Como Bluffs Dinosaur Museum

ever was

edica26 — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 19:51:19 +0000

When you have to remind yourself

to take breath

When parting is close

it’s more like rest than death

Something closing in, caving in on me

slowly, steadily

smothering my face heavily, Violently

Now upon us is the last wish

Let the tides take it all back

Let me be

here

as I was before

Wash all of this someplace unseen

to me

And I am as I once was

I felt different then

Protected from them

All of those other men

gone when you met me

back now for revenge

Ghosts that inhabit bodies

Hold your head under

Punish you for something someone did

to them

You were too young then

to fend off these monsters

Off

off me now

Let me just have this one last request

Go back into the darkness

Go quickly

let the day stay

And I’ll be here the same

I am as I was before

all the snow has turned to water

edica26 — Wed, 16 Jun 2010 05:27:38 +0000

All at once

All Amen

Like none of it was ever frozen

Streets are flooded and the horses are spooked. Try to stay calm to find the reigns. I’d rather be alone tonight, but I would never know quite what to do without them. I am weary. They gently whisper the winds have changed. I soothe them still and they walk me home in the dark. Early summer thaw and the moon is waxing crescent. Neither will stand well the restlessness. Hush the prowl with long breaths. Each wild and stabled. Sound of rushing, steeped in our dreams.

through Bow Basin in a thunderbird

edica26 — Sun, 13 Jun 2010 22:28:55 +0000

Somewhere between falling off the monkey bars in an effort to complete a penny drop to the delight of her father, their subsequent walk to the court house and her new rainbow-carpeted room in a town where buckled shoes were the ridicule of her peers, she became an adolescent. She started wearing her bangs over her eyes. She started signing her papers with different names, dotting her Elizabeths with x’s and her eyes with irreverence. She ripped holes in the jeans they could barely afford and played each conversation to win. Her age hadn’t changed. She remained six, but seven was on the brink and she was bolder now. She was waiting with baited intention and sarcasm and heartbrache. She was fierce and could learn which would be better than what she knew now.

The same summer of flourescent biker shorts, canvas shoes and pierced skin, her dearest was undergoing the same transformation. It seemed a slow-motion transfer to a stage they were both performing upon. One had been around longer, but face-to-face, knees stamping in the dirt, the younger had the advantage. For one she was pretty, and quick, and sober. She also had the pity, and for that she cried, because it comforted her and manipulation felt fine. The older had the disadvantage of guilt and distraction, a new boyfriend and a thirst. Looking at one another, the younger hated the mirror provided, dreaded its’ images, but longed for the smell of their smoky t-shirts. The oldest loved the hope her offspring provided, the way she had created such a brave and fiery little lark.

down in the river to pray

edica26 — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 22:57:19 +0000

You really will forfeit and sweep and throw all of it to the wayside and miss it terribly and wonder if now someone could reasonably come to comfort you in the way you had always wanted without resenting them for it. Yet. Still. I want to set it down, abandon it, come back and watch it; blossom, die, wither, fly, and go out on its own as it is to be, without my constant surveillance and intrusion. And without forcing its hand to let me drag it through my shivering bumbles and newfoundland.

In this country, I will eat. I will learn not to shame the unabashed. If I descend, I will not fight the solitude, but cradle and kiss her. An animal with her instincts and nature, without cognition and without conditioning. Baptized and clean, born to another locale, transcended, blood pure and intact. If I couldn’t feel it, I would never have known it was happening, before I’d even realized the place I had seen. A place where the gap between the dream and the waking, walking don’t need to be abstracted or joined. It’s delusional. That’s what the thought said before I sent it to bed so I could dream wideaware.

finishing the start

edica26 — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 16:55:46 +0000

Last night I slept on top of my books, on top of my keys and on my purse half-clothed, half-pajama’ed, teeth brushed, face unwashed. I keep reminding myself to try to remember, try not to forget, the importance of washing my face at night. And yet, I forsake said ritual so often and so happily if there is something more pressing, or something that has worn at me and so making it impossible to complete this task.

If only I were good at balancing. Getting what I want, doing the work I love, making money to have roof covering head, enjoying the warmth of my friends, experiencing relationships wholly and honestly, reading for pleasure, going on walks, composing correspondence. If only I could wash my face and get 8 hours of sleep and show you enough what you mean to me and write and submit and feel like I was doing something that mattered, instead of succumbing to my greed.

Is that there, is that the rub? Is the truth of my predicament that I am lacking one part of the equation necessary for my desired results? If I had the work or the love or the creation I was seeking for my fulfillment than I would wash my face and apply sunscreen fluidly and easily as though I were simply blinking. In fact, such tasks would never even have to enter my consciousness. As a person of talent, good fortune and opportunity, my subconscious would rather not bore my consciousness with such menial chores.

Kathe Kollwitz. Her entire life, dedicated to work and advocacy, and yet still, art. She could not let herself die, she had more work to do. And that was something she more than obliged to do, she understood it as her duty.

Honor and dignity, of which we must give our energy to give it life and let it breathe and grow. Our loves. Our children. Our lives. I know there are gifts I must honor. And work to be done endlessly, because I now understand there is always more. Stopping would be foolish. I have just begun something, and I’m not even sure what it is yet. I also understand that I am to care for myself in order to be a vehicle for the thingamajigga I’m working on and trying to figure out. So I guess that sometimes means I am supposed to wash my face. And rest. And god damn it, sometimes it means I need to be angry. Or cry. Or let out this thing inside of me so constantly seeking understanding. Let us not confuse understanding with meaning. Understanding=a connection, a rapport, a nod, a spark. Meaning=imposed desire and expectation given to mean what we would like them to mean for our own devices.

So perhaps you will nod when I fall asleep at my books, or because I stayed up with Hope blacking out our eyes and playing Judds songs till 5 a.m. Maybe it makes you smile to see that I have so much going on inside of me that I simply must sleep now, MUST. Or you will see that I am not living up to your expectation of a functioning adult, I should probably take better care of these books and wash once in awhile. Maybe you will think it is time for me to grow up. Maybe you see all of this upheaval and turmoil inside of me as unattractive and strange, unnecessary and futile. And, if it is so, if this is your chosen meaning, god , I hope you tell me.

I have meanings and expectations of my own I have tried to rid myself of, purge and forget. I let myself believe they were gone forever because they hadn’t hung around in awhile. Like the asshole ex you hope you never run into who seems to show up just in time, every time, there they were. Back to their old tricks and I let myself be their dutiful hostage, not even aware that I had the power to acknowledge and keep my power for myself. Keep my dreams and throw out the projections. Let myself have something damn it, give myself permission to quit protecting these old non-friends. Put down the shield and brush your teeth lady. Start there. Do your work and remember the code of the west. I know I can.

edica26 — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 15:38:29 +0000

Compulsions, out-of-body hovering above the mind and heart shut down, the body acting out some old story from when she was a kid. If she were religious maybe she could blame it on the devil or repent and rest easy. Because things aren’t supposed to fall into place, because nothing makes sense when it’s making sense, we aren’t to stay in one place too long and people can’t tell the truth. At least that’s the way it was in a previous life. These rules when broken were prone to make her wander and abandon, pour medication down into herself, sleep for months while the body stumbled around and wake up somewhere different and someone else.

It’s four a.m. The cats are crying and the screen is buzzing, and the room is cold and dirty again. But at least this is real, now I know I’m really real again. This feels like life before I fell in love with it. At my window sad and lonely. This proves the laws are still in existence. And they still hold up. Anything we decide to be true, we can prove and believe in, we just have to believe. Faith is like a compulsion in itself, god help us.

the freightyard

edica26 — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 19:31:34 +0000

She has felt so much sometimes in such short amounts of time, now it feels like she has not much left to feel. At least she hopes. And still it surprises her, when it hits her she curses it. She lays down with it heavy on her back for rest, but she doesn’t sleep. She feels its twitching and stirring, restless and irreverent. Sleep won’t come softly until she has exhausted herself enough just to be unconscious for awhile, to lay still and dreamless. And all of the previous slumber is sweaty and taunted by nightmares. But when she speaks them aloud, they sound not like nightmares but more like just what she has been doing every day. Hands thrown up, marching in a zombie formation. Seeking out a pleasant place to hide, and yearning for a space to be unapologetic and thankless, grateful and aware. The mirror is mocking her again.

edica26 — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 16:27:40 +0000

Nebraska on repeat, loop, whatever it’s called on my borrowed turntable. Moonlighting a friend’s life for the holiday and planning a Ridiculous Cage, Leaving Las Vegas-style to commemorate 2010. If the neighbors are annoyed with my musical choices, they are empathetic. Everyone knows what this time of year does to us, to people. I actually was trying to persuade this mess to pass me over this year. Please Sir, I’m just minding my own business, I’ve got a few days off, I beg of you, I just want to read and have some time to think. All this holiday chatter has been banging around in my brain, bouncing from unbeknownst realms I thought I’d avoided.

Come to Christmas. Don’t come, please come. Spend it with me, I hate you, I couldn’t possibly spend a holiday with you. I love you so much I wish there were no such things as holidays. Getting caught on the wrong side of the line. Trying hard to participate and exuding negativity in any regard to the Noel. Did it start with the Divorce Era? Do we dread choosing who might spend the holidays with this year? Or has everyone been getting drunk and acting terrible since the inception of the biblical birth of said Jesus? Were my beloved Pioneer women barking orders and ordering children out of their dirt-floored kitchens during the gold rush, in honor of tradition, in honor of Saint Nick? Were my parents filled with dread, wondering how they might possibly afford my Malibu Barbie along with her corvette, so that my second-grade Cheezus-birthday might be joyful, memorable? Did everyone always smile with forced anticipation and disgust to be spending this section of December with blood-sharers, waiting for a chance to sneak a Capri out back, to call a friend and reveal what a distaster it’s all been?

Going to enter a new universe. The one where we are all so happy to see one another once a year, our eyes fill up with salty liquid and and our hearts fill up with warm lasagna and sparkling wine and and old dusty arrowheads we were so proud when we found. We embrace and for a second longer than the last time I had a chance to hug you, I really hold on. Tight. I take an extra breath and feel your body and your breath, the pen in your pocket, your hot hands, cold ears. In this extra breath I can see us sitting around a table playing cards, laughing, playing you bad songs on my guitar, doing the dishes happily, some kind of tradition that makes us better? This universe isn’t one of imagination. It just doesn’t seem comfortable around my family.

The difference

edica26 — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 21:18:18 +0000

The disappointment, the anticipation, the waiting, the pacing, gas lamp burning my fingers, my feet too small in these boots, the way Bob was snoring, or the way I was motioning with my hands emphatically to let you know that I believed what I was saying (although I had no idea what I was about to say, only that it felt like it might be the truth and it was). And maybe someone told me all of it long, long ago and I only had a mind to use it now. I had the feeling filling up my lungs and my chest and it needed to come out, but to communicate this to her via my small database of words, would I let her know properly just what I aimed to do? All of the winds were right, our hair was standing up on end, at attention, awaiting what might come next and it hurt me to say it.

Stung, because I knew that I wasn’t doing yet what I’d always hoped I had been. Because I realized now what was upon me, and it was vastly different than all of the clever things I’d been pushing around on my plate back and forth, eating, gulping in good faith. These clever concoctions were half-awakened, outward attempts to imitate what I thought might someday connect me to the mystic important. Made the plate feel like a fool, a fraud, decorative and not even tasteful. I saw images of the self I had known my whole life until now, blind-folded and saying words that had grown in my mouth, not in my gut. My body was awkward and ashamed, always covering up, always wrapping myself in something to disguise what might get out, what you might see, you. might. see. me. Surface. Always dancing on the surface. Stifling my own breath.

I realized it as I told her. Everyone has these personal thoughts. Neuroses. Habits. Expressions. Feelings. And we work so hard to make them into things we find acceptable. Or funny. Or attractive. We work on transforming ourselves, in all of this self-discovery we use our treasures as a vehicle for the closing-off. The bottling up. The great compartmentalization projects. Now that’s that, and we wipe our hands and sit and smoke our pipes. What a relief. I’m organized now. And some of us paint pictures, or write songs. Or make collages of photographs we found in second-hand shops of abandoned lives and weddings three-back. Some us think about all we might do. We write symphonies in our dreams and make medical discoveries every night before we lay down beside our incoherent wives and sick babies. I make at least three cowboy dioramas in my mind each month. Don’t we all have notions? Inclinations? And why did I ever fancy myself special?

I made a vow. To her, but to myself. Cut it open. Rob the graves of all that I have buried deep inside myself, so scared for you to see it, for me to see it. Knife myself in the chest and see the ghosts fly out, it’s time to put them on display. It’s the time to celebrate everything I’ve worked so hard to forget, to have it, and to share it. God, I scared you, I scare myself. All of these things trapped in-between. Whole lives, long stories, oil-black, putrid and sick, salvageable but only< if I have the sight to give them eyes, voice to give them song and blood to give them back what we took from them only to manage. Don’t get to choose anymore.

Graceland

edica26 — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 19:25:46 +0000

Coffee and Kombucha. The lovers I toss back and forth. I break up with one, I go steady with the other. Coffee is dark and dirty and makes me feel crazy. Kombucha is like this boring, yuppie dude who is suposed to be good for me and makes me feel nothing. But, I go to him because I know the outcome of our relations. It’s safe. I am never going to go into a jealous rage over Kombucha. Kombucha ain’t gonna keep me up in the middle of the night. Kombucha is pretty good sometimes, but coffee tastes fucking great and smells strong and I can’t ever figure the magic of coffee out, not quite. Kombucha has all the ingredients to be this decent guy, but never quite delivers the goods. And I keep giving him chances. Like learning to love someone; it’s not a way I ever want to be loved but I know I have been. A girl that grows on you, but maybe not one you might immediately be unable to live without.

Maybe I just haven’t met the right beverage yet. I have tried plenty. Maybe another beverage will reveal itself to me when I’m READY. Ready. I’m fucking ready already. But not according to the all-knowers who tell me I will be ready when it’s right which is what? When? During the golden years while I am living in a little room, and it takes me a week to do the things I used to do in a an hour. If that’s what it takes to see things then put me on the slow train. Let’s walk in forced and exaggerated slow-motions. I am ready. I wanna slow down, drink it in, see the things I’m missing now. Like you. I miss you, can we hang out in our old age? Will we perhaps be ready then?

I was chewing on Starburst from the bottom of my purse, probably half-covered in tobacco from my undercover cigarette habit waiting for my number to be called in a police station filled with other people waiting to hear numbers to pay money to the city. Nobody seems to have a sense of humor in the police station. Just talk on your cell phone or reprimand your kids or look down. It smelled like diapers and dust. I was excited when they called my number because if they didn’t soon, then my parking meter was going to expire and then that would mean I would wait another six months before paying my ticket vich means warrants times a million maybe. I just want to get the fuck out of here and go have a kombucha. Wait. Just wait. They gonna call your number girl. Do you wanna call my number? I just called you in my head eighty times and when you answered I laughed with my hands covering my mouth and I hung up again.

Being on a plateau is like being over the moat, just outside the castle, hearing many of the castle goings-on and dying to be in there yourself, but you just do all you can from this place just outside. Being on a plateau makes me want to jump back down into the depths of all the pain and nonsense and wonder about the mysterious plateau just above the surface of this murk. But now I seem to be on the plateau, preparing, waiting, planning, thinking, dreaming, seeing my mountains so close and in sight and I’m lighting flares and waving my hat like a fucking madman, as if anyone can see me. Can someone see all of this, there is so much on this plateau, surely it is enough to grant me entrance to the castle mountain. I have been working, can’t you tell, it can’t be for nothing. It just can’t. Seasons seems to be flying past the plateau, swooping down to give me small tokens of rain and leaves and sometimes months of scorching heat and dry mouth, burnt skin. Sometimes this giant fucking plateau gets lonesome. Makes me feel invisible. Makes me wonder if my voice is making audible sound, or if I am crying all of these things out like surely someone is listening, but it’s just me. Which I am getting used to. And it makes me feel so foolish. Is this plateau any place at all to be?

Being invisible is something I fancy myself wanting. Anonymity. I don’t want to do things to call attention to myself for the sake of just having attention for nothing. Be it for my work, or be it for my heart, or my strife, but not for just being an attractive person. But it is strange to realize nobody remembers you anyway most of the time, so going around trying to be invisible just makes you a ghost. Because not being remembered for anything at all has got to be much worse than being remembered for being a pretty girl, or a spiteful girl, or an ugly one or a cunning one or a sad girl. Seems like without this body of work I keep envisioning myself having, and being this sort of shadow has made me forgettable on both ends. Forgettable on this god forsaken plateau just above, just above.

Maybe you could forget all about me, if I wasn’t here all along. Trying to get the hang of kombucha, but lusting for coffee. Studying. Thinking. Waiting for my number. God, I have been trying to come up with my own number system. Smoking in the shadows at night, running in the sun toward the mountain during the day. Chewin on nasty sugar bits, making little songs for only me to hear. And I may be obliged to defend
Every love, every ending
Or maybe there’s no obligations now,
Maybe I’ve a reason to believe
We all will be received