Drinking the Kool-Aid

Is this the same bottle that Andy drank from?

‘It is’, she replied.

I don’t think I can do it.

He closed the garage door prematurely.

Growing up, the girls never knew their dad.

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Smoke Fills the Air

Smoke fills the air.  Filling my lungs. I am only a child.

A child wanting to breathe fresh air.

Yet living in a perpetual haze.

I didn’t want the perks of your addiction.

I had no choice.  I had no voice.

We all choked on you preferred poison.

No disrespect to the dead, but that was pretty fucked up.

“Smoke follows beauty” you would say with a smile.

I was thirty before I told you I always hated it when you said that.

But you still didn’t get it

as the morphine dripped

The final days

lying in bed

waiting for your next hit.

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Tuesday Morning/Poetry and Pie

Spinach mango smoothie

Sweet potato pie

Upbeat music

Perfect breakfast

Fine Tuesday morning

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Follow my dreams.  Move to the music.  Feel his lips on mine.  Feel the sun caress my face.  Look up at the clouds.   These are the moments I cherish.  These are moments of freedom.  Existing.  Of ecstasy.  The beat.  The sun. His gentle touch.  Lying between her legs during class.    Leaving the want behind.  The coffee cup solid, round, and white. The people.  Coffee shop.  Now I remember.  I feel it.  I recognize how far away I have been.  Not allowing myself permission.  Holding on instead of letting go.  This is control.  This is that yardstick’s distance from love.  From passion.  From freedom.  A struggle in which I keep my soul chained up.  Telling the story, it is not safe to fully come out.  Maybe the sunlight will burn my heart instead of nourish it.  Best to stay guarded.  The voice says look outward.  You are not allowed to have what you want completely and fully.  It’s not humble to focus on yourself.   The music plays and I remember.  No need for an agenda. No need for an agenda.  No need for an agenda.  Seems there is always an agenda.  Always an agenda.  No need for an agenda.  Just open up the spigot and let if flow.  Let it flow.  Let it flow.  Trust your process, she says.  Okay.  Okay.  The music plays.  I type.  I feel the love that I have left behind.  I am sorry.  I am sorry I left you.  Again.  The sky waits for me just as you do.  I think you trust me.   Trust that I will always return.  I value your patience.  Your compassion.  You don’t have a timeline.  You don’t have an agenda.  Thank you.  Thank you for waiting for me.  Again.  And again.  Beautiful people walk by.  I settle my energy.  It was necessary before.  I had to do it all.  Push myself.  Taste it all.  I was on fire.  Now.  I’m here.  I’m here.  Sitting at the coffee shop.  Loving life.  Yesterday I questioned the meaning.  I have a strong desire to understand this species that I belong to.  A deep desire to learn.  To absorb.  To contribute.  To make a difference.  A change.

Does it feed your soul? she asks.  How quickly things change.  The man I thought may have noticed me is loud and gay when his friend arrives.   Not that there is anything wrong with that.  Haha.  I tell many stories.  I love to tell stories.  To allow my mind to be creative.  I need it.  I can have it.  Why won’t I take it?  I know I need structure.  Is it a writing coach/mentor I need instead?  Or maybe a friend.  I am learning what this means.  To have friend that is.  To be a friend.  I have a new friend.  I am learning.  I have a piece with him that says, maybe he won’t like me the more he gets to know me.  How about the other…..maybe he will like me more as he gets to know me.  I saw his bare muscular brown skin in the photo on the wall.  Holding Carina.  Her light skin a contrast from his.  Skin to skin, a very beautiful image.  I want to watch a doc with him.  Trying to hang back and let him step forward.  Although he did take that step last weekend, so I could step forward this time.  Developing a friendship.  He was willing to work on my car.  Pulling it up onto ramps in his driveway.  I was able to accept his friendship in this way, guilt-free.  Progress for me.  Then he fixed me lunch.  A fresh veggie scrambled omelet of sorts.  I was very good.  I didn’t tell him I was trying to go vegan.  The people by me, the loud gay man, and the older woman, are distracting.  Last week when they sat next to me I enjoyed listening to their dialogue very much.  They are both very self-centered it seems.  Today I want to stay in my loose bubble and not take on all of their dialogue.  Now that they have lowered their voices, it is enjoyable again.  Here talk is superficial.  His scope is much more broad, including fairy tales and the French class he instructs at a local university.  She tells stories about switching purses and waking up late.

I’m so happy to be back.  This is a common themes for me.  Deserting my writing then coming back.  I have given self a break for these past minutes writing stream of consciousness.  A break from thinking about the fact that we could be running around any day now with our faces melting off.  Just like we did to Japan.  The U.S. is always killing people.  As a government, as individuals.  Killing seems to be a common past time.  I want to understand.  I want to do my part to make it stop.  I don’t want to go through a nuclear war with North Korea.  On either end.  Why do men want to kill?

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Writing and the Writer

I want to write.  Everytime I think of something I want to write I am usually out and about not with computer in hand.   I always debate on trying to remember, or writing it down.  Seems I need to write it down or record as by the time I am able to sit down with my laptop I have forgotten.  I think my best thoughts come while I am walking, riding my bike, or driving.  In other words being active or doing something other than writing.  Haha.  This isn’t always the case.  But I will experiment with carrying my little notebook, or speaking into my notes in my phone which I do on occasion.  Sometimes it does not record what I am actually saying though.  So that can be confusing.  Also if I am speaking the punctuation that messes up my flow a lot.  Any thoughts?  What do you do to keep ahold of all of those good ideas until you can get them written down?

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He’s in South Korea training fighter jet pilots while I sift through my dirty laundry looking for underwear to wear to yoga.

I don’t know if this one will work out.

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The Perfect Life

You’ve created a nice life for yourself.  Clean, organized, structured.  Everything in its place.  The career, the house, the car, the trips.  I don’t fit into that tidy little box.  I’m a little too… organic.  The dirt under my fingernails.   The way my body needs to move to the music.  These things make you … uncomfortable.   You want me to check for ticks, to make sure my breaks work on my bicycle, that my identity is safe, and to know the importance of my GPS.  You need to know that I can take trips when you want to go, that I like to do the things that you like to do, that I understand you couldn’t stand for me dancing late into the night, in places that have men that may ask me to dance.

I’m guessing you’re ready to cross me off of your list.  To tidy-up any loose ends.

It’s okay.  You already told me,

Things might not work out between us.

Copyright 2017 Suzanne Norton

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