With the Weight of My Hand

10 08 2011

Here I am in Boston. Rain has been common this past week. And with it my mood and restlessness have shifted to reflect the storms.

When I was a kid I was mostly fearless. I think the only thing that really frightened me was my father, and ladders. My imagination ran wild freely, with out a care of who was laughing as I traipsed about acting out some glorious epic that not even I really knew of its end. I climbed trees and vines, raced through woods, stomped through silty creek beds, and caught a variety of insects and wild life.

I would pretend some times that I had found an ancient artifact, or an old Native American encampment. I remember the way the sunlight fell through the tree canopies and created a kind of natural kaleidoscope of the sky.

Ever so often I would have the urge to run away and I would get on my bike and ride out side of the neighborhood, something forbidden by my mother, at least in by myself. I would ride and ride, feeling my breath hasten and become short, feel that piercing stick of what some call a “stitch” in my side. It was always in my right lung that it would happen. At some point I would reach a relative dead end and turn around and go home.  I thought of living out in the half assed fort that some of the neighbor kids built in a clearing in the woods. But I would eventually enter the house go to my room, and climb up into the upper part of my bed, my own personal sanctuary.

I used to beat my cabbage patch doll. I don’t know why. I would be playing and I would pretend that it got into trouble and I would spank it, but then go ape shit and take it by the legs and slam it against my loft’s floor. I would grab its shirt, grit my teeth, and like in slow motion this rage would take over and I think the only thing I ever said, was “bad” over and over and over. Its blue eyed, blonde haired, blank staring face would never change, its head always remained intact even as it bounced off the post of my bed, the wall, the railing, but especially the floor. The way the face stayed the same only made my anger grow. Eventually I would always stop. My breathing would be heavy, tears often having formed with out my knowing.

I have no idea where this rage came from. But its still inside me. Only now I don’t have the doll to take it out on. I do know that it scares me that I have this amount of anger inside of me. So much angers me. Most of it isn’t even in my control, or I’ve had very little to do with.  I feel like I have been suppressing it for so long, I don’t know how much longer I can really handle doing that. But then I’m not really sure I have a healthy outlet to release it. Sure art helps, but I’m not sure that its enough.

Maybe I just need to keep up the stream of consciousness writing, even if it does always end up in illegible swearing with the paper tearing from the weight of my hand.

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