Familiar shapes net my sky,
The walls and all their friends
That are silent where it ends
And glowing where it seams.
When the hazy trickle
Of the heavy heavens slows,
They are the fishers, feasters
To the long summer evening.
A piece of stream falls to me,
Waving and trapped in the thick glass,
The capsule that always will be;
Have me searching, looking to
Where the sky is let go.
About Me
Copyright Information
All works on this site are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Twilight
A book that fell in love
With itself, dreams of reality
And it's own stolen lessons,
Undone pillars of reason, cold veins
Sculpt its bare-thread path
Where no one dared to cross.
It was not believing,
More like carrying a wind
To see it through a familiar place.
With itself, dreams of reality
And it's own stolen lessons,
Undone pillars of reason, cold veins
Sculpt its bare-thread path
Where no one dared to cross.
It was not believing,
More like carrying a wind
To see it through a familiar place.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Where Summer Lies
In the heart of memories,
Footsteps grow and stop
Like shadows upon the day,
Shaded into sidewalks
Where all their purpose lay.
All the time in the world
Is pushed into this lucky vein,
But a pulse, the colliding din;
In a spectrum bursting-
Knitting out and back in.
Here, summer's always summer,
The ground etched with tunneling desire
Where dreams wheel around,
Hanging on pet threads
As they pull in heat unsound.
Footsteps grow and stop
Like shadows upon the day,
Shaded into sidewalks
Where all their purpose lay.
All the time in the world
Is pushed into this lucky vein,
But a pulse, the colliding din;
In a spectrum bursting-
Knitting out and back in.
Here, summer's always summer,
The ground etched with tunneling desire
Where dreams wheel around,
Hanging on pet threads
As they pull in heat unsound.
Cloudy Thoughts
Forgotten colors, on most days
Stain here between the sun and moon,
The best place to fish, drink in
A misplaced dream, a finished night
To store away in a thinking pond.
Grazing fancies eat their fill
Of candy floss spread so thick.
Meant to catch the falling stars,
One and all too heavy
For the heavens to hold,
As impossible dreams nest away
At the rafters of our sky.
Stain here between the sun and moon,
The best place to fish, drink in
A misplaced dream, a finished night
To store away in a thinking pond.
Grazing fancies eat their fill
Of candy floss spread so thick.
Meant to catch the falling stars,
One and all too heavy
For the heavens to hold,
As impossible dreams nest away
At the rafters of our sky.
Half the Brilliance
Those silly notions,
Dancing upon old drums
To mere rhythms that slap
On the fine mesh air!
Fancy did finger, surely,
Strum the wisps of will
Til they frayed and waxed
Like old sailor's knots.
If only, if only
They were smooth
And not splintered,
Like all the other planks
Where I chanced a plunge.
Dancing upon old drums
To mere rhythms that slap
On the fine mesh air!
Fancy did finger, surely,
Strum the wisps of will
Til they frayed and waxed
Like old sailor's knots.
If only, if only
They were smooth
And not splintered,
Like all the other planks
Where I chanced a plunge.
The Given Things
Threading the earth
With persistent memories
That shade a marble sky,
That cool stained glass of long ago,
Glowing and fresh in little saplings
That sleep, knotted at the roots.
It never needed silly dreams,
Vague songs with crystal spools
Of icy taste and twang,
Steamed cold when plucked
From the stores of the mind.
A forgotten loom was in those shadows
That raced darkness up the wall
Weaving in a teetering dance.
Spring, summer, winter, fall;
Always but a few memories
As they tangle in the grove,
Where words still court them.
With persistent memories
That shade a marble sky,
That cool stained glass of long ago,
Glowing and fresh in little saplings
That sleep, knotted at the roots.
It never needed silly dreams,
Vague songs with crystal spools
Of icy taste and twang,
Steamed cold when plucked
From the stores of the mind.
A forgotten loom was in those shadows
That raced darkness up the wall
Weaving in a teetering dance.
Spring, summer, winter, fall;
Always but a few memories
As they tangle in the grove,
Where words still court them.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Diminished Discovery
The dreamer with her palette stay,
Blind with color, peace of mind.
Struggles in their cradle lay,
Their anguish not their own to find.
Shimmering rows of gladly found
Enjoyment, their unsaid find.
Who is a novice, loud to say
They'd know their skill in quick rewind?
A foolhardy price, for endless dreams
That dangle in their dust,
For a heart so wound in lines of silk
Should forget metallic lust.
Blind with color, peace of mind.
Struggles in their cradle lay,
Their anguish not their own to find.
Shimmering rows of gladly found
Enjoyment, their unsaid find.
Who is a novice, loud to say
They'd know their skill in quick rewind?
A foolhardy price, for endless dreams
That dangle in their dust,
For a heart so wound in lines of silk
Should forget metallic lust.
The Artist of the Moment
Gather the color, the time
Falling upon the unpolished ground.
Give it structure, laced magic
That holds up in tilted sound.
Ideas can only stand, after all,
Waver so long as the mind is still
And shivering with anticipation,
Poised with endless diving will.
Dress this victim of self and speed
In the splash of fear, lovingly tucked-
Beside all the dry trophies
And weighty relief so plucked.
Falling upon the unpolished ground.
Give it structure, laced magic
That holds up in tilted sound.
Ideas can only stand, after all,
Waver so long as the mind is still
And shivering with anticipation,
Poised with endless diving will.
Dress this victim of self and speed
In the splash of fear, lovingly tucked-
Beside all the dry trophies
And weighty relief so plucked.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Free Spirits
Our lives run in parallel,
The same street where everyone ran
And people dreamed too fast.
Then they stopped,
Ran out of dreams to sleep on
And smiled when we had more.
By the time they ran again,
They had learned how to walk,
And the road was free again.
The same street where everyone ran
And people dreamed too fast.
Then they stopped,
Ran out of dreams to sleep on
And smiled when we had more.
By the time they ran again,
They had learned how to walk,
And the road was free again.
Volumes of Fantasy
A traveling friend from long ago
Came bound with cotton thread.
Full of words, he spoke of spells
And left with gold instead.
Still, I wandered, still half blind
To where he'd really gone.
It wasn't he that I looked for,
But what he'd come upon:
A world where people lived for love
And died for what was good,
Where money came with silly names
As silly treasures should.
Where evil found a second chance
If it looked hard enough,
Where homes were built on love alone
And fairy tales were tough.
How hard I looked,
How free I felt
To be bound by magic spells!
To wash the hand that fate had dealt
And all the wishing wells!
The traveler came bounding back,
Still bound, but painted bold.
Telling me this place to be
If dreams were turned to gold.
*Inspired by my Harry Potter reading experience
Came bound with cotton thread.
Full of words, he spoke of spells
And left with gold instead.
Still, I wandered, still half blind
To where he'd really gone.
It wasn't he that I looked for,
But what he'd come upon:
A world where people lived for love
And died for what was good,
Where money came with silly names
As silly treasures should.
Where evil found a second chance
If it looked hard enough,
Where homes were built on love alone
And fairy tales were tough.
How hard I looked,
How free I felt
To be bound by magic spells!
To wash the hand that fate had dealt
And all the wishing wells!
The traveler came bounding back,
Still bound, but painted bold.
Telling me this place to be
If dreams were turned to gold.
*Inspired by my Harry Potter reading experience
Ode to Poetry
Thou ill-formed lover,
No friend of mine.
That I should see
A merry heart, thine.
Thou, who lovest not hours
And not summer days,
When all the world
Doth love as praise.
Thou, who keepest night
Fain a gift to thee,
To quake my dreams
With felled mystery.
A saucy fool, thou dress to be,
Thy gold my eyes have yet to see,
But to thy handsome, timid glee,
I do call thou my curiosity.
No friend of mine.
That I should see
A merry heart, thine.
Thou, who lovest not hours
And not summer days,
When all the world
Doth love as praise.
Thou, who keepest night
Fain a gift to thee,
To quake my dreams
With felled mystery.
A saucy fool, thou dress to be,
Thy gold my eyes have yet to see,
But to thy handsome, timid glee,
I do call thou my curiosity.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Magnolia Tree
A shifting mosaic
of perfumed shadow,
Sweet and replenished
Light searching
For a root and stem-
An unfinished story.
Too easily it stumbles,
Anchors a finished portrait
For the late pressed spring;
Glimmering shards
In the form of silence:
Yet an unnamed summer.
of perfumed shadow,
Sweet and replenished
Light searching
For a root and stem-
An unfinished story.
Too easily it stumbles,
Anchors a finished portrait
For the late pressed spring;
Glimmering shards
In the form of silence:
Yet an unnamed summer.
Snowflake
Four seasons trapped
In baited breeze, the winter caught a spell.
When he was here, it was spring,
Wish waters in the well.
His heart was framed with icy flame
That singed with all my fears.
In the center, the purest gem
That unfogged diamond's tears.
To embrace the laughter as it fell,
That crystal lattice net!
His arms, a palace in the storm,
The want his eyes beget!
If only I knew the frozen ground
Would greet him with such ease,
That my cup of lukewarm time
Was but a passing tease.
In baited breeze, the winter caught a spell.
When he was here, it was spring,
Wish waters in the well.
His heart was framed with icy flame
That singed with all my fears.
In the center, the purest gem
That unfogged diamond's tears.
To embrace the laughter as it fell,
That crystal lattice net!
His arms, a palace in the storm,
The want his eyes beget!
If only I knew the frozen ground
Would greet him with such ease,
That my cup of lukewarm time
Was but a passing tease.
Time
Time flies on the back
Of a bird who sings too well,
Its mind on its wings
As it tries to fly on feathers alone.
Long ago, it was shown the way
To race the sunset, the sunrise
By drinking trickling splashes
As the sun spilled its ripest wares.
Thus, it tasted the end of the sky,
The pinched beginning
When it flew the other way.
But why go to and fro
If they tasted just the same?
Of a bird who sings too well,
Its mind on its wings
As it tries to fly on feathers alone.
Long ago, it was shown the way
To race the sunset, the sunrise
By drinking trickling splashes
As the sun spilled its ripest wares.
Thus, it tasted the end of the sky,
The pinched beginning
When it flew the other way.
But why go to and fro
If they tasted just the same?
Night Life
The stiff, starched sky falls upon itself,
Hard ripples dipping in scattered spotlight
Fixed just beyond the wings, the story arc
The actors knew too well.
Still, there's a mystery frantic backstage
In a plaza of painted life
Where the powder and frill is gone,
Yet the true stars still shine.
A curious carousel is the chandelier,
The silver chains and gold finish
Dusted away by the timeful night
As crystals spin, spin in unhinged eyes so few.
An exquisite symphony breaks its box
Of softened war and sharpened strife
Until it becomes a trickle of leaves,
Left from the summer of sparkling scores.
Here all but lovers, dreamers sleep,
The night does dangle on hanging alleys,
These so alert with familiar fear
For a show all its own.
Hard ripples dipping in scattered spotlight
Fixed just beyond the wings, the story arc
The actors knew too well.
Still, there's a mystery frantic backstage
In a plaza of painted life
Where the powder and frill is gone,
Yet the true stars still shine.
A curious carousel is the chandelier,
The silver chains and gold finish
Dusted away by the timeful night
As crystals spin, spin in unhinged eyes so few.
An exquisite symphony breaks its box
Of softened war and sharpened strife
Until it becomes a trickle of leaves,
Left from the summer of sparkling scores.
Here all but lovers, dreamers sleep,
The night does dangle on hanging alleys,
These so alert with familiar fear
For a show all its own.
Poems and such
I think this blog is like my front desk to the world, the small small world that it is. I'm a fairly shy person, after all. Consequently, I'm given the liberty to discuss to my satisfaction all of the little things that greet me and sit in front of me when they decide to wander beyond the main road for a while and see me.
I did the "Love" exercise again today, which is basically a list of 100 things that one loves and cannot live without. It does help orient one's creativity in the right direction, even if the gears are basically restarting and do need time to reboot. It did take me a while to get my consciousness and my words back on track. It's like my mini-rehab, on the go. Once I was back, it felt great!
Hopefully my overflow of poetry this time will be better than last time?
I did the "Love" exercise again today, which is basically a list of 100 things that one loves and cannot live without. It does help orient one's creativity in the right direction, even if the gears are basically restarting and do need time to reboot. It did take me a while to get my consciousness and my words back on track. It's like my mini-rehab, on the go. Once I was back, it felt great!
Hopefully my overflow of poetry this time will be better than last time?
Sunday, June 21, 2009
What I Couldn't Say
The silent storyteller suffers more suspense than the waiting audience. The words cling to the mind instead of the tongue like icy water on an arctic expedition. Mutiny. Everyone wants to go home, of course. The skin misses the feeling of being human, being loved and respected because a ship can never stop floating on, drifting away even when there is no wind. It is not a human journey after some point in time. It is a number of heartbeats, not a number of beating hearts. It is a number with units of mass, not a number of the confined things that amass and gather nothing, but are still held in the fragile cages of the withering, confused soul. Still, the little stack of wood and exaggerated matches makes the journey beyond the maker of its journey. What is one cell, one body gone as long as the rest keep moving on? Some things will always, are bound to keep going.
Take the sum of at least seven wills to survive, and what is the outcome? An inequality, of course, an inverse equation pushed upon the sole, stable constant of simply being. It's still the physical world, after all. There must be something that is tangible in order for this to pull itself out of bed in the morning and sneak off while the mind is still asleep.
Presence is all that is needed for movement. Presence is movement, as the air is never still and the stream is never quite clear. We are all washing, of course. Trying to redeem ourselves so that our hands our clean but our minds are muddled. The feeling of being wet, even after the storm makes us feel alive. It's as if we're defiant of the water, the flood that's bound to wipe our dear hearts. Of course, the most painful of hearts drowns slowly and silently in its own pain.
This could very well be in a lonely little bathtub while the ship is a tumbling ice tray in a jumbled icebox. This could be the very essence of summer rebelling against the reality of the situation outside the unchanging tile walls. It's not as if one person takes one seat at one time, after all. Where does the winter go when the summer decides it's time to sweep in? It sits in its own little waiting room, or perhaps does a few rounds in the hall, bottling up all of the sickness and anger until someone just seems to call the right name. Then, the cold pinch of ice flickers and squeezes its miserly self into a random summer shower, as happens every year. Of course, the waiting is never cured.
Still, the impossible is so easily filed. It's only more complicated when imaginary clients of creativity start to make friends, as people do on these misleading voyages of leisure.
Take the sum of at least seven wills to survive, and what is the outcome? An inequality, of course, an inverse equation pushed upon the sole, stable constant of simply being. It's still the physical world, after all. There must be something that is tangible in order for this to pull itself out of bed in the morning and sneak off while the mind is still asleep.
Presence is all that is needed for movement. Presence is movement, as the air is never still and the stream is never quite clear. We are all washing, of course. Trying to redeem ourselves so that our hands our clean but our minds are muddled. The feeling of being wet, even after the storm makes us feel alive. It's as if we're defiant of the water, the flood that's bound to wipe our dear hearts. Of course, the most painful of hearts drowns slowly and silently in its own pain.
This could very well be in a lonely little bathtub while the ship is a tumbling ice tray in a jumbled icebox. This could be the very essence of summer rebelling against the reality of the situation outside the unchanging tile walls. It's not as if one person takes one seat at one time, after all. Where does the winter go when the summer decides it's time to sweep in? It sits in its own little waiting room, or perhaps does a few rounds in the hall, bottling up all of the sickness and anger until someone just seems to call the right name. Then, the cold pinch of ice flickers and squeezes its miserly self into a random summer shower, as happens every year. Of course, the waiting is never cured.
Still, the impossible is so easily filed. It's only more complicated when imaginary clients of creativity start to make friends, as people do on these misleading voyages of leisure.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Beauty
As I predicted, my creative juices ran wild and sour, and took a while to come back to me. I guess it's nice, finding the occasional relief from sanity. Still, it cannot last too long. I cannot always be alone, lest I fall to other fears and other things that I so despise when my mind is in a reasonable state. Why, did I not write the best of poems and such when I surrounded myself with sane company?
Yet, I know that I'm rather crazy. I took four depression symptoms tests yesterday online. Two of them found me severely depressed, while the other two said I was either mildly depressed or nothing to worry about. I didn't take that test because I was worried, though. I took the test because I read a blog about how people often are diagnosed and prescribed wrongly, making their eccentricity and beauty all go away just because it wasn't exactly what the majority of society expected.
Perhaps that's why I like dead flowers. Not dead, as in completely dead, but dying. Especially if such flowers are fake. They show themselves to be dying, and yet they're always alive, in their deaths. They're perpetually dying, and therefore perpetually changing and morphing. It's a strange phenomenon, to be still and yet changing. It's almost an idea, a spiritual idea that doesn't die until the beauty, the need to see the motion dies. Could that be called a graceful death?
Of course, the silk flower that sits in my room actually points toward the sun and is perpetually glowing in its golden-pink fading, as if it were made of light instead of mere silk. It grows lighter and lighter as it ages, until the pink that connects it to the living will be but a shadow: only in the dark. Not that it's a very noticeable change.
You see, now, how my mind and my physical presence are so contradicting. It's difficult, but I'm happy that it's so. Especially after a weekend of being one person both inside and out.
It's ironic that the quizzes told me I was extremely unlikely to have a dual personality, even if the symptoms sound so extreme.
Time to find some real "objective" beauty in the world, if my classes haven't stomped it all out of me yet. :[
Yet, I know that I'm rather crazy. I took four depression symptoms tests yesterday online. Two of them found me severely depressed, while the other two said I was either mildly depressed or nothing to worry about. I didn't take that test because I was worried, though. I took the test because I read a blog about how people often are diagnosed and prescribed wrongly, making their eccentricity and beauty all go away just because it wasn't exactly what the majority of society expected.
Perhaps that's why I like dead flowers. Not dead, as in completely dead, but dying. Especially if such flowers are fake. They show themselves to be dying, and yet they're always alive, in their deaths. They're perpetually dying, and therefore perpetually changing and morphing. It's a strange phenomenon, to be still and yet changing. It's almost an idea, a spiritual idea that doesn't die until the beauty, the need to see the motion dies. Could that be called a graceful death?
Of course, the silk flower that sits in my room actually points toward the sun and is perpetually glowing in its golden-pink fading, as if it were made of light instead of mere silk. It grows lighter and lighter as it ages, until the pink that connects it to the living will be but a shadow: only in the dark. Not that it's a very noticeable change.
You see, now, how my mind and my physical presence are so contradicting. It's difficult, but I'm happy that it's so. Especially after a weekend of being one person both inside and out.
It's ironic that the quizzes told me I was extremely unlikely to have a dual personality, even if the symptoms sound so extreme.
Time to find some real "objective" beauty in the world, if my classes haven't stomped it all out of me yet. :[
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Sunrise
Soft morning breaks in little blocks
Like butter in the dish.
First tendrils of a newest taste
Easy on the skin, the eyes
Before it begins to sizzle,
And time fries.
Our minds are cold,
Preserved vaguely from the day before.
Freezer burned, some could say,
Refridgerated all the more.
Sunrise is the first reminder,
Surviving the remains of the day
To tell us how it goes;
Working a sleeping recipe
But awaking us-
Our crackling starts-
As it flows.
[Read the post titled Journal Entry for an introduction to this series]
Like butter in the dish.
First tendrils of a newest taste
Easy on the skin, the eyes
Before it begins to sizzle,
And time fries.
Our minds are cold,
Preserved vaguely from the day before.
Freezer burned, some could say,
Refridgerated all the more.
Sunrise is the first reminder,
Surviving the remains of the day
To tell us how it goes;
Working a sleeping recipe
But awaking us-
Our crackling starts-
As it flows.
[Read the post titled Journal Entry for an introduction to this series]
Night
A living soul finds no answers,
Awakened in a world of dreams.
For reason lies, unescaped
From the mind, such curious seams.
Dreams become the dreamer,
Shadows become solid sweet
As the numbing skull.
Fancies become questions
But to no doors they pull.
No heavy curtains reveal the dark,
But clumsy, stained glass eyes
Seldom hold the murky ink
Prewritten, to night's surprise.
[Read the post titled Journal Entry for an introduction to this series]
Awakened in a world of dreams.
For reason lies, unescaped
From the mind, such curious seams.
Dreams become the dreamer,
Shadows become solid sweet
As the numbing skull.
Fancies become questions
But to no doors they pull.
No heavy curtains reveal the dark,
But clumsy, stained glass eyes
Seldom hold the murky ink
Prewritten, to night's surprise.
[Read the post titled Journal Entry for an introduction to this series]
Amusement Park (II)
Unmask the fears
Of humans past.
Turn off the unknown,
Tie the fear to its last.
Embroidered edges of true goodbye,
Cut, the sharp, unending sigh:
Unneeded, to just recall one chance
For a million collected present a lance:
Defiance, to shake the living unreal,
A pretty penny just to feel.
After all,
The sharpest spear is brushed to hone
Until it becomes a stepping stone.
[Read the post titled Journal Entry for an introduction to this series]
Of humans past.
Turn off the unknown,
Tie the fear to its last.
Embroidered edges of true goodbye,
Cut, the sharp, unending sigh:
Unneeded, to just recall one chance
For a million collected present a lance:
Defiance, to shake the living unreal,
A pretty penny just to feel.
After all,
The sharpest spear is brushed to hone
Until it becomes a stepping stone.
[Read the post titled Journal Entry for an introduction to this series]
Simplicity of Life
Things of beauty
Grow from cold ground.
Watered by anger
That makes not a sound.
Pushing, pushing
Fresh humility to dew.
Icy drops glinting
Slowly as they grew.
Until the sun rose
To see its steady pride,
But blocks of fresh color
To take in its stride.
[Read the post titled Journal Entry for an introduction to this series]
Grow from cold ground.
Watered by anger
That makes not a sound.
Pushing, pushing
Fresh humility to dew.
Icy drops glinting
Slowly as they grew.
Until the sun rose
To see its steady pride,
But blocks of fresh color
To take in its stride.
[Read the post titled Journal Entry for an introduction to this series]
Amusement Park
Questions, questions
Coursing through my mind!
Stop the fear, stop the flow
Of happy things unwind.
Touch upon the things unknown,
Be silent, for good times already spent.
Stay trapped within a grounded stop
Even though my dreams repent.
In my sleep I'll feel the wind
Brush screams upon my veins.
My iron nerves will fall away,
The theme of the day retains.
[Read the post titled Journal Entry for an introduction to this series]
Coursing through my mind!
Stop the fear, stop the flow
Of happy things unwind.
Touch upon the things unknown,
Be silent, for good times already spent.
Stay trapped within a grounded stop
Even though my dreams repent.
In my sleep I'll feel the wind
Brush screams upon my veins.
My iron nerves will fall away,
The theme of the day retains.
[Read the post titled Journal Entry for an introduction to this series]
On of the Shoulders of Giants
Standing on the slopes of boulders,
Spirits heavy and minds long gone,
The sun becomes a measured shadow,
I wonder what I stand upon.
Beauty beyond and pleasure close,
I look, entranced by the musty view
From the silent peace of heroes left
Exhaustion with their present spew.
And what of my day, then?
Just beyond their critique, their swerving eye.
What am I to capture in this widest world
When the past is all I pry?
[Read the post titled Journal Entry for an introduction to this series]
Spirits heavy and minds long gone,
The sun becomes a measured shadow,
I wonder what I stand upon.
Beauty beyond and pleasure close,
I look, entranced by the musty view
From the silent peace of heroes left
Exhaustion with their present spew.
And what of my day, then?
Just beyond their critique, their swerving eye.
What am I to capture in this widest world
When the past is all I pry?
[Read the post titled Journal Entry for an introduction to this series]
Journal Entry
I don't think I've ever produced this amount of work before in such a short period of time. The proceeding works that I will post will be ones that I wrote within about an hour and a half, in total. I literally started at about 11:30, when I got to the hotel where I was staying. My friend had a birthday party, which took place over the course of two days. Yesterday was mostly spent at Disneyland, as well as checking in to the hotel near Disneyland. It was a nice hotel, though not the best that I've stayed in. I prefer depth and simplicity over fancy buildings within buildings, even the architectural ingenuity of it did surprise me for a moment when I saw how concisely everything had been done. Even if it was a five star, I think the mood was less than relaxing.
Still, that does result in productivity. I do better when I'm stifled. Mildly, that is. After my creative side was trapped within me as everything in Disneyland was just so meticulously seamed and unquestionable, save for a few vague concepts of physics, I was helped only by a poetry book that I carried with me as I went through the rides. I'll present pictures later, but let's just say that it was really a refuge for me while I was in line and waiting to have my brains tossed around.
Perhaps the most interesting ride was Winnie the Pooh. It was hardly the most thrilling, or the most well-done of rides, but it certainly had its appeal. The rest of my group didn't quite enjoy the psychedelic colors and shards of mirror everywhere, but I really enjoyed the craziness. I guess that was because of my mood, as I had put on my brightest tye dye shirt that day. I truly did feel like a free spirit, even if I still envied the aura surrounding the raving people with their multitude of bracelets and colorful clothing. I think that sort of behavior shall be my reward after I finish IB. It was incredibly appealing, even if I was surrounded by very eccentric people.
So that particular ride opened up my mind, but still my juices hardly flowed while Disney Magic was still being shoved down my throat. After riding Thunder Mountain Railroad four times, I was shaken enough to be thinking unworldly thoughts. Still, how could I think straight? I could barely see straight after going on Teacups with some of the wildest people I've ever met. I literally felt ready to hurl. So much for trying to take pictures on that ride. :[
When I got back to the hotel, I was quite ready to go to bed. Of course, my roomies decided to stay up very late. While they watched TV and played video games, I sat and wrote a while. At first, I was in a panic. I'd forgotten my pen and pad!!! Fortunately, there was a pen and pad in the hotel. It's strange how I tend to surge forth easily with my words when I'm not in my usual territory of RSVP pens and high quality paper. It's as if my inner starving artist is emerging. Who needs expensive things when I can just write on a 3x6, unlined pad with a hotel letterhead and a medium-point pen? I usually use fine point pens and college ruled paper. It could be called unnecessary indulgence, then.
I decided to write a while, until my roommate warned me that Resident Evil was about killing very realistic zombies. Such graphic images seemed like a bad idea before bed, so I decided to write in the sitting room. It seemed that writing with poker tournament background noise from the TV would be easier than bearing the noises of zombies dying and rifleshots. Still, I got sidetracked in conversation. I went back into the video game room, as I deemed the room full of gamers, and wrote some more. Not that my brain was completely invincible, after such a long day. I got tired after a while. After I realized that it was actually midnight, despite my caffeinated state of energy, I decided to sleep on the sofa-bed, while my roomies played Resident Evil and Nintendo DS. The bed wasn't exactly comfortable, so I actually used sofa cushions instead of the mattress.
The next day, I was the first one to get out of bed. It took a long time to do my morning routine because I had to do it in darkness so as to make sure that no one would be woken up. Not that I woke up too early. It was 8:30, based on my Zune clock. I went downstairs and got myself a cup of green tea from the Starbucks, and wrote for another half an hour in the luxurious, huge lobby. I then went back upstairs, to find my life filled with noise once more. Until the quiet car ride back to my friend's house, I hadn't had a single moment of silence! Even now they're making a racket. I hope that won't affect my grammar.
This qualifies as a journal entry, but the next few things that I post will still present portraits of my mind and my weekend. The only thing that I fear right now is that I used up my creative juices too fast and it'll be a while before I can write so much again, which would be extremely depressing. So, then, the journal entry doesn't end here.
Still, that does result in productivity. I do better when I'm stifled. Mildly, that is. After my creative side was trapped within me as everything in Disneyland was just so meticulously seamed and unquestionable, save for a few vague concepts of physics, I was helped only by a poetry book that I carried with me as I went through the rides. I'll present pictures later, but let's just say that it was really a refuge for me while I was in line and waiting to have my brains tossed around.
Perhaps the most interesting ride was Winnie the Pooh. It was hardly the most thrilling, or the most well-done of rides, but it certainly had its appeal. The rest of my group didn't quite enjoy the psychedelic colors and shards of mirror everywhere, but I really enjoyed the craziness. I guess that was because of my mood, as I had put on my brightest tye dye shirt that day. I truly did feel like a free spirit, even if I still envied the aura surrounding the raving people with their multitude of bracelets and colorful clothing. I think that sort of behavior shall be my reward after I finish IB. It was incredibly appealing, even if I was surrounded by very eccentric people.
So that particular ride opened up my mind, but still my juices hardly flowed while Disney Magic was still being shoved down my throat. After riding Thunder Mountain Railroad four times, I was shaken enough to be thinking unworldly thoughts. Still, how could I think straight? I could barely see straight after going on Teacups with some of the wildest people I've ever met. I literally felt ready to hurl. So much for trying to take pictures on that ride. :[
When I got back to the hotel, I was quite ready to go to bed. Of course, my roomies decided to stay up very late. While they watched TV and played video games, I sat and wrote a while. At first, I was in a panic. I'd forgotten my pen and pad!!! Fortunately, there was a pen and pad in the hotel. It's strange how I tend to surge forth easily with my words when I'm not in my usual territory of RSVP pens and high quality paper. It's as if my inner starving artist is emerging. Who needs expensive things when I can just write on a 3x6, unlined pad with a hotel letterhead and a medium-point pen? I usually use fine point pens and college ruled paper. It could be called unnecessary indulgence, then.
I decided to write a while, until my roommate warned me that Resident Evil was about killing very realistic zombies. Such graphic images seemed like a bad idea before bed, so I decided to write in the sitting room. It seemed that writing with poker tournament background noise from the TV would be easier than bearing the noises of zombies dying and rifleshots. Still, I got sidetracked in conversation. I went back into the video game room, as I deemed the room full of gamers, and wrote some more. Not that my brain was completely invincible, after such a long day. I got tired after a while. After I realized that it was actually midnight, despite my caffeinated state of energy, I decided to sleep on the sofa-bed, while my roomies played Resident Evil and Nintendo DS. The bed wasn't exactly comfortable, so I actually used sofa cushions instead of the mattress.
The next day, I was the first one to get out of bed. It took a long time to do my morning routine because I had to do it in darkness so as to make sure that no one would be woken up. Not that I woke up too early. It was 8:30, based on my Zune clock. I went downstairs and got myself a cup of green tea from the Starbucks, and wrote for another half an hour in the luxurious, huge lobby. I then went back upstairs, to find my life filled with noise once more. Until the quiet car ride back to my friend's house, I hadn't had a single moment of silence! Even now they're making a racket. I hope that won't affect my grammar.
This qualifies as a journal entry, but the next few things that I post will still present portraits of my mind and my weekend. The only thing that I fear right now is that I used up my creative juices too fast and it'll be a while before I can write so much again, which would be extremely depressing. So, then, the journal entry doesn't end here.
Friday, June 12, 2009
My Room
Teeming, spilling in opportunity;
The air old with apathy,
New with defeat and challenge
In its complacent maze.
Uneasy upon the gaze
To the keeper of the labyrinth
And lost souls alike,
All searching for new ways out.
Keys should be aplenty, no doubt
Going up and down
Endless clues and new time:
In and out, then back again.
Not that I mind. Perhaps it could be called character development, as most of the mess is currently comprised of old drafts and unpublished poems? It's not like I can throw most of it away...I think. I think I'll start a separate folder for old drafts, before I lose something valuable.
Apparently, I still have many written drafts that I had deemed to be lost. Thank goodness for my past organizational platform. It's still working for me, even if my room does look like Staples threw up all over it.
The air old with apathy,
New with defeat and challenge
In its complacent maze.
Uneasy upon the gaze
To the keeper of the labyrinth
And lost souls alike,
All searching for new ways out.
Keys should be aplenty, no doubt
Going up and down
Endless clues and new time:
In and out, then back again.
Not that I mind. Perhaps it could be called character development, as most of the mess is currently comprised of old drafts and unpublished poems? It's not like I can throw most of it away...I think. I think I'll start a separate folder for old drafts, before I lose something valuable.
Apparently, I still have many written drafts that I had deemed to be lost. Thank goodness for my past organizational platform. It's still working for me, even if my room does look like Staples threw up all over it.
Family Dog
His eyes twinkle with questions,
With stars he never knew
When he yelped at the moon,
Too small to fill the night.
Perhaps, then, his stone soul moved,
Stretched from where it began
To hope, to expect,
For a moment, he would see
Beyond his worn world.
Wall after all comes down, though,
Fearing his needs and trusting the years
Had tamed his instinct,
For he no longer howled.
Now he is like us,
Waiting for something else
Not quite found,
In our seldom civility.
With stars he never knew
When he yelped at the moon,
Too small to fill the night.
Perhaps, then, his stone soul moved,
Stretched from where it began
To hope, to expect,
For a moment, he would see
Beyond his worn world.
Wall after all comes down, though,
Fearing his needs and trusting the years
Had tamed his instinct,
For he no longer howled.
Now he is like us,
Waiting for something else
Not quite found,
In our seldom civility.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Fate Is Good
Yesterday, I decided to do some shopping online. I guess I wanted to indulge a little bit on material things before I started saving up money. It's not like I need many things (or anything) anyway. I just had this perfect outfit planned out , and I bought it. It was on sale, so I didn't mind.
Of course, I'm not familiar with online protocol. I make an order, only to find that one of the items I ordered will not be shipped because they had run out while I was in the process of ordering. Seriously?? What kind of store does that? Wouldn't you think that "add to shopping cart" meant that it would be "in your shopping cart" and not in someone else's? It's not like I went off line and left my shopping cart sitting there.
And then I order the two items that are still "in stock", only to find that one of the items had disappeared between the time that I placed my order and the time that my order was processed. That made even less sense. Back to the shopping cart metaphor, that's like someone just snatched something from me AFTER I paid for it. Of course, because it's a credit card order, they didn't technically steal anything. They just gave me my money back.
Sadly, I used someone else's credit card and paid them in cash. I did this before the wonderful customer service told me how very sorry they were in their most recent email.
Why is everything a loose term on the Internet?
Shopping cart- organizational unit for the seller, not the consumer. Especially not when the consumer is a thrifty one. No privacy value in this container, mind. Not even a temporary one.
Order- something similar to the action completed at a cash register. Of course, if someone else had their eyes set on the same thing, it's a free-for-all scramble over which the consumer has no control. No one gets hurt. Someone just has to look like a fool in the end. Yeah, it's going to be fun trying to explain how the order had been processed, but one of the items isn't going to ship. It's going to be fun trying to physically get my money back, wetseal.com. Thanks.
Tracking Number- a complicated string of numbers that allows you to stalk your package as it makes its way to your home. Type one number or letter incorrectly, and your number is just a bit of false reassurance. Adds salt to the wound, doesn't it? You'd think they'd at least give me the right number after all of the "unfortunate" circumstances they put me through.
I think I'm just PMSing. Usually I would find this rational. Usually I wouldn't swear a blue streak (well...comparatively blue), but I did.
You know what? I think I'll go bother their customer service right now about this instead of unloading this FML moment onto my blog audience. It's their fault, not yours.
Of course, I'm not familiar with online protocol. I make an order, only to find that one of the items I ordered will not be shipped because they had run out while I was in the process of ordering. Seriously?? What kind of store does that? Wouldn't you think that "add to shopping cart" meant that it would be "in your shopping cart" and not in someone else's? It's not like I went off line and left my shopping cart sitting there.
And then I order the two items that are still "in stock", only to find that one of the items had disappeared between the time that I placed my order and the time that my order was processed. That made even less sense. Back to the shopping cart metaphor, that's like someone just snatched something from me AFTER I paid for it. Of course, because it's a credit card order, they didn't technically steal anything. They just gave me my money back.
Sadly, I used someone else's credit card and paid them in cash. I did this before the wonderful customer service told me how very sorry they were in their most recent email.
Why is everything a loose term on the Internet?
Shopping cart- organizational unit for the seller, not the consumer. Especially not when the consumer is a thrifty one. No privacy value in this container, mind. Not even a temporary one.
Order- something similar to the action completed at a cash register. Of course, if someone else had their eyes set on the same thing, it's a free-for-all scramble over which the consumer has no control. No one gets hurt. Someone just has to look like a fool in the end. Yeah, it's going to be fun trying to explain how the order had been processed, but one of the items isn't going to ship. It's going to be fun trying to physically get my money back, wetseal.com. Thanks.
Tracking Number- a complicated string of numbers that allows you to stalk your package as it makes its way to your home. Type one number or letter incorrectly, and your number is just a bit of false reassurance. Adds salt to the wound, doesn't it? You'd think they'd at least give me the right number after all of the "unfortunate" circumstances they put me through.
I think I'm just PMSing. Usually I would find this rational. Usually I wouldn't swear a blue streak (well...comparatively blue), but I did.
You know what? I think I'll go bother their customer service right now about this instead of unloading this FML moment onto my blog audience. It's their fault, not yours.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Rose-tinted Cycles
She flaunts pale envy,
Colors sliding off her shoulders
In layers of broken sensibility,
The order of the day around her arm.
Catching the day as she turns her head,
That store window hair.
Yet, it all mismatches the morning,
That exploited peace of mind
Found in her pretty face.
The world window-shops,
Mildly, with her in mind.
Can't quite touch her exact moment
Where they are, for they had been there
In those five minute shades,
Walked in those five hour shoes.
Later they will see differently,
Should walk longer than she.
Until memories are forgotten
And the style is "vintage".
Colors sliding off her shoulders
In layers of broken sensibility,
The order of the day around her arm.
Catching the day as she turns her head,
That store window hair.
Yet, it all mismatches the morning,
That exploited peace of mind
Found in her pretty face.
The world window-shops,
Mildly, with her in mind.
Can't quite touch her exact moment
Where they are, for they had been there
In those five minute shades,
Walked in those five hour shoes.
Later they will see differently,
Should walk longer than she.
Until memories are forgotten
And the style is "vintage".
Saturday, June 6, 2009
In Love
We made our reservations
On the corner of the street.
Where there's an intersection,
Two souls should seldom meet.
But we did, did we not?
Between the glassy sunsets,
The shining cloudy days.
Between the past and future,
The moon that always stays,
Where we followed signs.
Not for us, walking.
Shadows we didn't see,
Locking eyes for a second,
Afraid of what should be.
And the world sighed in relief,
Kept walking, rustling all the ways
The sun tried to shine.
For a moment, though,
Our shadows lay unbroken
And your destination was mine.
On the corner of the street.
Where there's an intersection,
Two souls should seldom meet.
But we did, did we not?
Between the glassy sunsets,
The shining cloudy days.
Between the past and future,
The moon that always stays,
Where we followed signs.
Not for us, walking.
Shadows we didn't see,
Locking eyes for a second,
Afraid of what should be.
And the world sighed in relief,
Kept walking, rustling all the ways
The sun tried to shine.
For a moment, though,
Our shadows lay unbroken
And your destination was mine.
It never ends
Oh, just now a comment made my heart ache. It's strange how some things can only be explained by the heart, which makes them all the more necessary. Yet, the speaker of such things (the heart), can only be understood by a certain number of people. This sounds horrible, but I feel like I made the right decision, even if so many other people disagree.
I genuinely believe that someone just spoke to me from her heart, which had wishes that clashed with my heart. After all, we're not the same person. Our nuances make us the people that we are, and this was bound to happen, especially with the level at which we were corresponding. It hurt me to hear her good wishes for me, especially because they were far-removed from coming true. I'm not one to be impatient with such things, but it seems too distant for my current state of mind. Perhaps I was never the person that she saw in me, or I simply don't see the same person in the mirror that she sees when she looks at me.
That shows most clearly of all the two years that separate us, the experience and the sense of power that radiated from her sense of knowing, of self-understanding that I seldom find outside of writing. Perhaps that's why I look at her and I see someone that I can be in two years. Perhaps we could have been friends, if I didn't see her as someone with so much to offer, and I with so little to offer other than my shy, mild outlook. Once again, these are my own troubles. Who am I to ask someone else to deal with them and deal with them for me? I have friends because I managed to get past these things with a select number of people.
We may have disagreed, as I have disagreed with many people over this issue, but in the end, we saw eye to eye. Not that it really matters, in this little, unknown slice of cyberspace that will never quite reach reality. It is but a microcosm of my faults and fortes, after all. Still, I know that she's right, just like the words that I write when no one is looking. Those few words I hide, because I'm afraid of what the world can do with a well-placed measure of self-confidence. Outlooks and inferences are easily corrupted, after all.
I didn't expect such a comment to hit home. That's never happened before. I guess that's what I get when I talk to a creative writer with my skills and her skills in the same miniscule litlte arena that I set up for myself. I appreciated it, of course. It was just difficult to communicate with such depth on some bit of reality that never required such depth to me. School, that is. And school is supposed to be out for the summer.
I'm currently working on a story. I'll post it once I finish typing it up. That electronic task seems to be the hard part.
I genuinely believe that someone just spoke to me from her heart, which had wishes that clashed with my heart. After all, we're not the same person. Our nuances make us the people that we are, and this was bound to happen, especially with the level at which we were corresponding. It hurt me to hear her good wishes for me, especially because they were far-removed from coming true. I'm not one to be impatient with such things, but it seems too distant for my current state of mind. Perhaps I was never the person that she saw in me, or I simply don't see the same person in the mirror that she sees when she looks at me.
That shows most clearly of all the two years that separate us, the experience and the sense of power that radiated from her sense of knowing, of self-understanding that I seldom find outside of writing. Perhaps that's why I look at her and I see someone that I can be in two years. Perhaps we could have been friends, if I didn't see her as someone with so much to offer, and I with so little to offer other than my shy, mild outlook. Once again, these are my own troubles. Who am I to ask someone else to deal with them and deal with them for me? I have friends because I managed to get past these things with a select number of people.
We may have disagreed, as I have disagreed with many people over this issue, but in the end, we saw eye to eye. Not that it really matters, in this little, unknown slice of cyberspace that will never quite reach reality. It is but a microcosm of my faults and fortes, after all. Still, I know that she's right, just like the words that I write when no one is looking. Those few words I hide, because I'm afraid of what the world can do with a well-placed measure of self-confidence. Outlooks and inferences are easily corrupted, after all.
I didn't expect such a comment to hit home. That's never happened before. I guess that's what I get when I talk to a creative writer with my skills and her skills in the same miniscule litlte arena that I set up for myself. I appreciated it, of course. It was just difficult to communicate with such depth on some bit of reality that never required such depth to me. School, that is. And school is supposed to be out for the summer.
I'm currently working on a story. I'll post it once I finish typing it up. That electronic task seems to be the hard part.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Anniversary (a short story)
Thirty years. Perhaps it would take precisely thirty years. Perhaps even more.
Perhaps it was wrong, no, more than wrong to ask that he surrender so much for her. Yet, she was consumed by need and wished that he gave her every reason to feel this way. After all, it wasn't every day that he was allowed to feel such a love and it wasn't every day that she was keen to these things. To be specific, it was but a moment in time in which the missing piece of the puzzle revealed itself, as mysteries did at every moment. Of course, only specific people were relevant to these phenomena and cared about them at each particular moment.
Perhaps this was their moment, stupid as it seemed, impossible and real...
I swore to myself that I would never fall in love, no matter how much it was needed. Wasn't the truth that everyone knew always a bit false, just because it was on everyone's lips? Still, because everyone says the same thing it becomes a chant and a mold for life. Few are brave enough to ask whether any of these words actually had roots as well as aspirations.
My husband sleeps beside me. We are a part of that delirious, yet unsettled mass of people pretending to believe the same thing. We have been married for thirty years, more or less. For a fact, we are kind, simple, and practical. I have never gone a day without some bit of turmoil over my emotions in this marriage, just like any other couple. Is that supposed to be surprising? That says something, doesn't it?
I turn out the lights after leaving my thoughts away from the bed, so that they are safe. My husband knows that I need to lay there for a while with the lights on, for I do it every night, until I am sure that I will sleep. He simply snores.
Laughable, is it not? Perhaps I snore too. I'll never be sure, but I'm sure that I have my bad habits. Still it is good to know that I can look forward to reassuring silence upon these doubts the next morning. I will most likely wake up with no smile on my face, except for the one that I must give my husband as he wakes and keeps...surviving for our sake. It is as if my smile hangs on the bedpost, waiting for me on its hook in the corner.
I make toast and coffee, the rich aroma and the same bread never quite leaving this corner of the kitchen, this niche of our lives. Even so, it is always alive, always fighting back the years and the empty dust that would exist without its tiered, multi-dimensional scent that seems to catch the morning in multiple places. I think we've tried several different kinds of coffee in our three decades or so, and that is why the smell is layered. The toast is the only thing that can wash down so many years of unchanging starts, brand new days. We will probably never give it up.
"The toast is good today." He jokes. He'll probably make the same joke after cutting, pasting, rearranging the words to make them fit in his briefcase. He'll save it for his boss or a coworker. I nod, knowing that it will suffice. I swore that I would never fall in love, after all. I turn around to pour myself a cup of coffee, seeing only the side of his face that began the joke.
"Goodbye, Jim!" I call out. I probably do it at the same time every morning. It wasn't always so, but now my words have accumulated on the coat rack next to the door. Here is yet another niche of my life.
Time passes. It's almost easier without him here. I swore I would do this, and I do. All of those memories we had built up over the years, the formalities becoming pleasantries and the pleasantries becoming something like automatic reflex. It's a game to see who can hold out the longest. I'm alone, however, and this is the break between rounds. I know he has a picture of me, perhaps more than one picture, on his desk. Some of my old...refreshments have good missing, after all. He must know that I look at old photographs and let myself go, because nothing in the house is ever quite dusty enough to need cleaning. Therefore, we are happy.
I used to wish that I were still working, so that I wouldn't need to be home. Yet, I would come home wanting him and wishing that I didn't want him so much. It is a game that only children have to play, I am sure. Still, we are none the wiser for it. We live comfortably now that one of us is always waiting, waiting and not requiring anything but for time to simply pass.
I cook, I read, and I wait for a different past, a different present to come into being for me because I know that it will never happen. I'm not sure how many years it will take (or it has taken) for Jim to understand this. He is one of those few men who are simple at heart and yet not so much in the mind. It's a strange complication, but it probably won't ever bother me. Yes, Jim will be due home any moment now.
Comparable to how I only saw the side of his face that began the joke, I silently acknowledge the end of it as I reach for his coat and tell him softly that dinner is ready. He seems unnaturally stiff today. Perhaps he is always like this after a busy day, and it simply that I am tired as well and it is easier to notice that way. I did have many thoughts today, among that pesky little fear of having fallen in love.
These words, all of these words seem particularly heavy.
I wrap my arms around him, simply unable to unbutton the coat, the façade he wears even beyond his suit. He seems to be on the verge of an idea, while my daily ritual seems unnecessarily distorted.
Suddenly, he grabs my hands, pulling off the old coat that has never quite gone out of style for a man like him. He, of course, manages to get the fastenings off. I realize that he has never needed this ritual of mine. He has simply grown bulkier with age, as many men do, obviously not maintaining the thin, lean form that he had when we first met. What reason does he have to keep himself in shape, after all? I certainly had only distant eyes for it.
Perhaps he knows my empty disappointment, as he clasps my hands with his while I'm still wrapped around him. We stand there for a moment, until the far-off sound of a television calls us to dinner with its rapid tones and manufactured interest. My eyes open instantly, still not quite certain that they had really been closed. I remove myself from the scene. When Jim doesn’t move, I know something deeper is going on. Does he know as well as I?
I had used a new recipe for dinner that night. Jim obviously notices that.
"Darling, this is delicious."
I smile, quite sure of how I must look: a silly, middle-aged woman too mature to know what had happened, not to mention stuck in the past. Perhaps it is better that way.
"Thank you. So was work difficult today?"
Difficult. That was a strangely safe question to ask a man who had been sitting comfortably at the same desk for quite a number of years. Difficult would probably have to mean something horribly new.
"No, it was a beautiful day. And you've created a beautiful evening."
I wonder whether he is still talking about the food. I lean over the small table in the kitchen and press my hand against his cheek. All is certainly not well, or the way that it has always been. It causes me to draw back slowly and shiver. That sensation seems so unfamiliar, if not completely unique. I hope that it suffices. Where has our game gone? I only find it when we both stare at the old television, our knees crammed under the table and our elbows bumping the wall as we eat and swat at flies. The health report is on.
It is a summer evening, of course. These evenings, these nights that seem to occur over and over! Yet, no one ever gets tired of the time they provide. We had long given up on trying to keep the temperature low. Unexpected things always simmered, but they never quite came to be. On this night, I must say, they seem to come close. Or, we are just getting old and we may very well wish for that sort of thing, irrational as it is. As if it prevented us from going senile too fast!
Jimmy finishes his dinner. He still seems to be chewing on something, though, as many tired men chew on life when they find trouble swallowing its daily portion. Somehow, my husband had gnawed his way silently through a potential mid-life crisis this way.
I look up at him encouragingly, but I know better than to disrupt his contemplative silence. He nods at me slowly, and I giggle. I don't mind going through life this way, never quite falling into love. Not at all. Who could I possibly be cheating?
Jimmy keeps looking at me. He’s probably chewing on a few words he had once considered saying out loud. I smile at him, shaking my head at how very exhausted we both are, and yet how sweet it seems.
"You're not hoping for dessert, are you? You fill your coat quite nicely already."
He's a healthy man as far as I know, and I intend to keep it that way. A new dinner as well as dessert: silly! I'm sure that we are both sweating, for obvious reasons. He does not pop my bubbly frivolity, as we have nothing to replace it with. We understand each other quite well, I suppose. As my smile passes back into the boiling neutrality of the summer night, I wonder how our nights are really measured. I have had many of these nights, the thick air scented with the same winds and leaving just a hint of residue on the carpets to confuse us as fall starts creeping in. I've spent my nights with several variations of the same simple pleasures, which have become necessities, along with some wondering about his needs too, of course.
I try not to notice when his expression deflates from my statement. I wasn't trying to be motherly or confining. I would be patient with his wants, but it was disputable whether this was reasonable or not. Perhaps this is an unavoidable consequence of not falling in love, but the ceiling is always propped up not only by the beams, but also a generous measure of awkward silence and wide-eyed curiosity. It always dangles up there, keeping everything in the way that I wished it to be for so many years, ever since this period of my life began. It did take some getting used to, but I hardly doubt it's ever going to fall when this house was built upon love. Really, it was. How else would this game be played? Does this not occur in most marriages after some point in time? These are our wants, our needs, so I propose.
We sit there for what seems to be a very long time, until I begin doing the dishes and clearing the table. Jimmy turns off the television and goes off to begin his nightly routine. It is not always this quiet, I must say. Usually we will find something to talk or joke about, as we keep each other company. Perhaps I should not have ended his joke so early in the morning.
Or, tonight was just one of those contemplative nights, when the crowds of sleeping, chanting people seemed more suspicious of us than usual.
Even if I have some mad objective in mind that is separate from the fanciful notions of the rest of the world, I wish that some things just weren't so...possible. Spin the bottle the other way, however, and then they would be downright impossible. At least, with a positive approach, I could keep my word.
I certainly looked the way I did the last time I checked, meaning the last time I had taken a good look at myself in the mirror and proceeded with my nightly routine. Love certainly didn't leave me any better or worse for the wear, even if I wasn't in love.
I seem to know exactly where everything is placed, so I certainly am not bothered in the least. No. Dear Jimmy had simply cleaned up the bathroom. He'd left my slippers exactly where I needed them to be. All of my other things are exactly as I like them to be placed. He probably knew from all the years of watching me do it and fussing over it.
My taking a close look at myself every day seems like a way to admit to what existed of me, as well as to whatever the years had done. It was meticulously planned, to the point where I even looked at a separate, magnifying mirror in case my tired bathroom mirror had grown soft and complacent to the seemingly unchanging reality. This was one of the cases in which certainty took the place of uncertainty quite well. It rather upset me that I couldn't find this smaller, handheld mirror tonight, when I felt particularly old and tired from the game that seemed almost unnecessary at times like these. Was it wrong that a simple, outward appearance needed a perfectly accurate representation in order to understand what was really going on? It was as if my face held the will and the battle plan of each day in its inconsistency before my eyes.
I knew that I would have trouble laying out all of my thoughts tonight. So many crucial little things seemed to have been forgotten. Or, rather, I had brushed over too many details in what could have been a rewarding, somewhat fulfilling day. How had I passed all of these years, living this way? I throw cold water on my face, wishing that this would only be willingly temporary, and that I was alone.
Even the end of my day would have been simple enough. Nothing prevented me from lying down on the bed and thinking a while before feeling empty enough to sleep without dreams. Things could be quite simple if one wasn't in love one bit, after all.
Jimmy was probably as tired as I was, the poor man. He had forgotten that I liked being the one to turn off the light. Only the glow of the moon was illuminating the room, now, through the windows. It made everything outside seem very different and everything inside seem so familiar, as the mixed darkness failed to play tricks on me.
Perhaps the only unusual thing was that Jimmy was so quiet, sweetly sound, tonight. No snoring, not even a slightly bit vexed about the fact that he would have little beads of sweat on his forehead if he stayed in the same place for too long. It pleased me to see him sleep so well, as it meant that I had not been too cruel with our seasoned emotional sport. It was meant to benefit the both of us, after all.
Closing my eyes as I lay next to him, I felt triumphant for the both of us. We had mastered love. I settle myself in happily, knowing that the less-than-perfect day would be marked with this good note.
If only all of my worries had been laid to rest. Even if this one chapter managed to tie up all of its loose ends, I can’t help but wonder how this could be continued the next morning, even in this unpredictable season. The remains of our anxiety could be...changed.
The summer winds, shy and unsteady, seemed to shift. They had always been like this. It wasn't as if we were consistently on edge, though. Overall, it had not been a horrible day. I shift my position on the bed, feeling mildly frustrated as I rustle the sheets. Conveniently, Jimmy decides to do the same. He probably doesn't want to bother me later.
I edge myself into unconsciousness, just as indecisive and easily swayed as the summer wind, so easily ready to give up. To my surprise, Jimmy puts his arm around my waist and plays contentedly with the muted, unspectacular curves that I still had, drawing himself close to me. I was sure that this sort of behavior had once been expected of us, though I don't remember much of that. It certainly had been a seldom event, one that was enough to make my eyes open wide. Old sensations ran through me, rising quickly from the remains of what had bleakly started over dinner. I touch his hand, gasping when he clasps it and laces his fingers tenderly with mine.
My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I notice a small, velvet box on my night table as I lay there, still comically awake. It certainly hadn't been there before. I cannot help but wonder how it had escaped my notice. Jimmy was still, now. I reached out and opened the box with my free hand.
It was a pearl. A single, milky pearl that glowed in the moonlight, perhaps even leaving a bit of its sheen on the dull surface of our time. For the first time in exactly thirty years, I look at my Jimmy with that same sheen in my eyes. He smiles back and whispers the words that had been missing from my day.
“Happy thirtieth anniversary.”
I don’t need a mirror to see my blindness. We are in love after all.
Perhaps it was wrong, no, more than wrong to ask that he surrender so much for her. Yet, she was consumed by need and wished that he gave her every reason to feel this way. After all, it wasn't every day that he was allowed to feel such a love and it wasn't every day that she was keen to these things. To be specific, it was but a moment in time in which the missing piece of the puzzle revealed itself, as mysteries did at every moment. Of course, only specific people were relevant to these phenomena and cared about them at each particular moment.
Perhaps this was their moment, stupid as it seemed, impossible and real...
I swore to myself that I would never fall in love, no matter how much it was needed. Wasn't the truth that everyone knew always a bit false, just because it was on everyone's lips? Still, because everyone says the same thing it becomes a chant and a mold for life. Few are brave enough to ask whether any of these words actually had roots as well as aspirations.
My husband sleeps beside me. We are a part of that delirious, yet unsettled mass of people pretending to believe the same thing. We have been married for thirty years, more or less. For a fact, we are kind, simple, and practical. I have never gone a day without some bit of turmoil over my emotions in this marriage, just like any other couple. Is that supposed to be surprising? That says something, doesn't it?
I turn out the lights after leaving my thoughts away from the bed, so that they are safe. My husband knows that I need to lay there for a while with the lights on, for I do it every night, until I am sure that I will sleep. He simply snores.
Laughable, is it not? Perhaps I snore too. I'll never be sure, but I'm sure that I have my bad habits. Still it is good to know that I can look forward to reassuring silence upon these doubts the next morning. I will most likely wake up with no smile on my face, except for the one that I must give my husband as he wakes and keeps...surviving for our sake. It is as if my smile hangs on the bedpost, waiting for me on its hook in the corner.
I make toast and coffee, the rich aroma and the same bread never quite leaving this corner of the kitchen, this niche of our lives. Even so, it is always alive, always fighting back the years and the empty dust that would exist without its tiered, multi-dimensional scent that seems to catch the morning in multiple places. I think we've tried several different kinds of coffee in our three decades or so, and that is why the smell is layered. The toast is the only thing that can wash down so many years of unchanging starts, brand new days. We will probably never give it up.
"The toast is good today." He jokes. He'll probably make the same joke after cutting, pasting, rearranging the words to make them fit in his briefcase. He'll save it for his boss or a coworker. I nod, knowing that it will suffice. I swore that I would never fall in love, after all. I turn around to pour myself a cup of coffee, seeing only the side of his face that began the joke.
"Goodbye, Jim!" I call out. I probably do it at the same time every morning. It wasn't always so, but now my words have accumulated on the coat rack next to the door. Here is yet another niche of my life.
Time passes. It's almost easier without him here. I swore I would do this, and I do. All of those memories we had built up over the years, the formalities becoming pleasantries and the pleasantries becoming something like automatic reflex. It's a game to see who can hold out the longest. I'm alone, however, and this is the break between rounds. I know he has a picture of me, perhaps more than one picture, on his desk. Some of my old...refreshments have good missing, after all. He must know that I look at old photographs and let myself go, because nothing in the house is ever quite dusty enough to need cleaning. Therefore, we are happy.
I used to wish that I were still working, so that I wouldn't need to be home. Yet, I would come home wanting him and wishing that I didn't want him so much. It is a game that only children have to play, I am sure. Still, we are none the wiser for it. We live comfortably now that one of us is always waiting, waiting and not requiring anything but for time to simply pass.
I cook, I read, and I wait for a different past, a different present to come into being for me because I know that it will never happen. I'm not sure how many years it will take (or it has taken) for Jim to understand this. He is one of those few men who are simple at heart and yet not so much in the mind. It's a strange complication, but it probably won't ever bother me. Yes, Jim will be due home any moment now.
Comparable to how I only saw the side of his face that began the joke, I silently acknowledge the end of it as I reach for his coat and tell him softly that dinner is ready. He seems unnaturally stiff today. Perhaps he is always like this after a busy day, and it simply that I am tired as well and it is easier to notice that way. I did have many thoughts today, among that pesky little fear of having fallen in love.
These words, all of these words seem particularly heavy.
I wrap my arms around him, simply unable to unbutton the coat, the façade he wears even beyond his suit. He seems to be on the verge of an idea, while my daily ritual seems unnecessarily distorted.
Suddenly, he grabs my hands, pulling off the old coat that has never quite gone out of style for a man like him. He, of course, manages to get the fastenings off. I realize that he has never needed this ritual of mine. He has simply grown bulkier with age, as many men do, obviously not maintaining the thin, lean form that he had when we first met. What reason does he have to keep himself in shape, after all? I certainly had only distant eyes for it.
Perhaps he knows my empty disappointment, as he clasps my hands with his while I'm still wrapped around him. We stand there for a moment, until the far-off sound of a television calls us to dinner with its rapid tones and manufactured interest. My eyes open instantly, still not quite certain that they had really been closed. I remove myself from the scene. When Jim doesn’t move, I know something deeper is going on. Does he know as well as I?
I had used a new recipe for dinner that night. Jim obviously notices that.
"Darling, this is delicious."
I smile, quite sure of how I must look: a silly, middle-aged woman too mature to know what had happened, not to mention stuck in the past. Perhaps it is better that way.
"Thank you. So was work difficult today?"
Difficult. That was a strangely safe question to ask a man who had been sitting comfortably at the same desk for quite a number of years. Difficult would probably have to mean something horribly new.
"No, it was a beautiful day. And you've created a beautiful evening."
I wonder whether he is still talking about the food. I lean over the small table in the kitchen and press my hand against his cheek. All is certainly not well, or the way that it has always been. It causes me to draw back slowly and shiver. That sensation seems so unfamiliar, if not completely unique. I hope that it suffices. Where has our game gone? I only find it when we both stare at the old television, our knees crammed under the table and our elbows bumping the wall as we eat and swat at flies. The health report is on.
It is a summer evening, of course. These evenings, these nights that seem to occur over and over! Yet, no one ever gets tired of the time they provide. We had long given up on trying to keep the temperature low. Unexpected things always simmered, but they never quite came to be. On this night, I must say, they seem to come close. Or, we are just getting old and we may very well wish for that sort of thing, irrational as it is. As if it prevented us from going senile too fast!
Jimmy finishes his dinner. He still seems to be chewing on something, though, as many tired men chew on life when they find trouble swallowing its daily portion. Somehow, my husband had gnawed his way silently through a potential mid-life crisis this way.
I look up at him encouragingly, but I know better than to disrupt his contemplative silence. He nods at me slowly, and I giggle. I don't mind going through life this way, never quite falling into love. Not at all. Who could I possibly be cheating?
Jimmy keeps looking at me. He’s probably chewing on a few words he had once considered saying out loud. I smile at him, shaking my head at how very exhausted we both are, and yet how sweet it seems.
"You're not hoping for dessert, are you? You fill your coat quite nicely already."
He's a healthy man as far as I know, and I intend to keep it that way. A new dinner as well as dessert: silly! I'm sure that we are both sweating, for obvious reasons. He does not pop my bubbly frivolity, as we have nothing to replace it with. We understand each other quite well, I suppose. As my smile passes back into the boiling neutrality of the summer night, I wonder how our nights are really measured. I have had many of these nights, the thick air scented with the same winds and leaving just a hint of residue on the carpets to confuse us as fall starts creeping in. I've spent my nights with several variations of the same simple pleasures, which have become necessities, along with some wondering about his needs too, of course.
I try not to notice when his expression deflates from my statement. I wasn't trying to be motherly or confining. I would be patient with his wants, but it was disputable whether this was reasonable or not. Perhaps this is an unavoidable consequence of not falling in love, but the ceiling is always propped up not only by the beams, but also a generous measure of awkward silence and wide-eyed curiosity. It always dangles up there, keeping everything in the way that I wished it to be for so many years, ever since this period of my life began. It did take some getting used to, but I hardly doubt it's ever going to fall when this house was built upon love. Really, it was. How else would this game be played? Does this not occur in most marriages after some point in time? These are our wants, our needs, so I propose.
We sit there for what seems to be a very long time, until I begin doing the dishes and clearing the table. Jimmy turns off the television and goes off to begin his nightly routine. It is not always this quiet, I must say. Usually we will find something to talk or joke about, as we keep each other company. Perhaps I should not have ended his joke so early in the morning.
Or, tonight was just one of those contemplative nights, when the crowds of sleeping, chanting people seemed more suspicious of us than usual.
Even if I have some mad objective in mind that is separate from the fanciful notions of the rest of the world, I wish that some things just weren't so...possible. Spin the bottle the other way, however, and then they would be downright impossible. At least, with a positive approach, I could keep my word.
I certainly looked the way I did the last time I checked, meaning the last time I had taken a good look at myself in the mirror and proceeded with my nightly routine. Love certainly didn't leave me any better or worse for the wear, even if I wasn't in love.
I seem to know exactly where everything is placed, so I certainly am not bothered in the least. No. Dear Jimmy had simply cleaned up the bathroom. He'd left my slippers exactly where I needed them to be. All of my other things are exactly as I like them to be placed. He probably knew from all the years of watching me do it and fussing over it.
My taking a close look at myself every day seems like a way to admit to what existed of me, as well as to whatever the years had done. It was meticulously planned, to the point where I even looked at a separate, magnifying mirror in case my tired bathroom mirror had grown soft and complacent to the seemingly unchanging reality. This was one of the cases in which certainty took the place of uncertainty quite well. It rather upset me that I couldn't find this smaller, handheld mirror tonight, when I felt particularly old and tired from the game that seemed almost unnecessary at times like these. Was it wrong that a simple, outward appearance needed a perfectly accurate representation in order to understand what was really going on? It was as if my face held the will and the battle plan of each day in its inconsistency before my eyes.
I knew that I would have trouble laying out all of my thoughts tonight. So many crucial little things seemed to have been forgotten. Or, rather, I had brushed over too many details in what could have been a rewarding, somewhat fulfilling day. How had I passed all of these years, living this way? I throw cold water on my face, wishing that this would only be willingly temporary, and that I was alone.
Even the end of my day would have been simple enough. Nothing prevented me from lying down on the bed and thinking a while before feeling empty enough to sleep without dreams. Things could be quite simple if one wasn't in love one bit, after all.
Jimmy was probably as tired as I was, the poor man. He had forgotten that I liked being the one to turn off the light. Only the glow of the moon was illuminating the room, now, through the windows. It made everything outside seem very different and everything inside seem so familiar, as the mixed darkness failed to play tricks on me.
Perhaps the only unusual thing was that Jimmy was so quiet, sweetly sound, tonight. No snoring, not even a slightly bit vexed about the fact that he would have little beads of sweat on his forehead if he stayed in the same place for too long. It pleased me to see him sleep so well, as it meant that I had not been too cruel with our seasoned emotional sport. It was meant to benefit the both of us, after all.
Closing my eyes as I lay next to him, I felt triumphant for the both of us. We had mastered love. I settle myself in happily, knowing that the less-than-perfect day would be marked with this good note.
If only all of my worries had been laid to rest. Even if this one chapter managed to tie up all of its loose ends, I can’t help but wonder how this could be continued the next morning, even in this unpredictable season. The remains of our anxiety could be...changed.
The summer winds, shy and unsteady, seemed to shift. They had always been like this. It wasn't as if we were consistently on edge, though. Overall, it had not been a horrible day. I shift my position on the bed, feeling mildly frustrated as I rustle the sheets. Conveniently, Jimmy decides to do the same. He probably doesn't want to bother me later.
I edge myself into unconsciousness, just as indecisive and easily swayed as the summer wind, so easily ready to give up. To my surprise, Jimmy puts his arm around my waist and plays contentedly with the muted, unspectacular curves that I still had, drawing himself close to me. I was sure that this sort of behavior had once been expected of us, though I don't remember much of that. It certainly had been a seldom event, one that was enough to make my eyes open wide. Old sensations ran through me, rising quickly from the remains of what had bleakly started over dinner. I touch his hand, gasping when he clasps it and laces his fingers tenderly with mine.
My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I notice a small, velvet box on my night table as I lay there, still comically awake. It certainly hadn't been there before. I cannot help but wonder how it had escaped my notice. Jimmy was still, now. I reached out and opened the box with my free hand.
It was a pearl. A single, milky pearl that glowed in the moonlight, perhaps even leaving a bit of its sheen on the dull surface of our time. For the first time in exactly thirty years, I look at my Jimmy with that same sheen in my eyes. He smiles back and whispers the words that had been missing from my day.
“Happy thirtieth anniversary.”
I don’t need a mirror to see my blindness. We are in love after all.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Subscribe!
Posts
All Comments
