Author Archives: kmorgan394

Today is February 4, 2015. I am alive and well.

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I have nine minutes to write something with weight. After that, it is time to get ready for work at the library.

Maybe I will write something light, something that can enter my ear, leave an imprint of sound, and then wander to the next room which is silent. The carpet needs the large sound of a vacuum cleaner. Today, I will not vacuum. Today, I will not invite anyone over. A person would sneeze and have to leave, the bottom of their soles thick with cat hair.

My soul settles on my head like a large soft summer hat. My long black hair remains visible. I am thinking of cutting my hair like one thinks to remove flowers from the top of the cake, making it lighter. My curls might have an easier time curling if they weren’t left with extra weight–the weight of long hair.

My soft summer hat is sweet in color, a pale purple. I will wear jeans and a white t-shirt with Converse sneakers after I get off work. To work, I will wear jeans and a black t-shirt with no hat and    boots. My heavy boots keep me in the library. I cannot float amidst the stack of books. I don’t want to float. I want to put the meditation book in its spot–294.34435, C4518h. There is a right spot for everything. I have learned to find the right spot in the library.

Outside the library, I drift at times, missing the chance to sit and dream from a spot that guarantees me purple skies with streaks of red; guarantees me the sight of an elephant on a leash, being pulled by a young girl with a black Mohawk, her smile as wide as my open door.

Today is January 31, 2015. I am alive and well.

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The following is an excerpt from my second book, which still remains untitled. If the blog is too long please let me know it didn’t hold your interest. Thanks.

The Dishes are Rusted with Mash Potatoes

I telephone my case manager after coffee in the morning and tell her I have dirty dogs and a dead boyfriend in my condo. She is quiet. In the pause, my goldfish has swum three circles around his glass bowl. I watch him. I count, and then feed him a pinch of food while my case manager waits for me to speak.

She sneezes.

I ask her if she is catching cold. I can hear her smile as she says no, relieved that I have changed subjects. I’m certain she thinks my mind invented false things, a momentary glitch that my medication has not coated in pink; Pepto Bismol for the brain.

I tell her again that there are dirty dogs and a dead boyfriend in my condo.

“Now,” she says, “what can you do for the dogs?”

“Wash them, I suppose.”

“Do you have shampoo?”

“Apple scented,” I respond.

“Okay then.”

And I think, what is okay?

There are daisies littered across my floor. The dogs have dragged them in from the yard, clumps of dirt attached to their fragile roots. The dishes are rusted with mash potatoes in the sink. The drapes kiss; it is dark in my condo. I can make out the silhouette of the couch and I think to sit down rather than turn on the tub’s faucet, a move toward washing the dogs.

I have not worn shoes for four days. I have not been outside. Dust pills in little balls on my placemat; I have not eaten since potatoes on Tuesday of last week.

My boyfriend died Monday when he packed all his underwear into his suitcase, along with the rest of his clothing and left. He did not bother to shut the door on the way out, hoping I would follow him. I couldn’t bring myself to plead with him to stay one more time. I waited for blue shadows to unwrap themselves from my mind leaving me bright. I keep his towels damp, pretending he has just dried himself from his shower and is in the other room shaving.

I do not know how to tell my case manager I missed love and cried. So, I tell her he is dead.

I stil fixed coffee this morning. I told her that and she thinks I am fine because I have begun to prepare for the day. She doesn’t understand that preparation is no longer enough. So I hang on the phone with her, wishing I could ask her to come feed me strawberries and black beans, hoping she might have my life ready.

I threw pennies in the wishing pond that is slowly being drained and I don’t know how to tell her otherwise.

Today is January 30, 2015. I am alive and well.

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I wrote the following blog while still with Andrew. I was told Andrew would be hurt by some of the things I said, so I didn’t post it. My decision to post it now is because it’s honest.

I was the one to break up with Andrew. I love him. The decision was not easy. I won’t elaborate any further. Just know I’m in my castle again with no knight. I’m hoping to stay single for a very long time.

Blog I delayed…..

It has been a great deal of time since I last blogged. I have been  engrossed with Andrew. He has been spending the night with me on my twin bed. I have rolled out of bed twice. I find this funny. It would be not so funny if I broke something. And then, Andrew says I snore, so he has been leaving the bed for the couch where I originally thought he was going to sleep.

I don’t think being engrossed with someone for a long period of time is very healthy. It robs me of my chance to “follow my bliss,” which is writing and reading; two things I do in solitude. Both things take large junks of time.

Andrew asked me recently if I liked being in a relationship. I said yes. But the truth is, I don’t know. I still pine for Guy even though he utterly, I mean utterly betrayed me. And I often pine for time alone. Don’t get me wrong, time with Andrew is fun and we are both very loving toward each other.

It is still winter. I am wearing coats the I bought for Guy. My hands get lost in the sleeves. There is something comforting in losing my body to cotton.

I watched two pigeons dance a jig on the sidewalk. Can pigeons really carry notes from one person to another? I would send two notes, one saying “please don’t stop loving me” and the other saying “please just give me time.” One to Guy and one to Andrew. I would let the pigeons decide which went to whom. Funny to put love in the beak of a bird. I somehow trust the randomness of this. Maybe both notes should go to the same person.

The sun rose today and robbed me of sight; robbed me of intuitive sight. The glare of truth bounces off my living room window. All I know is that right now I am at the keyboard. Grams and Annie are curled up together in a chair on my left. I am not clear on who to love and how. Thank God I don’t need to make that decision today.

I don’t mean to offend anyone with this blog. Maybe honesty is sometimes overrated. I don’t know.

Today is January 27, 2015. I am alive and well.

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I haven’t been psychotic for a very long time; at least not hospital psychotic. My days can be filled with the voices only I hear, but I ignore them and don’t follow through with the things they tell me to do. They are random, these things, and never kind.

I have not been paranoid recently. I am able to get in my Fore-Runner, knowing it won’t blow up when I turn the ignition on. I am able to throw trash down the trash chute, trusting that I haven’t thrown my keys or cell phone down there also. Little paranoias. They’re not catching me like bees to honey.

I leave my house. This freedom is like throwing open my closet and choosing a pair of pants. Do I go straight for the blue pair, look right for the black pair, or left for the gray pair? Going backward without choosing is no longer an option. Backward has become the single sock in my drawer; I have no use for it. This freedom is like a slice of American cheese melted on wheat, very specific, very driven. Once I know where I am going or what I am doing, everything falls into place, even if I have yet to discover where I am going and what I am doing….then I eat the American cheese and leave the wheat for later.

Freedom is also not being afraid to drive forty five minutes to the hospital to visit Victor, who had open heart surgery yesterday. I will try and not be afraid to park and leave my car. I will find it when I return to it, like finding the ice has frozen in the tray in the refrigerator. All is where it’s suppose to be, to include my parked car which I will find with easy effort….I hope. Ha.

Sheila, Victor’s wife and my dear friend, tells me he is doing fantastic. He’s already sitting in a chair. I take it for granted that I can sit in a chair. Maybe it is more appropriate to feel blessed that I can easily sit in a chair, all kinds of chairs.

I’m looking forward to today. My mind is clear. My toes all bend.I have two hands and ten fingers. Magic. All is magical.

Today is January 9, 2015. I am alive and well.

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How intimate do I want to be with God? Answer, very. I want to trust that all that is placed in my path is meant to bring me back to the front door. I want to know that after going left for several days, I will go right again.

There are many kinds of bushes. Some are simply more familiar to me in the desert. They require little water. I, on the other hand, require much water. My cup runneth over all the time. The water slaps at the side of my glass. I drink heartily from the tap. It is not just bottled water that I drink.

Religion does have its place. It brings many people to God. It brings many people to faith. Many like the choir singing “Amazing Grace.” I would mention another hymn, but I don’t know of any. I don’t know of religion. I am without a church. This is neither good nor bad.

I feel free of buildings. Walls cannot contain me. The breeze is crisp like a leaf of refrigerated lettuce.

There are many stones to hold in my palm. The weight of them is heavier than a hundred dollar bill. I may want for money, but somehow the bills are always paid with enough left over to buy an ice cream sundae.

I love God. I love the hats that God wears, and that if I put on two different socks, God still smiles at me. There is room in my heart for miracles, mine and the person who stands beside me at the bus stop.

Today, it is a miracle that I’m not stashed away in some psychiatric hospital. It is a miracle that I’m not drunk and begging at the corner, liquor slopped down the face of my shirt.

I rest today knowing there are daisies. The colored kind, not just white with a yellow centers. I am exposed to all kinds of moons. And the sun, although it stays the same, feels fresh each afternoon at noon.

Grams and Annie, my baby girl kittens, sleep against me as I write this. I am at peace today. The world is large and safe. I can dash from one door to the next, but often catch myself is a slow walk, heel toe, heel toe. Dear God, be with me. I will talk with the stranger on the elevator, wishing her a good day. I will go to bed with a clean mind and a heart filled with petals. The night will move on and I will again awaken to a new day. Grams and Annie purr.

Today is January 8, 2015. I am alive and well.

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I bought a light bulb for the hall. A very specific light bulb. It cost me $16 from the neighboring grocery store. I thought, well maybe the hall can stay dark like Barbara who tans in the tanning booth. But then the booth has multiple lights that make Barbara dark.

Is that how it works? Multiple lights farm darkness? Blink and the light is gone. I’m left to find the kitty litter scoop in the dark, the light quiet.

The whole grocery trip was $88. Paper products, paper towels and toilet paper, are expensive  as they should be. The trees in the forest have value. Their value is changed once the lumber jack takes his saw and gives the tree a short hair cut which will remain until death. Never again will the tree provide shade for the hiker or a home for the squirrel. Back to the value of the dollar; $15 bucks will buy you paper towels and toilet paper.

The additional $58 bought yogurt and almond butter. Almond butter is a luxury; it is double the price of peanut butter. The money also covered lettuce, ham off the bone, sponges, and hand soap. I successfully followed my list.

Without a list I get lost in the granola aisle; I get lost in the cereal aisle. The boxes call to me. It is loud chatter as there are many different boxes. The last time I bought cereal was at age ten. I remember Bruce Jenner, the Olympic gold medalist in the triathlon, on the Wheaties box. Now, forty years later, Bruce Jenner is fading into womanhood. Who would have  thought a gold medalist would change genders? Not many. I think it caught plenty of people by surprise. To Bruce I say, “be who you know you should be.”

Be who you know you should be, I tell myself. I am a writer with a boyfriend and the boyfriend has been coming first, that’s why it has been so long since I blogged. So today, I am first a writer so happy to be back on track, the dusty track there to decipher.

Today is December 20, 2014. I am alive and well.

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It is important to write moon, write sun, write day. The day begins when the moon tires and the sun magnifies ants.

I smell wood burning. Even in Arizona there are fireplaces. It is a chilly 60. I have yet to turn on the heat. I opt for sweaters.

Some insect has attached nests to the corners of my patio. THe nests, gray, round masses with holes in them. I would think wasp, but the nests are too small.

The ants have tunneled their way into the dirt. Do they too get cold?

The sun slips, the moon comes up. I am a lone figure standing at my bedroom window with no curtains. The dark curls around my waist. It is not dark enough that I can’t see my boots even though they are black. My reflection falls forward. I am in full view of anyone standing on the sidewalk outside my window. I do not worry about this. Why no worry? What is one to do with the sight of a lone figure…continue walking.

It has been a day filled with silent conversation I manufacture on my own. I drink water in between periods. End the sentence and say goodnight. I will sleep to the patter of feet on my bed kneading their way to nowhere. Eventually, the cats will settle down. I want for nothing. The moon is nice, is calming. It will tire again and I will have a new day in which to eat French toast; heavy on the syrup. I want for nothing.

Today is December 17, 2014. I am alive and well.

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Before I begin, I want to say happy Chanukah to all those that celebrate this holiday.

As a young girl, I use to climb trees and dream that I was orphaned and being raised by monkeys. A thick branch of tree held my small body. The tree was in the front yard of my Grandparent’s home. Grass coated the lawn. I watched my sisters play in a side bar of the lawn that was muddy. They were making dishes. Shape the mud and let it dry. Viola, you have a bowl. I had no desire to play with them.

The craving of alone-ness would follow me into adulthood. My friends understand that I have to drift away from conversation and coffees to spend time alone in my room for hours with Grams and Annie my only company.

During this time, I read, write, and dream. I will admit that some of my dreams are of posterity. It is tiring to live paycheck by paycheck. I was in Macy’s the other day, and got depressed. Not being able to shop is like a cat wanting catnip from a ball that has no holes; the best they can do is bat it around and wish. The most I can do is try on clothes, admire them,wish, then return the shirts to the hangers from which they came.

I just spent all the money I was going to spend on Andrew, my new beau, on Annie. Annie had an upper respiratory infection. Cat visit plus $66 for the antibiotic. I nearly sat down and tapped the floor as if summoning a genie with a pocket full of gold. Chanukah is here. I am armed with a card for Andrew. I give him time, which I hope is a gift.

Happy holidays to all. May the New Year bring everything you dreamed of creating or having.

Today is December 7, 2014. I am alive and well.

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My poetry and experimental writing doesn’t go over too well. It’s safer to say “I ate a bowl of soup flavored with garlic. The garlic overwhelmed the smell of burnt toast; the toast something I was going to dip in the soup. The warmth of the soup burnishing my cheeks with its heat livens me.”

I love to be livened. I love to live in joy. Pat recently asked me what brings me joy. First to mind, I said “my kittens, Grams and Annie.” After that, I was stumped. I feel like I live in joy a great deal of the time. It’s an electricity that begins in my toes, pulses up my body and exits my mouth as I breath out. Breathing in fuels the electricity, so the loop through my body begins again.

So what brings joy to my life? My friends do. I have an outstanding drop of friends who cover the entire socio-economic spectrum, who are all amazed by life, who all are empowered by love and deep spiritual beliefs. They bring me joy. Hot water in the shower, a piece of red velvet cake, wind behind my ears, fit sleep, a soft shirt, shaved legs, coffee with creme brûlée and sweet n low, thick socks, clean laundry, a place to sleep, lotion covering my body, and clean hair. All these things bring me joy.

Today is December 1, 2014. I am alive and well.

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Conversations with someone other than myself……

I want to write your story. I watched as you threw your heart to the wind with your shoestrings attached. Granted the heart was made from red velvet, but it was not the shape of a child’s drawing; it was the identical shape and size to be found in anatomical books, the page pulsating when the book is closed. I listened for the message you created when your heart blew away, the laces the length of a giraffe’s tail.

Do you slice children with your eyes; mean eyes that reflect off the shine in your mind? It is this shine in your mind that keeps you vibrant. You are as vibrant as the black curls of my hair, as vibrant as the ray of sun you covet in your God box. I know that even mean people can have Gods.

Was it the dog that made you mean minded? Or did you get caught in the storm of shoppers on Black Friday? Crowds can have bad effects on people even though all you have to do is step sideways out the door to avoid the mad rush.

Which meat of the turkey do you like, white or dark?

Do you believe your heart can be saved? The shopping did take it out of you; pulled any gentleness right from your heel. You waited in long lines when all you wanted was a single candle stick for prayer. It was not the grocery store. There was no express line for fifteen items or less. And the woman ahead of you insisted on digging for change. You wanted to grab her purse and fling it to the ground. A couple of pennies may have rolled out.

I want to write your story. Know yourself, and you will know the universe. I am the stranger who holds your heart without one bloody thorn. I am the ghost who plagues shoppers with credit cards. I consume the world and the world pretends interest. I can live my spiritual truth while walking in the world. I offer you raspberries. I offer you milk. I offer you sugar. Tonight, there will be new bed sheets. Soft rather than crisp; they will mold to your body. Your alarm clock is set for six a.m. Your story begins with a flutter of your lashes as you awake.