all, prose & poetry, thoughts

Take me

….to the old library in your home town. We will leaf through frail pages and trace the faded photographs of your ancestors with our fingers. We will sit down in a fort of books and journals pulled from the shelves and search through forgotten family trees and piece together untold stories. We will imagine what our lives would be like in those sepia tone years, how our days would be filled with work and fresh air, and our nights — with candlelight and barefooted siblings and freshly baked bread. We will find your namesake in a crumbling tome.

….to the bridge above the city on a moonless night. We will rise above the traffic and the taxis darting through the dark like so many fireflies among sleeping skyscrapers. We will watch the water of the river below us ripple and fall still in the breeze. We’ll look up at the stars and make up constellation names the way the ancients used to, connecting mythical beings to human fates born under their dim glow. We’ll write ourselves into the story of a star and float upwards, stretching our hands out until we touch the sky.

….to your windowsill, both of us breathless after a kiss so long and tight that all the air leaves our lungs. We will wrap ourselves in blankets and climb up into the window, nesting in that portal between the entirety of the world outside and your bed, still warm, where our shadows now stretch. We will share a cigarette from a pack your brother left behind, dangling our bare feet, our toes touching, unable to let go. We will feel innocent and young, like high schoolers drowning in new love, all the roads and possibilities still open, twinkling ahead of us and calling forth.

….to an island in the north, where fir trees and winds rule the landscape and the sea is onion-green and wild. We will come by boat and gather driftwood for a totem pole you want to build, and make a fire out of bark and pine cones. You will take the dog out for an early morning walk in the fog and come back hours later with a new song you wrote among the pines. I’ll make the coffee on a rusty stove and curl up on the porch, a ball of wool and fleece and notebooks on the mossy logs, writing a story that can only be told in a place like this, where the air is cold and filled with smoke and seaweed and your music drifting in the morning wind.

Advertisements
Standard
all, inspiration

No more oceans

Don’t cross oceans for people who wouldn’t step over a puddle for you.

— Ukrainian proverb

Standard
all, inspiration

As I floated 

“The liquid engineers left the pool heater on too long, and at night, chlorine vapors rose above the plant life of the planet, and I imagined my flesh, being inside the pool, being warm, being protected, feeling gravity, but able to mock it as I floated.

Would you float with me now, if I asked you, would you jump in the pool and not even bother to strip? Could I strip you down, remove your clothing and we would fall inside the water together?

It scares me.

I don’t want to lose you. I don’t imagine ever feeling this strongly about anything or anybody ever again.

This was unexpected, my soul’s connection to you.

You stole my loneliness. No one knows that I was wishing for you, a thief, to enter my house of autonomy, that I had locked my doors but my windows were open, hoping, but not believing,
you would enter.”

— Douglas Coupland, Microserfs

Standard
all, prose & poetry, thoughts

Cast away

You put a spell on me. Not with your words, which self-destruct like coded spy notes. Not with promises made in a haze of smoke and ice cubes cracking in your whiskey, which melt away with morning fog at first sunlight. Not with your lips, which are greedy and selfish, which pull me in, your stubble scratching my skin and your tongue rough, like a cat’s. Not with your eyes, which pierce and enchant, then look away when my own rise to meet them. Not with your music, which randomly shuffles into my life, usurping the soundtrack of my moments, disrupting the equilibrium of my thoughts, beating along with the throbbing of old wounds, as if your pulse is the same as mine, our blood flowing as one.

But that night, as we walked through the city of a million strangers and a dozen friends, you took my hand and held it so gently, so surely, never letting it go. You held my hand and I floated over the cobblestones, higher and higher, in disbelief and enchantment, joining the blossoms soaring in the city’s winds.

And then the night was over, and the day came, and the next, and I’m still here, floating with the fallen flowers and the plastic bags and the stray feathers, lost and off-course, getting stuck on branches and lampposts before the wind gusts rip me off and carry me higher still, possessed by the memory of your hand holding mine.

Where are you now that I am so high above, spell-bound and cursed, no longer even human, not knowing how to bring you up to me or how to come back down?

Standard
all, thoughts

Not for us 

Writing and deleting. Minimizing and re-opening programs. None of this is worth it. Neither you nor I. Just a spec of dust on a spec of dust on a spec of dust on the great open plains of the universe.

3,000 years from now, when the nuclear-enhanced cockroaches evolve into a highly civilized society, some rogue team of nuclear-enhanced roach archeologists is going to dig out a couple of badly erroded database servers labelled “WordPress” from one of the great ancient pre-nuclear-cockroach-era craters. They’ll spend some 20 years more figuring out how to decode the binary code into ancient English and that into Modern Nuclear-Enhanced Cockroachese. And then they’re going to collectively wonder what on earth we were thinking, recording utter drivel on those silly primitive discs. Especially on April 17th, 2015 of the pre-nuclear-cockroach-era, when our efforts could have been much better spent offline, preventing the inevitable extermination of the species and overall-type apocalypse. And then they’re going to have a good, hard, nuclear-enhanced laugh, and thank us for that nuclear part of the deal.

Just remember who you’re writing this for. It isn’t for us.

Standard
all, prose & poetry, thoughts

Instructions for Breaking Free

Paint nail polish over your broken dreams. The heart, or what’s left of it, should be tied firmly to the rib cage. Use staples and duct tape to hold the pieces together if necessary. Wash out memories in industry-strength bleach. Throw old photos into the rinse cycle. 

Douse your soul in 2-3 liters of alcohol daily for about a week. Follow up with equal amount of tea and juices. Refrain from ingesting food throughout the process. Avoid contact with anyone capable of commenting on how thin, starved and sickly your soul has become.

Drape sexy red velvet securely over stapled, duct-taped heart, and allow beautiful strangers to cleanse your mouth with kisses and body with imaginary love. Wake up, re-adjust drapery, repeat until the velvet sticks permanently. 

Resist urges to indulge in any artistic impulses. If you must create, discard these misguided fruits immediately by fire or nuclear weapon. Resist thoughts of looking back, chopping hair, reading religious publications, lemming/virginiawoolf tendencies, and calling mom. Resist calling anyone, for that matter, as it is crucial from now on to only communicate with those who will initiate such actions. Cross out names of anyone who hadn’t done so in over two weeks. 

Substitute warm couch blankets with fresh, freezing air; rhapsodic music with silence; TV with yoga. Imagine your body as an icicle filled with frozen flowers. Turn your arms into tree branches and stand still long enough for birds to complete a nest between your fingers. Your hair is now a wind-torn spiderweb over a mountain rock. Gales and snow-storms holler among the cliffs. You are now free.

Standard