Thursday, May 21, 2009

Shooting Ghosts

A thing that could look like an old midway game, the kind with the piano player and the target on his back, the kind with ducks rolling by like, well, moving targets. But for me, tonight, it is the kind that I usually use as a shield, the ghosts of what hasn't worked as a block against the living things that could. Kind of like planting a big shrub over the wildflower seeds you threw down, but a thorny one. One that scratches when you walk by and lets nothing grow in its shadow.

My friend, "Rhoda" asked me if I wrote something on my birthday and I had been writing a short story and a little note to myself but nothing so formal and captured as a birthday log, a formal account of that day every year. I wished suddenly, that I had. But this isn't that. It's too late to recapture all of those, just like I can't move forward into the sudden-promise of some good things with the old sorrows hanging from every tree. I like too much, linger too long and long, long, long after the lingering's good.

Lately there have been daisy-days glazed with the fresh sweet, shininess that hot donuts wear. A treat to the senses and something so simple to that, too. I am tired of the mean-broken who accuse the sad-broken of something sinister. I am tired of working very hard to stop seeing broken or naming broken or loving broken and having the mean-broken make ugly every possible joy.

I wish us all something light, full of color, and the promise of hope and dare-we-reach happiness. Even the ghosts I had to shoot deader so as to keep them from smothering everything that might live in their pitiful, and once-beautiful stead.

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