When Self-doubt Hits

1

when self-doubt hits

it seeps into one’s flesh

spreads with haste

a painter’s brush

coated with pigment

like a kiss

it touches the water soaked parchment

camouflaging all intentions

swiftly it moves across the surface

changing everything

into shades of   anything

insecurity hits and leaves a mark

like a bruise deep into your muscle tissue2

it changes you

you might look in a mirror

you might see a reflection

is it you

or

is it one of a stranger?

does it possess a hint of what was

is everything slightly off

does it look like vertigo feels?                                       3

one’s equilibrium thrown off kilter

reality is fickle

once  known

now a stranger

looking back at you

 

 

 

 

 

december 10 2018

drawings © by tamayagarner

 

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First Snow

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Sitting here
the room full of white light
reflection of the morning snow
Sitting here
my fingers concentrating
mini stitches on my quilt
Sitting here
no real desire to step outside my room
watching artist documentaries on youtube
Sitting here
no ambition
no thoughts of future
no aspirations
still, I feel warm, content,
mindful and awe-inspiring of such greats
Andrew Wyeth
Hammershoi of which I have never heard but now love
Sitting here
my finger on ‘enter’
within seconds I am engulfed in lives
Mary and Christoper Pratt
I think of their brilliance
I think ‘what is the point?’
Sitting here
knowing we are not to compare
but truly what is the point
Sitting here
I am relieved that the microwave has beeped
I can now leave
comfort myself with lemon tea
another documentary
perhaps to find purpose
‘The scene continues with a dialogue  between artist and microwave’
Yes! I am coming! I am coming!
microwaves will rule us yet.
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This has been silly side effects of the first snow day.

Time, Illusion or Reality​

Time Illustion or Reality 2018

looking into the mirror

seeing a reflection

glare of wonder

will the image change

if I lock on and freeze eye to eye

a slight burning of the lids distract

floaters passing by like fluffy clouds in an open sky

when they dissolve  and the mirror is again in focus

for a moment an image is captured

or a thought is born

no one really knows

I look again and 

past my reflection deep into a corner

I see life of a past time

like a movie reel ticking along

is our life present connected to our life past

do each play out in different zones

have I discovered the rabbit hole to my own existence

how often does our life play out

does my mirror reflect inside

reflect inside, reflect inside, inside, inside

past becoming present

present becoming future

is my life a kaleidoscope of time

do I even exist or 

am I just a flash of  light in the mirror 

are these my thoughts

my handwritten words

am I a form of electromagnet energy bits

collecting and passing time

is that me I see in the mirror

or is it something else

something I don’t yet understand

The Power Of Music

 

2

I stand with left foot firmly placed on the matt
right foot bent at the knuckles and placed on the other foot
my belly leans against the counter before me
a typewriter sits, waiting
a white ceramic countertop
fingers move across the keys
holding thoughts from my mind
to the right,
a thin stemmed red wine glass sits half full
within easy reach of my right hand
the room fills with classical sounds 
violins, piano and cello
with its deep tones that are able to lift me off the floor

Right-hand reaches to pick up the glass
tongue creeps past my lips 
moving back and forth 
to moisten
to prepare
to be seduced by the fully aged red
that tastes like a burgundy
like rose petals that have fallen
and left to soak in the sun
enticing the sugars to dance
the first sip has all those qualities
it lingers and speaks
only, to the insides of your eyelids

As I lean forward
still with eyes closed
I wonder what the point would be
to take a second sip
for the second will only pale to the first
no more will there be anticipation
no awakening of the senses
the map will have been drawn

NOW

Sit back and listen
to the movements of the violins and cello
let the spirits take you
to your inner world
that only awakes 
when your eyelids are drawn
when your heart opens to the song

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Sitting
elbows weighing heavily on the wooden table
chin
bearing down in the palms of my hands
breathing
irregular
chest
held captive by
words, thoughts, images, sounds

Where
are the waves crashing against the ancient rock
the ocean, filled with memories of time
where
is the cello that moans with the wind
quenching my parched heart

I fill my ears with notes of Glass
the tapping of ivory keys
vibrate through my skin

my skin
my skin
that has been holding a million tears
holding, like some golden treasure
an illusion that I have created
a place that I run to when the world feels foreign

Glass fingers keep tapping
causing my heart to swell, expand, expose itself
music eclipses sorrow
holding and slowing time
I pause 
allowing my breath to penetrate
my heart to go quiet
allowing myself to feel the rhythm

One note
a continuance of notes
all are the blood that nourishes
my mind and heart
it can be heard everywhere
it can also be seen
as it touches  a leaf on a tree
or skips along the water’s surface
music
the motivation of life

september 12 2017

 

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3 years….8months….9:25:35

 

when the morning came she was still here
the clothes on the floor
the cup empty with morning coffee grinds
photo of him can be seen across the room
reflected colours off the indigo tiled table
his photo of their first married day
wedged in the corner of the mirror
large glass of water next to diovol, hand lotion
pencils, books, journals of all sorts
dvd player with stacks opened and closed
her bag, always packed she never seems to unpack

 

the grey clouds gathering
entices her to get up from under
the feathers that surround her
nearing like distant stomping hoofs
sound and sight run hand in hand across the field
birds start fussing
first a low hum
then louder as the excitement expands
she is standing at the doorway
nose and hand pressed against the grey screen

nature and human are converging
a meeting of matters
she closes her eyes so she can better listen to the sounds
drops start to mark their path across the deck
she slowly pushes the door open in a sort of seductive manner, welcoming the rain like a lover being invited to one’s bed lightly tapping the sheets
occasionally the sound of the hot rubber sliding over wet pavement makes its way up top
by then the rain is transforming all surfaces
dancing vigorously with all available forms
there is such joy that is created from this simple act
the day the rain came
like foreplay it teases and entices you
moving shapes and sounds in circles till all is one and the dizziness takes over
rain on your face not unlike sweat on your skin
the birds know it and they welcome it with no reservations
then as quickly as it came it leaves

rain is like a love that is great in small doses
for if it stays it will destroy by flooding you with too much love and drown you
floating till your body lies softly on the ocean floor
love is an entity all of its own
love is a spirit that feeds on freedom
to have loved and been loved back
is one of the wonders of life
to have loved once fills you
to love twice could kill you

so she sits and redirects her love to other things
to the sounds of birds chatting
to the sounds of approaching rain
to the sound of the typewriter keys hitting
to all that she creates
this is what she will love now
for this will see her to the end