Burn Before Reading

starting
running
stifling
surrendering
tripping
falling
grabbing
lying
stealing
driving
thriving
living
realizing
admitting
ignoring
clashing
crashing
burning
killing
dying
apologizing
slipping
coming
ending.

Sciatica

morning
up
down
lay
try
up
down
down
twisted
trying
sickened
vomit
down
down
down.

a simple reminder : life is beautiful

today, i fleetingly met a partially blind homeless man. his blindness was of course the first thing i noticed, seeing as i have a fascination and fear of abnormal eyes. the sign he held was upside-down, but it read something along the lines of "please help me," so i gave him like ten quarters and some more change, and asked him to try and get warm tonight.
"i'll try honey, thank you so much," he said as my window rolled up automatically.

today's been a rather roller-coaster-esque day. it started awfully, where i was running late to pick up the girls i drive due to the weather and my want for a slushie to soothe my aching throat. we got to school ten or twenty minutes late for the first exam, which i finished in ten minutes. after school i was going down the hill and began to apply my breaks, but ended up sliding into (or rather under) the car in front of me. my car has two grand worth of damage, not sure about hers yet.
i keep thinking, if one thing had been different... if i didn't stop for that slushie, if i had just turned around this morning rather than go to school, if i had gotten to leave early from the test, if i had left on time, if i had been being a bit more careful, it wouldn't have happened.
tiny alterations in life's journey can catastrophically impact your life for the best... or worst.
later in the day i got to see my love.. and the hours i spent with him were some of the most special and eye opening moments of my life.
we saw the boy in the striped pajamas. it's about the holocaust and it's incredibly good. i cried a lot in the end. but it was marvelous.

today i really learned and understood how to appreciate what i've been given. it doesn't matter what tangible items i own or clothes i wear or music i listen to.
what really matters is intangible.. love, compassion, happiness, friendship, life, freedom, beauty... the list goes on.
what really matters in life is the emotions you carry, and the impact you make on others.
tomorrow, your car might be stolen. sure, you'll be upset (like i was when i crashed mine) but subsequently you'll realize that it doesn't matter. you've still got your life, your love, your friends and family... you've got yourself and that's what really matters.
technically, you're the only person you'll always have with you until the day you die.

society is becoming increasingly materialistic so things are starting to matter more and more, while personal relationships are diminishing in number. people are becoming impersonal, withdrawn, subdued and introverted as the years progress.
though life is about finding yourself, you must also confide in others. you just have to find the right person to confide in.

life is aesthetic, life is free and life is beautiful. live it every day without looking back. live in the now, look toward the future but never dabble in the past. any lessons you've learned you know.. you don't need to revert to anything in the past.
keep smiling, keep laughing, keep life fun.

January 15, 2009

I think these deserve another chance.

Beneath the Weeping Willow I Sighed

And all at once my heart stood still;
To this day it disturbs and perverts my thoughts...
Her secretly devious smile
Battered down the fortified walls of my heart
All those years ago at the cottage by the river
The juxtaposition of her stunning figure
Splayed against the murky, muddy, mussel-infested lagoon...
Her sway of elegance; her walk of regality
In my mind, she was placed on the pedestal of pedestals
Given the highest of my imaginary honors...
I obsessed over and idolized her;
Studied her every arbitrary, trivial action
Though everything she did was golden.
Even now I long for her ethereal beauty
In times of despair and loneliness.
Her life was the epitome of fullness...
She could do no wrong; it was just not her style.
I remember her eyes of cotton,
How they melted at the first sign of injustice,
How they appeared engaged in my humble thoughts
How they creased ever so slightly
When something caught her fancy
(Something that was not a rare occasion)
She taught me to love and respect all
And, like a Daoist, refused to hurt any creature
Lest a terrible disaster ensue soon thereafter.
Her heart was made of pure purity itself
It beat to a steady rhythm,
Hardly quickening unless she was laughing.
In all my years there I never heard her voice raise
Or witnessed her hand poised for a sometimes deserved beating.
Her philosophy of life was ever intriguing
As well as excruciatingly simple;
It was always hard to follow her example.
Now in my old age of frailty...
Now that she has become part of the lagoon
Of which she was so fond...
I will always remember her affect on my childhood summers
Lest I forget and disgrace her epitaph and memory
She paved the way for my life
Through simply living and loving hers
Indebted I am to this angelic creature
Whose spirit lay undisturbed among the best of the best
She deserves no less.

~*~

My Apologies (Though I Apologize Not) 

Eleven days ago I wandered
Into the abysmal land of hedonists.
They smiled as they delighted
Constantly in higher pleasures
"Far beyond" my mental caliber.
I left the god-forsaken place
With a heavy heart
And personal condemnation.
My life is obsolete.

And out of all the lonely men

I considered myself to be the one;

The loneliest and most pathetic

Of all lonely men

Chain-smoking their lives away

'Til they draw their last

Gasping, smoke-filled breath

I know now why they suffer.

Ahead along the parkway,

I heard a dog yip suddenly

As his master was abducted.

I took the dog to my abode

And later learned of the rape,

Murder, and disposal

Of his once-revered master.

I did once have a lover
Her hair bore the pungent scent
Of spring rain and fig leaves.
She used to tend to our garden
It was so vibrant then
And I had a skip in my step.

Were a tragedy to ever befall me,
I'd expect nothing less
Than a pine box and six-foot drop
With a matching eulogy
And wildflowers every month.

Lo, who would remember me?
I am, as you say, a hermit.
Pathetic in my very nature,
Yet you come to me for advice.

I laugh at the future
And dwell in the past
Today matters not to me.

I have dabbled in the brooks
And very sands of time.

I wandered eleven days ago.

~*~

Her Concession; My Transgression

"It's cold up there,"
She whispered to me.
Her delicate words hung
Like icicles, dripping...
Surrounding me with
Anxiety.

"I don't want to go,"
She whined to me
And I finally understood
That she needed to migrate
South for the
Winter.

"You can't make me,"
She said defiantly,
Puffing out her chest
And succulent lips
Trying to look
Tough.

"But baby, I love it there," 
I pleaded with her. 
It had been my residence 
Since the dawning  
Of my own 
Creation.

"I want you to go,"
 I told her lovingly. 
I really wanted
Her to be there 
Since before 
I made her 
Acquaintance.


"I won't make you,"
I said, surrendering. 
Even though I just wanted  
To share everything with her.
She is my life 
Now.

"For you, I will," 
She conceded, smiling. 
I breathed a soft sigh 
And embraced her. 
Her hair smelled like the 
Rain.

"Then come, you will see," 
I said as we set off 
And finally arrived. 
I held her hand tightly
As we gazed up at the stars.

Her smile brought tears to my eyes.


~*~

Transcendentalists

Lost in the hammock's netting
Sipping our Arnold Palmers,
Swaying freely in the wind
To-and-fro and back-and-forth
As the scent of sweet Summer
Ascends high to the tree-tops
And to Heaven beyond them.
We are Transcendentalists;
Today we are they who dance
And delight in the beauty
Of the aesthetic world that's
Around our earthbound spirits.
Inside, we are magnetized;
The sun's rays perforating
Our skin, dripping desire,
Collecting droplets of dew
Spilling over, making life,
And exploding into stars;
A googleplex of novas
Lightyears away, yet so close
We can taste them on our teeth.
Plotting a peaceful protest,
We climb the trees and wait there
For something magnificent
And then it comes in a flash,
The great swan song trumpeting
From the bowels of the lakefront
In our hearts we know that this,
This is where we belong now.

"...Until your breathing stops, forever."

I wish I could have just said it all to you.
But I've never had a way with speaking face-to-face...

Or mouth-to-ear...

I'm too raspy,
Too quiet,
Too misunderstood.

My stomach churns and my words are garbled.
How do you expect me to let it all out
When I can't even put together a coherent sentence?

When did my words deceive me?
When did my Savior become my Tormentor?

And when did this become so depressing?
I set out to write something meaningful
And again, my words are garbled.


I thought I had a way with words,
I just have a way of messing things up.




Things are going right,
Let's stop focusing on messing things up
Messing things up,
Messing things up.

I don't want to feel this way,
And maybe I really don't feel this way.

Anguish

I can feel it emanating
Through my "heart" and on
To my elbows and out
On and on and through-
Throughout my aura,
I walk in pain.
"I carry your heart!" I scream
But I carry it in my teeth
And fingernails, and toes-
And I carry it in my navel,
Everywhere, I carry it.
My heart is shattered-
Asunder, it is torn
Blown to pieces, I need it
Because this is how I am humbled.
Anguish, you say.
Pain, I say.
No- Life, I say.
This is how I am
And you are different
But I have always loved you,
Always carried your heart
And will always do so.
You are my only-
You carry my heart,
A piece of my heart
Imbedded in yours.
Take this splinter'd piece
Let it envelop you-
It will always be yours,
As I will always be yours.

Clean Break

My heart is aching. My stomach is about to explode.. or implode.. or something. I think my stomach is going to explode out of my heart or out of my throat. It's just going to poof.
I glance into the mirror and I can see you, and even though you're sleeping, I know your pain. I know you're in pain. I saw the X-Ray.
I'm shuddering. I'm wearing my grandfather's wedding ring. The one you never take off. When he died, they gave it to you. And when you're sick, you give it to me. And you're really sick. You're hurt. I'm hurt.
It's so eerie, wearing this ring. It's surreal. All at once, I'm eating his strawberry ice cream and running around. He always said I'd be the first girl in the family to break a bone, and I was. But he never saw that.
And here is his little girl, my Lori, with a broken bone. A broken humerus. You fell down a flight of stairs that I knew were bad. I should have been more persistent about making you go the other way with us. With me and Maggie. This really sucks.
When we got out of the hospital and were waiting for the taxi, you asked me to light your cigarette because you couldn't mobilize your arm. I did it for you, but hated every minute of it. You and your gimp arm, smoking with your left. It looks so awkward. Probably because it is. I hate smoking. And when I was lighting it for you, I tasted it. The chemicals and tar; I could feel it staining my teeth.
But why should I care? You need this, it comforts you. Just like it comforted my mother.


What, now, will comfort me?

You

I'm sipping White Zinfandel out of a plastic cup. Classy, I know. I'm a class act. And here I am, in a hot tub on the roof with a wrinkly man from Connecticut, but it doesn't matter because I've got my White Zinfandel and the steadily darkening sky around me.
It's cold for a second, and a distinct memory comes flooding back. Maggie's lost in the Columbus Zoo, and it's my fault because I was supposed to keep an eye on her. And it's dad's fault for the same reason. It's never her fault. And I'm running all around Ohio, or so it feels, because I'm six. Or maybe seven? Whatever it is, I'm trying to find my sister because she's gone. She had a pink Cinderella sweatshirt on; she had to be the only one with that ridiculous monstrosity... And then, I see her. We see her. There she is, holding someone else's hand. Looking for me. Looking for us. She's found.
And then I leave my hat in the bathroom. And my other hat in the back of the car. And I'm back on the plane from Columbus to Chicago. It doesn't make sense. What is it, like, a 45 minute plane ride? Well, whatever, it's my first plane ride.
Monday, we go back. We get back on the plane to Chicago. It's longer this time, maybe because I'm older... But that doesn't make sense. It's shorter because I'm older. Those 45 minutes were 4.5 hours at six. Or seven. My concept of time has changed drastically.
Flash forward and I'm lying on my stupid stomach trying to type this. It's stupid because it always hurts, it's never not hurting. And they're trying to tell me that I don't have anything wrong with me. Well, they're lying. Or they're not looking hard enough. It seriously fucking hurts all the time.
But it's all okay, because I've got this love. I've got this love under my arm, I've got this love to keep me warm. I won't let it go, ever.

I can't stop loving you.

Forms of Wondering

It feels so much later than it is.. And I've already pounded out tonight's decree to what I thought was a satisfying end, but apparently not. Because here I am lying in my bed, phone in hand, punching out another decree. I'm here screaming, "Here I am! This is me! This is who I am!" And is it? Is this who I am? I'm neglecting homework, wasting time, staring at nothing, wanting more, wanting you... I think this is who I always am because I don't remember ever feeling too much differently. I do enough to get by. Charming the teacher is at least a hundred percent of my grade. But it's not like this is an act. This is me. I can do better, I try to do better, then I'm stuck back in the same place all over again. Lost. Meandering. Feeling about and flailing about without a direction. 
And I'm back to screaming, "This is me! This is me!" Who am I trying to convince? You're the only one who reads my writings, so who else would I be trying to convince? You know me way too well already. So who am I? What is me?

Mutter

I always wash the peanut butter off the knives after I use them, because I know how much you hate cleaning up that mess, even though you leave ketchup on the plates. The permanent hand print across my left cheek and eyelid will always pay homage to your wrath. Your anger lingers here always, even though your physical presence is no longer here. No, I'm no longer here. I'm no longer there. I'm away, and I still leave the microwave open because you get mad if you can smell my Ramen when you want to make your popcorn or your stupid reheatable dinners.
No, I don't want chicken cordon bleu again, you always leave it in too long, and the cheese just ends up burning in the bottom of the toaster oven. But this is when I see the human side of you. You make things, create things, and then break things down. I've been broken so many times by you; I've been left to melt and burn in the bottom of the toaster oven, so to speak. You always try to come back and scrape me up, but only when company's present.
"Oh no, they can't see that I've let this cheese burn and fester in the bottom of my pan! I'd better clean up this mess so they know I'm a good cook and a clean person!"
That's how it always is with you. You clean up the mess for the others so that they all think you're a saint. And, the sick thing is, they do. They think that you're the reincarnation of Jesus H. Christ himself, complete with miracles and the temperament of a god. I don't understand how they never (and to this day don't) see through your lies.
I wrote this poem when I was like eleven, and as horrible it is from an aesthetic point of view, it was the only way I could show how I was feeling. How you made me feel.

"Killing you softly
Plays with your mind for kicks
And wants you to suffer-
While she has all the fun.
She kills you softly with
Words and gestures-
And doesn't give a shit
About your needs.
She hates me."

And sometimes I still feel like that. Even though I'm gone from there, and you're far away.

You're not a good cook, and even worse, you're not a clean person. You're dirty through and through, and how could you not be? Are you ever going to change?
No, it's me who has to change. It's me who has to adapt to the world around me, the world in which you are not prevalent. But... in a sense, you are.. You are present. I'm talking to you right now.

I have not yet adapted.

Der Mutter die mich nie geboren
hab ich heute Nacht geschworen
ich werd ihr eine Krankheit schenken
und sie danach im Fluss versenken

Plastic

I know this girl who always carries around this huge binder and it's like always in-my-face. She uses it as a battering ram or something, because when she walks through the hall, the entire hallway parts so she can pass. She's really weird, too. She always wears this ridiculously large sweat shirt and these huge pants, and they're always falling off of her. It's like she's hiding something, and I know she is. Aren't we all?
She's really protective of that battering ram. It's always a mystery as to what's held inside. I know there are rumors about her and what she keeps in there.
"It's a slam book!"
"It's a plan! She's going to kill us all!"
Well, whatever it is, she hides it all the time. It's always on her person. And when she sits alone in the back of the bus, she's always clutching to it, white-knuckled, her eyes darting about at nothing.
One of the more outspoken kids in my class was like, "You're fucking weird. What the fuck is your problem?"
She looked up with those big, sad eyes and then just smiled.
Not deterred, the kid continued, "Let me see that book! I want to see how you're going to kill me!" His eyes looked completely maniacal as he reached for her binder.
Her eyes looked even more maniacal, and as he reached, she bit. She bit his arm, so hard it started bleeding.
Horrified, the macho kid was like, "What the fuck! This bitch just bit me! What the fuck! What the fuck!"
She smiled her bloody smile and hissed at him. They left her alone from then on.

But of course there were whispers.

One day, we were on the bus and she was in her regular spot. And then there was a car crash next to us -- like, really, right next to us! She looked so upset. She dropped that binder, and flung open the emergency exit door. Sirens wailing, she ran to the site of the crash and, like a hero, began to help while we all just watched in awe.
And then I realized it. She had dropped that binder. So I crept over, while everyone was gawking, and peered into it.
"Robbie looks really beautiful today, and Shannon's smile shines through her pain."
"I can see that Amanda is really weak, but she always tries."

She was writing about us -- our stories, our lives. It wasn't a slam book. It wasn't a plan for our doom, it was just... Us. Just us. Our school, our town, our people, our love.

And then I turned to the last page. There was a post-it note plastered there.
"Sarah, please eat today. You're beautiful."
It was in her own handwriting.

I guess we all have our secrets. Beneath that huge sweater is a tiny girl with a beautiful outlook on life. Who would have known, if we hadn't looked inside?
And why hadn't anyone asked? Why hadn't I asked? Why does everyone just assume they know, when they obviously don't?

"What are you doing?" came the voice from the back of the bus.
Startled, I slammed the book shut, ran over to her, and hugged her.

"You're the beautiful one," I whispered, and walked away.

I'll Take the Blame.

There should be a rainbow in the sky today. It seems like a rainbow kind of day... The raindrops cavorting about diagonally; an onslaught of diminutive drops. Drops, dropping, dripping, dropped. And I can hear it, it's pounding on my tin roof. Isn't it always on the tin roof? Isn't there always a cacophony of sounds coming from the back room with the tin roof?

"Is it raining?"
"Is it ever?"

I remember when they told me you got hit by a bus. A bus, they said. Yes, a big bus. And you were dead. And you were gone, and you were never coming back. And I was alone and fat, fat and alone -- and miserable. Why was I miserable? Because you were hit by a bus. A big bus.
So, I went on through life alone. It was always raining. Or was it? Or was that just how I felt? I can hear the rain now, rain on the tin roof again. Snapping me back to reality, or is it not? How many times can I question authority?
And what of Albert? Ending his tiny life was like seeing yours ended, I hit him with my car, but you were hit by a bus. Splattered along the street. Dead alone and forgotten. But I never forgot.
You seemed to fade away into the fissure. The fissure in the street, or the fissure in life -- in the world. You faded away, either way.
And then one day when I stopped to think and remember, I remembered you -- and looked you up.

"Maybe there's a memorial page," I thought; hoped...

Yet, there you were -- alive and well, and with a baby.

So what of the bus? And the fissure? And the splatter? And the loneliness?
Where were you all this time?

You slipped into time, into a fissure, but not into Death.

I went back outside to see the rainbow.

There is no rainbow.

There never was, and there never will be.