sparrows swoop, I’m watching dawn

Till then, set aside your duress
It’s a historically messy process
We these mystical, magical, absurdical, works in progress
And I promise you
Like a late night radio waiting for the dead air to be filled
The music will find you
Lightning is striking all the time.

Excerpt of a poem by R.C. written for T. Paul St. Marie, found here

You know that sound you get when you rub a straw back and forth in the little hole in the middle of milky plastic coffee lids? That’s what the inside of my head feels like. A friction lightness of being with a pleasant glass harmonica sort of timbre, but not as ethereal. This might easily have something to do with the fact that I was clocked in the head rather harshly earlier or that the sun is coming up and I haven’t bothered yet with yesterdays breakfast, but I’m not so sure.

I feel like music is building up under my skin, notes aggregating blast by platelet. There’s a tide pressure, flowing ebb neap out, it’s time to walk on water soon, it’s time to let the words out. It’s a new sensation, this, one I think I would be agreeable with if it weren’t for the endless cusping. If only I knew how to turn my brain off. If only I knew how to let go of the conscious thought which ties all my defenses together.

I sent a photograph of me when I was six off to a friend today, spur of the moment sort of thing, not with any purpose in mind but for a picture which matched the words, “some people’s children.” It struck me that that was the last year I had a chance at my own little girl firsts. I wonder what happened to an alternate reality me, one who didn’t go to a foster home. I wonder if she strikes anyone as intelligent or if she would dress like the molded plastic mannequins downtown on a friday night, legs too thin to stand with, she must be an automaton. I can’t meet any children between five and ten without wanting to protect them. I bristle at strangers over their heads.

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