"October 13, 2002. With 24 minutes and 6 seconds of my 17th birthday left, it seems as if a toast to the day is the only thing left in wanting. And seeing as how the only stuffed animal out of 21 in my room that can talk will only say mooo when squeezed, I suppose I will be forced to be my own best man on my wedding day.
Dearest Natasha. Today you are seventeen. It's so hard to know what to say to you. You whose youth has been padded from real pain like the furniture of the Glass Man. Ha, you have not praised God enough for time my dear, and each second that ticks out of the corner of your peripheral hearing. What an amazing feature and aspect of our world time is. Poets cannot capsule it, and scientists and quantum physics cannot explain it. A circle cannot define it, nor a line with tick marks. It blurs past in 18 legs printing past the 68 year old man, and the 13 year old girl calling it to hurry up, its lame leg dragging behind, while she puts on heavy makeup. I don't know and I can't comprehend. Your cat lies on your lap like in 3rd grade and in his silky ears there is no difference. Shadow kills and soon shadow will die. Don't you wonder if he knows? Well, anyway, you're seventeen alright and before you really know it you'll be 35 and remembering how skinny you are now, and maybe telling Nasty to go to bed. Goodnight Natasha of 17 and if my words come back and haunt you, whoever you are or wherever, don't forget to fall on your knees saying, "Holy" and knowing how much of the picture is blocked being in time, but also that without it, what you can grasp, and stories and parables would crumble."
I found this recently in my journals. It looks like I've been writing the same drivel for years now. Although I have to admit for a 17 year old, pretty interesting stuff. As a sidenote, I went through a phase where I thought it would be fun to reclaim bad words by naming my kids and raising them up right, hence Nasty. Happy Birthday to me! RIP Shadow.
Dearest Natasha. Today you are seventeen. It's so hard to know what to say to you. You whose youth has been padded from real pain like the furniture of the Glass Man. Ha, you have not praised God enough for time my dear, and each second that ticks out of the corner of your peripheral hearing. What an amazing feature and aspect of our world time is. Poets cannot capsule it, and scientists and quantum physics cannot explain it. A circle cannot define it, nor a line with tick marks. It blurs past in 18 legs printing past the 68 year old man, and the 13 year old girl calling it to hurry up, its lame leg dragging behind, while she puts on heavy makeup. I don't know and I can't comprehend. Your cat lies on your lap like in 3rd grade and in his silky ears there is no difference. Shadow kills and soon shadow will die. Don't you wonder if he knows? Well, anyway, you're seventeen alright and before you really know it you'll be 35 and remembering how skinny you are now, and maybe telling Nasty to go to bed. Goodnight Natasha of 17 and if my words come back and haunt you, whoever you are or wherever, don't forget to fall on your knees saying, "Holy" and knowing how much of the picture is blocked being in time, but also that without it, what you can grasp, and stories and parables would crumble."
I found this recently in my journals. It looks like I've been writing the same drivel for years now. Although I have to admit for a 17 year old, pretty interesting stuff. As a sidenote, I went through a phase where I thought it would be fun to reclaim bad words by naming my kids and raising them up right, hence Nasty. Happy Birthday to me! RIP Shadow.
3 comments:
happy birthday!
Happy birthday, Natasha! Thanks for sharing your journal entry. What you're writing is only "the same drivel" in the way that "in his silky ears there is no difference": it's still you in there, poet capsuled by time.
Incidentally, the CAPTCHA this time is "podal," fitting given your antipodal position w/r/t Marty and me.
I. Love. What you write. :-) More please! -Mary
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