She has stars in her eyes...

untitled

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Thu, 05 May 2011 07:20:00 +0000

what do you want from me i want to ask,
as we drive and attempt to be as we were,
before you broke it all

we spend the day doing what you want and I realize,
I am doing it to hold on
I am desperate for your leftover time and attention
because I miss you so
my eyes are opened over a meal that falls far from what I had imagined this day would be

I have a fire burning but I need to pass the torch on,
because running away or running to you it doesn't matter
it consumes me
and I want freedom

in your arms there used to be safety,
but now there is too much of all I fear-
uncertainty
broken trust
no remorse
and pain like shards of glass beneath my foot

I've been discarded

I wait for the words I dread most-
goodbye I've met someone
she's perfect,
I'm happy,
then this light will burn out and leave me cold

there is a moment where I feel the dying ember spark,
with a flutter of remembered comfort
the truthful, intimate heart you showed
in unexpected moments,

comfortable and familiar
laughter makes my sides ache and I remember how it was
your hand brushes mine,
and I want to ask you as we sit,
thigh to thigh, beer in hand

what do you want from me?

Ellipsis-

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Sun, 20 Feb 2011 23:42:00 +0000

You could cover the distance if you wanted.

It's only a few steps,

just a small breath between us.

But what you see, stretches and drops,

a canyon wide,

and threatens to swallow us whole.

We stop at this ellipsis-

It's appearance halts us,

and we are cartoons hanging over the valley,

moments before the sudden drop.

the pause,

before falling

It's just one thought,

one word,

that would fill the awkward silence,

that's become miles long.

You could sigh a small sigh,

reach your hand across this small space,

a heartbeat long,

that in the quiet gap of every rhythmic thud,

stretches,

endless again.

Nimiyou'ayan. I am fine.

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Sat, 06 Feb 2010 18:52:00 +0000

I wrote this in November on my journal, but as it pertains to writing, I thought I would repost it here.

I've been thinking about things. Faith, lack of faith, words, writing, love, sex, touch, staring at the sea that goes on and on and on and feeling my feet firmly planted in the sand, my home, my heart, the air that sustains me.
It's all a jumble in my mind and the words are edging into my periphery, forcing their way out, running through me over and over. It is time. These times come infrequently, but they still come, and they don't last forever, and so I know that I can't ignore it, I must write. These are the times where words and thoughts and sensations and inner voices battle over each other in a push to get out, onto paper, into logical formation to tell a story. Their story. The characters who lurk in my inner parts, waiting for me to embrace them, pick them up, dust them off, let them speak. I hear them, I see the words, like light and air and sound all as one billowing, endless form.

I am thinking about waves. The sea that I can never leave is such a part of my core, who I need to be, who I refuse to suppress. I feel the need to go away. Alone. Just me, and these characters and lovers and family and past and present and future. I feel a calling to run away, plant my feet on the sand, lift my face to the wind and breathe deeply, letting it flood through me, that air that only those who live by the sea and love it can understand. It is these times that I am purged and made new.

Other things that have running through my brain and heart are in the form of inner drumbeats. I am becoming more and more in touch with my heritage and what it means to be from a culture that values their elders and the wisdom that is passed down, and a culture that respects the world and environment around them, treating it with reverence. I feel the calling of the mystical, magical wonder that is ingrained in my culture. Oddly enough my people are not from the sea. They are plains people, nomadic, hunters. But the sea is in me regardless. Two halves. One complete, living and breathing self with a Métis heart and the sea a cradle for my soul.

So I've been thinking about things. And not thinking about things. Some things so pressing on me like a weight that threatened to drown me, are no longer burdening me. Maybe it is denial and avoidance, or maybe right now it is the sights and sounds and smells and words that continue to roam about my brain. They want out. I have things to say, there are characters who need a voice. And only I can give it to them. I am coming into a writing stretch again, and I don't know how long it will stay, but ignore it I can't. I feel my brain begin the opening and stretching wide to embrace and release words. I mustn't let the window close.

There is peace and there is no peace. My faith is non existent at the moment and I am not sure why. Maybe as I follow this path to the end answers will come. Words have always been easier for me written down. As have feelings. Maybe my faith needs to be explored this way. Or maybe this unsettling sense of being alone in the universe while others have such a deep relationship with the creator is a season in my life. I don't feel sad, or disappointed, angry or abandoned. For now. I don't feel anything. Ambivalence is a dangerous path I know, so I will step carefully, and let these words out. And maybe I will find my way back into God's arms. And maybe I will discover a way to let this jumbled, pressing and beautiful need stay a constant and steady part of my life, because I miss it. I really do.

And as I think about these things; work, love, family, lovers, touch, music that moves me, sights that thrill me, sensations that flutter through me in a vibrating swirl of activity, my heart will expand and grow and the characters who seek freedom will break out from their hidden places. And words, the words that wake me from a dead sleep or stop a thought or chore with their sheer weight and importance, I will write them down. Even if it is on scraps of paper, or in my journal, or in a sentence, paragraph or poem. This is how it is with me, always has been. The weight of a word, leads to a whole entire voice. If I don't ignore it, or push it away.

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 17:58:00 +0000

Floor

I like the way the sun lights the floor in patches

worn, warm wood

marks and scuffs telling a story,

of who's come before me

It's like finding bits of paper

with words and scribbles,

meaningless to me

but a secret glimpse into someone's life

and thoughts

10:30- meet Joan

paper towel, peanut butter, eggs

I love him but he doesn't feel the same...

like graffiti under my feet and fingers,

it tells so much

t.l. temreck

days of hunger

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 22:44:00 +0000

it's not about love

the subject of songs and poems,

declarations made publicly

with broken hearts laid wide

it's too subtle to put down

in such common,

overdone ways

in fact I'm not even sure if love is the right word

a word so over used as to become meaningless

how do you pen the act

of sowing, weeding,

plucking each small, perfectly ripened fruit

written upon the heart?

that which nourishes in times of plenty,

gives rise to celebration

and jubilance,

and when full up with these fruits,

we can sigh

sit back in the warm glow of satisfaction,

sunlight fading in splendid bursts of colour

how do we give word to that which,

when missing,

leaves a hollowness vast as the prairie field,

cold as a long winter

this stuff of intangible nourishment

necessary,

but often mistreated,

taken in fits of gluttony

held onto in a sort of preparation,

for days of hunger

and drought

we no longer see the connection

of body to soul to earth

it's not about love

that would be too easy

to blame the empty ache,

on a body devoid

of this intangible nourishment

t.l. temreck

these days

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 18:20:00 +0000

it was a slow, tangled heap of days
of grass under feet,
sprinklers
in a steady hiss hiss hiss,
that showered us as we shrieked, and collided,
on slipping wet lawns
it was days of skinned knees,
mosquito bites,
and dares to ride our bikes to the end of town and back,
without getting caught

the slow drip of a sticky popsicle,
down the inside of our arm
sunburns and swimsuits,
still wet from the day before,
as we race to the community pool:

marco,
polo

sun filtering through the water as we sit on the bottom,
eyes burning, noses plugged

these splendid days stretched before us so long,
that by September,
we craved the return to school and new pencils

now,
I see the days pass so quickly,
that I avoid the calendar
the end of July comes, passes,
and I just want to sit while dusk approaches,
listen to the familiar sounds of summer
the tastes and smells and days,
of salty skin and ocean tides,
of warm pools we sat in and watched,
as bullheads skittered around us

those slow tangled heap of days
were fleeting seconds
disguised as months

t.l. temreck

Something I wrote while in NZ

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 01:07:00 +0000

Aortearoa

The weight of this stone in my hand,
smooth, cool and nearly transparent
lies heavy in my palm
thousands of years of waves
have pushed and pulled against the ocean floor
each grain of sand and salt
rubbed years of raw mineral,
volcanic and glacial rubble
to sit so softly

a perfect coolness
in my palm.

Tracie Temreck

untitled

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 01:06:00 +0000

We stand, lips touching, fingers entwined and I'm leaving
Touch, the only voice we have right now,
in this leaving
Lips, heat, electricity,
and I'm leaving
all I ever needed
lips, hands, heart,
breaking
But for now,
lips touching, bodies close
hands palm to palm,
is the hanging on

Tracie Temreck

More About The Sea

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 01:04:00 +0000

the sea is in me
a rhythm,
at my core
I move with the tides
lower
higher
until I have comsumed those around me
as the moon begins it's steady pull
and the water releases it's grasp on the shore,
all the tides across the planet
converge,
so then,
does my grasp slip
I am distanced,
from those who stand
hands outstretched
I am in the centre of her pull,
held tightly in her clutches
this sea that pulls my heart across the waters
to a place so far
I try to free myself,
pour myself onto the shore
lie down in surrender,
but like being entwined in the kelp,
I cannot come back,
until she deems it
as the moon resumes her orbit and the magnetic hold is released,
I am tossed free
and so continues the rhythm

Tracie Temreck

Cheap Shoes

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 01:02:00 +0000

Today
in cheap shoes and a warm coat,
a cup of coffee hot against my palms
I sit still and wait for an answer in the falling leaves,
the squeak, squeak, squeak,
of the swing at the park
or maybe,
like the whisper of a lover's breath
as it warms my ear
I will understand
by how it feels,
just right
for now,
in my cheap shoes,
I feel worn
like my soles,
and uncertainty
is my winter coat

Tracie Temreck

Seeds

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 01:01:00 +0000

The seed that unfurls tendrils within my veins
spreads it's roots,
is bitter
day by day I pluck,
weed,
mow down it's stubborn buds
but one will escape unnoticed
until I feel it's choking,
tangling,
vines
and I fume, rage, claw at it's darkness
wanting to shred it from my body
but sometimes it takes death by fire
to obliterate this bitter flower

Tracie Publish PostTemreck

Seagrass

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Wed, 19 Dec 2007 23:44:00 +0000

It is the rustle of seagrass bending towards the hot sand
that nudges me into place a place I only remember in dreams
a distant memory,
you rising above me, your touch a whisper that elicits a sigh
the sound of your feet on the sheets as you slide next to me in bed

I remember salty skin pressed tightly against the sudden cool of water
a shocking rise of goosebumps
you hold me as we sway with the waves,
the softness of flesh meeting bone as our legs entwined
my breathing matches the rise and fall of the waves,
of your heartbeat against my ribcage

it is the gust of hot summer air that that tugs me into that dream place
where you are lying next to me,
your voice in my ear is hot and moist
as familiar to me as your hand mapping the rise of my hip,
following the slope of my inner thigh

but I open my eyes and I am sticky with the heat of the sun,
salt crystals form dusty rivers on my legs
I pull away from the hazy aquatic rippling
of dreaming memory

You are not here.

Were you ever,
here?

© T.L. Temreck

Strong

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 23:48:00 +0000

I am strong.
I stand tall on top of accomplishment.

I value my mind as a sharp tool
that brought me up from roots I am determined to erase.

My feelings run deep,
my heart deeper.

I know who I am,
and yet,
you can break me
with a word
a look
a subtle sneer that only I can see.

All I have made can crumble,
become dust,
with the slightest blow from you

and then,
just like a light that is switched on in the darkness
I am left stunned and blinking in the light,
and you are unaware of the ruins.

© T.L. Temreck

The Secret

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Mon, 17 Dec 2007 23:57:00 +0000

Your big secret is,
you are walking dead
and my living, breathing self
is not going to save you,
neither hero nor saviour anymore
but a heavy stone breaking the strands
of memory between us

My big secret is,
I found relief
in not having to run
and fix
because you would not let me catch you
anyway
so I surrender,
from a life filled with heartache
disguised as love

I slip into apathy
apart from you,
once a part of you
I abdicate my responsibility of
breathing life
into what is dead

© T.L. Temreck

TheTree (short story)

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Sun, 16 Dec 2007 23:51:00 +0000

“Are you acquainted with the land where the lemon blossoms bloom?” Goëthe

We sip wine in the fading light, on chairs he has fashioned from pine, and gnarled branches cut from the cherry tree outside. They are one of his recent experiments, junky, rustic cottage furniture. Twig stools, benches of rough, whitewashed wood, and tables made of old stumps, scattered through the house and workshop. The chairs dip in just the right way, a comfortable embrace.

I decided to move one of the couches and both armchairs to the shed for the summer, so the breeze can pass right through, to stir the muggy hot air. The room looks bare now, but the air still hangs heavily. Little dust balls gather in the corners of the room, usually hidden by the missing furniture. The house has taken on the appearance of a summer cabin, since I went on a furniture moving frenzy in an attempt to remove some of the heat.

I should sweep. At the least the family pictures on the walls make it look lived in, a gallery of memories. The only paintings of mine that are hanging on the walls, are those that Daniel insisted go up, his favourites, gifts to him before we were married. All of the others are lined up against the walls in my studio, awaiting gallery placement or sales.

“It’s weeping.” I say, pointing to the corner of the room.

“Huh?”

“The tree, it’s weeping.” The large drooping plant leans towards the window.

“It probably needs water. It was hot today.” Daniel gulps his wine. He refills his glass from the bottle we have chilling in a bucket of ice. “Leila, hey you okay? You seem a little anxious.” He watches me cross and uncross my legs, and I suspect that he is thinking, as he does sometimes that I am going along with our marriage just to humour him. I don’t know where he gets these thoughts; it started when we first got married, when he realized I am slow to react, not excitable. I guess my aloofness makes him crazy. Right now, I am too hot to try and say anything so I stare at the fig tree.

“Maybe I should water it.” But I make no move to get up. “You know, I’ve always hated that plant, but it keeps growing. It needs a new pot every year. I’m sure it will need to be planted outside soon. Isn’t it terrible that I keep hoping it’ll die?” I sip my wine, lift a hand to my hair, and push a damp strand behind my ear. Daniel says that without the gold studs I wear, naked of them my ears seems somehow fragile. He notices things like that, and he says that I’m the artist.

When I was twelve my parents unexpectedly divorced. They never explained why. I don’t blame them now for how I am; I did at the time though. I made it difficult for them, was a stone. Sometimes I paint myself into frenzy, and am unaware of days passing, weeks even. I wonder if he notices this or is just used to it. At those times in the exhausted aftermath I feel badly for withdrawing into myself. So I don’t wear the studs, just to make myself appear fragile, as he says, more open and vulnerable. I don’t know why, a signal of sorts, of needing to re-anchor.

“I suppose I should make dinner or something.” I say, with a toss of my hair, lifting it off my neck in a fanning motion. Still I can’t make myself move. It is hot. The kind of heat that invades the body, leaves you breathless and sweating. Sometimes I miss the mild, green and wet Vancouver where I grew up.

“I can do it.” Daniel looks at me, smiles a slow smile, the smile of when we were students at the University of Toronto. We shared more study dates that didn’t involve books so much as studying each other’s bodies. I went to Toronto to get away from my parents, from their constant need to make sure I was okay, and their need for me to relieve them of their guilt.

“Do what?” I bring my attention back to him, away from remembering adventurous trysts in the library, my dorm, times I wished I could always keep the recklessness in me. So much forgotten, laid to rest.

“Dinner.”

“Oh. No, I just don’t want to create anymore heat right now.” I gulp down some wine and press the glass against my cheek. I realize he is smiling again. “What?”

“No more heat? At all?” I kick his chair, and rest my toes on his thigh.

“None! But we do have some cold cuts and cheeses left over from the gallery show. We can make sandwiches.”

He puts his foot up on the coffee table, leans against the window sill. Neither of us wants to move. I notice the age in his hands and face, the slight beginning of a belly. His hair is completely gray, but it did that after Angus was born. He used to joke that every time Angus cried, another hair turned gray. But Angus stopped crying. Instead, he grew steadily, like a weed. Daniel complained then that he couldn’t keep up to Angus, but he always did.

The sounds and smells of being young parents, in love, every season’s distinctness I tried to capture in my paintings. There was camping, ice skating, birthdays and sneaking to the bedroom while Angus watched TV. We dreamt of when we would be alone again or grandparents, the thought was inconceivable. For awhile it was all I painted: portraits, fragments of a memory, isolated by a colour or fragrance I never wanted to forget. The lilac tree I got for my first mother’s day. I painted the tree, Daniel sitting below it with Angus running away across the grass. I painted Daniel’s feet resting up on the headboard of our bed, post coitus, a newspaper spread across the bed. But I moved on as Angus grew up. Those were paintings that were hard for me to sell. It was always an emotional loss, but sell I wanted to, so I needed to move on to something else.

I look at Daniel, his long lean legs stretched out it front of him, feet bare. I love how perfect his feet are, smooth and tanned. Not hairy like I remember my father’s, and other lovers’, hardened working feet. Daniel looks at me and reaches for my hand. Ears, feet, hands, the back of a thigh, how is it that we can love another’s body parts so much, comparing all others’ to theirs, but find it so difficult to speak of these feelings. I stand and move to adjust a picture on the wall. Angus should have called yesterday.

“Have you talked to Angus yet?” He asks, I think, almost on perfect cue.

“No he’s probably just too busy discovering the pleasures of Europe.” I think that those young girls are no match to my son’s blond charisma. Europe had been our graduation present. Our offer to see the part of the world we have only dreamt of visiting, put off until the perfect time. “Or he’s spent all his money and is too afraid to call.”

I search Daniel’s face in the light of the sunset, to see what he will say. He only smiles. “I wish he’d been more responsible with money before he left. But I’m sure there are plenty of beautiful girls willing to take him in.” He looks at the Fig Tree. “It’s losing more leaves; maybe you’ll get your wish.” A small pile of crumpled brown leaves lie in a pile on the floor.

“Maybe we should take our European trip,” I blurt out suddenly, “or maybe even a tour of Asia.” I pick at the hem of my shorts, snatched from Angus’ ‘clothes outgrown’ pile. I lift and flap the hem to cool my legs. “Don’t you think that’s a good idea? Going somewhere? Didn’t we say we would pick a different continent every year until we’ve seen the world? We’re about twenty years behind.” I feel a tightening in my gut, for the briefest of seconds. It’s an old argument.

When we first got married, we postponed our honeymoon to buy the house, believing that such a perfect house would never offer itself again, but there would be plenty of opportunities to travel later. Our house with the attic studio and a view of the lake across the road, a view to inspire art, wide wrap around porch and large bay windows. I loved the wood burning stove in the kitchen and the huge claw foot tub. I knew then when I was younger, how the Group of Seven must have felt seeing this place, painting the lake and trees, the distinct seasons, the extreme of it. I didn’t realize until later the isolation of it. Most of our neighbours are weekend cottagers. I look around, suddenly feeling the emptiness of the house and feel a panic. I will never get out of here.

When Angus was born, days of no routine or structure were gone. My days revolved around laundry, baby feedings, naps and playtimes. I painted whenever I could, at times frantic to fit it in, as though I needed to get the urge out of my system. I forgot the state of the house, leaving Daniel to tend to the cleaning. I felt as though I would lose it, or forget how to paint, and would then have to rely on words.

I began to make clippings of places I wanted to see and kept them in a shoebox. Our lives followed the pattern it fell into depending on what changes Angus was going through, and my box of clippings grew. Eventually when the shoebox grew too crowded, I made a binder with plastic sleeves that I kept on the bookshelf. Sometimes at night after making love, we planned our first big trip. When Angus was old enough, when he was in school, then when he was out of school.

“What are you thinking about?” Daniel’s voice filters through my thoughts slowly. He places a hand on the side of the ice bucket then puts it against my cheek. I close my eyes and let the cold droplets run down my cheek.

“Nothing.”

“I love how nothing with you refers to just about anything.” He smiles at me. “You’re right. Let’s go on Monday to the travel agents. We can pick somewhere to go.”

“Well we’ll have to wait until Angus gets back, and don’t you have to finish that dining room suite table? Not to mention I have another gallery show coming up. I need to be in Toronto for a week.”

“We can work around it. Angus will be back soon enough, and he wouldn’t care about having the house to himself. You’ve waited long enough.”

It sounds too good. Too simple. There are no more excuses. I remember the day I got my first cheque from my first gallery show. The money I made was supposed to be for a trip, but it went into a fund, to be used later. It was always later. The money from each sale after that slowly and steadily grew over the years. We used bits here and there for family vacations, camping, driving across the country, and once when Angus was seven, Disneyland. Now a huge chunk of it had been our gift to Angus, for his European trek. I wonder if he knows, or if like most teens feels a sense of privilege, that we owe it to him. I suddenly feel angry with my son, but quickly push it out of my head. Tell myself it is just the heat getting to me. There is no way he could know about the money, we never said anything about it.

“I remember when your paintings started to change. They became…I don’t know, otherworldly.” Daniel’s words startle me.

“What do you mean change?”

“I don’t know, they felt…sadder, like in your café scenes. You started giving them city names, or country names. I always felt it was a hint, or a reminder. I wanted to give you those places so badly. It always amazed me how you captured the essence with never having been there. I guess I convinced myself that describing the places in paintings was good enough. But you weren’t satisfied with that were you?”

“I guess I convinced myself that a box of clippings would have to suffice too. No, it didn’t. I wasn’t hinting, I was just trying to, I don’t know, hold on I suppose. I didn’t want us to forget where we had been headed, before we got sidetracked.” I look out at the darkening lake. I don’t know what to make of this conversation, he never mentions my art, other than to tell me that he likes it or doesn’t, never why.

“I never meant it to suffice; I just figured it would do until there was a right time. I loved those paintings…maybe it was the eeriness. I don’t know art like you do, but they were like feelings, not pictures. I missed the portraits and still lives, but part of me wanted…” he falters.

“What? You’ve never spoken of this before. I don’t know how you really feel about my art.” I expect him to say, like he never knows how I feel.

“Well I guess part of me wanted to preserve it, the parts of you that you never show. Even when Angus and I didn’t see you for days, you were so vibrant, and your work so…well it sounds like a cliché, but alive, that I wanted to keep it that way. If we became a normal family again, and if you actually went to those places, maybe the spark would fizzle out. With so much going on with Angus it was easy to make excuses about why we should wait. I know that’s totally selfish.”

“No not really.” I draw my toes along the floor, through a patch of dust, and browning curled fig leaves. "Maybe I had my own excuses.”

“Do you blame me for holding you back?”

“I…” I can’t answer, so I tell him what he wants to hear, what I know is the easy answer on this hot heavy day. “No, I don’t blame you. If I wanted it badly enough, I’m sure I could have found a way.” I wipe the beads of moisture from my wineglass, and lick it off my fingers. It is nearly dark in the room and I can see cabin lights from across the lake starting to wink in the dusk. I can also feel the wine getting to me, thanks to my empty stomach and the heat. The haze around my head is nearly tangible. The Ontario summer air is abating, slowly lifting its heavy hand from us, a slight breeze stirring off the lake. Crickets hum loudly outside the window, in rhythm to the breeze, to the leaves dropping from the fig tree.

Daniel stands and goes to the kitchen, conversation obviously stalled. I can hear him rummaging in the fridge. I turn and watch his strong back, well muscled arms and shoulders, a carpenter’s build. I think that tonight I would like to make love, despite the oppressive heat our bedroom is sure to have awaiting us. It seems so long since our bodies, slick with sweat, have been pressed together in the big oak bed he built for us fifteen years ago. We always found time, an excuse to escape to make love. I smile when I think about the work our bed has been put to over the years. Maybe I have been blaming him for holding me back.

Daniel brings in a tray of cubed cheese, cold cuts, and slices of buttered bread. I realize that all the things I’ve been waiting for have suddenly become available, Angus is on his way to college in the fall, but the impending freedom is frightening.

“Daniel, what if Angus decides he wants to stay in Europe, live the hostel life, and sleep with whomever?”
He laughs. “Leila, so what, he’s nineteen. We did the best we could. I always thought you wanted him to be independent anyway.

“Well as long as he makes the right choices I guess. Stop laughing at me Daniel. I worry about him. If he had siblings I would worry less.”

“You know you would. It’s a mother’s job to worry about her children. You were always closest to him; he spent hours in your studio. I used to be jealous that he had no interest in my workshop.”

“That’s not true! When he turned thirteen, suddenly he was this little man who wanted nothing to do with me.”
We become silent, and let the night air brush over us as we munch on our food. I’m used to the dark now, even though we are just charcoal coloured silhouettes in the room. I know exactly what he looks like beside me. I wonder if he wishes as I do that we could claim back the past. Instead of travel clippings I would put moments into my shoebox. Like when Angus was twelve and brought home that ridiculous fig tree. It kept growing. All those years thinking that the crooked stem and drooping leaves were a sign of imminent death that made it ugly, when really the periods of vibrant green were like his growth spurts, sudden and surprising.

I remember how it was back then, when Angus was small. Daniel wanted to teach him how to use a level, to be precise with the plane, so that each piece of wood would fit together like a jigsaw puzzle, not even needing a nail or screw. He would take the little boy’s hands in his and together they would run sandpaper over the wood in slow smooth circles. But Angus wasn’t interested in the wood. Despite Daniel’s patient persistence, he preferred to spend his days with me, in my studio, painting on newsprint I would lay out on the floor. He was pensive over these paintings, quietly shaping his world.

We worried that he would be lonely, so we tried to have another baby. Nothing. The doctors explained I had scarring, that Angus had in fact been a miracle as I should have never gotten pregnant. I felt a secret relief at the impossibility of another baby, remembering long sleepless nights with Angus nursing off my aching heavy breasts, plans slowly slipping from my grasp. There was guilt though; a desperate love for the two of them made me want to fill the house with the sounds of other children.

I hoped that he would make friends, and his need of me would lessen. Daniel let him escape the workroom to be with me. Did Daniel know then, that the separation would come naturally on its own? He left my side, left his finger-paints, and gradually returned to the workroom to learn how to carve, join and sand the wood. He discovered soccer, forts, bicycles and girls.

“Look, it looks as like our tree really is going to die.” Daniel points to the plant. It is listing seriously towards the floor, nearly falling over with the weight of its branches, and it seems as though there are more leaves on the floor than on the tree.

“No!” I say almost too sharply, surprising Daniel. “It just needs some water.” I speak quietly, and take the wine bottle out of the now melted ice bucket and gently move the lower branches, pouring a stream of water into the parched dirt until it becomes moist and soft beneath my fingertips. I can’t tell him that I love this plant suddenly and fiercely as though my life depends on it.

© T.L. Temreck

Not supposed to be...

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Tue, 09 Oct 2007 02:22:00 +0000

This was never how it was supposed to be,
or how my life unfolded.
I had a plan, and I was living my lines,
well rehearsed.
I didn't wake up one day,
and wish it so,
complicated and broken.

I woke up in another place,
the past flying by
has become someone else's.

The life I see today
is a trick of my eye
viewed through the rearview mirror.
I want to follow the life I knew,
that girl I was,
who's life was becoming perfect.

But all I see now is merciless change,
a challenge just to breathe.
I am getting smaller and smaller in the distance
and the mirror I look into,
is splintered.

i've been waiting

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Tue, 09 Oct 2007 02:17:00 +0000

i've been waiting for you,
my breathe held
through a lifetime of storms

i've been travelling this road
and i'm tired of walking alone

all my life i've told myself
i'm better off this way
but this step of uncertainty reminds me
how good my life could be

so step closer
my arms are yours and i've been waiting

new stuff

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Mon, 23 Jul 2007 00:58:00 +0000

I just added a whole bunch of writing from my portfolio. It isn't nearly close to being all of the poetry I have, and some of it is new, some is old. I haven't added any of my fiction because I only have hard copies and it is a lot of typing. It will come though. Eventually. And so will even newer pieces. But I lay myself on the line and take it out of hiding. In doing so, I take myself out of hiding.

Rawness. Honesty. Some won't like to read it. So don't. Some will learn what they never knew about me, and will have no choice but to see me for all that I am.

Being a writer means you can hide your truth in the form of fiction, or you can lay it out for all to see. Depending on the piece, I go either way. Writers are all liars. But their lies speak truth. Some is more hidden than others, but my truth will evolve, as I allow myself to dig deeper, to that place that I have allowed to lay dormant over the past few years.

reunion

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Mon, 23 Jul 2007 00:45:00 +0000

I'm trying so hard to ignore the grief that is trying to well up and out, threatening to become visible to others. I won't acknowledge how my absence at his family reunion is probably only a hole within myself, that my absence is likely not even noticed by them. So, I shut it down, distract myself, fill myself with moments that even if fleeting, are a bandage to the wounding that wants to be given a voice. I am no one to them anymore. Erased as though I never existed. I was once the daughter, wife, mother, and my place within their circle has been taken by that boy he calls lover, and they turn their eyes away, blind to it, and welcome him in. My absence not even causing a ripple. It is easier to make me the scapegoat, pluck me from their midst and set me down elsewhere, a piece of trash discarded.

Now, I withdraw into myself. In the past I would offer myself to another, to fill that void. Feeling warm flesh against mine, I could forget what was taken away. I allowed desire for another to fill me, and for a moment, though brief, rage abated, and I was someone else. It quieted the voice of mourning. I could allow another to cup my breast, my body given over to them for the moment, but they did not hold my heart. My heart was locked away, reserved for the safe love of mothering and friendship.

I won't give voice to all that is unfair. I will not wear the abandonment given to me by those I believed were forever. As I am reminded that good never lasts, that others will always choose the less painful road if given the choice, even if it is at the expense at breaking another. I know I have done the same, will probably do it again.

Maybe one day I will sigh out as another touches me, will tell me I am beautiful, even if i don't believe it. Family faded away in a moment of choice. Even if it was not my choice. I won't acknowledge that loss that I cannot change. There is no voice for brokenness and pain. At least not for now.

It is tucked away and I distract myself once more.

untitled

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Mon, 23 Jul 2007 00:34:00 +0000

I don't know what it is that keeps drawing me to you,
two years gone and I can still feel where your chin rested on the top of my head,
I can still feel your arms around me, though your voice is fading from my mind.
Your blue, blue eyes, sparkling with truth, joy never before experienced with a man, so full of emotion, when you spoke,
you touched and in that offering of yourself, you awakened in me something ancient and raw
dangerous lines being drawn upon my heart, tracing out a desire never felt before.
There was safety in that desire,
and I never feared you breaking my heart, because it was already broken.
Your teasing voice and insistence at me opening up to you began a repairing,
of all that was wounded,
Though I still got left behind,
again,
I wonder,
what if your purpose had only been to start my heart mending?
In that light,
I could just say thank you,
over the 1000s of miles, an ocean separating us.

I won't erase you,
those lines are drawn, a web that has pieced together all that was cracked,
and I want the mending to be complete
so I look back to remind myself of what has begun.

© Tracie Temreck

photo

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Mon, 23 Jul 2007 00:29:00 +0000

in a picture, from when I was younger,
we look too much alike
sad eyes,
through a smile

if I ask you will say you are fine,
so I don't ask
I just wait for the next manic ride
where we will drive fast,
go on a shopping spree,
run, run, run, chasing something only you can see

you are captured in this photo
glinting at the sun
we were camping then,
and it was okay to laugh out loud
as you held me high up in your arms
my hair brushing pine needles down like rain

I breathed in the fire and earth smell
that clung to your neck,
and you said, I am fine,
just fine

© Tracie Temreck

sister

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Mon, 23 Jul 2007 00:26:00 +0000

When you were very young
did I teach you to dance on my toes,
swing higher,
laugh harder?
Tell me a secret
sister, sister
can you smile when you think of
when you were very young?
Did I teach you to be kind
and true to yourself
or did I show you reproof,
distance stretching like miles?
Do you remember learning to fly,
your hands clasped tightly to mine?
Tell me
because I forget,
when you were very young.

© Tracie Temreck

crumbling

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Mon, 23 Jul 2007 00:24:00 +0000

you confessed,
bared sins
and the earth beneath my feet
fell away like ancient dust

I ran to find solid ground,
but with your eyes shut tight against my leaving
you called me
and I came to tend this crumbling
part of us

We clung,
like fingers digging into clay after a rain
and I learned what forgiveness is

© Tracie Temreck

last page

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Mon, 23 Jul 2007 00:22:00 +0000

I want to turn a page
tell you it's a new beginning
but like you,
I'm finished
skimming to the end of this chapter

I could lie and say it's not too late
but when you took a breath
and we stopped fighting
I saw the end close upon us
like so many last pages

© Tracie Temreck

dancing barefoot in the kitchen

noreply@blogger.com (Tracie DeCecco) — Mon, 23 Jul 2007 00:19:00 +0000

we are standing
so close I can feel
your breath warm against my hair
cool worn wood beneath summer feet
dishes piles that neither of us want to touch
the glow of the porchlight
is in my eyes
so I close them
and breathe in you
the smell of salty sun

© Tracie Temreck