Tonight I took a risk...Darren Stevenson would be
proud. I read two
pieces of my writing in a public place. My voice
wavered and hands
trembled...but it's done now. I really feel like I
was supposed to be
there. I kind of felt strange walking up after the
guy who just finished
rapping six pages of his thoughts, but the nerves
were good. I'm
thankful, oh so thankful that God gave me the
strength to die
tonight...die to the old lazy Johanna, and see that
bit of freedom poke
it's newborn baby head out. Though I didn't get any
publishing deals - I
experienced a release of sorts. I read this entry
from my notebook, that
I wrote in the late wee hours of morning...I had an
espresso shake the
evening prior. I promised a long time ago to post
this. So here it is.

"Claudette"
September 4, 2004

Sleeplessness comes when my body crashes hard into
the softness of my
bed. Complete exhaustion - My mind however runs
continuously, crackling
with memories like an old family film. Your smiling
face in a dank dance
studio; genuine nature conflicting with the paper
ballerina cutouts that
line the walls, behind warm up bars.
I remember the day the phone rang, a friend's voice
brought news of your
death. "Car accident, killed..." It was like losing
my footing on icy
pavement - the head cracking words rang heavily in
my ears.

I hung up and cried the entire day. Walking around
the house I stared
through swollen lids at things that laid normally in
their place.
Resented the casual manner in which they existed.
Until I noticed our
angel. The wood carved trinket given as an honoring
gift. The angel held
a lantern, symbolizing hope... now she stood turned,
her back toward me
- light hidden from from my line of vision. Water
glazed my eyes once
more.

I remember your persistence - your little frame
stands strong in my
thoughts.
Your tough sweetness - never backing down from your
convictions.
Your mexican kisses on the cheek and tight hugs like
you insisted they
should always be. You told people how much you liked
my eyebrows and how
I never plucked them too thinly. You said they were
perfect.
You greeted everyone equally with hug and kiss.

It's weird how death lingers and life squanders.
Whenever Grandma talks
about Grandpa - I who was 11 when he died, still
feel a rising flood to
my eyes...as if I were 11 again, listening to
eulogies given by aunts,
uncles, and my own parents.

The forest stands in charred ruin. I run through
embers, stirring the
grey ashes, they swirl in the wind only to float
down and rest again
atop blackened branches. I kick at the debris in
panic and despair - the
branches give and crumble. Buried beneath ash is the
tiniest show of
green. Kneeling to look closer, I blow gently at the
grey flakes. They
swirl up and away to reveal a seedling, vibrant and
green with
nutrients, sprouting up from blackness.
Life.