Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Snowed in
Song for a cold night. House buried in snow. Hot cocoa with Bailey's in hand. Reading by the fire. Bliss.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Words that feel like secrets
Firecracker told me that "aletheia" means truth in Greek, but not truth as we know it. It is, instead, the deliberate uncovering of omissions. Discovering the things we hide. I love words that feel like secrets.
Sometimes, I imagine myself overgrown. Roots and veins crawling out of me, blooming from the top of my head and out of my ears and mouth, attaching to buildings and trees and the sun and the moon. I wonder if anyone notices as I walk around in a tangle of overgrown thoughts.
This feeling isn't snobbery or boredom like I used to think it was. There are just so many ideas and dreams that I've left unexplored, and they've learned to move on without me. They're still connected, even though they won't wait around for me anymore. I can tug them back down, like holding onto the string of a balloon that's trying to fly away, when I'm ready.
Sometimes, I imagine myself overgrown. Roots and veins crawling out of me, blooming from the top of my head and out of my ears and mouth, attaching to buildings and trees and the sun and the moon. I wonder if anyone notices as I walk around in a tangle of overgrown thoughts.
This feeling isn't snobbery or boredom like I used to think it was. There are just so many ideas and dreams that I've left unexplored, and they've learned to move on without me. They're still connected, even though they won't wait around for me anymore. I can tug them back down, like holding onto the string of a balloon that's trying to fly away, when I'm ready.
Friday, December 03, 2010
Cold & Snow
He grew up in Guadalajara, but he loves the cold. He loves ice skating in Fenway Park, watching the ball drop in Times Square, walking around the Nuit blanche a Montreal. He wraps himself in long, hand-knit scarves and drinks black coffee hot and steaming while his friends talk of cruises and travel agents. He thinks of the sun and he is warm. He thinks of the snow and he his home.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
quellazaire
I remember the neighborhood, a quiet little roundabout city. I remember the man in the red house. Tall, handsome, friendly. Blonde wife, two kids, Golden Retriever. 9 to 5. Blue Subaru. I always liked running into him as we got into our cars in the morning: he'd flash this smile and his face would stay with me all day.
I remember getting back to the house late one night and seeing the man sitting on the stoop in his garage. It was summer and I was feeling invincible. He wore a pink nightgown, black stilettos, and was smoking a cigarette from a long plastic holder (a quellazaire, my friend told me to call it, quellazaire.) The look on his face: defeated, solemn, melancholic. But he shot me that smile again and waved with his smoking hand before crossing his legs and looking down at the floor.
It's bullshit, my friend told me. He's just trying to mix up an otherwise monotonous existence.
But I gave up the search for ingenuity a long time ago. You never can tell, not really. Everyone has a story.
I remember getting back to the house late one night and seeing the man sitting on the stoop in his garage. It was summer and I was feeling invincible. He wore a pink nightgown, black stilettos, and was smoking a cigarette from a long plastic holder (a quellazaire, my friend told me to call it, quellazaire.) The look on his face: defeated, solemn, melancholic. But he shot me that smile again and waved with his smoking hand before crossing his legs and looking down at the floor.
It's bullshit, my friend told me. He's just trying to mix up an otherwise monotonous existence.
But I gave up the search for ingenuity a long time ago. You never can tell, not really. Everyone has a story.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
mill thoughts
Bookworm: "It was one of those nights, the kind you don't want to forget."
Sunshine: "Will you?"
Bookworm: "Maybe, eventually. I wish you could've come."
Sunshine: "Me, too."
inside
Almost-empty parking lot outside an almost-adandoned building. Step out of the car, cold air hits us, remember: it's getting colder, clearer from here.
Broken, old lift elevator. Spiral staircase wide and forgiving. Reminiscent of one time in Europe.
Dim lights, antiques, canvases, peeling ceiling, warped floorboards. Authentic paint stains on the floor, the wall.
Smells of pine, musty furniture, fire smoke, cigarette smoke, oil paint.
Big bottles of red wine, brown bottles of beer, two wine glasses that have traveled all over and have not broken yet.
He wears a purple flannel shirt and girls watch him intently. He wears it before, after, and while it is trendy. One of the reasons to admire him, to love him.
Would he be able to move his fingers up and down, keep time with his foot, sing up to the ceiling, if he was carrying all the love I've got? We do not live for each other, like they do in stories, and that makes me happy. There is so much love, so much life, to share.
Lights on, new faces, calloused fingers, empty stage. Feel different, renewed, a little drunk, a little dizzy. Pepto Bismol-pink door. We compartmentalize things. Music. Art. Love. Words. A shade of pink in an otherwise dark oil-painted room.
Try to use the elevator, even though it is broken. Run, for fun, down the spiral staircase. Help carry keyboard stands and guitars out into the cold air, only getting colder. But I like it. I wouldn't be here if I didn't.
Sunshine: "Will you?"
Bookworm: "Maybe, eventually. I wish you could've come."
Sunshine: "Me, too."
inside
Almost-empty parking lot outside an almost-adandoned building. Step out of the car, cold air hits us, remember: it's getting colder, clearer from here.
Broken, old lift elevator. Spiral staircase wide and forgiving. Reminiscent of one time in Europe.
Dim lights, antiques, canvases, peeling ceiling, warped floorboards. Authentic paint stains on the floor, the wall.
Smells of pine, musty furniture, fire smoke, cigarette smoke, oil paint.
Big bottles of red wine, brown bottles of beer, two wine glasses that have traveled all over and have not broken yet.
He wears a purple flannel shirt and girls watch him intently. He wears it before, after, and while it is trendy. One of the reasons to admire him, to love him.
Would he be able to move his fingers up and down, keep time with his foot, sing up to the ceiling, if he was carrying all the love I've got? We do not live for each other, like they do in stories, and that makes me happy. There is so much love, so much life, to share.
Lights on, new faces, calloused fingers, empty stage. Feel different, renewed, a little drunk, a little dizzy. Pepto Bismol-pink door. We compartmentalize things. Music. Art. Love. Words. A shade of pink in an otherwise dark oil-painted room.
Try to use the elevator, even though it is broken. Run, for fun, down the spiral staircase. Help carry keyboard stands and guitars out into the cold air, only getting colder. But I like it. I wouldn't be here if I didn't.
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
I always wanted to be Harriet the Spy
“Don't you want to be a writer, Sport? Gee, your father could even help you.”
Sport almost collapsed at the sink.
“Are you kidding? You know I want to be a ball player. And if I'm not a good ball player, I'll tell you something, I'm going to be a C.P.A.”
“What's that?”
“You don't know what a C.P.A. is?” Sport screeched.
“No," said Harriet. She never minded admitting she didn't know something. “So what,” she thought; “I could always learn.”
[Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh, 1964]
Sport almost collapsed at the sink.
“Are you kidding? You know I want to be a ball player. And if I'm not a good ball player, I'll tell you something, I'm going to be a C.P.A.”
“What's that?”
“You don't know what a C.P.A. is?” Sport screeched.
“No," said Harriet. She never minded admitting she didn't know something. “So what,” she thought; “I could always learn.”
[Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh, 1964]
Friday, October 29, 2010
Old home, new life; New home, old life
Driving by
I’ve been driving by our old house a lot lately. Work takes me south, sometimes to Boston, sometimes to the Cape, sometimes even farther. But I usually find myself driving past Haverhill on 495 and, without thinking, pulling off the exit. After weeks and days and hours of exploring new places and sleeping in an apartment I still haven’t settled into, it is nice to feel comfortable. Even if it is just for a moment, sitting on the porch reading a book, locked out and watching my old neighbors walk by.
Explorer
I have a strange sense of familiarity when I see signs for the surrounding towns: Methuen, Salem, Plaistow, Lawrence, Lowell. The funny thing is, I hardly spent time in those cities when I lived nearby. Now that I live an hour away, I explore them. I try to pick out the good things in each place, try to see what makes people want to live there. I still haven’t figured out why these invisible town lines dictate different cultures, different ways of life, but they do. I'm determined to not isolate myself: I don't want to see the same side of every city. I know there’s more than coffee shops and arguing couples and trash buildup and art walks.
Catching the train
When I fall asleep late at night in my new bedroom, I can hear the train whistling somewhere far away. There’s something inexplicably compelling about trains, something beautiful and melancholy. I could hear the train from Haverhill, too. I remember discovering the train tracks behind the cemetery with my cousin. It was like we had stumbled upon this long-forgotten secret. The tracks ran along the river and we walked on them for a couple miles. It was just a day in September, back when he was secretly planning on running away to Argentina and I was secretly missing him already.
Intimacy
I wake up to the sound of neighbors all around me. Quiet, private sounds: water running, breakfast-making, good mornings and good byes. Waking up in Haverhill was different. The dog across the street was chained up outside and would howl without fail every morning. Our bed was up against this beautiful window alcove and we’d leave the windows open on warm nights. In the morning the air would be perfect. The room would be dark except for the glow coming in under the closet door. There was a small window in there, I’m not sure why, but it guaranteed us a little bit of light, always.
Ghosts & possibilites
I thought it was weird when my family took pictures of my grandmother in her casket after the wake. After we broke the receiving line, after they turned off the music and dimmed the lights, my aunts and cousins snuck up to the altar and snapped a couple photos. She hasn’t looked this good in a long time, they said. I disagreed, because I was 19 and still trying to figure out where social norms and familial norms intersected. But the truth was, Grandma hadn’t looked like herself in years: she had looked like Diabetes; Cancer; Alzheimer’s; Emphysema. She’d been sick a long time. But the point was, in the end, in that casket, she wasn’t sick anymore.
Walking around the house (it used to be our house) feels like looking at those pictures of grandma. It’s familiar, and in an intangible way it’s still mine, but it’s different now. It’s a skeleton of a home and its emptiness is full of possibility. I feel nostalgic and eerie. Not like I’m trespassing, but like I’m the ghost that haunts the place now.
I’ve been driving by our old house a lot lately. Work takes me south, sometimes to Boston, sometimes to the Cape, sometimes even farther. But I usually find myself driving past Haverhill on 495 and, without thinking, pulling off the exit. After weeks and days and hours of exploring new places and sleeping in an apartment I still haven’t settled into, it is nice to feel comfortable. Even if it is just for a moment, sitting on the porch reading a book, locked out and watching my old neighbors walk by.
Explorer
I have a strange sense of familiarity when I see signs for the surrounding towns: Methuen, Salem, Plaistow, Lawrence, Lowell. The funny thing is, I hardly spent time in those cities when I lived nearby. Now that I live an hour away, I explore them. I try to pick out the good things in each place, try to see what makes people want to live there. I still haven’t figured out why these invisible town lines dictate different cultures, different ways of life, but they do. I'm determined to not isolate myself: I don't want to see the same side of every city. I know there’s more than coffee shops and arguing couples and trash buildup and art walks.
Catching the train
When I fall asleep late at night in my new bedroom, I can hear the train whistling somewhere far away. There’s something inexplicably compelling about trains, something beautiful and melancholy. I could hear the train from Haverhill, too. I remember discovering the train tracks behind the cemetery with my cousin. It was like we had stumbled upon this long-forgotten secret. The tracks ran along the river and we walked on them for a couple miles. It was just a day in September, back when he was secretly planning on running away to Argentina and I was secretly missing him already.
Intimacy
I wake up to the sound of neighbors all around me. Quiet, private sounds: water running, breakfast-making, good mornings and good byes. Waking up in Haverhill was different. The dog across the street was chained up outside and would howl without fail every morning. Our bed was up against this beautiful window alcove and we’d leave the windows open on warm nights. In the morning the air would be perfect. The room would be dark except for the glow coming in under the closet door. There was a small window in there, I’m not sure why, but it guaranteed us a little bit of light, always.
Ghosts & possibilites
I thought it was weird when my family took pictures of my grandmother in her casket after the wake. After we broke the receiving line, after they turned off the music and dimmed the lights, my aunts and cousins snuck up to the altar and snapped a couple photos. She hasn’t looked this good in a long time, they said. I disagreed, because I was 19 and still trying to figure out where social norms and familial norms intersected. But the truth was, Grandma hadn’t looked like herself in years: she had looked like Diabetes; Cancer; Alzheimer’s; Emphysema. She’d been sick a long time. But the point was, in the end, in that casket, she wasn’t sick anymore.
Walking around the house (it used to be our house) feels like looking at those pictures of grandma. It’s familiar, and in an intangible way it’s still mine, but it’s different now. It’s a skeleton of a home and its emptiness is full of possibility. I feel nostalgic and eerie. Not like I’m trespassing, but like I’m the ghost that haunts the place now.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
The first morning
Woke up at 5 am and watched the sun rise for the first day in my life without her.
The first morning in 90 years without a fern.
Multi-grain bagels and mugs of coffee that I still find hard to stomach. Usually it is tea for breakfast.
Boston in the morning; gossiping girls to my left and an old man on a cell phone to my right.
Home is green mountains, home is across the lake, home is how many folding chairs you can fit into a hospital room.
I'm in New England, but not the New England I am from. This is a different New England: faster, louder, cruder, bigger.
I live here now, drive here, sleep here, walk here, fit in here, but I still hold on to the sweet, kind, and good.
And here it is warm inside, autumn-cold outside.
Scarecrows with child smiles erected in a cemetery for Halloween.
Giant green and orange pumpkins in row along the side of the highway.
It really is a beautiful day to be alive.
The first morning in 90 years without a fern.
Multi-grain bagels and mugs of coffee that I still find hard to stomach. Usually it is tea for breakfast.
Boston in the morning; gossiping girls to my left and an old man on a cell phone to my right.
Home is green mountains, home is across the lake, home is how many folding chairs you can fit into a hospital room.
I'm in New England, but not the New England I am from. This is a different New England: faster, louder, cruder, bigger.
I live here now, drive here, sleep here, walk here, fit in here, but I still hold on to the sweet, kind, and good.
And here it is warm inside, autumn-cold outside.
Scarecrows with child smiles erected in a cemetery for Halloween.
Giant green and orange pumpkins in row along the side of the highway.
It really is a beautiful day to be alive.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Gypsy; Nomad; Vagrant
Four extra seats, for the hitchhikers I'd like to pick up. I think of all the people I could have taken places, all the stories I could have heard.
Fifty extra dollars that I didn't spend on extravagant meals. Instead, I went to the grocery store and had broccoli with alfredo sauce for dinner and raspberries for dessert. I think of the people I could've met at a bar, the people I could have fed.
Three extra beds, three nights in a row, waiting to be slept in. I curled into a ball like I always do (bad for your back) and left the other side of the bed untouched, the bed across from me unruffled. I think of some of the places I've slept in my life. I would've killed for that empty bed across from me.
I don't mind traveling alone. I am, by nature, a private person. I like to do things on my own, in my own way. Even though these are not the places I dream about seeing, they are something new.
I'm not used to having all of these resources at my disposal. Somehow it seems wasteful, like I should be sharing it with people that need seats and dollars and beds. Just give me a little bed, a nightstand with a lamp and a book. I realize that I could not easily transition into a life of frivolity.
(I think of how you can always clean the slate, always start a new life. It's unsettling and comforting to see how possible it is.)
Fifty extra dollars that I didn't spend on extravagant meals. Instead, I went to the grocery store and had broccoli with alfredo sauce for dinner and raspberries for dessert. I think of the people I could've met at a bar, the people I could have fed.
Three extra beds, three nights in a row, waiting to be slept in. I curled into a ball like I always do (bad for your back) and left the other side of the bed untouched, the bed across from me unruffled. I think of some of the places I've slept in my life. I would've killed for that empty bed across from me.
I don't mind traveling alone. I am, by nature, a private person. I like to do things on my own, in my own way. Even though these are not the places I dream about seeing, they are something new.
I'm not used to having all of these resources at my disposal. Somehow it seems wasteful, like I should be sharing it with people that need seats and dollars and beds. Just give me a little bed, a nightstand with a lamp and a book. I realize that I could not easily transition into a life of frivolity.
(I think of how you can always clean the slate, always start a new life. It's unsettling and comforting to see how possible it is.)
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
three hundred words and three hundred ways to miss you (an attempt to understand the ever-present longing without backspacing because i'd be erasing a moment i'd never get back)
Missing you has become a part of me. I actively miss you, I think of you every day. But there is not something missing inside me, not an emptiness in my heart. I, very simply, just miss you.
I live fully and completely inside your absence. It is not sadness, I do not feel broken or damaged. Missing you is in between the cells in my skin, it is in my blood and saliva and I can feel it, taste it; it is in my heart and brain and bones and lungs.
You are not a single person. You are a handful of carefully selected thoughts.
You are not dead, but I will wonder every day if you are alive. I probably always will. Sing, Night Owl, sing. I feel you in my chest. I have shallow breaths when I think of you, I am swimming in the lake at night again.
You have not changed and I will never see you again. I didn't ask for it to be this way. Run away, Tough Guys, run away. I feel you most in my skin. I become hot and red and never want to feel that way again. I do not want you back in my life. I do not want to miss you. I do not try to miss you.
You are dead, but you come back to me. Lost poems in text messages, old articles in new newspapers, your smile in a picture taken yesterday. Sleep, Sad Woman, sleep. I feel you most in my fingers, you buzz and you creep out through my fingertips when I least expect it.
You always remind me that the world is full of passion, even when all I've got is old ticket stubs and letters to jog my memory. Dream, Beautiful, dream. I feel you in my head, words and poems humming to me like a city. I get dizzy and hope that I can keep this high with me forever.
Now that you're gone, you have become a part of me.
I live fully and completely inside your absence. It is not sadness, I do not feel broken or damaged. Missing you is in between the cells in my skin, it is in my blood and saliva and I can feel it, taste it; it is in my heart and brain and bones and lungs.
You are not a single person. You are a handful of carefully selected thoughts.
You are not dead, but I will wonder every day if you are alive. I probably always will. Sing, Night Owl, sing. I feel you in my chest. I have shallow breaths when I think of you, I am swimming in the lake at night again.
You have not changed and I will never see you again. I didn't ask for it to be this way. Run away, Tough Guys, run away. I feel you most in my skin. I become hot and red and never want to feel that way again. I do not want you back in my life. I do not want to miss you. I do not try to miss you.
You are dead, but you come back to me. Lost poems in text messages, old articles in new newspapers, your smile in a picture taken yesterday. Sleep, Sad Woman, sleep. I feel you most in my fingers, you buzz and you creep out through my fingertips when I least expect it.
You always remind me that the world is full of passion, even when all I've got is old ticket stubs and letters to jog my memory. Dream, Beautiful, dream. I feel you in my head, words and poems humming to me like a city. I get dizzy and hope that I can keep this high with me forever.
Now that you're gone, you have become a part of me.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The universe & the start of the world
Piano Man: You can see the whole world from here.
Brother: He means the universe.
Piano Man: No, I mean the world. You can see the whole world from here.
Texas Love: I dig it. The world.
Bookworm: Didn’t I tell you the driveway is the best place to see the sky?
Piano Man: I can’t believe you have this view every night.
Bookworm: I’ve been taking it for granted.
Brother: We all do. But the view is almost perfect. Except for this big-ass building blocking Cassiopeia.
Bookworm: I used to live there. All my life until I was fourteen.
Texas Love: It seems like a nice place.
Bookworm: I used to climb up to the roof and watch the sky with my friends. They’d throw rocks at my window -- that window right there -- to get my attention.
Piano Man: I didn’t know people really did that. That’s awesome.
Bookworm: I took it for granted.
Brother: All those stars up there. Most of them are already dead, we just can’t see it yet.
Piano Man: Light years and red giants and shit. It makes me feel so insignificant. I fucking love it.
Texas Love: It’s all so beautiful, and it probably doesn’t even exist anymore. What does that say about us? Right now, admiring something from a distance that might not even be there.
Brother: We’re human. We’ll always see what we want to.
Bookworm: It's all rooted in astronomy. We’re in a world created by the stars, but they could've died before we were even conceived. I can’t tell if that’s morbid.
Texas Love: It’s just how it is. It’s life.
Piano Man: And it’s fucking great.
Brother: And it’ll always make me think of this, right here, right now.
Bookworm: I take it for granted.
Brother: He means the universe.
Piano Man: No, I mean the world. You can see the whole world from here.
Texas Love: I dig it. The world.
Bookworm: Didn’t I tell you the driveway is the best place to see the sky?
Piano Man: I can’t believe you have this view every night.
Bookworm: I’ve been taking it for granted.
Brother: We all do. But the view is almost perfect. Except for this big-ass building blocking Cassiopeia.
Bookworm: I used to live there. All my life until I was fourteen.
Texas Love: It seems like a nice place.
Bookworm: I used to climb up to the roof and watch the sky with my friends. They’d throw rocks at my window -- that window right there -- to get my attention.
Piano Man: I didn’t know people really did that. That’s awesome.
Bookworm: I took it for granted.
Brother: All those stars up there. Most of them are already dead, we just can’t see it yet.
Piano Man: Light years and red giants and shit. It makes me feel so insignificant. I fucking love it.
Texas Love: It’s all so beautiful, and it probably doesn’t even exist anymore. What does that say about us? Right now, admiring something from a distance that might not even be there.
Brother: We’re human. We’ll always see what we want to.
Bookworm: It's all rooted in astronomy. We’re in a world created by the stars, but they could've died before we were even conceived. I can’t tell if that’s morbid.
Texas Love: It’s just how it is. It’s life.
Piano Man: And it’s fucking great.
Brother: And it’ll always make me think of this, right here, right now.
Bookworm: I take it for granted.
Monday, June 28, 2010
The universe & the end of the world
A warm night in June. Full moon, rain clouds in the air, blankets wrapped around our shoulders. We both knew we wouldn't have many nights together like this again.
I get overwhelmed at how big the universe is, she said, looking at the sky. It could just never end.
Whenever I look at the sky, I said, I think of sitting in my driveway with my dad. He showed me that even if you can’t see it, the whole moon is always there.
It’s funny how something that makes me feel so lost makes you feel so at home, she said. But I think I know what you mean.
Then we started talking about the end of the world, and how we will take it as it comes. And it will probably be beautiful.
I get overwhelmed at how big the universe is, she said, looking at the sky. It could just never end.
Whenever I look at the sky, I said, I think of sitting in my driveway with my dad. He showed me that even if you can’t see it, the whole moon is always there.
It’s funny how something that makes me feel so lost makes you feel so at home, she said. But I think I know what you mean.
Then we started talking about the end of the world, and how we will take it as it comes. And it will probably be beautiful.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Great Hudson River Revival
-->
9th year at the festival and it feels like it’s yours, but it’s only been 34 nights of your life. 90 hours volunteering. 108 hours driving there and back. Feeling like you never left. Missing a part of yourself when you’re not there.
Girls with colorful strings and beautiful faces. Boys with jack-o-lantern smiles and crumpled-up joints. Some are from the city, they are glamorous and edgy. Some are from upstate, they are lovely and natural. Two o’clock alcoholic kisses and underwear smelling of sunscreen and expectation. In the morning everything will be different, but tonight you appreciate the laughter and how everyone looks beautiful in the firelight.
Fall asleep by the river. Moon, grass, laughter, music. There’s a couple just a few feet away under the willow and an old man snoring in the grass and a party going on in the dance tent. But it’s just you and the water and an entire year gone by. Wonder if you’ve changed since the last time you were in this place. Hope you’ve grown like the river, stronger each year.
9th year at the festival and it feels like it’s yours, but it’s only been 34 nights of your life. 90 hours volunteering. 108 hours driving there and back. Feeling like you never left. Missing a part of yourself when you’re not there.
Eat breakfast elbow-to-elbow with other blue-shirted volunteers. Compostable plates and silverware, food fresh and organic: that’s why you’re here. Makes you feel like you’re a small piece of the earth and you could take root any day if only you’d stop moving.
Call it a fiddle here, call it a violin, just play it. Dance under the tent until your body feels like it’ll never stop sweating and beating. Musicians with big sunglasses and top hats play their instruments like they’d die if they ever let go. Wonder if this feeling is a little bit of the elusive peace everyone’s been talking about.
Girls with colorful strings and beautiful faces. Boys with jack-o-lantern smiles and crumpled-up joints. Some are from the city, they are glamorous and edgy. Some are from upstate, they are lovely and natural. Two o’clock alcoholic kisses and underwear smelling of sunscreen and expectation. In the morning everything will be different, but tonight you appreciate the laughter and how everyone looks beautiful in the firelight.
Activists scream demands, petitions smudge with sweat from forearms, old women in tie dye play banjos and curse. They are louder if you ignore them. Pick your battles. Remind yourself you can’t save everyone, but you can change the world (if only a little.) Know that underneath the aggression and anger is a deep wanting for basic good. Walk on and smile.
Promise to stay in touch, promise to visit. You know it rarely happens. But these people, they know you. In the night, the day, the sun, the rain, the best, and in the worst. Promise you love them, promise you’ll see them next year. And you start to count the days.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
What I know
What I know about this moccasin:
. Found on a Sunday evening before the rainstorm
. Lost in the sand lot by the dam
. Survived at least one winter in the North Country
. No mate to be found
. Small, maybe belonged to a small person
. Not authentic: plastic beads and material
. Not authentic: plastic beads and material
. With a Cyanotype filter it looks tragic
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Conversations not to be lost
[A weekend of words.]
. He wore a sombrero and stood in the corner of the elevator. “I don’t know how to work this thing,” he told us. “I’m lost and I don’t know where to go.” The key in his hand said 932, so we took him to the 9th floor. When the doors opened he said, “I don’t want to go back. This is my home now.” He lied down in the elevator and fell asleep, sombrero titled over his face.
. A man came up to us on the street, he had bagpipes strapped across his chest. We’d been walking a while, heels in hand, tired and lost. "I'll play you a song if you can give me directions," he said. We told him that we were lost, too, and he played for us anyway. I wondered who was waiting for him, whose song we were listening to.
. A man came up to us on the street, he had bagpipes strapped across his chest. We’d been walking a while, heels in hand, tired and lost. "I'll play you a song if you can give me directions," he said. We told him that we were lost, too, and he played for us anyway. I wondered who was waiting for him, whose song we were listening to.
. Our cab driver was Haitian and had a smile so handsome I couldn’t help but blush a little. His family kept all of their money in a safe box under the house, but it is buried now under the earth. “The house is gone,” he told us, “but you can rebuild a house. You can’t rebuild the people you love.”
. “We came into a bit of money,” she said. “Now we’ve got our own business, we provide tents for festivals and events.” They bought the tent for their ceremony and they will be the ones to set it up on their wedding day. Just the two of them.
. The ocean past midnight is louder, you can hear it wailing and groaning and singing and sighing and roaring. We wail and groan and sigh and sing and roar with it, together, maybe for the last time. “It’s so hard to say goodbye,” I said. “That’s why you NEVER say goodbye, my love…” she wrote.
. She got tears in her eyes when she talked about the baby. “We’ll never know,” she said quietly. “We’ll never know.” She’s got so much love inside her, and it is heartbreaking when a piece of it is taken away. I want to help, I want to fix her, but nothing is broken. No one could stop her from loving so much.
. “We’re in it together. It’s up to us. We’ll save the world with books and words.” We looked out over the cigarette smoke and into the dark night.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Don't...
Some well-intended (but unwelcomed) advice I received: Don't get a 9-to-5. Don't become one of them. Don't let them take advantage of you. Don't forget you are an artist. Don't sell out.
Some happened-upon, unexpected wisdom: Don't let anyone ever make you feel like you don't deserve what you want.
Some happened-upon, unexpected wisdom: Don't let anyone ever make you feel like you don't deserve what you want.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Peace
We walk by you some afternoons, to get away from chaos and monotony. To find a place to breathe. This time, it's raining and I keep my hands in my pockets. My nose gets cold even though it's May.
I wonder what it's like to be frozen and unfrozen, year after year. I wonder what it's like to die and bloom. To be struck by lightning and drowned. You hear the train whistle and you breathe in the exhaust. You let the quiet woman push the sad man's wheelchair beside you and you feel the ash drifting from their roaches.
I like to think that, really, you are at peace.
I wonder what it's like to be frozen and unfrozen, year after year. I wonder what it's like to die and bloom. To be struck by lightning and drowned. You hear the train whistle and you breathe in the exhaust. You let the quiet woman push the sad man's wheelchair beside you and you feel the ash drifting from their roaches.
I like to think that, really, you are at peace.
Friday, April 16, 2010
I cannot want you with all my heart
i
"How rarely do we see people living, or for that matter, creating by them."
.Yellow walls, purple curtains, red couch. Knowing there are cities and stories there, somewhere. Holding on to the days we live. The days we really live. Fighting to never forget them.
ii
"What are the best things and worst things in your life, and when are you going to get around to whispering or shouting about them?"
.The worst: wanting, failing, losing what you loved, isolation, wondering why they don't care to listen anymore. The best: laughter, kindness, family, beauty in the unexpected, comfort and strength in being alone.
.WHISPERING. shouting.
iii
"What do you love most in the world? The big and little things, I mean. A trolley car, a pair of tennis shoes? These, at one time when we were children, were invested with magic for us."
.The smell of an old book, a favorite baseball glove, sharing a blanket and a room and a story, grapefruit at night, the lake in the morning before everyone else is awake, the air in Pompeii, the rooftops in Venice, the rocks at Zion, the spices in New Orleans, listening to a life-changing song with someone who understands.
iv
"What do you want more than anything else in the world? What do you love, or what do you hate? Find a character, like yourself, who will want something or not want something, with all his heart."
.He wants to be the music that makes people breathe slower, makes them remember. She wants to save the people around her again, she wants to be hope. He loves to hate. She hates to love. He wants to pull fame out from the elementary school hallways and shake it out. She doesn't want to believe in ghosts forever, she wants to live.
[Quotes from Zen in the Art of Writing by Ray Bradbury]
"How rarely do we see people living, or for that matter, creating by them."
.Yellow walls, purple curtains, red couch. Knowing there are cities and stories there, somewhere. Holding on to the days we live. The days we really live. Fighting to never forget them.
ii
"What are the best things and worst things in your life, and when are you going to get around to whispering or shouting about them?"
.The worst: wanting, failing, losing what you loved, isolation, wondering why they don't care to listen anymore. The best: laughter, kindness, family, beauty in the unexpected, comfort and strength in being alone.
.WHISPERING. shouting.
iii
"What do you love most in the world? The big and little things, I mean. A trolley car, a pair of tennis shoes? These, at one time when we were children, were invested with magic for us."
.The smell of an old book, a favorite baseball glove, sharing a blanket and a room and a story, grapefruit at night, the lake in the morning before everyone else is awake, the air in Pompeii, the rooftops in Venice, the rocks at Zion, the spices in New Orleans, listening to a life-changing song with someone who understands.
iv
"What do you want more than anything else in the world? What do you love, or what do you hate? Find a character, like yourself, who will want something or not want something, with all his heart."
.He wants to be the music that makes people breathe slower, makes them remember. She wants to save the people around her again, she wants to be hope. He loves to hate. She hates to love. He wants to pull fame out from the elementary school hallways and shake it out. She doesn't want to believe in ghosts forever, she wants to live.
[Quotes from Zen in the Art of Writing by Ray Bradbury]
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Tuesday, April 06, 2010
Fear; revisited.
My fears have been showing up almost every day now, always new and more intimidating. Some people say that's life, they say it'll never end. I hope it's making me stronger and that I won't be afraid forever.
I met one fear when I opened that first letter: now I can move on. I met one at an afternoon party and introduced myself: now I'm not tormented. I met one when I felt that pain in my chest: now I can breathe. I met one late at night dreaming beside me: now I can sleep.
A year ago, I was terrified. Of losing my world, my foundation, my future. Now, I realize that I can have everything that matters, I just can't stop fighting for it.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Quieted
We saw an old man in an old church talk about writing last night. He was famous, accomplished, but when it came down to it, he was really just a man. A chapel full of readers and writers and I think, at times, none of us had anything to say. It wasn't the actual man we were captured by, in his button-down shirt and worn baseball cap, it was his words and the memories they evoked.
Friday, March 12, 2010
A conversation in the last pew; A conversation during a funeral
."I'm the only one left now. Soon no one will remember us."
-"You've got Sue."
."No one should have to bury their little sister. Or their little brother. I'm the only one left."
-"They lived good lives."
."Did they? How can you tell?"
-"They had people who loved them."
."I don't know if that matters."
-"It matters. Besides, you've still got Sue."
."We buried her a long time ago. I'm the only one left."
-"You've got Sue."
."No one should have to bury their little sister. Or their little brother. I'm the only one left."
-"They lived good lives."
."Did they? How can you tell?"
-"They had people who loved them."
."I don't know if that matters."
-"It matters. Besides, you've still got Sue."
."We buried her a long time ago. I'm the only one left."
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
A whole world
There's a whole world out there, he told me. There's a whole world and we're gonna see it, he told me.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
One day
The windows are all open so it feels like spring. There's blue paint on the side of the court, little boys with signatures that will outlast their youth.
There's a woman dressed in layers, tending to her garden of broken objects. Spoons and tin cans hang from a tree and she's maybe what you would call "an artist", or maybe what neighbors would call "eclectic".
The India House has been closed for years, but the sign and menu are still up. The sun shines on the windows like the lights are still on, and I'm sure when people walk by, they smell the spices.
There are buildings, four stories high, where the refugees live with prayer flags hanging from porches. In dorm rooms and hippie chicks' bedrooms, the flags are just a passing notion. Here, they represent a past, a life, a memory, a future, a need.
There's a woman dressed in layers, tending to her garden of broken objects. Spoons and tin cans hang from a tree and she's maybe what you would call "an artist", or maybe what neighbors would call "eclectic".
The India House has been closed for years, but the sign and menu are still up. The sun shines on the windows like the lights are still on, and I'm sure when people walk by, they smell the spices.
There are buildings, four stories high, where the refugees live with prayer flags hanging from porches. In dorm rooms and hippie chicks' bedrooms, the flags are just a passing notion. Here, they represent a past, a life, a memory, a future, a need.
Monday, February 22, 2010
On Cold Nights
The space heater by my feet has got an orange light and it makes a tick, tick, tick sound every now and then. When I hear that sound and see that light, I feel warm again.
The tip of my nose is cold and when you touch the back of my neck, I get goosebumps. I eat soup and curl my body around the bowl, sucking life out of the steam.
I'm under down blankets and the feathers sometime poke out and stick in my hair. I'll pull one leg out from the warmth we've created and let the cold settle on me.
When it is cold and the moon is out, I look around the world and think, I belong here. But I may never come back.
The tip of my nose is cold and when you touch the back of my neck, I get goosebumps. I eat soup and curl my body around the bowl, sucking life out of the steam.
I'm under down blankets and the feathers sometime poke out and stick in my hair. I'll pull one leg out from the warmth we've created and let the cold settle on me.
When it is cold and the moon is out, I look around the world and think, I belong here. But I may never come back.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Antifreeze
He looked at me and said, "tell me something I don't know about you."
So I told him about the time my cat died when I was eight.
The look in his eyes, the smell of his fur.
Cross-legged, enveloping him.
The antifreeze he'd been poisoned with, the neighbor kid who did it.
The first time I saw anything die: the air changed and my fingertips tingled.
The first time I understood there was cruelty in the world.
But kindness, too. Cross-legged, enveloping him.
He looked at me and said, "I've already heard that story."
But he hadn't. I'd only ever told him I was eight, the cat died, antifreeze.
So I told him about the time my cat died when I was eight.
The look in his eyes, the smell of his fur.
Cross-legged, enveloping him.
The antifreeze he'd been poisoned with, the neighbor kid who did it.
The first time I saw anything die: the air changed and my fingertips tingled.
The first time I understood there was cruelty in the world.
But kindness, too. Cross-legged, enveloping him.
He looked at me and said, "I've already heard that story."
But he hadn't. I'd only ever told him I was eight, the cat died, antifreeze.
Monday, January 04, 2010
Profoundly sad
Sometimes I read her words and think I don't understand love. I think that, maybe, I missed something. I think that, maybe, I've been too cynical. Sometimes I wish I had that in me, that love, like sadness, that can seep into everything if you let it. And I wonder if I'll ever change.
Then I think about love, and I think of the smell of sawdust and snow. Opening that door with the three little window panes. Sharing a bedroom and talking in the dark. Patchouli and spices. Guitars and champagne. Watching those memories, packed so tight, escape slowly and finally find a place to sleep. Hidden pictures of skinny dipping and late night road trips. Canyons, castles, cities. The feeling of saying goodbye. Marking time by moments apart, not calendars. Quilts folded on couches. There are tears sometimes, screaming sometimes, but why waste your sometimes?
My love isn't better, it isn't as consuming. It's not that can't-breathe, got-fire-and-butterflies-in-your-stomach, cry-all-night-'cause-you-can't-live-without-each other kind of love. I couldn't live that way. My love is a quieter thing, melancholy at times, but usually, it's right where it needs to be.
Then I think about love, and I think of the smell of sawdust and snow. Opening that door with the three little window panes. Sharing a bedroom and talking in the dark. Patchouli and spices. Guitars and champagne. Watching those memories, packed so tight, escape slowly and finally find a place to sleep. Hidden pictures of skinny dipping and late night road trips. Canyons, castles, cities. The feeling of saying goodbye. Marking time by moments apart, not calendars. Quilts folded on couches. There are tears sometimes, screaming sometimes, but why waste your sometimes?
My love isn't better, it isn't as consuming. It's not that can't-breathe, got-fire-and-butterflies-in-your-stomach, cry-all-night-'cause-you-can't-live-without-each other kind of love. I couldn't live that way. My love is a quieter thing, melancholy at times, but usually, it's right where it needs to be.
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