Thursday, April 26, 2012
a post in draft mode since April, finished
It is better to
have loved and lost than never
to have loved at all... is a haiku written by a fool who loved too carelessly.
Don't give your heart to anyone. You need it.
The rhythmic pulsing of your heart pumping blood throughout your body acts as a metronome so you can pump out tunes, dance to the beat of your own eternal drum.
Wait... now I get it. No one ever gives hearts away. Hearts are stolen. They are taken in the night, the unsuspecting victims charmed and distracted so that unworthy suitors can swoop in and scoop out. No wonder those sick with love draw hearts on notebook paper- they're making lost and found posters for the thing that was taken from them, the thing they want back. At the very least, give me your heart in return so that I can go on living. Don't take all that I have and leave me nothing in return. It's genocide.
Monday, April 23, 2012
P12; I've been imbibing the wine, but i think this makes sense, kind of.
I love love.
But not the love you're thinking of.
It isn't merchandised in February, and it sure as hell isn't pink and red with ruffles.
You'll never be able to buy it, and even if it was for sale, you could never afford it.
Love is black and blue.
Beaten and bruised, it takes hits like a stoner, or a slow has-been boxer far past his prime.
Love is selfless. It is sacrificial.
Love gives of itself even what it doesn't know it has.
I mean, really, we're all charity cases looking for a hand out- please, put your hand out and take mine.
Love is desperate to give itself to you, so much so that it would die for you.
Love would do anything for you. Chew on tin foil for you, lick a 9-volt for eternity if you said "do it" and tell mountains to move if they blocked your view of the sunset.
Love wants to do impossible things for you.
Stop looking online. Put down the heart-drawing pen, and stopstopstop looking for love in empty relationships.
Love is that thing you have in you, eating not even from the palm of your hand, but from your heart from day one. Love will consume you as you consume love.
Love is all you need.
Monday, April 16, 2012
P9: "childhood"
I remember the day she died.
I remember the rock hard coldness of her skin when I touched her hand for the last time as they lowered her into the dirt.
It was Thanksgiving that year.
As a kid, I spent a good amount of time collecting the half-decayed carcasses of found bees and lizards around my yard and buried them in the little creature cemetery I'd made to help put them to rest. I made each little sand mound its own twig and grass cross and said little prayers to a God I knew only in my heart. So young and innocent, I didn't yet understand death, but I knew it had significance. It wasn't until she died that I knew what it meant.
It meant growing up too fast. It meant calling an all-out war on malignant cells. It meant losing something I'd never been without.
I remember standing on the deck my dad had just built, and looking at the dry portions of turkey flesh on my disposable plate, trying to find something for which to be thankful. Just beside the deck was the little cemetery, holding mounds of death which suddenly looked more like the goosebumps on my skin than tombs filled with corpses compared to the mound that swallowed my mother.
I wish I could say my days as a gravedigger prepared me for this, but I was in over my head.
For with my mother died my childhood and my innocence. They are buried together.
I remember the rock hard coldness of her skin when I touched her hand for the last time as they lowered her into the dirt.
It was Thanksgiving that year.
As a kid, I spent a good amount of time collecting the half-decayed carcasses of found bees and lizards around my yard and buried them in the little creature cemetery I'd made to help put them to rest. I made each little sand mound its own twig and grass cross and said little prayers to a God I knew only in my heart. So young and innocent, I didn't yet understand death, but I knew it had significance. It wasn't until she died that I knew what it meant.
It meant growing up too fast. It meant calling an all-out war on malignant cells. It meant losing something I'd never been without.
I remember standing on the deck my dad had just built, and looking at the dry portions of turkey flesh on my disposable plate, trying to find something for which to be thankful. Just beside the deck was the little cemetery, holding mounds of death which suddenly looked more like the goosebumps on my skin than tombs filled with corpses compared to the mound that swallowed my mother.
I wish I could say my days as a gravedigger prepared me for this, but I was in over my head.
For with my mother died my childhood and my innocence. They are buried together.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
P8: PG-13
I think about you when I go through my jewelry box.
I pull out a strand of pearls, and I see your smile:
Two strands of perfectly straight pearly whites that I can't help but think would look perfect on my neck.
I put on a set of earrings, dangly ones, that jingle musically with my every movement of my body. I entertain that the jingling is the sound of you whispering in my ear, things that only I should hear.
I play with a ring and dream of you; not in the most obvious way, but that you're always is my hands.
I take out a set of cuff bracelets, which speak most directly of you; wearing them, I am reminded that I am bound to you.
I pull out a strand of pearls, and I see your smile:
Two strands of perfectly straight pearly whites that I can't help but think would look perfect on my neck.
I put on a set of earrings, dangly ones, that jingle musically with my every movement of my body. I entertain that the jingling is the sound of you whispering in my ear, things that only I should hear.
I play with a ring and dream of you; not in the most obvious way, but that you're always is my hands.
I take out a set of cuff bracelets, which speak most directly of you; wearing them, I am reminded that I am bound to you.
P7
Open the blinds.
Turn the lock.
Open up.
The eyes are the windows to the soul, and having caught a glimpse of you walking around naked inside your anatomical apartment, I plan to stake out with binoculars, Rear Window style, because I need a better look.
One look from you, and you're a 1950s housewife in an apron opening the window on a sweet Spring day to place a hot pie on the window sill to cool... which is strange imagery considering your beard.
It's a trap, I know, but I have to have a taste of the sweetness you've placed in front of me.
Ever notice how a superhero is utterly unrecognizable with only a thin mask around the eyes? I always thought "wth? It SOUNDS like Bruce Wayne, and LOOKS like Bruce Wayne. HOW can people not know?!"
It wasn't until you uncovered your eyes that I knew... no longer disguised, no longer superhuman in a costume and cape;
Just a man I could love.
Holding a gaze with you is like a warm breeze blowing through an open window.
No screens or filters, just open air. I breathe you in deeply and exhale a smile, and by smile, I mean that teeth-too-big-cheeks-so-sore smile that brings up definite questions about my sanity.
Souls exposed and hearts aligned, I can see clearly. And as I gaze into your open apartment windows, I see you there... holding hands with the woman who moved in before I had even dreamt of opening your windows. That would explain why you keep the blinds closed.
Turn the lock.
Open up.
The eyes are the windows to the soul, and having caught a glimpse of you walking around naked inside your anatomical apartment, I plan to stake out with binoculars, Rear Window style, because I need a better look.
One look from you, and you're a 1950s housewife in an apron opening the window on a sweet Spring day to place a hot pie on the window sill to cool... which is strange imagery considering your beard.
It's a trap, I know, but I have to have a taste of the sweetness you've placed in front of me.
Ever notice how a superhero is utterly unrecognizable with only a thin mask around the eyes? I always thought "wth? It SOUNDS like Bruce Wayne, and LOOKS like Bruce Wayne. HOW can people not know?!"
It wasn't until you uncovered your eyes that I knew... no longer disguised, no longer superhuman in a costume and cape;
Just a man I could love.
Holding a gaze with you is like a warm breeze blowing through an open window.
No screens or filters, just open air. I breathe you in deeply and exhale a smile, and by smile, I mean that teeth-too-big-cheeks-so-sore smile that brings up definite questions about my sanity.
Souls exposed and hearts aligned, I can see clearly. And as I gaze into your open apartment windows, I see you there... holding hands with the woman who moved in before I had even dreamt of opening your windows. That would explain why you keep the blinds closed.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
P6
They say one is the loneliest number, but whoever said that was alone in a crowded room.
You see, being alone is a way to be free.
I would much rather spend quality time with myself than mediocre time with someone mediocre, or at the very least- just not for me.
That means eating alone, seeing plays alone, walking in parks alone, and going to sleep alone, and I love it.
The thing is this: we look at our life checklists and we scramble to check them off as soon as possible. So, instead of savoring the moments and being discerning, we fill our empty love boxes with empty love. We trade authenticity for fabrication. We sacrifice intimicy for exposure with the need to show everyone where we are and what we're doing and with whom we are doing it at all hours of the day. (Hey, I do it, too. Welcome to the 21st century.)
Let's be vintage. And if you were born in the 80s, you already are, so let's embrace it. Embrace real love when you see it, sacrifice exposure for intimacy, have real conversations, eat alone, sleep alone. And when the time and person for you come along for you to fill your box, do it. But until then, let it be an open square; not lonely, but filled with possibilities.
You see, being alone is a way to be free.
I would much rather spend quality time with myself than mediocre time with someone mediocre, or at the very least- just not for me.
That means eating alone, seeing plays alone, walking in parks alone, and going to sleep alone, and I love it.
The thing is this: we look at our life checklists and we scramble to check them off as soon as possible. So, instead of savoring the moments and being discerning, we fill our empty love boxes with empty love. We trade authenticity for fabrication. We sacrifice intimicy for exposure with the need to show everyone where we are and what we're doing and with whom we are doing it at all hours of the day. (Hey, I do it, too. Welcome to the 21st century.)
Let's be vintage. And if you were born in the 80s, you already are, so let's embrace it. Embrace real love when you see it, sacrifice exposure for intimacy, have real conversations, eat alone, sleep alone. And when the time and person for you come along for you to fill your box, do it. But until then, let it be an open square; not lonely, but filled with possibilities.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
P5
I'm just your typical Pisces: mischievous, creative, sensitive, and oh-so unorganized.
Now, I never read horoscopes, and I put very little stock into the zodiac, but... seeing you for the first time, I gasped for breath like a fish out of water, or, like a fish swimming in foreign waters and finally, for the first time, seeing a fish who looks like me.
They say a goldfish has a 3-second memory span, but really, that's a myth.
Each time I see you is not like the first, but exponentially better because the more I see you, the more I want to see of you.
Then you swim by.
My heart races, my eyes widen... and then I look away, almost aloof.
You may think I'm koi, but really, I'm just a guppy- terrified that you might not love me.
So I go on swimming alone with only your memory to fill the thought bubbles I leave behind.
It's like we're all fish fishing for fish, and when the right one doesn't bite, we pull in our reels and convince ourselves that there are other fish in the sea, but really...
I just wanna swim with you.
Sometimes, I am a clownfish, brightly-colored, flamboyant, anything to get your attention! And then, when you notice me, I swim back into the anemone as if you're a predator and orange tastes delicious.
You swim laps around my subconscious brain day after day, and today was no different...
Except today, it hit me: Pisces is made up of two fish. Two.
So while swimming alone is ok, why go on alone when you may have found the one fish in all the waters in all the world who's been swimming and searching for you, too?
Now that you're here, I just wanna swim with you.
Now, I never read horoscopes, and I put very little stock into the zodiac, but... seeing you for the first time, I gasped for breath like a fish out of water, or, like a fish swimming in foreign waters and finally, for the first time, seeing a fish who looks like me.
They say a goldfish has a 3-second memory span, but really, that's a myth.
Each time I see you is not like the first, but exponentially better because the more I see you, the more I want to see of you.
Then you swim by.
My heart races, my eyes widen... and then I look away, almost aloof.
You may think I'm koi, but really, I'm just a guppy- terrified that you might not love me.
So I go on swimming alone with only your memory to fill the thought bubbles I leave behind.
It's like we're all fish fishing for fish, and when the right one doesn't bite, we pull in our reels and convince ourselves that there are other fish in the sea, but really...
I just wanna swim with you.
Sometimes, I am a clownfish, brightly-colored, flamboyant, anything to get your attention! And then, when you notice me, I swim back into the anemone as if you're a predator and orange tastes delicious.
You swim laps around my subconscious brain day after day, and today was no different...
Except today, it hit me: Pisces is made up of two fish. Two.
So while swimming alone is ok, why go on alone when you may have found the one fish in all the waters in all the world who's been swimming and searching for you, too?
Now that you're here, I just wanna swim with you.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
P1
He made me cry.
Alone in a corner with only the caress of tears rolling down my cheeks, I sobbed.
This isn't about a broken heart; it's about broken trust.
When did we put so much stock in authority figures?
According to the ever-omniscient Wikipedia, a figure "may refer to: A shape, drawing, or representation".
An authority figure is, therefore, relegated to a figure of speech, a figment of the collective imagination.
By definition...
He is an irregular polygon, obtusely compassionate, acutely cruel, every angle of his form sketched with malice. Every geometric corner of this bitter hasbeen mistakenly thinking it's right, when clearly, it's wrong.
Talking to him is like talking in circles, or, like trying to jam square pegs into round holes, and quite frankly, I stopped that shit before I started preschool.
By definition...
He is badly drawn: a caricature of a middle-aged middle class human being who promises to educate and inspire learning. He is propaganda; a brainwasher of the worst sort, he drains the independent thoughts of eager young minds and fills them instead with his warped political views and says "I want to make you think", but what he means is "I want to make you think my thoughts", and if you think you came to college to broaden your horizons, you better think again because the colors you dream of aren't in any institution's coloring box. You dream of Technicolor in an institution demanding monochrome or sepia, or at most, primary colors. Consider coloring elsewhere because people like this badly-drawn boy scoff at your self-portrait in all its multidimensional, Technicolor beauty.
By definition...
He is a tyrannical representative- the king of all things that... no one ever really wanted to rule anyway. The king of bitter and bossy, he rules with an iron fist and a grimace which glimmers under the light of his bent wire coat hanger crown, bejeweled with the dignity of students who have gone before me.
... but I defy such things. No figure, whether shapely, drawn, or representational, will define who I am. And if I am defined by more than a figure, then I am free; not limited to geometric corners (for crying in, or otherwise)! Not drawn of charcoal in 2-D! Not crowned the ruler of miserable things! I defy authority, and I will cry no more.
Alone in a corner with only the caress of tears rolling down my cheeks, I sobbed.
This isn't about a broken heart; it's about broken trust.
When did we put so much stock in authority figures?
According to the ever-omniscient Wikipedia, a figure "may refer to: A shape, drawing, or representation".
An authority figure is, therefore, relegated to a figure of speech, a figment of the collective imagination.
By definition...
He is an irregular polygon, obtusely compassionate, acutely cruel, every angle of his form sketched with malice. Every geometric corner of this bitter hasbeen mistakenly thinking it's right, when clearly, it's wrong.
Talking to him is like talking in circles, or, like trying to jam square pegs into round holes, and quite frankly, I stopped that shit before I started preschool.
By definition...
He is badly drawn: a caricature of a middle-aged middle class human being who promises to educate and inspire learning. He is propaganda; a brainwasher of the worst sort, he drains the independent thoughts of eager young minds and fills them instead with his warped political views and says "I want to make you think", but what he means is "I want to make you think my thoughts", and if you think you came to college to broaden your horizons, you better think again because the colors you dream of aren't in any institution's coloring box. You dream of Technicolor in an institution demanding monochrome or sepia, or at most, primary colors. Consider coloring elsewhere because people like this badly-drawn boy scoff at your self-portrait in all its multidimensional, Technicolor beauty.
By definition...
He is a tyrannical representative- the king of all things that... no one ever really wanted to rule anyway. The king of bitter and bossy, he rules with an iron fist and a grimace which glimmers under the light of his bent wire coat hanger crown, bejeweled with the dignity of students who have gone before me.
... but I defy such things. No figure, whether shapely, drawn, or representational, will define who I am. And if I am defined by more than a figure, then I am free; not limited to geometric corners (for crying in, or otherwise)! Not drawn of charcoal in 2-D! Not crowned the ruler of miserable things! I defy authority, and I will cry no more.
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