Entry 15: Essence



You don’t notice me, but I am here, light sketch lines of a hard pencil against a busy backdrop.
You don’t hear me, my voice is used only when a flavor is missing from the recipe.
You don’t feel me, for I flow through the universe, avoiding collisions.  Any small brush against my skin would give me a jolt.
You don’t smell me- I wear no perfume to mask what I hope is the aroma of nothingness
You don’t taste me for that has been reserved for very few.

It will be many months before one day, you will notice I am here, and believe surely it’s the first time we have met.
I will assure you, it is not.  I have already logged many observations of you and my roots have started to entangle with yours.

Now you start to see me, like faded shapes developing into vibrance and contrast.
Now you hear my thoughts, curated over decades of observation and reflection.
You want to taste me. But I do not want to (yet).
We will sit in the silence. We will only say things that need to be heard.
And we will touch only when something needs to be felt.

We have moved all that is important from the sideline to center stage.
Only then, will you know the essence of me, because together, we will see the essence of the world.

Week 3: The Debate


Bile churns into nausea, flooding my stomach

I feel untethered and ill, at the idea that

His squinty eyes, and that god awful orange hair

would represent US to the world.

I have seen this sight on my TV before–  vague ideas and a stump speech about plans to save the economy.

Light jabs from him to her, and back again, like jousters.

Dread solidifies like cement in my jaw, waiting, no, praying,

His mask will melt to reveal the horns and red tail of his true self.

I tense my brow, compelling my third eye to curse his confidence and that pouty mouth.

Panic takes hold.  I flee to find a sugary dessert to ease the anxiety.

She jabs at him, saying he will try to get out of paying his share of taxes

“Such a nasty woman”

It bellows from his microphone, as viewers hold their breath to take in what happened.


Nasty?   An incongruent reaction to a policy proposal.

My jaw loosens, and I exhale with relief.

A speck of guilt occupies my conscience, that I have been wanting another human to blunder and ultimately, fail.

But only just a speck.



Week 2: The Meeting


The Meeting

My jaw juts forward, mouth closed, with fire breath inflating my nostrils  

My eyes, unblinking, bounce from one talking head to the next, as the players serve up isolated facts, spinning up the one-sided, calculated, narrative.  

My cheeks are immobilized as if by botox, struggling to keep its shape amid my simmering fury.  

I squeeze out a small joke, forcing a break in the mold of my face, hoping it will distract from the third eye on my brow.

The room starts to swirl, as I press back into my chair, the only sturdy home base in the room.  

Intelligent, thoughtful, humorous, trying to play-it-cool-  all my roles in this one-act play.


I want to flee and leave behind the

cattiness, in all its stereotypical garb,

the match of a woman against a woman,

who is supported by a mean girl,

in an entertaining dance that the men in power gaze upon

from their balcony seats.  


“How do you not see it?”  I yell.

“Pulling each other down (I pound my fist on the table for emphasis) into the well drowns us all.  

“We can lift each other up.  

“And we can all make it, together (I stand up symbolically), to the sunshine.”


The impassioned speech occurs in the confines of my imagination.  

I leave the meeting deflated,

Nothing changed.

Nothing gained.