Sudden spring wind


The pragmatic asthmatic relaxed into the dance, the shimmy shammy prance, the collective breath. The pragmatic asthmatic learned to meditate, to breathe into his third eye, his fourth eye, his belly button and his nebulizer. The pragmatic asthmatic is nebulous in his desires, his tendencies tender, blenderized, repressed and released from their straight jacket cover. He lives in a puddle of hope, the asthmatic pragmatic, the empresario, the unlikely lothario, the man whose breath is short but whose shadow is long. There are times when the difference between calm and comatose is muddy; he looks into the murky waters and they are shallow, shallow and guarded, a familiar habit whose resolution could jeopardize the expectations of the masses, and this is how graves are dug.

Get out a shovel, get out a pick, get out a set of orders, a tuxedo stored in lavendar sachet. Splash, I am an aqua velva man, says Sugar, sweet and barbed and brown. Sugar lives in a disco universe, percolator blurping, mirror ball twisting in dance halls, rectories, refracting, reacting, acting, profilacting. We have doubts, hesitations, regrets, returns, we have return addresses that are no longer there. Did you know that? You will send the cavalry out to rescue the distressed players of your past, and they will no longer be at that venue.

Stand on the avenue and hand out flyers; rewritten play holding auditions in fingers splayed open, dance running like sand and covering your fingers, your belly, the soles of your feet. Nancy Drew auditions for a role; so does James Bond, the Nancy Boys, the Clancy Brothers, and the Oliver Twister Sisters. There is room for all of them; you know this to be true and so you make a pot of beans and collard greens and invite them in to write, rehearse and sing. They have fencing battles with potstickers and potliquor, and announcements are posted on telephone poles and coffee shops and oxygen bars where asthmatics wheeze and elephants sneeze and this is a turbulent time.

It’s time for gravity and antimatter and Auntie Maggie and Auntie Macassar, and the two make chai for the masses, the clams and the teachers – the geoducks challenge the continental divide, and the continent does then divide and conquer. The croquet set reaches out, goosenecks grab a sweet meat, so tender, so tenderized, held and cradled and memorized. There’s a place in this world for deliberate nonsense, for accidental sense, for labels and for white out late at night.

White out, night out; a full moon only illuminates what it shines upon. I saw a cow and a spoon and dish, I saw a moon and a spoon of raspberry preserves. The crumpet dreams buttery hot dreams of jam and cream and wakes up blushing. The rushing wind calls upon us; the silenced wind sits suddenly still and we sitting in its wake are shaken, light blankets in March, hanging on a clothesline, April calling from across the field. Fool, no nebulizer needed here, no gasping shortness, no empty field. Fielded, flooded fields full, watered, impregnated, saturated, sated with spring.

(quick write – 20 minutes. needs an image. more later.)


5 Responses to “Sudden spring wind”

  1. 1 Tek April 6, 2009 at 10:03 am

    found myself bouncing in a rhythm to this, odd rhythm but bouncing nonetheless.

  2. 2 Teresa April 6, 2009 at 9:49 pm

    Thanks, Tek. It has a jittery rhythm, like clothes blowing on a clothesline. It is sooo windy here this time of year.

  3. 4 Wendy Ibrahim April 11, 2009 at 10:41 pm

    Teresa, I think your writing is jewel-like, incandescent. I didn’t know that you have a love of words as much as I do. But when I read a book, it is the characters that I love. Sometimes after I read a book I cry, because a character in the book has been in my life for a short while and when I finish the book, he or she leaves and I feel like I’m losing a very dear friend. I know that this sounds sentimental, but I know
    I’ll never find the likes of Leopold Bloom again! But enough about me. Once again, I think your writing is beautiful, rhythmic, and as utterly unique as you are yourself.

  4. 5 Teresa April 13, 2009 at 11:33 am

    Thanks for the kind words, Wendy. Most of these little stories and prose poems are written in my weekly writing group, which is informal and highly improvisational. It’s funny the things we have to say when we get out of our own way, isn’t it? You may want to look into Natalie Goldberg’s books if you find yourself interested in the freewrite process; she’s a good teacher and is frequently in Santa Fe for group work. Thanks again – feel free to keep reading, there’s more every week.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 52 other followers

Blog Stats

  • 165,315 hits



April 2009
« Mar   May »