It's Not Just a Game Anymore

Dear Rosebud:

The ground has gone fallow and golden, and it’s time to move on.

The caterwauling in my chest cavity hasn’t dimmed any; in fact, it’s grown to a banshee’s wail that doesn’t allow me to sleep at night.  Why only last night, the scent of the candle burning, the angelic whispers constructed into song caught in the smoke about my bed, I was accosted.  Waking life, but not.  I seemed to open my eyes, and feel, and be present, but then not.  Paralyzed.  They sensed my slightly ill head, and the inviting murky music around me, and they didn’t miss a beat.  Granted, I think I encouraged whatever it was to act, since I silently mouthed from my brain cavity “pull the blanket down all the way” and there invisibly went the quilt, the blanket, the sheet…..down to the end of the bed.  And on and off (if you will), I felt everything through the incensed carcass of the phantom liaison that it was.  Sometimes I tried to move away or move at all, but I couldn’t.  They had me.  It ended up going on for hours (it felt like), but when I awoke from it or came to, or whatever the term is, I knew that I was royally fucked.  As it were.  And then I realized in my twilight mist, that I was attracting boundless energy from all ends of the spectrum.  I needed to learn to utilize this.  Own it as my own.  Create it every single day without remorse or the feeling of what was moral, or right.  There was no more looking for the chosen one.  I was the chosen one.  And there wasn’t a speck of ego in that statement or feeling. 

It is only those who lose everything that realize they have had nothing all along.  I learned that I could also impart myself into other’s bedrooms and do the same.  Sidling in, becoming apparent, coming alive with every second of the night wherein the clock does not tick forward.  The clock ticks as I tell it to.  And this prologue has been a grand exercise in my soft claw marks, my letting go, my jamming stakes in the earth only to find it does not belong to me.

You can’t say I haven’t given you the grandest of attentions, Rosebud.  You can’t say that at all.  Even when your creator needed to chase after other words, other inlets, other punishments and rewards, I was here.  I hope you will remember that of me.  Even though I didn’t create you, I certainly helped you keep running as you did, at whatever pace was possible for us.

Nothing is forever, everything exists as long as it lives in the pit of our hearts.  And mine will never burn out, partially thanks to you.  You held up with the best of them, the nameless ones who didn’t belong here, the eyes who watched but didn’t see, the occasional stranger one hoped to impress with the turn of a phrase.  You are an absolute champ.  Sorry we left bruises on you sometimes.  Sorry I got all caught up, and talked about myself so much as I did.  But you made a good sounding board and allowed the trajectory to follow zigzagged through the fracture of stars, as we did.

Don’t know if anyone’s coming back here.  But people love revisiting abandoned houses of old, don’t they? Something about the weeds growing up through the floorboards, the sun catching the spider in its web through air and not glass.  The world moves into us, and keeps its moving whether we want it to or not.  That’s comforting, and also terrifying. 

Thanks for always being there.  Who knows, perhaps you’ll have a visitor again someday...

With love and loyalty,

M. Lucia

P.S.  The final and most important lesson of All:

The Boatman's Call

Each key is played over by shaven wood
homestead marked upon by an obvious ounce of nothing
every world forgotten onto borrowed paper
ripped from the bible pages stuck in a very stuffy hotel room.
One small inch--- carved of line with every good intent.
Protection from sunset; the day ends just and with shadow,
all the same.

M. Lucia

Even Lunar Dragons Brush Their Teeth

The whistling winds outside the windows bred texture into a black, shoot ‘em up January sky, caving in upon itself as the last of its wispy rail clouds bled away into the horizon, suggested but not proven.  She had gotten used to the bright light.  The long days, one professional life into another professional school life at night.  Her nerves had already fired their best, and she began to enjoy the ritual of disrobing after it all, this late into the night – the dangle of her earrings as she dropped them into the silver tray on her coffee table; her feet touching the wood floor, and the thick rug intermittently; the grand sweep of removing the clothes of the lower half first (socks, underwear) and dumping them properly; the release of her breasts from their daily harness, which she mostly enjoyed, but grew weary of by the ten o’clock hour.  Warm home, past all the after Christmas coloured lights strewn across the main drag, designed to keep us going until the light breaks. 

She put her glasses on, wiped away the protection of her eye makeup and thought about the oncoming light of February, the sort nearer to the end of Winter that burst (which she heard in the midlands Irish accent of an old flame of hers, still a friend, who used to strum his guitar and giant headed cowboy hat in late night bars on the lower east side back in the days when she could drink all night and function like a trooper- said like “bourst”) secret parcels behind the sky space of yellows and blues that mixed and separated in a way that made her heart ache in its cavity.  The days would get longer, and she would gradually have more time.  Soon enough, though not soon at all, she would have all the time in the world.  Would she write them a long, thoughtful note when she finally went away? Would it be filled with the usual bullshit lines like “wishing all of you the best”, “so thankful for my time here”, “you are like family”- she slammed the medicine cabinet shut with a thunder clap as she thought of that sentiment.  She really just wanted to take full responsibility for the realization she had all along which could be communicated as such: “I never ever wanted to do this for a living, a career, years of my life.  Never.  I finally got out.  When will you?” 

It was a strange damn place, it was.  As she applied some lavender lotion and almond oils to herself, in the bathroom lit only by a dim nightlight (she hated bright artificial light, but who didn’t…most simply didn’t know just to turn it off), thinking of Rome every single time she did so at this hour- how rough, savage and filthy that life must have been, but how she held that world in her soul (where the synapses fired and the alchemical creations birthed themselves and sidled up to men at the bar for the long haul) and craved the smell of the city, the fire burning in oil, the baths, the depravity, the side by side in the dirt and sky at once axis of living out loud, she thought of this place of work and how, on the smallest scale, they were so afraid of change.  Any change.  Never mind pursuing a dream, recreating themselves on a new path, but also she never heard anyone come in on a particular dull and dry day and remark “I’m learning how to speak {insert said language]” or “I remember how much I loved to paint as a child, so I want again to try”…Try…TRY to create some fucking thing of Beauty out of this day-in-day-out pile of shit those people called a life.  They didn’t know how to speak with exclamation points – no one ever wore a new dress that made them feel really good and want to run their hands up and down their own legs because of it, no one discovered anything – a random, silly old fact or a story about the people from which they in their faceless, nameless American selves came, no woman even dreamt to show up one morning with a new bright hair color, or haircut- anything that would remove them from this low level playing field of the norm. 

Those tiny facts amazed and repulsed her, as she still thought to herself straight ahead in the mirror, making sure her eyes were still her own, open and alive to the world, inner sea and outer realms, about what she might say…..but then the months of realistic calendar days crept into her brain- the order of classes, subjects, tests and graduations all seemed very far off – hiding somewhere in between the leaves of seasons; ready to fall away and rise up at once.  She breathed deeply there, brushing her teeth (which she liked to do before her evening wine or cocktail, which she had damn well earned on this mid weeknight) in a semi-circle, purposely before sitting on the toilet.  A full bladder, and knowing full well she was in that mad mid range time of her womanhood wherein she could hardly sit still in between her thighs, or keep herself without rain.  She tightened in, still getting her molars with the dark pink toothbrush, holding in her breath and getting that tiny rising wave of ecstasy that she needed most every hour on the hour.  It sent her for a moment, and she closed her eyes and thought of him, but the feeling couldn’t keep itself with her, probably because she didn’t let it.  Freedom of feeling requires freedom and even the best fucking doesn’t work through cage bars…but she tried, and got some release from it, opening her eyes all wet to her golden yellow bathroom walls. Dim the living room, sip the wine, turn off the old Christmas lights wrapped around the fire escape which faced the waterfront, only half of which worked- and to bed, to the late night tunes of piano or viola or duduk, whatever atmosphere she chose to escort her into her well plotted and art directed dreams.  Early enough to get sleep, but late enough to wish she could have more.  She always wanted more.

M. Lucia