the old-school guestbook archives
my amazon wish list... my favorite astrologer... my favorite artist... yerba mate revolution! erowid: a travel guide for interior journeys... no more war: MoveOn.org United for Peace and Justice True Majority seek the truth: Common Dreams Unamerican Activities The Nation people I adore, diaries I read: rev.raikes ariana cubiclegirl epiphany glitter333 laurakay wammo the music: the asylum street spankers backyard tire fire blue highway bill camplin wendy colonna freedom tribe joules graves guy forsyth band hamsa lila hanuman libby kirkpatrick leftover salmon pamela means medeski martin & wood the motet the nice outfit nickel creek open road rose polenzani railroad earth south austin jug band string cheese incident taarka tha musemeant the devil makes three tim o'brien band trolley wild sage keller williams yonder mountain string band |
get well soon... ~ April 23, 2008 - 12:39 a.m. this place of sickness is like living on the moon... the silence of airless space, the absolute aloneness of untouchable vacuum. I felt this virus taking hold, felt it in the thickening of my airways, my energy draining away, the emptiness of exhaustion dragging at me through the days. everything loomed so large and hard and sharp within me, and I with no resilience was easily laid to waste. and somewhere between los angeles and san francisco, on the night when nothing worked, my voice simply ceased to be. I fell silent, and curled helplessly behind the walls of my mind. seven days I have walked this inimical surface, but the hours spool by like years of earthtime, my life wasting by in this holding pattern of isolation. I may have been here a decade by now, friends and lovers fallen away, unreachable, untouched. the noise behind my eyes matched only by the deafening silence of the space around me. I reach for cold comfort and pull it close, trying to remember what warmth felt like, and light. how it was to be a girl with a beating heart and heated blood in her veins. how passion tasted, how love smelled. but here there is only the cold ache of forever, icy darkness lit by impossibly distant stars, the thousand-yard stare from deep within the unresting unquiet well of my mind. the frigid lunar stone beneath my feet; the wasted remains of some other nation's flag.
(((rings))) |