Recently I was asked, “Kim, who is your savior?”
After hesitating for a few seconds, maybe more, I said, “Jesus and Words.” Thus, that’s how it’s been my entire existence. Composing letters inside my head, syllables, the movement of language, the beat, alliteration, symbolism, the poetry, oh, god, the poetry is like painting with colors of sun and moon, dark and light. Stars. Wild flowers. Tribulations. Resurrections. Shades of green. More often than not, my process is not controlled. I despise being boxed up, shut up. No! I want to splash and throw paint hard against blank canvas like Pollack. I want to distort faces, dangle breasts and limbs in air like Picasso. I want to become the wave, the ink, the change that rolls over ignorance and conformity. I want the words to melt upon my tongue like communion. Here, open your mouth. Take this bread. Drink this wine. I want to become Plath without open ovens and Woolf without rocks in her pockets. My mother said as a young child, I’d cart a tablet around jotting down notes while strolling around the house. “Really?” I asked. “What the heck was I writing?” “Words.” She answered. “Words and rhyme and ideas.” I wish I would’ve saved those tablets. Perhaps I’d have an inkling into my psyche today, my longing to be filled up. Perhaps I’d understand how the words continually saved me like food and drink and air and Jesus. Halleluiah. After my sister’s murder, I couldn’t breathe. I was masked with blackness. I was nobody. I was nothing; a gray stone sinking to the bottom of a deep, dark water. But through the shadows, I heard a voice urging me to rise. RISE. Get up. Write. Just. Write. I did. And even my organs emptied out. I wanted to smell everything, taste everything, feel everything. I, at least, should experience pain like my sister did while she was living. Writing allows this. Two weeks after my sister’s murder, I wrote: ***We were intertwined, tangled, contained by one another’s roots, veins. Your heart beats inside my heart. Your blood flows thru my blood. Everything can stop in one minute. All things can darken and dim in one minute. Life can lesson and swell into a million narrowed, rotten, insidious fucking minutes. O’ how I loathe those minutes, darling. Every. Single. Day.*** I’d forgotten how to pray. I’d forgotten how to live. But Jesus gave me words and those words delivered me from ovens and rocks and drowning. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! This is my prayer. This is how I worship. Amen.
——Darling, Reader, what are you thankful for today?