26. Random Words

25. Colonial Avenue and Ellwood Avenue, Richmond, Virginia

August  2014

To You,

In the foreword of Brave New World Aldous Huxley writes:

Chronic remorse, as all the moralists are agreed, is a most undesirable
sentiment. If you have behaved badly, repent, make what amends you
can and address yourself to the task of behaving better next time. On no
account brood over your wrong-doing. Rolling in the muck is not the best
way of getting clean.

As someone who has behaved badly, I felt great relief when I discovered this passage over two years ago. It was as though I had finally been given permission to stop pummeling myself, something any guilty person with a conscience would celebrate. However, I have found it surprisingly impossible to abide by Huxley's recommendation. I feel guilty for trying to cast off the guilt accrued for my collection of wrong-doing. It is as though there is an on-going debate between my past, present, and future selves. Past Self wields guilt in self-flagellation, arguing that my penance is my suffering. Future Self argues for change, suggesting that I can't be useful if I'm crippled by guilt. Present Self is humbled by confusion.

Your Friend,
A

24. Bunnyhop Bike Shop, Oregon Hill, Richmond, Virginia

August 2014

To You,

I'm an alcoholic.
Like any true alcoholic
I accept no absolutes
outside of the bottled variety.
Nothing is true without adequate testing
including the truth that I'm an alcoholic.

Each leaf of truth cast down
by those much taller and sturdier than I
has been crushed into a palatable consistency
to put in my pipe and smoke.

I have ground great piles of wisdom
into a coarse collection of words:
God and Goodness
Motherhood and Moderation
Wife and Work
and burned them.

So long I've sat lost in hazy firelight
exhaling only smoke and hot air
that I've forgotten the shape of my body and
my mind can't assemble all of the real I've dismantled.

I've become an edge-less form
unable to outline myself.

I want to be a woman
with soft curves and a sweet mouth.
I want to be a woman
with pillow-tipped fingers.
But first I must be a human
that doesn't always bind myself
into the saddle of discomfort
and ride off in search of things to set ablaze.

This is a truth that I hold a match to
this night and every night
as I consider whether or not to fill my glass.

Your Friend,
A

23. WPA Bakery, East Marshall Street, Richmond, Virginia

August 2014

To You,

Fear has kept me here

shielded under bed sheet restraints

sweating out a twenty year hangover.

With fingers forced into the passages of my head

I've been saturated in self-absorption.

In soundless exile

this malnourished ghost

Me--your desperate friend

has finally stirred

hungry for sacred touch and

disoriented from former intoxication.

I need to hold your hand 

and be steadied

as I shed years of overplayed pain

and learn how to tame this wildlife inside me.

Then I can sit naked and still

and be your student

unabashed by my bony body and

my fragmented narrative.

Your Friend,

A

22. Alamo BBQ, Church Hill, Richmond, Virginia

August 2014

To You,

I've untied my animal mask
retracted my claws.
My coats been shed in clumps
irradiated with knowledge of self
no longer insulated by ignorance.
My animal self
dead-eyed and dormant
with all other extinct creatures.
The heat of thought
forced it from my flesh
stinking of sour sweat and
matted with evidence of violence.
I am naked in this newness
and awkwardly aware
swinging two left arms
attached to skill-less hands
not yet mature enough to grasp
not yet mature enough to hold without harm.

Your Friend,
A

21. Union Market, Church Hill, Richmond, Virginia

August 2014

To You,

I am almost 35 and completely uncertain about who I am supposed to be. I feel like I've always been searching for myself, never sure footed in my path. Lately I find that I have been thinking about my biological father, who I never had the chance to meet but heard was an excellent man. When he was 34 my father was a successful salesman, providing well for his wife and two sons. However, he had what's been described as an epiphany, realizing that he didn't want to be salesman. What he really wanted was to be a teacher, specifically a teacher who worked with autistic children. He enrolled in a Master's program and became a special education teacher. Three years later he laid down on the sofa to take a nap, had a stroke, and died. Today, I examine my current state and consider how my dreams don't quite match up with my reality. I think about the honorable decision that my father made and I hope that I can be that brave. The one lesson that I my father left me with is that I would rather falter, fail, or die doing something that I want to, than falter, fail, or die doing something that I don't.

Your Friend,

A

20. Abandoned GRTC Bus Depot, Cary Street, Richmond, Virginia

August 2014

To You,

I am bilingual

a cloud of language

a dense collection of words

certain to burst.

I speak in storms

ungovernable rain

falling in audible patterns

filling or flooding.

Some messages unspoken

observable in the shadows

cast by my folded arms

and the electric angles of my eyes.

What's seem and heard

frequently colliding

thunder and lightening

an imperfect storm.

Your Friend,

A

19. 9:30 Club, Washington, D.C.

August 2014

To You,

Fear has kept me here

shielded under bed sheet restraints

sweating out a twenty year hangover.

With fingers forced into the passages of my head

I've been saturated in self-absorption.

In soundless exile

this malnourished ghost

Me--your desperate friend

has finally stirred

hungry for sacred touch and

disoriented from former intoxication.

I need to hold your hand 

and be steadied

as I shed years of overplayed pain

and learn how to tame this wildlife inside me.

Then I can sit naked and still

and be your student

unabashed by my bony body and

my fragmented narrative.

Your Friend,

A

18. Fan Thrift, Main Street, Richmond, Virginia

                                                                                                                                       August 2014

To You,

I am almost 35 and completely uncertain about who I am supposed to be. I feel like I've always been searching for myself, never sure footed in my path. Lately I find that I have been thinking about my biological father, who I never had the chance to meet but heard was an excellent man. When he was 34 my father was a successful salesman, providing well for his wife and two sons. However, he had what's been described as an epiphany, realizing that he didn't want to be salesman. What he really wanted was to be a teacher, specifically a teacher who worked with autistic children. He enrolled in a Master's program and became a special education teacher. Three years later he laid down on the sofa to take a nap, had a stroke, and died. Today, I examine my current state and consider how my dreams don't quite match up with my reality. I think about the honorable decision that my father made and I hope that I can be that brave. The one lesson that I my father left me with is that I would rather falter, fail, or die doing something that I want to, than falter, fail, or die doing something that I don't. 

Your Friend,

A