the happysad

i'll go to a beach
with wet sand
white and grey

the sea will be cold
and the sky will be dark
it's warm here

with cold winds
i'll dress for summer
and stand in the water

i am at the happysad
on the ridge just beyond
and just before.

little film
lay grey
on already grey things
catching sighs,
gone listless

from a breath
gone float to
tumble,
got a tear or a fold

maybe kept still
on some piece,
or corner

then gone up again
for another while

Until The Man Went Quiet

The man’s throat was sore, aching from the pull of sobs which threatened to take over at any moment.

Renegade tears ran down his cheeks, slicing into the nets of the sea-kissed moisture dotting his flesh. His vision was blurred, though it was already difficult enough to peer through the evening’s autumnal gloom.

Cold, gray waves carefully broke around and against him, the sea and sand sucked him deeper into the shore.  Soft surfs continued to caress the man’s chest, his arms, sometimes catching the back of his neck with its foamy crash.  Such compassion gave fuel to the man’s grief, his body shook with cries.

Somewhere, far and deep, a pull and push eddied.  A sigh spilled, a heart broke.  A monster moaned, unable to comfort her lover any longer.  She’d loved him from the first moment he’d waded into her swell, all those years ago.

He loved her too.

He’d swim and sink his toes into her soft sands, she was warm and he was safe.  The days when the man and the sea were separate were very few and far between.  Even when the days began to darken earlier, and the ground and grasses froze, the man would search the coast for a ripple to visit, to remember.

The waves she sent from her immeasurable depths were veined and heavy with longing and sorrow, but she knew.  And he knew.

And his village knew.

The sea gushed and grasped the man against her bank.  From her core emanated a vibration, a howl.  The man and the sea wept and wept until the man went under.  Until the man went quiet.

this is an honest question: why am i bothering?  writing, that is.

i nearly always write for it to be read.  i finish it quickly--my thought right now is "hurry the fuck up so you can think about showing it to someone--maybe Mike?"

so there's a basic editing-as-i-write technique, but nothing robust.

now i am wishing my audience were my previous therapist, Olivia.  i read her one of my short stories once--it was about the man who was reminiscing about his baths with his late wife.  i flubbed up a bunch of words when i read it aloud.  i read it aloud because i wouldn't have been able to take attempting to study her face for any kind of reaction.  she was exceedingly good at deadpanning, too.  any such attempt by me would have been moot.

i just flipped tabs to see if i used 'moot' correctly, and i was too lazy to read the definition in its entirety, so i declare--for all intents and purposes--that i have used it correctly in this really, really worthless post.

this "train of thought" thing might have something to it -- but it might not.  i remember having a similar exercise in a creative writing course in high school; i knew i wanted to read my finished product aloud, so i edited-it-as-i-went.  i can still remember some semblance of the opening line i wrote, it went something like "my train of thought has once again derailed".  that's gross.  i was performing.

am performing.  always performing.  but turning 30 made me realize something--or maybe it's from all of the 'somethings' i read on different internet platforms about people turning 30, or maybe it's from everyone saying that my '30s will be so much more fun than [my] 20s'--i realized that i so desperately want to not give a shit about what anyone else, anyone else thinks about me, and sometimes i want it so hard i aaaalmost convince myself that i'm doing it.  those days are generally decent days.

mom, i don't want to be mad at you.  but i've grown away from you.

jess, i don't think i could have asked for a better sister.  mom--thanks for Jess.  you should thank yourself for your own daughter, too.  sure, she and i didn't get on so well when we were little shits; but now that we're older, grown up, adult shits--well, just know that Jess saved my life.

oh god, but was it worth saving?

mike's home.  he'll stop in here, probably.  going to sign off for now.  merry christmas!

 “I’ll go first.”  He took a deep breath and adjusted his collar.  His jaw flexed while he exhaled.

“Okay,” she said, not looking up.

He didn't think she believed him.  He balled little hands into tiny, shaking fists.  Untrimmed nails dug into his palms.

               

A static tickle wove its way between the fibers of the too-big socks on his feet as he crossed the room.

Inside a drawer.

Beneath silk and lace.

A small, handled storm.  Six capsules of lightning.

“Okay.”  It was heavy in his hands.  Tiny fingers against the handle and trigger.  Lips closed around a cold, silver barrel.

“Yeah,” she still sat there, across the room.  Didn't look up or over.

His tiny fingers pressed against the pull and flew away.  No more mouth.  No more mind.

She stood up.  “Okay.  My turn.”

drink so we can be dumb

and our hot faces

wadded and wet,

smiling,

unaware of the spit

following each
misspoken word