Soliloquy

poem

This morning's coffee

reveals no remorse

for deeds done

the night before

1-25-98

I'd written this poem and entered it here because it just seemed to be a good starting point.

Having been a writer now for--let us just say a long time--I've collected my own writing in various little hand written books (asside from my diaries--or the more chick word, now adays is Journal, pardon me). The following blogs--lest anything horrible happens in my small world again--will be taken directly from my own unpublished works: "Soliloquy" and "Something Nebulous Within"

SOLILOQUY

by

Lorelei Bell

Robbins give their last soliloquys for the day . . . their individual voices pumping the air in rythmic sound. --6/12/84

ON DREAMS/WISHES

4-3-2002

If a person dreams or makes a wish, but the dream or wish never comes to pass, what happens to it?

Does it dissolve?

Or does it go into a holding place waiting for just the right moment?

Or does it go to someone else who's desire is more?

Can a dream always be yours, and no one else's? Is it yours exclusively, no one else can have it, or steal it, at least until it comes true for the person who wished it?

Everyone should have dreams, hopes, wishes, goals and desires. It's what life is made of.

We shouldn't be afraid to dream, for fear that they will never be realized. To not dream, or have hope is to become dead inside.

We need something to build on, move toward, think upon when we're doing meanial tasks (like at work-ha, ha). We need something to look forward to, to grasp for, no matter how small or large; no matter how insignificant it might seem, or fantastic.

Ode to Spring

April 27, 1996

6a.m. Sunrise today was an array of pink-purple clouds with turquoise slits. The intense golden orange disk poked its huge head above the horizon.

The bird's songs intensified, strumming the air with their voices, flying back and forth as though realizing they'd not seen this phenomina (sunrise) in a while.

June 2, 1996

We woke to bird songs and a sunrise. The magic of the full moon certainly took care of the deluge we were having. We saw it . . . like an eerie white disk in the west sky this a.m. Clear skies for now.

ONE NIGHT IN THE TENT ALONE

June 27, 1994

So, I spent the night--for first time in years--outside in a tent alone! (Dennis went inside, unable to sleep) It was sort of exciting, a little scarry, because I knew there were raccoons and skunks. But I was safe enough.



I went in only once (bathroom). A Gibbous moon was just coming up over the grove to trees on the east corner of our plot of ground. It was a strangely pale-orange color, and cast deep shadows across the due-blanketed grass.



I lay on my back waiting to hear the age-old sound of the coyote. I did, finally. One lone yip. No return yips. No follow-up chorous that usually comes in after a while in the middle of the morning.



Then, shortly after--maybe a moment or two--I heard this snapping pop,pop,pop! in the distance.



A .22.



I sat up at once. Then slowly unzipped the tent door and looked out into the night. I expected to see headlights, or something. I think it had to be about 1 or 2 a.m. Who would be out at this hour with a .22?



I never heard the sound again.



Nor did I hear the lone coyote. I wondered if I would ever hear it again.

Married to My Best Friend

April 27, 1994

Some women may need women friends--I mean to go do things with, like shopping, or whatever. But you see, Dennis and I share all interests. Besides, I don't have much interest in going off with a buch of cackling women to hear their complaints about their husbands, or hear about their children's achievements, or just women's stuff. Thank you, I get a good dose of that at work.

I'm married to my best friend and whenever I hear a bunch of these women who constantly complain about their husbands, I just want to cover my ears and run away. It makes me wonder why they got married to begin with and if it's that bad, why do they stay?

They can make fun of me all they want (I know they must behind my back, or in front of it). I don't care. I think they're jealous of my relationship with Dennis. We don't leave the other at home and go off with friends, or do things apart.

In fact there was only one night we spent apart--I was in the hospital. Neither one of us could sleep. He'd had wine to try and get to sleep, and they gave me some drugs--didn't work.

The Dreamer and the Lit-Major

I keep on day-dreaming what it might be like for me after I get on the road as "the author" instead of "the writer". I try to imagine how people might react to me as an author.

I had a drop of it last Friday. This young woman came up to the house--I thought she was lost, but she was selling children's books. She had a cute British accent and I had to chuckle as she said she'd show me what she was trying to sell so as to prove she wasn't an ax-murderer.

I replied, sort of flippantly, "You don't have the look, believe me, I'd know since I'm a writer."

She stopped dead and looked at me with amazed silence.

Before she dropped to her knees to worship me, I cautioned her, "Don't get too excited, I'm not published, yet."

She was still flabberghasted to be able to stand in my shadow, explaining she was a lit-major.

Coool. What conversations we could have, I thought.

But the moment was gone. Over. Like a rainbow or a shiny bubble, it burst. POP!

But, I could now say I know the feeling of telling someone I don't know, or who doesn't know me, that I write. I got to watch her jaw drop, eyes become wide with aw. And then I got to see that look of genuine adoration and run away respect just vanish. The whole of what I'd said was defeated, deleted, denied.

I may as well never have said it at all.