“It takes a lot of courage to release the familiar and seemingly secure, to embrace the new. But there is no real security in what is no longer meaningful. There is more security in the adventurous and exciting, for in movement there is life, and in change there is power.”
–Alan Cohen
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I wish that I would just write because its my passion. Which it is. And not feel like a idiot compared to my friemds who are professors and have degrees in writing. I just want to write uninhibited.
I am so fucking angry. I would love to tear the demons apart and feed them to my captors. I would love to hurl obscenities at the supposed “good people” who really feed off of the slough of society. I would love, love, love to continue to battle the demons whom I judge to rule the world.
So why can’t I??
Here’s why: In doing this very laborious work, I myself have become a demon. Noone is allowed in, out or around me. Noone is allowed to enter my soul–not even me. Noone noone noone.
so now what?
i’ll tell you what. alone city. it’s just me, myself and I–and noone else.
and you know what?
I secretly love that! I don’t have to open up to a-ny-body!
I can sit in my apartment, eat cereal in my “jammies” at 2 a.m., work from home, make enough money to pay for my rent and food..and continue on my way.
Hell I could be an 80 year-old in about 40 years that gets to brag about eating cereal in my one-bedroom apt!
hmmm–maybe it’s time for a change..
Maybe it’s time to be “born again”
maybe not as a Christian
but maybe, just maybe as a…Human.
You see, I’ve been this little gnome. I’ve been this little gnome that has sathere and ate my cereal and pushed away my friends and pushed away my family and pushed away my world just so that I could be comfortable. I have been very very hurt and all I could do to respond is: (da-da-ta-taaaahh): PUSH AWAY..
hmmm, maybe (and this is just a maybe): I don’t need to push away anymore!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I don’t know though–it still feels good.
hmmm, no pushing away anymore. well what on earth will pandora do if she no longer pushes people away?? I ask you again dear sir: WHAT ON EARTH WILL PANDORA DO IF SHE CAN NO LONGER PUSH, (or for that matter be pushed–away??)
well (said the vicker): I guess she could cook!!
well (said the caretaker): I guess she could mumble!
well (said the beaver): I guess she could build a dam!!
hmmm, PANDORA sat there and thought..
I don’t want to cook OR mumble OR build a dam
So what shall PANDORA do:
hmmmm
hmmm
hmm
I know: she could tell tall tales of her time in hell. The time she was abducted and nobody REALLY believed her even though even they knew it was true.
Oh wait, that’s what I’m not trying to do!!
Still confused: PANDORA asks the question again:
What is she to do other than eat cereal?
ummm: how about this: how about smoke?
PANDORA can start the nasty habit of smoking big stinky cigars and age her leather face until it falls off.
No, she thought–I don’t think that’s what I want to do..
ummm
ummm
(still stuck)..
well how about this:
I can cry, I can scream, I can shout..
nope, alreay done that..
umm
um
Will somebody please help me out!
What the HECK is PANDORA to do now??
take out the garbage
done that
check her laundry–done that
erase the tablets of fire that have seared her soul for ages
doing that
ummm
umm
start a grease fire??
nah–too boring
sit and watch the time go back
HELLO–that’s all I have done
ummm
ummm
um
ok here’s the thing (guys and dolls): I’m lost but you know what?
even that’s ok
so when PANDORA does finally figure it out, she’ll let you know
(and hopefully a little bit more calmly this time–hey, we’re all just human right?)
Hugs- Peace out
Love and wishes,
Your PANDORA
I am so fucking angry. I hope to God that I can do this (but I can’t)
I hope to God that the area of my soul that beckons the newbies will wait for me (but they won’t)
I hope the demons that slay my weapons will wait just one more time (and here’s why:
I need more time
I can’t do it today
I need to wait
and so I will
Please don’t leave me while I wait. I promise you it will happen.
Hi all
it’s me again.
I can’t stop writing – lest I die.
I need to wait
I need to humble
I need to sit
and–I need to stand
I must remember this: only yesterday was I in the center of hell
and now I am in the outskirts
only yesterday was I dreaming of death
and now I dream of life.
only yesterday was a I a half-eaten gnome that knew no better than the beating heart of my soul
and now I wait
I wait for the new to come in
I wait for the old to go out
I wait and I wait and I wait
and you know what: while I wait I die
I die the little deaths that lead you home
I die the little deaths that tell you right from wrong, good from bad
I die like the demon births of yesteryear when
noone knew how to live
I die, and I live
I live for the day when I may enter the outdoors a free soul–captivated by limelight–and real light–and by death
I live for the day when I might say to myself: gee, you deserve a good hug today(!)
I live for the day when a hug means pure love (see amma)
I live for that day
I live for the day that nighttime is no longer safe but daytime is the safest avenue of course
I live for the day when nighttime dreams no longer haunt my waking reality
I live for the day that I don’t cling to night as if it will never leave me
I live
I guess that’s what I live for:
to finally live.
Hugs of course,
Still Pandora
Last one–I swear (for the most part..
hmmm
just wanted to say thank you
I love to listen also
and Goodbye.
looking forward to the shared beauty of our pain
you are not alone
see you next week!
I’m glad this site is giving you a forum to express what’s in your heart. Words can be powerful and writing a great healing tool. I’m glad you’re making use of them!
I just went through one painful break up. I didn’t write for a week. Finally realized I had removed the one thing that can free me. My best voice has come out of this pain. And discovered he wasn’t worth giving up the best part of me for any amount of time. ….oh and what I have wrote about him…priceless ha!
Tammy, so glad you saw right away that you didn’t have to lose your voice, too. Enjoy the power of your words to rant, to process, to reclaim your life.
Thank You for the support. I do believe that writing will free me. Oh, and Tammy: write, my dear friend, write!!!
The photo is not of professional quality. It’s just a snapshot; a day-to-day documentation of life in the ‘70s. The edges are tattered and the white border shows a faint nicotine stain from repeated wear and tear of rubbing.
The image shows her four years old and grinning from ear to ear. Her blond hair falls straight in a cut ending just above her shoulders. Her blue eyes twinkle, telling tales of that day’s mischief and the mischief of days yet to come. The sun-kissed button nose has a smudge of dirt, possibly from helping dig in the backyard garden. Her arms tightly wrap around a ratty mouse ‘teddy-bear’ almost as tall as she is. It looks like the type of prize you got from the stands of the midway that rolled through every summer leaving memories of tilt-a-whirl rides and cotton candy. Stuffed animals provided so many roles; protector, playmate, explorer, confidante, friend. One mousey ear bends over crookedly, listening for childhood instruction. Her bell-bottom pants, a flowered top and tiny canvas sneakers complete the image of innocence and a childhood untainted.
Was that really me? Was I ever that tiny, that vulnerable, that innocent? The picture was taken before the nightmares. It was taken before the monsters closed in and fear took over. Somewhere, that little girl still exists. The body has grown but the soul is still child-like. She peers out cautiously, wondering what the world outside the photograph has to offer, wondering if the monsters are now within or without.
shoot. this should have been in the previous prompt.
don’t worry, Lisa…you can repost it there if you want and I can delete it here for you….or you can just leave it be. the important thing is the expression, not the placement. thanks for posting!
I cry the tears that beckon within me– I do not want to release them, but I must. They have been held hostage for much too long–parading as nothing more than beasts of time. I do hope for a change, and I do hope for wange. Not exactly sure who wange is, but perhaps my new friend. Wange is a tired little fellow who knew no better than to sit and watch the tide go by. Wange is the “girly-girl” that got teased in school and as a result retreated into his own inner rage- a rage that ate him alive. He knew no better than to treat this rage as his enemy, rather than friend. Of course, who knew that friend or foe need not matter-only the toad really cares.
Toads are what jump around in the moonlight. They hang on your every word and then simply reply: ree-bit!! They go from stone to stone, fly to fly, hut to hut and ear to ear. They rebel when they have to, but mainly just for fun. They can fly at you like a weapon en rage and scare a six foot tall man and then they land in the water and do it again.
ha! (toads have it figured out!!–who knew that the vast depth of human intelligence couldn’t even match up to a toad!)
water–that’s another source of our intelligence. we drink it, it sustains us, we’re made up of 98% of it- and we even like to swim in it! (as if the 98% isn’t enough!) perhaps that’s why the dolphins and fish are currently in mourning around Japan..
easter eggs-now there’s a reason to change. Easter eggs. Roll ‘em up in dough, caress them, paint them, hide them, look at the faces of glee upon finding them. Easter eggs have it right.
Nipple pasties–dance, swing, swivel and shrip–and then you get a whole dollar–what a deal for the owner of nipple pasties.
hmmm, toads, water, easter eggs, and nipple pasties–perhaps in that order darling. First toads, then water, then easter eggs and then, well I guess some of us still need the nipple pasties.
Here’s a toast to the evolution of our race from nipples back to toads–CLINK!
An adult woman lies somewhere deep inside of me. She is powerful, all-knowing and confident as she confronts whatever obstacles cross her path. She protects herself from those who seek to tear her down and destroy her very being.
I feel her power. I feel her struggling to emerge as she rises up through the rubble that has over-shadowed her for so many years.
Soon she will be reborn – soon… very soon.
And that powerful woman has so much to say, do, express–and not all of it in reaction to her past–some of it just because of who she is and who she was always meant to be. Let her fly!
The physical, fiscal, and moral reality is that I am a divorcee caretaker to two ailing, elderly parents. I can’t walk out the door to find true love or adventure, and I don’t expect either to come knocking. So, I send my spirit out on a skiff of imagination and words. I’m not the first writer to be hemmed in—I don’t have to look farther than Emily Dickinson. Curiously, I have her gingerbread recipe, which I’ll have to try out. But I digress. So, what needs to be born? I’ve been writing historical mysteries, but I really want to go into the realm of fantasy. It would be convenient to have a boy wizard and his magical world form in my head during a delay on a train. Clearly, I’m not going to be on a train any time in the near future, so it appears I’m going to have to conjure my fantasy realm as I fold laundry or walk the dog. Pity, my fantasy world seems intent on being a long, hard labor instead of a quick delivery.
You’re not alone
Amen to that!
Sometimes constraints are the mother of invention.