curled up in an overstuffed leather chair, notebook balanced on my knees,
my mind wanders lazy over disjointed prose and the chattering clatter
of customers wandering in like a steady tide as the
deep roasted aroma of coffee beans hovers in the air.
ice clinks in a plastic cup, melting slowly into diluted remnants of chai tea
as i twist the straw up and down - mindless in a dull, slow, echoing scratch,
repetitious harmony and the whirring whir of a blender
lulls my mind into a heightened sense of wait
the touch of my skin pulses with artificial frenzy
to the beat of some indie song no one knows the name of,
buzzed high on caffeination, anticipation, the hazy humidity of a summer day
and the falling in love with each stranger that walks through the door.
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Friday, March 26, 2010
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Ellipses
…want, this thing I want but cannot name
that sits, tantalizing, at the tip of my tongue,
dancing along the edge of my brain, (tap-dancing over curiosity)
My lips make shape of the formless word,
yet sit there silent – continue.
What is this thing? Where am I stuck
restless, legs sticking to green vinyl
as the waitress asks me again,
pen at the edge of the table, tapping out my indecision.
I am consumed with craving for food that doesn’t exist.
Some unknown taste concoction
of tangy and sweet and spicy and smooth.
This empty ache in my stomach persists, persists
for something that’s not even real.
What is this thing? Where am I stuck
restless, legs sticking to green vinyl
as the waitress asks me again,
pen at the edge of the table, tapping out my indecision.
This faceless thing that chases me.
feels perpetually close, closing in
The hair rises on the back of my neck
but when I turn there is nothing and just this emptiness
of something I didn’t know was lost.
What is this thing? Where am I stuck
restless, legs sticking to green vinyl
as the waitress asks me again,
pen at the edge of the table, tapping out my indecision.
I itch to jump up and run out the door, legs pumping, feet pounding the pavement in steady rhythm where there is no path, on the way to somewhere new, unknown, dancing over the edge of a cliff to where I can swim through satin dreams of yellow and pink hues and climb back up raindrops through a dizzying lightening storm whilst screaming myself into a million pieces of light and sound and fury.
Impossibility.
Running in a circle to places I can’t name.
And this is wanting… And this is wanting…
that sits, tantalizing, at the tip of my tongue,
dancing along the edge of my brain, (tap-dancing over curiosity)
My lips make shape of the formless word,
yet sit there silent – continue.
What is this thing? Where am I stuck
restless, legs sticking to green vinyl
as the waitress asks me again,
pen at the edge of the table, tapping out my indecision.
I am consumed with craving for food that doesn’t exist.
Some unknown taste concoction
of tangy and sweet and spicy and smooth.
This empty ache in my stomach persists, persists
for something that’s not even real.
What is this thing? Where am I stuck
restless, legs sticking to green vinyl
as the waitress asks me again,
pen at the edge of the table, tapping out my indecision.
This faceless thing that chases me.
feels perpetually close, closing in
The hair rises on the back of my neck
but when I turn there is nothing and just this emptiness
of something I didn’t know was lost.
What is this thing? Where am I stuck
restless, legs sticking to green vinyl
as the waitress asks me again,
pen at the edge of the table, tapping out my indecision.
I itch to jump up and run out the door, legs pumping, feet pounding the pavement in steady rhythm where there is no path, on the way to somewhere new, unknown, dancing over the edge of a cliff to where I can swim through satin dreams of yellow and pink hues and climb back up raindrops through a dizzying lightening storm whilst screaming myself into a million pieces of light and sound and fury.
Impossibility.
Running in a circle to places I can’t name.
And this is wanting… And this is wanting…
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
City Street
I am born in the middle of the week. In the middle of a hospital. In the middle of a busy city. My parents hold me close and count all ten fingers and all ten toes. The nurses bustle in and out. In the room next door there is another sharp cry. Down in the city below a steady stream of business men and women cross streets and hail taxis.
You are born on a Saturday. Local news channels report record-breaking heat and monsoons. Your mother almost passes out after you take your first breath. Your father holds you in front of the hospital window as lightning streaks across the night sky.
I see the Pacific Ocean for the first time when I am three. I run across the beach in a pink bathing suit. My mother leads me out to the water. Her belly is growing again. They tell me I’m going to be a big sister. The wet sand is squishy between my toes. The water sprays up and I run away shrieking as a white foam wave chases me to shore.
You are four when you break your first bone. You’re climbing a tree with your brother and a branch snaps. You hit the ground and can’t breathe for a moment. Your arm is bent at an odd angle. You don’t cry much but your mother almost screams when she sees you. You’re in a cast for six weeks.
I fall in love for the first time on a Tuesday. I am ten years old and wear my hair gathered in a large pink scrunchie at the side of my head. He makes me laugh and my stomach begins to feel funny. I slide down in my seat and wonder if he will turn to face me again. The teacher stands at the front of the classroom and talks about fractions. The dry smell of chalk is faintly in the air.
You fall in love for the first time on a Sunday. She goes to your church and wears bows in her hair. She sits next to you in class and answers all the questions. Two hundred miles away I turn around in my sleep.
My first broken heart happens in the middle of July. I spend my days working and he comes to see me and tell me at lunch. When I get home I curl up in my mother’s arms and cry. She strokes my hair and offers me chocolate. We eat a tub of Rocky Road that night and watch three romantic-comedies in a row.
You have sex for the first time at her house. You are both nervous. It’s awkward and afterward you lie next to each other and stare at the ceiling. She holds the sheets against her body and you think about how she used to wear bows in her hair.
I have sex for the first time after a late night study session at the library. We are laughing and high on caffeine and lack of sleep. The sofa upholstery is scratchy against my back. He kisses my neck and tells me he loves me. There are tears in my eyes. Outside the moon is low in the sky, full and round, surrounded in silvery wisps of clouds.
Your first broken heart happens in the middle of her second year of law school. She drives two hours to tell you. You stare at a dry patch in the grass while she speaks. A door slams a couple houses down and she is gone.
I meet you on a Thursday. It’s the end of August and the air conditioner is broken. You walk in and make a comment about inflatable pools. I laugh because it’s too hot to think up a comeback. Later that night I will recall the way the corners of your eyes crinkled when you smiled.
We kiss for the first time on a Wednesday. We are watching a movie and I can’t even pretend to know the plotline because we are sitting so close and I have never been so acutely aware of someone that it’s made my toes curl like this and I’m thinking too much. And then you get up to leave and there is this voice screaming in my head and then suddenly you’re there and your lips are against mine as I practically breathe you in.
We have sex for the first time on a Monday night. It is frantic and hurried and full of want. You whisper words against my hair. I am shaking. My toes seem to pulse with electricity. The room falls away. In the morning you will find crescent shaped marks from my fingernails in your back.
We are married on a Saturday. In the church of my childhood. The bridesmaids wear green and we eat cake and dance until midnight. My feet are aching and your dress shirt collar is hanging open. Afterward we collapse onto a hotel bed and fall asleep within minutes. Down the hall a pair of lovers moves in gasping rhythm with the night
You almost leave in December. We’ve been fighting again about money and I’m crying into the phone as tears roll down my cheeks and under my chin. I’m sitting against the refrigerator door when you pad into the kitchen in your bare feet. We sit next to each other and talk until the sun comes up. You don’t leave.
Our daughter is born in the middle of the night. The contractions have been strong since we finished washing the dinner dishes. I lie on the floor in the living room. Counting. You run back and forth between rooms. We arrive at the hospital before midnight. I ask for drugs. I am worn and tired when they place her in my arms. She holds tightly to my fingers as I curl her tiny body against mine.
We buy our first house in our fifth year of marriage. The children run up the stairs to claim rooms. James helps you lug in all the furniture. We stay up late that night, cross-legged in the middle of the living room and unpack a box labeled “Knick-Knacks.”
It is June when our family first visits the Pacific Ocean. The kids pile out of the car and run toward the water. I have made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for everyone. Susan dives headfirst into the waves. I hold Davey’s hand as he walks toward the water. The sand is squishy between our toes. The water sprays up and he runs away shrieking as a white foam wave chases him to shore.
We receive the call at 2:23 a.m. My heart pulses loudly in my ears at the sound of your voice. We drive toward the hospital in silence. Four days later I will lay a yellow rose on my daughter’s casket.
It is a Monday. Or a Tuesday. Or many days when we sit around the dining room table. We lean back in our chairs telling stories. Lucy tells a joke she heard in school. We laugh so hard our bellies ache. Later that night you move against me, whispering into my hair. The rest of the house is silent and still.
We dance at our son’s wedding in January. There are lilies in the bride’s hair. He rests his hand over her ever-growing belly and they laugh. You stand and say something with tears in your eyes. A photographer snaps a picture as you kiss the top of my head.
We fly over the Atlantic Ocean in the middle of the night. The vast waters are spread out beneath us in inky darkness. You hold my hand when the plan lurches suddenly. Two hours later we step out of an airport into blinding sunlight. Buses and taxis whir by in a blur. Strangers walk past murmuring in an unknown language.
I lose you in the middle of January. It’s been a long fight. Our children cry at your memorial service. I hold little Jenny on my lap. She asks about grandpa. I sit on the edge of our bed that night with your pillow in my arms. The night quiet is disturbed by teenagers laughing as they run up the street.
I learn yoga in the middle of my seventy-sixth year. It is Lucy’s idea. She and her husband want me to move into their house. I look at the framed photos scattered across our walls. There are marks in each of the door frames measuring our children as they grew. I wake up each morning and make my own coffee and try to master Downward Dog.
I die in the middle of the week. In the middle of a hospital. In the middle of a busy city. I don’t feel much. Someone is holding my hand and saying something far away. I love you. Down in the city below a steady stream of business men and women cross streets and hail taxis.
You are born on a Saturday. Local news channels report record-breaking heat and monsoons. Your mother almost passes out after you take your first breath. Your father holds you in front of the hospital window as lightning streaks across the night sky.
I see the Pacific Ocean for the first time when I am three. I run across the beach in a pink bathing suit. My mother leads me out to the water. Her belly is growing again. They tell me I’m going to be a big sister. The wet sand is squishy between my toes. The water sprays up and I run away shrieking as a white foam wave chases me to shore.
You are four when you break your first bone. You’re climbing a tree with your brother and a branch snaps. You hit the ground and can’t breathe for a moment. Your arm is bent at an odd angle. You don’t cry much but your mother almost screams when she sees you. You’re in a cast for six weeks.
I fall in love for the first time on a Tuesday. I am ten years old and wear my hair gathered in a large pink scrunchie at the side of my head. He makes me laugh and my stomach begins to feel funny. I slide down in my seat and wonder if he will turn to face me again. The teacher stands at the front of the classroom and talks about fractions. The dry smell of chalk is faintly in the air.
You fall in love for the first time on a Sunday. She goes to your church and wears bows in her hair. She sits next to you in class and answers all the questions. Two hundred miles away I turn around in my sleep.
My first broken heart happens in the middle of July. I spend my days working and he comes to see me and tell me at lunch. When I get home I curl up in my mother’s arms and cry. She strokes my hair and offers me chocolate. We eat a tub of Rocky Road that night and watch three romantic-comedies in a row.
You have sex for the first time at her house. You are both nervous. It’s awkward and afterward you lie next to each other and stare at the ceiling. She holds the sheets against her body and you think about how she used to wear bows in her hair.
I have sex for the first time after a late night study session at the library. We are laughing and high on caffeine and lack of sleep. The sofa upholstery is scratchy against my back. He kisses my neck and tells me he loves me. There are tears in my eyes. Outside the moon is low in the sky, full and round, surrounded in silvery wisps of clouds.
Your first broken heart happens in the middle of her second year of law school. She drives two hours to tell you. You stare at a dry patch in the grass while she speaks. A door slams a couple houses down and she is gone.
I meet you on a Thursday. It’s the end of August and the air conditioner is broken. You walk in and make a comment about inflatable pools. I laugh because it’s too hot to think up a comeback. Later that night I will recall the way the corners of your eyes crinkled when you smiled.
We kiss for the first time on a Wednesday. We are watching a movie and I can’t even pretend to know the plotline because we are sitting so close and I have never been so acutely aware of someone that it’s made my toes curl like this and I’m thinking too much. And then you get up to leave and there is this voice screaming in my head and then suddenly you’re there and your lips are against mine as I practically breathe you in.
We have sex for the first time on a Monday night. It is frantic and hurried and full of want. You whisper words against my hair. I am shaking. My toes seem to pulse with electricity. The room falls away. In the morning you will find crescent shaped marks from my fingernails in your back.
We are married on a Saturday. In the church of my childhood. The bridesmaids wear green and we eat cake and dance until midnight. My feet are aching and your dress shirt collar is hanging open. Afterward we collapse onto a hotel bed and fall asleep within minutes. Down the hall a pair of lovers moves in gasping rhythm with the night
You almost leave in December. We’ve been fighting again about money and I’m crying into the phone as tears roll down my cheeks and under my chin. I’m sitting against the refrigerator door when you pad into the kitchen in your bare feet. We sit next to each other and talk until the sun comes up. You don’t leave.
Our daughter is born in the middle of the night. The contractions have been strong since we finished washing the dinner dishes. I lie on the floor in the living room. Counting. You run back and forth between rooms. We arrive at the hospital before midnight. I ask for drugs. I am worn and tired when they place her in my arms. She holds tightly to my fingers as I curl her tiny body against mine.
We buy our first house in our fifth year of marriage. The children run up the stairs to claim rooms. James helps you lug in all the furniture. We stay up late that night, cross-legged in the middle of the living room and unpack a box labeled “Knick-Knacks.”
It is June when our family first visits the Pacific Ocean. The kids pile out of the car and run toward the water. I have made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for everyone. Susan dives headfirst into the waves. I hold Davey’s hand as he walks toward the water. The sand is squishy between our toes. The water sprays up and he runs away shrieking as a white foam wave chases him to shore.
We receive the call at 2:23 a.m. My heart pulses loudly in my ears at the sound of your voice. We drive toward the hospital in silence. Four days later I will lay a yellow rose on my daughter’s casket.
It is a Monday. Or a Tuesday. Or many days when we sit around the dining room table. We lean back in our chairs telling stories. Lucy tells a joke she heard in school. We laugh so hard our bellies ache. Later that night you move against me, whispering into my hair. The rest of the house is silent and still.
We dance at our son’s wedding in January. There are lilies in the bride’s hair. He rests his hand over her ever-growing belly and they laugh. You stand and say something with tears in your eyes. A photographer snaps a picture as you kiss the top of my head.
We fly over the Atlantic Ocean in the middle of the night. The vast waters are spread out beneath us in inky darkness. You hold my hand when the plan lurches suddenly. Two hours later we step out of an airport into blinding sunlight. Buses and taxis whir by in a blur. Strangers walk past murmuring in an unknown language.
I lose you in the middle of January. It’s been a long fight. Our children cry at your memorial service. I hold little Jenny on my lap. She asks about grandpa. I sit on the edge of our bed that night with your pillow in my arms. The night quiet is disturbed by teenagers laughing as they run up the street.
I learn yoga in the middle of my seventy-sixth year. It is Lucy’s idea. She and her husband want me to move into their house. I look at the framed photos scattered across our walls. There are marks in each of the door frames measuring our children as they grew. I wake up each morning and make my own coffee and try to master Downward Dog.
I die in the middle of the week. In the middle of a hospital. In the middle of a busy city. I don’t feel much. Someone is holding my hand and saying something far away. I love you. Down in the city below a steady stream of business men and women cross streets and hail taxis.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
This Can Be Joyful
"The sacrifice which causes sorrow to the doer of the sacrifice is no sacrifice. Real sacrament lightens the mind of the doer and gives him a sense of peace and joy. The Buddha gave up the pleasures of life because they had become painful to him." - Ghandi
Every year I attempt to give something up for Lent - chocolate, fast food, soda, etc. This usually results in massive failure (I think there were only two years where I actually made it all 40 days). This year I want to do something different, something other than omitting some kind of food from my diet. Because truthfully, I've been eating really healthy lately, I hardly ever drink soda anymore and I eat something of the "fast food" variety maybe only once every couple of weeks. And chocolate? As I've learned in the past, my attempting to give up chocolate only results in failure and a meltdown of catastrophic proportions in which I have dreams of drowning in a vat of Hershey's syrup. No good.
Instead of giving something up this Lent, I'm going to take something on. After all, this is my year of change and trying new things. I'd like to add more to my life, not take things away.
Lately, I've been experiencing some kind of creative surge. So why not take advantage of that? Why not harness some of that creativity and actually write it down? Put it on the page? My problem is that I work for eight hours a day and when I come home all I want to do is plop down in front of the television and be mindlessly entertained by fictional characters (not of my making). Sitting down to my computer and actually attempting to form my thoughts into coherent sentences takes effort. And yes, I am a lazy human being.
The creativity is there, I just need to figure out a way of harnessing it. But how?
A couple years ago I worked though a book called "The Artists Way" by Julia Cameron. Essentially, it's a workbook that inspires creative thinking to break through writer's block. It's actually pretty helpful and provides a different way of viewing the creative process. Soon after I finished "The Artist's Way" I picked up the second book, "Walking in the World," a continuation of the process. However, I never actually even opened it. Such is life.
But lately I've found myself thinking about that book again. One of the steps of The Artists Way is called "Morning Pages" - three daily journal pages of stream of conscience writing. This can be tough. Sometimes I would find myself jotting things down like, "just keep writing dammit." As annoying as they were though, they were helpful in clearing my mind for the day ahead. This could be good for me right now.
So this is what I'm taking on. Here, at the start of Lent, I will finally open "Walking in this World" and step back into my creative life. It's not a task, it's not something I going to dread and hate. Hopefully, as I move through the coming weeks, it it something that will fill me with a "sense of peace and joy."
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Midnight Nonsense
I'm not really sure what happens late at night when I'm really truly exhausted but can't sleep and just feel the urge to get on the computer and type, type, type... rambling, nonsensical giberish. It’s like my need for sleep has shut down the part of my brain that separates the sane from the crazy. The perpetual "acid trip" thoughts take over and I find myself writing things like "life is this yellow beam of sun you can taste on your tongue every time you laugh.” Seriously? What IS that?
It’s like word vomit... or worse than that. My mind picks out four pretty words and arranges them in a sentence and says, “Oooh, that sounds pretttyyyyy. Write that down. You’re a genius. The next e.e. cummings." And I actually write it down! My fingers listen to the crazy in my brain and then the words are there scrolling across the page in Word and then I SAVE it!
Once I wake up in the morning, refreshed - the correct walls and barriers and blockades re-enforced in my brain - I re-read my "genius" works.
Yikes. Scary.
"I am nothing and everything and my skin is screaming and gasping for air." - WHAT. IS. THAT? When did I turn into an emo weirdo?
So hear this all my friends: My greatest wish is that no one ever, and I mean NEVER, EVER, EVER, NEVER reads my journal of late night ramblings. If, God in heaven forbid, I were to die unexpectedly, you are instructed to BURN said journals. Torch the suckers. Destroy my computer. This shit cannot get out. Thank you.
It’s like word vomit... or worse than that. My mind picks out four pretty words and arranges them in a sentence and says, “Oooh, that sounds pretttyyyyy. Write that down. You’re a genius. The next e.e. cummings." And I actually write it down! My fingers listen to the crazy in my brain and then the words are there scrolling across the page in Word and then I SAVE it!
Once I wake up in the morning, refreshed - the correct walls and barriers and blockades re-enforced in my brain - I re-read my "genius" works.
Yikes. Scary.
"I am nothing and everything and my skin is screaming and gasping for air." - WHAT. IS. THAT? When did I turn into an emo weirdo?
So hear this all my friends: My greatest wish is that no one ever, and I mean NEVER, EVER, EVER, NEVER reads my journal of late night ramblings. If, God in heaven forbid, I were to die unexpectedly, you are instructed to BURN said journals. Torch the suckers. Destroy my computer. This shit cannot get out. Thank you.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
NaNoWriMo Word Cloud
Well, another year of NaNoWriMo is done. Fortunately, after the disaster of last year, this year I was able to get my act together and write a grand total of 50,044 words. Score! I wasn't sure I was going to make it though - I was suffering from serious Procrastination-itis near the end. But here I am with a brand new novel on my hands. A novel that needs a serious editing overhaul, but a novel nonetheless.
Thanks to the wonderful Worlde.net (I love this site. I want to word cloud everything). I created a Word Cloud for my NaNo novel. Here it is:
I think I use the words "just" and "know" too much. I'll have to work on that in the editing process.
Thanks to the wonderful Worlde.net (I love this site. I want to word cloud everything). I created a Word Cloud for my NaNo novel. Here it is:
I think I use the words "just" and "know" too much. I'll have to work on that in the editing process.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Drift
I etch my words upon the shore.
While time ticking- tock flies past
Lines scrawled, scratched into the sand
All knowing a fleeting thing won’t last
The tide tumbles in on curling waves
With a rumbling crash and hissing foam
Salt watery hands take my words
And slip, crawl down back to home
Out to sea and the churning black
A million messages float and swirl
Speak out, speak out, where no one hears
In voiceless cacophony unfurl
And here on this beach, with the sun dipped low
This slate of sand is wiped clean
I start again each day to write
This echo, this story, this dream.
Someday I'll carve my words to stone
Deep and dark to stay
But for now I’ll etch along the sand
And watch as they’re washed away
While time ticking- tock flies past
Lines scrawled, scratched into the sand
All knowing a fleeting thing won’t last
The tide tumbles in on curling waves
With a rumbling crash and hissing foam
Salt watery hands take my words
And slip, crawl down back to home
Out to sea and the churning black
A million messages float and swirl
Speak out, speak out, where no one hears
In voiceless cacophony unfurl
And here on this beach, with the sun dipped low
This slate of sand is wiped clean
I start again each day to write
This echo, this story, this dream.
Someday I'll carve my words to stone
Deep and dark to stay
But for now I’ll etch along the sand
And watch as they’re washed away
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Whatever, and I Don't Know
Humans are explorers by nature. It is ingrained into our very core to explore and search and wonder and question. From the earliest of times we have been pushing outward, exploring New Worlds and the Wild Wild West, plumbing the depths of the oceans and the vastness of the skies and outer reaches of space. We discover and create and build and question – always looking for more. It is our manifest destiny to continue to strive to “infinity and beyond!”
But we live in a world that has become increasingly small. Thousands of years of human exploration have led us to this place where we have 24-hour news cycles and camera phones and the ability to communicate instantaneously with someone on the other side of the planet. We can follow Twitter and Facebook for eyewitness accounts of protesting in Iran, Mapquest directions to an event, Google random trivia like “Who was the 15th U.S. President?” and “Can turkeys really drown in the rain?”, browse YouTube if we have a burning desire to watch a cat playing piano, download new music and television shows on itunes… the list continues. What used to be a three-month treacherous journey by ship or cross country trek by covered wagon is now a split second click of the mouse, push of a button. I can boot up my computer, blackberry, iphone, whatever and have the world, literally at my fingertips.
But all of this, all of this knowledge and all of this technology and all of this constant pleasure-on-demand leaves me with one question…
What’s next?
The fields and wide-open spaces are covered in strip malls, if we push any further West we’re going to fall into the ocean and I can’t walk two feet without tripping over someone… and their big ass Hummer.
When even the road less traveled is trampled and worn, where do we go?
I realize of course, that this Earth probably still has some pretty spectacular surprises in store for us, that there are still cures to be found and technological advancements to be made, that there are still possible worlds beyond the sights of our telescopes. There will always be new creations to be imagined and questions to be asked and pondered but sometimes that all just seems so… eh, whatever.
When I was younger I loved to play that computer game “Oregon Trail.” There was something so thrilling about loading up this fictional wagon and starting the trek westward across the computer screen. It was fun and exciting and dangerous. There was the risk of dying of cholera or snakebite or drowning while fording a river or running out of food or supplies. Now, I’m not saying that this children’s computer game somehow represents our human need for exploration. I’m willing to guess that most of us just enjoyed naming all the players after friends and seeing which one died first of typhoid. But the danger element, the wide-open space, traveling to something new, FINDING something new, chartering a new world, the unknown… that’s something worth getting up in the morning and pursuing.
Yeah, I know, I’m starting to sound like a spoiled little brat. Wah, wah, wah, poor me with all these options. Stupid options. I wish I could die of dysentery in a covered wagon. But here’s the thing: I see it all over the place. I have so many friends who are just sort of dog paddling around with no real vision of where to go next. We are a generation with nothing but options and we have no idea what to do with it all. There’s too much to choose from and I think we tend to get all caught up and tripped up and lost in the deciding.
I will switch jobs nine times over the course of a year, I will move around aimlessly, live with my parents, hang out with my friends and complain of boredom because yes, I can do anything – but what, WHAT is it that I want? Really WANT?
It’s sort of new, this deciding. Generations previous have had their lives mapped out from the day of their birth. You will take over the family business. You will marry well. You will bear children. You will work until the day you die because that’s your place in life. Birth, childhood, school, work, marriage, kids, grand kids, death. Ta-da. There you have it. The end.
But now we’ve come to this place in history where we don’t have our futures mapped out. I don’t have to get married and my father is not expected to give up our family cow for my dowry, I don’t have to protect the family name (although, I’m sure my parents would prefer I don’t totally shame it) and I don’t have to take over the family business. I can do or be or become or act any way that I desire. So…
Career? If I have to.
Marriage? Maybe. We’ll see what happens
Kids? Sure. I guess.
Whatever.
Jack Kerouac wrote, “I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till i drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.” That’s it. I have nothing to offer the world by my own confusion and my restlessness. I’m confused and I’m bored and I think too much. Of course, of course I’m grateful for my lot in life. I realize what it means to have these kinds of options - I just don’t know what to do with them all and sometimes it’s so easy to hide away and not make the decision and just let myself fall into the trap of complacency.
So what do we do?
There are no answers. At least – I don’t have those answers. But here is what I know: Yes, the world has become small. Yes, it can seem sometimes that there are no roads “less traveled.” And no, we don’t need to travel by rickety covered wagon anymore. But we’re never going to wake up one morning and find that there’s noting left to care about, nothing left to work for and push at and fix and re-create and love and take care of on this planet. There’s always going to be something, even if we don’t have to brave fording a river to find it.
We just have to remember to get up and LOOK for it.
So for now, I’m just me, running around in my own confusion, trying to find a way out, trying not to trip myself up in the process, trying to enjoy myself as much as possible while searching for my own, “infinity and beyond.”
World, here is my confusion, do with it what you will.
But we live in a world that has become increasingly small. Thousands of years of human exploration have led us to this place where we have 24-hour news cycles and camera phones and the ability to communicate instantaneously with someone on the other side of the planet. We can follow Twitter and Facebook for eyewitness accounts of protesting in Iran, Mapquest directions to an event, Google random trivia like “Who was the 15th U.S. President?” and “Can turkeys really drown in the rain?”, browse YouTube if we have a burning desire to watch a cat playing piano, download new music and television shows on itunes… the list continues. What used to be a three-month treacherous journey by ship or cross country trek by covered wagon is now a split second click of the mouse, push of a button. I can boot up my computer, blackberry, iphone, whatever and have the world, literally at my fingertips.
But all of this, all of this knowledge and all of this technology and all of this constant pleasure-on-demand leaves me with one question…
What’s next?
The fields and wide-open spaces are covered in strip malls, if we push any further West we’re going to fall into the ocean and I can’t walk two feet without tripping over someone… and their big ass Hummer.
When even the road less traveled is trampled and worn, where do we go?
I realize of course, that this Earth probably still has some pretty spectacular surprises in store for us, that there are still cures to be found and technological advancements to be made, that there are still possible worlds beyond the sights of our telescopes. There will always be new creations to be imagined and questions to be asked and pondered but sometimes that all just seems so… eh, whatever.
When I was younger I loved to play that computer game “Oregon Trail.” There was something so thrilling about loading up this fictional wagon and starting the trek westward across the computer screen. It was fun and exciting and dangerous. There was the risk of dying of cholera or snakebite or drowning while fording a river or running out of food or supplies. Now, I’m not saying that this children’s computer game somehow represents our human need for exploration. I’m willing to guess that most of us just enjoyed naming all the players after friends and seeing which one died first of typhoid. But the danger element, the wide-open space, traveling to something new, FINDING something new, chartering a new world, the unknown… that’s something worth getting up in the morning and pursuing.
Yeah, I know, I’m starting to sound like a spoiled little brat. Wah, wah, wah, poor me with all these options. Stupid options. I wish I could die of dysentery in a covered wagon. But here’s the thing: I see it all over the place. I have so many friends who are just sort of dog paddling around with no real vision of where to go next. We are a generation with nothing but options and we have no idea what to do with it all. There’s too much to choose from and I think we tend to get all caught up and tripped up and lost in the deciding.
I will switch jobs nine times over the course of a year, I will move around aimlessly, live with my parents, hang out with my friends and complain of boredom because yes, I can do anything – but what, WHAT is it that I want? Really WANT?
It’s sort of new, this deciding. Generations previous have had their lives mapped out from the day of their birth. You will take over the family business. You will marry well. You will bear children. You will work until the day you die because that’s your place in life. Birth, childhood, school, work, marriage, kids, grand kids, death. Ta-da. There you have it. The end.
But now we’ve come to this place in history where we don’t have our futures mapped out. I don’t have to get married and my father is not expected to give up our family cow for my dowry, I don’t have to protect the family name (although, I’m sure my parents would prefer I don’t totally shame it) and I don’t have to take over the family business. I can do or be or become or act any way that I desire. So…
Career? If I have to.
Marriage? Maybe. We’ll see what happens
Kids? Sure. I guess.
Whatever.
Jack Kerouac wrote, “I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till i drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.” That’s it. I have nothing to offer the world by my own confusion and my restlessness. I’m confused and I’m bored and I think too much. Of course, of course I’m grateful for my lot in life. I realize what it means to have these kinds of options - I just don’t know what to do with them all and sometimes it’s so easy to hide away and not make the decision and just let myself fall into the trap of complacency.
So what do we do?
There are no answers. At least – I don’t have those answers. But here is what I know: Yes, the world has become small. Yes, it can seem sometimes that there are no roads “less traveled.” And no, we don’t need to travel by rickety covered wagon anymore. But we’re never going to wake up one morning and find that there’s noting left to care about, nothing left to work for and push at and fix and re-create and love and take care of on this planet. There’s always going to be something, even if we don’t have to brave fording a river to find it.
We just have to remember to get up and LOOK for it.
So for now, I’m just me, running around in my own confusion, trying to find a way out, trying not to trip myself up in the process, trying to enjoy myself as much as possible while searching for my own, “infinity and beyond.”
World, here is my confusion, do with it what you will.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
The Greatest of These
In the beginning there was a place.
And in this place there were some people.
And these people had a story.
XOXOXO
The morning dew clings to blades of pale yellow grass,
begins to slide slowly off leaves as the day warms.
Wispy pink clouds are light on the horizon
– illuminated by the steadily rising sun.
The air is crisp, biting cold red-noses, as they walk
slowly up the sidewalk of that familiar street,
Their hands, wrinkled, clasped tightly between them.
His breathing is heavy.
Her knees are sore with aching pain.
They are quiet.
There is only the sound of a songbird calling to a mate
high in a tree above them.
XOXOXO
The television screen flickers silently,
casting a strange blue glow about the darkened room
as the clock in the corner reads a bright green 1:09 a.m.
A brown tabby cat is nestled onto a cushion in the corner,
its ears flickering at any sudden noise.
The girls are curled up on either end of the sofa,
clad in pajamas and wrapped in warm fleece blankets.
Their eyes burn with exhaustion and grow heavy but they do not sleep.
They talk and talk and talk as the minutes tick by.
A chorus of giggles startles the night.
The cat perks up in alert, looks around the room sleepily,
Then falls asleep once again.
XOXOXO
The long shadows of dusk begin to fall over the yard.
A window is illuminated by a warm yellow light.
They sit around the table, leaning back in chairs,
Smiling.
Children giggle and make faces.
Steam curls in lazy circles over the top of mismatched coffee mugs.
A half empty glass of milk is accidentally over turned
and the sound of laughter echoes out over the ever-darkening day.
XOXOXO
Tulle and lace flutter carelessly
as a soft breeze stirs the warm summer day.
White lilies, so carefully arranged, nod in response.
Everyone waits anxiously, murmuring in hushed tones
To the soft melody of a single violin.
He waits for her, his skin already sticky with the salty sea air,
his hair tussled lightly, his feet bare in the soft sand.
She walks toward him, practically shaking with excitement,
Her eyes shining with unshed tears.
Their hands meet, fingers twining together as the waves continue
to sweep across the shore in a steady crash… crash… crash…
XOXOXO
The room is filled with the soft murmur of voices,
the low hum and beep of machines.
A light glows overhead, fluorescent and harsh.
A pair of eyes strain to open in this too bright, new world
and then flutter shut once again.
She watches carefully and a tired smile eases onto her face
as she smoothes her finger over soft skin.
Ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes.
She shifts the bundle in her arms, leans back against the pillow.
The child stirs – a tiny fist waving in the air – and then settles again.
XOXOXO
And the place was made good
And the people were made good
And the story was forever.
And in this place there were some people.
And these people had a story.
XOXOXO
The morning dew clings to blades of pale yellow grass,
begins to slide slowly off leaves as the day warms.
Wispy pink clouds are light on the horizon
– illuminated by the steadily rising sun.
The air is crisp, biting cold red-noses, as they walk
slowly up the sidewalk of that familiar street,
Their hands, wrinkled, clasped tightly between them.
His breathing is heavy.
Her knees are sore with aching pain.
They are quiet.
There is only the sound of a songbird calling to a mate
high in a tree above them.
XOXOXO
The television screen flickers silently,
casting a strange blue glow about the darkened room
as the clock in the corner reads a bright green 1:09 a.m.
A brown tabby cat is nestled onto a cushion in the corner,
its ears flickering at any sudden noise.
The girls are curled up on either end of the sofa,
clad in pajamas and wrapped in warm fleece blankets.
Their eyes burn with exhaustion and grow heavy but they do not sleep.
They talk and talk and talk as the minutes tick by.
A chorus of giggles startles the night.
The cat perks up in alert, looks around the room sleepily,
Then falls asleep once again.
XOXOXO
The long shadows of dusk begin to fall over the yard.
A window is illuminated by a warm yellow light.
They sit around the table, leaning back in chairs,
Smiling.
Children giggle and make faces.
Steam curls in lazy circles over the top of mismatched coffee mugs.
A half empty glass of milk is accidentally over turned
and the sound of laughter echoes out over the ever-darkening day.
XOXOXO
Tulle and lace flutter carelessly
as a soft breeze stirs the warm summer day.
White lilies, so carefully arranged, nod in response.
Everyone waits anxiously, murmuring in hushed tones
To the soft melody of a single violin.
He waits for her, his skin already sticky with the salty sea air,
his hair tussled lightly, his feet bare in the soft sand.
She walks toward him, practically shaking with excitement,
Her eyes shining with unshed tears.
Their hands meet, fingers twining together as the waves continue
to sweep across the shore in a steady crash… crash… crash…
XOXOXO
The room is filled with the soft murmur of voices,
the low hum and beep of machines.
A light glows overhead, fluorescent and harsh.
A pair of eyes strain to open in this too bright, new world
and then flutter shut once again.
She watches carefully and a tired smile eases onto her face
as she smoothes her finger over soft skin.
Ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes.
She shifts the bundle in her arms, leans back against the pillow.
The child stirs – a tiny fist waving in the air – and then settles again.
XOXOXO
And the place was made good
And the people were made good
And the story was forever.
Monday, October 12, 2009
My Words
My voice is lost. I can’t speak.
The words are there on my mind in practiced rhythm, but speech falters.
Syllables get caught up on my tongue,
rolling over each other in a stuttering (repeating, repeating) mess.
I lose my thoughts and a deep red spreads up my cheeks
as I’m thrown into a twisting and churning sea of babbling nonsense.
I am strange, voiceless.
I cannot say what I mean so I don’t say anything at all and it’s quiet,
deafening quiet until ideas and hurts and passions and pains and answers
build and build and build
and there’s nowhere left to go but tearing out through my lungs
in one rebellious cry of sound and fury.
A loud cacophonous clatter of sounds and words and empty phrases
floating in empty space, meaning nothing, saying nothing.
They are lost. My voice is lost. There is nothing left to say.
The world isn’t listening anyway.
**
But here. Here there is release.
Here on this page, pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, I write.
In a clack, clack, clack, scratch, scratch, scratch, I write.
Words spill, splash, pour from me, onto the page.
Words, words, words released and running free,
stampeding from my mind, fingertips, every pore,
a force of glorious energy that wraps around me in cozy warmth,
fills the page with me in a soundless scream.
All at once I can be strange and awkward and stuttering,
say what I mean, mean what I say,
talk in circles and round and round until it makes complete nonsensical sense of this,
this beautiful mess of words and verbs and question marks.
Formed from thought, like clay, molded and laced and pieced together,
sentences take shape, paragraphs and pages, pages telling a story,
winding, weaving together in a vibrant tapestry of vision, concept, imagination.
A reckless abandon of flowing consciousness.
Where at last, at last
my voice can speak.
Here, here are my words.
The words are there on my mind in practiced rhythm, but speech falters.
Syllables get caught up on my tongue,
rolling over each other in a stuttering (repeating, repeating) mess.
I lose my thoughts and a deep red spreads up my cheeks
as I’m thrown into a twisting and churning sea of babbling nonsense.
I am strange, voiceless.
I cannot say what I mean so I don’t say anything at all and it’s quiet,
deafening quiet until ideas and hurts and passions and pains and answers
build and build and build
and there’s nowhere left to go but tearing out through my lungs
in one rebellious cry of sound and fury.
A loud cacophonous clatter of sounds and words and empty phrases
floating in empty space, meaning nothing, saying nothing.
They are lost. My voice is lost. There is nothing left to say.
The world isn’t listening anyway.
**
But here. Here there is release.
Here on this page, pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, I write.
In a clack, clack, clack, scratch, scratch, scratch, I write.
Words spill, splash, pour from me, onto the page.
Words, words, words released and running free,
stampeding from my mind, fingertips, every pore,
a force of glorious energy that wraps around me in cozy warmth,
fills the page with me in a soundless scream.
All at once I can be strange and awkward and stuttering,
say what I mean, mean what I say,
talk in circles and round and round until it makes complete nonsensical sense of this,
this beautiful mess of words and verbs and question marks.
Formed from thought, like clay, molded and laced and pieced together,
sentences take shape, paragraphs and pages, pages telling a story,
winding, weaving together in a vibrant tapestry of vision, concept, imagination.
A reckless abandon of flowing consciousness.
Where at last, at last
my voice can speak.
Here, here are my words.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Why
words without names
characters without faces
from the deepest cracks
of all I know
an idea
a spark
nothing…
nothing…
nothing…
lost
forever lost
with all these words
these faceless nameless words
the pain
gut wrenching searing pain
reaching where I do not want to reach
scratching the unscratchable
I didn’t know was there
a soul pouring out
screaming screaming screaming
laughing
oh the wonderful ceaseless joy of those inky scrawls
simplicity
flow
tumbling rolling thinking towards…
nothing…
nothing…
nothing…
everything
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