Monday, July 20, 2015

Mr. Jones


|Tonight I was sure I heard the neighbour complain about my singing. Spray my window with their garden house. I think of my friend who always comments on how happy I get when I talk about music, my whole world lights up and jumps through my eyes.
 
Don't turn away from me, don't say words that are going to only hurt you in the end. Because me, I'm learning to fly. Don't you want to see the transformation from caterpillar to butterfly, the magic of ugly to beautiful?
 
Don't misunderstand this noise, it's my heart waking up, has your heart never awakened before, sometimes it needs to scream in order to hit the high notes and then and then, it is beautiful. Loud but beautiful.
 
Don't you want to hear my voice soar, see my heart magic. That's what I want for you, without the drugs, without the hate.
 
I guess you know we'll have to become the dream, that's the only way to face the fear.
Leave the neighbourhood behind, let them worry about the height of the grass, and the price of the land. I'll shovel and rake for you, but let me sing, for goodness sakes let me sing.
 
I listen to my heart, and I rise, like magic I rise, high into the sky.
 
Tonight I hear you whisper, as I walked by that I'm not really a writer, cause I don't get paid. And not everyone likes my pen, not everyone likes when I write.
 
Don't you realize, that mess of words, lifts me up from depression and so I keep writing.
 
Don't think I do it to impress you, to earn your money. Your kind words make my heart sing, but that's not why I write.

I write to keep up with me, you see, my heart is my own; Mr Jones
 

Wednesday, July 15, 2015

Night Mares

not my photo or picture

Just in the middle this evening. I've been coming home from work this week singing for an hour and going to bed exhausted. I have a practice, to prepare for my recording session, so I've been singing and video taping like crazy



The nightmares have become worse as the week went on, last night was unbearable. Tonight, I sang for 1/2 an hour and came out to the writing room and proceeded to journal. I needed it.



There's all this newness this year that is young and fresh: that is me following my heart, so much happiness when the child inside gets to sing, but there's a lot of the old me hanging on, because this child still needs an adult.



Writing is my adult, facing the fears of the world sinking under the water and all the boats I've come in contact with sit under the ocean, they're all parts of me.



I walk through the desert of life. I am dying of thirst, and come across a well. Excited I look in but it is poisoned and polluted. I have to choose between death and death, which way would I like to die?



The pictures on my camera are of chopped up people, in my dream I am trying to show you the pictures I took, I know they are in there, I don't remember the body parts, I don't know how they got there, how all those pieces got separated, don't know what they mean to me as a dream. I just laugh and throw the camera to the side.



Sunday, July 5, 2015

My Baby Grand


I hunt and peck the notes, like a wild child. Each note I sing with passion. So much emotion I find in my heart, in my voice, in my song.

Years ago I caught the last stringed high note, hit the pitch like a wild batter.

I rested, exhausted in body and mind. It was the kind of awkward silence felt by a stranger waiting for his curtain to rise.

I sang and sang, then fell into tiredness.

Descending into the ocean, to the plucking of the his cello, leaves on a breeze, falling among the trees.

I play the keys but no sounds. The strings of the baby grand have all been cut by garden shears, wire cutters.

In a red stemmed glass, I catch sight of my face, I lean into the droplets of sugar. Glass after glass, I know all the pain can be fixed. I just need a few new strings.

Me, the only one listening, the only one speaking, me, writing on my bed. Free, legs bent at the knees and bare feet sway in the air.
The silent baby grand leads to tunes on the laptop. My finger tips choose the letters I need.

I hear my voice again in my words. I whisper “I couldn't have done it without you...”

The baby grand sitting in the living, the glasses of wine, now I make decisions by myself, I do it, by writing, by dreaming, by myself.

It took years to buy strings and play again. I relearn the notes, from the wild children I know, I hear old patterns and start new ones.

All the while I look for the monster that cut my strings, that created the silence.

He was the one who took me to the dance, my ears cupped with his hands, saying “I couldn't have played the dance without you.”



“...But I could have done so much more.”
 

The Air The Walls


My name is Kendra. I am 5 years old. The kids at school pick at me because I'm the biggest kid in the class. They say I'm different. That's all I know. Is what other people say. I don't know I'm allowed to know myself. I research the books, and the looks in others peoples eyes and try to be who they want me to be.



I have a pony, no one else has a pony, they have each other, and I think I'm not special because I'm not like them. I don't see how lucky I am, just how distant I am. I learn to talk to the walls, to the air.



My name is Kendra, I am 10 Years. There aren't friends in my life. Only my mom and dad. When people come over I sit with the adults. The kids in my house play with each other, at parties and potlucks. I sit with my mom and her friends. Learn how to be 40. When we're not at school we're at the local shelter, another mile between me and my classmates. The adults at the shelter don't realize they're my only connection to humans. We too are different. I learn to talk to the walls, to the air.


My name is Kendra I am 40 years old. But I never survived the teenage years. The person I was, as a child, was so different than who I was at 20 and 30. It made me sick, emotional dark and sticky, tired all the time in this constant push and pull. I was told I could be anything I wanted to be, so I tired to be everything, and the person, everyone else wanted. SO I'm 40 going on 12, always 12.



So I have my favorite spot, in the sun porch, a glassed in front room that is perfect in the early morning as the sun crawls up over the corner of the house and shines pink through the window.



My favorite space has 2 cats and a piano; As I learn to love them, I learn to love myself. Like a 12 year old, over and over again; A 12 year old and her kittens.



Today I woke up and looked at my hands and my heart, I don't look at my face. I love me as I am in my imagination. I can't bear to hear other people say no to my friendship, because I am different.



Today I woke up after a long night with friends my own age, I woke up with another set of hands, another beating heart, beside me. He looked into my face and said I was beautiful and I believed him. And then he left. I talked to the walls, to the air.


My name is Kendra, my favorite is love. And I must be growing up. 40 Going on 40. I am different and that's OK.
 
I've never said that before.



Saturday, June 27, 2015

The Drops


 
 
 
I wrote during that hurricane
Wind transforming the rain
beyond the bedroom curtain
That hurricane that ripped
The foundation
that tree that collapsed
on the house roof

And I said I'm going
To see that storm
face to face
step
into the eye of the hurricane
collect it's raindrops
for my album
Beside the pictures
of us


Ohh I love the storms
that pull us to our knees
and show us our souls
in the rusty chrome
Show me my soul
my reflection
Show me that soul
in my collection
of rain drops
from the hurricane


Friday, June 26, 2015

Baby


The baby sat in my living room. Played like a child, hunted and pecked the notes, but each note sang with so much passion. So much emotion learning to find in my heart. I caught the last stringed high note, three days ago, hit all the notes. I was so strong, I held that song in my hands, in my throat like power, I would be back soon.
 
For two days I rested, exhausted in body and mind. It was the kind of awkward silence felt by a stranger before the curtain rises; planning my own recording session. When I sing and sing and then fall in tiredness.

I fall descending into the ocean, like the plucking of the cello, like leaves on a breeze. Falling among the trees. Some of the strings of the baby grand have all been cut by garden shears and wire cutters. Now I walk a different path, fly me above all I've chosen. Show the future to me. Show me where this is leading
 
The baby sitting in the living room, a red stemmed glass. In it I caught sight of my face, I lean into the ripples of sugar. Glass after glass, I know all the pain can be fixed, I just need a few new strings. I whisper “I couldn't have done it without you.”
 
Here I am, a million miles a way; Me the only one listening, the only one speaking is me, writing on my bed. My bare feet, free, bend at the knees and sway in the air. The silent baby grand leads to tunes on the laptop. My finger tips choose the letters I need to bring my voice back to life.

I catch my voice. Catch it while it runs in the other direction. It's relearning the notes, from childhood, from my early 20's. It hearing old patterns and starting new ones.

The baby grand sitting in the living, the glasses of wine. Now I make decisions. By myself, that I regularly wouldn't be able to make, by myself. I do it, by writing. By dreaming, By myself.

For two weeks I look for the monster that cut my strings, that created the silence, that took me to the dance but held my ears with his hands, and said “I couldn't have made it to the dance without you.”

I couldn't have done it without you but I could have done so much more.

Rise me high above the ocean, Rise me high above the trees, Take me up above the paths I've chosen.
Show my future to me. Tonight I caught one last high note, fell to the ground, and stood back up again.




Monday, June 22, 2015

(That's Me)

I was walking to work this morning, putting myself down. "Oh look the car stopped for the ugly fat girl." (That's me.) "Oh look the man crossed the road so he didn't have to be on the same side as the ugly fat girl." (That's me.)

And then I realized that it was very nice for that car to stop. He wasn't yelling those words out his car window. I was the one using them. And that man crossing the street, lived, or at least was visiting, that house he crossed the street to get to.

Yep those were MY voices in MY head.

Although a very confident person, I'm shattered by, and always am at war with, the negatives in my head and my heart. I think I have magic powers that I can see into someone else's mind and hear their voices telling me I'm ugly. Watching their eyes dodge me, I know what they're thinking.

(That's me.) Those are just my own troubles in my own head. Sure some of them may be real. But the only one saying those things is me.

I'm the one poisoning my own heart and soul. Why? Because I don't want the world to think, I think, I'm pretty, when I'm not. I want them to know, I know my place, but that I'm good in other ways. I want people to know, I know, my voice isn't perfect, my body's not perfect. I need me to remember this, to remember my place.

That's me.

Not anymore, I'm peeling away the layers of me, that hate me, and replacing it with love.