The clock calls: ITS TIME
And I turn into
A wrinkly aging pumpkin
One that has no more use
Except to rot in an attic
Of some has-been shop
With fashion that has long ago ceased to be fashionable
I, too, will parish like an old newspaper
And future generations wouldn't even know what I was
Or that I was
Maybe a descendant long from now
Will reach to the attic
Dig up the old written words
And imagine a person such as myself
A great great great grandmother
That was hardly great at all
Just a human that breathes until it stops to
Just a human obsessed with living forever
Knowing tragically well that fairytales don't come true
Just a human
With organs and blood and failures
And skin that sags and voice that cracks
Just a human
*Feeling responsible or regretful for a perceived offense, real or imaginary. Can be part of the grief reaction.
This can totally be a cultural thing or a familial thing... oh, hi Jewish mom! But guilt is a feeling I know very well... And most of the time it is due to imaginary circumstances. I often feel responsible and regretful for things I actually haven't done, or words I didn't actually say. Go figure why and why so often I feel that way. In any case - I find guilt to be crippling, imprisoning, and as an old mentor of mine once said: "Guilt is a useless emotion." Some times I even feel guilt for simply existing. 'Existential guilt'. Meaning, I cause harm or offense by simply existing. How USELESS is that!?
Do YOU relate? Do YOU find guilt to be useless? And if not, what uses does guilt have for you? For me, I think guilt keeps me from making mistakes, because I am already consumed with the emotional consequences of making one. But then again... I am human and do and will make mistakes regardless of my purest intention not too.
So... useful or not - guilt is a HUMAN emotion.
Oh, to be a teen again: to crush on, to make out with, to stay up all night and gossip, to try things for the first time, to slam doors, to compare myself to others, to smoke, to fuck around, to look forward to adulting, to think the world is something that it is not, to know everything.
They say youth is wasted on the young.
'They' are right.
From the peek of my current age, my adulting years, my not-at-all teen years... my teens feel so far away. I suddenly notice how evolved I have become since then. How introspective I have become. And yet also how much more fearful. The chutzpah I had as a teen, the careless recklessness - those are long gone, and replaced by fear, guilt, shame. Being an adult is a DRAG. NOBODY actually likes it! Oh, to be a teen again and for once - own the world again. If only.. in a dream...
I took a break.
After two years and nearly three months of daily blogging, I took a break and disappeared for the past sixteen days. Sixteen days of a void. Sixteen days of stress. Sixteen days of loneliness. Sixteen days of missing this part of myself. Sixteen days of suffocating in overwhelm. Sixteen days of anxiety. Sixteen days of longling. Sixteen days of not being myself because writing is my sanctuary. Writing is my drug. Writing is my lover. My first love, my only love, my forever love. I took a break from my love and I broke. I took a break from loving myself and I disappeared. Where was I? In a dark abyss of nothingness. Of lack. Of no connection. Of sorrow. Of death. A little death. But not the good kind. This was the rough kind. The kind made in horror films. The kind talked about it therapy rooms. The kind that brings about the sad realization that I am in fact a mortal and will leave nothing in this world when I'm gone. A kind of death to creativity - the only source of life I know. The only language I speak. The only friend I have. I broke and died a little inside, and outside. The wrinkles deepened because they had no escape. The feelings simmered because they had no outpour. The agony expanded because I am an addict and I didn't get my fix.
What are you in the mercy of?
To me, it's writing. I am writing's bitch. I'm writing's slave. I'm writing's weapon.
And if I don't show up I get scolded.
If I don't show up I get beat up.
If I don't show up - I die.
Whatever you are in the mercy of - don't neglect it.
When the eyes close
And the heart expands
Beat by beat
Is to be
After years of living
In the blatantly
Rude mundane existence of
Life is a quest for
In those little moments
When the eyes close
And the heart expands
And the breath keeps us keeping on
Despite the brash reality
Do not die when you are awake
Just do not live a life of death
Like so many drifters
Fading in the wind
Letting time pass
Until the end comes chasing.
Find peace in life
Live on while you are alive
There is no other way
Pain on earth
Suffering of the heart
Loss and famine and guilt
There is peace
If only we seek it
If only we greet it
If only we weave it.
Be at peace
Be with peace.
Hence the words:
Rest in peace.
Above all homes
And 5 star hotels
And the ditches
And the house on the prairie
There is only
One place I’d like to live in:
They know that prison is only in the mind
And so is home
So is home
I wear my home on my back
And in my heart
The mind stores my prison
One doesn't know home
Until they leave it.
A woman walks on stage, holding a map.
MEREDITH: Excuse me, porfavor… um, I… do you speak English? Yes, okay gracias, obrigada, great, good, bien. I am looking for the deserted house. The carriage house? The one by the river.. by the… duoro is it? Do you know the way? Ah! Okay, I can walk there. Ten kilometers, I can walk. Sure, sure. Good workout you know? No, thank you. I like to walk. I’ve walked since as long as I remember myself. It’s really okay. The heat is no bother. Agua? Sim. Sim. Thank you, thank you. You are very kind. Everybody I met in this town is very kind. Sweet natured, polite. Not many tourists come by here, huh? Me, I… am here to take pictures. I traveled from California, through Dallas, then Amsterdam, then Lisbon. Then took the train to the nearby town and now I’m walking. All that just to take pictures. One picture, really. You know the saying ‘one picture is worth a thousand words?’ Or something like that. So I take that one picture. And then in a magazine, someone would look at, and travel there in their mind, and maybe they’ll appreciate the beauty of nature overtaking a home. A ruin. A deserted home, overrun by wild weeds, bushes, ivy, overgrown plants, moss… People won’t travel here but if you show them a picture something happens to them. For just a moment, they enter my world for a change. They see the beauty of nature the way I see it: as overpowering, as shielding, as repairing. The only thing to repair a broken world is nature running its course. Years from now, in the future, you and I will no longer be here. Neither will this house over there, or that one, or that. But something else will grow here, morph into something. Such is the way of the world. Such of the way of the world: Build, destroy, rebuild. And so on. And so on…. Nature is a cycle and we have no control over its course. But we can do is be transported for a moment into its beauty through. Picture in a magazine. So yes, I traveled far to take this picture. And I’ll do it again as long as I am still here. For all those who long to but can’t, and for al those who overlook the beauty of destruction, and the beauty of nature rebuilding itself.
“Everywhere I go I find a poet has been there before me.”
― Sigmund Freud
Poets are the messengers of the soul. The expanders of the heart. The sailors, the gypsies, the wanderers. If I would want to belong to anything, to anyone, to anywhere, it would be to belong to the poets. But belonging is such a drag. So harsh in its desperate plea. Maybe I just long to BE. Not to belong to anything anywhere. Just to be. A poem just IS and poets just ARE. And so I. Just I. Just AM.
It is said that an end is a beginning. But sometimes, an end is just an end. A brutal, burly, boiling, burdening, begrudging, brain-twisting END. The heart breaks and those pieces cannot be mended again. Perhaps some pieces will come together, over time, to create a new heart. Maybe more weathered, more weary, more weighted heart. But perhaps it can be whole again, with time. But the heart breaks nonetheless. That’s a finite futile fiery end. The tears follow and sometimes the rage. And the hand reaches to a pint of ice creams, or a bottle of wine, or some other form of escapism. If only to escape the pain of the end. But no escape changes the fact that an end is an END. An eery, elusive, emerging end that is unrepairable. Broken for good. But there is nothing good in an end. Until we are long past it, and then maybe the end from far in the future looks meaningful, moving, marvelous in its lesson. Maybe only in the future we see the end as a beginning. Of something. Of what, we do not know. We have to wallow, get lost, dwell on the end first.
Only through the tunnel we can get to an exit.
What do I learn from a life of rejections?
To keep my chin up. To stride along. To hurt, inside. To tend to the little pieces of my heart that disassemble with every NO. To sooth them, and then to go on. To go on and face those rejections, and learn to embrace them. Perhaps learn to love them. Mother them. Cradle them. Be indifferent about them, perhaps.
Who would I be, if I didn’t have the eye to see them? If I had only seen the openness I receive in this artistic endeavor years in the making. If I would turn a complete blind eye to the failures, the every day failures, the every hour failures, the life failures.
Fear of failure? I have no fear of failure. I experience failure. Each and every day as I face those rejections. But I also experience success. Accomplishment. A win. Yes, both can exist in the same time. I can fail and succeed in the same exact moment. What is the failure of the moment? And what is its success?
It seems to me that we fear success far more often, as we tend to not see it when it comes our way. We worry about what could go wrong. We dread the pressure success brings along. We hold on to it too tightly and forget to enjoy, to rejoice, to get relief. Success can offer relief - yet we don’t see it as such. We see it as a tightening. A tension. A prison of sorts.
So no, I am not afraid of failure. I live it. I breath it. I face it no matter how dark, obnoxious, FUCKED, painful, lonely it feels. I FEEL it. What I tend to shy away from is the true feeling of a win. An inner win. A real win. Of the heart, of the soul. No other win matters. No matter how the world and its social media obsessed influencers of the world and the venture capitalists and the over achievers and the golfers and the narcissist and the fearful tell you - remember: NO OTHER WIN MATTERS BUT THE WIN OF THE HEART. YOUR heart.
In April 2020, while experiencing her first ever global pandemic, Tamar Pelzig pledged to write something every day, even if it's only a word, so she welcomed to the world a daily blog to keep her creative writing wheels rolling.
Header Art: Daniel Landerman