Hurricane, watch over me.

A vision tonight of us together in the most literal sense, our flesh exposed, juxtaposed, curves to muscle, softly rich sheets fold and rustle, ignored, the perfect mix of rhythm and rhyme, no attention to clocks and miserly time, shadows our solitude together, a beautiful irony that no one can find a reason to hate, skin, heavily lidded eyes and heavy indian summer feelings; now is the only moment, though a million more may come.

The world around me shuddered for a moment as my mind and body remembered this vision of what is to come. I miss you, not only you as you are now, but as a you that I won't have for years to come. Both are so far, in miles and months, in tears and kisses and coffees and caresses and fears and hits and misses.

who did, you did, you.

touch your look on me
and leave my soul rippling-
love concentricly.

You stir something within me that I don't know how to get out. It is mysterious yet familiar- a face you see every day but somehow can't place a name or purpose to. Your absence only intensifies it. Magma built up with no caldera to relieve the pressure. Do I go deeper, to the core? Do I push through until it all spews out, a cataclysm?

I don't know.

Poetry doesn't stir in me often anymore. Tonight is a rare mood. Something about the past several days sets me off. I like thinking about the future, but it is slow torture. I am Tantalus reaching for the grapes, but this punishment was made by no Olympian, but by my own heart reaching for what has yet to be. The catch, Catch-22, is that I possess the grapes, but only in some future time. I envy my future self, enjoying her days and nights with you, doing all those things that she does, dishwashing, wine-sipping, dancing, decision-making, onion chopping, with you.

With you.
With you.
With you.

That's all I really want.

touch your look on me, ripple me.

a picture sent a photo framed
won't you fall on me?
drip, your shapes
curving face in my hands,
my soul.
rain on my head
water, water please-
don't leave me placid.

imagine please
my voice flows
the richness of mystery,
drums and chords,
winding rivulets
memory and new creation

stay and maybe your face will feel
ears will hear
the rain that tumbles
for you, for you
listen, please
won't you close your eyes?
but only the streets are wet
with rain
and the mystery slithers away,
unheard.

There's Beauty In The Breakdown.

It was still daylight out when I escorted Ophelia to her room to put her to bed. As we entered, I glanced at the photograph posted outside her door to identify the room's occupant. It was a picture of two very different Ophelias: the current, eroded Ophelia standing before a portrait of her thirty-something self. Even her own likeness towered over her, its paint-daubed eyes gleaming with a fierceness that had long been gone from the eyes of the model that inspired them. A laminated sign bearing Ophelia's name was stapled to the wall to guide her to her dwelling, but for Ophelia, there was to be no finding her way back from the wilderness that had swallowed her lucidity.

My plan was to get her changed, toileted and into bed as quickly as possible, but she managed somehow to point her walker toward the living room lined with modern art paintings and classical records. Old people are quicker than you might think. I frustratedly followed her, as there was little chance in stopping her now that she had entered the room- it would simply take too long to explain to her why I wanted her to go to the bedroom.

As she spoke, though, seated in her blue rocking chair, her eyes glittered with a new light. Tonight there was a spark there that I had never seen in her. I tried to put her to bed, plying her with an occasional "Aren't you tired yet, Ophelia?", but my impudent interruptions became fewer as the tales of her life cast their spell on me. Years or moments transpired as she spoke- disjointedly, as dementia patients do, but with a wisdom and spirit that demands respect. I glanced up at the portrait of the young Ophelia hanging on the wall. The dusky, dust-soaked rays of day's last light fell on the painting, highlighting the sharp young woman peering back at me. I turned my attention back to the flesh-and-blood woman before me and though the walker stood a mere few feet away from her trembling, wrinkled figure, she suddenly was not a day older than her portrait.

I decided then that bedtime could wait.

On the Genesis of said Blog, Or, Wherein the Author Reveals Her Motives, Or, The First Post.

There is only so long that I can put off writing this damn thing. So here it goes.

I've been sitting on the idea of creating a blog for several months now. I have a blog (of sorts) on MySpace (forgive me Internets for MySpacing), but I do not have freedom of pen there- the people I want to write about have access to it. That fact alone would not necessarily stop me if I were inspired enough, but, combined with the tendency for drama on MySpace (and we all know that drama only breeds more drama), I have taken the plunge into the BlagoSphere. This move was hampered by several reservations I have:

1) I need the freedom to write what I want. In order to accomplish this, I had two choices: A) Get rid of any reservations I have about offending friends and family; or B) Keep it a secret. Maybe someday in the future I will accomplish A, but in the meantime I have chosen to undertake B in spite of the next reservation:

2) I like to have an audience. I doubt that many people will read this, and even if they do, few will comment. I'll admit that this makes me sad: I like feedback; I like to impress people, especially with my writing. I will give this up for a while, though. I don't need it anyway- "you can't please everyone, so you've got to please yourself."

3) Blogging is dominated by people who think everyone cares about every little thing they do, and I do not wish to "blog" in this way. So I will try to stay clear of this. Only things that are important or actually interesting will go here, not some stupid tangent on what I ate or who said what. I like the Interwebs too much to do that.



So, setting aside these reservations, I have set out to begin this blog. In it, I hope to provide introspective short stories and extended thoughts. I have always been fascinated by the little things that go on around me, and my school year in Helena has only served to heighten my interest in the mini-dramas constantly playing themselves out around me- the secret worlds. I hope to evoke cricket-serenaded summer nights in which anything can happen, snowy mornings that sheath the world in wonder, and blustery days that pass with little less than mystery.


Welcome to The Secret August Worlds.