I have to remind myself to walk away from the hate multiple times a day when frustration gets too heavy, life bears down too hard. Living is torture even when one is ridiculously happy. Living consumed by hate, the ugliest impossibility. The sun is a billion years dead and gone, yet she shines so warm and glorious. I’m going to bask in the light of the sun. I bought three gemstone rings
“It all comes back to a red metal bench in the woods, on a small hill by a nothing special pond. The air is sweet and wet and fall is here for now. Ducks sleep near the brisk, damp water waiting to take flight to sunnier places, offering no solution. I shiver and squirm in my own discomfort, clenching the bench, determined to will myself better. I’ll sit there god damn it, I’m as stubborn as you, until there is something to look forward to. I’m not pretending rosy and cheery just maybe a hint of curiosity.
The Vast Landscape has a place in the heart, all its own. Never. quit. your. dreams. A touching, humbling reader comment. ‘Jackie~ for quite some time I thought you were the main character in your well written book, full of emotion. I know now you are not but perhaps bits are you ! WOW! The intense sensitivity throughout the middle of the book brought me to tears several times. (and
I wrote The Vast Landscape, mostly to stay alive. Because I HATE the word BiPolar and all it has taken, not only from me but those I loved madly. I wrote. When the bad thoughts came, I wrote. When the velocity in my brain was too much, I wrote. When I was curled in a ball screaming, sobbing on the kitchen floor, I wrote. The Vast Landscape is my truth
I never liked nature. Or, so I thought. The walk is hard, I don’t adapt well to change. Life is about comings and goings. I breathe in, watching the hues deepen. Halfway through the walk, perception shifts. I cannot replace what has gone missing. My shoulders less on attack, I feel less alone. The sound of gravel underfoot brings small comfort. The sweet, shadow dog loves me through all my complicated colors, every season.
Because it’s raining, and my mother sits in the kitchen with a pencil reading Georgia Pine., first edits. I reflect. Typing in my Zen room, deep in the world of Georgia Pine. I work fast, anxious to see how the story ends, intersects, everything comes to a close. (even I don’t know if they characters will veer left or right). I am melancholy. I will miss Harrison, and her descendants. For me, living in
She disappeared inside the land of make-believe, filled with Crayola crayons so bright she wore tinted sunglasses I always thought true love was equivalent to good poetry dying today, today, today I‘ve learned how to sleep alone with my dreams A young girl fell in love with art, without perhaps ever knowing his name
Let’s face it; there’s no fooling. The sagging skin, the wrinkled face, the ridiculous forty something woman in short skirts and bottled-up Botox. The gravitational pull and the eventual flight back home were booked in advance. You already hold the winning ticket. I recognize the faces in the street, the fear, the familiar grimace and disgust at the sideways glance in the shop’s windowpane. I see the doubt, the two-second
I wrote EMBERS AND ASH some years ago, or so. I don’t remember the precise day, I remember the unhappy circumstance. I needed to come home. I was unwell. Truth, I was out of my fucking mind and the only person I wanted, needed and trusted was the one who birthed me. Her ferocious, constant, capable mother-love was the only thing that was not spinning out of control. The one I