Free Write 041816
I feel kinda like crud. I have this headache that is clawing at the back of my neck and digging up into the sides of my head. Throbbing and bleeding. Closing the eyes to shut out the light, but nothing changes the pain of it. There is something searing and gnawing at the bridge of my nose. Maybe that is the pressure point from which it will crack and the entire thing will come undone. Falling apart like blades of grass blowing out of a child’s hand as they reach up towards the sky. Could be just that there was never anything really holding it all together, but I figure that is less likely true. There is always something holding it together or it wouldn’t have been together in the first place. There is always a piece of sand to make a pearl. Want a strange thing that little clam. A treasure box buried beneath the waves. My grandmother loves pearls. I myself haven’t ever really cared much for them one way or the other, but as I am getting older, I am finding that I like the way that they bring up memories. She would wear pearls on a regular day. It didn’t need to be a special occasion. I can remember her wearing one of her pearl necklaces while she was watching me play softball. She was wearing slacks and a button down shirt. Nothing formal. But there was the string of pearls. They were a dark color, almost like chocolate. I thought they looked like a row of little turds, but I knew how much she loved them and I didn’t let her that I didn’t understand why she thought they were so beautiful. It was enough that she did. It is strange what things change and what stays the same as you get older. In so many ways, I am just the same as I was then, but in so many more, I am a different person. The same is true of everything around me. Maybe nothing has changed but my point of view. That is possible, but I think there is a current beneath that pulls things forward through time in a way that changes and preserves both. It is like a marriage. Two people that work together to make sure that the goals and needs of the family are met. They shape the lives of the children they raise and they dream that things will never change or that they will change for the better I suppose. But they come together. I’m not sure what thought my fingers are chasing here. There is something lurking in the folds of my thoughts that feels like it is important, but it isn’t ready yet. It is a strange feeling. It comes to me often when I have been in a reading marathon or spent a large amount of time alone. It is really intense when I have been doing both. I’ve never found the feeling unsettling. It is rather like going on an Easter egg hunt. You know that there is something to find right in front of you. It is bright and beautiful and was put there just so that you could discover it. But you want to delay the finding of it. There is something about looking that makes the eggs more beautiful when they are found. I feel like there is something in my mind that is like that. I know that it is there and I know that it is beautiful, but there is a pleasure in delaying its discovery. Not sure what that could be. Or why that would be so. Maybe it is myself. Perhaps I am hiding in the folds of my brain. Wrapped up in the grey fabric and waiting, knowing that I can only be found if I go looking. The grey dress rustled and moved stiffly as she turned and looked out the window. The clock banged against the hour and I knew that it was not yet time. Not yet time. Not time. Not yet. Just the waiting. Always the waiting. But then there is the looking. Beneath all that can be seen there are things that hide. Folds of fabric covering each and every one. Wind that stirs up the dust and the covers rustle quietly like ghosts from an era past. There is nothing here. Nothing and nothing and nothing. Just this empty place with the folds of fabric covering everything. One treasure laid beneath the other which was covered by another. Layers and layers. Fabric and dust and time and memory. Not just yet. Not now. Waiting and waiting and stop. So, still. Nothing here that is moving. Just the quiet clicking. Click. Click. Click of the thin branches on the window sill.