Repeat after me: There is no such thing as writer's block. Now, don't throw your computer at me. I'm not saying we don't all hit walls, get stuck, or occasionally panic when faced with a blank page. I'm not suggesting there aren't phases of life, sometimes seemingly endless stretches, where other concerns monopolize our time and attention. After all, creativity is a fickle thing. But one of the best things I've ever done for myself as a writer is reframe the concept of writer's block as productive pause. If you grew up playing sports, or do any kind of weight training, Crossfit, etc., you've likely heard the term "active rest." Well, your brain benefits from the same time to recover, mend, replenish...
You say Be You. That’s how we glow. Until the Me discomforts though. And the veiny tendrils of denial, Trickle down a spiny spiral, To the place no one belongs. You say Be Free. But go where we go. Fit inside this box like so. Be the contortionist we all know Will bleed and blur your light, Be more alike. The real is too real, For a raw that’s too plain. You want to feel sane, But with ice in your veins, It remains, reframes, To keep you stuck in Same. Somehow you weren’t prepared, For the free that’s not fake. The Luck you keep insisting Colors my own fate. My apparent successes, Which dismisses the misses, the blunders. It...
A body knows such freedom,
As abides in the tingle of Twirl,
The orbit of extended limbs,
And constricted soul unfurled.
Though Skip may match in luscious sense,
A posture of childlike glee,
This surge of joyous movement,
Recommends itself to me.
Now Frolick has its own allure,
As through a field might skim,
The sticky sweet abandon,
Leaves no one’s heartlight dim.
Yet, Float, in all its apathy,
May just as well surprise,
This complacency embodied,
May release more passive vibes.
But me, I think I’ll choose to Fly,
Release the constructs of my mind,
Let flow inertia’s play,
For on the ground does logic bind.
The liberty of imagined things,
Is where true Freedom lay.
Isolation is but a figment,
An imagined thing.
Examined at great length,
As a shadow extended,
From a former self, drawn out.
Seclusion, like a mirage,
It’s pigment appearing most bold
Till daylight casts its character,
Washed grey as death.
No zest, nor zeal,
shall loneliness portend.
For it is made of air, not string.
But a thing must be of substance
to hold its breath.
Trust not the prison of the night.
But ground the soul in darkness known.
Your friend, Alone, will tell the truth.
For the fragile light of faith
In solitude, does rest.
RENDEZVOUS This is real. The box and everything in it, the sick, queasy thing going on in my stomach. Walter knew me, on an intimate level, long before I was aware he existed. My husband was a stalker. Is a stalker? Today’s Wednesday. The worst day of the week for life-changing information. 9:35am and I’m ignoring the text messages from the nosiest of my coworkers. This was supposed to be a quick pre-work project: purge the academic sludge in Walter’s college trunk while he’s in Narragansett. A riot of laminated and bound notes from every accounting and finance class he ever took scatter the floor, unsharpened pencils, and overused, taped-up textbooks — none of it had been touched for years....