Day and night, dawn, mid-day, afternoon and dusk. All the turnings are in the journals and diaries of every day people.
Here is my life–binders of an every day woman.
“What exactly is it you do?”
My life is right here in the pages along with drawings, paintings and news clippings. Announcements, births, deaths, poems. Ideas. Dreams. Channeling sessions. Essays. Burps with onions. Passing gas. Early emails. Crap people say when they think nobody hears them. Conversations in waiting rooms. Shit the boss said 15 years ago.
Over forty five years is recorded here among the moon phases and impressions. That’s a whole bunch of rough draft. I can go back to the year, month, and almost to the day and look up a dream or what the weather was like. Now the years are starting to run together but nothing will keep me from this love of mine. It may mean nothing to the next person. Maybe it will.
Writing is the deep, long and lonely song of a mourning dove the day the family dog is put down. It’s the enticing quiet space on a real low-down blues. It’s the upbeat excitement of my baby’s first smile. I have it on it paper. Her first steps. The morning my second baby was born, on Mother’s Day in May. It’s in a sketch.
When my mother was dying she stared briefly at me with my long hair and eager face, and said “When did you ever grow up?”
“It was the drugs she was on,” said a companion. But I knew better. People show themselves when they’re dying.
“You’ve got to sell yourself,” says the woman in the office, adding, “They only take the cream of the crop.”
I’m hearing some ad, a TV commercial, an endless treatise on bullshit in the back of my mind… about erasing fine lines and wrinkles. I can’t erase fine lines and wrinkles. Shrink stubborn belly fat. Click. Cure erectile dysfunction. Click. Anti-aging everything. Click. Fork it over, suckah.
“This is just between you and me.” The voice of the lady in the important office brings me abruptly back to the here and now, and for some reason I think of *Tina in a moment of sanctity.
Tina wrote about the whites who came to the rez and promised to bring everybody shoes. They took measurements. They never came back. They never did bring those shoes. That was when the pear orchards were still full and lush, back in the day when salmon would run up Outlet Creek, all pink and plump. No longer. Why would things be any different now? I wonder where she is.
Here is my poem for her:
She said, “I thought of you.”
She said it so nicely
only occasional encounters
here and there
means something so special
in an intangible way.
At the time I was happy
for the moment’s connection
in the Rexall parking lot.
Journal prompt 1: Try writing in a stream of consciousness style (free write) for two pages, without stopping. See what comes up. Does it relieve pressure? Are you afraid to write the truth? When you write about things that have hurt you, is there any resolution?
Journal prompt 2: Go to a public place and listen to the way people talk. Observe their faces, body language, and innuendo. Write about what you notice.
* not her real name
Copyright © 2014 by Susan E. Rowland