Dr. Makeda works with younger patients. Kids who are neglected, abused, witness to unspeakable violence. Most of the children have difficulty articulating what they've seen or what has been done to them in their affluent suburban homes or low income high-rises.
Evil doesn't care where it lays its head.
Some of Dr. Makeda's patients simply refuse to speak. Such is the case with Dar. No one knows her name but scars never lie. Jane Doe, or "single-occupant crash victim," or Dar is a girl whose ID is carved into her skin.
This girl is older than Dr. Makeda's other patients. Not really a girl at all, but since she does not speak... Wounds heal slowly.
She laughs in her sleep.
With the children, Dr. Makeda knows crayons work when the tongue does not. The doctor makes a notation in the patient's chart that she can't keep enough red ones on hand. Dar spends hours getting her shades of red just right. What she then goes on to draw is another matter. The pictures, which are quite good and Dr. Makeda makes another note to find nicer art supplies, almost always include a rendering of an empty field studded with posts. The posts are covered and dripping with red, but she knows it isn't paint. A towering white backdrop, like a giant billboard, completes the landscape. Dr. Makeda scrawls on her notepad: Why is the picture within the picture always left blank?
The picture within the picture leaves the patient irritable and distraught. It always comes to this. Art hour is over. Pencils and paper and crayons are put away, and the patient uses a walker to cross the room to take a seat by the window.
There is a reluctance to begin again. A new venture doesn't necessarily equate 'an adventure,' but know that change charges onward with or without our consent. I stand in front of frosted panes and weigh how heavily the rain will fall. The crosshatch from a shredded screen lends perspective to the rolling white infiniteness of possibility. Take the risk? Forgo the unknown? Give chance its big break? It's only sleet on the other side of that window, after all. I've got to keep my head free of fog and my feet unafraid of the freeze.
Grab a square of dead wood
Use a lot of glue to get a clue to emerge
There's at least one clear idea hidden among the
Shards left behind by idle thoughts and half-formed wishes
If you find it write it down
Pin no hope to a rough edge
One clear idea takes a long time to find its legs
And don't dare call that seedling a dream
You'll only get bored and leave it to rot
On a pile with all the other false starts
it's all about the work: the word, the note, the emotion, the shade. capture and catalogue. catch and release. the river carries away memory while the sea retains every pain and mistake. it's hard to recall that which never happened at all but an impression was made just the same. such is the beauty of nature. it holds us fast to the spot while our brains strain to jump ahead in the game. but this isn't a game. it's all we got. live life inspired.
There is no identification found at the scene of the single-vehicle accident. The driver, a young woman from what the medics see through all the blood and crushed metal, is unresponsive. Internal bleeding from blunt trauma. The ER team at County General do what they can. Dire situation. The doctor on duty calls the time of death. Then something extraordinary happens. Jane Doe finds her way back. Steel is always cold. This is how she knows it isn't over.
what do you need a map for when you just disregard the signs the universe places at your feet? giving in isn't the same as giving up. to give is the secret. don't expect any sexy catchphrases. just let the vibration lead you rather than lull you back to sleep. see why dreams are so seductive? they come from power you didn't know you had. i can tell you're headed in the direction from which you once fled. unfinished business is a demanding mistress. big love, little heart. you've left your legacy undone. go back and do what you knew you had to do in the first place. you left yourself a loophole to jump through that will take you to the dawn of realization. to be in the right place is hard for a reason. pay attention this time. see what your power can do? it creates the most coveted treasure. a second chance.
If I'm perfectly honest, that's one toxic act you've got, and I can't get enough. I stand in front of your window--you've always got the lights on--and soak up all the icky details of your sick and twisted, touchy-feely fabricated history. Whenever I wait outside your house there's always a long line so I come early. Don't worry, I always elbow my way to the front so it's my face you see in that sea of craned necks and limbs. If I'm to be truthful about this arrangement, I want you all to myself but I'm glad I'm not alone in my neuroses. Psychoses? Ring around the rosies and I'll gladly hand you my last dollar bill just to watch you ignore me. It's a thrill, you know. The sweaty crowd, your cruelty slash compassion, the messages you shout through your megaphone:
"I'm a thief! Give me all your money and I'll teach you how to steal!"
"I'm a fraud! Learn how to live the lie so you can sell it to others!"
"I'm a guru! Fake it and then make it your mission to rig the system!"
Foiled, I am, once again to pretend your poison isn't the sweetest thing I have ever swallowed.
Sew your suit of armor and don't skimp on the red thread.
All you have to do is look at the Emperor and know you can believe everything you've read.
No dread of falling out of fashion.
The bronze scars where buttons and bows should be are beautiful against a blank canvas.
Put on a pair of stolen shoes and walk the runway until you see nothing.
Nothing is truth trying on disguises.
Did the tailor get the fit right when the Emperor left the palace?
No seamstress worth her weight in patience would ever run out of red thread.