They gnaw my fingers and hands

As I wring the water out of my limbs

All the ideas swirling like lightning bugs dancing

But I can’t touch them

When I reach they scatter

When I pick up the paper

The words fall flat

Antigone is a ghost to me and she won’t posses the way I want

Annotare sits at his work bench unmoving

The Suncaster won’t light my mind

The detective isn’t solving the crime

I’m holding a brush dripping

With oil-based colors

They leak onto my wrists and color me

But the canvas remains stretched and white

Like a snow no one wants to taint

The string’s reverberations fall on me

But don’t move

And all the while the clock doesn’t tick

It’s in its grave

The need rises in me

Threatens to burst my skin open

But no one turns the cap

Nothing will turn the cap

So my characters

My stories

My songs

My ideas drown in this shaken carbonation

The only saving grace lies in saving a life other than my creative one

But how can I abandon my work?

I can’t

And I won’t

Just please, Antigone, Annotare, Cerevorn, private eye

Hold on

Hold on until I can be there

Hold on until I know your fates and mine

I would like to inform you of one of the many issues our brothers and sisters around the world face. One that we are privileged not to have to deal with here in the United States. That is the issue of drinking water. In poverty stricken areas there is a need for sources of clean, safe, drinking water. Many times children have to trek miles just to get water that could potentially kill them. Messed up? Very. Fortunately, there is a cure for this disease. I am still trying to raise money to build a deep well. What that will do is provide water pure enough to live off of. For the past two years, I have been saving all of my spare change and have reached a very modest amount of money. Right now, all I can purchase is a share of a well. But why stop there? Why provide a slice when I can give a whole pie?

This fall, I plan on increasing the money I currently have by putting on an art show. I want artists from my school to put their work together in one grand showing. I’ll serve food and people can converse and generally have a good time. The cost to attend will be some amount I haven’t decided on, but proceeds will go to Clean.

If anyone is interesting in helping (by putting in work, finding a space, or planning) I could use the aid. Lately I’ve been thinking, or realizing rather, that I cannot do this on my own. Besides, there’s a real beauty, a poetry that happens when people with common goals come together. We can achieve great things for others who need it. So let’s all get our pocket change together, get our canvases out, throw down some clay, and remove the shutter caps. We have some change to do!

With gratitude and hope,

Jenny

With all the darkness pressing down on me

And I can see all the roots of the trees

But I believe above me there is sun

I am a sprout

Bursting out of my earthly shell

And I can see all the stars looking down

But I can’t reach past the ground

Sun come find me

Wind come change me

Into a bird to fly to you

I am a tree

With all my leaves rustling brilliantly

And I can see all the wisdom of years before

But I still long for the sky and even more

Sun come find me

Wind come change me

Into a bird to fly to you

Way off somewhere

I can’t get there

When I’m planted here

Ghostly whispers from this wind

Telling tales of distant lands

Where you breathe

Where you wake

Where you dance alone

I am a memory

Fading quickly from the minds of everything

But I can see you over the rolling hills

And I long to be there with you still

And always

As the world climbs up

And dips back down

Leaning over to kiss the turquoise ground

It flashes

And dances

In the flames by your side

These winter nights as still

As the stars above the sea

Unmoving guides

My ships tosses in the storm

Sent overboard I fall deeper and deeper

Into the raging waters

The light shines from some source

Outside my eyelids

There it is in your face

Bright

Solid

Cold like marble and flawless

Grecian design fills the island of dreams

Carefully trimmed gardens

Cream colored columns

A statue

Its unseeing eyes leak a drop of real water

And pull from its true skin the plaster coat

Beneath the figure stands a man

Breathing away the frozen ages

Time spent in waiting

This is the awakening

He picks up his lyre and sings

A song for me

A song to bring me

To eternity

And like a dream he strikes me

The arrow piercing in the best way

Wings erupt from my back

Yearning to then pierce the sky

I fly

Drawing a line in the turquoise

Suspended sea

Spinning back to where it all began

Filling the clouds

Falling softly

A camera’s flash captures the scene

In a box that’s glossy

And framed in white

Slightly faded

And color saturated

Behind the instrument stands a man

Much like the tree in frame

Thin and plain but

A face like Apollo

And the talent to match

Before his feet lay a book with feathers

Sticking out

Leaves next to it

Scribbles in and out

The history of a man

He kneels to find the wanted angle

Dead leaves brush

His feet and hands

A touch of warning

Their homes still mourning

A specter of autumnal grace

Gone in and out

This place is sacred

Its shadows dancing

The mid-light humming

A marble statue with blue eyes

Another snap and the scene is stilled

Waiting to be posted

And played

From a computer’s page

Strummed and hung

Singing softly as he falls to the ground

Breath slipping out

Carrying words

Sung to someone not there

He doesn’t see it

Run from the woods beautiful Apollo

Paint your heart

Chase the art

Of more than patience

One waits

Two wait

Days and time are lost to thought

He is the maze

An honest haze

So open and so confusing

Each turn the right

But never the way out

He sits strumming in a lonely room

No lights just fights

Pouring over from deep

Inside and twisting

Something is missing

Heh

It is known

He is known

Sing for me Apollo

Hold on to me Apollo

Every color a new world

Every word a lost city

Recovered

He unlocks the doors that lead

To the lights

Bouncing in the box

That captures

And answers

The forest clears like brushed away drops

They smear

Leaving their mark

A title surely

For hanging tableaus

His named signed in the lower right

Apollo’s art confirmed

And left

To be gazed

And smile

Nothing will compare

Our joyous reuniting was ended prematurely. The sky had suddenly abandoned its cloudless state and adopted swirling grays and lightning flashes in its stead. On the horizon I could see a funnel begin to form. I turned my head toward him, hoping for some answers, but beyond his face I could see two similar cumulous forming.

Before I had a chance to comprehend, I felt his strong arm grip my wasit and lead me forward. The wind was ripping my hair in all manner of directions so forcibly that I could no longer see. I informed him of my deep fear of tornados. He reassured me that all would be okay.

As we half ran, half fought our way toward the water he told me of a secret place we would be safe. I had a feeling in my stomach that a beachside hideout wouldn’t save us from the overwhelming forces of nature, but he persisted otherwise. And so, I kept following.

Somehow we made it to a bridge following a cliff’s edge. I ran across it as fast as I could, his hand gripping tightly to mine. Then he leap off the bridge and into the rising, wild waves to our right. “Come on!” He shouted. I replied that I didn’t want to and couldn’t understand how this was the safest option. “Trust me.” He said. And so I did. The sea’s cold bite stung every part of my body as I swam towards him. He came to meet me, holding me once again, afraid to let go.

All around us, the sky was pitch. Clouds raged in a heated argument against the water that now held us aloft. I chocked as liquid splashed into my mouth and frantically tried to breathe as he pulled me onward. I couldn’t see where we were going or where we had come from, but I trusted the arms around me.

And then, we were crawling up a beach. There was a cliff overhang above our heads and I couldn’t feel the wind anymore. I sputtered violently trying to release the water in my lungs. Again and again, I coughed but somehow it wouldn’t abandon my body. He scrambled toward me, hoping to help.

I felt his hand on my back as my vision blurred. Explosions of glittering lights lined my peripheral as I lost track of time, place, and event. Blackness took over.

Gasping, I shot up. My heart still pounded but I could breathe. I took in generous amounts of air and looked around for the hand that held my back. It was gone. It was all gone. The storm, the hidden beach, the boy…I was alone in my bed. And for some reason, I wished to sleep again.

Do your worst.

If your harshest attack is silence, then stab away.

I’ve had deeper injuries.

A cloak and dagger.

A musketeer.

Are you not some romanticized warrior from classical literature?

You seem to view yourself as such.

A rapier’s point,

A pistol’s barrel.

Chivalry and gentleman standards seem some mystic daydream.

From here I see vagabond.

I challenge you to a duel at high noon atop the walls of some decaying castle.

I set my eyes within your gaze and begin our tussle before any blade is drawn.

Dances of sharpened silver swirl behind,

Above,

Below,

In.

A deepening wound.

Scarlet drips.

Could not this altercation remain within the confines of emotional exchange?

This end seems too harsh.

Lying down.

One final breath.

Good bye to what could have been, but never was, nor ever will be.

My imagination was wrong.

The wind blows softly through the scene of our final good bye.

The sun is beaming brightly upon us as if mocking the outcome of this day.

My eyes well, wishing for

Longing for,

Hoping for,

Too late.

I see them. I take them in. I watch. And now that I’ve come and saw I must conquer.

He moves in such a way one would imagine he is laden with a thousand pounds of baggage. Though no one else watches, he still tries to hide it. The liquor in his strong yet elegant hand tells me that drinking isn’t merely social. No, it is a mask for an actor. The only problem with masks is that it is so hard to speak through them. A voice gets lost behind the synthetic smiles.

He moves listlessly along the wall, pretending to observe the couples on the dance floor. With a look of pain he downs his gin and loosens the grip of his scarlet ascot. Yes, there is something chewing the seams of that mask. Very soon it will disintegrate. I smile. I’ll help it along.

My step is light and my chin is tilted back to better observe this intriguing subject. As I move through the crowd of dancers, a divide seems to appear without so much as a single “excuse me.” I love the power of presence. They don’t have to look at me to know my demands. They just have to obey.

I feel my gown ruffle and I’m aware of the heavy pearls resting on my collar. The feather in my stacked hair flutters in the wind my gait creates. I’m hyperaware of everything around me though my key focus still rests on the tall, handsome gentleman near the wall. He is pressed against it now, glancing around for a servant boy. The one glass of alcohol wasn’t enough. When he finds there is no one around he sinks, defeated into the embroidered wingback nearby.

I can’t help but feel for the man. But more than that, I can’t help but wonder. What could trigger such agony? What can break reserve? And more importantly, can a dance cure it? I figure it can’t hurt even if it doesn’t heal.

I’m almost to him now and so I let the courage of charm flow over me. It’s like injecting another perspective directly into my veins. It’s an ecstasy. I suppose a woman of my station should never speak of passion. But that’s the problem here isn’t it? Stiff coats and tight corsets. Hard musical lines all with a proper way. I can’t be proper. And, apparently, neither can he.

I am in front of my object of scrutiny. He doesn’t see me with his head buried in his hands that way. Pain is a sobering thing. I lightly rest my hand on his head. He doesn’t move. I let my fingers fall down to his chin then gently lift. He sees me. Looks directly into my eyes but I see blank walls. But then, slowly, color returns to those dark irises I lay my hand in his and slowly pull him to his feet.

He’s studying me, his face visibly puzzled. With a slow, deliberate grin I ask “care to dance.”

All he does is nod, but that’s the affirmation I need. I turn, hand still in his and we glide to the dance floor. I let the other couples fade from my vision, and soon it is just the two of us. The music turns to a sad melody with a surprisingly fast beat. Each strain is echoed by a turn. I start off leading, but soon he has learned my pace and focuses on trading positions. I feel the muscles in his fingers tense ever so slightly, the cue for me to move inward. Just before our bodies meet, his other hand pulls me back.

I am so close to breaking the barrier. All that comes between is hesitation. Like a slow-working venom, his confidence gathers. There is a distinction about the way he steps, the way he leads. His biceps flex, and I see his gaze solidify. All trace of the gin has been spun away.

I feel his impulse and I dip along with it. I’m surprised when he doesn’t pick me back up. We become a painting, our eyes fixed on one another. The only thing that remains kinetic is our synchronous breathing. Rise, fall…Rise fall…the bow…Rise, fall…our chests…Rise fall…

The song changes suddenly, and I feel his muscles engage. I am upright again and spinning. The minor laments have become major tunes. His disposition has changed just as dramatically. He is upright, and in control. Whether he wears a mask now, I cannot tell, for if he does, it blends in with the rest of him.

All I’m certain of is that command has shifted. I no longer consol him, he guides me. There is a flow now. It goes between us at a pace steadier than the steps this dance requires. Never have I felt this exchange. Never have I danced this waltz.

And then it ends. The musicians hold their positions in dramatic show. And so does he. I am inches from his face and look up to study it in bewilderment. There’s a grin gripping the a single corner of his mouth. I feel myself matching it.

He puts out his arm and I take it.

Even my subconscious can’t escape my scrutiny. I firmly believe that people need to understand themselves. If you don’t, how can you figure anything else out? Emotions are the key to unlocking that part of our brain we don’t control. What we feel says a lot about what’s going on in our hearts. And it seems to me that emotions are extremely potent in dreams, even if that’s the hardest show to understand.

There are times when a single dream saturates my conscious for days after. And it’s often the odd ones. I wonder, “why did I dream about that situation or that person. What is my subconscious trying to tell me?” It’s a rough feeling because I have no way to explain it, and it often frustrates me.

I wish I could interpret dreams or something. I wish I knew why my mind escapes to the places it does and why those people show up? And most importantly, why do they do the things they do? If I’m dreaming it, it must be for a reason.

But I think I may have a hint. Perhaps dreams tell us what we want, or solve a problem. Okay, so my next question becomes “what problem am I having, and how does this scenario help it?” Hell if I know!

I think it’s the unexpected that trips me up the most. I mean, it makes sense. If I expected to dream about something in particular, I wouldn’t think about it for days after. I think that’s how most of life is. But it’s all for the best. Life isn’t exciting if we’ve already experienced it in our heads.

I’m reading this book and there’s a line in it I really love. “The thing you want most to happen doesn’t stand a chance unless you give it one.” So what do I want? What do my dreams and inspections tell me? Well, there are some things I’m certain I want and will always want. For example, I want to act. There are other things as well, but those are reserved for my own thoughts.

I guess I’m saying that taking a risk for the things you’re passionate about is essential. If you don’t, how can you ever expect to get them? I suppose I ought to take my own advice sometimes.

So listen to your heart, listen to your dreams, listen to God. Then once you figure out what’s worth fighting for, go out there and get it! The risk is always worth the reward. And even if you don’t get it, at least you will never ask yourself “what if?”