Skip to main content

Not All Stops are Called

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #188.


It's always dark in the mall that died; the seats feel gritty,
the windows are blank and all the stores empty.
There's one door open back behind the large department store
I slip in and walk over the torn, glassy floor.

Someone has filmed the life as it left, most people prefer it gone;
consumption is always deadly, some moan.
But I continue to walk through these laminate halls to remember
the books, my friends, the lit windows...

It's always dark in the last hallways; the hard seats left empty;
I'll rest between starvation and plenty.
The benches remain, the walls rot, and ceilings spread stains
I close my eyes and wait.

This is the first last stop at this station, open since devastation.

Theoretically, with Thanksgiving past and a chill weekend to remind us it's no longer a lingering summer/fall combo, we're supposed to have moved on to decorating for Christmas. In the spirit of fiction, let's say that happened. Let's say the last few days of November consisted of putting the finishing touches on a few zines (including one about a fantastic convenience store...cover below...and a rat who desperately needs a snack). 


Let's say we're about to heat up the hot chocolate, pour it in a driving mug, and head out to look at the first Christmas lights of the season in a car full of carols. Let's say the holidays have returned with a cheery vengeance. Merry, merry. Hope your cocoa is warm and your bells clear in the night! (and that your entire family doesn't come down with we-haven't-been-out-in-public-in-months colds)

-- Chrissa

Comments

  1. This is a new favorite for me Chrissa! There is a lost and grieving feeling but also hope. I absolutely love the line, "resting between starvation and plenty" You have such a gorgeous talent to dig deep and pull us to the heart of things. Christmas time has been a bittersweet time for me for so many years. My brother passed away of a massive heart attack on Christmas day in 2002. Next year will mark 20 years. 💙🕊️ Sorry I went in such a sad rant. I just know I can relate to the sentiments you have shared. I do hope your Thanksgiving was filled with good food and happiness with some sweet dogs close to your side. 💖

    ReplyDelete
  2. I like watching urbex vids on Youtube, and I've seen several about dead malls. It's an eerie vibe and you've captured it here, especially in the little details

    ReplyDelete
  3. "open since devastation"
    A thought provoking phrase.
    What will the near future bring

    Happy Sunday. Thanks for dropping by my blog

    Much💜love

    ReplyDelete
  4. "It's always dark in the mall that died" -- that is so great and ominous and true.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Wow!!! I love these "abandoned places" writes, yours is sooo good.
    We shop Walmart for the large box of 30 Swiss Miss packets of
    Hot Chocolate. I'll have a cup this evening, hoping you do also.
    ..

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Treacle Season

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #190 ,  hosted this week by Carrie. Keaton was great in that show—the one with wings— Where he was constantly a [man]child on a ledge  dreaming an angel who became a superhero.   She was a sarcastic (fake?) angel—it was the 80s— But always good, on time, her lessons easy, Easy as it would have been for him to fall.   The metaphor so obvious...but I didn't get it. Nor the easy and obvious good. (/s)   I watch the TV movie every other December Remembering believing in easy And crushing on this character, that city...   Angels should be sweet, sarcastic figures, knowing (like nurses and social workers) we prefer Sleeping on the ledge, reckless to call for "heroes." To clear up any confusion:  there is no Michael Keaton movie we watch every holiday season. Although, if there were...I'd probably watch it.  -- Chrissa

Turn Away

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse , for #193. Turn away, like the moon, listening... Listening to the planet that rumbles with a hundred million slaps. All the feet, all the rockets, all the  pistons in the cars on the asphalt over the chasm where the veins run deep, blue in sunlight, black at night. Running over the chasm.  Once or twice they ran to you. Once or twice they ran by. Greetings and salutations. The sky is an entertaining shade of concrete yellow as the rain promised earlier in the week makes good on its arrival. It's a disturbing bright sallow sky, the kind of sky that puts you in mind of old movies and degraded film stock and the pops and crackles incidental to the main story.  Several years ago I made a resolution to journal more and last year I came across a video that suggested I actually re-read those journals, at least those of the previous year, at the beginning of each new year. Technically, I have kept the journal resolution, making daily notes in the margins of

Revelations

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #169 : It takes time for the quest to settle into your calves, to work through your soles and up to your shoulders, spreading through nerve and vessel until  you can't go home because you've already left something of yourself there. You can't be in two places at once. You remember vacations but now you think your family's plans probably resembled some supervillain's monologue:  we'll do this and then take them here. It'll be fun. When do you leave the house on time? Who's time? There's a collar of dead bushes at the lawn in front of the gas station, a tiny, grassy patch of the suburbs beyond, ruins of landscaping, bright, dead. Two years ago feels like twenty, feels loud, a power wash of wind through the window; roaring down the dry sewers that funnel a/c through the lawns and backwards, carrying dreams dry and sharp. At this speed, everything cuts as it passes. Appendix 1:  Chrissa is Full of Stuff and Nonsense Let'