Backlogged Thoughts from the Silence

It was recently brought to my attention by my beloved husband that it has been, in our Irish housemate’s words, a brave wee while since I’ve posted any blog posts. A more substantive post is in the works, but in the meantime,  I’ve decided to post some things I’ve written in my journal over the past trimester, because, to be honest, this last bit of time I’ve been living through has not been an easily articulatable one.  So for you generous souls who care for me, here you are.


“song(s) of my heart”

I sit here, tucked away:

peering through a balcony bannister.

I’ve been brought here by the sound

of a piano, playing beautifully.

A smile creeps across my face.

My heart melts, and my eyes water.

A man plays piano,

and a woman past her prime sings along

in the wavering that betrays many decades of singing through life.

I think about the decay of life-

its inevitability-

and everything in me wants to ask if I can join their music, their song,

their prayer

but I refrain

from fear.

Because I know the color of my skin changes things

and I am afraid that a desire to join in sung prayers

can easily be misinterpreted as an assumption of authority or superiority


or simply treading on holy ground to which I had no formal invitation.


I had no formal invitation.

My whiteness is an inconvenience, a disappointment.

A barrier which may or may not hold implications

which are negative, condescending, or patronizing in nature;

depending on the stories, viewpoints, and hearts that I cannot reasonably know.

my existence here is one of simply trying

to not scar the earth

or its people

with my clumsy, eager heart.


So I stay in the balcony

peering, unnoticed.

Like a church mouse.

Or my five-year-old self watching the world around me

unsure of where

or if

I fit.




A warm latte

Freshly roasted beans.

Piano music.

Cello sonatas.

Happy, loving dogs.




If Chicago was a man, I would not choose to love him

or allow myself to pursue any sick infatuation.

For he is one disunified whole:

partitioned sharply:

a different being entirely, depending on who he is talking to.

His history is that of an abuser.

And there is not enough indication that this is something he’d like to change

to warrant forgiveness, a blessing.

His best qualities are slimyI mean shiny.

Polished to impress the rich and famous

Whilst anything deeper goes abandoned and uncared for.



The problem with home

is how easy it is to fall into


I had become pretty comfortable there, I suppose.

Does that mean I need to be here?

Because I find myself seeking desperately for creature comforts

because the luxury of friends, free time, and the ability to do what makes me happy is not afforded to me.



“guilty chromosome”

the part in me that is

the vices of my father

and the self-hatred of my mother

the vices the fuel for the fire

the guilt of my chemicals that rebelled

and arranged themselves to wreak havoc on my mind

the chemicals that live within me:


trying to kill their host

The chromosomes that carried them:


Forget Brutus;

I am Hamlet and his ghost, rolled into one.



Every time I close my eyes

I’m instantly 2000 miles away-

the mountains and forests of home forever burned into the backs of my eyelids.

I  explore these wild spaces

(in my head)

as I have done a thousand times before.


I was raised a wild wisp of a thing-

independence honored.

Whenever I felt lost or upset I would run into the woods and foothills

it was the trees that found me.


I have never been satisfied

with where my feet have carried me.

Other places, known and unknown,

tug and pull at my heart;

like a past lover who has not been forgotten

or a future soulmate who has not been found…

(but I’m not sure if I believe in the existence of soulmates…)



Hope flickers:

a flame.

Recently, as small as a tea light

set out on Chicago streets that are nicknames by their ability to blow things over and out

(stop signs, flags, tourists)

to see if it survives.



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