From time to time you’ll see Stolen Moments show up on the blog. Words forgotten and misplaced, poetry, anticipatory memories, prose, joy and sorrow, pensive emotion, random and not so random thoughts scribbled in tattered notebooks. To not forget but remember the precious, fleeting stolen moments in time. I’m a writer trying recapture on paper how it feels to be alive. funny girl by Jacqueline Cioffa Dec. 2006 I would like to
I never cared much about looking back when I was young. I could not wait to leave this house, this town get out and experience stuff. You know the obstinate dreamer looking for bold adventure. It worked. I ran. I ran fast and far, and kept running. That’s the funny thing about developing a serious illness, you are forced to re-prioritize. Becoming insane in the middle of Manhattan did not bode well for me
From: Jacqueline Cioffa <email@example.com> Subject: jelly beans and bed sheets Date: April 10, 2007 7:39:59 AM EDT To: Jacqueline Cioffa <firstname.lastname@example.org> I wrote Jellybeans and Bed Sheets some time ago. Time didn’t pause for me but the memories I still own. Jellybeans and Bed Sheets by Jacqueline Cioffa Miami, the beach sand sun moon and stars. There is something about being in a tropical place, how the wind blows just right sweeping
Loving yourself takes time. I didn’t know not exactly, not until this moment. I never believed brushing aside the possibility of happy. Tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow I’ll embrace the quirks and eccentrities. Tomorrow. Funny time wasted. Not funny. This end of April Sunday close to May, I stand at the fault line. Middle-aged. The compost pile is toppling from all the shit dumped over the years. I don’t know about you, maybe you were born over-confident.
Do you believe in signs? I try. I want to. Some days they’re impossible to ignore. I have a funny kind of feeling we’ve been here, lived this place before. Maybe not in the same order, geography or circumstance. I don’t know, maybe not at all says the practical parts to me. I’m pretty sure we won’t remember. I’m quite certain the people I have loved deeply, who have loved me fiercely remain
“Harrison looks at her loves, and knows, instinctively. This, this is it. She’d searched the vast landscape, without a map, the rough, scary terrain swallowing her whole. Harrison’s dusty, torn backpack pushed aside, on a shelf in the attic. Twenty years, ache and itch all gone. No running. Destination arrived. Despite the pit stops, fires, sinkholes, pimps, mistakes, lone railways and scars. It was worth it. The backyard lit up like a redneck Christmas, Harry didn’t mind. “I’m hungry, let’s get this show on the road. Addie, bring the radio. You can play your song, baby. As loud as you like.” Let There Be. Light. Let There Be. Family. Let There Be. Love.”
Authenticity. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the word, gargling, swishing it around in my mouth and spitting it out. If I only show you the photoshopped, concealed, makeup pretty me you’ll never understand the underbelly. The crunchy grit, rawness hidden beneath. The really good stuff, the honest kind that matters. Most days I can only see how my illness defines me. Every single piece that’s been stolen, the immeasurable, inexplicable