like waters before us,
I pictured a wall
that would separate us from them.
at first I thought my force of will had faded
until
a barricade, a band-aid
contrived by those we stood-fast to reject.
and while their wall was never meant for us,
but them, to keep us outsiders at bay,
I claim it, in Our name.
now they can never take it away.
//jf 9.9.2020
“Did she make you cry
– “Gold Dust Woman” by Stevie Nicks
Make you break down
And shatter your illusions of love?
And is it over now?
Do you know how?
Pick up the pieces and go home.”
*
That night, Trevor watched The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and the next morning he called-in sick to work. Rachel Brosnahan. She looked just like her, only without the blond hair. He had watched the season from the beginning, and it was funny and painful in equal measure. And then there was the flashback, to when Midge did have blond hair, and it was like he was instantly-transported to his past. He couldn’t even pay attention to the show: he was so transfixed by this celebrity, this actress, out of his reach; a candle to his former flame. An imitation. As the show played, he reclined further in to the couch with his bottle of Wiser’s. He couldn’t remember the last time he touched his glass but he knew he was too-far-gone to reach for it now. From bottle to glass. He took a swig and let the TV carry on while his eyes darted around his living room of their own accord, looking for anything to rest on that wasn’t her. Why was he still watching? Because it was like a photograph he never took. A post he never saved. She was an idea, and then Rachel made her real again. It was coming up on ten years since Liz had died and try as he may there wasn’t any way to get around it. To relax. To take his mind off of her. Elizabeth Greer. Every show he turned to seemed to be a love story. His coffee table was strewn with artifacts from a life he knew before: trinkets from other girls that stood testament to missed opportunities; books he had stopped reading who knows how long ago, when his memory began its deadly choke-hold. That was the only way he was able to remember her now; her face, her manner: through the eyes of people paid to mock him and his affliction, as far as he was concerned. Rachel was beautiful in her own way but paled in comparison to Liz.
Continue readingWhat time is it? Did you even set the alarm? Why do I have to wake up so early? Why can’t I wake up earlier than this instead of rolling around for an hour? Why can’t my shifts start when I’m actually awake? Why can’t I turn off my alarm? Why won’t it shut up? Why won’t my husband get up when I do? Why doesn’t he get my coffee ready like he used to? What’s wrong with me? Why do I stay with him? Wouldn’t I be happier alone? Or living with my daughter and her babies? Why can’t I take the initiative and retire? Why won’t this fucking coffee maker work properly? Did I put the water in the right place? Is it plugged in? Why does it smell like something is burning? Should I look under the lid? Why is there smoke? Why did I set it and not add water first? Why am I blaming myself? Why isn’t it his problem? Why is he so stupid? Why does this needle hurt so much? Why is my blood sugar so high? How much stress can one woman take?
Continue readingits a way to matter.
to show people you care
past your hard, judgmental stare.
never mind your hearts a flutter
and your stomach tense
and the first impression layered and dense.
humans are fragile
and we tend to crack.
bottle the air from a lifetime of breath
and a legacy wont outlive its trail.
//jf 7.11.2020
the enormity of life confronts us all. i stand before a wall that separates me from my better half. this wall stretches the imagination, and i am alone. like a scrapbook it is covered in photos of people i knew; who i had lost; who had lost me. but as my bare toes sink in to the warm sand, i am not afraid. i am full of love. with a gentle push, this wall comes tumbling down. and the blue sky above me no longer splits across its middle but extends into the horizon, where a still blue ocean sits below and the sound of waves crashing rests miles away. i am in my happy place: a cove, a short swim around an inlet on oahu. any time i would visit, there wouldn’t be another living soul: like i was the first. in truth it was inconvenient enough for the kids and the families, but we were not the first. no one can be the first: not anymore. i sit in reverence to those who came before me, whose drawings are carved along the cavern walls. drawings that tell a story: one with layers, a new one uncovered with every visit.
//jf 6.6.2020
theory of a daskeman 