Friday, June 8, 2012

"The world is made up not of atoms, but of stories" - Muriel Rukeyser

There are so many stories I want to tell you.
stories I made up,
stories that happened to me,
stories about the other side of the train tracks, 
stories I am afraid to tell,
stories that made me slip and fall,
stories that make my mouth water,
stories that freeze my insides,
stories that tell me I am no good,
stories that tell me I am awesome (*side note: I am neither. And I am both.)
stories that momentarily remove my face from my head and my head from my body,
stories that remind me I have blood and a pulse,
stories about the man I saw fishing for stars in the Schuylkill,
about the dragonfly - as big as a hand! - that we found stuck in the doorway,
the little girl who found her hips and her self at the Italian Market,
a man carving glass circles for a wood circle in the grass,
about the ball game and the Win and the brandest-newest pride I felt sputtering in my chest like a rusty old boat motor brought back to life,
the flowers - oh the flowers! - stuck deep in the soil, spilling onto the streets, climbing up walls, wedged in cement,
about the double Bowl of Beauty peonies who burst into life the same year their owner was diagnosed with cancer,
about the ashes of a leaf that were caught, suspended and held in a spider web,
that quiet grey morning on the train on the way into work,
about the peace, and the softness from a nothing-is-right-but-nothing-is-wrong-either-and-that-is-ok kind of moment
the view from the steps of the Art Museum and how it always makes me feel like I can fly,
about the naked stone woman who hugged herself and loved her thighs in front of every one,
about the masterpiece painting waiting to be painted but the painter is too afraid to try,
the butterfly who let me take her picture (she loved my brightness and jumped at my shadow,)
about the drive-by shooting,
the biker who I saw fall on his chest in the middle of a busy, city street -
(and how I dropped everything I was carrying to clutch my own chest,)
the two hours of Latin dancing on oily and slippery and sweat-laden floors,
the "right" words,
the "wrong" moment,
the kiss at the stop sign

“I hope you will go out and let stories happen to you, and that you will work them, water them with your blood and tears and your laughter until they bloom, until you yourself burst into bloom.”

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