Walk Away's Open Salon Blog

Edges of the Precipice

Mon, 23 Nov 2009 16:11:12 -0500

Sometimes

it’s as if you're trying -

steadily trying -

to push me off a cliff

with these conclusions you leap to.

Backing me slowly,

harrowingly close to the edge

with leaps in belief and assumptions that make no sense,

with words too keen and painful to avoid.

Confused by these lambastes

I’ve been held captive,

ensnared by what I wish our relationship could be;

by what I thought it once was,

what I thought I once was –

but not by what I know I now am.

I slip on the loose edges of the precipice,

catch my breath, gather myself, recover.

Look you in the eye, peer into your heart;

plant my feet more firmly.

The abyss behind me may be dark and deep,

I may lose purchase in the end - but

not for lack of perseverance,

not for lack of determination.

To Be The One

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 13:11:25 -0500

I want to be the one

who sets you free

to express yourself, to explore your spirit

to wander the depths of your imagination

to ride the rising swell of your sensual fervor.

I want to be the one

to touch you, to taste you

to linger in your essence

to remind you of the man you’ve always been.

I want to be the one

to make you feel

like a man again;

to spin a dream, vivid and continuous

of how you are treasured

in my heart.

unleashed - berrycomposer's open call

Thu, 12 Nov 2009 11:11:37 -0500

**An answer to berrycomposer's open call "The literary intention of dogs" to use unleashed we barked down the falling stars in an original piece.
http://open.salon.com/blog/berrycomposer/2009/11/10/the_literary_intention_of_dogs

Thank you Berry, for this challenge. It was great fun. I hope you enjoy this. (I'm sorry, I just wasn't feeling a dog in there anywhere.) **

unleashed

and so, that summer,

wild and filthy we ruled the woods

making mockery of war

and the adults who planned our world.

tall trees stood as unmoving soldiers,

solid sentries, guardians and hosts.

dirt fortresses sheltered us,

becoming home to slingshots,

baseball cards, sweatshirts,

tennis shoes, and lost ideas,

hiding us from fears and sunlight.

up and over, under and through

we climbed

splashing through creeks and streams,

patrolling the perimeters of our battlegrounds,

protecting ourselves and one another

from foes both imagined and real,

all the while savoring our freedom.

deep in the wooded night, beneath the moon

we feared the days ahead knowing

that all too soon this would come to an end

and adulthood would call us

from our revelry and abandon

but for us, that summer, unleashed

we barked down the falling stars

and celebrated the childhood we would defend

with sticks and slingshots and filthy faces.

Contrapposto IV - Fine

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 17:11:44 -0500

Long before she reached his hospital room she knew something had changed. When she stepped into his room she felt it.

Although she hoped she was wrong, she was sure it meant he wasn’t coming back. He’d gone too far, slipped too deeply away to be reached. There was a softness, a peacefulness to his face she’d never seen before.

Sitting at his bedside, she took his hand and held it gently to her face. She’d always loved the feel of his hands; their soft warmth, their strength. She knew them. She’d memorized each callus and line, spent hours lazily tracing them into her heart. They were hands that created beauty, sculpted life from stone. The same hands that had tenderly wiped her tears away, playfully led her to bed, lovingly caressed her, and protected her. They were the hands of the man she loved. The man she thought she knew like her own hands.

When she’d fallen in love with him it was as if she’d finally been found, as if she’d never truly existed before his love. And when he'd taken her by the hand she was swept away, ushered into a life with him that she believed stretched into forever. It never occurred to her that she’d face a day of her life without him.

Yet, here she was. And she was terrified.

He stepped back from his work and wiped sweat from his forehead with a dust covered sleeve. This piece was a challenge, unlike anything he’d ever created.

The curve of the woman’s arm seemed a bit off but he’d rough it into shape rather than take a chance with a chisel. Her face, though... her face was perfect, the expression almost captivating. And the tilt of her head as she turned to her lover was exactly what he wanted. He’d left just enough space between hers and his so they shared the light traveling between them. They were poised to one another perfectly, relaxed, off their centers, fully trusting in one another. Lovers.

This had been an exhausting process. It seemed he’d managed to work uninterrupted for days – he wasn’t even sure what day it was. Had he even slept? He knew he hadn’t eaten, but he wasn’t hungry.

He’d been energized by the need to create, it fed his soul, pushed him though the process in a way he’d never experienced before. He'd become lost in the stone and the dust and the tools. Each cast of the hammer on the chisel directed him deeper within himself, his vision narrow and focused. And now the result was before him. The vision of his lifetime.

He moved back to the Lovers. As he stepped to the woman he touched her face, slowly melting into the sculpture becoming a part of his creation. She felt warm. Alive. Real. She seemed...familiar.

From deep within himself he heard the voice again. Calling to him. Speaking to him, telling him she loved him. He closed his eyes, letting the sound of her wash over him. He wouldn’t fight it this time. He wanted it. He accepted it.

The room became lighter around him, brighter and warmer.

The monitors had long been muted. She’d spent another long, lonely day staring at the numbers flashing quietly, the lines jumping up and down, recording his life in absolutes that meant nothing to her other than that he was breathing and his heart was beating. Sure, it meant he was alive but she wanted more than that. She needed more than that. He was more than that.

She’d been at his side waiting, dreaming, hoping and begging for a sign of more than that.

Leaning down to kiss his forehead, she whispered, “I love you so much.”

She squeezed his hand, “I don’t think I’ll ever understand this. I’ve always trusted you, always believed in you but this just doesn’t make any sense to me at all. I’ve tried. Really, I’ve tried to understand. I thought we were so happy together, that you were happy with us, with our life. I just don’t know what all this means. All I know for sure is that if you’re trying to leave me then you’re taking a part of me with you and I’ll never be whole again. I love you. I know you love me back. I know you do. I’ve never doubted it. Not Ever”

“Oh, baby,” she sobbed, “I miss you. I miss your smile. I miss your laugh. I miss your crazy stories that go on for hour when a few minutes would do. I miss sharing my bagel with you in the morning when you tell me you really don’t want a whole one but you end up eating most of ‘ours’ by yourself. I miss how you steal the blanket in the middle of the night. I miss the way you don't like tomatoes on your sandwich but you love ketchup on your eggs. I just miss you. Please, baby, please come back to me.”

She laid her face on his hand and wept.

Slowly, barely, gently beneath her cheek his hand moved.

She first thought it was a twitch - maybe she’d squeezed his hand too hard - but she lifted her face just a bit and it happened again. Just a small movement, barely more than a twitch but it was real. He was really moving. He was there. He was moving. He was touching her. He was responding to her.

He was coming back to her.

“I love you.” She said it over and over again through her tears, kissing the palm of his hand and each of his fingers.

“I’ll always love you.”

Previously

Contrapposto III

Contrapposto II

Contrapposto

Contrapposto - III

Wed, 4 Nov 2009 19:11:22 -0500

She was alone.

It was the first time she’d been away from the hospital; she was feeling both guilty for leaving and relieved to be away. The nurses had told her to go home, get some fresh air, and try to rest. She had reached the point of feeling useless and had to get away, even for a little while. Sitting at his bedside the past two days had been terrifying. Exhausting. She’d prayed and begged, pleaded and bargained for him to wake up, open his eyes, do anything – anything – to let her know he was there. Still he remained lost to her. There was nothing she could do but wait. There was nothing anyone could do.

And now she lay curled on the couch in their apartment, trying to bury herself in the familiarity of home. She’d showered and tried to rest but a rush of questions and worries pounded within her, keeping the dullness of sleep at bay.

Why? She’d asked that question over and over. Why? Why had he done this? What could pushed him to this? Why wouldn’t he have talked to her? To anyone at all? How could the man she’s loved – the man she made love to, poured herself into – and believed in for all these years chose to leave her like this? How can this be the man who used to seem so happy just to get up in the morning, or to hold her hand, or to lose himself in hours of creation at his studio be the same man she now begged to come back to her?

Something within her was collapsing, twisting her away from herself as the most devastating questions came. What if I did this? Did I do something? Say something? How was my love for him not enough?

She felt a tearing from within and, finally, she began to cry.

The tears came hot and fast, stinging her tired eyes and running down her cheeks. Tears of exhaustion laced with sadness and fear. Tears of anger, confusion, and helplessness, giving way to sobs and heaves, pushing the anguish and frustration of the past days to the surface, expelling them like bile into the emptiness of the apartment until every corner was washed with her pain.

The release was overwhelming, and yet it cleansed her somehow as well. She allowed sleep to take her, to own her, to steal her away.

Part IV to follow

Previously:

Contrapposto II

Contrapposto I