The Wild Hunt

I began reading Swallowing Darkness by Laurell K. Hamilton this morning, since I finished A Lick of Frost last night before falling asleep.

In this series, Hamilton delves into a lot of fairy-tale lore; she talks about the idea of faerie being both a place and a people, as well as all different kinds of mythical history and how it ties in with the series' characters. Of these many splendid topics, I find myself most intrigued by the idea of The Wild Hunt. As horrifying as it is, I find it genuinely intriguing. The idea in the Hamilton series is that when the Hunt is headed by the Huntsman and has been given a purpose, or a Target (read: "victim"), that it delivers a sort of vengeful, unstoppable justice. And that is a concept with some weight to it.

Just think: you give your solemn oath to avenge some terrible wrong and - with enough power and forethought - you have the ability to do just that.

Hell. Yes.

Why am I thinking about revenge so early in the day? Well, my friends, it's been a hard time here recently. I am feeling mighty scorned and mighty angry with the powers that be. There's only so many times you can duck your head and cast your eyes downward under the weight of rebuff before you start to resent the rebuker.

In other words, this dog has been kicked too many damn times to resist the urge to bite off the hand that feeds it.

Not to worry, it's all just angry poetry looking for a way out onto the page. So many feelings to use as paints upon the canvas. I wonder what sort of picture they will paint when the emotional well has run dry at last. If it ever truly runs dry. I'm thinking more of geyser than a well at this point. Nothing as clockwork and predictable as Old Faithful, but something along the lines of a watery Mount Saint Helen. Attached to my tear ducts.

Anyway. Enough waxing poetical.

I'm on the hunt myself. Not the wild hunt, though wild it can be - the job hunt. And it has been brutal. Not necessarily brutal due to the potential employers, but because of my father.

I love my father dearly, I do. And I am so grateful for the opportunity to live here with him and my dear Stepmother in their beautiful home. But sometimes, like today, I just can't stand the way he fusses at me.

Ah, c'est la vie.

In about fifteen minutes, I shall brave the horrors of Atlanta rush hour traffic. My destination: Athens. Not the one in Greece. The one about two hours away, that holds my brother and - for this weekend - my mama. I really can't wait to see them. It's always good to be around those who love you unconditionally. Especially when one is feeling so down on oneself.

Sigh.

Okay, folks. I'm going to jet. Smoke a cigarette before climbing into my car and facing the evils of Atlantians behind the wheel. Wish me luck.

Next Time - A Poem

I feel the need to open up (a vein)

And bleed my emotions and

Thoughts across this page

There's so much to say

And I don't have words

To say it in

State again

How much you miss me

And love me

Reassure me that

This fatal attraction

Is non-threatening

I had lunch with a friend

Today

And there was so much to say

And not enough time to say it in

So I

Breathe deep and reel it all in

There's always next time

But next time,

There might not be time

To say so much

And I don't have words

To say it all

State it all

How you miss me

And love me

Reassure me that

This fatal attraction

Is non-threatening

I have an interview to do

Today

And there will be so much to say

And not enough time to say it in

Not enough space to feel in

And I fill in

These bubbles of black ink

That let you know just how honest

I am

Am I so easy

To sum up?

That multiple choice can make this choice

For you

To employ me?

Me? With the outspoken voice

And the need to express every though I commit

Like a guilty conscience riding on my left shoulder

Telling me over and over

To be honest and brave

But there's no time to say

All the myriad of things

I want to say

Need to

To stay

Sane

So I

Breathe deep and reel it all in

There's always next time

But next time,

There might not be such a time

All we have is the present

To spit such a rhyme

And combine

These letters and sound into something

Sublime

Until next time

But next time,

There might not be time

To say so much

And I don't have words

To say it all

Pray it all

Out loud, quiet and still bound

To reassure me

That this fatal attraction

Is life-threatening

And the voice that I hear

It says so much

But

It doesn't have words to bear

To say it all

To say anything at all

Instead

It shows it all

To me in thoughts and visions

And loves me

And assures me

That

This coming attraction

Is not threatening anything

But the me that could be

I am the change I wish to see

And I am the person

I am gonna be

My life is up to me

And my heart belongs right there

On my sleeve

So next time,

There might not be time

To say too much

But I'll find the words

To say as much

Explain it all

How you make me fall

In love

And your presence

How it is a gift

To have you near

In the present

How

It is a gift

To be cherished

And you can assure me that

This attraction is ticking

A time bomb

Tricky and tickling

And that's why we're giggling

Because next time,

There will be time

To say much

And words and actions

Will be all

And I'll give my all

To make sure you miss me

And love me

And reassure me that

This attraction

Is not

Threatening...anything.

©2011 ~strawberry-goodness

Mistaken: A Poem

Pinpricks

Submit to knee-jerk reactions

Contractions

like side-kicks

That sit in side-cars

You're the Batman to my Robin


so Submit

For the sake of rhythm

I stem off

Branch off

I'm Unforgiven

So punish me

Punish Me!

Or I'll repeat the crime

And never learn to look both ways


I mistook your charms and zeal

For a safe passage-way


These pinpricks

Awaken me

To these surprising surroundings

That itch and sting

Something fierce and threatening

But I can't touch them

For fear I will contaminate

The wounds

I can't scratch the swelling and the

Tears are welling

But my unclean hands,

These nail-bitten

Pale mitten

Fingertips

Are Dirty

They drip with the residue of your memory

They're stained by the kisses that you gave me

And I mistook

You mouth on mine for something else

A Sanctuary


But pinpricks

Bring me back

To the present

The here and now

And I can hear it now

Hear it

How(?) You sounded

You were so quiet

But seemed so loud

in the darkness

you were everything

Your breath on me

Your hands pull free

My legs from jeans

Peeling off clothing

So we could be

(((Closer)))

I want you

closer...

And I mistook

Your sweet proximity

for something else...

Something else...


And for that,

I apologize.

©2011 ~strawberry-goodness

Dearest D

D,

Are you ignoring me? If so, why? I know I'm being direct but I need to know. It's driving me crazy, like there's a rubik's cube lodged in my brain.

I knew all along that we wouldn't end up together. I knew that going in, and I sure as hell knew it coming out. I still know that. Don't think for even a second that you need to remind me by being so distant and aloof.

Is that why you left for Florida early? Because it doesn't have to be like this. I am capable of healthy boundaries and I would like to be friends. I don't feel like we're friends right now. I feel like you're afraid of me, that you're running away and that there are walls up. It's weird to feel so shut-out from you when we were so close just a few short weeks ago. Just talk to me. I miss you. I want to know what you're filling up your days with and how you feel and what you think about. Just talk to me.

I don't need much, just that.

Do you want me to leave you alone? I can and will. I just want to talk about it first.

I guess I'm just getting a lot of mixed messages and I just would like a little bit of clarification.

There are days and days of silence, and then you'll say something here and there that seems flippant, if that's makes sense. You seem to pick and choose which communiques you respond to when you write back. So are you just busy, or are you confused about how you feel and how to interact with me - which would be preferable, of course since that's how I feel toward you and I would be most capable of sympathizing with that scenario. Or is it something else?

I care about you, Dana. I want to know how much I can show that warmth to you. How close can I be to you?

I don't want to be confused anymore.

~M

Brown

Do you ever feel like you could best describe the way you feel at any given moment as a color? I tend to color-code my life, but I also tend to be a bit eccentric - which is why I ask if anyone else does this, instead of assuming that yes, of course you all do. Because that would just be silly. Besides, you know what they say about assumptions...

Anyway.

I feel brown today.

Brown like my hair is brown, which is to say that I am a brunette. Dark rich brown, almost black. Black-brown, I think it's called. Like my Cherokee ancestors before me. I have the Cherokee cheekbones to go with it. When I was little, my cousin Livvie would say that it was "Pocahontas" hair. Or "Cher" hair. I, of course, preferred Pocahontas to Cher. Both then and now.

I feel brown. Brown like my eyes are brown. But not like my father's are brown. His are dark, like espresso. Mine are a mix of his chocolate eyes and my mother's green ones. Green like jade.

I feel brown like the paint on the walls in this house. "Wheat," they call it. I think it looks like "light-brown," but nobody asked me.

Brown.

My great grandmother died today. Her last name was Brown. We called her Grandma Helen, my brother and I. We are going to her funeral this weekend.

It's not really how I saw myself spending my Labor Day weekend. But nobody asked me.

I heard once that people wait to die. They wait until they can see their loved ones one last time. They wait until after Christmas. A lot of people die after Christmas.

Grandma Helen didn't wait. I wonder if that means she had nothing to wait for? I wonder if she couldn't wait because she was in too much pain? I wonder if she didn't wait because she knew no one would come. I didn't come. No one did. She died alone.

I feel bad.

I feel brown.

Brown like dirty. Brown like wet, muddy earth that stains your clothes and smells like rotting leaves.

Brown.