Paper, Rock, Scissors
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She said she wanted her words to slice like scalpels. She said she wanted to find the heart and re-form it with her hands -- fingertips both blunt and sharp as scissorís blades -- like a witch doctor in Guatemala, performing the heeby-jeeby voo-doo mojo in trailing smoke and hissing snake rattles, by the power of intent and meaning, alone.
She sat late nights beneath a dim 40-watt, crafting her voice into arrows, never forgetting the feathers. Let them die in beauty, let them keep these staccato ruffles as a pagan trifle for the journey into the land of the Seven Sisters.
She was shocked when I said I didnít want this.
No, Laurel, my aim is not that slight. What I want is to become the boulder, sleeping, just below the surface of the river. Tight as a fist but larger than a man could know, the rock which simply through itís presence, slowly changes the course of the rapids flow, bit by bit, by the power of intent and meaning, alone.
"All the darkness in the world
cannot put out the light
of one candle"