Thirty-One: Weeks Thirty-Three & Thirty-Four
Days two hundred and twenty-five through two hundred and thirty-eight
Welcome back to Thirty-One, the project where I attempt to write something every day for a year. If you missed any previous issues, you can find them here.
Day Two Hundred and Twenty-Five (December 7th) The same patterns repeat. The lights go out, and the music comes on. Thresholds emerge when cicadas sing. Veneers shimmer and fall away. Boundaries blur like rivers overflowing. Everything is lost beneath the surface. But then the darkness settles, and the same patterns repeat. Day Two Hundred and Twenty-Six (December 8th) the first night arrives light the candles, sing the songs banish the darkness Day Two Hundred and Twenty-Seven (December 9th) Humans are social creatures. Our relationships are the whole point of living. Sometimes I forget that. Day Two Hundred and Twenty-Eight (December 10th) Is it possible to be asleep while your eyes are open? I might be sleeping right now. I’m not entirely sure. Day Two Hundred and Twenty-Nine (December 11th) hot wax dripping down on tin foil draped and waiting remnants of the flame Day Two Hundred and Thirty (December 12th) A slurry of ceramic and steel sits beneath my fingernails as a reminder of the beauty of sharp edges Day Two Hundred and Thirty-One (December 13th) Back and forth to and fro metal and stone shave away the old hurt Day Two Hundred and Thirty-Two (December 14th) There is a headless mannequin standing in my garage. I don’t know where my brother found her or why she was decapitated. She used to be in pieces on the floor, so I forgot about her. Then I went to take the trash out, and there she was, arms up like C-3PO, lurking in the corner in front of the gardening tools. Her head is on top of a pile of junk in the seat of a wheelchair in a different part of the garage. I wonder if my brother gave her a name. I’ll have to ask him later. Day Two Hundred and Thirty-Three (December 15) Wind is a versatile voice. It can be both a whisper and a rage. Day Two Hundred and Thirty-Four (December 16th) A steady rain falls, never wavering in its rhythm. It began before I woke and will continue beyond the point when I close my eyes and enter that alternate reality of dreaming. But for now, I am awake. I watch the gentle drops fall through the screen birdcage encasing the lanai. Some of the rain reaches the pool below, spreading ripples of varying size and strength. The heavier raindrops plop down into the water, creating small bubbles that burst a moment later. The lighter rains never make it past the screen sieve. They cling to the mesh like a thousand tiny glass beads, each one cradling a bit of blue-grey light and creating a daytime sky full of stars. Day Two Hundred and Thirty-Five (December 17th) Listen to the sky. Day Two Hundred and Thirty-Six (December 18th) Garage Mannequin Update: My brother got her from a friend who moved out of state. She held a party for all her friends to take things she couldn’t take with her. My brother took the mannequin. Her name is Luna…maybe. My brother can’t quite remember. He put her back together while he was cleaning out the garage. Reassembling her was easier and neater than leaving her in pieces. Her head was already out of the way. And out of the way, it stayed. Day Two Hundred and Thirty-Seven (December 19th) I got my COVID and flu shots yesterday. Now my body aches, and I was inspired to rewrite the classic REM song Everybody Hurts. Please enjoy. Every muscle hurts. It makes me want to cry. Every muscle hurts when you get a vaccine. I’m still workshopping the last line. Day Two Hundred and Thirty-Eight (December 20th) Schedule your worry. Wash away the residue of the day.
I’m offering this project for free, but if you’d like to support me (and get access to our poetry club), consider subscribing. That would be cool.