put our house on the market, which has been a flurry of cleaning, organizing, painting, and all the little things we have meant to get done over the past four years.

On January 19th, my maternal grandmother passed away. Her funernal was set for Saturday, January 28th.

On January 27th, my paternal great-aunt passed away. She wanted no funeral or reviewal, so we gathered to toast her on January 29th.

I spent the weekend greiving. And even though that process involved a lot of gathering with my lovely relatives, and remembering good times, and laughter, it was still greiving. I am tired. It has been a horrible year, to lose three family members. But I have to buck up, get to rehearsal, get those walls painted and the room straightened, and keep moving forward.

So I'm out of sorts and out of contact and just exhausted lately. This isn't even the recovery period. I will crash someday soon.

True to a wisper
The Dime
There is something I covet in my own isolation; something delicate and delicious in being on the outside, looking in. There is a power out here, in the rain.

I am dancing again. I arrive as silently as I can, disrobe the layers of protection I wrap around myself. My smiles are timid, my gaze does not linger. I am a stranger to this world. It makes my stomach flutter. Slowly, in moments of song or movement or stillness, I bloom. Reality becomes periphery, I shed skin that evaporate in the gathering mist. There is passion and connection and the divine. It is no fire, like the forge of my youth. It is a sorrowful fountain, it spills mystery across the floor. At times I stumble, and my body perhaps falls ill-tune, but that does not matter. In the dance, I am different. I am something greater.

And then it is over, and I shy away from the world that intrudes again. I do not begrudge it what it is - body sweat and parched lips and joints and aches and talk of tomorrow and the next. But I do not indulge in it. I wrap myself in my layers again, and I depart, happy that my mystery may sustain me.

The solitude that follows is so welcome. I feel alien to the streets and cars and loud, brass conversations at the cross-walks. I am a thing of another place, and I long to hold onto this sensation. If my soon-to-be-husband were not waiting for me at home on these nights, I might go walk along the cold river. If there were no one waiting for me at home, I might walk into the cold river. Smiling.

There once was a baker who worked at midnight. Late nights at the theater meant I would walk home in the dark, passing the bakery window, the kitchen at its busiest. Our eyes met more than once, half smiles shared in fleeting moments, starting to recognize each other. He was a handsome baker. Men like him don't want boys like me, I thought to myself, and I was okay with that, because we were separated by that pane of midnight glass. I could be the fey in the night, something almost unreal. Then one day he was out smoking when I walked by. We exchanged a few words, names (I don't remember his), and I never saw him again. The window had shattered, the distance had closed up, and I was found lacking.

I miss walking at night. I miss feeling divine and alien and alone in all the world. Out here in the rain, I can be anything. In there, in the light, in the crowd, I am a different story, and too easy to find lacking.

Trudging onward
Singing Agathe
Things are not spectacular at the moment. We are all still alive, we have food on our table and a roof over our heads. We are both still employed. These are all things I remind myself of when I think about complaining in a more public forum like this. Still, I feel shitty sometimes, and perhaps I should indulge myself a little bit more in expressing that, albeit in a tempered manner.

What sucks exactly?Collapse )

Mouth Sewn Shut
Singing Agathe
I am feeling distinctly inferior these days. I find that I'm really not all that good at the things I enjoy, and anything I may have a margin of talent for is just a cheap fill for my need to feel accomplished. I'm an Achiever, dammit. And if I can't be achieving, then the next best thing is to complain so you're sure to know why I'm not achieving.

So there's been a lot of bitchy and moaning, all to cover up my own insecurities and general distaste with the ruin I've let accumulate in the garden of my mind. I'm a posturing peacock. No substance. False flame. Withering potential, decaying on the vine.

My body aches within its own atrophy. Crawling back out to the surface means facings those harsh truths again: that I'm not good at things that make me happy, and I'm not special enough to warrant the attention of my betters. I always return to the same, sad, sick scenario. I decide if I cannot be the best at achieving, I will be the best at suffering. That is not a game confident people feel the need to play.

What is this morbid affliction that I nurture inside me? When will I be able to face the Dawn?

And why the fuck do I have so many tags that are appropriate to drivel like this? It's time to burn something out of me, I think.

Ultradian Rhythms
Singing Agathe
There has been no consistency in my mood of late. I greet the sun with a smile only to cry in the shower. I dread the thought of my commute home, dread the thought of driving anywhere really. I laugh a lot. I’m freaked out by being home alone, but I’m lethargic once the Boy returns from work. I love every project that sits on my horizon, but when they start to loom too close I retreat into despair. My heart races. My mind will not still itself. I cannot tell you if things are good or bad. I don’t know if I am on the brink of collapse, or something great.

The Dime
Set out quickly on a simple trip
Crossed three paths on my way from
One playing the guitar
One wishing me Merry Christmas
One deaf man with his cardboard card
Dollar, dollar, do you have spare change?
And I had a meal today
I'm the guilty party
I made a buck today
I should give it away
And the deaf man points
God Bless
God Bless
Here's a dollar
God Bless
and I stumble away
Why did he get the dollar?
Why not the man with the guitar strings?
Why not the girl with the simple stare?
Why does it linger
on my simple trip from
I made a buck today
I should give three away
Cause I'll have a meal tomorrow
even if it's rice
It lingers because I could walk away

The Dime
She liked to pour cordials over melting ice cubes, and then crush the ice between her teeth. It seemed a slower way of wasting to nothing.
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