Down a dark corridor, I limp towards the safety of my bed.  She is gone.  Dust and memories, parchment dry, I ache for touch – to be reached, to be seen.  Through a window of time and maturity I view her there – a ghost without words.  Sitting. Angry. Stewing in fear and hissing, striking out.  There is no where to move… except on.

I sit back and close my eyes.  Practice shutting down, finding quiet, self-sufficience, and reminding me that I have always been here.  I can lift the world up with crazy ideas and endless drive, so too can I be alone and function, I can breathe, I can step forward one more step, I can chew through cotton mouthed sadness, I can cry for us both, I can write it all down, I can make it – tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow – without.

This great experiment of married together…  in it I am learning the importance of alone.  The self never leaves.  The fantasy of easy-lonely, vibrator and journal in hand, stick and handkerchief, bread and water, sturdy shoes and imagination, sorrow and forward momentum, seeds and tears…  Those steps are heavy in my mind; my shoes are cement.  Unmoving and impossible.

One year became two became five will become fifteen if I don’t stop this ride at some point…

…But hope.

But hope and burning desire.  But catatonic compliance.  But love.  But fairy tale, but resistance from failure, but I was gonna do it better than my parents, my grandparents, my great grandparents…  But thank god I’m not in the position to do it for the kids.  But safety and insurance and arms at night.  But unhappiness and depression and fear.  But so many layers and so many fights to match – we are a rotten onion, always peeling back the layers, always looking for a sweet center and disappointed when we find it so small…  But care for the little things.  But too many things already thrown under the 16-wheeler of our emotions filled to the brim with personal baggage and trauma and distorted vision (it is one funny joke that we are both near-sighted to a fault).

My eyes open and I see nothing.  My eyes open on a good day and I see I am still here with you with time piling on and the closet never cleaned out…  Maybe you are right, maybe you don’t want to love me anymore and I should let you go with grace.  But my sense of dignity argues tendencies towards hypocritical manipulation to make us both. stay. put.

Tonight I sleep alone.  Tonight I weep and write.  Tonight becomes tomorrow, a new day, and ghost or no ghost we will sustain or break down.  We will tempest to the end.

We will love and fight.



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    Photo by David Aquilina

    Karin Webb

    I write.  I perform much of what I write.  Often I am asked about this or that piece.  So, due to popular demand, I'll post some of what I have written, some of what I perform right here.  I will also post thoughts and ideas that come my way...  I hope you enjoy it; if you're one of the people who has approached me post-show, thank you for your interest in my words...


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