I am thinking today about little bullets of joy. They are as rare as a drive-by of love, but when they puncture your very core … ah, the joy. The orgasmic, icing-topped, oozing jelly donut joy of it all. These bullets have lost their way to me in recent months, and I to them … my current inability to write a poem … let’s call that a bullet-proof vest shielding me from joy. And there’s fear, but I am now willing to take a risk knowing how that it can be deeply detrimental … knowing now there’s a chance it could be an all-out showdown of joy, my skin bullet-riddled with joy.
This photo is of my parents on their honeymoon in Niagra Falls. I get my curvy form and my walk from my mother and much of everything else is from dad and his family. My mom and dad are really living dichotomies — my mother so open and my father so closed. I am a peppering of both of these things — openness being slightly more terrifying in its implication of risk. It is at first easier to be closed, but it takes its toll.
I am beginning right this second to realize that I should take these emotional risks I fear so much … I tend to feel badly anyway and risk would either give me a reason to feel badly or it could lead me straight into the warm arms of joy. I have to consider this … the words need to come both from my mouth then from my pen. But from my mouth first. Sometimes my mind feels like the crazy guy in the barrel rolling down Niagra Falls.
But chance can lead me straight into the warm arms of joy … stray bullets … the crosshairs of chance.