Hello Everyone,
I'm back. Did you miss me? I'm trying not to use exclamation marks and here's why. They're overused. I hate false enthusiasm. Happy birthday (!), everyone posts on Facebook. To people they don't really know. I do it all the time. But now I've stopped using the exclamation mark. It's a form of protest. Try this out. "Congratulations on your anniversary." Or, "I'm so sorry that happened." Or, "Happy birthday." Or, "That's hilarious." Or, "I can't wait to see you." Or, "Have fun." Or, "You're wonderful." The last two I actually lifted from Facebook just now. Don't they look more sincere without the exclamation mark?
Here's the other trouble. I'm trying to be humble while writing this but at the same time trying to figure out how to get people to read it without posting it on Facebook. I mean, is there any other thing in the world except frigging Facebook? I'm getting sick of it. No offense to anyone. But it's really kind of disgusting. All this self-absorption.
I started this blog a few years ago. I had just quit drinking after eleven years of trying to be a social drinker. I had been sober twelve years before that. Well, I relapsed after a year and three quarters and drank for a year or so and now am sober again. (I almost capitalized "again". The same thing as an exclamation mark. Or is it point? I forget.) I'm sober for almost four months. I want to drink almost all the time. I go to meetings, I fantasize about killing myself and I also fantasize about moving far away and starting over again as a social drinker. I have an AA sponsor who is really nice but I feel guilty whenever I talk to her. I know it's not her fault, but I feel like she's judging me. I try and tell her sober stuff and she sort of goes, "Uh huh." Like she's waiting for me to tell her something better. But I don't have anything better. I'm just trying not to drink and I really, really want to drink. (Now I'm thinking that not using capitals and exclamation marks is sort of passive aggressive.)
There is absolutely no way anyone is going to find this blog unless I advertise it. I mean, there is simply too much stuff on the internet. It's absolutely amazing. And I'm so glad about it - I can look up anything I want. I'm tempted to create an avatar and start a new life. Like a role playing thing -I'm sure they have them. Trouble is that I think I would never stop. Let's see, I think I'd like a fantasy life on the internet as a lesbian, as a dude, I think that's all. I must be queer. I keep thinking that if I'm sober long enough or simply live long enough I'll find out I'm a lesbian. I am attracted to girls, I just don't want to have sex with them. For that matter, I don't really want to have sex with anyone. I'm kind of over it.
So that's all for now. I think good blogs are kind of short. It's asking a lot of people to read your crap in the first place. Well. Signing off. I hope I become famous one day (after I'm dead) and then this blog gets discovered and all my wisdom gets uncovered.
Signed,
Maura At Night
Friday, August 15, 2014
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Laurette Taylor, Anecdote #2
First of all, thank you to everyone who has sent me links and stories about Laurette. My journey has just begun to discover more about this fascinating genius, acclaimed as the greatest actor of her time. Maybe all time? No one can ever know, nor should I even suggest it, but suffice to say that she riveted audiences and her peers alike. Everyone who saw her work on stage and wrote about it, said virtually the same thing. There was no one like her.
I have found in the New York Library many pieces about her in Special Collections and have learned that she wrote about how she prepared for her roles. More on that another time.
Laurette grew up in in a brownstone in West Harlem, NY at 52 W 125 Street. I went there yesterday and lo and behold, it is now part of a business district. Downstairs is this gorgeous vintage clothing shop that also sells a skincare line. The store is called b.o.r.n. (borrowed, old, refurbished, new). The owners are two beautiful men whose names are Jonathan Bodrick and Tynae Abdul.
Laurette's mother was a seamstress in the late 1800s and early 1900s and employed as many as a dozen seamstresses at that address. The upstairs is still used as an apartment but I suspect that Laurette's family occupied the entire building. I think she would love this place.
Meanwhile, check out b.o.r.n. This establishment has incredible style and the owners and the customers are all BEAUTIFUL!!! I felt like I was on a movie set, the music was funky and just loud enough so that you could still hear yourself talk. But the mood in there was unlike any other place I've been.
52 W 125th Street, Harlem. Go see it.
First of all, thank you to everyone who has sent me links and stories about Laurette. My journey has just begun to discover more about this fascinating genius, acclaimed as the greatest actor of her time. Maybe all time? No one can ever know, nor should I even suggest it, but suffice to say that she riveted audiences and her peers alike. Everyone who saw her work on stage and wrote about it, said virtually the same thing. There was no one like her.
I have found in the New York Library many pieces about her in Special Collections and have learned that she wrote about how she prepared for her roles. More on that another time.
Laurette's mother was a seamstress in the late 1800s and early 1900s and employed as many as a dozen seamstresses at that address. The upstairs is still used as an apartment but I suspect that Laurette's family occupied the entire building. I think she would love this place.
Meanwhile, check out b.o.r.n. This establishment has incredible style and the owners and the customers are all BEAUTIFUL!!! I felt like I was on a movie set, the music was funky and just loud enough so that you could still hear yourself talk. But the mood in there was unlike any other place I've been.
52 W 125th Street, Harlem. Go see it.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Laurette Taylor, Anecdote #1, Ben Wiggins Contributor
Laurette Taylor - Anecdote #1, Ben Wiggins Contributor
Spencer was about to go into rehearsal in “The Rugged Path” and, having been of the stage for some fifteen years, was concerned about projection.
“Help me, Laurette,” he said. “How do you do it?”
She snorted, “How do I do it? Like this!”
She reached down, picked up one of her feet and lifted it so that we could see its blistered and bleeding sole. She dropped it and showed us her other sole. The same.
“That’s how,” she said. “I grab that goddam stage with my two feet and send it right up from there through the rest of me and out to them.”
Even Spencer was astounded.
— Tracy and Hepburn: An Intimate Memoir by Garson Kanin
Spencer was about to go into rehearsal in “The Rugged Path” and, having been of the stage for some fifteen years, was concerned about projection.
“Help me, Laurette,” he said. “How do you do it?”
She snorted, “How do I do it? Like this!”
She reached down, picked up one of her feet and lifted it so that we could see its blistered and bleeding sole. She dropped it and showed us her other sole. The same.
“That’s how,” she said. “I grab that goddam stage with my two feet and send it right up from there through the rest of me and out to them.”
Even Spencer was astounded.
— Tracy and Hepburn: An Intimate Memoir by Garson Kanin
Dear Blogworld,
It's been ages since I last wrote an entry. Not surprising - it's sort of me, myself and I here. But I've spent the last year in Manhattan, and now going back to Vermont, then to Portland, OR for a year of so and I'm kind of out of sorts. In the past few months I've 1. Graduated with my MFA in playwriting, 2. Signed an option with a producer for one of my plays in Los Angeles, 3. Become unemployed, 4. Had my one year anniversary with no alcohol or pills even SLEEPING PILLS!!!, 5. Well, I guess that's about it.
Today I went to The Museum Of Moving Image in Queens with my friend, Janet. I told her I wanted to curate independent films that haven't been distributed. She thought I might get some inspiration and HOLY SHEET, she was right.
Here's what I'm thinking:
Independent film makers give me permission to use scenes from their movies that I will mix in some fabulous and heretofore (is that a word) unthought of method. Okay, that's a stretch. But kind of like being a curator except that I'm going to tell a story with THEIR stories and also find and use archival footage that isn't copyrighted. Not sure what all this is about. I just want to do it. And then figure it out. Maybe a documentary about these filmmakers and their stories? I don't know. But I would love to hear from you if:
A. You have any idea what I'm talking about.
B. You can help me understand what I'm talking about.
C. You are an independent filmmaker.
D. You have some ideas and suggestions of other work that is exploring film collage.
All right, there's more. Janet - beautiful, talented, inspirational - told me about an actress named Laurette Taylor. Ever heard of her? Me neither. She died in the 1940s and was the most admired actress of her generation. But mostly she was a stage actress and did not make films, or at least, not many. She apparently rocked New York with her interpretation of Amanda in Glass Menagerie. I've decided to spend the next few years - or whatever it takes - researching her life and writing a play about here. I would love to hear from you if you know anything about her. Laurette Taylor. Maybe you heard it here first.
To recap:
Film collage
Laurette Taylor
Thank you for reading, if you are. I'm happiest when I think I have a plan for the future.
Maura At Night
It's been ages since I last wrote an entry. Not surprising - it's sort of me, myself and I here. But I've spent the last year in Manhattan, and now going back to Vermont, then to Portland, OR for a year of so and I'm kind of out of sorts. In the past few months I've 1. Graduated with my MFA in playwriting, 2. Signed an option with a producer for one of my plays in Los Angeles, 3. Become unemployed, 4. Had my one year anniversary with no alcohol or pills even SLEEPING PILLS!!!, 5. Well, I guess that's about it.
Today I went to The Museum Of Moving Image in Queens with my friend, Janet. I told her I wanted to curate independent films that haven't been distributed. She thought I might get some inspiration and HOLY SHEET, she was right.
Here's what I'm thinking:
Independent film makers give me permission to use scenes from their movies that I will mix in some fabulous and heretofore (is that a word) unthought of method. Okay, that's a stretch. But kind of like being a curator except that I'm going to tell a story with THEIR stories and also find and use archival footage that isn't copyrighted. Not sure what all this is about. I just want to do it. And then figure it out. Maybe a documentary about these filmmakers and their stories? I don't know. But I would love to hear from you if:
A. You have any idea what I'm talking about.
B. You can help me understand what I'm talking about.
C. You are an independent filmmaker.
D. You have some ideas and suggestions of other work that is exploring film collage.
All right, there's more. Janet - beautiful, talented, inspirational - told me about an actress named Laurette Taylor. Ever heard of her? Me neither. She died in the 1940s and was the most admired actress of her generation. But mostly she was a stage actress and did not make films, or at least, not many. She apparently rocked New York with her interpretation of Amanda in Glass Menagerie. I've decided to spend the next few years - or whatever it takes - researching her life and writing a play about here. I would love to hear from you if you know anything about her. Laurette Taylor. Maybe you heard it here first.
To recap:
Film collage
Laurette Taylor
Thank you for reading, if you are. I'm happiest when I think I have a plan for the future.
Maura At Night
Monday, September 5, 2011
Pancakes For Breakfast
Hello everyone,
"Everyone" sounds hopeful. I know I'm writing to myself, but that's okay. Here's the update. Ninety days sober as of yesterday and I'm falling apart. I'm doing everything I can to be happy and healthy and I'm either losing my mind or dying of cancer.
Last night I'm watching TV and suddenly I see a luna moth flying around the room. I'm in NYC so it's a bit odd. Finally, it lands. It's not a luna moth. It's the biggest friggin' flying cockroach on the planet. I find a notebook, throw a punch, and it falls to the floor and scurries like a cartoon character under the radiator. And I'm all alone. With that thing. Can't God come up with some other kind of torture?
All right, that's a heavy load. But I didn't create cockroaches. And since when do they grow to the size of sea turtles and fly?
Now to the cancer thing. I'm in pain. Like, really in pain. In my mouth from a failed root canal and other historical surgeries. And I feel terrible. My ears hurt, I staggered when I tried to walk an hour ago, I lost my balance. This is brutal. Depression does hurt, if that's what it is. And today is a day off. What do I do tomorrow when I try and work?
Here's a poem for today:
He sat across from his daughter at the diner
In a booth, he filled the seat easily, she was
like a prettily dressed mosquito and made as much noise.
The waitress asked what they'd like, she used a little pad
to write down their words.
"Eggs over easy and pancakes for her - do you want bacon or sausage?"
"Both."
"You can't eat both. Okay, bacon and sausage."
Her fine blonde hair had been arranged by her mother, two pigtails and plastic clips.
How do I know?
The way he kept his eyes on her.
No divorce here.
The plates came, he cut her pancakes while she colored.
He took a bite.
"How are the pancakes?"
She made a face at him and stuck a forkful in her mouth.
He took another bite and kept his eyes on her.
She sang a little, then looked around suddenly.
"Is this place for real?"
"Have a bite of your bacon."
She considered, then jabbed a piece with her fork.
"You eat it."
So he did.
"How's the sausage?" he asked.
"I hate sausage."
She arranged and then rearranged little pieces of pancake
then smushed the whole business to heck.
He ate another bite and kept his eyes on her.
Outside the traffic roared down Route 22 East
one of those divided highways that once you get on
you can't really get off.
They were going somewhere after breakfast
perhaps daycare, perhaps to Grandma's.
Perhaps his wife had a dentist appointment
perhaps it was an emergency.
He was unused to breakfast in the diner with his daughter
on his own, by himself, he wasn't sure of the rules
he wasn't sure what to do if she didn't eat her pancakes
and he wasn't going to take any chances
so he never took his eyes off her.
"Everyone" sounds hopeful. I know I'm writing to myself, but that's okay. Here's the update. Ninety days sober as of yesterday and I'm falling apart. I'm doing everything I can to be happy and healthy and I'm either losing my mind or dying of cancer.
Last night I'm watching TV and suddenly I see a luna moth flying around the room. I'm in NYC so it's a bit odd. Finally, it lands. It's not a luna moth. It's the biggest friggin' flying cockroach on the planet. I find a notebook, throw a punch, and it falls to the floor and scurries like a cartoon character under the radiator. And I'm all alone. With that thing. Can't God come up with some other kind of torture?
All right, that's a heavy load. But I didn't create cockroaches. And since when do they grow to the size of sea turtles and fly?
Now to the cancer thing. I'm in pain. Like, really in pain. In my mouth from a failed root canal and other historical surgeries. And I feel terrible. My ears hurt, I staggered when I tried to walk an hour ago, I lost my balance. This is brutal. Depression does hurt, if that's what it is. And today is a day off. What do I do tomorrow when I try and work?
Here's a poem for today:
He sat across from his daughter at the diner
In a booth, he filled the seat easily, she was
like a prettily dressed mosquito and made as much noise.
The waitress asked what they'd like, she used a little pad
to write down their words.
"Eggs over easy and pancakes for her - do you want bacon or sausage?"
"Both."
"You can't eat both. Okay, bacon and sausage."
Her fine blonde hair had been arranged by her mother, two pigtails and plastic clips.
How do I know?
The way he kept his eyes on her.
No divorce here.
The plates came, he cut her pancakes while she colored.
He took a bite.
"How are the pancakes?"
She made a face at him and stuck a forkful in her mouth.
He took another bite and kept his eyes on her.
She sang a little, then looked around suddenly.
"Is this place for real?"
"Have a bite of your bacon."
She considered, then jabbed a piece with her fork.
"You eat it."
So he did.
"How's the sausage?" he asked.
"I hate sausage."
She arranged and then rearranged little pieces of pancake
then smushed the whole business to heck.
He ate another bite and kept his eyes on her.
Outside the traffic roared down Route 22 East
one of those divided highways that once you get on
you can't really get off.
They were going somewhere after breakfast
perhaps daycare, perhaps to Grandma's.
Perhaps his wife had a dentist appointment
perhaps it was an emergency.
He was unused to breakfast in the diner with his daughter
on his own, by himself, he wasn't sure of the rules
he wasn't sure what to do if she didn't eat her pancakes
and he wasn't going to take any chances
so he never took his eyes off her.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Father's Day
Good evening,
I started writing this blog just ten days ago or so. Thought I would write a poem a day and that went down the crapper. Anyway, who cares? A poem a day, a recipe a day, a something a day just to prove... what? So I need to remember what this was truly about for me. How I need to be able to say anything I want. Somewhere. Sometime. No matter what. And no matter who reads it.
Even if no one reads it.
I started writing this when I decided to quit drinking and go to, let's be real, go BACK to AA. Once upon a time I was a bonafide alcoholic. Then after twelve years of abstinance, I became a problem drinker. And I have spent the last ten years, almost eleven, trying to prove to myself that I was simply someone who loved good wine. When I quit drinking at the age of thirty-two (the first time), I gave up $5.00 a gallon wine from Argentina and taking my clothes off at parties. This time... I truly gave up the most important thing in my life. And I miss it every minute. I go to AA and I want to drink. I even want to drink in the morning and I never ever wanted to and never ever did it.
Cunning and baffling.
An AA meeting tonight, a miracle of friends and I want to drink. But instead I'm going to have some Ben & Jerry's. But really, it isn't the same.
I'm dying to know just how sad I really am. That is one of the reasons I've been able to stay sober on what is now day 18. I'm insanely curious to find out just how sick I really am.
FATHER'S DAY
My father died nine years ago today or tomorrow
Around Father's Day, that much I remember.
I remember because we all went to see him.
He was staying with my brother and had lost all of his weight.
I can't imagine how much pain he felt. His foot had gangrene.
One lung gone the other... going.
We had just buried my mother. She died in February.
Fourteen days after she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
They told us, my father and me. We were there together. He was hanging on for dear life itself.
He was given three months that very day.
And my mother slipped off her wedding rings and gave them to me.
She never said a word.
She never said another word.
What I remember now about her wake was seeing her in the coffin.
She looked like she had a tan.
Of course, she looked nothing like herself.
The crowd of people were almost gone.
Just a few stragglers and my brothers.
My sisters.
My kids.
Me.
And my father bent down to hug my mother.
Only once had I ever seen him hug her. He held her a long time.
And then we all left.
I got out the door and I thought, she's still in there! We can't go!
But we did and then my father disappeared into his cancer for real.
The humor gone, the cruelty of our past very dim.
He told me he was strong enough for this and he hoped I was.
I don't know if I was.
Nine years ago I had started to drink again.
I'm sure I drank the night he died. Oh, right, yes.
A bottle in his mobile home. Wine. Probably three years old. It had been opened.
I drank it.
Good night, father. Pray for me. I'm going to find you again. If I can.
Thank you,
Maura at Night
I started writing this blog just ten days ago or so. Thought I would write a poem a day and that went down the crapper. Anyway, who cares? A poem a day, a recipe a day, a something a day just to prove... what? So I need to remember what this was truly about for me. How I need to be able to say anything I want. Somewhere. Sometime. No matter what. And no matter who reads it.
Even if no one reads it.
I started writing this when I decided to quit drinking and go to, let's be real, go BACK to AA. Once upon a time I was a bonafide alcoholic. Then after twelve years of abstinance, I became a problem drinker. And I have spent the last ten years, almost eleven, trying to prove to myself that I was simply someone who loved good wine. When I quit drinking at the age of thirty-two (the first time), I gave up $5.00 a gallon wine from Argentina and taking my clothes off at parties. This time... I truly gave up the most important thing in my life. And I miss it every minute. I go to AA and I want to drink. I even want to drink in the morning and I never ever wanted to and never ever did it.
Cunning and baffling.
An AA meeting tonight, a miracle of friends and I want to drink. But instead I'm going to have some Ben & Jerry's. But really, it isn't the same.
I'm dying to know just how sad I really am. That is one of the reasons I've been able to stay sober on what is now day 18. I'm insanely curious to find out just how sick I really am.
FATHER'S DAY
My father died nine years ago today or tomorrow
Around Father's Day, that much I remember.
I remember because we all went to see him.
He was staying with my brother and had lost all of his weight.
I can't imagine how much pain he felt. His foot had gangrene.
One lung gone the other... going.
We had just buried my mother. She died in February.
Fourteen days after she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
They told us, my father and me. We were there together. He was hanging on for dear life itself.
He was given three months that very day.
And my mother slipped off her wedding rings and gave them to me.
She never said a word.
She never said another word.
What I remember now about her wake was seeing her in the coffin.
She looked like she had a tan.
Of course, she looked nothing like herself.
The crowd of people were almost gone.
Just a few stragglers and my brothers.
My sisters.
My kids.
Me.
And my father bent down to hug my mother.
Only once had I ever seen him hug her. He held her a long time.
And then we all left.
I got out the door and I thought, she's still in there! We can't go!
But we did and then my father disappeared into his cancer for real.
The humor gone, the cruelty of our past very dim.
He told me he was strong enough for this and he hoped I was.
I don't know if I was.
Nine years ago I had started to drink again.
I'm sure I drank the night he died. Oh, right, yes.
A bottle in his mobile home. Wine. Probably three years old. It had been opened.
I drank it.
Good night, father. Pray for me. I'm going to find you again. If I can.
Thank you,
Maura at Night
Saturday, June 18, 2011
I'm just a little bit addicted...
Hello there,
I'm actually tired enough to sleep but haven't written in a few days. Just returned from Miami where I stayed with my son and his fiance and her daughter. Now I'm in my NYC apt with my daughter who is mad at me. I just want to chill out for a little while before I resume my life as Master of the Universe, solving problems, giving advice, being selfless.
I'd rather talk about my addictions. My other daughter has her entire family on a diet that excludes grains. Turns out we're all allergic to them, who know. So of course I'm going to give them up, too. I have this wild idea that giving up grains will turn back the clock ten years. I don't mind looking like hell, I just don't want to feel like hell.
But here's the problem. Turns out I'm a little bit addicted to grains. I couldn't have told you this yesterday, but since I made up my mind to give them up (after a breakfast that included a Danish and an English muffin), I have a terrible craving.
Here are the things I am addicted to. Some I haven't had in years, some not since this morning.
Wine, cigarettes, good wine, daydreaming, complaining, bad wine, popcorn, The Office, bread, garlic olive oil on bread, Ezekiel bread, gossip, looking at Facebook, stalking people on Facebook, looking at myself in the mirror, Lindt chocolates (dark), imagining saying horrible things to strangers, conspiracy theories, books about serial killers, martyrdom, People Magazine, Kindle downloads, Itunes downloads, avoiding confrontation, coffee, Twinings tea made with two teabags, decaf coffee at night, Phish Food, did I say popcorn oh yeah, my Blackberry, and that's about it. I'm pretty sure I'm not addicted to fruit, vegetables or maybe even cake because I like them but don't really give a hoot otherwise. The above list is incomplete but I'm not ready to confess to everything. Oh, I forgot hot baths. These are all things I have either given up or am pretty sure I never will.
Here's a poem for tonight.
I'm having a midlife crisis
Shit
I thought I got through that ten years ago
When I left my husband for a maniac
Turns out it was just a bad decision
The true insanity is still ahead
But not far ahead
It's right around the corner
I'm already plotting something big
I meet strangers with funny accents and I imagine
Going to pieces with them
Far away from here
I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror and
I'm shocked
I don't know that person
I want to go someplace without mirrors
If I can't see myself
Then neither can all the people
And emails
And voice mails
And text messages
And time bombs
Who are either waiting for me to drop the ball
Or want me to pick the fucking thing back up
And run like hell down their own mine fields
In my dreams I levitate and float
Everything is really close up
Like a movie
How about I just float right out of here
Maybe start the whole thing over
This time I'm going to be a real slacker
Then everything that comes will feel like winning the lottery
And every year I'm alive like money in the bank
I didn't expect to live forever
But I thought I'd always be me.
Hey, if you have a poem that means a lot to you, please send it to me. I'll post it one day. I'll write about it. Poems are people to.
Love,
Maura at Night
I'm actually tired enough to sleep but haven't written in a few days. Just returned from Miami where I stayed with my son and his fiance and her daughter. Now I'm in my NYC apt with my daughter who is mad at me. I just want to chill out for a little while before I resume my life as Master of the Universe, solving problems, giving advice, being selfless.
I'd rather talk about my addictions. My other daughter has her entire family on a diet that excludes grains. Turns out we're all allergic to them, who know. So of course I'm going to give them up, too. I have this wild idea that giving up grains will turn back the clock ten years. I don't mind looking like hell, I just don't want to feel like hell.
But here's the problem. Turns out I'm a little bit addicted to grains. I couldn't have told you this yesterday, but since I made up my mind to give them up (after a breakfast that included a Danish and an English muffin), I have a terrible craving.
Here are the things I am addicted to. Some I haven't had in years, some not since this morning.
Wine, cigarettes, good wine, daydreaming, complaining, bad wine, popcorn, The Office, bread, garlic olive oil on bread, Ezekiel bread, gossip, looking at Facebook, stalking people on Facebook, looking at myself in the mirror, Lindt chocolates (dark), imagining saying horrible things to strangers, conspiracy theories, books about serial killers, martyrdom, People Magazine, Kindle downloads, Itunes downloads, avoiding confrontation, coffee, Twinings tea made with two teabags, decaf coffee at night, Phish Food, did I say popcorn oh yeah, my Blackberry, and that's about it. I'm pretty sure I'm not addicted to fruit, vegetables or maybe even cake because I like them but don't really give a hoot otherwise. The above list is incomplete but I'm not ready to confess to everything. Oh, I forgot hot baths. These are all things I have either given up or am pretty sure I never will.
Here's a poem for tonight.
I'm having a midlife crisis
Shit
I thought I got through that ten years ago
When I left my husband for a maniac
Turns out it was just a bad decision
The true insanity is still ahead
But not far ahead
It's right around the corner
I'm already plotting something big
I meet strangers with funny accents and I imagine
Going to pieces with them
Far away from here
I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror and
I'm shocked
I don't know that person
I want to go someplace without mirrors
If I can't see myself
Then neither can all the people
And emails
And voice mails
And text messages
And time bombs
Who are either waiting for me to drop the ball
Or want me to pick the fucking thing back up
And run like hell down their own mine fields
In my dreams I levitate and float
Everything is really close up
Like a movie
How about I just float right out of here
Maybe start the whole thing over
This time I'm going to be a real slacker
Then everything that comes will feel like winning the lottery
And every year I'm alive like money in the bank
I didn't expect to live forever
But I thought I'd always be me.
Hey, if you have a poem that means a lot to you, please send it to me. I'll post it one day. I'll write about it. Poems are people to.
Love,
Maura at Night
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