He held his hands out on either side of him and turned his face toward the sun, warm rays upon his face. Above, the sky was a cloudless, winter blue, no breath of wind, but just this cold air, clean and crisp upon his skin. He was not hampered by it. He loved winter.
Beneath his feet lay shards of broken glass, twisted wire, jagged rocks and steel, rubble, like a mountain of broken dreams, hapless beginnings and detours. The light there at his feet was the dark obscurity of confusion. Charred hands and fingers grasped feebly at him, but he ignored them, paid little heed. His attention was turned Heavenward at the great blue dome of the sky.
There was only this, only this and nothing more, fullness encompassing his heart, his mind in synchronicity with all living things. He smiled. He didn’t need the warmth of summer to remind him, he could do this at will. His level of focus was like a bead, dead-on, aimed true.
I am night, and I am made of stars. I am day, and I am made of blue.
His fingertips hummed, his eyes glowed. Even his hair seemed a cascade of crisp clear water, glimmering with light. It seemed to him that he was standing at the crux of the universe, as though every living eye shined through him, saw through him. Time ceased to beat. White and stars and light exploding, an ever enfolding, expanding tapestry of the universe, black silk, almost transparent, with no edge, no crease, no ripple or ruffle. It had no seams, but it had all things in it. It had no beginning and no end, like a giant blanket unfurling with no end to unfurl.
Still this, he thought. Keep it in a little box and hold it in your hand. You can see the way it vibrates, hums with energy. Every living thing is in it, and then another box, and every little thing in that, and so on and so on. Blinding, glorious, bursting radiance and warmth. Triumph, victory, and trumpets. Beethoven would be proud, he thought and smiled. Glory in his sound. Vibrant intensity, but stillness, too, quiet like deep space, not even the sound of your breath. Not a thought, not a single hum. Just this. Not a picture, not even a pin drops to shatter this quietude. Space, fullness, emptiness, darkness, and light.
Here, I see only this, and Light moves through me, and there is only Beauty and Truth. I am a staff on a blank page. Write your music on me. I see myself in the sky with wings. Did you judge me for the tears I cried, worse than I did myself? I laugh about it now because I never felt this strong before. Mountains upon mountains I see. The world is my kingdom. Love breathes into your eyes. Now, do you see? I was born for all this romantic poetry. I thought this was for Gods alone. How blind I’ve been in my simplicity.
Armed to the hilt with my pen, I slay every dragon before me.
The horse’s hooves crushed every skull and broken bone, shattering them to dust as you rode. A playground, a battlefield, tempests waging war on the sea. One dimension, then two, then three. Have you ever seen the likes of this? There’s a diamond in you, too. Here, just brush off a bit of this dust, spit-shine and polish that pretty little sucker, and watch you come to life and shine! They can see you from outer space. Here, you are Everything, needing nothing. Your fullness is complete. You stand alone, healed, happy, free, and whole. You’ve been cured of all your wanting. In that moment, Divine Love reached down and touched your face. Now, you have a revolutionary mind. You found it on your own without reaching forward, reaching out. You went against the grain. You conformed only to yourself, you rebel you, with your arms out on either side of you, eyes closed, seeing Everything, feeling Everything with nothing at all left out. The air streamed through you and touched everything, and now you can be a child forever. How does that feel?
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Champions of the Night Sky (A Christmas Musing)
“I’m always warm when you’re around, something I would’ve never imagined, not on a cold day like today. But it’s true. You warm me by the sun.”
Her eyes sparkled in the winter night when she smiled. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were rosy from the cold. Snowflakes fell slow and lazily around them, like tiny discs of white.
“Cliches, though, my dear, have only so much merit in today’s world. Nobody’s original anymore. So, when I tell you, you are warm like the sun, it’s not as though I’m the first person to have said it.”
She scooted closer, their thighs touching. “Can you taste the peppermint in that cocoa?”
“Yes,” he said, taking a sip. “It’s good, isn’t it?”
They were downtown, between the festive, taller buildings of the city, everything decorated in some shape, form or other. Lights, lights, and more lights. They were everywhere, white lights, multi-colored lights, on the trees, along the eaves of buildings, lampposts, and store windows. Giant wreathes and red ribbons hung from streetlights. There was a giant candy cane on every corner.
The man and woman were sitting on a bench. In front of them, a small ice rink was packed with skaters of all ages, couples, the elderly, children and families, teenage boys and girls, most of them slow-going, stumbling awkwardly, loping, looking as though they were running in place without really moving at all. The man and woman laughed as they watched them. It was festive, comical, joyous, and enchanting at the same time.
They sat for a while in silence before she said, “Like the sun, huh?”
He nodded and smiled. “Not very original, is it?”
“Why is that so important to you? To be original?”
“Probably because I want you to know you are something more to me than clichés, than words unspoken, than things I dream about, certain lines from certain poetry, all the things guys try to say to woo the heart of their ladies fair. Some say it for a million different reasons, because they want to win those fair hearts. Some say it for selfish reasons we all know about already. I read in this book about a guy who said, ‘You are the sun and the moon,’ and he thought he was the first person to say it, and the woman replied by rolling her eyes, emasculating him with a huge, ‘Oh, please, I’ve heard it all before.’ So, when a man meets a woman he truly loves, truly likes, from the bottom of his heart, and knows she is special, unlike anything he has ever met before, he wonders what he can do to prove he isn’t a selfish ass with only one thing on his mind, because in today’s world, it seems that’s the first thing a woman thinks when a man confronts her. It’s unfortunate, but it’s true. And who can blame them? He’s trying to tell her he doesn’t want her for one simple reason. That he wants her for the romance, the poetry, the emotional commitment, the beauty, the crying and the pain that comes with it. All of it. That he wants her to know this, that she is more than just a girl, just a woman to him. But that’s what all the guys say, so what happens when a guy actually means it? How can she believe him? He tries to say it differently. Poets get accused of using their words prettily to get what they want. They use their talents to woo the ladies. Musicians are only using their music. Painters, too, and so they don’t really mean it. They’re just using what they’re good at. But what about the man who knows none of that, who only has that one means to express himself? What about the man who is just a man, whose dreams are dead or maybe never had a dream at all except to love someone and be loved? Maybe he realizes he isn’t going to change the world, that he isn’t going to make a difference, or save the planet or even be remotely known or successful in any way at all? Maybe he’s just trying to be real and honest with himself and feel and be unafraid of all and everything. What about the man who is just an honest, good man in his heart and has only his honest, good heart to give? Today, that doesn’t seem like enough. It’s not an excuse. It’s truth. What if he isn’t rich or has a nice home or is well known in any way? Does that make him less a man, less able to love and be loved if he has only found the space in his heart that matters most? It’s like a man just wants to be believed, accepted, appreciated for what he is, a thinking, feeling human being because it is just that and nothing more. He does the best he can, and he is true and noble and honest with himself and everyone he deals with. Because that’s the only thing that’s true. It’s the only thing that matters. In the end, what else is there? But sometimes it seems like you just can’t win or nobody cares about your intentions or what things mean. I am not famous. I am not rich. I do not live in a mansion by the sea. I’m lucky to have a job, a home, and food to eat. And I just know it’s warm. I just know it’s comfortable when you’re around and that I want you to be happy. I know, even when you’re not around, the thought of you is enough. It’s nice to think about. I like just thinking about you. I have this smile on my face without even knowing it. People ask me all the time, ‘Why the hell are you smiling?’ And I say, ‘I didn’t realize I was smiling.’ I just don’t feel cold. Even now. Here. Frozen to the bone as I should be. You know it’s cold. You can see my breath. But not cold at all. And rich. Rich inside because everything is in this moment. Everything that could ever be and ever was is right here and that’s all that matters, all I care about. And you. Making sure you are happy, wanting you to be happy.”
“I have never been happier. It’s the same for us, too, you know? When you want to express something and you just don’t know how. When you want to prove you’re a good woman to the man you love. When you want to prove to him how true, how loving and supportive you will be to him. No matter what, no matter where, with everything. All you can do is feel it. So, you feel it. You let yourself feel it. And it’s the best feeling in the world. There is no feeling like it. There never will be a feeling like it, you know? You just go with it. You embrace it. You dance, you sing, you celebrate this feeling and prove how much you love. Like now. You hold it. You still it. You celebrate it because this is what it’s all about, Charlie Brown.”
He laughed.
“I think it’s neat they have Christmas music playing while they skate, don’t you?” she asked.
He nodded. “I do.”
He loved the sound of the skates on the ice, the laughter and the jeering, raucous shouts from some of the kids. He watched a middle-aged couple with their arms locked together, skating as though not a single person existed, oblivious to everyone else but each other.
“So, you’re not cold, either?”
“No,” she said. “But it is dang good cocoa.”
They giggled.
“I’m trying to turn it into something magical, maybe, something cosmic, like I want it to mean this great, perfect thing where everything gets answered, the questions to life, the miracle, all of it starts to make sense. In a moment like this, in the moments we’ve had, I always want to turn it into something supernatural. Something out of this world. Maybe I ruin it by doing that. You try to capture what it means to you, I guess, in a way you understand. That you just want it to mean something to you, too, the other person. You worry it won’t mean anything to them like it does for you.”
“So, let it mean something,” she said. “And let it be cosmic and magical. And if that’s what it means to you, then let it be that. I’m the one who feels lucky, you know? That you tell me these things, that they do mean that much to you. Do you know what that means to me that it means so much to you?”
He raised his eyebrows and looked at her. “Well said,” he told her. “So yes, it means the world to me. It means everything to me that we can just sit here, not thinking about anything but this, the kids skating, the music playing, that it doesn’t have to make sense or be explained, because it’s night and it’s cold, and the snow is falling, and my head is crisp, clearer than it has ever been, like what the night sky must look like above all these clouds and there isn’t a single break in the sky except for the stars. That’s how I feel lately with you. And my heart is this giant round ball of vibrating white light. I know it’s crazy. But that’s how I’ve always felt with you. And if anyone turned this into a little story, or a little vignette or something, all the guys would throw up over the complete mushiness of it, and maybe some of the girls would, too, because of all the tenderness and stuff just isn’t in these days. The trend is shallow, no meaning, men being weak and women being strong. It’s all reversed again for the wrong reasons with no balance and it’s still creating havoc. The trend is for women to be sword carrying warriors, like what you see in video games and movies, and men…well, I’m not sure what men are supposed to be anymore. I don’t even think men know what they’re supposed to be. Why can’t people just be the honest people they are? I want you to be the beautiful woman you are with the setting we’re in, with all the Christmas lights, the music, the snow, the holiday cheer everywhere, as though your heart were bursting with magic and fortune. As though the Three Spirits—the Past, The Present, and The Future—were striving in everyone, trying to keep Christmas all the year, and not just one day of the year. That’s what it is, and that’s how it will be, and even this moment has a touch of magic, something surreal about it, and I just wanted to say that because that’s the way it is.”
She laughed at his ranting, then was quiet for a time, closing her eyes. She heaved a heavy sigh, smiled wide and looked at him. “You are my champion of the night sky, my warrior prince and poet. You are my happy ending. The world is not made for archetypes, though they are used often, if not always. But I think people think they are supposed to be a certain thing, and that’s when it gets all messed up. I think times are changing, and we are supposed to be more than that, more than what we have all been, all of us, man, woman, child. You make me feel strong and beautiful as the woman I am, no matter what, and it’s just because you are the man you are. Do you realize that? It’s not something you go out of your way to do. It’s just who you are. People are strong because they are weak and tender. This is an age where the heart and soul are put to the test, where the mind is fragile but all powerful, where it is bravest to embrace every vice, fear, and weakness, and that, to me, is the sign of a true champion. That is the hero I want to have save me from the castle, love. Only through vulnerability can you see how invulnerable you really are. You are not afraid of yourself or the world around you. You see everyone as beautiful, as having goodness in them, a warm heart. Everyone is just fine the way they are. Everyone’s point of view is right. There is no right or wrong. We all think and feel the same things. We just do it differently, because we are different, if that makes any sense.”
He smiled and nodded. “Spoken like a true philosopher, my dear.”
She snuggled closer and leaned her head against his arm. “It means a lot that it means so much to you. Does that answer your question?”
“It answers everything.”
“Merry Christmas, love.”
“Merry Christmas, my dear,” he said.
Snowflakes fell like tiny suns, like tiny moons, silver and white in the Christmas lights. Children laughed and played. Bells chimed from nearby. A warm glow spread throughout the city streets and the night sky looked down upon it all and smiled.
Merry Christmas Everyone!
Her eyes sparkled in the winter night when she smiled. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were rosy from the cold. Snowflakes fell slow and lazily around them, like tiny discs of white.
“Cliches, though, my dear, have only so much merit in today’s world. Nobody’s original anymore. So, when I tell you, you are warm like the sun, it’s not as though I’m the first person to have said it.”
She scooted closer, their thighs touching. “Can you taste the peppermint in that cocoa?”
“Yes,” he said, taking a sip. “It’s good, isn’t it?”
They were downtown, between the festive, taller buildings of the city, everything decorated in some shape, form or other. Lights, lights, and more lights. They were everywhere, white lights, multi-colored lights, on the trees, along the eaves of buildings, lampposts, and store windows. Giant wreathes and red ribbons hung from streetlights. There was a giant candy cane on every corner.
The man and woman were sitting on a bench. In front of them, a small ice rink was packed with skaters of all ages, couples, the elderly, children and families, teenage boys and girls, most of them slow-going, stumbling awkwardly, loping, looking as though they were running in place without really moving at all. The man and woman laughed as they watched them. It was festive, comical, joyous, and enchanting at the same time.
They sat for a while in silence before she said, “Like the sun, huh?”
He nodded and smiled. “Not very original, is it?”
“Why is that so important to you? To be original?”
“Probably because I want you to know you are something more to me than clichés, than words unspoken, than things I dream about, certain lines from certain poetry, all the things guys try to say to woo the heart of their ladies fair. Some say it for a million different reasons, because they want to win those fair hearts. Some say it for selfish reasons we all know about already. I read in this book about a guy who said, ‘You are the sun and the moon,’ and he thought he was the first person to say it, and the woman replied by rolling her eyes, emasculating him with a huge, ‘Oh, please, I’ve heard it all before.’ So, when a man meets a woman he truly loves, truly likes, from the bottom of his heart, and knows she is special, unlike anything he has ever met before, he wonders what he can do to prove he isn’t a selfish ass with only one thing on his mind, because in today’s world, it seems that’s the first thing a woman thinks when a man confronts her. It’s unfortunate, but it’s true. And who can blame them? He’s trying to tell her he doesn’t want her for one simple reason. That he wants her for the romance, the poetry, the emotional commitment, the beauty, the crying and the pain that comes with it. All of it. That he wants her to know this, that she is more than just a girl, just a woman to him. But that’s what all the guys say, so what happens when a guy actually means it? How can she believe him? He tries to say it differently. Poets get accused of using their words prettily to get what they want. They use their talents to woo the ladies. Musicians are only using their music. Painters, too, and so they don’t really mean it. They’re just using what they’re good at. But what about the man who knows none of that, who only has that one means to express himself? What about the man who is just a man, whose dreams are dead or maybe never had a dream at all except to love someone and be loved? Maybe he realizes he isn’t going to change the world, that he isn’t going to make a difference, or save the planet or even be remotely known or successful in any way at all? Maybe he’s just trying to be real and honest with himself and feel and be unafraid of all and everything. What about the man who is just an honest, good man in his heart and has only his honest, good heart to give? Today, that doesn’t seem like enough. It’s not an excuse. It’s truth. What if he isn’t rich or has a nice home or is well known in any way? Does that make him less a man, less able to love and be loved if he has only found the space in his heart that matters most? It’s like a man just wants to be believed, accepted, appreciated for what he is, a thinking, feeling human being because it is just that and nothing more. He does the best he can, and he is true and noble and honest with himself and everyone he deals with. Because that’s the only thing that’s true. It’s the only thing that matters. In the end, what else is there? But sometimes it seems like you just can’t win or nobody cares about your intentions or what things mean. I am not famous. I am not rich. I do not live in a mansion by the sea. I’m lucky to have a job, a home, and food to eat. And I just know it’s warm. I just know it’s comfortable when you’re around and that I want you to be happy. I know, even when you’re not around, the thought of you is enough. It’s nice to think about. I like just thinking about you. I have this smile on my face without even knowing it. People ask me all the time, ‘Why the hell are you smiling?’ And I say, ‘I didn’t realize I was smiling.’ I just don’t feel cold. Even now. Here. Frozen to the bone as I should be. You know it’s cold. You can see my breath. But not cold at all. And rich. Rich inside because everything is in this moment. Everything that could ever be and ever was is right here and that’s all that matters, all I care about. And you. Making sure you are happy, wanting you to be happy.”
“I have never been happier. It’s the same for us, too, you know? When you want to express something and you just don’t know how. When you want to prove you’re a good woman to the man you love. When you want to prove to him how true, how loving and supportive you will be to him. No matter what, no matter where, with everything. All you can do is feel it. So, you feel it. You let yourself feel it. And it’s the best feeling in the world. There is no feeling like it. There never will be a feeling like it, you know? You just go with it. You embrace it. You dance, you sing, you celebrate this feeling and prove how much you love. Like now. You hold it. You still it. You celebrate it because this is what it’s all about, Charlie Brown.”
He laughed.
“I think it’s neat they have Christmas music playing while they skate, don’t you?” she asked.
He nodded. “I do.”
He loved the sound of the skates on the ice, the laughter and the jeering, raucous shouts from some of the kids. He watched a middle-aged couple with their arms locked together, skating as though not a single person existed, oblivious to everyone else but each other.
“So, you’re not cold, either?”
“No,” she said. “But it is dang good cocoa.”
They giggled.
“I’m trying to turn it into something magical, maybe, something cosmic, like I want it to mean this great, perfect thing where everything gets answered, the questions to life, the miracle, all of it starts to make sense. In a moment like this, in the moments we’ve had, I always want to turn it into something supernatural. Something out of this world. Maybe I ruin it by doing that. You try to capture what it means to you, I guess, in a way you understand. That you just want it to mean something to you, too, the other person. You worry it won’t mean anything to them like it does for you.”
“So, let it mean something,” she said. “And let it be cosmic and magical. And if that’s what it means to you, then let it be that. I’m the one who feels lucky, you know? That you tell me these things, that they do mean that much to you. Do you know what that means to me that it means so much to you?”
He raised his eyebrows and looked at her. “Well said,” he told her. “So yes, it means the world to me. It means everything to me that we can just sit here, not thinking about anything but this, the kids skating, the music playing, that it doesn’t have to make sense or be explained, because it’s night and it’s cold, and the snow is falling, and my head is crisp, clearer than it has ever been, like what the night sky must look like above all these clouds and there isn’t a single break in the sky except for the stars. That’s how I feel lately with you. And my heart is this giant round ball of vibrating white light. I know it’s crazy. But that’s how I’ve always felt with you. And if anyone turned this into a little story, or a little vignette or something, all the guys would throw up over the complete mushiness of it, and maybe some of the girls would, too, because of all the tenderness and stuff just isn’t in these days. The trend is shallow, no meaning, men being weak and women being strong. It’s all reversed again for the wrong reasons with no balance and it’s still creating havoc. The trend is for women to be sword carrying warriors, like what you see in video games and movies, and men…well, I’m not sure what men are supposed to be anymore. I don’t even think men know what they’re supposed to be. Why can’t people just be the honest people they are? I want you to be the beautiful woman you are with the setting we’re in, with all the Christmas lights, the music, the snow, the holiday cheer everywhere, as though your heart were bursting with magic and fortune. As though the Three Spirits—the Past, The Present, and The Future—were striving in everyone, trying to keep Christmas all the year, and not just one day of the year. That’s what it is, and that’s how it will be, and even this moment has a touch of magic, something surreal about it, and I just wanted to say that because that’s the way it is.”
She laughed at his ranting, then was quiet for a time, closing her eyes. She heaved a heavy sigh, smiled wide and looked at him. “You are my champion of the night sky, my warrior prince and poet. You are my happy ending. The world is not made for archetypes, though they are used often, if not always. But I think people think they are supposed to be a certain thing, and that’s when it gets all messed up. I think times are changing, and we are supposed to be more than that, more than what we have all been, all of us, man, woman, child. You make me feel strong and beautiful as the woman I am, no matter what, and it’s just because you are the man you are. Do you realize that? It’s not something you go out of your way to do. It’s just who you are. People are strong because they are weak and tender. This is an age where the heart and soul are put to the test, where the mind is fragile but all powerful, where it is bravest to embrace every vice, fear, and weakness, and that, to me, is the sign of a true champion. That is the hero I want to have save me from the castle, love. Only through vulnerability can you see how invulnerable you really are. You are not afraid of yourself or the world around you. You see everyone as beautiful, as having goodness in them, a warm heart. Everyone is just fine the way they are. Everyone’s point of view is right. There is no right or wrong. We all think and feel the same things. We just do it differently, because we are different, if that makes any sense.”
He smiled and nodded. “Spoken like a true philosopher, my dear.”
She snuggled closer and leaned her head against his arm. “It means a lot that it means so much to you. Does that answer your question?”
“It answers everything.”
“Merry Christmas, love.”
“Merry Christmas, my dear,” he said.
Snowflakes fell like tiny suns, like tiny moons, silver and white in the Christmas lights. Children laughed and played. Bells chimed from nearby. A warm glow spread throughout the city streets and the night sky looked down upon it all and smiled.
Merry Christmas Everyone!
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Silence in Prose
He was friends with silence. He understood its glory, like a lullaby, what silence could be. He closed his eyes and breathed silence, the passing quiet of an undisturbed ocean. It seemed impossible sometimes, that so much could fill silence, but silence did not seem like empty space. It could move and change and turn in any direction, lighting the way. Sounds could fill his head, he supposed, if he wanted them to. He could imagine sounds. Scratches from a pen, maybe, or the wind rattling the window, imagined instruments, distant traffic, but even then, silence lived. Silence breathed.
You know only this, he thought. Only this between sounds, between and over and above, and below melody. To the side here. There is silence there. Even the wind makes silence absolute. Birds make silence when they sing. Everyone stops to listen, and that is silence. Church bells, too, along and between rivers and streams, across the town, know nothing but silence.
Sometimes, it just worked that way, and there was nothing but that without trying to make anything, because everything already was. A single moment lapses into eternity. It stretches from the base of one kingdom to another.
Live in every moment. Learn to watch each person breathe. Carry a storm upon your back. Stretch a cloud here and there. Watch a comet fly. Rain. Pour. Cleanse my soul. Make a giant walk the earth. Pass back and forth and into silken sand. Make a holiday out of me. Torture me with your warm embrace. Smother me. Let me get you something to stir your blood. Let us toast this radiance!
I connect and reconnect. I race around the globe a million times or more, never seeing the same thing twice. I like to see if I recognize my footprints anywhere. But so far, no. For once, my heart actually belongs to me. My thoughts are my own. There is no torture, no memory of ridicule. It fades into the background music and turns into silence. A jewel lights my way along the shadows. I turn it into thoughts of Spring. I close my thoughts and run around and play like I did when I was three. I catch a hummingbird by its wing.
A thousand drums take to the sky, echoing a beat across the galaxy. I stop for a while to listen, and then the rocket-ships, too, take flight. I see those rocket-powered jet-packs, lear-jets, space shuttles. Meteor showers, setting suns, like a time lapse, move forwards and backwards any way you want. I hear the heavy steel guitars of loud rock-and-roll music. Wind to blow our troubles away, uplift a skyscraper, push the moon a meter or two so it’s a pendulum swing. Chaos is only a challenge, a barely perceptible beat upon my breast, someone tapping annoyingly to get my attention.
Through it all, a smile spreads from one end of the gloomy day to another. Stillness makes its presence felt, and says loud enough for everyone to hear: “Nothing can faze me.”
You know only this, he thought. Only this between sounds, between and over and above, and below melody. To the side here. There is silence there. Even the wind makes silence absolute. Birds make silence when they sing. Everyone stops to listen, and that is silence. Church bells, too, along and between rivers and streams, across the town, know nothing but silence.
Sometimes, it just worked that way, and there was nothing but that without trying to make anything, because everything already was. A single moment lapses into eternity. It stretches from the base of one kingdom to another.
Live in every moment. Learn to watch each person breathe. Carry a storm upon your back. Stretch a cloud here and there. Watch a comet fly. Rain. Pour. Cleanse my soul. Make a giant walk the earth. Pass back and forth and into silken sand. Make a holiday out of me. Torture me with your warm embrace. Smother me. Let me get you something to stir your blood. Let us toast this radiance!
I connect and reconnect. I race around the globe a million times or more, never seeing the same thing twice. I like to see if I recognize my footprints anywhere. But so far, no. For once, my heart actually belongs to me. My thoughts are my own. There is no torture, no memory of ridicule. It fades into the background music and turns into silence. A jewel lights my way along the shadows. I turn it into thoughts of Spring. I close my thoughts and run around and play like I did when I was three. I catch a hummingbird by its wing.
A thousand drums take to the sky, echoing a beat across the galaxy. I stop for a while to listen, and then the rocket-ships, too, take flight. I see those rocket-powered jet-packs, lear-jets, space shuttles. Meteor showers, setting suns, like a time lapse, move forwards and backwards any way you want. I hear the heavy steel guitars of loud rock-and-roll music. Wind to blow our troubles away, uplift a skyscraper, push the moon a meter or two so it’s a pendulum swing. Chaos is only a challenge, a barely perceptible beat upon my breast, someone tapping annoyingly to get my attention.
Through it all, a smile spreads from one end of the gloomy day to another. Stillness makes its presence felt, and says loud enough for everyone to hear: “Nothing can faze me.”
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Unbroken Blue
He walks upright and stands alone, surveying the hills around from all sides, towns and villages, valleys, country sides, mountain peaks, lakes, rivers, and streams. Ocean views, panoramas of a million sunsets, tropical islands, palm trees, stretches of flawless, golden sand take up his view from every side. There are endless miles of wind-swept sand and desert hills. Thick, dark forests, jungles, fields, meadows—sea, air, and sky stretch on and on until he can see no more. But he can see. He can see everything. There is no limit to his vision. His vision penetrates. It goes into the trees, into the leaves, into the sunlight, the moonbeams. It passes down and through frozen, suffocating, deep black oceans. Structures as well he can see, man made skylines, cityscapes at night, neon lights, noises, people, traffic, resounding, reverberating in waves rising and falling through it all. All things are visible—tall buildings, skyscrapers, pyramids, landmarks, stop signs, barbed-wire, winding, snaky stretches of road, highways, parking lots, traffic meters, bus stops, walkways, and grocery stores.
He stands, and at all points—all junctures and angles—blinding, incandescent light streams through him. Every cell and molecule is illuminated, bursts forth with radiant, warm energy, pillars of white. Spectrums shoot off into every direction imaginable. There is nothing untouched, no shadow. He can see the night and the day at the same time. Dawn and dusk enter his view. Incandescence is infinite.
He holds his hands out on either side of him, and to him, it seems as though he is standing on empty air, in the vast, great center of the universe. He is on the highest mountain peak. He is everything, and everything is around him. There is no stone unturned, no shadow unpenetrated. Water moves through him, lakes, rivers, ocean sand and shore. Waves break and crash under his skin. Stars emanate underneath and on top of him. He is the mirror of a riverbed. He is glass, transparent. The wind, too, is here, hurricanes, typhoons, earthquakes, tornadoes, erupting volcanoes, tidal waves, cyclones. Thunder booms. Lightning rips across the sky. Rain and snow cloud the air. He is ice and fire. The smell of autumn leaves, woodsmoke, marshmallows, cocoa, peppermint, coffee, tea, baked bread, pies, succulent, mouth-watering dinners warm his senses. He is all the changing seasons. The air turns robust, vibrant green, moist, warm again, bright, blue, unbroken. Spring and summer flowers emerge, rosebuds and new leaves. The trill of birds fill the air, bees, and dragonflies. It moves through him, is him, and he creates it, lets it go, surrenders to it at lightning speed. He is the melting snow, the drying rain, the rain again, the wind-swept pile of leaves that gather in corners. He tilts his head upwards, letting the stars, the light of the moon move through him. He sheds tears. These are tears of joy, richness and emptiness because he knows how full and devoid everything is at the same time. His emotions, his heart is tender, easily flexible, pliant, and he opens it wider, further, making the gap impossible to bridge because he is unafraid. This is nothing short of bravery. This is boldness absolute. Every emotion gushes through him, makes an overwhelming, dominating rushing sound. It is the whine, the shrill of a jet engine, only louder. It is a rainbow. It is fissures exploding, supernovas, and the sun detonating to and out of life. It is the gentle, steady rhythm of waves breaking on the shore. It is life and death, beautiful and devastating. It is catastrophe and sadness, tragedy and color. Melody, silence, and clamoring bells. It is annihilation and song, whispers and poetry. It is total destruction and purest joy. It is a resounding, humming, electric balls of blinding yellow white energy. It’s a cosmic symphony, stardust, miracle, magic, and wonder. It is awe.
For a second, he could fly. He sees all this. He has wings and shoots like a bird across the earth, into the atmosphere, deeper, higher, longer. He goes into space, and he can breathe just fine. He questions nothing. He doubts nothing. He believes, knows, soars through radiant creations of all and nothing. Cheering crowds fill his ears, a stadium of fans screaming, wailing, crying, cheering him on, his name, every name he has ever had, all his names, every imaginable living thing from one end of the universe to the other encouraging him, patting him on the back, telling him he should be proud, that nothing could be more beautiful than this, that beauty is defined in this moment as this moment. Everything has purpose, meaning, and meaning and clamoring joy is what he has found. He knows it; they know it, and they are celebrating in the dance. He smiles and waves to each and every one of them. All he has to do is take one step, and yet it’s even easier than that. It’s not complicated. The melody turns back upon itself. Shadows become light. His perception, his mind reaches out, expands and does not break. It’s light, too, and it touches every corner of the globe, the galaxy, other galaxies and continues on. It moves and moves and moves, and yet, seems to stand completely still. He is traveling at light speed, yes, and not moving at all. It is everything else moving by him, though him. He has never seen, let alone, experienced anything like this, yet he knew it was there all along. Light continues to penetrate his being, and moves, emanating outward in every direction and back into him. He is gentle, soft, oceanic breezes. He is peace, tranquility, and the setting sun. He is whisper, soft melody, a rustle here and there. He is the touch of an incandescent lover. He is the moment they met. He is loneliness, loss, and isolation. He is pain, turmoil, and confusion. He is trauma and fear. He is shaken, freezing cold. He is hopeless, death, and despair. But he is the unbroken blue as well. He is lazily drifting white clouds. He is the birds in the trees, children laughing, and playing.
He spreads his arms out wider and tears continue to fall. He smiles suddenly as everything sheds off of him—years past, automatic conditioning, ritual, habit, routine. It is filth, carrion, an old crust, lice, degeneration, and decay. It is mold, mildew, and heavy stone. It is rank, offal, madness, violence, and vibrant hatred. It is broken bone, withered, rancid skin. All this has its purpose, though. He does not condemn any of it. He pockets it, in fact, stores it in a safe and sacred place and makes sure nothing can destroy it. All that old, previous waste and disease still manages to shine like a flawless jewel, he thinks.
It is amazing to be here. He has never felt so fearless, so unafraid. He has never experienced this kind of boldness, confidence, unwavering conviction. It is as if his soul has taken over the throne of his flesh, given him a trophy, first prize, a kingdom, Heaven, and kissed him fully on the lips. There is no trepidation, nervousness. He smiles, anxious to begin, to see what happens next. Could it be this is only the beginning? Amazing.
Spectrums race against time. He decides to challenge it. This ever constant, unflinching universe is no match for him. He cannot fail. He befriends it, listens, molds, and here it is now, responding to his call. He reaches out and they hold hands. All things he can do. All things he has done. There is love everywhere.
See the sun. Tuck the moon up under your arm and take to the sky. Up, up and away! Put on a cape and fly away!
The possibilities were endless.
Become a light year, a season, a fairy-tale bridge. Make everyone a shooting star, a comet across the sky. A golden treasure. I am a katydid. Follow my lead.
He laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of the thought and brought himself back to earth. He reached down and pulled a handful of golden sand into his palms, holding it up to his face. He breathed on it as though he had magic breath, and said, “What kind of life do you see?”
He stands, and at all points—all junctures and angles—blinding, incandescent light streams through him. Every cell and molecule is illuminated, bursts forth with radiant, warm energy, pillars of white. Spectrums shoot off into every direction imaginable. There is nothing untouched, no shadow. He can see the night and the day at the same time. Dawn and dusk enter his view. Incandescence is infinite.
He holds his hands out on either side of him, and to him, it seems as though he is standing on empty air, in the vast, great center of the universe. He is on the highest mountain peak. He is everything, and everything is around him. There is no stone unturned, no shadow unpenetrated. Water moves through him, lakes, rivers, ocean sand and shore. Waves break and crash under his skin. Stars emanate underneath and on top of him. He is the mirror of a riverbed. He is glass, transparent. The wind, too, is here, hurricanes, typhoons, earthquakes, tornadoes, erupting volcanoes, tidal waves, cyclones. Thunder booms. Lightning rips across the sky. Rain and snow cloud the air. He is ice and fire. The smell of autumn leaves, woodsmoke, marshmallows, cocoa, peppermint, coffee, tea, baked bread, pies, succulent, mouth-watering dinners warm his senses. He is all the changing seasons. The air turns robust, vibrant green, moist, warm again, bright, blue, unbroken. Spring and summer flowers emerge, rosebuds and new leaves. The trill of birds fill the air, bees, and dragonflies. It moves through him, is him, and he creates it, lets it go, surrenders to it at lightning speed. He is the melting snow, the drying rain, the rain again, the wind-swept pile of leaves that gather in corners. He tilts his head upwards, letting the stars, the light of the moon move through him. He sheds tears. These are tears of joy, richness and emptiness because he knows how full and devoid everything is at the same time. His emotions, his heart is tender, easily flexible, pliant, and he opens it wider, further, making the gap impossible to bridge because he is unafraid. This is nothing short of bravery. This is boldness absolute. Every emotion gushes through him, makes an overwhelming, dominating rushing sound. It is the whine, the shrill of a jet engine, only louder. It is a rainbow. It is fissures exploding, supernovas, and the sun detonating to and out of life. It is the gentle, steady rhythm of waves breaking on the shore. It is life and death, beautiful and devastating. It is catastrophe and sadness, tragedy and color. Melody, silence, and clamoring bells. It is annihilation and song, whispers and poetry. It is total destruction and purest joy. It is a resounding, humming, electric balls of blinding yellow white energy. It’s a cosmic symphony, stardust, miracle, magic, and wonder. It is awe.
For a second, he could fly. He sees all this. He has wings and shoots like a bird across the earth, into the atmosphere, deeper, higher, longer. He goes into space, and he can breathe just fine. He questions nothing. He doubts nothing. He believes, knows, soars through radiant creations of all and nothing. Cheering crowds fill his ears, a stadium of fans screaming, wailing, crying, cheering him on, his name, every name he has ever had, all his names, every imaginable living thing from one end of the universe to the other encouraging him, patting him on the back, telling him he should be proud, that nothing could be more beautiful than this, that beauty is defined in this moment as this moment. Everything has purpose, meaning, and meaning and clamoring joy is what he has found. He knows it; they know it, and they are celebrating in the dance. He smiles and waves to each and every one of them. All he has to do is take one step, and yet it’s even easier than that. It’s not complicated. The melody turns back upon itself. Shadows become light. His perception, his mind reaches out, expands and does not break. It’s light, too, and it touches every corner of the globe, the galaxy, other galaxies and continues on. It moves and moves and moves, and yet, seems to stand completely still. He is traveling at light speed, yes, and not moving at all. It is everything else moving by him, though him. He has never seen, let alone, experienced anything like this, yet he knew it was there all along. Light continues to penetrate his being, and moves, emanating outward in every direction and back into him. He is gentle, soft, oceanic breezes. He is peace, tranquility, and the setting sun. He is whisper, soft melody, a rustle here and there. He is the touch of an incandescent lover. He is the moment they met. He is loneliness, loss, and isolation. He is pain, turmoil, and confusion. He is trauma and fear. He is shaken, freezing cold. He is hopeless, death, and despair. But he is the unbroken blue as well. He is lazily drifting white clouds. He is the birds in the trees, children laughing, and playing.
He spreads his arms out wider and tears continue to fall. He smiles suddenly as everything sheds off of him—years past, automatic conditioning, ritual, habit, routine. It is filth, carrion, an old crust, lice, degeneration, and decay. It is mold, mildew, and heavy stone. It is rank, offal, madness, violence, and vibrant hatred. It is broken bone, withered, rancid skin. All this has its purpose, though. He does not condemn any of it. He pockets it, in fact, stores it in a safe and sacred place and makes sure nothing can destroy it. All that old, previous waste and disease still manages to shine like a flawless jewel, he thinks.
It is amazing to be here. He has never felt so fearless, so unafraid. He has never experienced this kind of boldness, confidence, unwavering conviction. It is as if his soul has taken over the throne of his flesh, given him a trophy, first prize, a kingdom, Heaven, and kissed him fully on the lips. There is no trepidation, nervousness. He smiles, anxious to begin, to see what happens next. Could it be this is only the beginning? Amazing.
Spectrums race against time. He decides to challenge it. This ever constant, unflinching universe is no match for him. He cannot fail. He befriends it, listens, molds, and here it is now, responding to his call. He reaches out and they hold hands. All things he can do. All things he has done. There is love everywhere.
See the sun. Tuck the moon up under your arm and take to the sky. Up, up and away! Put on a cape and fly away!
The possibilities were endless.
Become a light year, a season, a fairy-tale bridge. Make everyone a shooting star, a comet across the sky. A golden treasure. I am a katydid. Follow my lead.
He laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of the thought and brought himself back to earth. He reached down and pulled a handful of golden sand into his palms, holding it up to his face. He breathed on it as though he had magic breath, and said, “What kind of life do you see?”
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Flesh and Bone
Flesh and Bone, featuring In the Dark Kingdom.
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Flesh-and-Bone/Jessy-Marie-Roberts/e/9781617060014
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Flesh-and-Bone/Jessy-Marie-Roberts/e/9781617060014
Friday, September 17, 2010
The Pace of Roses
The man stood alone late at night and watched the world go by. The same old thing without him, he thought, at least that was what he normally would’ve thought, but not these days, not anymore. He thought about a lot of different things, all the time. He liked to think a lot. It could backfire, easily—thinking. It usually did. But he was creative by nature, so it made sense. In order to create, one had to think, but more importantly, one had to feel. He was not in short supply of either. Creation was based on thoughts and feelings.
He had changed a lot growing up. That was natural, too, he supposed. He had felt a lot, hadn’t realized until recently how pessimistic and cynical he had been, how he had spent his life wrapped in such negativity for so many years. He had always been slightly melancholy, perplexed, prone to sadness, confusion, even despair. For years, those hopeless emotions had ruled his life. He knew what it was like to live without hope, to want to die, to bow out and just be done already. He didn’t want to go there again. It was a bleak and terrible place. He was not a bleak and terrible person was the funny thing. He thought he had been, but that was the delusion, the self-deception.
Inside, it was as if all the pieces had begun to slip into place. If he were made of metal, they would have made locking noises, all those pieces, like a giant machine. He noticed it a lot lately, mainly as he walked at night by himself. He felt good, and he passed a lot of people that might’ve made him feel sad before, empty, lonely, even envious. Nowadays, he could look at them and wish them well. He knew this and he could feel it in his heart, since it was the only thing he understood. If you couldn’t feel with sincerity, with the genuine authenticity of feeling, what was the point of living? He knew this, felt it, accepted it, and now every moment of his life was based on this one principle.
It was as if someone had dipped him in silver, or gold. He felt that solid and sure of himself now, which was a relief after all the years of tumult and screaming. A soul could scream in defiance. He had learned that recently, too. But when it screamed, it must have something pretty important to say, and the man had listened. He thought of it as alignment. Things had worked themselves out, found their proper place. Everything, it seemed to him, was right with the world—the planets, the stars, the breath in his body, the way he saw things. Maybe he had simply changed his perspective. But yes, even his own heart, his own mind, seemed one with the stars, the sea, the sun and the sky.
Despite it all, despite how beautiful, it was still strange. But he liked that it was strange. It was new, and he liked the feeling of new. It kept a smile on his face, and it felt good to smile. Looking back over the years, he would’ve never imagined this possibility. It was amazing. It was miraculous. He liked to think of it as sacred. It was simply life. As he looked back over the changes, it was amazing—miraculous—he had managed to live through it. A million times he could’ve died, and maybe should have, but he didn’t. He was still here. He was walking these streets, and he could’ve been bitter and sad about a lot of things, but his story was his story and no one else’s. Someone told him recently that his past was precious and he had never thought of it that way before. He had been too open, reckless with his history, and he saw the repercussions of that now. He had been taken advantage of, even betrayed. These days, he treasured it like the miracle it was. Because it was a miracle. It was his miracle and no one else’s. So yes, he had finally accepted his past, his beautiful, wonderful, magical, star-filled past, brimming with growth, knowledge, sounds of the sea, harmony, life, and even death. He had learned a lot. The misses, the failures, the frozen plights, shadows, obsessions, even madness. All of that had a purpose, and he would’ve never believed that before, either, that life had a purpose, that he had a purpose, but sometimes, you had to stop fighting your own beliefs, your own opinions and surrender to the sacred. So, that was what he did, and the results, once again, were miraculous. Ease could be miraculous. Simplicity could be magical. Breath was sacred. Not a bad way to spend the remaining years, which—if he were lucky—would be many still.
As he walked, he noticed another form of alignment that had to do with his body. His spine was erect, his head held high. He observed everything and everybody without judgment, and that alone seemed amazing. Everything was amazing. Jesus, if he wasn’t careful, he would make himself sick thinking how amazing everything was.
Walking, the man laughed to himself at the thought. But it was true, he watched everyone, observed the way they were dressed, the way they talked, the way they lived, the city life, the night music, the traffic, the revelry. It was simply what it was, nothing more, nothing less.
His step was slow, easy, as though walking any faster would make him miss it all. This was the pace of roses. This was the slow, idle curiosity that never rushed, never hurried. This was taking it all in so he wouldn’t miss a beat, so he could remember as much about it as he could. It was fresh air, the night breeze, the beautiful summer night and the laughter and gaiety all around. His thoughts, too, were the same. There was no fighting against himself. No screaming in there. Just the simple quiet thoughts of a placid mind, a heart beating its gentle rhythm. No wind, no rain, just the easy soughing through the trees. That was all.
It was everything he wasn’t used to, so vastly different than what the previous years had taught, that it took some amount of adjusting to realize it was real. It might take him his whole life. He was fine with that.
Could it be over, he thought? Could it really be over, at least the worst of it? All that cloudy black, that confusion, that neutral gray plain of nothingness and despair? All those things that had tied me down for years, scratched and clawed at my heart and soul, my mind, all that self-inflicted suffering and tumult…Could it really be over? Finally, after all those years?
It wasn’t a question, really, was the funny thing, just a statement, one he had to adjust to, like life, accept, and eventually he would, he knew. The answer, he supposed, if it was a question, was in the simple breath, the deep, infinite space in his mind where everything was easy, like a sibilant hum. It was, in fact, as if he had never been able to catch his breath until now. As though all this time, he had been trying to catch up with himself. He had been running too fast.
Enjoy, he thought. Slow down. Live. Love. Watch the water flow. Simplicity is magic, and magic is real. That is the sacred at work. That is the path I’m on, the path I follow.
He spent the next few minutes walking away from the busier thoroughfares and toward the park, the creek. He crossed a bridge and found a quiet bench under a lamppost by the water to sit down. Under the lamp, the water was black in the dark. He listened to the water, the distant traffic, a siren in the distance, watched a pair of lovers across the river walking hand in hand along the path. Even the street sweepers were out, the yellow lights brightening the trees. It was a busy night, but he was by himself, and he liked watching the water move along in the dark under the lamps, the sound it made over the rocks. His thoughts were quiet, except when another piece slipped into place, and the sound was like metal, like hydraulics, a vast and powerful machine, well-oiled and strong. He was in no hurry to get back home. He could stay here for a while, forever maybe, he thought, until the weather changed, until someone told him he had to go, just listening, just breathing, watching the water go by.
He had changed a lot growing up. That was natural, too, he supposed. He had felt a lot, hadn’t realized until recently how pessimistic and cynical he had been, how he had spent his life wrapped in such negativity for so many years. He had always been slightly melancholy, perplexed, prone to sadness, confusion, even despair. For years, those hopeless emotions had ruled his life. He knew what it was like to live without hope, to want to die, to bow out and just be done already. He didn’t want to go there again. It was a bleak and terrible place. He was not a bleak and terrible person was the funny thing. He thought he had been, but that was the delusion, the self-deception.
Inside, it was as if all the pieces had begun to slip into place. If he were made of metal, they would have made locking noises, all those pieces, like a giant machine. He noticed it a lot lately, mainly as he walked at night by himself. He felt good, and he passed a lot of people that might’ve made him feel sad before, empty, lonely, even envious. Nowadays, he could look at them and wish them well. He knew this and he could feel it in his heart, since it was the only thing he understood. If you couldn’t feel with sincerity, with the genuine authenticity of feeling, what was the point of living? He knew this, felt it, accepted it, and now every moment of his life was based on this one principle.
It was as if someone had dipped him in silver, or gold. He felt that solid and sure of himself now, which was a relief after all the years of tumult and screaming. A soul could scream in defiance. He had learned that recently, too. But when it screamed, it must have something pretty important to say, and the man had listened. He thought of it as alignment. Things had worked themselves out, found their proper place. Everything, it seemed to him, was right with the world—the planets, the stars, the breath in his body, the way he saw things. Maybe he had simply changed his perspective. But yes, even his own heart, his own mind, seemed one with the stars, the sea, the sun and the sky.
Despite it all, despite how beautiful, it was still strange. But he liked that it was strange. It was new, and he liked the feeling of new. It kept a smile on his face, and it felt good to smile. Looking back over the years, he would’ve never imagined this possibility. It was amazing. It was miraculous. He liked to think of it as sacred. It was simply life. As he looked back over the changes, it was amazing—miraculous—he had managed to live through it. A million times he could’ve died, and maybe should have, but he didn’t. He was still here. He was walking these streets, and he could’ve been bitter and sad about a lot of things, but his story was his story and no one else’s. Someone told him recently that his past was precious and he had never thought of it that way before. He had been too open, reckless with his history, and he saw the repercussions of that now. He had been taken advantage of, even betrayed. These days, he treasured it like the miracle it was. Because it was a miracle. It was his miracle and no one else’s. So yes, he had finally accepted his past, his beautiful, wonderful, magical, star-filled past, brimming with growth, knowledge, sounds of the sea, harmony, life, and even death. He had learned a lot. The misses, the failures, the frozen plights, shadows, obsessions, even madness. All of that had a purpose, and he would’ve never believed that before, either, that life had a purpose, that he had a purpose, but sometimes, you had to stop fighting your own beliefs, your own opinions and surrender to the sacred. So, that was what he did, and the results, once again, were miraculous. Ease could be miraculous. Simplicity could be magical. Breath was sacred. Not a bad way to spend the remaining years, which—if he were lucky—would be many still.
As he walked, he noticed another form of alignment that had to do with his body. His spine was erect, his head held high. He observed everything and everybody without judgment, and that alone seemed amazing. Everything was amazing. Jesus, if he wasn’t careful, he would make himself sick thinking how amazing everything was.
Walking, the man laughed to himself at the thought. But it was true, he watched everyone, observed the way they were dressed, the way they talked, the way they lived, the city life, the night music, the traffic, the revelry. It was simply what it was, nothing more, nothing less.
His step was slow, easy, as though walking any faster would make him miss it all. This was the pace of roses. This was the slow, idle curiosity that never rushed, never hurried. This was taking it all in so he wouldn’t miss a beat, so he could remember as much about it as he could. It was fresh air, the night breeze, the beautiful summer night and the laughter and gaiety all around. His thoughts, too, were the same. There was no fighting against himself. No screaming in there. Just the simple quiet thoughts of a placid mind, a heart beating its gentle rhythm. No wind, no rain, just the easy soughing through the trees. That was all.
It was everything he wasn’t used to, so vastly different than what the previous years had taught, that it took some amount of adjusting to realize it was real. It might take him his whole life. He was fine with that.
Could it be over, he thought? Could it really be over, at least the worst of it? All that cloudy black, that confusion, that neutral gray plain of nothingness and despair? All those things that had tied me down for years, scratched and clawed at my heart and soul, my mind, all that self-inflicted suffering and tumult…Could it really be over? Finally, after all those years?
It wasn’t a question, really, was the funny thing, just a statement, one he had to adjust to, like life, accept, and eventually he would, he knew. The answer, he supposed, if it was a question, was in the simple breath, the deep, infinite space in his mind where everything was easy, like a sibilant hum. It was, in fact, as if he had never been able to catch his breath until now. As though all this time, he had been trying to catch up with himself. He had been running too fast.
Enjoy, he thought. Slow down. Live. Love. Watch the water flow. Simplicity is magic, and magic is real. That is the sacred at work. That is the path I’m on, the path I follow.
He spent the next few minutes walking away from the busier thoroughfares and toward the park, the creek. He crossed a bridge and found a quiet bench under a lamppost by the water to sit down. Under the lamp, the water was black in the dark. He listened to the water, the distant traffic, a siren in the distance, watched a pair of lovers across the river walking hand in hand along the path. Even the street sweepers were out, the yellow lights brightening the trees. It was a busy night, but he was by himself, and he liked watching the water move along in the dark under the lamps, the sound it made over the rocks. His thoughts were quiet, except when another piece slipped into place, and the sound was like metal, like hydraulics, a vast and powerful machine, well-oiled and strong. He was in no hurry to get back home. He could stay here for a while, forever maybe, he thought, until the weather changed, until someone told him he had to go, just listening, just breathing, watching the water go by.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Head On A Plate
I see the way it really is, all of us reaching out for the same old thing, a chance for happiness, love, to connect to something sacred or magical. I walk the streets late at night and watch the people come and go. There are some like me, wandering, alone with no place to go. They have no schedule, no agenda. I wonder what their thoughts must be, their hearts and needs. Most are in groups of twos and threes, all the younger ones. They laugh, heedless, careless of the world around them, the sham and drudgery, all the things that make the world full of pain, lies, and deceit. I remember when I was like that. Was I ever like that? The same thing, I think, all of us, some touch of human skin to tell us we're in need. "It's okay to be what you are, right here, close to me. I accept you. No, truly. I do." So, you reveal a little bit more of yourself because you believe in connection, too, but this connection is different. You want more than touch. "You are safe today. You are not crazy or freaking out. You are a beautiful thing still, everywhere you've ever been. Everything you've seen. I see all the things about you you are ashamed of, and you have no reason to feel that way. It makes me want to know you more, in fact. Put your head here, just rest and take it easy. You've been through so much. You don't have anything to worry about. Just let it out. Just let it out."
Millions upon millions, I think, billions upon billions really. Don't we all have the same kind of pain inside? No one knows why. I cry to my mother, condemn my father, wonder what I did wrong with my sisters and brothers to be walking these streets so late at night. All alone. All the time. I wonder why that can't be me over there, holding her hand, her laughing at some joke I tell. I must be too different--too scared to hold onto anything magical. I frighten them away with too much honesty, a commitment too quickly wanting to prove my loyalty to you already. My dark past is like a monster to them. I thought it proved my strength of character. That's what I get for assumption. How can they trust me? Still learning, I think, how to live, how to breathe, what a need must truly be. How to communicate. How to survive and not go crazy. Please, dear God, don't tell me I'm crazy. That won't help me. It won't make me love you. I see your head on a plate.
Maybe I have some disease I'm not aware of. I'm a leper, a Jonah, a pariah, a sleaze, a big black monster with claws and teeth. Tell me the worst, most horrible things about me you can think of so I can be blacker. Kill my heart with one ruthless blow. You can do it. Here, just pick up this axe and do away with me. It's real easy. Don't be afraid. Label, judge, crush and destroy me. Tell me I'm a pansy, I'm a baby, out of my head, that my behavior is abnormal. Watch me squirm and hop about. Let me crawl back to you on my hands and knees with tears in my eyes, begging and pleading for you to just come back to me. This could be good, I say, if only you could see it my way. You can insult and offend me, hurt me all you want. I know I'm not worthy of more than that. I'm lucky just to have you. Yes. I know. I know. Yes. Will you hold me now?
I'm too sensitive, like a girl. You've seen me cry a thousand times already before you even knew my name. You're more like a man than me. In fact, you have no girlish qualities at all. Hmm. Guess that's not important. All I wanted was to hold your hand, reveal my deepest sincerity to you, but instead, you took a knife to my chest, stabbed me repeatedly until my soul turned red. Now, I'm bending over, picking up all the broken little pieces of me you scattered here and there, set on fire. Obviously, it was wrong to trust you. It's going to take me a long time to put out these flames.
I lay by the road squaking like a toad, the tires running over me, breaking my spine, but I'm still here, though gasping my last. The things we do for love, I think, the lost and the suffering.
I watch these people on the downtown streets, wondering if any of them feel like me. We all reach out, wanting the same, in a sea of angry, voracious predators who claim to love you unconditionally. The lies they tell. I want to laugh again in carelessness like teenagers do. My darkness turns red, like the songs in my head that no longer sound like a lullaby. I'll always remember this for the rest of my life, just by trying to reach out, to connect. This hasn't been the only time. I need to learn to spot them better, the heartless, proud, unforgiving, and righteous few. No, they are many. If only they had signs.
Of course, of course, I love you, too, baby blue. I would do anything for you, which is why I'm here, left with my last breath. Can't you see you mean everything to me, baby? Haven't I proven you're all I've ever wanted, every dream come true? It's why I cry so much over you, beg and plead, ask your forgiveness. I promise I won't do it again, ever again, if only I knew what the hell it was. I know you're never wrong baby, you've never done anything wrong, which is why you never say it, why you have to remind me that I'm so lucky to be with you. You need to teach me a lesson, show me what it is I did exactly. It must've been during one of my blackouts. You might have to put my head on a plate.
Millions upon millions, I think, billions upon billions really. Don't we all have the same kind of pain inside? No one knows why. I cry to my mother, condemn my father, wonder what I did wrong with my sisters and brothers to be walking these streets so late at night. All alone. All the time. I wonder why that can't be me over there, holding her hand, her laughing at some joke I tell. I must be too different--too scared to hold onto anything magical. I frighten them away with too much honesty, a commitment too quickly wanting to prove my loyalty to you already. My dark past is like a monster to them. I thought it proved my strength of character. That's what I get for assumption. How can they trust me? Still learning, I think, how to live, how to breathe, what a need must truly be. How to communicate. How to survive and not go crazy. Please, dear God, don't tell me I'm crazy. That won't help me. It won't make me love you. I see your head on a plate.
Maybe I have some disease I'm not aware of. I'm a leper, a Jonah, a pariah, a sleaze, a big black monster with claws and teeth. Tell me the worst, most horrible things about me you can think of so I can be blacker. Kill my heart with one ruthless blow. You can do it. Here, just pick up this axe and do away with me. It's real easy. Don't be afraid. Label, judge, crush and destroy me. Tell me I'm a pansy, I'm a baby, out of my head, that my behavior is abnormal. Watch me squirm and hop about. Let me crawl back to you on my hands and knees with tears in my eyes, begging and pleading for you to just come back to me. This could be good, I say, if only you could see it my way. You can insult and offend me, hurt me all you want. I know I'm not worthy of more than that. I'm lucky just to have you. Yes. I know. I know. Yes. Will you hold me now?
I'm too sensitive, like a girl. You've seen me cry a thousand times already before you even knew my name. You're more like a man than me. In fact, you have no girlish qualities at all. Hmm. Guess that's not important. All I wanted was to hold your hand, reveal my deepest sincerity to you, but instead, you took a knife to my chest, stabbed me repeatedly until my soul turned red. Now, I'm bending over, picking up all the broken little pieces of me you scattered here and there, set on fire. Obviously, it was wrong to trust you. It's going to take me a long time to put out these flames.
I lay by the road squaking like a toad, the tires running over me, breaking my spine, but I'm still here, though gasping my last. The things we do for love, I think, the lost and the suffering.
I watch these people on the downtown streets, wondering if any of them feel like me. We all reach out, wanting the same, in a sea of angry, voracious predators who claim to love you unconditionally. The lies they tell. I want to laugh again in carelessness like teenagers do. My darkness turns red, like the songs in my head that no longer sound like a lullaby. I'll always remember this for the rest of my life, just by trying to reach out, to connect. This hasn't been the only time. I need to learn to spot them better, the heartless, proud, unforgiving, and righteous few. No, they are many. If only they had signs.
Of course, of course, I love you, too, baby blue. I would do anything for you, which is why I'm here, left with my last breath. Can't you see you mean everything to me, baby? Haven't I proven you're all I've ever wanted, every dream come true? It's why I cry so much over you, beg and plead, ask your forgiveness. I promise I won't do it again, ever again, if only I knew what the hell it was. I know you're never wrong baby, you've never done anything wrong, which is why you never say it, why you have to remind me that I'm so lucky to be with you. You need to teach me a lesson, show me what it is I did exactly. It must've been during one of my blackouts. You might have to put my head on a plate.
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