mccomas, August 3, 2002 at 3:10:12 PM CEST

Write a Letter

Written in response to a prompt titled "Write a Letter" on July 30, 2002.

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I wrote a letter once, not so long ago but long enough that I had forgotten about writing it. That memory might have stayed buried in my mind if the letter had not been unearthed recently in one of my father's safety deposit boxes.

It's an interesting letter, one of apology of sorts with an invisible campaign that isn't as transparent as I thought it was when I first wrote the letter. There's a neediness and a selfishness I detect in the letter; but there are also great flashes of insight. What is most interesting to me is simply that my father, a man who did not keep "things," kept the letter.

Did he know that letter would find its way back to me? Did he know that letter would be my chance to go beyond the jokes and laughter to say things that mattered to me in a serious way? Did he know that I would know that he understood my letter as a way to say "Thank You" and that his keeping of the letter was his way of saying "You are most welcome!" Did he know that this very week I would be missing him particularly and need to remember writing that letter?

 

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mccomas, August 3, 2002 at 6:57:10 AM CEST

EVAPORATE

[from Martha's demonstration]

 

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mccomas, August 3, 2002 at 6:53:13 AM CEST

untitled (shadow poem writing)

this is a poem to myself whom I've mistrusted 364 days a year whose blue-green eyes have been opened to shadows falling long across Martha Road freckled with the end of the day red-sunset sunshine and accessorized with mocha fawns and orange trumpet vines. I scarred my mind's retina with alcohol, fear and hate for myself because I didn't know I was beautiful and wise with a sharp tongue and a combustible wit. but nobody knows that about themselves and must be shown and shown again until they believe because I think anyone can be redeemed, especially me so I write this for me, for recovery, for life.

 

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mccomas, August 3, 2002 at 6:49:26 AM CEST

Untitled

Pose-striking preppies remind me that Somewhere between the lies and the truth stands reality. Dressed up as insecurity, Pretension searches for honesty and a promise Finding only frustrated conflict.

[From Vickie's demo]

 

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mccomas, August 3, 2002 at 6:17:15 AM CEST

Social Action (yes - no)

 

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mccomas, August 3, 2002 at 6:08:10 AM CEST

Mathematical Musings

Sacred dream of geometry; ruler and protractor, temper my anguish, untrouble my mind.

Geometry, algebra, calculus, primes, ratios, equations, proofs, factoring, multiplication, division, addition, subtraction, base, exponent, logarithms, fractions, remainders, coordinates, abcissa, ordinate, slope, angle, parallel, right angle, radius, perimeter, circumference, isosceles, equilateral, ruler, protractor, compass, slide rule, calculator, graphs, X-axis, Y-axis

How can anyone not recognize the crispness of the words above; the very precision that comes from lean, clean lines; carefully plotted coordinates; or masterfully recited multiplication tables? I think of math was a way to tame my mind, provide discipline and logic to my thinking, as a way into discovery. There is calm in this chaotic order of mathematics - if one simply looks and looks again - until they see that single grain of sand that represents it all, from counting to calculus;

 

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mccomas, August 1, 2002 at 1:14:41 PM CEST

Never Satisfied

I wanted a dark piece of fabric but I'm not certain why. The dark colors stabilize me, provide weight and balance, and perhaps I like that because I need stabilizing and I need balanced. There are contrasts in this piece of fabric, lighter blues placed around in a predictable, repeatable patter - a kind of organization that I ilke. But, as I examine this piece, I'm beginning to wonder why I didn't want the other piece of fabric. It was light, an odd shade of yellow that reminded me of baby poop. But that isn't what turned me away from it. What turned me away was its openness, the way it said, "Come on - dive in!" I couldn't stand that because I couldn't see what I was diving into - that cavernous openness is frightening, it petrifies and paralyzes me.

I remember driving to Philadelphia a few years ago with Dolores and Diane. We had Diane's big vehicle - a Jeep perhaps - and it was my turn behind the wheel. We were in a hilly area and the road was a bit curvy. We were descending a hill and making a curve when all of a sudden the sky opened up and almost swallowed us up! Ahead was a river with a long, high bridge across it and the hills had ended. The whole world was visible to us from there. I nearly choked; panic rose in my throat (and I feel the butterflies in my stomach and a desperate needs for air even as I write this, just thinking of it) and I felt as though I had been punched in the stomach and had teh wind knocked out of me. I was nearly frozen and I sensed this small part of me saying to myself (I hope), "Keep breathing; there now, breathe again; look at the road; no don't look left, don't look up, look at the road; keep talking; breathe." I had no choice but to keep driving for there was nowhere to pull over. I suspect I had an anxiety or panic attack - but I found it so odd because I have claustrophobia; it's supposed to be closed in spaces that I can't stand. Considering the claustrophobia and this panic attack brought on by wide, open, high spaces, I realized that there are few places in the world where I can be.

Well, that was interesting. I ended up writing in resopnse to the swatch of fabric I did NOT want; but in a way, I knew when I put it back that it wasn't going out of my mind. The second I saw that swatch, that bridge came to mind.

 

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