ReMeMbEr WhEN wE uSeD To KiCk IT BeHiND ThE BLeAcHeRS, ALL tHAT maCkiNg AnD KiSSiNG AbOuT. I ThOuGhT YoU WeRe LeGiT, LoVE, BuT ThEn YoU ReAReD YoUr NaStY FaCE AnD I WaS LikE, EWWWW… OH NO YoU DiDn’T, AnD ChAsED YoU DoWN tHe HALLwAY. MoNeY, YoU LiKe To KiCK IT WiTh LoVe SoMEtiMeS NeaR S-WinG. YoU uSeD To BrAG AnD BrAG AbOuT HoW YoU DeAL ThIS WaY anD ThAt WaY, AnD PlAyiNg RiSkY GaMeS oF HoLd’Em.
ReMeMBER WhEN? xoxo
Oops, you dropped your hanky on the floor, and pardon, we almost bumped heads. And as I scurried away from you, embarrassed of my foibles and quite clumsy nature, I forgot to hand back your hanky. I was holding it, feeling the lace and cotton on my fingertips. It smelled of dried yellow flower muddled with a faint hint of chamomile and lavender. It smelled of a sunny day on a wide open meadow, of running around and getting nettles and grass blades stuck in your braids. The breeze rushed through you like a spirit gliding across the water, straight into you, inhabiting you, feeling and being you. Did it leave, or did it find its home in you, the breeze, I mean.
I should have called out your name, that you forgot something. Oh dear, my dear, you forgot your… But no sound came forth. I muttered, h..h…h…e..llo. Sounding like a king’s speech, my honest pauper’s prayer. You walked away and I was left holding something of yours. I followed you across the courtyard, since unabled with speech. My legs moved and I kept my eye on your flittering and thrashing fabric of the blue dress you wore that day. The town was busy and bustling, like any mid-morning mid-week ever was, and I tailed you for the duration of your walk. You disappeared suddenly, you must have dodged into a building and gone up into your living quarters. I took to get a cofffee and write you this note, while I look for a door to place it upon, so I can give you back your hanky and buy you some coffee.
Last week left me feeling exhausted by Saturday, and today was the attempt of a productive day, which ended up in a stomachache and a post-nap drowsiness that will lead in the eventual procrastination of things I must carry through. Lately the fire to do things hasn’t been there, and I keep feeling a lack of progression, as if the art suffers when my body gives to give into the ever-heavy weight of an on-going momentum. I question daily what is the meaning of calling, whatever if I am sweating and working after something that can never satisfy, and either I nor anyone is truely transformed or affected. This is one’s greatest fear, that all the effort will spill vainly into drains that drip the time and money and effort back into the sea. I watch as everything has it floats by me, and wonder why I am so disattached from the debris that drifts by. My thoughts do not linger on the stream of litter, but upon all that I have disappointed in the end. I see myself disappointed. I wonder why I am so sad, why I feel that I had failed, and what were my original idealisms? I see people smiling, laughing and talking carefreely in the park. I want this feelings of vacation, of relaxing, of enjoying the moment. I lie by head upon a pillow of fears, and let each fear disappear, float away by the wind, leaving me feeling strong and ready to wake up tomorrow and face another week. [crawling, a’misa]
Minds are altered during particular parts of movies, forcing you to succumb to its reality. Its own encapsulation of its desire, of its perverious misgivings, its perfection in every mise-en-scene. Minds are whittled into states of being that play out the filmmaker’s projections. Minds are windows, are doorways, portals to that which is unseen, or at least, quite unexplainable. At least unless you feel it for yourself, you go on a journey to experience, that which is only able to experience, and not tell, and is this empathy or telepathy if no one understands you. The situation is a lone, ranging from now to years, lest you find one who can read you as well as you can yourself. A mirrored person. Though it is just you that you see. Some people are your black swans. They allow you to see yourself; they are your mirrors. You are theirs also. Remember that every mirror is two-way. Step inside it, and your reality flips into a mirror image, and how diffferent is it (ti).
To the infinitely small to the infinitely vast: there is a light that remains in all. carbon hold hands with carbon, creating tabletops, ice cream and smiles. nerves degrade young men into the crippled, and smiles degenerate into frowns, for life is hard and faces will show it. the eyes are the window to the soul, and is the soul just carbon molecules attached to carbon molecules? is a soul solid? is it form, or just formed? The journey is not as impossible as it might seem, but the mountain is larger than when you are actually climbing it. Then it just becomes a tedious, and sometimes treacherous journey. Lately the landscape doesn’t battle me as much as the people. The up-and-down stares at outfits that I realize are odd, but took me years to build up the shread of confidence to be comfortable with myself. The constant pep-talks that go down in the back of my mind, and the mantra for grace and love and mercy. Even for myself, mostly for myself.
He’s been gone for months now. On tour. He packed a small washkit of his shaver, a toothbrush and floss. I ran out the door with a bar of soap and a small towel. I doubt the other guys would bring one, and B.O. is more of a killer than ego sometimes. They drove out of the cul-de-sac whooping and hollering, a beer can thrown out the window, the smell of pot already hitting the air. I slumped on my knees to pray. Dear God, Bring him back safetly, amen. I do not know if God hear my prayers, but I like to believe that he did. I said it with conviction. I was thirsty. All I have is rotten milk and water. I drank water. I sat down on the sofa. I watched a bug scurry up the wall. I didn’t even smash it. I didn’t wash my hair for weeks. I ate cabbage soup and drank water. I lost 15 pounds. I waited around. He called on Wednesday mornings. I always waited by the phone. I would read him poetry I wrote during the week. He would play the violin for me. His voice sounds raspier. He said he was doing backup vocals now. I wanted him home. The band was in Vermont now. He hasn’t washed his jeans for weeks. Me either. I played the guitar before bed now. I didn’t wash my hair either.
this world is under attack. after the aliens and UFOs and the governments and CEOs are done collaborating with each other, trying to continuously trick the common persons into believing that their wack-cover ups aren’t actually unknown Exterrestials, but of the known kind, then the demons have their day. They slink, slither, and crawl into babies dreams, into our storybooks, through the over protective grips of parental control, through the internets, and through the strict religious teachings of yesterday. Disgused as the milkman, the breadboy, the donutmaster, these demonic forces paw the way into the minds, feeding off fears of stories of ghosts, of magic, of witches and warlocks.
Innocent bystanders will be overcome on the subways, as death swirls around them. Noone saw it coming, it couldn’t be predicted. There is nothing man can do. Those who dabble in the magic arts will swing their wands and shout their curses, confused and insecurity at what is causing the calamity. Those who pray and mediate daily will whispher words of desperation up to the heavens, just as confused as the rest. The blind man on the train continues to pull out his eyes, begging for a hand out, as chaos erupts.