the things i find in the draft folder (slightly nsfw)

(I wrote this two weeks ago…and barely remember?)

This is what I aim for: a feeling of calm, after a tornado of energy. I want the dust, and the glitter to fly through the air and coat our shoulders, but I want it neatly swept soon after so we can rest.

My dreams have not had the same locations lately. I miss the old settings.

The little village, set low against a green mountain. The sidewalks are boardwalks and the buildings are old. The doors are open to a little brick shop over there, do you see it? The one with window boxes painted purple and bright blue, spilling over with red pansies. Inside they sell tea by the pound, and hand poured candles that are labeled individually, in calligraphy. You will buy something there that is fine and pretty.

You hold your son’s hand. The two of you live in a small house. You are not sure where your husband is, but there is a general air of missing something or someone.

There are places I go (a ringing in the ears) that are glimpses of my dreams. Imprints and time stamps of places that I’ve loved and lost.

If we keep moving, and traveling, the richer our dreams will be. If we stay, and settle down, the richer our lives will be. It’s a choice that we have to make.

This is a practice, an exercise, an effort in abundance. It’s like when I would sit at the library in Anchorage on my lunch after walking the ten minutes midtown. I would gather up books, then climb to the second floor and write for a half hour or so in a mainly soft but sort of scratchy armchair. I could look out the big picture window at the patrons entering the library through the front doors below, and imagine their words, and predict their futures by the way they walked. Tiny destinies boiling in oil.

After I was done, and my time was faint, I would leave the library on foot, and walk through slushy sidewalks back to the office. I usually cut through a modern office park, which to get to from the busy street I had to duck under a canopy of cottonwood and birch trees. If the calendar was set to May, magpies would swoop out of their nests and fly towards my head. If the calendar was set to July, ravens would be in the grass picking at orange peels.
When something is going astray in my writing I feel it in my chest. It’s wrong, my chest tells me. Relax your shoulders and go somewhere else. This is not your place.

 

***

When everything is going right I plow forward like a freight train, black and shining and loud.

Keep me quiet. Keep me here. I am selfish, and am ready to go.

I will talk about fucking. I will talk about you. I will tell you about the time that I wanted to bend over beneath you, and feel the soft brown hair that covers your stomach at my back.

 

***

 

And I think that the time with you is over, because your face is fading. I still see men who look like you in the street and on bicycles, but their true faces emerge sooner than they used to. Before they were, all of them, only you. In every long haired man with a beard I saw you, and heat would pulse deep in me, and I would remember the electricity of your touch (however brief, however chaste).

 

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4 thoughts on “the things i find in the draft folder (slightly nsfw)

  1. God, I love your writing, Chrissy. I truly, truly do. I know I’ve said this before, but you remind me so much of Atwood! Especially love the dream sequence here.
    Hugs,
    Kathy

  2. I don’t mind if you keep telling me that! You always make me feel good about my writing. Thank you so much for your amazing support…you keep me going!! xo

  3. “When something is going astray in my writing I feel it in my chest. It’s wrong, my chest tells me. Relax your shoulders and go somewhere else. This is not your place.” I feel the same too 🙂 your writing has a lot of heart and soul, and I love it.

"... all my lovers were there with me, all my past and futures."

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