The last.
I wanted something my own. Shaped by my hands, contoured by my thoughts. Something you didn't know about, you three that haunt me. I wanted a concert for one, played by a deaf singer. I wanted a private art showing, painted by a blind painter. I wanted my own obscure recipe for a dish no one had tasted. And I wanted the soft graze of a newborn's hand on my face, tiny fingers brushing the corners of my mouth back, drawing my smile in its innocence.
I didn't invite you to my concert, nor did I invite you to my art showing. I didn't copy my recipe out for you, and worst of all, you turned my smile in to a frown. You found me on my island and sounded a foghorn in the blissful silence. You built a lighthouse on my shores that cut through the mist and called out for attention.
You can't hear the deaf singer weep through his songs over the screaming fans. You can't see the artist snap his brushes in half and burn them through the crowds of people in the gallery you built for him. My special dish is a fast food, fried and served with a large coke for you to wash it down even faster, avoid that distinct taste. And finally, the baby's legs have stopped kicking in delight. The innocent smile has faded and the eyes are lifeless. His tiny hands don't reach to the sky, instead they lay on either side of him, motionless.
When you set everything you love on fire, no amount of tears will put it out.
Something I should have seen since the beginning. You can adjust the privacy settings all you want, delete your history, whatever, but when you make emotion and thought concrete, you'll always run the risk of losing your privacy. Whether it's written in a journal or a blog, there is a chance someone will find it you didn't want to. The three of you stumbled on this by a fault of my own and as is proven over and over, our differences will always haunt me. Maybe this is what you wanted but don't ever think you've beaten me. This is through no influence of yours.
Blog is a gross word anyway.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
It's the world out there that's fucked you, it's not your fault, right?
You wake up in the morning to your blazing alarm with a jump and your room fills your every sense. Faint outlines of your dresser, your window, and your shelves are all you can see. You rub your eyes as they adjust to the pre-sunrise light. You turn off your alarm and the room is quiet except for the creaks of your bed as you sit up. Your nose fills with the scent of your body’s odour after a restless sleep. Your shoulder sears in pain from sleeping on it. But rather than closing the blinds and getting back under the covers, back to the warmth, the security, you rise up to face the day. And when you’re in the shower, you could sit and let the hot water fall on you until you shrivel to nothingness, but instead, you face the bone-deep chill after opening the shower curtain and let the sweet scent of shampoos and soaps slip away from you.
You leave your house. You pick your axe off the ground beside your doormat and sling it over your shoulder. The early morning sun glares off the snow, tries to blind you. A plain of snow, dotted with pine trees, leading to a looming mountain range lies ahead of you. The crisp, sub-zero, morning air stings the inside of your nose. You can feel it as it fills your lungs. With your bearded chin held high, the scent invigorates you. You walk towards the mountains, passing through the pine trees. Needles litter the ground around them, the waxy points overwhelming the smell of the morning. The blood of these trees is hardened on your cold, steel axe slung over your back. You walk until the sun is high in the sky, getting closer and closer to the mountain. Sweat drips down your brow and you wipe it away with a plaid-clad sleeve. Plant life begins to thaw; the scent of a new day’s life is released in to the air. You stop in the middle of the plain next to a tree twice your height. You take your axe off your shoulder and let the toe of the blade rest in the ground. With a grunt you heave your axe up and swing at the tree. With the first thud, there is only you, the axe, and the tree. You become one with the axe as you swing it over and over; each swing sending chips of wood and spatters of sap flying. Your face is coated with the tree’s blood and your own sweat. The melting snow coats the blade of your axe, releasing a faint scent of cold steel. With a final roar and massive cut, the tree’s trunk cracks. You step back and let it fall in a rush of freezing air and pine needles. Your face remains emotionless through your heaving breaths.
Finally, you chop a piece of lumber off the bottom of the fallen tree. A cold wind blows in as the sun starts to sink behind the mountain again. You sling your axe back over your shoulder and, with the lumber in hand, head for home. Back through the plain you walk and the evening air freezes the snow and sweat in your beard. The scent of ice fills you again. The air dries; it’s too cold for snow. You reach your doorstep and set your axe down again, running a boot along the blade in an attempt to knock off some of the frozen sap. There’s a note pinned to the door that says,
“I took the kids and the car. We’re going to my mother’s. We’re not coming home. – A.C.”
You take the note off the door with your empty hand and go inside. The house is cold; the furniture smells as if it’s not yours any more, as if you’d entered someone else’s home. You light the fireplace and set your wood down in front of it. The smoke from the tinder wafts through the house. You take a cigar from your humidor and light it carefully in the fire. You sit in the armchair you thought was your own and let the burning wood and cigar fill your nose. Your face is still expressionless. Your mind wanders back to the spot you chopped the tree down today. You’ll have to go back tomorrow for more wood for this fire.
You leave your house. You pick your axe off the ground beside your doormat and sling it over your shoulder. The early morning sun glares off the snow, tries to blind you. A plain of snow, dotted with pine trees, leading to a looming mountain range lies ahead of you. The crisp, sub-zero, morning air stings the inside of your nose. You can feel it as it fills your lungs. With your bearded chin held high, the scent invigorates you. You walk towards the mountains, passing through the pine trees. Needles litter the ground around them, the waxy points overwhelming the smell of the morning. The blood of these trees is hardened on your cold, steel axe slung over your back. You walk until the sun is high in the sky, getting closer and closer to the mountain. Sweat drips down your brow and you wipe it away with a plaid-clad sleeve. Plant life begins to thaw; the scent of a new day’s life is released in to the air. You stop in the middle of the plain next to a tree twice your height. You take your axe off your shoulder and let the toe of the blade rest in the ground. With a grunt you heave your axe up and swing at the tree. With the first thud, there is only you, the axe, and the tree. You become one with the axe as you swing it over and over; each swing sending chips of wood and spatters of sap flying. Your face is coated with the tree’s blood and your own sweat. The melting snow coats the blade of your axe, releasing a faint scent of cold steel. With a final roar and massive cut, the tree’s trunk cracks. You step back and let it fall in a rush of freezing air and pine needles. Your face remains emotionless through your heaving breaths.
Finally, you chop a piece of lumber off the bottom of the fallen tree. A cold wind blows in as the sun starts to sink behind the mountain again. You sling your axe back over your shoulder and, with the lumber in hand, head for home. Back through the plain you walk and the evening air freezes the snow and sweat in your beard. The scent of ice fills you again. The air dries; it’s too cold for snow. You reach your doorstep and set your axe down again, running a boot along the blade in an attempt to knock off some of the frozen sap. There’s a note pinned to the door that says,
“I took the kids and the car. We’re going to my mother’s. We’re not coming home. – A.C.”
You take the note off the door with your empty hand and go inside. The house is cold; the furniture smells as if it’s not yours any more, as if you’d entered someone else’s home. You light the fireplace and set your wood down in front of it. The smoke from the tinder wafts through the house. You take a cigar from your humidor and light it carefully in the fire. You sit in the armchair you thought was your own and let the burning wood and cigar fill your nose. Your face is still expressionless. Your mind wanders back to the spot you chopped the tree down today. You’ll have to go back tomorrow for more wood for this fire.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Yelp
The whip lashed across his back, ripped the wolf's flesh through his fur.
He didn't know why. He had done nothing.
Yelp again. Blood trickles down the wolf's flanks.
Whimper, the wolf lays on his belly and buries his face in his claws, he doesn't dare bite the hand that hurts him.
He stands and limps away in pain. He doesn't look back.
The whip lashed across his back, ripped the wolf's flesh through his fur.
He didn't know why. He had done nothing.
Yelp again. Blood trickles down the wolf's flanks.
Whimper, the wolf lays on his belly and buries his face in his claws, he doesn't dare bite the hand that hurts him.
He stands and limps away in pain. He doesn't look back.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Les Masques
The man sat alone on the boardwalk on top of an aged briefcase. To his left was an ice cream shop, to his right, a public bathroom, well maintained by the city. An old, tattered fedora rested on the ground in front of him. Coins and bills littered the inside of the hat. The man’s plaid shirt was unbuttoned, the setting sun beating on his bare chest. People walked past him without looking, others paused and threw change in to his hat. Couples walking, friends roller-skating, people accompanied by their dogs, each person was potential income. The man scratched at the stubble on his chin.
“Help for a lost soul? Change for an unlucky one?” He called his normal pleas.
Some heads turned, casting scrutinizing glances at the man on the ground. Others fell to his appeals and put money in his hat. Most walked on, indifference or averted gazes from those not willing to help the man. His face remained unchanged, expecting, relaxed.
“Thank you sir. Thank you ma’am. Thanks buddy,” he changed his thanks, always with a bow, to the people dropping money in his hat.
The man took money out of his hat, stuffed bills down the front of his pants and coins in his pockets, filling his shoes with whatever he could. The day’s collection in his hat looked sparse once again.
“Help for a lost soul? Change for an unlucky one?” He continued his calls.
As the sun fell further behind the water, the crowds began to thin out. Shops closed their doors and lights flickered to life over the boardwalk. The sticky, stagnant air cooled as a breeze blew in from the ocean. Darkness fell and the flow of people trickled to a single person or couple every few minutes.
The man took the bills out of his pants and stuffed them back in to his hat. He stood and picked up his hat and briefcase. He walked in to the bathroom and inspected each stall before stepping out again and looking either way at the deserted boardwalk. He walked back in and set his things down in one of the stalls. He opened his briefcase and stuffed his full fedora beside several others, the same style, all similarly full. He emptied his pockets in to the hats, took off his tattered shoes and shook their contents in as well. Beside the hats was a pressed suit, complete with jacket and sterling silver cufflinks, covering a pair of shined, black, dress shoes. The man took off his plaid shirt, torn jeans, and yellowed socks, setting them in the briefcase beside the hats. He stepped out of the stall, suit in hand and stood in front of a sink. He dressed himself quickly and smiled at himself in the mirror as he tightened his tie. He took a small bottle of hair product from the inside of his jacket and tousled some of the product in to his hair, sweeping his bangs out of his face. With some paper towel and water he washed the dirt from his face.
He took to the boardwalk again, walking a short distance before turning inland, towards a parking lot. There were three cars in the parking lot. He made his way to a shiny, black, new, sports car. He patted his jacket for his keys and unlocked his doors. The man stepped inside his car and smiled a wolfish smile at himself in the mirror.
The man drove to a house and parked his car. It was a large house, two levels, plenty of clear windows, and a fence around the perimeter. He stepped in the front door.
“I’m home honey,” he called inside.
A woman came down the stairs to him. She walked in to his open arms and greeted him with a kiss.
“Hi sweetie,” she smiled up at him.
There was thudding on the floors upstairs as three children ran to him.
“Papa!” They cried.
“Bonjour mes amours!” He hugged them all at once.
“Long day at the office?” The woman asked him.
“It was indeed, but I made it,” he said as he put down his briefcase. Coins rattled inside, muffled slightly.
“I wish you would get rid of that thing,” she frowned at it.
“We couldn’t live without it,” he answered.
“Help for a lost soul? Change for an unlucky one?” He called his normal pleas.
Some heads turned, casting scrutinizing glances at the man on the ground. Others fell to his appeals and put money in his hat. Most walked on, indifference or averted gazes from those not willing to help the man. His face remained unchanged, expecting, relaxed.
“Thank you sir. Thank you ma’am. Thanks buddy,” he changed his thanks, always with a bow, to the people dropping money in his hat.
The man took money out of his hat, stuffed bills down the front of his pants and coins in his pockets, filling his shoes with whatever he could. The day’s collection in his hat looked sparse once again.
“Help for a lost soul? Change for an unlucky one?” He continued his calls.
As the sun fell further behind the water, the crowds began to thin out. Shops closed their doors and lights flickered to life over the boardwalk. The sticky, stagnant air cooled as a breeze blew in from the ocean. Darkness fell and the flow of people trickled to a single person or couple every few minutes.
The man took the bills out of his pants and stuffed them back in to his hat. He stood and picked up his hat and briefcase. He walked in to the bathroom and inspected each stall before stepping out again and looking either way at the deserted boardwalk. He walked back in and set his things down in one of the stalls. He opened his briefcase and stuffed his full fedora beside several others, the same style, all similarly full. He emptied his pockets in to the hats, took off his tattered shoes and shook their contents in as well. Beside the hats was a pressed suit, complete with jacket and sterling silver cufflinks, covering a pair of shined, black, dress shoes. The man took off his plaid shirt, torn jeans, and yellowed socks, setting them in the briefcase beside the hats. He stepped out of the stall, suit in hand and stood in front of a sink. He dressed himself quickly and smiled at himself in the mirror as he tightened his tie. He took a small bottle of hair product from the inside of his jacket and tousled some of the product in to his hair, sweeping his bangs out of his face. With some paper towel and water he washed the dirt from his face.
He took to the boardwalk again, walking a short distance before turning inland, towards a parking lot. There were three cars in the parking lot. He made his way to a shiny, black, new, sports car. He patted his jacket for his keys and unlocked his doors. The man stepped inside his car and smiled a wolfish smile at himself in the mirror.
The man drove to a house and parked his car. It was a large house, two levels, plenty of clear windows, and a fence around the perimeter. He stepped in the front door.
“I’m home honey,” he called inside.
A woman came down the stairs to him. She walked in to his open arms and greeted him with a kiss.
“Hi sweetie,” she smiled up at him.
There was thudding on the floors upstairs as three children ran to him.
“Papa!” They cried.
“Bonjour mes amours!” He hugged them all at once.
“Long day at the office?” The woman asked him.
“It was indeed, but I made it,” he said as he put down his briefcase. Coins rattled inside, muffled slightly.
“I wish you would get rid of that thing,” she frowned at it.
“We couldn’t live without it,” he answered.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Nice to meet you, Atwood
Variations on the Word Sleep
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
No, I'm not okay.
Stab, twist, pull, stab.
Your words, your actions, your thoughts, or lack thereof.
You'll never know, you can't see.
I say ambiguous things about being hurt so I can live on without telling you.
But I can only survive so long.
Even a rock like me can erode in a storm this fierce.
Your words, your actions, your thoughts, or lack thereof.
You'll never know, you can't see.
I say ambiguous things about being hurt so I can live on without telling you.
But I can only survive so long.
Even a rock like me can erode in a storm this fierce.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
The Cliff Is My Tomorrow
Bold, stoic, weathered, aged, stone.
The cliff.
Stand on the edge, contemplate the end or absorb the world from a vantage point unlike any other. Watch life around you, or live your own instant. Beautiful display of the immense strength of nature.
From the top, you can end everything.
From the top, you can be everything.
Live or die.
I stood on the cliff, I made my choice.
It's a new year, time to make yours.
Monday, December 28, 2009
symbolize your face
Last night, I dreamed I was fighting ninja cats on a rainbow of sparkling cheeseburgers, then playing mandolin for Weezer.
You want some symbolism?
Symbolize your face
You want some symbolism?
Symbolize your face
holmes
A leaf fell from a tree. It spun in lazy circles, drifting from side to side until it fell to rest on the road. Soon after landing, it was run over by a car and thrust in to the air again, falling for another car to hit it and fling it back up.
"That leaf is so much like my life. I fell from my high, happy place in such a swirling, confusing fashion. I zig-zagged on my way down, different directions I took. And when I thought I was at my lowest I was thrown back in to the air to take the fall again."
No, that leaf is not like your life.
Stop looking for angsty symbolism in meaningless things. Call me ignorant, say it's not my place, but if you're going to draw nothing but sadness from nature, close your eyes further than they already are. Nature, our environment, our surroundings, I don't think we're meant to take symbolism so heavy from it. Why can't we just appreciate the beauty of the leaf falling? It's autumn colours, it's gentle path, the natural artistry of the breezes that carry it. Or the brilliance of the human ingenuity that designed cars, came up with the idea of combining so many of nature's elements to provide us such a useful service.
Beauty ought to bring us happiness, not cast us in to sadness. A falling leaf is an obscure example, but daily people draw miserable meanings from beautiful things. The grey sky, a rainy day, a cold breeze - they're not sad! (Unless of course the weather has a chemical effect on your brain.) We have to appreciate the beauty, not use it as an excuse to wallow in misery.
Don't tell me that happiness is the same as wallowing sadness. Don't argue to me the natural emotional state of humans. I don't give a fuck. Happiness is better and you know it. Even if you don't believe in the scientific facts about chemicals in the brain, you've no doubt felt happiness in contrast with sadness. You're so in love with your sadness that you're trying to justify being sad over happy.
Happiness is harder in the beginning but OH MY GOD IT'S WORTH IT IN THE END SO JUST STOP BEING MISERABLE. kthx
oh holmes.
Like Mike Holmes or Sherlock Holmes.
Build it right, do it right.
Quit looking for symbolism.
"That leaf is so much like my life. I fell from my high, happy place in such a swirling, confusing fashion. I zig-zagged on my way down, different directions I took. And when I thought I was at my lowest I was thrown back in to the air to take the fall again."
No, that leaf is not like your life.
Stop looking for angsty symbolism in meaningless things. Call me ignorant, say it's not my place, but if you're going to draw nothing but sadness from nature, close your eyes further than they already are. Nature, our environment, our surroundings, I don't think we're meant to take symbolism so heavy from it. Why can't we just appreciate the beauty of the leaf falling? It's autumn colours, it's gentle path, the natural artistry of the breezes that carry it. Or the brilliance of the human ingenuity that designed cars, came up with the idea of combining so many of nature's elements to provide us such a useful service.
Beauty ought to bring us happiness, not cast us in to sadness. A falling leaf is an obscure example, but daily people draw miserable meanings from beautiful things. The grey sky, a rainy day, a cold breeze - they're not sad! (Unless of course the weather has a chemical effect on your brain.) We have to appreciate the beauty, not use it as an excuse to wallow in misery.
Don't tell me that happiness is the same as wallowing sadness. Don't argue to me the natural emotional state of humans. I don't give a fuck. Happiness is better and you know it. Even if you don't believe in the scientific facts about chemicals in the brain, you've no doubt felt happiness in contrast with sadness. You're so in love with your sadness that you're trying to justify being sad over happy.
Happiness is harder in the beginning but OH MY GOD IT'S WORTH IT IN THE END SO JUST STOP BEING MISERABLE. kthx
oh holmes.
Like Mike Holmes or Sherlock Holmes.
Build it right, do it right.
Quit looking for symbolism.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Stay Positive - The Streets
Choice lines for a night like tonight.
Cos this world swallows souls
And when the blues unfold
It gets cold -- solids -- burns holes
You're going mad
Perhaps you always were
But when things was good you just didn't care
This is called irony
When you most need to get up you got no energy
Time and time shit'll happen
The dark shit's unwrapping
But no-one's listening your mates are laughing
Your brethren's fucking and then you start hating
Your stomach starts churning and you mind starts turning.
I hope you understand me
Just try and stay positive
I aint no preaching fucker and I aint no do-goody-goody either
This is about when shit goes pear-shaped
And if you aren't or ever have been at rock bottom then good luck to you in the big wide world
But remember that one day shit might just start crumbling
Your bird might fuck off or you might loose your job
It's when that happens that what I'm talking about will feel much more important to you
So if you aint feeling it, just be thankful that things are cool in your world
Cos this world swallows souls
And when the blues unfold
It gets cold -- solids -- burns holes
You're going mad
Perhaps you always were
But when things was good you just didn't care
This is called irony
When you most need to get up you got no energy
Time and time shit'll happen
The dark shit's unwrapping
But no-one's listening your mates are laughing
Your brethren's fucking and then you start hating
Your stomach starts churning and you mind starts turning.
I hope you understand me
Just try and stay positive
I aint no preaching fucker and I aint no do-goody-goody either
This is about when shit goes pear-shaped
And if you aren't or ever have been at rock bottom then good luck to you in the big wide world
But remember that one day shit might just start crumbling
Your bird might fuck off or you might loose your job
It's when that happens that what I'm talking about will feel much more important to you
So if you aint feeling it, just be thankful that things are cool in your world
Monday, November 23, 2009
The Lake
I went to the beach at sunset.
The air was cold, my breath fogged in front of my face. My shorts and t-shirt weren't enough for an afternoon like that.
But it didn't matter.
When I dropped to my knees in the sand, almost nothing mattered. The rock lodged in my knee didn't matter. My hands in the freezing water didn't matter. The people, the stares, the whispers behind me... none of it mattered.
The sunset, a blazing fire in the distance, became one with the water. And with an inhale of the cold air, there was clarity.
I cried for every anguish of my life and smiled for every happiness. I cried and smiled for hours until the sun sank. Below the water, the fire sank and then there was only the still water, broken only by a light cold wind. The tears dried, the smile fell. All was calm again.
The air was cold, my breath fogged in front of my face. My shorts and t-shirt weren't enough for an afternoon like that.
But it didn't matter.
When I dropped to my knees in the sand, almost nothing mattered. The rock lodged in my knee didn't matter. My hands in the freezing water didn't matter. The people, the stares, the whispers behind me... none of it mattered.
The sunset, a blazing fire in the distance, became one with the water. And with an inhale of the cold air, there was clarity.
I cried for every anguish of my life and smiled for every happiness. I cried and smiled for hours until the sun sank. Below the water, the fire sank and then there was only the still water, broken only by a light cold wind. The tears dried, the smile fell. All was calm again.
Tying Another Knot
Consider life as a rope.
As we progress through, we uncoil a rope behind us. The rope follows us as far as we walk forward.
When we look back at our lives' ropes, we see knots tied tight at various points. These knots are problems, confrontations, any situations that made our lives more tangled.
Each interaction and relationship we have during the course of any given day is representative of the other person/people stepping over our rope, twining their lives with our own.
FUCKGODDAMMIT STOP TRYING TO RUIN MY FUCKING ILLUSIONS FOR FUCK'S SAKE I HATE YOU FOR THIS
Do I have mental tourettes(sp?) if that often pops in to my head but I don't say it out loud?
Anyway, (anyways isn't a word, it's slang)
We can backtrack on our ropes. Run our hands along the intricate weave of millions of fibres, experiences, in the rope. The rope rests on the ground. Logically, as do the knots. As we move back on our rope we can pick up the knots, palm them, feel the coarse fibre tied so brutally and tight. But when we pick the knots up, the rope rises. And when the rope rises, the people we interact with every day trip over it.
GET OUT OF MY HEAD
Therein the problem lies. How can we backtrack and untie our knots without tripping the people around us? How do we stop their ropes and ask for help? I don't knoooooooowww. I've devoted my life to untying a few people's knots though. And in turn I've made new knots for myself, tied existing knots tighter, but also felt knots loosen. Maybe we needn't backtrack. Maybe our actions in the present can untie our knots in the past? Live our lives in the now. Let ourselves feel the pleasure of the moment. Tarnish not our present and future with the past.
Not where I expected that to go but revelations like that are neat sometimes.
As we progress through, we uncoil a rope behind us. The rope follows us as far as we walk forward.
When we look back at our lives' ropes, we see knots tied tight at various points. These knots are problems, confrontations, any situations that made our lives more tangled.
Each interaction and relationship we have during the course of any given day is representative of the other person/people stepping over our rope, twining their lives with our own.
FUCKGODDAMMIT STOP TRYING TO RUIN MY FUCKING ILLUSIONS FOR FUCK'S SAKE I HATE YOU FOR THIS
Do I have mental tourettes(sp?) if that often pops in to my head but I don't say it out loud?
Anyway, (anyways isn't a word, it's slang)
We can backtrack on our ropes. Run our hands along the intricate weave of millions of fibres, experiences, in the rope. The rope rests on the ground. Logically, as do the knots. As we move back on our rope we can pick up the knots, palm them, feel the coarse fibre tied so brutally and tight. But when we pick the knots up, the rope rises. And when the rope rises, the people we interact with every day trip over it.
GET OUT OF MY HEAD
Therein the problem lies. How can we backtrack and untie our knots without tripping the people around us? How do we stop their ropes and ask for help? I don't knoooooooowww. I've devoted my life to untying a few people's knots though. And in turn I've made new knots for myself, tied existing knots tighter, but also felt knots loosen. Maybe we needn't backtrack. Maybe our actions in the present can untie our knots in the past? Live our lives in the now. Let ourselves feel the pleasure of the moment. Tarnish not our present and future with the past.
Not where I expected that to go but revelations like that are neat sometimes.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
For Melancholy
They lived on in my head for so long
I could smell your breath
Feel your hand in mine
Your arm around my waist
Your lips pressed to my neck
You lived as a leper in my body
Pieces of you tearing me apart
Making me a broken man
As you yourself were shattered
Now there's no more physicality left
No hurt emotions, longing memories
Just these few fragmented sentences
And as each word spells out, a piece of you leaves me
You're gone from my life now
As I wish you would have been forever ago
This final regret
Spelled out in this final sentence
You're gone from my life, forever.
The man stepped out of the shower. Naked body dripping water to the white bathroom mat below. The morning concealed his red eyes and the water hid his tears. He grabbed his grey towel from the rack and dried himself off, sighing in to the towel as he whiped the water from his face. He stepped in front of the mirror. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he smirked in satisfaction at his reflection. A body perfect in its imperfections. A body he had strove so hard to create. He ran a hand over his chin, turning his head slightly. He could hear water in his ear. The man titled his head to the side and smacked his ear, jumping at the same time to shake the water out. At last it dropped out, dripping to the floor. With that drop went the pain of the man's past. All the people who wronged him, the mistakes, the agony. When he looked back in the mirror, he could see his love standing behind him. Wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her chin on his shoulder. They smiled at each other in the mirror. He was finally free.
Memories are a strange thing. We'll never rid ourselves of memories on purpose but I don't believe we ought to. There are different types of memories, namely those that are active and those that have passed. Active memories are the ones that have a regular effect, not through our personality, but still on our day to day lives. The memories that can give us our highest highs and our lowest lows. Memories of days spent walking through an autumn forest with a lover or family member; or memories of nights alone after breakups or fights. But memories needn't be active forever. They'll always be present as the things that made us who we are but we don't have to constantly be hurt by them. Memories can fade in to inactivity. We can still think back to them, know the emotions that are associated with them; however, we needn't feel the emotions anymore.
I've found my catalyst for catharsis. My eyes are wide open now. My head so much lighter. I see now that nights don't have to be a time for wallowing in melancholy. Instead, I've made them a time to enjoy my clarity of mind and newfound emotions. My life will be complete when one day, I can prove to be the cause of someone else's release. And I know someone who deserves every good thing that she receives. Melancholy.
You are more beautiful than the first snowfall of the year.
Your smile more welcome than the sun in my mornings.
And your eyes like the brightest constellations in the night sky.
I could smell your breath
Feel your hand in mine
Your arm around my waist
Your lips pressed to my neck
You lived as a leper in my body
Pieces of you tearing me apart
Making me a broken man
As you yourself were shattered
Now there's no more physicality left
No hurt emotions, longing memories
Just these few fragmented sentences
And as each word spells out, a piece of you leaves me
You're gone from my life now
As I wish you would have been forever ago
This final regret
Spelled out in this final sentence
You're gone from my life, forever.
The man stepped out of the shower. Naked body dripping water to the white bathroom mat below. The morning concealed his red eyes and the water hid his tears. He grabbed his grey towel from the rack and dried himself off, sighing in to the towel as he whiped the water from his face. He stepped in front of the mirror. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he smirked in satisfaction at his reflection. A body perfect in its imperfections. A body he had strove so hard to create. He ran a hand over his chin, turning his head slightly. He could hear water in his ear. The man titled his head to the side and smacked his ear, jumping at the same time to shake the water out. At last it dropped out, dripping to the floor. With that drop went the pain of the man's past. All the people who wronged him, the mistakes, the agony. When he looked back in the mirror, he could see his love standing behind him. Wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her chin on his shoulder. They smiled at each other in the mirror. He was finally free.
Memories are a strange thing. We'll never rid ourselves of memories on purpose but I don't believe we ought to. There are different types of memories, namely those that are active and those that have passed. Active memories are the ones that have a regular effect, not through our personality, but still on our day to day lives. The memories that can give us our highest highs and our lowest lows. Memories of days spent walking through an autumn forest with a lover or family member; or memories of nights alone after breakups or fights. But memories needn't be active forever. They'll always be present as the things that made us who we are but we don't have to constantly be hurt by them. Memories can fade in to inactivity. We can still think back to them, know the emotions that are associated with them; however, we needn't feel the emotions anymore.
I've found my catalyst for catharsis. My eyes are wide open now. My head so much lighter. I see now that nights don't have to be a time for wallowing in melancholy. Instead, I've made them a time to enjoy my clarity of mind and newfound emotions. My life will be complete when one day, I can prove to be the cause of someone else's release. And I know someone who deserves every good thing that she receives. Melancholy.
You are more beautiful than the first snowfall of the year.
Your smile more welcome than the sun in my mornings.
And your eyes like the brightest constellations in the night sky.
Strength for the Father
There are two laddders facing eachother. One ladder stands against a wall, straight as can be, standing strong, easy for anyone to climb and reach a higher place. The other ladder stands erect with no support, the slightest breeze can tip the ladder, make it crash to the ground. One day, the ladder against the wall starts to fall away from the wall, its rungs overused, supports withering, but at the same time, a wind blows the unsupported ladder over. The freestanding ladder catches the formerly stable one and pushes it back up against the wall, forcing it to stand straight. The untouched ladder now leans against the former pillar of strength, forcing it to remain against the wall, forcing it to feign its former strength. People continue to use the ladder, they step on its rust, use its crumbling foundation to further themselves. And all the while, one ladder supports the other. Over time, the rungs break. One by one, being crushed underfoot. The two side foundations crash in to eachother as the last rung breaks, snapping the ladder in half. It crumbles to the ground in a heap of rust and dust as the still new ladder clatters against the wall where it used to be.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Dad
Life has been hard on you hasn't it? It can't have been easy growing up in a home where your parents loved eachother and you. It must have been tough, receiving their support in everything you did; emotionally and financially.
NAT
With such a cushioned life, it's no surprise you cried every night after the divorce. Then two out of your three kids left you when you remarried, they abandoned you, left you alone with a new wife, a new town. They didn't love you anymore. They still don't. How does it feel to know you hurt the kids that lived with you for 14 fucking years so bad that they can't even love you anymore? We all idolized you.
I couldn't leave you though, I had to stay. When you remarried you changed. Discipline became abuse, happiness became anguish. And worst, you put her above all of us.
But I couldn't leave you. No, I thought you might change. Maybe it was just the novelty making you act that way. There was no way you could reasonably do these things to us.
So, when you were on the ground, screaming for help, there I was. I knelt
down and offered you my hand. But instead of picking yourself back up, you pulled yourself on to my shoulders. Every day I carried both our weights. I carried you and what did you do? You beat me, you whipped me, and while my back remained strong, my heart was shattered. Never again will I carry you.
"Did you ever think of me?
You're so considerate."
NAT
With such a cushioned life, it's no surprise you cried every night after the divorce. Then two out of your three kids left you when you remarried, they abandoned you, left you alone with a new wife, a new town. They didn't love you anymore. They still don't. How does it feel to know you hurt the kids that lived with you for 14 fucking years so bad that they can't even love you anymore? We all idolized you.
I couldn't leave you though, I had to stay. When you remarried you changed. Discipline became abuse, happiness became anguish. And worst, you put her above all of us.
But I couldn't leave you. No, I thought you might change. Maybe it was just the novelty making you act that way. There was no way you could reasonably do these things to us.
So, when you were on the ground, screaming for help, there I was. I knelt
down and offered you my hand. But instead of picking yourself back up, you pulled yourself on to my shoulders. Every day I carried both our weights. I carried you and what did you do? You beat me, you whipped me, and while my back remained strong, my heart was shattered. Never again will I carry you.
"Did you ever think of me?
You're so considerate."
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
In Your Honor - Foo Fighters
Can you hear me
Hear me screamin'
Breaking in the muted skies
This thunder heart
Like bombs beating
Echoing a thousand miles
Mine is yours and yours is mine
There is no divide
In your honor
I would die tonight
Mine is yours and yours is mine
I will sacrifice
In your honor
I would die tonight
For you to feel alive
Can you feel me
Feel me breathing
One last breathe before I close my eyes
This suffering
For receiving
Deliver me into the other side
For you to feel alive
Hear me screamin'
Breaking in the muted skies
This thunder heart
Like bombs beating
Echoing a thousand miles
Mine is yours and yours is mine
There is no divide
In your honor
I would die tonight
Mine is yours and yours is mine
I will sacrifice
In your honor
I would die tonight
For you to feel alive
Can you feel me
Feel me breathing
One last breathe before I close my eyes
This suffering
For receiving
Deliver me into the other side
For you to feel alive
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The Trees and the Passion
"I love you."
"No you don't."
"Yes I do."
"How do you know?"
The breeze blew lazily, gently shuffling the leaves in the trees across the park. The gold, orange, and red leaves danced gracefully as the sun, high in the sky, glittered through the trees. The man and woman were the only people in the park. They sat at opposite sides of a wooden bench in front of a field of tall, dying grass, bordered by a forest of full autumn foliage. The man looked down, brow furrowed as the woman looked at him, patience, questioning. The man spoke as a breeze blew in.
“I don’t know.” His words were lost in the wind.
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
The man looked ahead at the tree line.
“There are so many things in life I’m not certain of. So many things to question; I don’t even know who I am.”
“Then how can you be so certain you love me?”
“Because knowledge and feeling are separate entities.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Knowledge is a product of the mind alone. When we feel we know something, it is in our brains, our minds. We can describe it and put words to it easily. A feeling is an experience involving the entirety of our body. Take happiness for example. We know what it is we’re feeling; the lightness of body, contentment of mind, but we can never articulate the true nature of the feeling because it transcends words in its subjectivity.”
“How can you know that you have a feeling and describe what it is if it’s so indescribable?”
“We’re dealing with uncertainties still. When we get to this point, we have to take a risk and attempt to define these things as best as possible for ourselves. In order to have a reason to live, we have to fill our uncertainties with our own ideas, our beliefs.”
The man paused. He looked to his left as the woman shuffled closer. He studied the woman’s face; intent, questioning, thoughtful...beautiful. The wind shifted her hair slightly, blowing a few strands in front of her eyes, freeing him from their hold. He reached to her and took one of her hands in his nervously.
“We can live our lives in total scepticism,” the man continued with a sigh, “questioning things we’ll never have the answers to. Or we can make our own reality, answer our own unanswerables, create for ourselves a reason to live. I’ve taken the risk in my definition of love. How do I know what love is? I don’t know for certain. To me, this is what I feel love must be. Whatever I feel right now has to be the truest representation of the feeling, no matter how subjective it is.”
“I love you.”
The man exhaled and looked to the sky. The colours of the sunset blended with the tops of the trees, creating a line of fire as far as he could see. He dropped his head and stared at the dying grass at his feet. The woman shifted closer again, pressed her lips lightly to his shoulder and whispered:
“I love you too.”
"No you don't."
"Yes I do."
"How do you know?"
The breeze blew lazily, gently shuffling the leaves in the trees across the park. The gold, orange, and red leaves danced gracefully as the sun, high in the sky, glittered through the trees. The man and woman were the only people in the park. They sat at opposite sides of a wooden bench in front of a field of tall, dying grass, bordered by a forest of full autumn foliage. The man looked down, brow furrowed as the woman looked at him, patience, questioning. The man spoke as a breeze blew in.
“I don’t know.” His words were lost in the wind.
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
The man looked ahead at the tree line.
“There are so many things in life I’m not certain of. So many things to question; I don’t even know who I am.”
“Then how can you be so certain you love me?”
“Because knowledge and feeling are separate entities.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Knowledge is a product of the mind alone. When we feel we know something, it is in our brains, our minds. We can describe it and put words to it easily. A feeling is an experience involving the entirety of our body. Take happiness for example. We know what it is we’re feeling; the lightness of body, contentment of mind, but we can never articulate the true nature of the feeling because it transcends words in its subjectivity.”
“How can you know that you have a feeling and describe what it is if it’s so indescribable?”
“We’re dealing with uncertainties still. When we get to this point, we have to take a risk and attempt to define these things as best as possible for ourselves. In order to have a reason to live, we have to fill our uncertainties with our own ideas, our beliefs.”
The man paused. He looked to his left as the woman shuffled closer. He studied the woman’s face; intent, questioning, thoughtful...beautiful. The wind shifted her hair slightly, blowing a few strands in front of her eyes, freeing him from their hold. He reached to her and took one of her hands in his nervously.
“We can live our lives in total scepticism,” the man continued with a sigh, “questioning things we’ll never have the answers to. Or we can make our own reality, answer our own unanswerables, create for ourselves a reason to live. I’ve taken the risk in my definition of love. How do I know what love is? I don’t know for certain. To me, this is what I feel love must be. Whatever I feel right now has to be the truest representation of the feeling, no matter how subjective it is.”
“I love you.”
The man exhaled and looked to the sky. The colours of the sunset blended with the tops of the trees, creating a line of fire as far as he could see. He dropped his head and stared at the dying grass at his feet. The woman shifted closer again, pressed her lips lightly to his shoulder and whispered:
“I love you too.”
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