The following was written in Roswell, New Mexico when I had no Internet and couldn't sleep. It is being published exactly as I wrote it with one out take because my filter wasn't on. I would also like to point out that it doesn't always make sense because my filter wasn't on. Welcome to another view into how my brain doesn't work.
No bars can hold me. No prison can break me. No mortal may hold what belongs to my
God. My spirit is immortal and my death
is a portal. For the death of oneself is
the release to above.
Blue eyes and brown curls
A girl like me could rule the world.
I’ve been a mess the last few weeks. I know this could describe me frequently but
my soul has been ill at ease since a day in May when I went to the
hospital. Sir had surgery for an
angiogram and to put in two more stints in his heart (the current count is now
four). When he came out of surgery
(several hours later than expected) my Mother and I went to visit him and my
Grandmother. Sir was but an echo of his normal
self. As he drifted in and out of
consciousness he was making jokes but this was not Sir. Sir who has always been so strong and tall
and loud and obnoxious, even when going through chemotherapy, looked so weak
and pale and I was frightened. How could
the world possibly go on without him?
Pale face but red skin.
Reminds me that true beauty comes from
within.
Of all the towns we could travel to for family
reunions, why’d it have to be the one known for alien landings?
As my skins aches from the sunburn I now suffer
after spending several days in New Mexico’s 110 degree weather I contemplate
that perhaps I would do better to take up spelunking rather than swimming.
Fear is the most powerful motivator.
A prose for Dr. Rommel, my favorite Literature professor-
From the other room I hear two little boys even
breathing. They are sleeping. I hear one little girl roll over. She is also sleeping. I hear my sister pull her blanket loose. She too is sleeping. I hear my grandmother’s dog yawn in her
sleep. Amazingly, she sleeps on. I hear my fingers tap dance across a keyboard-
impatiently waiting for insomnia to abate.
I am not asleep. Life isn’t
fair.
In California there is an utter fascination with
cowboys. It was only upon this most
recent trip that I realized that it doesn’t matter how you dress a surfer boy-
his speech, wavy locks, and dimwitted stare will always betray his true
nature. And I would think, “What is this
strange creature?”
Oh little bug on the wall
How I pray you do not fall
If you should tumble before they wake
You should be aware it would be a grave mistake
On the drive from Los Angeles to Roswell a great
many things entered my head as the landscape flew by out the window. Miniature redwoods on foothills transformed
to flattened desserts disturbed only by the occasional black mountain in a
matter of minutes. Saguaro cacti
arranged themselves upon adobe colored hills just in time to be replaced by
rolling hills of sand stone. The occasional
city would find us just before we found the painted plateaus that lead to
flat lands of hardy, green grass with the occasional confused tree who was
really just trying to be an overachieving piece of grass by managing to grow
just taller than the shortened shrubberies. The sky was always blue and the sun was always
bright. The road went ever forward interrupted
only by the descending night. And
through it all I wondered about the atheists and the deists. I’ve met people who have said that God’s not
really there. And if He’s even listening
then it’s clear that He doesn’t care.
And through it all as I watched the changing landscape pass me by I
wondered how anyone could find this land anything but beautiful- and moreover,
how could anyone miss that God loved us enough to create this.
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