Comments Posted By Angel Gage

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I think about moving almost every single day. Where we will move to. If we’ll be okay. What life will be like once we’ve moved. But then I think that once I’ve moved, I will look back and wonder why I couldn’t think a little more about this time I had to be still and wonder why I filled all these peaceful hours with thoughts of moving. I think I will miss the stillness.

» Posted By Angel Gage On 12.23.2016 @ 5:59 am


Sometimes I just want to sleep for the duration of winter. Other times, I regret having to sleep at all, wishing instead that I could blaze like a comet, moving from thought to thought, task to task, creating, building, loving, living. My tail touching a creative spark just as it’s about to fizzle out and reigniting to paint, and breathe, and dance, and zip again. Then, I think about sleep and peace and dreams and rest and how they rejuvenate, restore, and inspire, and I realize that winter is long and there is time to blaze and time to rest and both are needed for creation.

» Posted By Angel Gage On 12.23.2015 @ 12:01 am


All the wealth in the world couldn’t buy him the one thing he truly desired: love and tenderheartedness. It could by him sex, and booze, and pretty porn stars to keep him company for an hour, or six, a day, or a week, but it couldn’t buy him real love. The loss, however, was not that what he so wanted, and needed, couldn’t be bought, it was that thought wealth was his only hope of attaining these things. Had he been poor, he would have had no choice, but to lead with his heart, nothing more, or less than himself, and over time, he would have come to know that he was a good man, a worthy man, his wealth was himself and that was enough.

» Posted By Angel Gage On 12.09.2015 @ 1:37 pm


The woman in the butterfly scarf shifts impatiently from foot to foot as the checkout girl punches buttons and meets her gaze long enough to inquire about her well being. “How are you doing today, Ma’am?” “Oh better than normal,” she says placing a stack of tuna six cans high on the conveyor belt. I watch she scurries out with the bag boy, scanning the cart one last time, placing one hand gently on the 18-count extra large egg carton that rests just on top and to the side of everything else. I wish silently for her that her “normal” days would hold just a little more joy, a little more wonder, so that the better than normal ones would be the rule and not just the exception.

» Posted By Angel Gage On 12.05.2015 @ 7:29 pm


Having lived in Florida and Hawaii, I’ve seen so many beautiful sunsets, but I never realized how truly breathtaking they were until you were gone, and every sunset that followed fell just a little short of all the ones that came before.

» Posted By Angel Gage On 12.03.2015 @ 3:38 am


We augment our societal worth by adding initials after our names, fancy titles, awards, more zeros after the dollar sign, but we have only added temporarily, for we cannot augment time with any extra that will make it grow, make it expand, make it more than what we are already given, unless we add to the worth of those that will be here after us. Love augments life.

» Posted By Angel Gage On 11.20.2015 @ 6:55 pm


I remember that there was a gifted program in Junior High. I also remember that I wasn’t selected for it. That is all I remember about the gifted program.

» Posted By Angel Gage On 11.11.2015 @ 10:16 pm


My grief, initially, is loud like symbols crashing, later it quiets some, reverberating in waves, the ringing of which I still hear and feel in my soul, even though it’s been years. My grief doesn’t lessen with time, it merely quiets until I bump into a strong memory of you and the symbols clang once again and I crash into madness, into tears, into laughter, into smiles, into song: into all the beauty and the broken that was and still is your life and mine.

» Posted By Angel Gage On 11.09.2015 @ 5:40 pm


“Sometime,” I said. “I will do it sometime.” It could have been done some time ago, if I hadn’t wasted some time, waiting for sometime.

» Posted By Angel Gage On 11.08.2015 @ 2:28 pm


I might not have anything to say today, but still I might write anyway.

» Posted By Angel Gage On 11.07.2015 @ 2:28 pm


“Off with her head,” she hollered. But the man in the daunting black hood, lost his nerve and his title, for though they called him “The Executioner,” in the end, he couldn’t get past her lovely, flowing hair and the slender curve of her neck. Spectators said he lost his head, and simply couldn’t execute.

» Posted By Angel Gage On 11.06.2015 @ 12:33 pm


My back has this unnatural curve in it, this arch my husband and I refer to as “the skateboard ramp.” I’ve always thought it was freakishly weird, but Gage’s hand feels so natural there and when our dog conforms his body to fit perfectly up against me in that odd space, for that space of time I feel perfectly made and wholly loved.

» Posted By Angel Gage On 11.05.2015 @ 9:52 am


If I were hiking and came to the edge of a cliff, I wonder what I would do: I suppose it could be different depending on the day: on Monday, I may worry about the possibility of slipping, by Wednesday, I may take time to breathe in the fresh air and appreciate the view, by Saturday, I could be contemplating unfurling my wings and flying out into the expanse. Same circumstance, different perspective. How wonderful the malleability of mind and heart.

» Posted By Angel Gage On 11.04.2015 @ 1:24 am


I watch the seasons change right outside my kitchen window. Such beautiful lessons we learn from nature, far more beautiful than leaves that change from green to gold and fire-red. “The snow and ice will soon cover the ground and the tree branches will be gray and depressing,” my neighbor says. I nod, but continue to watch out my kitchen window every morning. The trees are not quaking. They are not afraid. They do not call to their falling leaves in anguish begging them to return. It seems to me that they have wisdom, an innate knowing that tells them in order to bloom anew they must lose their beautiful colors for a time. Their essence is in their core and when the time is right, they will bloom again. Every day, I watch out my window, changing along with the seasons, feeling a little bit stronger, a little more hopeful, somewhere closer to rebirth.

» Posted By Angel Gage On 11.02.2015 @ 3:00 pm


I rifle through drawers and papers. I’ve never shot a rifle. The word rifle sounds like kind of a silly, whimsical word, unfitting for something with the potential to end life.

» Posted By Angel Gage On 10.30.2015 @ 7:07 pm


I remind you of when we were nine, of the lemonade stand we had on the corner of Westcott and Bhuring Avenue that we would set up everyday when our parents went to work.
“Who needs an allowance,” you said. “We’ve got lemons.”
Life seemed simpler then, but I suspect it was just as complicated as ever, only I was braver then, fearless.

» Posted By Angel Gage On 10.27.2015 @ 7:09 pm


“It’s all in the anatomy,” he said staring at the reticulated skeleton on the lab table in front of us. “What something is made up of. I mean it. You can tell a lot of things about an animal like this chicken here. How old it is. How well it lived.” “Maybe,” I said. “But you can’t tell the why?” “The what,” he asked. “No, ‘the why’, I replied. “We can tell this chicken crossed the road, but we still don’t know why.”

» Posted By Angel Gage On 10.26.2015 @ 2:38 pm


Back then fans had soul. I remember the way they stood during the seventh inning stretch belting out the lyrics of “Sweet Caroline” dripping with booze, sweat and anticipation oozing from their pores, still hoping for the Triple Play that would save the day

» Posted By Angel Gage On 10.13.2015 @ 9:07 am


Reserve — that little bit of courage that I keep in me for the hard days. I reserve space for myself. I reserve the right to breathe. I reserve my peace. To reserve: to hold a space that is sacred for myself; to find that small place of strength tucked away for when you need it most.

» Posted By Angel Gage On 10.12.2015 @ 1:51 pm

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