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Monthly Archives: June 2012

About what must be removed

27 Wednesday Jun 2012

Posted by Alice Salles in True story?

≈ 1 Comment

This intrusive thought that blurs the conclusion I seek with the kind of passion she will never know; this… thing that should be extirpated but I so painfully and carefully maintain at bay. I often wonder why and look for answers but how could any response be allowed in when I’m the only one making all the rules?

At times, this monster steps into my waters and aims deep but the smallness of her aspirations makes little of such attempts. She suddenly realizes she could die trying and swims back thinking she isn’t fooling anyone: trying harder was never her forte. Abandonment is what she seeks and back at bay is where she stays.

At arm’s length and at a safe distance.

It’s not the lack of volume or the lack of passion I find irritating; it’s the overwhelming inaptitude to care one embraces and sees as their most precious gift and the capacity to gnaw at a type of unaware apathy that could drive any average man insane.

Superficial is a word one may use to describe this being but not even the most delicate of layers could be as shallow and that’s why I choose to keep it

At bay.

At an arm’s length, never truly letting it in nor expelling it at last, for I’ve always known the ocean gives life and takes it back at ease but it never fails to offer everyone a chance.

And that is what I offer,

A chance. Prove me wrong if you will, because I can sense it is surely bound to happen… someday.

We Live to Create

26 Tuesday Jun 2012

Posted by Aubrey Anne Dickinson in Living

≈ 2 Comments

We create memories. We create things. We create other little humans. We build great monuments. We write. We perform. We paint.  We do whatever we must do to be able to look at ourselves and say, “There I am living. There I am full of life. There I am leaving a trace —of my existence. Those are the things that I gave to this world.”

It is our power and our unique gift to know that we must live such as this. It is also our burden.  It makes us wake up and know that everyday means something. That everyday is your chance to create even the simplest of miracles—to write the perfect line—to sing a song that grabs even one heart.

It also means that everyday is a challenge. That everyday is an opportunity to fail—to not live as you should—full and wild.

But then, that is what pushes us.  To be better (in some form). To create something entirely and distinctively your own. To be an artist in the sense that this is your life and you will leave your mark. You will live and create. You will live. And you will do it with everything (EVERYTHING!) that you have.

The Allure of Dirt

21 Thursday Jun 2012

Posted by Alisha Dickinson in Dirt, Living

≈ 1 Comment

Earth is the thing that feeds us.  Its minerals nourish us, its bedrock supports us and it is the place we all return to when our stories are over.  Its fickle nature can bring famine or a feast and in its simplicity, it can be overwhelming.

And therein lies my dilemma~

I love city life; the hard-edged urban beat which pulses thru its’ concrete streets.  The mash-up of cultures & beliefs and the ability to be anyone you want to be at anytime of day.  The desire to strive to stand out in a city of millions or to get lost in the comforting crush of the thousands.  Choices surround you, and life bombards you; moving with the pace of a hummingbird’s wings.

And yet there’s something infinitely satisfying about having dirt under your nails and watching a dry, lifeless seed grow into something green & beautiful. And no matter how urban living tries to tame dirt, to pave it, cover it, obliterate it, its unbridled power cannot be entirely forgotten or erased as any metropolitan earthquake footage will tell you.  So what I yearn for, what I crave, is that balance; between brown & grey, an open field and a concrete jungle, the entwining of the city life I had and the country life I was born into.

For the soldier I caught watching the birds

14 Thursday Jun 2012

Posted by Alice Salles in Dying, Living, True story?

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

camouflage, soldiers, war

They will assume they’re quite aware of what you thought.

Reshape the content and alter the tone without shifting the words. They will use that shot of your weary eyes and mention how fine you looked when you smiled. They will tell your story in a matter-of-factly format and use your rise and fall to illustrate recent statistics. They will cry you a river and give your family two minutes of air time, run a segment on the ever-rising suicide rates and what the president has recently declared regarding such matters but they will never know what you felt like.

They will never imagine how you smiled satisfactorily the day you learned to watch the wind playing with the sand over there, across the oceans and lands you turned up to be. How you learned to use the blend landscapes to enhance the outreach of your fantasies, how you learned the camouflage in your fatigues was a joke and fighting grounds is nothing but green dots on a black screen.

They will never learn how you felt like when you heard the sound of your Skype account on and the alerts you received when your lover logged on. They can’t fathom how you managed to stay calm every time you saw your little one’s eyes blinking at yours on the screen of your laptop and how you always knew you were going to make it.

You were so sure.

They will reform you and reinvent you until your name is forgotten. The camouflage will remain a joke and the reasons behind your own private war will never be disclosed. The data locked away in the heavy safe of your aspirations will never be claimed and the things you’ve seen will stay memories no one will ever revisit.

Truth is they will assume what you thought and how you felt and sometimes they may get it almost right, but still

They will never know about the heavy peacefulness you experienced while watching pigeons fighting for bread that very day you left home to step into the abyss of somebody else’s misconception, with all the reasonable doubt in the world branded like a dark tattoo on your chest.

But I will, soldier. I’ll always do.

Image

395

13 Wednesday Jun 2012

There is a little road that stretches and winds from California to Washington. It travels the back bits and meanders in places that most people have forgotten about. It is quiet and heartbreaking and still, incredibly inspiring. It leaves you with the taste of hope and promise even as you try to swallow the obvious evidence of dead dreams and lives no longer lived nor remembered.

We caught the 395 in the southeastern side of Washington. I have been on this road before but this time as we traveled past farms (some well and working, others vacant and held in the past) it reminded me to hold my dreams, my love, my laugh, and my ever-wondering poetic thoughts; to hold them. To pull them close to me. To look at them and to believe in them. As we curled through Oregon in the rain and the rolling green hills became mountainous and covered in trees, I looked for deer and I thought about all the people who had been here. Had traveled here specifically.

I want to know these people. I want to know their courage. I want to know their hearts. On the 395 there are people still living simply. I want to believe that they are happy. I need to believe that they are happy because one day, I want to live simply too.

As the road brought us through the dry golden fields of Northeastern California and into Nevada, I could see the climate change but the spirit—that quiet, humble, strong spirit—prevailed.

Posted by Aubrey Anne Dickinson | Filed under Living, Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Generational

12 Tuesday Jun 2012

Posted by Alisha Dickinson in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

My Mother’s mother, my Grandma Hart, is a typical woman of her generation in many ways.  She loves cottage cheese & fruit, board games and cross stich.  She makes addictive chocolate drop cookies, keeps a calendar of all our birthdays and always has chewing gum somewhere inside her beige purse.

Yet, she often surprises me, and sometimes shocks me; and I like that.  She’s prudish and private yet the raciest lingerie I’ve ever owned was a gift from her which I opened on Christmas Day years ago in front of my entire family, much to their delight.  She’s well read and cultured, a stickler with money but consistently hands over the reins of her life to the men she has married.

There’s a sneaky gypsy traveler trapped somewhere in her demure nature and having already seen all of America, she just recently went on her first trip abroad, to France, at the age of 75.  There’s more of my Mom’s wild spirit in her than either of them would like to admit, though I often see them look at each other as if unable to fathom how two such different souls were ever brought together in the first place.  I suppose though that is the tradeoff in life, the balancing act of two completely varied things, shaken and stirred, in the hopes of creating something new out of the threads of something old.  And as the cycle continues, with me and those to follow, I can only hope that those glimmers, those idiosyncrasies that make my Grandma who she is, show up somewhere down the line.

A land chosen by the Sun, until the light runs out

04 Monday Jun 2012

Posted by Alice Salles in Hollywood, Living

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

sun-kissed, Sunshine

It occurred to me that romanticism dies the second we accept reality.

To live in this world where idealism is raw fantasy could be the end of you. Some say, it could turn out to be sheer blindness; the will to only give in to apathy. I disagree. Like I do much too often.

What is this will to give in to hopelessness when all you have to hold on to is the truer root of all that is but a fantasy? The all-knowing share of your being that denies a kind of reality only meant to drag you to the abyss of all that you fear.

I walk these streets and I hear its sounds. The sun burns the thin and pale surface of my flesh with fierce cruelty. I accept it like I did once, when I first learned to let it burn without giving it too much thought and I remember,

The first time I went to a movie theater in this land I saw “Sunshine”. The first boulevard I ever walked through was Sunset. The first treetops that sheltered me stood sadly off its shoulders. I soon learned that it’s always sunny here, even when it rains. Rainbows are welcome every time the skies open broadly and pour some of its contents over this city’s dirty wounds.

The first time I learned a city never heals was when I first lived here.

Romanticism never died, it took on different names. The vein that pumps blood from my heart into these lines are no longer romantic nor realistic; they shelter the storm it seldom experiences in a bottle of wine, inside of an imaginary cellar built in the darkness of my belly.

The bottom of all truths is the kind heart few of us know but I, I know it so well.

I know its name; by heart.

Zelda Meows in French; Another Cat Story

03 Sunday Jun 2012

Posted by Aubrey Anne Dickinson in Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Zelda meows in French. She prefers the cheetah chase lounge for resting but just to be sure that she has properly dusted every piece of furniture with her soft, long fur, she rotates between them all.  Her stomach is nearly as wide as mine and she has officially been on a diet for the past two and a half years (aside from when Derek slips her sizzling bacon that she has learned to snatch less greedily and more gently).

Zelda meows in French with the pitch & tone of an old lady that has smoked the last half-century.  She meows when she wants to be fed again and when she wants to be petted and even louder when she doesn’t want to be pet. She meows when the room is too quiet and hides when it is too loud. She is eternally underfoot when you are running late and will even get a running start to leap upon your leg so that you remember that she is there.

I left Little (Big) Zelda at home this time—roadtrips with cat boxes are borderline unpleasant and it’s tough being the go between when Zelda and Derek start arguing over seats, food and me.  So she is there in our hot apartment with the fish and is probably stewing in her anger and laziness and all of her fur on all of our furniture.  And it is so lucky that Alice loves Zelda (or maybe just me) and is spoiling her with visits.

When I get back from this journey-road weary and tired- I will be working hard to bribe them both into liking me again. I will bring Zelda some Elk Jerky that hopefully she will prefer to pissing on my luggage. And Alice will get chocolate or coffee or wine. But mostly I am looking forward to giving them each these giant grizzly hugs I have here in my arms. And to hear that little big beast purr into my ears and stuff her furry face into mine.

  • Alice Salles
  • Aubrey Anne Dickinson
  • Alisha Dickinson
  • Aubrey, Alice & Alisha.

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