Eyes that see inner beauty
Nose that smells trouble
Mouth that chooses words carefully
Neck that strains to see the good in people
Arms that both build and cradle
Stomach that is grateful
Legs that know hard-work
Knees that still knock
Feet that see the sun
Mind that seeks the source
The scent of the river
emerges in spring and
at night like moon flowers,
evening primrose and the
married-mans thoughts of me
do
Things and people afraid of
the day, afraid of the
light cast upon their flaws
tip-toe to me and whisper
their wildest
desires
Johns and Janets and Williams
all point fingers, tease and mock
but their hidden agendas are far worse
than those of the prisoners
I laugh with the crescent moon
Smile with the dew
and dream, day and night
of this tortured life,
of me,
and
of you
I wish
I had
what I had before
I want
what is far ahead
I want it now
I desire
the moment
I had just today
I couldn’t feel a thing
I desire it forever
I need
the emotion
of midnight
I find myself
on my knees
in the dark
weeping a song
I need that to last forever
to not give way
to this headache
this boredom
the song
was romance
and I wooed myself
but
I’m caught in your web
you cast your net
you neglected your win
pulled at my arm
I yanked my own chain
I need
free
I need
me
but I’d rather
you not let
me be
don’t be mean
Have you yet to read my little ditty?
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“It takes a village to raise a child.”
“Be Smart. Be Ready.”
“Is he hurting you? Get help NOW.”
My milky thighs tear the tissue paper beneath me as I adjust my hips. I cover one foot over the other protectively, instinctively because soon the stranger will be in to spread my legs. She’ll tell me to move my ass closer to her (even closer..) and relax my feet into the stirrups. “I said relax,” she’ll tell me again.
The nurse enters the room, wearing Winnie the Pooh scrubs. Without skipping a beat, without even looking into my eyes she lubes up the duck clap and inserts it into my woman-cave. I struggle to breathe. She tells me “You’ll feel a pinch here”. But she doesn’t tell me it’ll last so long that I moan, long and hard, resulting in my quick embarrassment. My mind is flooded with every sexual experience I’ve ever had as a strategy to rationalize why I am here, enduring such pain. Only half the memories are any good. My eyes dart across the room, reading the posters again, frantic for a distraction–less because of the pain and more because of the uncomfortablness of a stranger being inside of me. Some people like it. It’s not my thing. And her stupid cartoon scrubs make it worse, like a stranger with candy, or something. Fucking sicko.
Ittakesavillagetoraiseachild. Besmart.Beready. Ishehurtingyou?Gethelpnow.
Relax, she tells me again. Foolishly I look to a side table and see blood, and those blue napkins they use. Like mechanics napkins. I’m quite literally a piece of work.
The nurse quickly releases the duck clamp which cramps the inside of my woman as it goes out. I shake and tremble as the stranger shuts my legs. “You’re good for 12 years,” she tells me. I smile and thank her, coming to my senses, dizzy, the room smelling like we’re both still inside of my vagina.
I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake. His Oldsmobile pulls away. Finally. Forever. Just like I wanted. My eyes are two brooks a gushin’. I’ve done it again, and this time it hurts differently though just as bad. This hurt has a dark scent, a full moon and a big, gaping wound that used to be a promise. At least we hadn’t gotten children involved; though we had gotten our parents involved, which is almost just as bad. The sun shines hard on my tear-stained face. I’ve looked like shit for weeks.
It’s not a simple time. It’s no longer a simple life. But the simple life is sold and we fall for it. The simple life is sold in t-shirts branded “Simple”. Simplicity is cropping up in your local malls and its shops are growing larger and its simple products are getting more and more. Simplicity is getting expensive. And trendy. But are you being true to yourself? Do you feel simplified?
Spirituality is promoted until it’s not spiritual anymore. The Dalai Lama preaches humility, thrice a day via Twitter. Ideas are exchanged and yoga studios promise enlightenment just… after… this… one… last… post…then its time for meditation. For real this time. “Off to meditate.” “Done meditating.” “Was great.” “Feel so good.” “Can’t stop typing.” “Don’t forget to ‘Like’ us for a dollar off your next workout.”
I personally can’t deal, can’t hang. My thoughts didn’t pinball around in my head until I was pulled every which way by technology. At night, morning and noon, like you, I groggily shuffle to the laptop and quest for information, enlightenment, validation, and discounts. I sit for hours and I find out a lot but I rarely find what I am looking for. And I NEVER find exactly what I’m looking for. Health. Love. Genius. I am disappointed. I am exhausted.
So I quit. Again. From now on I will no longer have a computer in the house, internet on my phone, or even a television. My home 
will house books, food, hot water and a bed. You know–the essentials. And when I come home from work, I will be able to hear myself think. What a concept.
I will no longer search for the things my spirit needs on Google. It doesn’t work that way. Ask yourself: are you exhausted? Let down? Out of touch with those around you? Out of touch with yourself? You might want to consider what I’m doing: unplugging. Already it’s been two days sans Internet and I. Feel. Peace.
Does that mean I’m done blogging? No. Not even close. I will still post weekly, respond to your comments, and read your work. I have computer access–I have my ways. But my Internet use will be scheduled and moderated. And no I will not be signing up for Google+ and Facebook like some of you have requested. I already have WordPress, Twitter, MySpace and Gmail. What more do you want world?
The only way my spirit will thrive is if it has space to breathe. End of story. The Internet is full of false promises. Beware. Truth lies in the space around your head and in the seemingly empty corners of your home. The world is magical if you just unplug and play with it.
First day of Spring.
March 20th, 2013.
I was trying for a full circle story. And I found a full circle in my story. I really did. I just doesn’t have much girth. I only made it as far east as Arizona. And Arizona isn’t east at all. But its farther than most folks made it.
I’m back in the hometown. A gray, moist place. I stand smoking on a four by four square of concrete on a porch in the projects. I had quit smoking. Like, forever ago. But back here that’s all out the window. As I exhale a cigarette that I’m not nearly enjoying I think, nothing has changed. Including me.
We let our childhoods zoom by like big trucks with stick shifts and little cars with loud noise. When we are just bud-children, we let our innocence go, just a-begging for maturity, tires peeling as we do. Goodbye forever girl-child.
Ten, twenty years later we stand where we used to play. Squares of grass with little hopeful daisies sprout along side cigarette butts and empty, fallen drug baggies and we think we’ve come really far but we’ve just grown taller and back-pedaled.
Other people have children now. But I chose not to bring a child yet into the world. I never minded two children. Boys, I think. Though how would I know. I like to think I’m spiritual, “in-touch”, following my destiny, have God on my side and what-have-you. But other days the world is hopeless, gray, flat, my past a heap of mistakes.
I thought we’d all gotten somewhere. But last night it was me and my dad and 2 aunts and a cousin and all any of us cared about was getting our own individual highs. Nothing big. Tobacco. Alcohol. Love. Sex. Attention. That’s just how it is in the projects. Oppressed. It’s like cursed or something. The manager had each apartment building in the complex painted a different color–baby blue, yellow, sea-foam green. But even the best makeover couldn’t change the projects.
The projects are a body, a soul with something missing. There’s a hole inside of it that can’t be filled, as they say. The projects have a mind of their own.
For more than one year
I’d not acknowledged the doors
Now I see there are 6
Now I shut them behind me
Close off the world and
separate me from you
Now there are barriers in
our home
Borders
Lines in the sand
Energy spaces
Thirsty spaces
Now even you use the
doors too
TERAH RACHELLE VAN DUSEN 