The Story of Daybreak

“We must be brief” Day whispered, extending her long thin fingers towards the sky, “Twilight cannot hold his place very long”

“You cannot rush a beauty like this.” Night gently encircled a curly tendril cascading in front of her face around the tip of his forefinger.

They sat silently for a moment, listening to the lonely call of the loon, over the silvery lake-water.

Night reached in his dark trench-coat and pulled out a small vial. The substance inside shown so bright it banished the eerie shadows hovering around their small canoe. “You left this in my castle the first night we met. Do you remember that?”

Day smiled, “of course I remember, it’s my favorite sunbeam. I knew I couldn’t return for it. It was much too dangerous. It’s dangerous even now.” Her smile faded, “That is why, this can’t be. Night, we cannot see each other like this anymore, it disturbs the balance of this world.”

Night clutched the vial in his hand, “I don’t care if we raze the world to ash, if we have a love that bright, let it burn.” He leaned toward her, the folds of his hood slipping slightly and revealing an earnest pained look. “We owe it to the world to love as brilliant as the sunlight and as deep as the witching hour. What is the world worth without it?”

Day looked up at the red rays of Twilight, “I was young, Night. When we met I was running from everything and casting daylight on things that belong in the dark. My love for you will always light up the sky, but my love cannot touch you anymore.”

Twilight twinkled a warning shot.

“I must go, Night.” There were tears in her eyes.

“You are breaking my heart.” Night said simply.

Day inclined her neck, pulled back her hood to reveal her shining radiance, then pulled Nights hood from his face. His ruddy, sable complexion was stunning. She kissed him with sorrowful ferocity, and then she was gone.

Night paddled himself across the Forgotten Lake to his Eventide Castle. He sat on the dock, swirling his ankles in the cold black water until daylight touched everything around him.

Then he disappeared into his castle, taking with him all the midnight secrets of the world to keep safe.

Rebel Heartbeat

100 years ago to day, black men and women flooded the streets of New York City to protest.

I could get academic, and quote the long list of grievances, but let’s get real– it was 1917.

It’s now 2017. If you don’t know why they were protesting, then you are part of the problem.

The problem I’m having now, is the huge elephant in the room—standing next to the ostrich with its head in the sand. And, indeed, that mixed metaphor is to show what a jumbled mess this is. 

Our problems are inextricably intertwined– yours, mine, and the homeless man who may never read this, and the addict whom many think is too far gone to help, and the mentally disabled child who is hopelessly lost in an education system that doesn’t actually care, and the young prisoner serving a life term of a 3rd strike misdemeanor.

I find myself disheartened and disappointed on an almost daily basis, because as Americans we have become so complacent, and complicit in a system that gives us so little and exacts from us–so very much. We feel that owe the system our undying allegiance, because it allows us our existence (which we confuse as freedom). In our beloved society we are allowed to live in poverty with addiction and mental health conditions that render us a trembling pile under a city bridge. We are allowed and encouraged to work at such a pace, that the idea of “enjoyment” can be sold to us as a hobby that doubles as a second job.

I am not an “angry black woman” and rather than #blackgirlmagic, I ascribe to the title- Black Magic Woman. I don’t often write about the trials and tribulations that can be attributed solely to the color of my skin. I personally prefer to discuss the issues that plague us all. And sadly, I hate to inform you all— those problems are becoming one and the same.

We all are being burdened with a defective education system, tied down with student debt, politically represented by corporations who seek to enslave us to their bottom line, and all along the way told that we have “opportunity”, if only we just work harder.

Hard work, is never a bad thing. But it isn’t the only thing, and it isn’t our salvation.

the 100th anniversary of the silent march empowers me to say.

I’m not buying it. You can’t sell me the American Dream… anymore.

 

Figure.09

 I’ve become so numb, I can’t feel you there / Become so tired, so much more aware / By becoming this all I want to do / Is be more like me and be less like you

Life can be so cyclical…

Like most teens, i was excessively angsty. So I clung to Linkin Park.

Turning up my speakers to almost painful levels and slamming my door against parental oversight.

Hindsight: I was anxious about the gnawing feeling of leering conformity.

A youthful misfit can be pardoned and even condoned, but as age advances, society beats the misfits most mercilessly.

I could feel in coming in my teenage bones, but didn’t yet have the mindset to chart my path accordingly.

Let’s none of us pretend adulthood is anything but trading childhoods annoying restraints for responsibilities heavy chains.

The past two months, in a haze of medication I found myself anxious all over again. the kind of biting, itching anxious that prohibits sleep, or true wakefulness, and leaves you fatigued.  I felt that same fear of the unsure future that my younger years provoked. It was like I had re-become that eccentric 15 years old who only found solace in the pages of a book, or bars of a song.

Thankfully- the removal of the medication from my life lifted the fog almost instantly. And it felt like life was breathed into my lungs, and the dark clouds of uncertainty no longer hung on my ears, blocking my visage.

A week later I learned Chester Bennington killed himself.

from one misfit to another I’m sorry.

I’m sorry this world pummels and ostracizes the sensitive and colorful souls that dare to take their anomalous virtues past childhood and spread that beauty and pain into the world.

Pie in the sky

It’s what I call my perfect days.
not the kind of days where every-thing goes right.

Just
The kind of days where all that happens falls together like pieces
of a nonsensical puzzle.

Like a sunny day in LA, on our way to the Griffith Observatory. J and his parents wanted to stop by an outdoor cafe and drink tea and eat a warm slice of apple pie.

So we did.

I ran my fingers over the cold damp roots of the succulents set on our table, and sipping my chai slowly.

J was driving.

He carefully wound the car up the hill to the observatory.

We wandered around the observatory in silence, waiting for the planetarium show.

J whispered a hasty explanation of the Tesla coil to me with just a hint of annoyance.

The planetarium show came. We set ourselves near the center and I eagerly called out answers to the hosts questions, not being deterred by the handful of children he was actually querying.
When it ended we exited to the east, stepping out of the dark theater just as the sun was dripping its way down past the horizon.

J took me by the hand and led me back to the car, his parents not far behind us.

No one said anything.

We just enjoyed the silence.

J and I dropped his parents back at our temporary home (his sisters house).

We ventured into night-time LA– eating dinner at Moby’s restaurant, and having a cocktail and dessert in tarped alleyway with the wind roaring loudly around us.

It wasn’t the explosive vacation that people write Instagram stories about, but it was the coziest travel experience I’ve had in years.

When you are eating pie in the sky, with your head in the clouds and your feet too far off the ground to be frightened…you enjoy every sweet bite.

Bar-sit

We sat down.

J and I, we are inveterate bar investigators. I troll for new places online, and J finds new spots on his driving routes in Columbus or from fellow driving co-workers. We will sit down, map out a quick route as J laces up his converse kicks, and head off into the sunset for a bar-sit.

this particular evening we sat down in a familiar local joint. Walk-able and a place we used to frequent, back when all the bar tenders knew our names, and our go-to drinks.

This time, when we sat down, every face the servers the bartenders, the bar-backs— all unknown.

We sat down anyway.
and waited
and waited
kept waiting.

I could see the build up of impatience on J’s face. Not because he desperately needed a drink. But because for him the enjoyment in being in a bar is having in your possession what you came there for. The process and lag time is not quality time for him. Probably because his long history of working in the industry.

For me, being at a bar– if I’m not in a rush then every single part of every moment is exciting for me. I’ll admit to being a social moth. Not a butterfly who wants to parade around its beauty and claim attention. I prefer to hover next to the light, on the wall watching and listening only announcing my presence when provoked.

I smiled and patted J’s arm. He flashed an irritated smirk and picked up the drink menu, again.

This time the bartender noticed this time and hurried over. He took our drink orders, simple: whiskey on ice, and a beer. 15 minutes later we had our drinks in hand and J was ready to leave. Obviously to stay meant waiting 45 minutes between service spurts and neither of us could tolerate that.

We left after quickly finishing our unsatisfying drinks. I was slightly amused by the entire experience. The long wait and J’s growing impatience,(which oddly manifests itself as stony inconsolable silence) but also the incompetence of the bartender.

It’s a thing of beauty- the consummate bartender. The one who can sternly take your order, provide the drink, make light conversation, and leave you alone all at the same time. A rare find, and becoming rarer.

It’s just something a girl like me, who likes to order a second and third glass before I’ve finished the first….appreciates.

The Burden

of being a woman.

Not denying that men don’t have their own..
or that transgender individuals have independent struggles as well.

still,
being a woman

having to decide at 29 whether
to take the birth control that numbs real life
or
deal with constant pain and pressure
and almost constant bleeding

to be told to
have a kid now, because your uterus is living on borrowed time.
do you want a kid?
right now?
do you know?
how could you not know?
most people…they know.

either way– you have to decide
right now
something that will change your life forever.

to be told you are not enough
by well meaning friends
who have it together just enough
to know what it should look like.

to carry all the weight and pressure
of looking good
being good
doing good

just because women can.

to know that
no matter what you do
it’s not enough.