Of Intimidation and Inspiration

As I look at all the shelves of books, I can't help but get intimidated. All the words that have been strung together, all the lives that have blossomed with phrases, all the paper and ink. I stop wanting to write when bombarded by all these books standing in silence, with the flipping of pages rhythmically filling the corner. But then I sit and observe people outside, see the way they move, the way they talk, letting my imagination write their story. I think it almost too wild the volume of living that happens on this planet. All the steps that are taken every day, the trees that bow in the wind, the heartbeats.

I enjoy people who, without saying a word, communicate to me their happiness, the bubbling of their mind and heart. Those who are stone-faced, slouched, curving the last few vertebrae as if peering into the eyes of a computer, evoke in me frustration. All I want to do to these people is ask them if they are happy and stand them up tall, pulling the imaginary string that pulls together all their vertebrae. Up, tall, look to the sky.

Under water

I've looked at the images online of the devastation Katrina has left in the south-east US. There was an article on CNN telling the story of one woman's endless attempts to get her husband's dead body to the hospital. No one would help her, everyone was focused on saving the living, not burrying the dead. The value of a human life breathing then is more than one without potential. The dead that lie among us will be left to fester while the living try to live. The world just continues to blacken as we try to save all those in New Orleans.

And with that, I don't feel much like writing any more. It's started to rain here and I want to go take a swim. Water sustains life but, as we all can see, can also destroy it. This isn't a good feeling, but life is full of these circular concepts that can dip into the blackness of ink while still remaining pristinely white on the other side.

Here's to coming out of the darkness.

In the deep

Into the night you will escape with my whole body leavin traces of me behind. Loose hairs. Shoes. A fully charged cell phone. You won't even stop to consider what you have left behind but you care not about being arrested for taking me away. After all it was voluntary. I wanted you to come and sweep me off my feet, although I never thought it would be you, dear stranger. You picked me up half naked and carried me off while I still slept. Somehow I did not wake up. I just slept quietly in your arms. Breathing deeply. While the rest of my apartment fell into its silent murmur of sink drops and fridge heartbeat.

Slowly I'll start to realize who I really am, set wandering around the earth with just myself, a home on two legs, the hermit crab inching his way across the oceanfloor. In the bubbling darkness of the vast ocean, life rocks to and fro in aquatic time. Seaweed sways. Fish dart, scavenging. In a realm so full of bubbles and their changing currents, little creatures should take breaths one step at a time, letting the sand sift underfoot.

Today I saw a big armed man with a tattoo of Thomas Jefferson. At first his body marking wasn't in focus, and that automatic part of me thought: thug. But then that currency-imagery portrait came into view. Jefferson?! Permanently emblazon yourself with such a patriotic symbol. I guess TJ was a cool dude. Why not? I'd never tattoo myself. What if I changed my mind? What if tomorrow I decided I didn't love my mother that much? TOO LATE! There is something about the permanence of a tattooo that requires a lot of commitment. But it also involves the less honorable. You're doing graffitti on your body, such a sacred thing (your body that is). A body should be tended with care, nursed to healthy, strengthened, caressed. When your body becomes a brick wall upon which you douse caustically coloured paints and hurl bullets at.... it's a wonder you can still be alive...

Memoria

I will remember the events that hold meaning to you, so that your face does not become shrowded and blurred. It is not your actual face that will remain in my memory, but your spirit allegro. When you go to the sea, when you finish writing a novel, when you perform for the people, I will remember to ask just how it went. And somehow in this mesh of living, we will connect for that moment and you will forget that you ever revealed to me that things would happen. And we touch.

Your face will remain clear and crisp, the jaw line defined as by fierce pencil strokes across the page. A oval mask on paper, that holds your eyes - pools of blue. I will not let your contours become blurry as when I've not my glasses. Somehow you do look more beautiful that way, yet I still appreciate the strength of your faults. Knowing that you too have scars to show and not to cover up, I feel like I can know you better.

About

elegance-passion-listening-care-fun/random-curious-open-positive-
questioning-conscientious-adventurous- playful- shy-reserved-driven
being at the edge of the ocean-writing and letting it flow out- making people smile- noticing others when they are seeking attention but not getting it- reading an original construction of words- connecting to others through long conversations and long pauses- having my breath taken away unexpectedly by a work of art-smiling, laughing, dancing, random noises- dressing elegantly and feeling comfortable- accomplishing a task I've conscientiously planned out to complete- swimming- being in intense wind- seeing animals as people-witnessing the wonderment of small children and giving them a wave and smile...

To Hell and Beyond

Traveling deep into the earth feels a little clastrophobic. A one-person elevator to the core. But that elevator soon loses its shape and so do you. Below hell is the earth's core, that boiling centre. Seed of life, creater of the soil we walk on. It spin and boils, a red hot mystery that somehow holds it all together.

And I travel further into the jungle, dark and humid. Slowly, I lose that whole thinking thing. Those thoughts. The logic. Gone. Clothes ripped, body exposed. I am focused on going deeper, finding out the truth that lies within. I want to slather it in reason but it doesn't stick. I have to trust my instincts somehow. I don't quite know what the fuck is going on. But somehow the rhythm of my steps keeps me company, with hard breaths. Sweat pouring down my face feels normal, comfortable in my body, letting it pour out. I don't care who you are, I'm going into this fierce jungle to discover the inside and find more of myself in the pattering rain on strong green leaves.

Braindead

Somehow when I've lost all energy, I still have the will to step forward once more. I can still garner the little strength needed to breathe. And time continues it march. Relentless. Pounding. Rhythmic. Until I can lie to sleep...

And still it pounds its steady beat blood coursing through my temples, doing everything that isn't holy, feeding a mind that should just stop and repent. I hurt, I want to sleep in these daylight hours. But I can't, I think of all the things that must be done and all the the hours that must be lived. Drifting away from shore, I grow worried and my eyes dart from side to side. How will I stay afloat?