Locked

I should  know that.
That math problem.
It's not clear.
I don't get it.

But I know this stuff.

I know that information is there, somewhere.
I can feel the information locked inside me.
It's there.
I know it is.
But unreachable.

Staring at the paper, numbers swimming, doesn't magically release it.
That information stays locked away.
I have no control over it.
I know it is there, but it isn't up to me to decide when I can access it.
Need does nothing to coax it out.

Until it's back.
I don't notice its silent return.
When it once again becomes part of my life.
Rejoins the reachable information.

So I forget.
What it is to lack that piece.
Until it retreats again, silently.
Behind locked doors.

I don't know what it's like to have it stay.

Weekly Winners

Waiting

The woman’s toes tap anxiously on the floor,

Waiting.

She is powerless.

Sitting in a chair that jabs into her back.

The buzzing fluorescent lights tensing already tight muscles.

A muted TV flashes in the corner.

Even through her closed eyelids, the harsh light prevents relaxation.

Her fingers begin to tap in time with her impatient toes.

She notices her chipped nail polish.

Begins to pick at it,

Creating a small storm of black flakes.

They fly off,

Faster and faster.

She has to remove it all,

She must get down to the bare nail.

Her head jerks up,

Fearful of being caught.

Terrified of being seen so vulnerable.

Terrified, but her anxiety insists she continue to pick at the stubborn polish.

The woman shifts in her chair, uncomfortable.

She discovers a marginally more comfortable position.

She shifts again,

Convinced there must be a better way to situate herself.

Slouches down,

Ramrod straight spine.

Feet flat on the floor,

Tucked underneath her.

She stops.

Pauses.

Is anyone staring?

Is her discomfort attracting attention?

Settling into the most neutral position she can find,

She resolves to not shift again.

The polish is close to gone.

She checks the area.

Just the man with the army haircut behind the desk.

He has been scribbling in charts for over twenty minutes.

Wait, is that a white coat behind the doors?

Doors that swallowed the bustle,

The chaos, the commotion.

The rushed voices.

Running shoes, squeaking on the fake tile floor.

The large bed,

The bed that almost enveloped his fragile body.

He fit too well.

His body too accustomed.

The white sheets,

Freshly laundered.

Remotes and wires surrounding his head.

A head with hair, so curly and unruly.

The black ringlets a stark contrast against the sheets.

Beautiful hair that casts a dark shadow over his face.

A face she has burned into her memory.

The eyes,

So penetrating.

Ears sticking out at odd angles.

Eyebrows, flat and serious.

A nose centered perfectly above a crooked mouth.

A mouth that enables him to smile.

A smile that can crack her heart in two.

Her toes speed up.

Her brain doesn’t obey orders.

She doesn’t want to consider that possibility.

It’s not a possibility.

The doors,

The doors that wrenched him out of her outstretched arms,

The doors swing open.

They smack into the wall,

Yet are noiseless.

She flinches, sensing the impact.

At tall figure.

A figure in a white coat.

He walks with authority.

Silently, he approaches.

Emotionless,

He gives nothing away.

He strides purposefully to her chair.

She tries to disappear into it.

Hiding behind its faded cover,

Letting its sharp edges dig into her body.

His coat collapses around his legs as they bend.

He kneels, ignoring identical rows of chairs ranged around the room

She is fixated by his mouth:

He holds it in a perfectly straight line.

It is a mouth that has delivered the lines she is about to hear an immeasurable number of times.

Her breath catches.

Eyebrows raised in shock.

Words and sentences blend into ambient noise.

Shaking hands move to cover an open mouth,

A gaping hole of surprise.

Weekly Winners

Every Day

I write everyday. It's not necessarily coherent, or understandable, and most of it isn't for the world to see. I write every day because I want to.

I've learned that it helps me to work through things, and it keeps me sane. By writing it on paper, it is no longer part of me. It gives me distance from the problem. It allows me to step back, to move on.

I take pictures every day. I'm still learning what this means to me. It is something I want to do because I love it and it calms me and allows me to forget the world and its problems.

The idea came from 365 Days, which is taking pictures to share. I elected not to participate because I foresaw the pressure I would put on myself.

I need to find a place of comfort that allows me to pick up my camera everyday because I want to, not because I have to.

That feeling of "have to" comes solely from me.

So I pick up my camera, suspending it carefully from my neck, every day, when I want to. When I see the beauty in the world around me that must be captured and preserved. I adjust the f-stop and ISO and shutter speed to let light in.

I pick it up with heavy hands, because I know I need to see the beauty. That today it isn't jumping out at me, that I will need to look in the unexpected places, finding the hidden joys.

I don't think about all the metaphors my camera embodies as I am looking through the viewfinder. I just see my world, the light and the dark, old and new. I strive to take a good photograph.

What I have learned is that taking a good photograph entails more than having the right exposure and white balance and composition. Little pieces of me come through. My mood is preserved in the 10.1 megapixels. As I find ways to take photographs for me, because I want to, I am finding the pieces of me that are transfered into my photos are the lighter pieces. The joyful pieces.

Random Tuesday Thoughts: Networking

No wonder I feel like I'm the only one who isn't on Facebook--600 million people are. That's twice the population of the United States!

The other thing I learned from watching The Social Network is to always, always have your lawyer check legal documents. Or you might end up suing your (ex) best friend.

Seeing as I'm not on Twitter or Facebook, I've never seen what companies' pages look like. I think it's rather strange that big corporations have Twitter accounts. What do they use them for?

Although I did run across al-Qaeda's Twitter account in the course of research for a project. It was terrifying. Please tell me you're not one of their 30,000 followers.

Go see The UnMom for some real Tuesday randomness.

Weekly Winners