Torrent Rising…

 

Torrent Rising

The bass of the speakers

makes my heart change rhythm

and I am old, and uncomfortable

with crowded people

hurting me with their rudeness

and sharp elbows.

So I find a quiet spot

where I can hear the music

de-obnoxious-fied.

I wonder why I’m even here

and I’m answered when

the band starts playing

blued, and blue notes

but it’s only for one song

as crisp lightning shatters the sky.

And then, it’s just you and me

and a handful of young girls

who all want your attention,

and I don’t want to be them,

but I don’t want to leave,

for I, too, still have dreams.

And so I dance up into the sky

with the memory of a song

not played

and the storm makes me beautiful enough

for me.

–Willow Croft

The Storm Within

 

 

Outside the Maze of Social Media…

 

The Maze

 

Goodness, Twitter’s layout change really threw me for a loop. I guess it’s telling that I didn’t even have an inkling that a changeover was in the works.

And I’m not even as experienced at Twitter as I wish I was, so I was perplexed as to why the change hit me so hard.

I’m not going to wax philosophical over a social media platform, but I’m also a oddly, incredibly sad about the change. And I feel a little displaced from that part of the internet world.

Maybe it’s the fact that social media has become such a staple of our lives that when it changes, it’s like losing a best friend. And maybe that’s even sadder.

Naturally, the designers have every right to change the layout of their social media program any way they want. And there’s some out there who are embracing the change.

But once I got over the initial shock of losing my purpley font and fun Twitter background, I felt relief.

“Thank goodness I don’t have to get lost in that part of the social media maze anymore,” I thought next.

I wanted to delete my Twitter account straightaway (I didn’t!), but I did tweet that I would probably be taking a sabbatical for the time being.

I just don’t have the energy to renavigate Twitter all over again.

I would certainly miss posts from the people I follow, but I consoled myself with the thought they could stop by here and say hi. And, since I didn’t delete my account, I could always peek in from time to time to keep up with them.

But, you know, I have a life. It may be very, very far from the life I want, still, but this intense transition period I’m in is definitely keeping me busy while I try to get everything sorted.

Heck, the number of short story and poetry submission deadlines alone are enough to fill the Twitterverse void.

Not to mention trying to sort out my employment situation, or where I’m going to live (or emigrate to) in hopes of climbing out of this tumultuous storm into a more stable existence. Or, at the very least, a more fulfilling one.

Which is why I don’t have time to weather the storms of change in social media. When everything’s in upheaval, you really want some things to keep on being a safe harbor.

But, then, quixotically, social media isn’t really a safe harbor in many ways. Especially for those of a diverse nature in regards to gender, et al.

It is a platform where the president of the United States will doggedly continue to tweet all of his garbage and nonsense, after all. (Long live #FakeNews! *laugh*)

So, maybe I’m in better company without the distractions of the Twitterverse, generally speaking.

And, earlier today, I wrote the first draft of a story for Fantasia Divinity Magazine’s Isolation theme.

Now, I’m catching up by writing this intended blog entry, based on my visual prompt I started earlier.

And I don’t feel so alone, anymore.

(And, maybe, just maybe, #SnailMail will start trending again!)

At the Core is Another Core…

 

at the core is another core.png

Cored out.

Having to find the core.

Build a core after the old one is lost.

Realise it’s not the core.

Is there one?

No.

Yes.

Maybe.

Only in dreams.

Only in a dream of you.

A dream where you are, and aren’t.

A dream of a ceiba tree.

The world tree.

A tree in layers.

Peeling back the layers.

Layers of an ogre’s onions?

But there’s no more.

Onions.

Self.

The pantry is empty.

The self is gone.

Alone.

You.

Your self.

Your words echo

Through all my cores.

Through all my lives, and dreams.

Filling all of my fault lines.

Faults I can’t hide.

So many cracks.

Bare.

Exposed.

But I want.

I want to see.

I see you just as you are.

And am seen.

Seen just as I am.

Core.

Cores.

Cores connected.

Binary.

Binary stars.

How are we classified now?

 

 

Drifting Thoughts: Without a Sense of Place

Home.

A word both tangible and illusory.

One of the most problematic words in language.

Most people feel incomplete without it.

Others, tragically, have learned that home is a false concept of security and warmth.

But many still look for it.

Even life’s wanderers.

Even me.

And I never wanted to stay in one place.

Three years, max, and I feel the desire to move on. Especially now, feeling a geographical dislocation in this high desert.

I still want to burn bridges.

To leave a wake of delightful chaos and destruction in my wake, however inconsequential.

Enough, I say. I’ve had enough of this place.

It’s okay to be a stranger. To be out of place and step no matter where you go.

But then I got tired.

I didn’t expect that.

To wake up a stranger in this aging body that I have trouble believing is still mine.

“Own it.” (No, thank you.)

What do you do when noplace wants you?

I found a cover letter for a job with a local company back in 2007 in my files. I applied when I lived here before. I’m back in this locale, and have applied to the same company quite a few times recently. It felt so silly, wasting all that recent effort that (in a random. passing realization) still hasn’t wanted to hire me.

I felt like Don Quixote. My whole life a series of tilting-at-windmills.

What do I do with a whole bunch of middle-aged angst? Excusable in the young, sometimes, but all these mixed emotions as an adult? It’s not allowed. I’m supposed to have it all figured out.

But what if you just realised you never even had the chance to figure it out when you were a kid? To not be who you were, inherently? To be taught that everything about you was somehow implicitly wrong, but then get slapped with the wake-up call that maybe, just maybe, that might actually not be true?

An entire sense of self just stolen, and you didn’t even realize the extent of the theft?

How do you go back and recover it? And why would you, at your age?

But you’ve exhausted all the possibilities. Or it feels like it. Physically, you can’t do the working-three-jobs solution you did when you were young. Jobs that sucked but gave you the illusion of independence. Of home.

But I was homeless within four walls. I didn’t own anything. I had nothing.

So I opened the door to a different room. An internal door. A door that led into creativity. Maybe not into the room of being an artist the way I always wanted as a child. Or the violinist. Or a million other lost dreams.

I was so scared.

But I opened it anyway.

I took the gamble.

And now I can’t close it.

But, why would I? So many years just trying to fit in. To conform. To keep my head down. To not rock the boat. To dress for the workplace. To work, at the cost of everything. A starving artist without even the comfort of art.

And guess what?

The gamble’s working.

I’ve had more acceptance the past few years as a hopeful writer then I have had in an entire lifetime of just trying to “get a job”.

So much support, even in rejection letters. Journals, editors, magazines–all mostly offering valuable feedback even when my stories or articles aren’t accepted.

And they are so nice.

And, even more astounding, my articles and stories are actually being accepted. At a mind-blowing, pinch-me-I’m-dreaming level. Even other writers are wonderfully supportive. I want to give acknowledgements to all but I’m forgetful in my old age sometimes, so I don’t want to leave anyone out. But you know who you are. If you follow me on Twitter, or look at the blogs I follow, and share via social media, you’ll find them. Or ask, and I’ll be glad to share links to read/purchase my works. And I try to be as supportive as possible in return, but I struggle with time management. As in there’s not enough time in the day. I feel like ambitious, hardworking Hermione, who still needed a time-turner to accomplish everything she intended to do at Hogwarts.

Have I arrived?

Not yet.

But, for the first time, I feel the inklings of what it would be like to have a sense of place. A connection. To not be the outsider eternally looking in. And I want to say, don’t let people take away your dreams. To put you down. To steal your sense of self. Even if you’re not making any money. Better to be broke and happy, then miserable and eking out an existence at a dead-end job. (Having said that, I still have a day job. *laugh*)

And, maybe someday, I’ll have roots in an actual community, too. In Glasgow. Or in Europe, somewhere. A little sea cottage by a tumultuous ocean, even. Surrounded by wilding trees, and roses by a blue front door.

Home.

 

 

( Feel free to share links to your actualised dreams, or write about them, in the comments below!–Willow)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Treasure Box

Treasure Box

It’s the end of the world

in this dream that rests in eternity.

We have lost the outside to poisons

made by our own hands.

This thought carries so much pain.

Heartbreak

for our lost animals

but here, inside the abandoned office

next to the empty soda machine 

and paper that was once trees

I find the magic you

and everything is put right

both inside and out

and the treasure box I hold

has only trinkets

but you love it anyway,

and we plant it in the last wild wood.

–Willow Croft

No Disney Mermaids, Here


No Disney Mermaids, Here
No Disney mermaids, here,
in a predawn net of dreams
that won't let me go.
But that's not quite true. 
I hold onto them, too, over reality
because life is the nightmare that's real.
And so I drown, at long last, in tangled water,
choosing the insanity, where
water becomes a hand. 
And I hold onto it, too,
because I'm also scared to drown, 
even in this wonder of dreams.
We're not Disney mermaids; not svelte, with lovely voices, and
it's suddenly fine that we are our real selves.
The ones battered by storms and rocks, that have many scars,
and that we drown together
in this space between worlds. 
Because that is the love we need.
A something real one. A strong one.
But our waking thoughts try to rip us apart.
I feel your hand in mine, still, and I don't
let go, but it's hard to make the tea that will
bring me back to the world I hate.
But it's that world that brings me
your message in a drowning bottle.
And I'm glad I haven't let go.

In the Unknown Space

 

In the Unknown Space

In this imagined space,

you are the hardest to believe

that you aren’t real

just a ghost among all the other unknowns.

But I still meet you here, playing among

unicorns and fairies and a lost-forever

garden of childhoods never had.

And this poem fails to capture what you are.

Stilted and awkward but always hopeful

for the day I wake, and you are here,

dreaming me into something known.

 

 

Caretaker

Caretaker

In this maze of dreams,

we are both lost and found

chasing each other like ghosts

up and down corridors and

through walls.

I follow lipstick’d messages

that blaze scarlet in this

endless dark.

Sometimes I hear you crying

in the looking-glass

where

I can’t leave you anything

but smeary hand prints.

Your rooms, caretaker,

are gathering more dust

with each passing year.

I want to find you,

bring you out of this madness, our ancient storm

into a world without walls and shadows

where we dance on rainbows

drink dew

and fly away on butterfly wings.

 

–Willow Croft

 

 

 

The Glitch is Constant

 

The Glitch is Constant

Just like every other day

the reboot has failed

I’ve examined my insides 

but the how-to-fix-things

button remains hidden

I’ve looked to the outside world

for the caring techician 

to bring both expert knowledge

and hope 

but no such thing exists.

Sometimes I still wonder

who will fix me

even though it’s futile

so I just wait in this state of decay

for the reboot of my soul’s time

or even the reset of eons

to erase humanity for sake of the animals

and trees.

It’s the only hope I have left.

The Year Begins, Again.

I hope everyone is happy, warm, and safe in their little time pocket of the multiverse!

If you signed up for the newsletter, I look forward to reading and sharing your New Year’s creative thoughts (if any). I’ve scheduled this post in advance, just in case I was able to make it to another realm for New Year’s. Thanks to those who participated.

Congrats to the winner, The Green Stars Project, who wrote a great post about liminal space that’s very fitting for this time of year. Become part of the Green Stars initiative!

The Green Stars Project New Year’s resolution: “My not-so-secret wish is to practice ethical consumerism and to also encourage others to do so. I have a specific plan, and I’ll know that it’s starting to work whenever I see another person writing a Green Stars review! My latest post, which starts with a brief discussion on liminal space, pretty much sums it up. https://greenstarsproject.org/2017/12/29/resolution/Sometimes, perhaps when I’m faltering on my path a little bit, the universe sends me a sign – it usually comes from an animal. That’s kind of where it all started – with my cat and other animals. Baggins the cat is no longer on this plane (or maybe he is back on it in another form) but I think he still guides me.”

 

New Year’s Poem by Willow Croft:

Mechanic

“I think time is broken,”

you tell me, in my sleep.

It’s my 365th attempt to fix things

but our clocks are lives and years apart.

With each tinkering,

more pieces of me 

pile up in the corners,

and I’m running out of places to hide

from monsters under the bed and

in real life.

So I seek my way out of these worlds.

At the harbour, I’ve missed the boat.

At the airport, I’ve missed the last plane out.

At the station, I’ve missed the train.

And my carriage never arrives 

at its destination.

Always a day late and a dollar short

and a hundred years away from you

in the dark and cold

of another new beginning.

© Willow Croft 2017-2018

 

“One Hundred Years” by The Cure: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CBtBD2WwvGY