my father's father

I never knew my father's father. He died before I was born.

As a child I never really thought anything much of the fact that he wasn't there. I just knew he was in heaven. I knew someday I'd meet him.

All I ever heard about my grandfather, until very recently, was that he didn't talk much, that he was a helicopter mechanic, that he made a pineapple upside-down cake so sweet it made you dizzy. I have a jar full of rocks that he collected and tumbled. In younger years, I sat for many hours examining each rock, rubbing my thumbs over their smooth, glossy surfaces, thinking about my grandfather doing the same.

I never heard my dad talk about his father. Typically, when he'd come up in conversation it was because my mom would remember how he was shocked when she tried to hug him after she married my dad, or how he would say "mhmm, mhmm, mhmm." quietly as you spoke to him.

"Remember, Philip?" she always says to my dad when she brings up my grandpa George.

"Mhmm." my dad always says.

I always wanted to ask my dad to tell me about his dad, but I never wanted to make him sad, so I never did.

All Saints Sunday is the day where you remember people who have passed away. In church on All Saints Sunday, I sat with my family in our regular pew. I listened to the pastor ring a bell once for every person who passed away that year. Ting, ting, ting. We got up and took rocks for all the saints we wanted to honor and left them at the altar. I took one for my Papa, my, grandpa George, and my friend Jason. I left the three little grey stones at the altar, looking at the flame of the little candle through tear-blurred eyes. When everyone had placed their stones, the pastor told us to share memories about our lost loved ones with the people in out pew. My dad began to speak, quietly.

"The last time I saw my dad alive, he was in bed, at home. I remember I went to go visit him, to make sure he was okay before I went to play softball with the guys from work. I was in my softball uniform, I was just stopping by to check on him. I spent a couple minutes with him, but then I had to go. As I was leaving, he asked me not to go, he asked me to stay and I said I couldn't because I was going to be late for the softball game. That was the last time I saw my dad alive."

My dad had his arm around my shoulder, his head was hanging and his eyes were pointed down toward his lap. I was crying. I was imagining my father in his softball uniform, in the excellent shape he was in the 80's; tall, handsome and young, rushing away from his dying father, my grandpa, who was begging him not to go. I was so sad for my dad, so sad that he didn't know it was the last time he'd ever speak to his father. The lint from the kleenex I was using was making me sneeze. My makeup was running.

Every time I leave to go anywhere, every time I leave my family, I tell them I love them. You just never know when it will be the last time you get the chance.

reoccurring dreams

this is how the dream goes.

i see you somewhere. a restaurant, a classroom, a friend's house. i approach you with the naive confidence i had in my early teenaged years. i'm about to tell you that i like you, but you beat me to it. then you smile. it's always the same smile. and then we kiss. it's always the same kiss. and somehow in my dream it feels so real, and somehow it still feels too good to be true, and in my dream your lips feel exactly the way i remember them.

when i wake i feel certain that your hand is in mine, that your body is curled around my body.

but when i snap out of my morning fog, i always find that i am alone.

Medusa's Rape

Medusa was beautiful, once.

Before she was cursed she was a virgin priestess in the temple of Athena, young and sweet with lips like cherry blossoms. Her hair was long and lustrous, catching light from everything that shone, flowing like a waterfall of black silk. Her eyes, cool and deep,were the color of pebbles tumbled and smoothed by a river.

Medusa was beautiful, once, and Poseidon took notice of her as she prayed alone one day in the temple. He came to her and pressed his cool, moist hands against her shoulders. Startled, Medusa cried out, but Poseidon silenced her lips with a violent kiss from his own.

In the dark of the temple Poseidon and Medusa moved. Her alabaster skin against the stone floor bled as she struggled. His arms wrapped tight around her fragile body glistened with sweat and salt and sea. In the emptiness of the temple, Medusa's muffled sobs echoed like the hissing of wild animals. She twisted and writhed on the cold temple floor, silken hair tangled into strange ropes mingled with blood and sweat.

Poseidon left her motionless before the altar. In the grey half-light of the temple Medusa's torn skin and flesh looked like raw, beautiful marble. Her hair caught the light from the altar flame in a mysterious way and gave one the impression that her twisted locks had come to life, slithering almost imperceptibly around her head.

The world is a terrible place to raise a child.

Spiderman,

standing at the foot of his front door steps,

no more then 3 feet tall and

undoubtedly smiling underneath his mask,

flexes his foam muscles

for his uncle's camera

and stands with his little chest puffed out

filled with joy

and childish excitement

ready to go into the night

to gather candy

and shoot imaginary webs from his wrists

at Iron Man, Luke Skywalker and Buzz Lightyear.

Spiderman,

innocent and small,

no more than 5 years old,

is gunned down by baddies

and later dies

in a hospital.

Don't be alarmed.

I don't have a fear of heights because I'm afraid of falling
I have a fear of heights because I'm worried that one day
I will no longer be able to resist the urge to jump.

Happy Birthday, John Lennon.

You were such a curious creature.
I regret that I never met you, that I never saw your boyish smile in person or stood in a crowd to hear you sing in that way that I've always admired, like you were unaware that anyone was listening to you.
I've always had the idea that you were too good for this earth- too beautiful and real and pure, made of stardust or something, made of the universe. You were love in its purest form, an unadulterated piece of the beauty of the human spirit. You were otherworldly. That's why you left so soon, because this world wasn't for you. You were needed elsewhere, among the stars where you were made. Had you stayed any longer you would have lost your magic, the glow of the extraterrestrial matter with which you were made would have dimmed and slowly died, leaving you as a shell of a mythical creature,a meteorite in a science museum, a dead light bulb. You would have been old and sad and the world would have turned it's loving eye toward someone else. You would have be vaguely remembered and revered with uncertainty as a relic of some sacred time when music was more real, more true.
I wonder, did you know how magical you were? Did you understand why girls screamed at you everywhere you went? Did you understand how deeply you were loved? I wonder, what did you think of your fame? Did it embarrass you or were you unaware of it, having never noticed anything had changed? Maybe, through your eyes, the world seemed different, more awesome, more inspiring. Maybe you understood something the rest of us never will.
Maybe you're out there singing and laughing among the planets and stars, with your guitar and your glasses, orbiting around the earth, smiling in childish wonder of the view.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

your lines

i can't believe i waited this long

to realize how much i care about you

and i'm sorry that i made you cry

but i'm glad you waited for me

to come around

because now we have each other

and it's really amazing

how lucky i am

to have a girl like you

cause i still think you're beautiful

with no makeup

in flannel pajama pants

with your head in my lap

dozing through re-runs

of myth busters

and through the wormhole

and i don't even mind

that you're drooling on my knee

and i only hope that as you fade

in and out, from waking to dreaming

that i'm the one you're smiling at

in your sleep.

and really, i could never want anything more

than this

except

maybe a cheeseburger

or a burrito.

something..

i lost it

my something

and most days i miss it

because i don't know where it could be

and i don't know what it is that i've lost

i just know

i want it back

because i feel sad and empty without it

vaguely, i remember my something long forgotten

and it clouds up my mind

like a fog

like a whisper of the ghost of a memory

returning.

things you learn about yourself

somedays, when i look in the mirror, i have no idea who's looking back at me.

i look away and then look back really quickly to see if she was staring.

somedays, i can feel myself leaving myself. and i can imagine my soul saying as it floats away

abandon ship! abandon ship!

abandon

still

when you asked me to dance

i couldn't hear your voice

through the deafening music

but i saw you smile at me

and even if you may have been kidding

i did want to dance with you

cheek to cheek

slowly in circles

like we were alone.

when i'm old i'll remember

fragments of that night

the beatles

moon clouds

the top down

the wind

we shouting

an exclamation point

Eric y Estrella

"Teacher, I'm bored."
Estrella has a knack for standing where you can't quite see her, just outside of your peripherals so you have to turn around a few times to figure out where she is. I look around and notice the chaos of lunch recess raging around us.
"You're bored? Why don't you go play four square?"
She shrugs, puts on that indifferent face, lips pursed and eyes looking who knows where.
"Those boys, they hit the ball too hard."
I nod. She nods. we look out across the playground. The sun is high in the sky and the heat from the blacktop is raging up through the soles of my shoes. I feel my head sweating under my giant straw hat.
"So, where's Eric?"
Instantly Estrella's cheeks flush and she starts to fidget.
"Playing baaasketbaaaall."
"Which one is he?"
"In the blue shirt with stripes and blue pants. Kind of over there, I guess."
She stands behind me as if to make sure he doesn't notice that she's watching him, even though we're on the complete opposite side of the playground.
"Why don't you go keep score for him?"
I turn around to see her covering her eyes.
"But I'm nervous!"
"You said he smiles at you a lot, right? And he laughs when you keep score? That means he likes you."
"Naahhhhh. I don't think he does."
She looks down at her shoes. We stand there for a while longer, she gazing at the basketball courts from behind my back.
"Let me tell you a story, Estrella."
She perks up, stands hands behind back and eyes wide, looking up at me.
"I like this boy. I've liked him for a long time, seven years."
"SEVEN YEARS?"
Her eyes are the size of silver dollars.
"Yeah, seven years. Crazy right? That's a long time."
She nods in agreement, hair plastered to her sweaty forehead.
"Well anyways, I liked him for a long time, but I was always nervous to tell him that I liked him. But little did I know, he used to like me back. By the time I got around to telling him that I liked him, he didn't like me anymore. And you know what he said?"
She shook her head, eyes wide as ever.
"He said he used to like me a lot but he thought I didn't like him, so he moved on. He gave up on liking me."
Estrella frowns, leaning back on her heels with eyes pointed someplace deep inside herself.
"That's sad."
"Yeah, I know."
I watch her think for a moment.
"Well, I'm gonna go play now."
I watch her run across the blacktop to the basketball courts. I don't blow my whistle at her or tell he to walk, even though running on the black top is against the rules. I let her go.
I turn to face the handball courts, watch the kids playing, wipe the sweat dripping from my temples. I turn to the basketball courts and see Estrella looking back at me nervously. I give her a thumbs up and she turns and walked towards the boy with a blue striped shirt. I watch her say something to him and then I turn away. Moments later I see her running back, hair bouncing, he funny little steps growing louder and louder.
"What happened?"
She hides her face in her hands. My heart sinks.
"ItoldhimthatIhaveacrushonhim."
Her voice is muffled by her little hands.
"And??"
She stands quietly with her hands over her face. Then she rubs her eyes and sighs deeply.
"He said maybe he kinda likes me too a lot."
A little smile spreads over her face. She taps her toes on the blacktop.
"See? I told you he likes you!!!"
She laughs and bounces around clapping her hands. Then she runs away. I shoo a bee away from my bright orange noon supervisor's vest. The bell rings and I yell at some kids to freeze. I blow my whistle and children blow past me to get to their lines. Among them are Estrella, followed by Eric, both with cheeks flushed red- maybe from the heat, maybe from the excitement of their new found secret. I see him laughing as he chases after her. I see her trying to hide a smile.
I'm glad that you learned to be bold now, Estrella. When you're young it's easier. You're braver because you don't know what it's like to get hurt. Take chances while you can, because one day you'll be old and jaded and scared of another heartbreak like me, and you'll let your nerves get the best of you, and you might let the best one get away.
I watched Eric and Estrella run to their separate lines. I saw him smile at her and wave. She waved back. I walked to the my car, smiling to myself from underneath my big straw hat.
Outside the sun beat down heavily and brought the asphalt to life with the illusion of sparkling, dancing water.

ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?

you only keep me around
as a backup plan.
you say i don't know
to keep me hopeful
and guessing
and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting
andfuckingwaitingonyou.

seriously.
it makes me sick.

some minor adjustments

note to self:

never say "I'm starving", because you sure as hell don't know what that really feels like.

also, don't say you hate things so often, because do you really? do you really hate it? it can't be that bad. get over it.

don't judge people so quickly, don't get mad so easily, be more patient, try to be happier, stop being selfish, and clean your fucking room.

oh, and don't forget how fortunate you are.

you have a job, have money in the bank, you have food, water, clothing, shelter and an education. you have access to modern medicine and technology. you've never had to flee religious persecution. you have no idea what war is like. you're in good health, you have family and friends, you have a car, a cell phone, a laptop, an ipod, way too many shoes and way too much free time. your biggest problem as of right now is what you're going to wear to a party. i mean, come on. seriously.

YOU HAVE NOTHING TO COMPLAIN ABOUT.

just a friendly reminder.

---

i don't want to write another piece about love.

but the truth of the matter is, i can think of nothing but love. i'm uninspired by everything except love. love is the only thing that is of any importance to me right now.

quite honestly, i's frightening to me that it's possible to love someone. it especially scares the shit out of me that it's possible to love someone so much and that it's possible that they won't love you back. and frankly, i am scared to death that i'm never going to get over this. i'm so scared that i'm going to spend the rest of my life thinking of ways to win you over, waiting for you to change your mind.

i don't want to write another piece about you.

but how in the world can i avoid that? you're stuck on replay in my head. i'm caught up in remembering you, overanalyzing the things you say, reveling in dim remembrances of long past feelings. i can't even wash the dishes without thinking about you. i don't know how to operate without you on my mind.

i really didn't want to do this. i didn't want to sit here thinking of how to say the things i feel about you, but these words and thoughts spill out of my mouth and eyes and fingers every chance they get. i'm overflowing with love, with you, with love for you. if i could get to my rooftop, i would shout from it that i adore you. if i didn't get carsick on winding mountain passes, i would go to the highest peak on the highest mountain and yell at the top of my lungs until my words echoed all the way to you, saying forever "i'm in love with you, i'm in love with you, i'm in love with you"

i would whisper it to you as you lay in my arms, if you'd let me.

i love you.

well because here's the thing

see, i don't sleep

in the night time

because, well

i've somehow arrived

at the preposterous

conclusion

that intruders

only intrude

between the hours of midnight

and 5:30am

(probably because

they need to get some rest

and change out of their

intruding clothes

before they head off

to their real jobs

at 9am

like the rest of us

because their coworkers

might be alarmed

if they showed up

in ski masks

or black gloves

covered in something

that strangely

resembles

blood.)

please let me keep this memory. just this one.

"I'm deteriorating."

I wondered why you would say that. I looked at you and noticed how tan you'd gotten. I caught a glimpse of your two rows of straight white teeth through that crooked smile you refuse to show for cameras, let my eyes linger on the roundness of muscles underneath your white v-neck and I looked at your thick black hair. Deteriorating? My ass, you're a fucking perfect specimen.

You'd just recounted a story, insisting that it had been me who was with you when you bought that sun block chapstick at CVS that tasted really bad. You remembered wrong, though. That's what you meant by deteriorating, you said. Your memory had failed you yet again.

I wish I could so easily forget you and misplace you in my memory. I sometimes wish I could erase you altogether. It would be so much easier for me to get over you if I could remember you only as a friend, if I could forget that I ever kissed you, that I ever saw that look in your eyes, that I ever laid with my head in your lap in the late hours of the night watching art shows and infomercials with you stroking my arm.

I sat and stared at you some more, not really listening to what you were saying. I sat, just remembering.

On my drive home I thought about the memories I wouldn't want to let go of. If I could only save one memory of you, which would it be? I thought and thought, driving past places that brought back memory after memory. I wouldn't want to let any of them go, really. It would be sad to forget.

I thought about the time you gave me your white shirt to wear, the one with the little breast pocket and the rust stain. You said it looked good on me, probably because you could see right through it. We held hands and looked up at the night sky. We wondered what it would be like if the world was ruled by giant birds, and how scary pterodactyls must have been. We wondered if deep sea creatures would explode if we brought them to the surface. We kissed.

I remembered watching the moon disappear in the sky from the bleachers at the park. I put my arms around you because you were cold. You felt soft and sleepy. We kissed in the absolute dark of a total lunar eclipse. A man walking alone passed us as we sat. You pulled me close, to protect me. "You never know, he might have been a serial killer." you said. We sat in the baseball dugout. My shoes were covered in red clay when I got home.

I remembered the way you looked at me the first time we kissed, I remembered you dropping me off at piano lessons and wishing me luck. I remembered how every night that you took me home you would wait for me to get inside my house before you drove off. I remembered that time we got pulled over for running a stop sign because the cop was tailgating us, you teaching me how to light a match without tearing it out of the book, you waiting in my driveway with Journey blasting from your car speakers, I remembered all the times you opened doors and pulled out chairs for me.

If I had to keep only one, though, it would be the memory of that morning in May when I woke up on a couch with you on the floor beside me in a house that was neither yours nor mine. We gathered our things and left quietly. I was wearing a purple shirt and blue jeans. You were wearing a white undershirt and black dress pants. I asked if you could give me a ride home. You said "Of course." We held hands all the way back to my house. It was early morning. You stopped in the street in front of my house. I didn't want to get out of the car. I leaned in to hug you and you buried your face in my shoulder. You squeezed me tightly and kissed my shoulder, my neck, my cheek. You breathed deeply. I didn't want you to ever let go. We sat there in front of my house, your engine idling, the warmth of the newly risen sun turning everything a curious shade of red. I never want to forget that memory. Never.

We sat there, embracing.

hormones.

lips

parted, whispering

flesh on flesh

on

flesh

sighing

and moving

tipfingers

bonehips

cat scratch

and eyes on eyes

sighing and sighing

flesh on flesh.

The beginning of the story goes like this.

I think it was your brown and white Ascics that originally attracted me to you. I hate to admit it because it sounds really shallow, but shoes have always been kind of a big deal to me. If your shoes had been ugly, that would have been a deal breaker. Maybe I wouldn't have fallen for you if you were wearing steel toed boots, or skate shoes stuffed with extra socks. The Ascics were kind of my style. I thought they were cute. They weren't conspicuous or obnoxious, they were just intriguing and nice looking. Like you.

I always felt like you were too cool for me. I felt that way about most people in high school. I had braces and I was kind of a tomboy, there was no way I was cool enough to compete with cheerleaders and those paradoxically smart and popular M.U.N kids. Basically, I wasn't really a big deal. You didn't talk to me or look at me in class, and I never expected you to. I was content with admiring your shoes from the back of the row next to yours. When we would watch movies in class I'd sit back in my chair and watch you daydream instead, the light from the TV turning you a lovely shade of blue in the cool darkness of the classroom. I'd imagine myself cooler, more interesting and possibly better looking, sauntering over to the empty desk next to you and having a seat. In my imagination I was terribly suave and would win you over with my smile (braces-less, of course, in my fantasy), and then we would make out in the flickering TV light. Then class would end and that would be that.

I remember the first time we spoke. It must have been almost halfway through the school year before we ever exchanged words. I don't remember how the conversation started, but we talked about movies. I said I liked foreign films. You said you did, too. I told you i liked your shoes. You laughed in that way that I'd later come to know very well, the way you laugh when you feel self conscious about something. Looking back I realize that you may not have thought I was being sincere, and I wish I could go back and say "No, really. I do like your shoes, a lot." Nevertheless, that little meaningless conversation was the start of something much bigger, something that would become so important to me I couldn't possibly have fathomed it at the time. I remember being giddy as I left class that day.

Recently you told me how you liked me a lot in high school. I didn't really believe you when you told me. I wish I had known then what I know now. It may have saved me a lot of heartache to know that you were as into me as I was into you. We might not have ended up in this position we're in now- me broken hearted and you turned off by all the things I did to try and get over you, because I thought you didn't like me. I wish you would have told me sooner. I've liked you since the day we met, since the day we first talked. I like you still. Now I can only hope for you to change your mind. My offer still stands. I would love you, I would be good to you.

You and me, we could really be something.

Trevi

oddly enough,

even though at that time

i was pretty sure

that i loved someone

(who was not you)

when i tossed my coin

into that unnatural

blueish water,

before i pushed the thought

out of my head--

my first wish was

to be with you.

The Bastard Time

She realized one night that time was running out.

The silence was oppressive and the air was hot and stagnant. Through the darkness the endless ticking of the wall clock was the only sound, the only hint of life other than her quiet, careful breathing.

It was summer. Early July. The air was thick and humid, and her tiny breaths stopped and hung in the space above her bed like spiders, dangling with legs moving soundlessly, suspended in mid air. When night fell she could do nothing but breathe. She breathed in rhythm with the sound of the clock. In for five seconds, out for five. Ten seconds gone. Six deep breaths and a whole minute of her life had passed. 60 seconds she would never have to face again, one minute wasted in the dark of a moonless, windless night. With the light on she felt as if she were being watched from just beyond where the light reached, so she stayed in the dark. She thought that if she lay still enough she would make it through the night undetected, unseen and untouched by the black night creeping through the dead space around her. So in the blackness she breathed, exhaling into the velvet dark all around her, breath sticking to the night like flies on fly paper.

She would always fall asleep in the moments just after sunrise, when the light from the waking sun began to tiptoe over her window sill. She would wait for the light to be just bright enough to see that no one was watching her, for the morning to be just far enough along for neighbors to begin starting their cars and for newspaper vans to start their rounds. She would wait just until life began to surface from underneath the cover of heavy darkness and then she would close her eyes. Time had not stopped. Life would indeed go on.

Every night she was vigilant, waiting quietly for the thief to come.

your you're there their.

trying and failing

is still failing.

"at least i tried"

means nothing.

having made an effort

doesn't fix the broken heart

i got as a souvenir.

time heals all wounds.

time wounds all heals.

if anyone tells you

"you can do anything you set your mind to."

you can tell them

"bullshit."

All my favorite songs are about you, asshole.

I DON'T EVER WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND.

I JUST WANT TO BE YOUR

LOVER.

Independence Day

I cried for a long time after you died.

I kept thinking of how much dimmer the world would be

without your 10 billion kilowatt smile.

I didn't even watch the fireworks

in the park that year.

instead, I stayed on the couch with my eyes swollen shut

and tried really hard to time travel,

to tell you one last time how cool i thought you were

and how I always had the biggest crush on you.

But now, a year later, I've decided

that I shouldn't have been so sad

because you picked the best day of the year

to make your journey through the Pearly Gates

because after you finished filling out your forms

and St. Peter stamped and filed them and handed you a halo,

you showed up just in time for the heavenly block party,

had a heavenly hot dog and a beer

and enjoyed your brand new independence

from the things of earth.

And plus, I'm willing to bet that the best seats

for watching fireworks on the Fourth

are in Heaven.

just magnificent.

and to think,

i thought so highly of you.

i had faith that you would pull through- for me-

[and so much more hope]

at least a note

that would have been nice

or an apologetic hand on my shoulder

and a "we can still be friends"

i thought i knew you

but,

as it turns out

you are not nearly as good of a man as i imagined you to be.

this is the truth

i never look in drainage ditches

or sewer tunnels or landscaping

on the side of the freeway

because i'm scared that i might see

a dismembered body

a severed hand or a lonely foot

or a violet white cadaver

with blunt force trauma

and stab wounds

abandoned in the growth

lazily hiding in a shallow grave

adorned with dying plants

and bloodied clothing

i'm afraid that if i look

a face will be there

staring back at me

with terror frozen

in it's rigor mortis eyes.

i'm going to hell and i just don't care.

"in case you were wondering," she said

hands on hips and right eyebrow raised

"i'm not a home-wrecker.

i just have a lot of voids to fill

and anyway, the taken ones

are more fun to fuck with

the element of danger is a huge plus

because life can be so safe"

and she dropped her cigarette

into her half-empty can

of piss cheap beer

and stumbled back inside.

nostalgia

my mother is in the kitchen 

and she is humming some meandering melody

one i don't recognize

but one i remember all the same

and I remember, vaguely

or rather am reminded

of nights in my bunk bed

facing toward the blue wall of my bedroom

with that little flower wallpaper that made my eyes blurry

if i stared at it too long

and my mother (who was sweeter then)

sitting by my side, singing

forgetting words to lullabies

and half forgetting their purpose

and me with tears soaking my pillow

trying to be very quiet

so that she wouldn't know

that it always made me 

sad

when she sang.

springtime

i guess it's probably spring, because in the early evening
when the sun is stretching it's last light from behind 
houses and trees and clouds there are birds singing
cooing, like quietly
sobbing
old 
men.
and a burning urge to run and fling myself about
begins to bubble in my heart and the ache of a locked up joy
beats it's tired head against the prison bars of my rib cage
an ache to love
with
reckless 
abandon.
and sadness like little embers glows softly at the dying of day
and sends little whispers of smoke, the traces of a vague hope
that someone might share the lavender scented evening
and maybe the night
beside
(within)
me.

I am Arturo Bandini

On the beach
And you beside me on the
Cold sandy
Rocks
And the moonlight
Crackling on the waves like
White hot 
Electricity
You and I 
Are so close it feels like an
Impossibly good
Dream
But even though 
You're right there I just can't 
Touch kiss
Love feel
Tell
You.

Charles at the bookstore

At noon, my quiet little empty city bursts into life for one hour. All the business professionals and corporate somethings come crawling out of their cubicles and offices for an hour of sunlight, to devour sushi from a styrofoam box and to order a Venti Mocha Frap to get them through to five o'clock. The Tuesday that I went to the bookstore, I had to park all the way in front of T.G.I.Fridays and I had to walk more than the usual 50 feet to get to where I wanted to be. Because for some reason, I decided to go during lunch hour. Genius. Thanks for nothing, corporate scum! I thought as I walked past parking space after parking space taken by a BMW or an Audi. I wanted to slash all their tires. Tuesday has never been my day. 
Walking through the sliding doors into the bookstore was like walking into heaven. There was not a suit to be seen, no briefcases or Bluetooths, just books upon books upon books. I walked slowly, savoring the silence and the smell of new books. A bookstore is a funny kind of place. It's full of words, but no one talks. The words just stay hidden on pages in little secret black characters and no one dares to say them out loud. But it's nice like that. 
I made my way through the maze of bookcases to the section called LITERATURE AND POETRY and began the hunt for the book I needed. I ran my fingertips along the spines of all the books and I imagined them all calling out to me, pleading "Please pick me! Take me home and love me, I want to tell you my secrets." My dears, I thought back at them as I made my way to an orange book with pretty black script on the cover, I can only take one of you. I felt saddened by the fact that I couldn't bring them all home with me, those sad little books with their secret words and meanings. I picked up the orange book and flipped through it's fragrant pages. I was in love. I tucked it under my arm and made one last trip around the bookshelf, picking up books I've read and smiling at them like old friends. I know your secrets, I thought at them as I held them briefly, but I won't tell them to anyone because I like you. I finally came out of the labyrinth ( just barely making it past Camus without picking up another book) and made the short journey to the checkout counter. I put my nice face on and approached the counter. An old, tall, skinny man met me there. His hair was white and thin and messy. "I can help you right here," he said. I set my book down next to the cash register. How are you? I asked. Standard checkout protocol. "Fine," he said back as he examined my selection. "Fine as frog hair." He looked up from my book with this sad little smile and I wanted to die of sadness. I looked at his name tag. "Charles" had been scrawled onto it in black ballpoint pen. I noticed his white tee-shirt. It was too big for him and there was a little hole in his left sleeve. My eyes started to well up. "That'll be $13.64" he said with the big pitiful smile. I handed him a $20 bill. "You got 36 cents?" he asked. I said no I didn't, sorry. He screwed up his eyes behind his little round glasses and entered the price into the register. Slowly, with a careful pointer finger he tapped out some numbers and opened the register to give me my change. "Do you have a Borders Rewards card?" Again with the sad smile. I wanted to tell him to stop smiling and being so happy because he was old and probably alone and probably going to die soon but I just said no, I don't have a rewards card. "Would you like one? They're free!" his enthusiasm was killing me. He was such a nice old man but I just couldn't deal with it. I wanted to get out of the bookstore as soon as possible so I just said sure I want one, so that he wouldn't have to try and convince me to sign up. That would have done it, and I would have been there crying at the register in a bookstore and I would be so embarrassed that I would never be able to go back there, to that bookstore, my favorite place in my quiet empty little town. He asked for my phone number and email address and I obliged. He poked at the keyboard and kept pressing the wrong buttons. "Dag gummit" he said as he searched for the backspace key. He finally typed my information out right and entered it into the system. He handed me my book in a plastic bag with my new Borders Rewards card inbetween it's pages. Have a nice day, I said. "I will, I will." he said, tapping his fingers on the counter with the big smile on his face. I hightailed it out of there, walked for forever to get to my car, got inside it, locked the doors, and I cried.

the last sunset i ever saw

It was getting along toward summer, and the sun was sinking slow and lazy in the sky. The clouds hung low and jagged in the distance like a stretch of snow covered mountains over the lake. We walked down from the lake house together to sit at the dock. I trailed a couple feet behind her, half because I wanted to watch her walk and half because I was afraid I'd trip over a tree root or slip in a puddle of mud. She trekked fearlessly through the trees. She stabbed at the dark soil as she walked with a big branch she'd picked up. I told her to be careful because she might get splinters in her hands, but she ignored me. We came to the dock and she threw down her walking stick. She walked to the edge of the dock and stood with her arms outstretched and her face toward the sun. I picked up her stick and watched her turn orange under the setting sun. She turned her head and squinted over her shoulder at me. 
"Leave my stick alone." 
I dropped it and I was embarrassed. 
"Are you just gonna stand there all day?" She sat down on the edge of the dock and dangled her feet in the water. I walked cautiously to where she sat. She scooted over to make room for me, but I didn't sit. I stood in her shadow and watched her swing her feet. The lake reflected the sky and her kicking feet sent ripples through the cloud mountains. The hairs on her arms shone golden against her olive almost-summer skin. She had a little mole on her wrist. She stared out into the lake and furrowed her eyebrows at the sun. 
"Why won't you sit next to me?" She kept her eyes focused on the horizon. 
"I don't want to put my feet in the water.", I said. I was embarrassed again. 
She spun around and glared at me. "Why not?" 
I thought for a moment. "Because I'm afraid that something will come out of the water and pull me in. I'm scared of lake monsters."
She laughed and shook her head so that her pretty hair glittered in the sunlight, and I laughed too even though I didn't think anything was funny. The sun had dipped below the trees on the other side of the lake, and the water was turning darker by the minute. It was getting cold. Her pretty feet splashed around in the black water and all I could think of was something blue-purple and pale and dead and bloated floating up to the surface and grabbing hold of her skinny scabbed up ankles and pulling her down into the darkness. I looked down into the water and all I could see was her face, eyes wide and bubbles pouring out of her mouth open and gaping in a soundless scream, and her shiny-new-penny colored hair dancing around her face as it disappeared into the depths of the lake. I squeezed my eyes shut tight and tried to think of something else. The mole on her wrist, the little secret smile in her eyes that she didn't want anyone to see. I shoved my hands into my pockets and stared at the back of her head. 
The sun had altogether disappeared and the sky was turning from barely purple to dark blue. She stood up and surveyed the vast, quiet water. She turned around to look at me and she took off her shirt. I looked down real fast and stared at the ground and shuffled my feet on the rotting wood. I saw her shorts drop around her ankles and I saw her pretty feet step out of them and walk to the edge of the dock. She slipped soundlessly into the black water and swam out a few feet. She turned toward me with her nose and mouth underwater, and I saw only her eyes, big and mirror-like in the dying twilight. She swam out into the waking, breathing night. I turned around and walked back to the lake house alone. The night came alive and swallowed everything whole.

prior to the discovery of the love affair

funny, and how fickle
is this heart of mine
fluttering and forcing
itself to calm down
because i saw your eyes
with my eyes, looking,
noticing me in a blue
dress and looking,
devouring you in a blue
shirt with buttons.

funny, and how subtle
are your x-ray eyes green
like my favorite ring
seeing through my skull
and knowing all my
thoughts about you
and me and my knees
and your knees
and the buttons on your
pants are probably
magnetic.

5 february 2010

of conversations in the cold

on the first day of the new year under a moon just beginning to wane, you and i spoke in that same careful fashion- i (as always) was careful not to let on that i'm in love with you and you (as always) careful not to let on that you know, so as not to embarrass me. we spoke through clenched and chattering teeth and sat just far enough away from each other on the cold bench to keep our knees from touching. you drank my tea because your hot cocoa was too sweet. i drank your words and was drunk from them. we pretended to not know what each other's belly buttons looked like, and i sat and remembered for quite a while all the times i've seen yours. your new year's resolution is to be more assertive, you said. me too, i said, and then i thought about being assertive and kissing you hard on the lips, but i didn't. putting my hand on your shoulder briefly as i laughed was the best i could do. ah, it's so painful to talk to you, sometimes. this sad, stupid game we play with each other breaks my heart more than outright rejection would. in the cold, we talked. we laughed and we wished we could be aliens, and we talked about hitler and the end of the world. in the cold, we sat, our unspoken feelings frozen forever in limbo.

2 january 2010

to be as a child

to be as a child- to marvel at the falling of leaves, and at the most uninteresting of clouds - how sweet it must be.
what must it be like to run in the grass without fear, brandishing finger-guns and stick-spears at imaginary evil? i can't remember anymore.
they are honest, and they do not judge. they run and they laugh, they fall and they get back up. they shout in tongues as they chase after red rubber balls and they cry when they miss their turn, dirty hands making mud with tears wiped from flushed cheeks. they are fearless, they are unashamed.
they are free.
to be as a child- to have figured out the world and to be in awe of it all the same- how sweet it must have been.

2 december 2009

one fast move

like fog, it swallows me up.
you are the only thing in any room you're ever in-- forget the hundred others pushing and swaying and sweating. it's your breath i can feel on the back of my neck, filling all the little spaces between my shirt and my skin, giving me chills. and you, of course, are unaware of how you're making me feel. and i, of course, don't tell you.
the music is like magic singing " my arms miss you, my hands miss you"
ooh if only you knew.
but of course i'd never tell you.
it swallows me, it eats me up.
it swallows me whole.

24 october 2009

super-glue and cartograms

i am lost and broken and long to be among the trees- hanging from their branches, watching through upside-down eyes the sunlight shining down through the leaves onto my outstretched arms. i often think of the trees of my youth, giant and magnificent in whose shade i often sat, the moisture of the cool grass on my bare feet. i miss those trees, those friends so ancient and wise that they knew not to talk. they'd comfort you with rustling foliage, with the sorrowful sound of their creaking bodies. to hear the wind whistle through their leaves, to see them shiver in the chill of early autumn, ahh! that is joy. i sometimes dream of them, surrounding me with their silence, cradling me in their time-honored roots and casting their green light onto my face. i wish never to wake from these dreams, but i always do, and i find myself upon the same concrete paths i take every day. Oh, the monotonous task of living, reality is such absolute drudgery. how i wish i could live to be as old and solid as a tree, rooted in dark soil with ladybugs crawling on my trunk and birds roosting in my branches. there is nothing that i want more than to know how sweet it is to be so steadfast and quiet, and to watch the world lay their sorrows silently at my feet.

21 september 2009

it begins

slowly,
with the exchange of a few words
that might possibly have meant something (a little) more
and questions you don't ask
unless you really wanted to know the answer
for some
odd
reason
oh please oh please oh please
pick me i promise you can deal with all my issues
and my sad little heart
and we don't ever have to talk
only sleep
and wake
and dream.

degrees of separation

it occurred to me today upon writing to someone i haven't spoken to in almost a decade that our lives and the lives of others are and forever will be intertwined, inseparable and interwoven. an encounter is never forgotten. a name, a face, a voice, these will always be remembered. however deeply we stow them away in the annals of our minds, these snippets of life will never leave us. they are our links to the world when we're lost in the depths of loneliness, they are what reminds us to feel when we become disconnected from human kind. they are what draw us to the sad, the weak, the desolate, because even in the faces of strangers we see the souls of the ones we love. 
we are forever connected, we are phone books with pages interlaced, we are million year old compressed carbon, we are super massive black holes in orbit around one another. 
pull me in, draw me nearer. we are, inevitably.

a moment of clarity

i learned in anthropology that the chemical released in your brain during the beginning stages of a relationship is very similar to the chemical found in cocaine. 
so basically, when you first fall in love, you're on crack.
i decided today that people fall in love for the same reason they go skydiving or base jumping or ride roller coasters or do drugs-we crave chaos. we crave the feeling of falling, of spiraling out of control.
falling in love is just that- falling, or wanting to anyhow. we throw ourselves off of cliffs just to feel ourselves fall, to not be in control of ourselves for a moment
and all we can do is hope that someone loves us enough to wait at the bottom to catch us, to not let us hit the ground and be broken.

love is vertigo, love is the insuperable longing to fall.

by no fault of their own

some people just don't understand.
some people don't understand that sometimes it's better not to talk about it, that it's better to just let the memories come on their own, in that quiet, delicate sort of way than to force them upon your broken heart before it's ready. some people don't understand that the relics of childhood and first loves and heartbreaks belong in boxes under beds, not to be touched again for years until the longing for them has faded, until the wounds have scabbed and scarred and healed. some people don't understand that music is the soul in song, and art is the very blood of you, poured out on canvas or paper or cloth- they don't understand that to touch these things if they're not your own is one of the most intimate, volatile things one can do. they don't realize that these things make the artist feel vulnerable, overwhelmed and afraid, as if they're standing naked in front of you against their will. some people don't understand that you don't choose to feel certain things, that you can't pick your emotions like you pick your favorite flavor out of a bag of skittles, and leave all the unfavorable ones behind. some people simply don't understand these things, these concerns of the heart. 

honestly

it starts with something innocent-
telling the barista at starbucks that your name is rachel when in fact it isn't. telling the stranger who asks about your shoes that you got them for your birthday when really you found them at a thrift store. trivial things to trivial people. absolutely harmless.
and then, like all things, it grows.
slowly, like a sapling in your front yard- a little tree with creeping roots, and every time you water it, it grows. 
trivial things, not so trivial people.
and the roots creep. and the tree gets taller, and bigger. 
important things, important people.
and the roots creep further until every time you walk out your front door you're standing in it's shadow, until the roots begin tearing up the sidewalk, and you have to tiptoe over and around them carefully so you don't trip and fall. giant, immovable, waiting for you to forget to watch where you're going. 
everything, everyone.


and you have no idea why you do it.

huh.

today i had this crazy thought.
everything used to be something else. like glass.
glass used to be sand before someone melted it and blew it and so on. sand used to be sea creatures and shells and stuff before the ocean crunched them all up into little bits. and the sea creatures and shells used to be organic star matter or something like that, the same stuff you and i are made of.
we're all recycled universe. we're all pieces of something else. we are not our own.

23 february 2009

much still to learn about you, old friend.

sometimes
i wish i could see you cry. not just a few tears, or anything like that. like REALLY cry, with all the passion and intensity that i like to imagine you have, somewhere inside. i want to know you minus the wise cracks and clever comebacks. maybe it's terrible to want to see you vulnerable, to see you stripped of the many layers you wear to hide your heart, to want to see you broken. but i want to see it, however sadistic it seems.
i wonder
would you hide your face from me? would you weep quietly or with violent shaking, or loud and unbridled with clenching of fists? would you fight me if i held you? or would you bury your face in my hair and let me press you close? how would your eyes look filled with tears? i imagine them as pools of moonlight. how would your eyes look once they'd emptied their rivers? i see them clear and bright, like the sky after heavy rains, after the clouds have passed.
not knowing how you cry, IF you cry, breaks my heart for you all the more on nights as dark as yours tonight. your thinly veiled heartache makes me curious. sad and curious.

i want to remember what it's like to see you feel.
it happened too long ago.

14 february 2009

absolutely overcome

i feel so overwhelmingly loved right now that i might cry, like i should get on my knees say thank you to anyone who will listen to me. i seriously am so blessed. somedays it just hits you. somedays you realize that you have nothing to complain about, that everything in your life is the way it should be, and that the only thing that really matters is that you are LOVED, and that you have the capacity to LOVE OTHERS. never lose sight of that. let it be like a lantern to burn on dark days. today, i took some time to notice and to take pleasure in the simple beauty of life. today i noticed a man and his son walking a little black and white dog across the street on their way to school. i noticed a girl walking alone, smiling with headphones on. i noticed little tiny puppy teeth that love to nibble on unsuspecting toes. i noticed abalone details, the smell of spruce and maple, the bell sound of harmonics, the magic in burgundy crushed velvet. 
i noticed that i was alive.


i noticed that i was alive.