Particularly Heartbreaking

There's something particularly heartbreaking about watching someone you love just going through the motions. There's a distance between themselves and their own life that is almost tangible, that you can almost feel, that at times you feel tempted to get up and try to move, stuff in a closet somewhere, or leave out for the trash pickup.
There's something particularly heartbreaking about knowing someone is selling themselves short, not realizing the breadth of their own wingspan, the potential of their own mind. There's something to be said for a certain level of self-awareness that for some reason some are blessed with and others are neglectfully denied.
There's something particularly heartbreaking about watching someone you love settling, justifying their current life with the fact that it far exceeds the life they used to have, neglecting the fact that it's still far less than the life they deserve, the life they are capable of creating for themselves.
There is something particularly, achingly, devastatingly heartbreaking about the fact that someone you love can simultaneously have a complete awareness of the fact that they are no longer sinking and a complete unawareness of the fact that they are still underwater.

Still....

...taking a break. Back tomorrow.

Julie is.....

......taking a break tonight.

The room was immaculate
the whiteness
the crispness
hinting gently at an innocence
so soon lost

Her mind was messy
or dirty
or pigeon-holed
The look on her face
blank
fearless

Everything became blurry
or twisted
uncomfortable, fragile, expected
Her palms sweaty now
Her heart crinkling then exploding

She closed her eyes
not to go elsewhere
to take it in more slowly
to control it, to focus

There was a pinch, a clank
There was a release, a weight
There was a choice, more choices
There was The choice, then silence.

I wonder about her hair
Her hands, her eyes
Her favorite meal
I wonder if it was hard
If it's hard now
I wonder when her birthday is
I wonder if she thinks of me on mine
I wonder if she has any regrets
I wonder what her laugh sounds like
I wonder where she sleeps

Mostly, I wonder why I wonder
When I know that I'll never know

Boil

I wanted to make you chicken, broccoli, ziti tonight
I got out the chicken, sprayed the frying pan
Dug in the back of the pantry for your favorite four cheese alfredo sauce
I washed the cutting board, set the broccoli out
Put the hot water on the stove
Just as it reached a boil I remembered
That you left four months ago

Far Away

We sat at the kitchen table. Marta had made chicken and rice. He had come in after we had started eating. He gave Marta a look: Don't give me shit. He brought with him an air that took over the room instantly. Marta gave me a look: Don't say a word. I couldn't eat. He wouldn't sit. He took a black pistol and a glass jar full of eyeballs out of his bag as if they were a notebook and a pen case. He put them both on a small table against the wall and sat down to eat.
"So you're a journalist huh?"
"No. No, I'm just a photographer."
He slammed his fist on the table. The jar crashed to the floor. Eyeballs rolled everywhere. Nobody moved.
He stood up, moved towards me.
Some of the eyes seemed to follow him.
Others just stared at the floor.

Uch.

Too tired.

The bowl

Her brother never comes home anymore
He's doing younger brother things
Smoking and drinking and racing
Sleeping on couches and waking up confused

She always leaves the top latch undone
Even though he probably won't return
She always leaves a light on in the hall
Never wanting to leave him in the dark

She searches her memories for the moment
Trying to pinpoint how their lives diverged
The search is always fruitless
But the memories are worth the effort

Today she would have had no clue
There were no signs that he had come home
Except for his cereal bowl in the kitchen sink
Which, for once, she didn't mind washing for him

There's just no way....

....that I can write tonight.
I've spent the last 2 hours reading author interviews.
I am baffled.
I am amazed.
I am awestruck.
I am envious.
I am inspired.
I am exhausted.
There's just no way that I can write tonight.

He speaks slowly, honestly
Labors over which words to use
Which words to leave out
The words are always failing him

He moves carefully, purposefully
Is cautious with his eyes
Deliberate with his hands
His motions inadvertently jump ahead of him

He laughs unintentionally
Perhaps it's his nerves, she thinks
but spends little time with the idea
Aware of how quickly
One's perceptions
Invalidate another's intentions

These Homeless Kids

It is 1:05 in Boston, a Sunday
12 days after my discharge, yup
It is 2002 and I find 10 cents on the T
Which I'll use towards today's Globe
So I can know a little about the goings on in this world
When I meet my mother for our first dinner in 3 years

I walk down JFK towards the old newsstand
Cuz if I know Billy he'll trade me an ice cold soda for
A couple of parliament lights anyday, and I get shoved
Off the sidewalk by some guy who's late for his
One o'clock in the boardroom

I dig my hands in my pockets to give me a little
Leverage if I get pushed again and find
Eighty five more cents way at the bottom which
Is great becuase the ATM ate my card today and
I don't even have an interview 'til Tuesday

When I get to the stand I can tell something's up
Cuz Billy he got that big grin on
"Here, I got ya a little present", he says as he
Hands me a plastic grocery bag wound tight
As if to say "open this somewhere else"

I take it down to the Garage, into the only public restroom
Left in this square, and shove the toilet paper where the sliding
Lock used to be to keep the door shut
I open the bag and find three warm bud lights and a roach

I go sit in the sun outside au bon pain reading the article
About how these homeless kids never make a life for themselves
And decide I'll tell my mother, as she's paying for dinner maybe
And hope she gives me a few bucks for my library fines

Unhinged

She had seen the word too many times
throughout her education
It hung above her head
Watched her from across the room
Became her classmate

In class today she finally let rip
Exactly how she felt about the onslaught
Text after text using those six letters
She wanted to know for what
For who
Why

She should have spoken up sooner
Before the word had beaten her so relentlessly
that she could not communicate without resentment
Could not articulate without rage
For it made it appear that the word had won
And that its use had not brought her closer
But rather
left her
unhinged

Trying to make sense of it all

Welcome to my blog!

I am, regardless of my resistance, at a point in my life where I must choose a path, and likely then follow it for many years. I have resisted making this choice because I have no idea which path to choose; because so many paths seem to be calling me, teasing me, begging me to take a few steps in their direction. The only thing that has ever made sense to me is writing, but I understand that a career in writing is a longshot, with many people harboring the same wish, and the opportunities being few and far between.
I've started this blog as a way to force myself to write every day. My hope is that in doing so I begin to understand the work that goes into making a living writing. My guess is that for every 10 people who want to make a living writing only 5 of them could force themselves to write every day. My other hunch is that if anyone of those 10 is going to eventually have a successful writing career, it's one of the five who force themselves to write daily. I care very little about what I write. It is only important to me that I write, and that I write with intentionality, as, I might argue, any good writer does. My goal here is simply to utilize the space in a way that allows me over time to try and make a little sense of it all.
Thanks for reading,
Jules