Tired

She desires a slumber

Away from pain

And disappointment. 

A rest at the crest of a hill,

With her back on the grass 

And eyes to the sky. 

She needs a nap 

Away from crowds

Of the hateful and small minded. 

Just a little shut eye

In a quiet room.

With nothing but 

Happy colored dreams

Flying in her mind. 

She'll sigh and sleep,

Lashes flicker on her cheek. 

Leave her be, 

Let her slumber

Let her sleep. 

kjsmith

Painting: Sleeping Beauty

By Henry Meynell Rheam

Mail Call

     Yesterday I fished through a drawer in my writing cave and found an old spiral bound notebook. As I turned away with it in my hand, a piece of paper fluttered out of it. It was a letter written in 1989 by an old friend, a guy we'll call Max. He and I had been school friends, but lost touch for a while. We reconnected a couple years later through a mutual friend. From 1979 to 1990, Max and I exchanged letters frequently. Long, journal-like missives that contained mostly the mundane doings of our daily lives. Sometimes we waxed philosophical, discussing serious things as we stumbled together through our twenties and early thirties, miles apart yet connected firmly by pen, paper and postage. We knew each other's biggest dreams and deepest secrets. 

     He stopped writing regularly after he got married. The last letter, in 1992, was short and to the point. I missed Max for a while. Then I hated his wife. Eventually I hated him. Now I just don't give a damn anymore. 

    Life's too short to waste any of it thinking about people who don't think about me. 

     I opened the single sheet of typing paper that was folded in half and beginning to yellow. I skimmed over it just to see when it was written, but didn't read every word. I laid it on the desk and just stared at it for a while, not sure what to do with it. For years I kept all his letters stuffed into a shoebox, finally burning them to ashes in my driveway sometime in the mid-90's. This was the last remaining letter. The last piece of proof that at one point in our lives we had been friends. 

     With a small nostalgic hitch in my heart, I tore it into a dozen pieces and dropped it in my little wicker waste basket. 

     This evening, I walked to the mailbox and pulled out a stack of sales flyers, credit card applications and yet another plea to renew my AARP membership. Flipping through the stack as I walked back to the house, I noticed the corner of a pretty red envelope peeking out. 

     A letter. From one of my newest friends, a kindred spirit. She's on the other side of an ocean, but also connected by pen and paper, postage and...internet.  I can't wait to pull out my dusty box of stationery and write her back. 

     It's been such a long time. 

Just Another Random Thursday Morning

     Some days you just wake up in the sunlight of a personal epiphany. 

     The past several months have been transitional for me emotionally. Oh, I'm sitting in the same house, with the same man...but I'm not the same person anymore. Walking out of the fog of so much loss all at once, and the burdens of all the responsibilities that go with that, is not simple. So much, too much, upheaval. The struggle to write something good and meaningful while all that is going on is practically impossible. It was for me, anyway. The writer's pen became too heavy to pick up. So I left it there, abandoned on the desk, dust motes in a sunbeam waiting to settle, and walked out of the room...

     ....and time passed...years most truly wasted and lost forever....

     With the support and encouragement of friends, the pen isn't quite so cumbersome anymore. There is new ink on fresh white paper, and that, my friends, is pretty damned exciting. 

     But life's inevitable obstacles are daunting...and potentially debilitating.  So I worry...'How are we going to pay for that...where can I find time for this..' 

Lately, those obstacles have begun to stack up. Insurmountable. My personal Everest.  Even though there's a good man in my life who works his ass off in a dirty job every day, I feel like I'm climbing those peaks alone. 

I've come to understand that I've felt that way My. Entire. Life. 

     All 50-something years of it. 

     Alone. 

     I have always been the misunderstood "odd man out", left to my own devices, forced to look inward for emotional support...and I've been mostly okay with that. Admittedly, I'm comfortable keeping most people at arms length...

     But, I've begun to feel more and more like something is missing. I'm craving something I couldn't quite name. Some elusive ghost of emotion. 

     This morning, the simple, and really so-obvious-I-can't-believe-I-didn't-hear-them-before words came to me... 

     I've never felt cared for. 

     I've never had someone else step up and say, "Give that problem to me. I'll do it." 

     My mom always used to complain to me that she just wanted somebody else to step in and deal with all life's crap for her. She was tired of being the one everyone else came to when they had a problem. (Of course she never realized she'd been using me as her personal psychotherapist, unburdening herself to me, since I was about five. :/ )

     I'm not sure why I'm following in her footsteps, but it pisses me off! I'm not sure how to solve it, but I'm also not really seeking to, at the moment. 

Life will be what it will be, and right now I'm just happy to be heard. 

     My dream is to take all this crazy, emotional baggage and infuse it into fictional characters that readers will relate to and maybe like enough to ask for more. 

     My hope is to grow old writing. To die with a pen in my hand and an unfinished sentence on the page. 

     I'm not sure if any of this made any sense, but thanks for listening. :)

Time for more coffee, I think. 

-kim

   

Fresh Air

This morning I saw one of those social media memes with the word 'Explore' emblazoned across a sunlit canyon. I stared at it for a minute or two, wondering when I last explored anything more exciting than my kitchen pantry. It's been a while. 

When I first met the Man, he had a motorcycle. Not the crotch rocket type, but the big, comfortable touring type. We would frequently hop on the bike after dinner and just ride. I was new to this area, so every road was fresh for me...every shadow on the pavement, every tight mountain curve.  We took longer rides, too. Long, ass-numbing rides that required packed bags strapped onto the back. It was spectacular. If you want to really experience a road trip, do it on two wheels instead of four. 

We sold the bike about five or six years ago. We sold it because at some point we can't name, we just stopped riding. We got older. We got busier. It feels weird, like we've misplaced something...but this really isn't meant to be a story about the motorcycle. 

It's about finding something new. Going new places. With new people. 

When was the last time you saw anything new? When did you last have a fresh experience? 

Maybe I've become old and jaded. Maybe I've got a severe case of 'been there, done that' disease. Until recently, I felt like I hadn't seen anything new. In years. 

Then, almost a year ago now, I found my tribe, a group of like-minded creatives, and everything changed. I began to see the world through their eyes, their experiences. I found my long lost and left for dead curiosity. 

About everything. Every. Thing. Not just artsy stuff. My soul is lit up with ten-thousand candles and I plan on following every flickering flame. 

I am going places. Literal and figurative. It's time to explore. Time to reclaim my forgotten fearlessness. Time to see something new and breathe fresh air that my lungs don't recognize. 

I'm dragging the Man along, too. Wanna come with? You know what they say... The more the merrier...  :)

- kjsmith

(Photo is Lookout Mountain taken from the observation point on Still Hollow Loop Road.)

Power

More than love

We need to be understood. 

Accepted. 

Respected. 

Heard. 

Hold your tongue

If it's mean. 

If you won't even try

To hear and embrace

And respect 

Me. If you are too shallow

To understand,

Leave my life.

As there is no more room for you here. 

I will not regret,

Not waste another moment 

Wondering what you think. 

- kjsmith

Your Potential Has Potential

     So, here's the thing...I don't like seeing people held down, kept from their dreams. Life is too damned short for that nonsense.

     I allowed myself to be held too tightly by my parents for a really long time. Then when I finally woke the hell up and made my escape, I fell into the arms of a narcissistic, emotionally abusive control freak. I eventually escaped him, too.  It's no small miracle that I'm still (relatively) sane. 

   Having freed myself of the shackles of giving a shit, my backbone grew exponentially. I do still have lapses of allowing people to treat me disrespectfully, but they are becoming fewer and farther between. 

     It's a beautiful kind of freedom.  Thinking of your needs ahead of others.  Following your own heart, wherever it takes you. It's a liberty we all deserve. A worthy rebellion. 

     Don't deny your potential for the sake of someone else's comfort. 

Dog days.

She waits for a changing wind. 

The heat, like a drug that renders her incapable of movement,

Leaves her thoughts muddled and smoky. 

Her voice lost somewhere in the heavy air, 

It falls to the ground unheard. 

She wishes for a cooler breeze.

One to stir the words up 

Off the dry grass of summer

And send them floating...

But still, the only sounds

Are the insistent cicadas,

And her own breath, in and out, 

In harmony with the squeak

Of the porch swing. 

- kjsmith