Friday, January 29, 2010


So easy to believe that more will make it better. Like creaky steps to an attic or a cellar. Thinking it will be fun to be underground, or high above. Anyplace that can distract me from the pain. Trying to make short stories from all these chapters. Because no one has time for novels anymore.

Time passes and I tell myself it doesn’t matter. The doorway isn’t going anywhere. The knock will come. Like the patience of mortar between bricks. Cold in the winter, hot in the summer, but always strong. Perhaps I’ll be prettier tomorrow anyway. Flaws fading like old photographs. Inside is where it hurts the most, not where it counts.

I’m dressing in layers, but I’m still cold.


  1. layers inside layers... depths beyond depths... and looking in a mirror i can see the reflection of myself looking back from a glassy eye...

    **love the line "patience of mortar between bricks"... so evocative...

  2. this was a wonderful piece, the layers of clothes and the layers of house and the layers of self and pain all intertwined and connected.... well conveyed.

  3. You put this in your drivel category. Hardly. Your short passage here is beautiful and elegant.

    You said, "Perhaps I'll be prettier tomorrow anyway"

    There's pretty and there's pretty. I think you are right, you will be.

  4. I miss you being around. Your writing always speaks such volumes to me.

    I hope you aren't feeling shipwrecked


  5. I finally posted something. I don't think I'm shipwrecked, more like feeling deserted.