Friday, June 28, 2013

I Am Not That Place Called Midnight

I left that old, ancient ghost hotel.  The one I often refer to as my ivory tower, today. I left it almost 9 months ago. Yeah, that's right. The term of a pregnancy.  I abandoned my room and those four walls and I shook his dust off my coat and never looked back.  I walked down the streets and heard the hum and rattle that was draped against my black - drenched heart as if I was on some sorta  mission to resurrect thoughts, thoughts on a razor and on that razor.... that razor... it was still logged deep inside of my womb holding me to bleed. That place where only that echoing voice can be heard, his voice.  Nobody knows what's going on in my head except you and I. Wired thoughts just like fiction that grain against my skin in that place where I summon the words that ache like Achilles in the desert.. That place that aches when I conjure and create, to birth no matter how painful, heals. No more self mutilation or devastation as I'm not midnight. He is. It's just that your eyes can never hold me to the light so I create from that place that's deeply embedded and razor sharp. I am your wife standing in the beating sun. I'm standing in that place where everything is glued  and tightly undone. That place where  no one else is allowed to see, no one but you, you and me.Metal fragments reflect wild dreams in postcards and again no reply as you steal away.  Metal post cards still arrive on my hidden driveway. Those pale streets did it to me and I just sat there broken, tattered and torn, cut up by the darkness with three wings, a crown of sun, moon and thorns. You,  circling my head today, everyday so  I unleash my bats watching them ride home, free and the very thought of you remains glowing in my mind just like the drifting fragrance of flowers. I am not that place called midnight.

“I am the sunrise of sunsets, and I make love like noon at midnight.” 
  Jarod Kintz, from This Book Has No Title

Words copywrite ~ Wendy Rose Watson

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

A Rainy Night In Georgia

Reflections in Suspension. The Graveyards and the ghosts traveling through space, looking for somewhere to settle. I know it cannot be here as I am not settled, I am a traveler and I see how the rain falls and burns itself on the lamp lights of yesteryear. The smoke is rising like an electrical fire. The eye plays no tricks. There is no direction home. Lights installed ages ago, I don't have to wait to get my fix. I rise once again as I've risen before and this time I have not forgotten that there's something beyond waiting for me. A garden of bursting rose blossoms but still there's no way home because I'm already inside on the outside. I am already home. This is not  a place where time and fevers run black, white and violet and home is not just another rainy night in Georgia.

My home is in things that are evident and have proofs and are repeatable and, if new evidence comes along I am allowed to change my view based on the new verifiable evidence. Faith, unlike a rainy night demands an adherence to dogma regardless of the evidence and proofs. Do I have faith? I'd say that I do. Faith in my continuance to write with abandon otherwise I stand with reality which allows me to move forward with balance and stealth into the arms of tomorrow which may (or may not) be just another rainy night in Georgia.

Words © Wendy Rose Watson

Monday, June 10, 2013

Using My Writing - Black & White

How to use writing is like having to use color, like a painter maybe... it's a form but you add something that's also unpredictable. I like the noise and distortion, the dark that contradicts the light. The real versus the unreal and adding a layer of music to it all is just the icing on the cake. Work has to go away, it's all about creation and imagination for me.

Photo of yours truly outstanding in a field somewhere in Chicago ~ June 2013 

Words © Wendy Rose Watson