It took until this morning to finally shake that chorus from my head. At first, I welcomed it, as it replaced Sitting Waiting Wishing and the subsequent likening of myself to some Shelburne supermom bopping to Jack Johnson on my mid-morning cruise down Bay Road, daring myself to go five, no, six mphs above the limit, and feeling, for a few minutes, euphoria, unburdened from the demands of being best-dressed surgeon’s wife, becoming aroused by the rhythm of the road without a spec of guilt, because hey, afterall, it’s a hybrid SUV.
Oh Jack, you stud, come to super-mama…
And since I don’t need another reason to hate myself, I’m glad Jack his adult contemporary imagery have left my head. As for Mr. Dylan, I’m sorry to say, I don’t miss him either. More importantly, I don’t miss the unavoidable metaphor.
It’s not all symbolic. Not all. There’ve been some intense rainstorms lately, and two nights ago the winds cut power to the area, leaving generator-powered Burger Kings to light the neighborhood, with their red neon lettering like rustic island candle flames.
But then there’s the other storm…
That storm is the taunt of memory, the taunt of rejection. That storm is trying to rain me out. That storm is a perspective tattooed with distrust, with suspicion, with paranoia. That storm is the idea of redemption, and the acceptance of such dogmatic nonsense.
That other storm is an underwire poke through your last good bra; that storm is wet socks. The other storm is the struggle to learn Spanish, a fearful tongue that can’t form quick words. That other storm keeps you at home to discern bogus want ads on craigslist. The other storm is vulnerability and bulgy abs.
The storm is discouragement. The storm is unemployment; the storm is a politician’s divisive tricks; the storm is a feeling that this mess was planned. The storm is another blowhard, another promise broken.
That other storm is loneliness. The other storm is homesickness for glorified memories. Or mis-memories. The storm is regret. The storm is self-pity. The storm is a sputtering engine. The storm is salt stains. The storm is a world without love. The storm is apathy.
...come in, she said...
The sheler is the hand extended without judgment. Shelter is eye contact. Shelter is a stranger’s smile; it’s a friend’s advising voice. The shelter is melted cynicism. Shelter is righting a wrong, my own especially.
Shelter is a stiff breeze during a sweaty jog. Shelter is a much needed haircut or cup of coffee. Or beer. Shelter is still being able to afford things, without worrying about when the ‘still’ will end. Shelter is finally hearing good news for a change.
Shelter is hope in people, even with faithlessness in leaders. Shelter is not letting emotions prevent actions. Shelter is speaking up; it’s standing up. Shelter is exposing criminals clothed in Armani. Shelter is life with meaning.
Shelter is belonging. Shelter is poetry night in Old San Juan, shelter is finding poetry in the environment, and camaraderie in the poetry. Shelter is noticing musical notes not heard before; it’s new, or renewed, appreciation. Shelter is the power of connection.
Come in?? It's about time. Let's give each other shelter.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Shelter from the Storm (from b-e)
******
That other storm is an underwire poke through your last good bra; that storm is wet socks. The other storm is the struggle to learn Spanish, a fearful tongue that can’t form quick words. That other storm keeps you at home to discern bogus want ads on craigslist. The other storm is vulnerability and bulgy abs.
The storm is discouragement. The storm is unemployment; the storm is a politician’s divisive tricks; the storm is a feeling that this mess was planned. The storm is another blowhard, another promise broken.
That other storm is loneliness. The other storm is homesickness for glorified memories. Or mis-memories. The storm is regret. The storm is self-pity. The storm is a sputtering engine. The storm is salt stains. The storm is a world without love. The storm is apathy.
...come in, she said...
The sheler is the hand extended without judgment. Shelter is eye contact. Shelter is a stranger’s smile; it’s a friend’s advising voice. The shelter is melted cynicism. Shelter is righting a wrong, my own especially.
Shelter is a stiff breeze during a sweaty jog. Shelter is a much needed haircut or cup of coffee. Or beer. Shelter is still being able to afford things, without worrying about when the ‘still’ will end. Shelter is finally hearing good news for a change.
Shelter is hope in people, even with faithlessness in leaders. Shelter is not letting emotions prevent actions. Shelter is speaking up; it’s standing up. Shelter is exposing criminals clothed in Armani. Shelter is life with meaning.
Shelter is belonging. Shelter is poetry night in Old San Juan, shelter is finding poetry in the environment, and camaraderie in the poetry. Shelter is noticing musical notes not heard before; it’s new, or renewed, appreciation. Shelter is the power of connection.
Come in??? It's about time. Let's give each other shelter.
That other storm is an underwire poke through your last good bra; that storm is wet socks. The other storm is the struggle to learn Spanish, a fearful tongue that can’t form quick words. That other storm keeps you at home to discern bogus want ads on craigslist. The other storm is vulnerability and bulgy abs.
The storm is discouragement. The storm is unemployment; the storm is a politician’s divisive tricks; the storm is a feeling that this mess was planned. The storm is another blowhard, another promise broken.
That other storm is loneliness. The other storm is homesickness for glorified memories. Or mis-memories. The storm is regret. The storm is self-pity. The storm is a sputtering engine. The storm is salt stains. The storm is a world without love. The storm is apathy.
...come in, she said...
The sheler is the hand extended without judgment. Shelter is eye contact. Shelter is a stranger’s smile; it’s a friend’s advising voice. The shelter is melted cynicism. Shelter is righting a wrong, my own especially.
Shelter is a stiff breeze during a sweaty jog. Shelter is a much needed haircut or cup of coffee. Or beer. Shelter is still being able to afford things, without worrying about when the ‘still’ will end. Shelter is finally hearing good news for a change.
Shelter is hope in people, even with faithlessness in leaders. Shelter is not letting emotions prevent actions. Shelter is speaking up; it’s standing up. Shelter is exposing criminals clothed in Armani. Shelter is life with meaning.
Shelter is belonging. Shelter is poetry night in Old San Juan, shelter is finding poetry in the environment, and camaraderie in the poetry. Shelter is noticing musical notes not heard before; it’s new, or renewed, appreciation. Shelter is the power of connection.
Come in??? It's about time. Let's give each other shelter.
Or Maybe Tomorrow...
Ok, it's taking longer that I expected to pull my stories together. I'm going to experiment with my last longer b-e entry. PLEASE let me know what you think of the set up. The content, well, I'm working on that.
Thanks for reading!
Thanks for reading!
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
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