sometimes late at night when i should be in la de da dream land, i lay awake staring into blackness, making out tiny figures on the ceiling. i could see anything i want to up there. somehow it always ends up being something scary, though. something that makes me think, "goddammit", before i pull the quilt over my head and wait for some contorted clawed hand to grab my ankle.
in all eventuality, i fall asleep, albeit shortly, for a period of time i am dazed. unconsciously floating through my psyche like ghosts through my old tired house. i find things there that i deem long forgotten in my waking hours. i uncover long dark hallways of memory filled with black balloons and limbless dolls and other such (un)pleasantries that represent a miscommunicated childhood.
there are broken toy children laughing as they play on the soggy floors with still blinking eyes, rolling like marbles, and crashing into each other with a sound louder than crashing waves. the picture frames made of bone rattle and turn to dust, littering the corridor with faded papers and sweating pastels, coughing bursts of color into the night. faint whispers of the gentle hiss of a corpse like mother, standing over us all, fanged and razor-fingered, chanting "i love you." the rumble of thunder rolls as a gentle black slime weeps down the rainbows that struggle to stay lit, flickering like flames, until they are extinguished. skeleton hands crawl like spiders up the walls; and blood falls like rain from pink billows excusing clouds.
my eyes open to dimness, the dreary post-slumber fog that is so easily satisfied by concession. well, concession or a dash of 80-proof-happiness in your orange juice. in reflective pools of thought i ponder the world i was just torn from, by the ever present fork in the road known as consciousness. this alternate universe, to almost anyone else, is nothing short of an unspoken hell.
to me, it is home.
the dark careless tinge of the stripes on my misbuttoned sweater, the smokey untamed waves of my hair, the blood red stain on my lips, the full moon and scribbled black lines making up the deformed creatures that sprinkle my family portraits; where smiling stick figures with triangle-dresses and a corner sun exhaling rays of joy and light belong, all share one surreptitious commonality.
they frighten those of you who know the warmth of the sun. you who have felt the touch of authority melting into a soft, cool puddle of empathy. you who can comprehend a smile, a hug, maybe even sincerity. and yes you, those who know what safe tastes like, on a tongue that has not been scalded numb.
but to those of us on the outskirts of sanity, kicking our empty dented cans of happiness down acetylcholine avenue, watching your laughter spilling out and spelling meaning in the streets, those of us who salvage what letters are left as your sewage washes down our drains, showering our underworld with echoes and whispers, teasing. toiling. tarnishing;
to us, that terror is the swath-smooth blanket we use to gently wrap our ectopic cordi.
intangible scar tissue. mental immunity. subtle, post-traumatic protection.
so walk ahead. look up. smile brightly. carry on. revel in knowing that nothing, not even the creatures surviving below your feet, can reach you. nothing can grasp you.
nothing could touch you.
not even me.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
reflections.
there are parts of you that you never knew were there, that hide behind what you are, or at least; who you choose to look like to the rest of the world. there is a purity within, that is tainted and altered as it is being shone through the filters and screens that are our appearances. and somehow it survives. it persists. perpetually illuminating, and ever so often it reaches our conscious thoughts unscathed. and it is times like those, that really teach you what it means to be here.
there was a little girl once. she was born small, and sick. she was born an addict. the hospital sheets hardly had time to absorb the warmth of her mother's body, before her mother was gone. she packed only her suitcase, and left only her promises. the little girl didn't know this person, or who she was to her. she did know that her face was the first thing she'd seen when her life began. and she trusted that. somehow.
the little girl was taken home to a place she'd never seen, by a man she'd never met. a man her mother had scarcely met. a man whose ethics outweighed his abilities to forget. but then, the liquor helped with that. she listened to him scream, and she seemed to think that the harder she squeezed her eyes shut the less it would hurt when he touched her. at least she could hear him. at least she could feel him. at least he wasn't gone. not completely, anyway.
ten years would pass, the little girl was learning quickly. she already knew how to double-clutch the man's truck the swiftest route between the pub and the trailer, without waking him up in the passenger's seat floor. she knew which carseats the cops wouldn't drug-tap, and how many tiles were on the ceiling of every room in the house. the man told her she looked like her mother. but the things the girl had learned and seen of the mother scared her. the things she didn't know of the man she shared a home with scared her just as much. her bruises and scars were hidden from the eyes of anyone who would care. funny, she thought, of all the shooting stars she has wasted wishing for someone who cared- her biggest concern now was hiding from them.
she would read to pass the time. any words she could find, she made sense of them. applied meaning to them. dreamed dreams within them. in her classroom she stood taller than the rest, but only when she got to read out loud. only when she could tell the world- well, a room full of 12 year olds- just how she planned to save their lives one day. just how she planned to save the world. only when she knew she could make them understand what's out there, and how much bigger it was than she, or they. or anything. and everyday, she would go home with hope- finding what she expected. she would promise god on her knees at night that she'd make up for the lives wasting around her, if only he'd give her the chance.
she walks home today to the same place, down the same road, with the same pub lights showering the same bodies on the same sidewalk. she still knows how to pick the man out from the pile. she still knows how to keep from being caught staring when she see's the mother out; laughing happily, with a new baby in her arms. the little girl is unrecognizable to this woman now, but still- she watches from afar. she still knows how to pick the locks of the doors she was so frequently thrown into, locked out of. she still cries when she lies about why the man is too busy to meet someone important to her, about when the mother will finally get that big break and call, just to say it's okay to come around.
she still has the same dimples that her mother has. she still has the same dreams that man left behind. and even though she has neither of them, she does have something that's going to take her farther than she ever daydreamed in that classroom.
she has faith.
so let it be said, that when life loses you along the way, and when those you once trusted, and those you could have loved, leave you behind- the days in front of you are because of the days behind you. And the glass seperating the two can be one of two very similar yet fundamentally opposite things:
a mirror, or a window.
there was a little girl once. she was born small, and sick. she was born an addict. the hospital sheets hardly had time to absorb the warmth of her mother's body, before her mother was gone. she packed only her suitcase, and left only her promises. the little girl didn't know this person, or who she was to her. she did know that her face was the first thing she'd seen when her life began. and she trusted that. somehow.
the little girl was taken home to a place she'd never seen, by a man she'd never met. a man her mother had scarcely met. a man whose ethics outweighed his abilities to forget. but then, the liquor helped with that. she listened to him scream, and she seemed to think that the harder she squeezed her eyes shut the less it would hurt when he touched her. at least she could hear him. at least she could feel him. at least he wasn't gone. not completely, anyway.
ten years would pass, the little girl was learning quickly. she already knew how to double-clutch the man's truck the swiftest route between the pub and the trailer, without waking him up in the passenger's seat floor. she knew which carseats the cops wouldn't drug-tap, and how many tiles were on the ceiling of every room in the house. the man told her she looked like her mother. but the things the girl had learned and seen of the mother scared her. the things she didn't know of the man she shared a home with scared her just as much. her bruises and scars were hidden from the eyes of anyone who would care. funny, she thought, of all the shooting stars she has wasted wishing for someone who cared- her biggest concern now was hiding from them.
she would read to pass the time. any words she could find, she made sense of them. applied meaning to them. dreamed dreams within them. in her classroom she stood taller than the rest, but only when she got to read out loud. only when she could tell the world- well, a room full of 12 year olds- just how she planned to save their lives one day. just how she planned to save the world. only when she knew she could make them understand what's out there, and how much bigger it was than she, or they. or anything. and everyday, she would go home with hope- finding what she expected. she would promise god on her knees at night that she'd make up for the lives wasting around her, if only he'd give her the chance.
she walks home today to the same place, down the same road, with the same pub lights showering the same bodies on the same sidewalk. she still knows how to pick the man out from the pile. she still knows how to keep from being caught staring when she see's the mother out; laughing happily, with a new baby in her arms. the little girl is unrecognizable to this woman now, but still- she watches from afar. she still knows how to pick the locks of the doors she was so frequently thrown into, locked out of. she still cries when she lies about why the man is too busy to meet someone important to her, about when the mother will finally get that big break and call, just to say it's okay to come around.
she still has the same dimples that her mother has. she still has the same dreams that man left behind. and even though she has neither of them, she does have something that's going to take her farther than she ever daydreamed in that classroom.
she has faith.
so let it be said, that when life loses you along the way, and when those you once trusted, and those you could have loved, leave you behind- the days in front of you are because of the days behind you. And the glass seperating the two can be one of two very similar yet fundamentally opposite things:
a mirror, or a window.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
lessons of copper pocket lint.
i would like to think that in one hundred years the world will be a better place than it was when i walked here. i would like to think that tomorrow the sun will shine a little brighter to make up for the clouds that distorted it today. i would like to think that ten lives ago... i was someone great. who evidently still hasn't learned their lesson.
i would like to think alot of things.
i was greeted this morning in my oblivious post-slumber fog by an angry sounding alarm clock. of all the things in the world to wake up to; sandy beaches, lush gardens, australians... this is how i readapt to conscious life every 24 hours or so. shaking off this momentary miss-bliss, i pursue my morning ablutions with ferocity, as they peeve me something disdainful, and i come upon a penny-- aglitter and aglimmer in the light of the 60watt energy hog that is the vanity-- and, thinking it nothing more than one of my hundreds of weekly self-disoveries, i pick it up, stick it in a pocket, and meander on to the glorified watering hole with a tube attached that we modern civilians know as showers.
singing 'provincial life' attributed to a certain beautiful/beastly adaptation of moral standards to myself, quite happily i might add, i walk to the bus stop some hours later. the trip home from the belittling satisfaction that is my job always proves interesting. what i was unaware of, at this point in time, was that soon-- life as i knew it was one proverbial flush away from total obliteration.
i don't know who was late first- myself or the bus- but the vacant space before the bench proved all too much for my being to endure. cursing to myself i walked on, wishing some fat kid with a bike i could borrow would happen by. i put my hands in my pockets to complete this encompassing feeling of dread, and i felt something. the penny. cursing it and everyone associated, (at least i was honest, abe), i immediately called it's bluff by summoning the age-old addage of 'find a penny pick it up' to memory. i could have easily, and reasonably, blamed this penny for a lifetime of troubles, i could have easily cast it to the walk for the next poor sap in need of a little hope to find, i could have easily lost my mind.
in a moment i realized the one common practice in all of human woes.
all we really want out of life is something real to count on.
perceptions of a god and the unknown tarnish with age. ideas and beliefs fall away like we from our pasts, but, much like our pasts- they follow us forever. over time faith can die, truth becomes faded, and hope goes down with the ship; white flag in-air. but in the midst of a scramble for a meaning we don't have to lose that sparkle that makes us what nothing else can be. human. screwing up is mandatory. missing out is necessary. and happiness... happiness is contingent.
the bones of it is this: to give a hearty 'fuck you' to safety and security- go out and believe. in absolutely anything. from santa claus to a good luck penny. the only thing that matters, is that you can make like fingerpaint- and not be afraid of life getting a little messy.
i would like to think alot of things.
i was greeted this morning in my oblivious post-slumber fog by an angry sounding alarm clock. of all the things in the world to wake up to; sandy beaches, lush gardens, australians... this is how i readapt to conscious life every 24 hours or so. shaking off this momentary miss-bliss, i pursue my morning ablutions with ferocity, as they peeve me something disdainful, and i come upon a penny-- aglitter and aglimmer in the light of the 60watt energy hog that is the vanity-- and, thinking it nothing more than one of my hundreds of weekly self-disoveries, i pick it up, stick it in a pocket, and meander on to the glorified watering hole with a tube attached that we modern civilians know as showers.
singing 'provincial life' attributed to a certain beautiful/beastly adaptation of moral standards to myself, quite happily i might add, i walk to the bus stop some hours later. the trip home from the belittling satisfaction that is my job always proves interesting. what i was unaware of, at this point in time, was that soon-- life as i knew it was one proverbial flush away from total obliteration.
i don't know who was late first- myself or the bus- but the vacant space before the bench proved all too much for my being to endure. cursing to myself i walked on, wishing some fat kid with a bike i could borrow would happen by. i put my hands in my pockets to complete this encompassing feeling of dread, and i felt something. the penny. cursing it and everyone associated, (at least i was honest, abe), i immediately called it's bluff by summoning the age-old addage of 'find a penny pick it up' to memory. i could have easily, and reasonably, blamed this penny for a lifetime of troubles, i could have easily cast it to the walk for the next poor sap in need of a little hope to find, i could have easily lost my mind.
in a moment i realized the one common practice in all of human woes.
all we really want out of life is something real to count on.
perceptions of a god and the unknown tarnish with age. ideas and beliefs fall away like we from our pasts, but, much like our pasts- they follow us forever. over time faith can die, truth becomes faded, and hope goes down with the ship; white flag in-air. but in the midst of a scramble for a meaning we don't have to lose that sparkle that makes us what nothing else can be. human. screwing up is mandatory. missing out is necessary. and happiness... happiness is contingent.
the bones of it is this: to give a hearty 'fuck you' to safety and security- go out and believe. in absolutely anything. from santa claus to a good luck penny. the only thing that matters, is that you can make like fingerpaint- and not be afraid of life getting a little messy.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
drexel street.
i lost the highway 43 miles ago
i ran until i cried
i thought the truth would always lead me home
i'd squeezed it til it lied
of all the places to be here
where is yours
i found god in an empty crate
there was some glass a rock and a bloodstain
i said sorry but this time you're too late
he just closed his eyes and felt the rain
pour
of all the reasons to be here
what are yours
i walked back and i numbered the weary lights
of where they hope to find themselves tomorrow
i lost count around the same time i lost faith
they all looked at me and wondered
how
of all the ones to leave here
who are yours
there was a boy with empty in his eyes
on the corner where you would wait
he said i'm sorry but there's no good down that way
i smiled and said i have lived these lies
home
of all the voices to silence here
which was yours
saw you sitting there like you always do
you had a different shade of smile on your face
i thought if you turned around i would talk to you
but you sat there
and you stayed there
and i lost you
for good
of all the things to destroy here
i was yours
i ran until i cried
i thought the truth would always lead me home
i'd squeezed it til it lied
of all the places to be here
where is yours
i found god in an empty crate
there was some glass a rock and a bloodstain
i said sorry but this time you're too late
he just closed his eyes and felt the rain
pour
of all the reasons to be here
what are yours
i walked back and i numbered the weary lights
of where they hope to find themselves tomorrow
i lost count around the same time i lost faith
they all looked at me and wondered
how
of all the ones to leave here
who are yours
there was a boy with empty in his eyes
on the corner where you would wait
he said i'm sorry but there's no good down that way
i smiled and said i have lived these lies
home
of all the voices to silence here
which was yours
saw you sitting there like you always do
you had a different shade of smile on your face
i thought if you turned around i would talk to you
but you sat there
and you stayed there
and i lost you
for good
of all the things to destroy here
i was yours
Friday, February 6, 2009
back for you.
if she runs away it doesn't mean that she wants to
if she hides her face it doesn't mean she doesn't want you
to see her
if she packs her things and leaves the magnet letters on the fridge
you know that she'll be back for you
when she leaves you hanging it doesn't mean she meant to
when she see's you crying it's not that she can't do
she won't do
when she hurts then hurts you worse just to feel pretty promise me
you know that she'll be back for you
why she paints her clothes instead of her face
why she knocks you down when all you need is faith
why she wants to hear you love her just to hate you no one knows
but you know that she'll be back for you
how she looks so plain and somehow feels beautiful
how she hates today just because it felt perfect
how she wants to keep your sweater but leaves your life out on the lawn
all say that she'll be back for you
what she loves the most is the picture you colored her
what she lost for hope is an ocean in those eyes of hers
what she doesn't say would never come out right anyway
still you know that she'll be back for you
if she looks at her shoes when you ask her to watch for you
if she turns away when she spent all day finding you
if she holds her breath and hums when your arms are full of her
she just wants to know you'll be back for her.
if she hides her face it doesn't mean she doesn't want you
to see her
if she packs her things and leaves the magnet letters on the fridge
you know that she'll be back for you
when she leaves you hanging it doesn't mean she meant to
when she see's you crying it's not that she can't do
she won't do
when she hurts then hurts you worse just to feel pretty promise me
you know that she'll be back for you
why she paints her clothes instead of her face
why she knocks you down when all you need is faith
why she wants to hear you love her just to hate you no one knows
but you know that she'll be back for you
how she looks so plain and somehow feels beautiful
how she hates today just because it felt perfect
how she wants to keep your sweater but leaves your life out on the lawn
all say that she'll be back for you
what she loves the most is the picture you colored her
what she lost for hope is an ocean in those eyes of hers
what she doesn't say would never come out right anyway
still you know that she'll be back for you
if she looks at her shoes when you ask her to watch for you
if she turns away when she spent all day finding you
if she holds her breath and hums when your arms are full of her
she just wants to know you'll be back for her.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
e. e. cummings and jumping into puddles.
sometimes i wish the world could go blind. sometimes i wish we would all spontaneously lose our sight at the same time, and be thrust into relying on another soul to find home. to be forced to suddenly function on feeling- on truth- rather than the arrogance of sight, of knowing enough about where we are to ignore where we should be. if we lost our ability to comprehend visually, we would no longer look to the brightly colored for standards we should set. look to the thrice suited elders for what we should deem important. look down on those who differ, or up to those who look down on us.
we would be miserably free. in a painful, beautiful way.
the strong would press on, anger fueling them, until they walked into the ocean and never returned. the weak would pity the self, until they trembled for the final time in their dark corner of solitude. the indifferent would simply adapt, leading no joy nor sorrow to encompass their lives, robots feeling their way down 5th avenue to buy a piece of bread, daily goal being to make it to the next. how simple, how lonely, how cruel.
there is one group left to imagine. we will call them the bold.
this group would sense a change immediately. amidst the screams and the turmoil, they would realize how heightened you become, once visual effects no longer are a factor in perception. they would realize that trees also have a sound. that the air also has a taste. that the warmth of the sun can also be felt; not just viewed until recognized and then filed away, ignored. the bold would be scared, of course. but in reaching out, as we as human souls are predetermined to do, once the deepest depth of our perception is taken away; they would feel. one hand would link to another. appendages would intertwine. our most underestimated sense would take hold.
touch.
in considering love and the properties of such, i realized what an age-old cliche has been telling us for centuries. love is blind. there is no question of that. the blindness preys on the weakened portion of our hearts, the vulnerable, the trusting, the needing. blindness accelerates the strength within us, to the point of obliviously digging our own graves. a lifetime of the two, then, can create the bitter indifference, the gaping maw of survival. existence. hollow satisfaction. we become sleep walkers, quietly drifting, heading nowhere in particular. after all, we've earned it, we've been to hell and back.
in our own pain, once again, we forget about the group that lingers. the miscellaneous. the misfits, the odd-ends... the broken toys, perhaps. that fit in none of the above categories. how well they must hide, then, to never be discovered, lurking in shadows. but allow me to venture a theory at which you will be sure to hoot:
the bold live inside all of us. the weak, the strong, and the indifferent just consume us so entirely that we simply feel too much to believe we have the ability to reach such a state of heightened willingness to screw up. look past the fear, past the rage, past the safety, and there you will find the one shot of adrenaline you need to close your eyes, grab a hand, and trust their eyes- and their heart- to lead you in the right direction.
after all, feeling is first.
why pay any attention to the syntax of things?
we would be miserably free. in a painful, beautiful way.
the strong would press on, anger fueling them, until they walked into the ocean and never returned. the weak would pity the self, until they trembled for the final time in their dark corner of solitude. the indifferent would simply adapt, leading no joy nor sorrow to encompass their lives, robots feeling their way down 5th avenue to buy a piece of bread, daily goal being to make it to the next. how simple, how lonely, how cruel.
there is one group left to imagine. we will call them the bold.
this group would sense a change immediately. amidst the screams and the turmoil, they would realize how heightened you become, once visual effects no longer are a factor in perception. they would realize that trees also have a sound. that the air also has a taste. that the warmth of the sun can also be felt; not just viewed until recognized and then filed away, ignored. the bold would be scared, of course. but in reaching out, as we as human souls are predetermined to do, once the deepest depth of our perception is taken away; they would feel. one hand would link to another. appendages would intertwine. our most underestimated sense would take hold.
touch.
in considering love and the properties of such, i realized what an age-old cliche has been telling us for centuries. love is blind. there is no question of that. the blindness preys on the weakened portion of our hearts, the vulnerable, the trusting, the needing. blindness accelerates the strength within us, to the point of obliviously digging our own graves. a lifetime of the two, then, can create the bitter indifference, the gaping maw of survival. existence. hollow satisfaction. we become sleep walkers, quietly drifting, heading nowhere in particular. after all, we've earned it, we've been to hell and back.
in our own pain, once again, we forget about the group that lingers. the miscellaneous. the misfits, the odd-ends... the broken toys, perhaps. that fit in none of the above categories. how well they must hide, then, to never be discovered, lurking in shadows. but allow me to venture a theory at which you will be sure to hoot:
the bold live inside all of us. the weak, the strong, and the indifferent just consume us so entirely that we simply feel too much to believe we have the ability to reach such a state of heightened willingness to screw up. look past the fear, past the rage, past the safety, and there you will find the one shot of adrenaline you need to close your eyes, grab a hand, and trust their eyes- and their heart- to lead you in the right direction.
after all, feeling is first.
why pay any attention to the syntax of things?
Sunday, January 25, 2009
lupe valez: a love story.
lupe valez was the it girl of the nineteen-thirties.
beauty beyond belief, she had "movie star" in her dna.
her career hits the skids. so she decides she'll take one final stab at immortality. she figured, if she couldn't be remembered for her movies; she'd be remembered for the way she died.
and all lupe wanted was to be remembered.
so, she plans her lavish suicide. flowers. candles. silk sheets. white satin gown. full hair and make-up... the works. she takes the overdose of pills, lays poised on the bed, and imagines how beautiful she's going to look on the front page of tomorrow's newspaper.
unfortunately, the pills don't sit well with the enchilada combo plate she sadly chose as her last meal. she stumbles to the bathroom, trips, goes headfirst into the toilet...
and that's how they found her.
is there a moral looming? undoubtedly.
even though things might not happen like we plan...
they can work out anyway.
to remind you again how it worked for poor lupe,
last seen with her head in the toilet:
all she wanted was to be remembered.
will you ever forget this story?
beauty beyond belief, she had "movie star" in her dna.
her career hits the skids. so she decides she'll take one final stab at immortality. she figured, if she couldn't be remembered for her movies; she'd be remembered for the way she died.
and all lupe wanted was to be remembered.
so, she plans her lavish suicide. flowers. candles. silk sheets. white satin gown. full hair and make-up... the works. she takes the overdose of pills, lays poised on the bed, and imagines how beautiful she's going to look on the front page of tomorrow's newspaper.
unfortunately, the pills don't sit well with the enchilada combo plate she sadly chose as her last meal. she stumbles to the bathroom, trips, goes headfirst into the toilet...
and that's how they found her.
is there a moral looming? undoubtedly.
even though things might not happen like we plan...
they can work out anyway.
to remind you again how it worked for poor lupe,
last seen with her head in the toilet:
all she wanted was to be remembered.
will you ever forget this story?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
am i ugly?
when i was a little kid, i wanted to be the one who invented the flying car. i also wanted to invent moon-shoes, teleportation, and toast that didn't always land butter-side down.
these dreams are improbable, however typical, of an eight year old playground mobster with freckles, grass stains, and a tooth out. over a gravitationally inclined cardboard memoir holder, i stood-and dusty closet surrounding- i recollected. comparatively thinking, i assessed my inner young'n as she stands more than a decade later. i still have grass stains. freckles are hereby present- only now to adorn naked shoulders rather than a wrinkled up nose. the tooth fairy and i have parted ways. and my toast still lands butter side down. i lost hope in flying cars when that whole santa thing turned belly-up; and have stuck to more attainable goals, such as curing cancer. yet through drawings and spelling tests i sifted, through crafts and through camp flyers, remembering what it must have been like to be so blissfully unaware of the disdain of it all.
i reached the bottom of the overturned memory reservoir. and i was changed.
just below my grasp was a purple crayon. gently worn, paper torn, broken in the middle. i looked back to where i'd come from, and saw the mess of tutee's homework, cholera epidemic spreadsheets, and bills to pay, covered up by an oversized cookie monster coloring book. a box of eight crayons lay drizzled over the scene, save for one. my purple.
we grow up in size, in cognitive ability, and in physical maturity. we make our adult lives about the hard things. after all, we had our chance to have it easy. we were kids... once. but today i learned that part of our need to wonder never dies. part of the innocent glint, the perpetual 'why?', and the need to be euphorically oblivious of the real world is still in there. and in little ways, it comes out, in faint whispers, it speaks. and it's when you lose your ability to strap on the rose-colored goggles and giggle-fit your way into remission... that life will truly lose all meaning.
in summation, for the faint of literacy, it goes something like this:
trip. fall. laugh. stand.... and when life gives you hell, make s'mores.
these dreams are improbable, however typical, of an eight year old playground mobster with freckles, grass stains, and a tooth out. over a gravitationally inclined cardboard memoir holder, i stood-and dusty closet surrounding- i recollected. comparatively thinking, i assessed my inner young'n as she stands more than a decade later. i still have grass stains. freckles are hereby present- only now to adorn naked shoulders rather than a wrinkled up nose. the tooth fairy and i have parted ways. and my toast still lands butter side down. i lost hope in flying cars when that whole santa thing turned belly-up; and have stuck to more attainable goals, such as curing cancer. yet through drawings and spelling tests i sifted, through crafts and through camp flyers, remembering what it must have been like to be so blissfully unaware of the disdain of it all.
i reached the bottom of the overturned memory reservoir. and i was changed.
just below my grasp was a purple crayon. gently worn, paper torn, broken in the middle. i looked back to where i'd come from, and saw the mess of tutee's homework, cholera epidemic spreadsheets, and bills to pay, covered up by an oversized cookie monster coloring book. a box of eight crayons lay drizzled over the scene, save for one. my purple.
we grow up in size, in cognitive ability, and in physical maturity. we make our adult lives about the hard things. after all, we had our chance to have it easy. we were kids... once. but today i learned that part of our need to wonder never dies. part of the innocent glint, the perpetual 'why?', and the need to be euphorically oblivious of the real world is still in there. and in little ways, it comes out, in faint whispers, it speaks. and it's when you lose your ability to strap on the rose-colored goggles and giggle-fit your way into remission... that life will truly lose all meaning.
in summation, for the faint of literacy, it goes something like this:
trip. fall. laugh. stand.... and when life gives you hell, make s'mores.
Monday, January 19, 2009
wild horses.
sometimes when i'm sad i color. crayola rainbows douse the page with life. the black lines no longer just two dimensional ideas of what could be. sometimes when i'm happy i dance. right under the sun. on the green of the grass, cartwheels and energy, like a big sparkly volcano of enthusiasm. sometimes when i'm mad i run away. and i absorb the feeling of trees and the sky. and once in awhile; i cry. and i live out these moments, that make up my days, and i try to remember the feeling. i recall the scents. the scenery. i recall the words, the actions. but i can't conjure the feeling, or even a shadow of it within. i don't want to believe that happiness amounts to the perfect storm of the right place and the right time, the right air and the right faces. it isn't so shallow. this perfection, this ideal, we live our entire lives in search of... it can't be.
right?
two and three quarter days later i found myself on the corner of fremont street.
window shopping and bad lenses. faint reflections, a fallen daisy, and a feeling i will never forget. daintily composed i saw the image of a girl smiling, glint in her eyes telling stories of mischief, mutely striped sweater misbuttoned, old chucks scuffed with her past, pulling on a rainbow knitted cap to hide the windblown story that was her darkened hair. she had a smile like a bug zapper and a flower behind her ear. i studied her through the glass, the emotion radiating from her, over a single flower she'd found at her feet... and then it hit me.
there is nothing shallow about a sigh of relief, about a rush of oxytocin, about a smirk of satisfaction. these tiny pieces of life make up our stories, written word by word, page by page. at the end, happily ever after, means happy until sleeping beauty gets pms. happy until cinderella gets a crush on that guy at the liquor store... and prince charming stops coming home.
the sun is brightest when it's still dark outside.
thank you sun, thank you cinderella, and thank you fremont street window cleaners (and your 'see your face or it's free' guarantee)-- without you, this revelation would not have been possible.
right?
two and three quarter days later i found myself on the corner of fremont street.
window shopping and bad lenses. faint reflections, a fallen daisy, and a feeling i will never forget. daintily composed i saw the image of a girl smiling, glint in her eyes telling stories of mischief, mutely striped sweater misbuttoned, old chucks scuffed with her past, pulling on a rainbow knitted cap to hide the windblown story that was her darkened hair. she had a smile like a bug zapper and a flower behind her ear. i studied her through the glass, the emotion radiating from her, over a single flower she'd found at her feet... and then it hit me.
there is nothing shallow about a sigh of relief, about a rush of oxytocin, about a smirk of satisfaction. these tiny pieces of life make up our stories, written word by word, page by page. at the end, happily ever after, means happy until sleeping beauty gets pms. happy until cinderella gets a crush on that guy at the liquor store... and prince charming stops coming home.
the sun is brightest when it's still dark outside.
thank you sun, thank you cinderella, and thank you fremont street window cleaners (and your 'see your face or it's free' guarantee)-- without you, this revelation would not have been possible.
Friday, January 16, 2009
stumble. (radio explanation)
i'm not the kind of girl you bring to mother.
i'm not the kind of girl you kiss in public.
my manners leave a lot to be desired,
at least i'm not a liar.
and i'm not about the subtle innuendo.
i'm more likely to throw rocks up at your window.
i won't walk on eggshells so you don't hear
the crazy things i'm thinking when you are near me.
i'd rather disappear than be faking it.
anyway.
i'm not the kind of girl you kiss in public.
my manners leave a lot to be desired,
at least i'm not a liar.
and i'm not about the subtle innuendo.
i'm more likely to throw rocks up at your window.
i won't walk on eggshells so you don't hear
the crazy things i'm thinking when you are near me.
i'd rather disappear than be faking it.
anyway.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
expectations.
i often wonder why human beings maintain the same standard of treatment, after being blown off and beaten down and simply left behind by so many. we make friends, have relationships, persist family members, and easily get screwed six ways to sunday by all three. yet, we carry on, to the next, and to the next, still expecting that one of these times it's going to happen for us. someone is going to stick around, and they are damn well going to like it.
as a realist, i see the chances of this happening as one in a million, however i have come to realize that i, too, am a victim of wide-eyed hopefulness, that starry persistence, that someday, just maybe, someone will stay. they won't disappear for no reason after racking up an impressive history. they won't swear it's not you, it's them, until they are blue in the face. they won't ask for help and then hit the road the second you've helped their storm blow over. i, myself, do not agree with the institution of human relationships. never have, and probably never will. but that does not mean that in the wee hours, when the lab has grown silent, and my cd starts skipping, and my hair isn't wearing as well as it did yesterday, it doesn't mean that i'm fine with the gaping void of self-reflectiveness. it doesn't mean that i'm happy because i can't be stabbed in the back if no one is there. it doesn't mean that i'm okay with how things are.
i still catch myself, yes even me, putting it all out there, thinking that i have a true friend in this one, that i have really made a good decision by letting this one in. i'm always wrong. and it is not fair.
but that is the price of believing in something that has the odds stacked against you. and the day i stop learning from it is the day i'll pack up my emotional tent, and move it somewhere that no one knows about. much like walden... i'll love in the woods.
as a realist, i see the chances of this happening as one in a million, however i have come to realize that i, too, am a victim of wide-eyed hopefulness, that starry persistence, that someday, just maybe, someone will stay. they won't disappear for no reason after racking up an impressive history. they won't swear it's not you, it's them, until they are blue in the face. they won't ask for help and then hit the road the second you've helped their storm blow over. i, myself, do not agree with the institution of human relationships. never have, and probably never will. but that does not mean that in the wee hours, when the lab has grown silent, and my cd starts skipping, and my hair isn't wearing as well as it did yesterday, it doesn't mean that i'm fine with the gaping void of self-reflectiveness. it doesn't mean that i'm happy because i can't be stabbed in the back if no one is there. it doesn't mean that i'm okay with how things are.
i still catch myself, yes even me, putting it all out there, thinking that i have a true friend in this one, that i have really made a good decision by letting this one in. i'm always wrong. and it is not fair.
but that is the price of believing in something that has the odds stacked against you. and the day i stop learning from it is the day i'll pack up my emotional tent, and move it somewhere that no one knows about. much like walden... i'll love in the woods.
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