Mnkys scpd n Flrd.
Fftn rn, fv cptrd.
Tn stll lvng lrg!
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Talking Down to Myself
-_-_-_-> It pains me to add this blog to my page. I have heard what I would consider to be interesting comments in regard to my "Gingerbread Man" blog (it's just down the list from here you should read it) and I think that discussion and interpretation in regard to writing is a good thing. I also feel strongly that very little fiction should be explained or spoon fed to the reader. When I took literature classes in high school and college there was always a heavy emphasis on interpretation. I understand on some levels the idea behind this and can appreciate that it helped to develop effective and engaged readers.
At the same time it also deeply bothered me. Yes, yes… there are definitely some stories which need or stand up to deep and specifically directed interpretation. The Wizard of Oz as a representation of the struggles between the silver and gold standard in the United States of America and various C.S. Lewis stories with incorporated Christian themes both come immediately to mind. However, I believe that one of the most important parts of any story, written or told, is the part that the person experiencing (reading/hearing) the story brings to it. We all filter the observations that we make of the world around us through our own feelings, thoughts, emotions, and experiences. If you don't know what I'm talking about go back and read something that you read when you were young and see if you don't take different things from it now. If you're still young I guess you'll just have to take my word for it.
I always felt, during those classes, that we were being incredibly arrogant to believe that we were interpreting the writing as the author intended. The teachers would always say "Now, what was so-and-so trying to say here? Or, what did so-and-so mean when they wrote this?" Interpret away, but why do you think that what you take from a given piece of writing has anything to do with the writer's experience? How about… What did this story mean to you or how did you feel when such-and-such happened. How does that compare to the experience of the others in the class. Why are many of these interpretations the same, why some different, and so on. At the moment, and this may change, I feel that writing a story, telling a story, engaging the reader, communicating a point, reading, and interpreting a story are all unique and different experiences. Personally, when writing, I am often trying to engage myself and provide a point to myself which takes into account my own distinctive interpretive paradigm. If you get the same things as a reader that I do when writing, great. If you get something all together different then that's great too. Communication is incredibly imperfect, much like everything else that we do and experience, but that is part of what makes it interesting.
As I said, there have been what I would consider to be some interesting comments (public not on-line) made in regard to this piece of writing. Normally I would not have any interest in explaining what was intended by a piece of writing. I feel that just as it was out of line for us as students to attempt to interpret the author's intention, meaning, and experience in writing, it is equally inappropriate to, as an author, dictate what a reader takes from a piece of writing. There is no right or wrong way to read anything that I write. If you make connections in your mind between a story I write about snow cones, and the life of a Russian soldier during World War II by all means go with it. That said I'm afraid that this particular mediocre piece of short fiction has in light of recent personal events been used as ammunition against friends in order to justify assumptions made and stories told. As a result I am sadly going to explain a few of the thoughts behind this story. I hope that I do not offend anyone and do not in any way intend to direct your interpretation, understanding, or god forbid enjoyment of this particular piece. Only to provide a point of reference as to my thoughts when writing it and hopefully in the process discourage some of the verbal abuse presently being endured by some of my peers.
First of all things that I post to blogs are not refined writing. They are a first draft and not intended to be improved upon. They have not been reworked or struggled over. They have been written in one sitting and then posted. They are really just conversation and contain typos (which one friend loves to point out) and poorly worked out thoughts and feelings.
This particular story was dealing with loss.
THERE WAS NO SEX IN THIS STORY.
The main idea was, at the time of writing that dealing with death is an incredibly personal public struggle. The character in the story has lost her husband. Read lost as he died. In the beginning of the story she wakes from a terrible nightmare. She seems to be having them all of the time and she feels as if she is losing, or has lost control of her emotions and life. She can't stand the pain and confusion of the waking world and she can't control the fear and anguish of her sleep. When she wakes she is dry heaving and drenched with sweat. Trapped in the panic that seems only to be generated upon waking disorientated from a nightmare and struggling to get a handle on what was dream and what is reality.
The dream had to do with death and the husband. She goes to the bathroom and is struggling to put the dreams aside and fully wake. The memories she has of him and their love are so intense that she seems to be losing the ability to clearly define what is memory, what is dream, and what is fantasy. She get's a Coke and goes out to the porch to watch the morning. She has a wedding to attend that evening and everyone she knows will be there. They are all concerned for her. Some out of pure care and some out of morbid curiosity about the troubles she is having, most of them somewhere in between. She knows that they will ask how she is doing. That they will show concern. That they will want to be there for her but she also knows that she just wants to be left alone. That all of the attention and concern focused on her just makes things worse. That she feels like everyone is just waiting for her to break down and cry. She feels the need to put up a good front but feels as if everyone is just waiting for her to crack so they can say how worried they are and how much they love her. So they can look at their friends and say "Poor dear, I can't even imagine what she must be going through. He was so young and just to be gone like that… it really is a shame." After all that is only the right thing to say.
She comes back in for breakfast and manages to distract herself for a moment but it doesn't work long. She tries a shower but ends up remembering showering with him. No sex here either, sorry. Just two people being intimate. Sharing too small a shower stall, with only one shower head, bumping between each other's warm soapy bodies and the cold tile. Again the memories bombard her. She steps back into her fragmented life only to realize she hasn't done laundry in two weeks and has used the last towel the day before. That's about the time she decides she needs a drink. Poor coping mechanism but when you are at wits end…
She walks naked into the kitchen and pours the drink thinking again about the wedding which she is dreading and what to wear. Something short which will show her legs instead of the pain of loss, lack of sleep, tenuous hold she has on the ability to manage her daily life, etc.
Please take what ever you like from the story (you'll find it just down the list from this blog) and do not feel compelled in any way to read it as I have just described it. This was only an attempt to clarify the thoughts I had while writing. There is still plenty of gossip to be told, sorry if I am taking some of the fun out of this part of it. But hey, don't let my explanation stop the stories. The best gossip generally contains only the slightest tiny bit of truth if any at all. Just do me a favor and lay the fuck off my friends.
At the same time it also deeply bothered me. Yes, yes… there are definitely some stories which need or stand up to deep and specifically directed interpretation. The Wizard of Oz as a representation of the struggles between the silver and gold standard in the United States of America and various C.S. Lewis stories with incorporated Christian themes both come immediately to mind. However, I believe that one of the most important parts of any story, written or told, is the part that the person experiencing (reading/hearing) the story brings to it. We all filter the observations that we make of the world around us through our own feelings, thoughts, emotions, and experiences. If you don't know what I'm talking about go back and read something that you read when you were young and see if you don't take different things from it now. If you're still young I guess you'll just have to take my word for it.
I always felt, during those classes, that we were being incredibly arrogant to believe that we were interpreting the writing as the author intended. The teachers would always say "Now, what was so-and-so trying to say here? Or, what did so-and-so mean when they wrote this?" Interpret away, but why do you think that what you take from a given piece of writing has anything to do with the writer's experience? How about… What did this story mean to you or how did you feel when such-and-such happened. How does that compare to the experience of the others in the class. Why are many of these interpretations the same, why some different, and so on. At the moment, and this may change, I feel that writing a story, telling a story, engaging the reader, communicating a point, reading, and interpreting a story are all unique and different experiences. Personally, when writing, I am often trying to engage myself and provide a point to myself which takes into account my own distinctive interpretive paradigm. If you get the same things as a reader that I do when writing, great. If you get something all together different then that's great too. Communication is incredibly imperfect, much like everything else that we do and experience, but that is part of what makes it interesting.
As I said, there have been what I would consider to be some interesting comments (public not on-line) made in regard to this piece of writing. Normally I would not have any interest in explaining what was intended by a piece of writing. I feel that just as it was out of line for us as students to attempt to interpret the author's intention, meaning, and experience in writing, it is equally inappropriate to, as an author, dictate what a reader takes from a piece of writing. There is no right or wrong way to read anything that I write. If you make connections in your mind between a story I write about snow cones, and the life of a Russian soldier during World War II by all means go with it. That said I'm afraid that this particular mediocre piece of short fiction has in light of recent personal events been used as ammunition against friends in order to justify assumptions made and stories told. As a result I am sadly going to explain a few of the thoughts behind this story. I hope that I do not offend anyone and do not in any way intend to direct your interpretation, understanding, or god forbid enjoyment of this particular piece. Only to provide a point of reference as to my thoughts when writing it and hopefully in the process discourage some of the verbal abuse presently being endured by some of my peers.
First of all things that I post to blogs are not refined writing. They are a first draft and not intended to be improved upon. They have not been reworked or struggled over. They have been written in one sitting and then posted. They are really just conversation and contain typos (which one friend loves to point out) and poorly worked out thoughts and feelings.
This particular story was dealing with loss.
THERE WAS NO SEX IN THIS STORY.
The main idea was, at the time of writing that dealing with death is an incredibly personal public struggle. The character in the story has lost her husband. Read lost as he died. In the beginning of the story she wakes from a terrible nightmare. She seems to be having them all of the time and she feels as if she is losing, or has lost control of her emotions and life. She can't stand the pain and confusion of the waking world and she can't control the fear and anguish of her sleep. When she wakes she is dry heaving and drenched with sweat. Trapped in the panic that seems only to be generated upon waking disorientated from a nightmare and struggling to get a handle on what was dream and what is reality.
The dream had to do with death and the husband. She goes to the bathroom and is struggling to put the dreams aside and fully wake. The memories she has of him and their love are so intense that she seems to be losing the ability to clearly define what is memory, what is dream, and what is fantasy. She get's a Coke and goes out to the porch to watch the morning. She has a wedding to attend that evening and everyone she knows will be there. They are all concerned for her. Some out of pure care and some out of morbid curiosity about the troubles she is having, most of them somewhere in between. She knows that they will ask how she is doing. That they will show concern. That they will want to be there for her but she also knows that she just wants to be left alone. That all of the attention and concern focused on her just makes things worse. That she feels like everyone is just waiting for her to break down and cry. She feels the need to put up a good front but feels as if everyone is just waiting for her to crack so they can say how worried they are and how much they love her. So they can look at their friends and say "Poor dear, I can't even imagine what she must be going through. He was so young and just to be gone like that… it really is a shame." After all that is only the right thing to say.
She comes back in for breakfast and manages to distract herself for a moment but it doesn't work long. She tries a shower but ends up remembering showering with him. No sex here either, sorry. Just two people being intimate. Sharing too small a shower stall, with only one shower head, bumping between each other's warm soapy bodies and the cold tile. Again the memories bombard her. She steps back into her fragmented life only to realize she hasn't done laundry in two weeks and has used the last towel the day before. That's about the time she decides she needs a drink. Poor coping mechanism but when you are at wits end…
She walks naked into the kitchen and pours the drink thinking again about the wedding which she is dreading and what to wear. Something short which will show her legs instead of the pain of loss, lack of sleep, tenuous hold she has on the ability to manage her daily life, etc.
Please take what ever you like from the story (you'll find it just down the list from this blog) and do not feel compelled in any way to read it as I have just described it. This was only an attempt to clarify the thoughts I had while writing. There is still plenty of gossip to be told, sorry if I am taking some of the fun out of this part of it. But hey, don't let my explanation stop the stories. The best gossip generally contains only the slightest tiny bit of truth if any at all. Just do me a favor and lay the fuck off my friends.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Cracked Shadows Breed Balance
The two of them, they walked quietly away from the double doors and carefully down the stone stairway. The sun was falling toward the earth and the sideways rays cast shadows, reaching and stretching across the lawn just tickling the base of the stairway. The stones changing color in the caress of the shadows. Pinks and blues and grays rolling over upon one another becoming deeper and somehow quieter, almost as of they were showing respect.
He hesitated ever so slightly as he strode from the last step. Not wanting to allow the shadows access to his footprints. Like a child avoiding cracks in a sidewalk he lengthened and shortened his steps avoiding the tendrils of graying half light. If she noticed the offbeat rhythm of his gait she did not acknowledge it.
In fact she had noticed. Though she wouldn’t, no couldn’t, no… no wouldn’t, express her understanding of the fear that late afternoon, fear of the encroaching darkness, she silently shared his discomfort.
Three times he drew a breath during that slow walk across the church lawn. Three times his lips parted, but each time the thoughts stumbled somewhere along the path between the swirling, bubbling, pool that breeds such thoughts and the place where they take form, becoming words.
Instead he opened the car door and brushed the pale warmth of her cheek with his lips. Made apologies in regards to the quiet dinner she had proposed and shut the door gently behind her.
He resisted the urge to turn and look as the loose gravel scooted under the tires groping for traction on the warm dusty lot. For just a moment he wished he had agreed to dinner, wanted more than anything not to be alone. Those thoughts fled with the next breath though and he settled into a quiet solitary discontent.
He drove the two lane twisting road back to his hotel with the radio off and the windows down, the hum of the engine and the buzzing of the tires running over the asphalt acting as a backdrop for his scattered thoughts.
The shower was small and he had to duck in order to get his head under the water. He didn’t really need one but somehow the steaming water had managed to rinse away some of the… What was it exactly? There had been so many hugs and handshakes. It was almost as if some of that grief and discomfort had clung to him. That each touch had left him with a little of the loss and disconcertment they had been unable to express adequately with words. Either way he felt better, even if it was only ever so slightly.
The hotel, it turned out, had a decent restaurant and the steak had been more than adequate. Full of red meat and potatoes he found a bottle of bourbon at the bar. Being slow, the bartender had been gracious enough to allow him to carry it onto the sweeping front porch where he settled in a comfortable wicker chair and began working on the bottle in earnest.
She sat down gently but he could tell that she was drained. Ice danced loosely in her glass as she set it down next to the bottle and asked if he minded the company now, seeing as he had declined dinner earlier. Laughing once very softly through his nose he moved three cubes of ice from her glass to his before pouring the dull brown liquor into them both.
They sat quietly as lightning bugs bounced gently though the darkness, not speaking just pouring the bourbon from the bottle to the glasses and from the glasses into them.
When she placed her hand gently on his forearm he flinched, snatched momentarily from cloudy thoughts.
“She knew.” She said, barely more than a whisper.
“I know… it’s ok… I Love you.”
A lightning bug caught his attention across the yard and he drifted back to the cloudy thoughts…
He hesitated ever so slightly as he strode from the last step. Not wanting to allow the shadows access to his footprints. Like a child avoiding cracks in a sidewalk he lengthened and shortened his steps avoiding the tendrils of graying half light. If she noticed the offbeat rhythm of his gait she did not acknowledge it.
In fact she had noticed. Though she wouldn’t, no couldn’t, no… no wouldn’t, express her understanding of the fear that late afternoon, fear of the encroaching darkness, she silently shared his discomfort.
Three times he drew a breath during that slow walk across the church lawn. Three times his lips parted, but each time the thoughts stumbled somewhere along the path between the swirling, bubbling, pool that breeds such thoughts and the place where they take form, becoming words.
Instead he opened the car door and brushed the pale warmth of her cheek with his lips. Made apologies in regards to the quiet dinner she had proposed and shut the door gently behind her.
He resisted the urge to turn and look as the loose gravel scooted under the tires groping for traction on the warm dusty lot. For just a moment he wished he had agreed to dinner, wanted more than anything not to be alone. Those thoughts fled with the next breath though and he settled into a quiet solitary discontent.
He drove the two lane twisting road back to his hotel with the radio off and the windows down, the hum of the engine and the buzzing of the tires running over the asphalt acting as a backdrop for his scattered thoughts.
The shower was small and he had to duck in order to get his head under the water. He didn’t really need one but somehow the steaming water had managed to rinse away some of the… What was it exactly? There had been so many hugs and handshakes. It was almost as if some of that grief and discomfort had clung to him. That each touch had left him with a little of the loss and disconcertment they had been unable to express adequately with words. Either way he felt better, even if it was only ever so slightly.
The hotel, it turned out, had a decent restaurant and the steak had been more than adequate. Full of red meat and potatoes he found a bottle of bourbon at the bar. Being slow, the bartender had been gracious enough to allow him to carry it onto the sweeping front porch where he settled in a comfortable wicker chair and began working on the bottle in earnest.
She sat down gently but he could tell that she was drained. Ice danced loosely in her glass as she set it down next to the bottle and asked if he minded the company now, seeing as he had declined dinner earlier. Laughing once very softly through his nose he moved three cubes of ice from her glass to his before pouring the dull brown liquor into them both.
They sat quietly as lightning bugs bounced gently though the darkness, not speaking just pouring the bourbon from the bottle to the glasses and from the glasses into them.
When she placed her hand gently on his forearm he flinched, snatched momentarily from cloudy thoughts.
“She knew.” She said, barely more than a whisper.
“I know… it’s ok… I Love you.”
A lightning bug caught his attention across the yard and he drifted back to the cloudy thoughts…
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
It Turns Out The Gingerbread Man Was Only That Fast Because He Was Taking Steroids...
Breath escaping, no not escaping, positively fleeing. Rushing from lungs with such force, so fast that it hurts, so hard in fact that she gags. Not the gentle rising in her throat, I think I may have just thrown up a little in my mouth kind of gag. More like her stomach lining is trying to escape, clawing its way up her esophagus dragging her lungs kicking and screaming along with it. Retching… It didn't used to be like this. They're getting worse.
Retch- She thought about the word for a moment. Funny word, saying it, the way the air gathers in your lungs. It almost starts low in your throat as if it were a whisper. Moving through your shoulders and spreading out across the back of your tongue which then spreads out and thickens. Tongue filling the bottom of your mouth, rushing forward, spilling up against the back of your teeth. Even the word is cathartic.
Sticking, the sheets, everywhere they touch bare skin. The sweat standing up in cold beads, how did she get so fucking wet? Christ, you could drown a small child in this bed. Her breath was starting to slow, gradually the heaving of her chest was subsiding. Raw heat from the fear drifting away, leaving behind an empty cold wet nothingness.
What time was it? Not yet daylight so it must be early or incredibly fucking late. Was it always this quiet in the still parts of the night? Nothing but wind, pushing, blowing at the house like a wolf, the smell of pork lingering in its hazy memories. It's funny, she thought, not quite sure what really was and definitely not feeling a bit like laughing. The dreams were always there now. They were taking over in a corner of her mind where she had no control. During the daylight when she was aware of herself she could keep the thoughts, manage them. She did not know which was worse anymore, the dreams, or the reality which was becoming more and more dishonest, more and more a fantasy in and of itself.
There would be no going back to sleep. No drifting back into a restful place. There are no sheep to count, they stopped being useful the day he left, at least it seemed like they were useful before then. Did the sheep leave with him, replaced by the dreams? Or maybe the dreams had fed upon the sheep and now with them gone they needed other things to satisfy their appetites. Either way, peaceful rest seemed a lifetime away.
She slid lightly to the floor and hurried to drain her bladder. The images of her sleep fading as the urine passed and splattered from her into the still water of the toilet. Had he said he would return? She remembered that he had but at this point she didn't trust her own memories. They had blurred with the conversations she imagined, the ones she had a million times since he had gone. The ones in which she apologized. The ones where he forgave her, the ones where he said he loved her. Even the ones where she believed him. Believing him, she thought, those were definitely in her imagination. She had never believed him. Not when it came to the truth.
She grabbed a Diet Coke from the ice box and walked out onto the front porch. Wind still blowing though not like earlier, now it was more like a breeze. Just enough to push the hair across her face and piss her off. There it was, the first part of the day. Just starting to come up behind the trees, the sky lighter by degrees with each passing moment. She tried again to think of an excuse. Shit, she would even have to dance, smile, play nice. They would all be watching her to see. Every one of them prying and looking for just a hint and then they would pounce, fucking assholes.
Back to the ice box for eggs and bacon. Somehow the smell and sizzle of bacon in a heavy pan had always made things better. She didn't remember where that came from but it was definitely true. That one was there before him. That one came from being little, from having small fears and inconsequential worries, the kind that bacon was strong enough to overpower. Not like now. But just for a moment the bacon brings a smile, until she remembers... Memories, she thought, the dead must throw them at you relentlessly. You would think with all of eternity on their hands they could find something more interesting to do than torment the ones still here.
The faucet squeaks like the raspy voice of an old woman with spent thoughts, decrepit bones. The water flows with hesitation, sputtering and spitting from the pipes which carry it through the walls and from who knows where. She wonders at how she takes the things like this for granted. The water just comes. The maze of pipes and paths go unseen yet they are everywhere. Every house, every home, every shop and restaurant, garden and lawn, the completeness of it was actually scary. The idea that there was even enough water in the city to fill all the pipes was absurd. The water towers always seemed big but now that the idea of those pipes is in her mind they seem completely inadequate. The water was always there on demand, to wash away the dirt and the fatigue. It runs over her bare shoulders turning the supple skin red and angry. The shower is a distraction. She runs slick fingertips over the curves and contours of her lower back and hips. The steam entering her lungs, warming the air around her, he had always liked that part. The air thick and warm with steam, the water almost too hot to stand splashing over them both but the tile still ice cold. The contrast of the hot skin being pressed against the cold, cold tile was so intense in her memories. He had always liked intense, always been so damn intense. Shit, at least, it had started as a distraction, they said it would get easier, what the fuck do they know anyway? The tears slip silently down the drain with the soap and water. Running and sliding down the pipes carrying her fear and hurt far away into the maze where they mingle with the tears of strangers with memories of their own. At least they won't be lonely.
Cold bottle against her warm fingers, the freezer spilling frozen air over her wet naked body. Maybe some laundry, a clean towel would make sense, but there is something about standing naked in the kitchen, pouring vodka from a frozen bottle, while dripping dry into puddles at nine-thirty in the morning, that conveys a disdain for reality which few things match. The black one she thought. It seemed appropriate given her mood and they would think it was too short, good. Maybe if they were looking at her legs they wouldn't notice it written on her face…
Retch- She thought about the word for a moment. Funny word, saying it, the way the air gathers in your lungs. It almost starts low in your throat as if it were a whisper. Moving through your shoulders and spreading out across the back of your tongue which then spreads out and thickens. Tongue filling the bottom of your mouth, rushing forward, spilling up against the back of your teeth. Even the word is cathartic.
Sticking, the sheets, everywhere they touch bare skin. The sweat standing up in cold beads, how did she get so fucking wet? Christ, you could drown a small child in this bed. Her breath was starting to slow, gradually the heaving of her chest was subsiding. Raw heat from the fear drifting away, leaving behind an empty cold wet nothingness.
What time was it? Not yet daylight so it must be early or incredibly fucking late. Was it always this quiet in the still parts of the night? Nothing but wind, pushing, blowing at the house like a wolf, the smell of pork lingering in its hazy memories. It's funny, she thought, not quite sure what really was and definitely not feeling a bit like laughing. The dreams were always there now. They were taking over in a corner of her mind where she had no control. During the daylight when she was aware of herself she could keep the thoughts, manage them. She did not know which was worse anymore, the dreams, or the reality which was becoming more and more dishonest, more and more a fantasy in and of itself.
There would be no going back to sleep. No drifting back into a restful place. There are no sheep to count, they stopped being useful the day he left, at least it seemed like they were useful before then. Did the sheep leave with him, replaced by the dreams? Or maybe the dreams had fed upon the sheep and now with them gone they needed other things to satisfy their appetites. Either way, peaceful rest seemed a lifetime away.
She slid lightly to the floor and hurried to drain her bladder. The images of her sleep fading as the urine passed and splattered from her into the still water of the toilet. Had he said he would return? She remembered that he had but at this point she didn't trust her own memories. They had blurred with the conversations she imagined, the ones she had a million times since he had gone. The ones in which she apologized. The ones where he forgave her, the ones where he said he loved her. Even the ones where she believed him. Believing him, she thought, those were definitely in her imagination. She had never believed him. Not when it came to the truth.
She grabbed a Diet Coke from the ice box and walked out onto the front porch. Wind still blowing though not like earlier, now it was more like a breeze. Just enough to push the hair across her face and piss her off. There it was, the first part of the day. Just starting to come up behind the trees, the sky lighter by degrees with each passing moment. She tried again to think of an excuse. Shit, she would even have to dance, smile, play nice. They would all be watching her to see. Every one of them prying and looking for just a hint and then they would pounce, fucking assholes.
Back to the ice box for eggs and bacon. Somehow the smell and sizzle of bacon in a heavy pan had always made things better. She didn't remember where that came from but it was definitely true. That one was there before him. That one came from being little, from having small fears and inconsequential worries, the kind that bacon was strong enough to overpower. Not like now. But just for a moment the bacon brings a smile, until she remembers... Memories, she thought, the dead must throw them at you relentlessly. You would think with all of eternity on their hands they could find something more interesting to do than torment the ones still here.
The faucet squeaks like the raspy voice of an old woman with spent thoughts, decrepit bones. The water flows with hesitation, sputtering and spitting from the pipes which carry it through the walls and from who knows where. She wonders at how she takes the things like this for granted. The water just comes. The maze of pipes and paths go unseen yet they are everywhere. Every house, every home, every shop and restaurant, garden and lawn, the completeness of it was actually scary. The idea that there was even enough water in the city to fill all the pipes was absurd. The water towers always seemed big but now that the idea of those pipes is in her mind they seem completely inadequate. The water was always there on demand, to wash away the dirt and the fatigue. It runs over her bare shoulders turning the supple skin red and angry. The shower is a distraction. She runs slick fingertips over the curves and contours of her lower back and hips. The steam entering her lungs, warming the air around her, he had always liked that part. The air thick and warm with steam, the water almost too hot to stand splashing over them both but the tile still ice cold. The contrast of the hot skin being pressed against the cold, cold tile was so intense in her memories. He had always liked intense, always been so damn intense. Shit, at least, it had started as a distraction, they said it would get easier, what the fuck do they know anyway? The tears slip silently down the drain with the soap and water. Running and sliding down the pipes carrying her fear and hurt far away into the maze where they mingle with the tears of strangers with memories of their own. At least they won't be lonely.
Cold bottle against her warm fingers, the freezer spilling frozen air over her wet naked body. Maybe some laundry, a clean towel would make sense, but there is something about standing naked in the kitchen, pouring vodka from a frozen bottle, while dripping dry into puddles at nine-thirty in the morning, that conveys a disdain for reality which few things match. The black one she thought. It seemed appropriate given her mood and they would think it was too short, good. Maybe if they were looking at her legs they wouldn't notice it written on her face…
What The Hell is With People Dying
Another friend's life just changed in a way I can't even begin to imagine. His wife just died. They were celebrating their one year anniversary. Too young… too soon.
I really wish whoever is in charge of arranging these things would go play in someone else's back yard for a while and stay out of ours. We've had enough for a bit.
Another friend's wedding is coming up. I'm sitting here filling out the R.S.V.P.'s (There are several) and thinking about the other friend. How he and she were receiving the same cards a year ago, looking forward to their lives together. As I fill out these cards I have found a line followed by the word regrets. The line is too short. There is no way to fit them all in. Not even close.
Regrets are a funny thing. Some days I look back over my life and find that I have none. I have always believed that I could excuse my actions by the belief that though I may have made a bad decision from time to time, based on the facts available at the time I was doing what I thought was the best thing.
On other days I'm honest with myself.
I don't regret the mistakes, and truth be told there really are very few things I regret. There are a couple of times where I have hurt or scared someone. Either because I lost my temper or made a selfish decision that I knew was wrong when I made it. Those few moments in time I would take back. Those hearts I would heal.
But those things make me who I am as much as the good decisions I have made. We are all flawed and the moments that define us are the ones that matter. The really beautiful part is that we get to decide for ourselves what those moments are. Define yourself by your flaws and mistakes if you want but the truth is that we are all beautiful creatures. Beautiful flawed messes. You really wouldn't want it any other way.
The people that I Love know how I feel about them. I have looked them in the eye and told them so. If they were to disappear tomorrow I would miss them horribly, my heart and soul would ache and bleed, but my Love would follow them into the darkness. No things have been left unsaid. I hope that my friend feels the same way about his wife.
Love looks upon the lover with eyes that see no regrets, only beauty. Beautiful Imperfection.
I really wish whoever is in charge of arranging these things would go play in someone else's back yard for a while and stay out of ours. We've had enough for a bit.
Another friend's wedding is coming up. I'm sitting here filling out the R.S.V.P.'s (There are several) and thinking about the other friend. How he and she were receiving the same cards a year ago, looking forward to their lives together. As I fill out these cards I have found a line followed by the word regrets. The line is too short. There is no way to fit them all in. Not even close.
Regrets are a funny thing. Some days I look back over my life and find that I have none. I have always believed that I could excuse my actions by the belief that though I may have made a bad decision from time to time, based on the facts available at the time I was doing what I thought was the best thing.
On other days I'm honest with myself.
I don't regret the mistakes, and truth be told there really are very few things I regret. There are a couple of times where I have hurt or scared someone. Either because I lost my temper or made a selfish decision that I knew was wrong when I made it. Those few moments in time I would take back. Those hearts I would heal.
But those things make me who I am as much as the good decisions I have made. We are all flawed and the moments that define us are the ones that matter. The really beautiful part is that we get to decide for ourselves what those moments are. Define yourself by your flaws and mistakes if you want but the truth is that we are all beautiful creatures. Beautiful flawed messes. You really wouldn't want it any other way.
The people that I Love know how I feel about them. I have looked them in the eye and told them so. If they were to disappear tomorrow I would miss them horribly, my heart and soul would ache and bleed, but my Love would follow them into the darkness. No things have been left unsaid. I hope that my friend feels the same way about his wife.
Love looks upon the lover with eyes that see no regrets, only beauty. Beautiful Imperfection.
Even Suicide Has Lost It's Appeal
No one has orange soda on their fountain drink machines anymore. I guess people just aren't that fond of it. Things change… go figure. Some things do anyway.
It's been a full couple of weeks, weddings and deaths. Both always make me take a moment to reflect. To kind of step outside and look in on myself and the life I'm choosing to surround myself with. Not always a good thing to do.
Ronnie's plane flew into the side of a mountain in Colorado.
He was twenty five years old.
I haven't seen him much in the last couple of years. He's been working as a travel nurse. Helping people and traveling, it fit well with him. He had just started a new job in Arizona as a flight nurse. They were on the way to pick up a patient, bad weather and such.
Done.
I know that he was loved. I know I have friends who are hurting. I know this world is a poorer place for me to spend the next sixty years in (any of us for that matter) without him here. He added value to this place and the hearts of more than a few.
=>
One of the people I really like (high praise) got married. I happen to really be fond of her husband as well. It's funny but that seldom happens. She and I talked on the phone for a while a day or two before the wedding. She asked if I could give her any advice on how to make a relationship of that nature work. It was a question that struck me as funny seeing that she knows my history with relationships. I honestly couldn't come up with anything good at the moment so she suggested I write it down.
I still don't have anything good.
I have been thinking about it though. Here's the problem: (One of them anyway) I was on my back in the grass the other day watching the clouds. You know how this works. That one looks like a turtle, this one a goat, that one a monkey. If you look back to the first one it's no longer a turtle but a jet car. I stopped bouncing from cloud to cloud and just watched one. It was constantly changing in small subtle ways. The edges blurry and shifting, rolling back onto itself like waves crashing on the beach then running back out to the sea again and again. As I watched it became thing after thing after thing. People do the same thing. We are constantly changing and shifting. Our moods, ideas, dreams, thoughts, feelings, fears they all constantly boil and bubble moving and shifting. We are never the same person in any two moments.
The cloud game is often shared with another person. Both looking at the same shifting clouds through the eyes of different lives and seeing the same things differently. The problem is that we all have things that we want to see. We all have an agenda. We look at one another and form relationships with people we can't hope to truly understand. We see them (both the people and the relationships) through eyes that we can not trust. We see things, no matter how hard we try through filters of our own hearts and minds. None of us truly seeing reality if such a thing even exists.
So the question remains… Somehow understanding the problem better doesn't always make an answer easier.
How do you have a relationship for fifty some odd years with a person who is constantly changing, while you are constantly changing, and neither one of you truly sees the other person as they are but rather as some variation of that which you want them to be.
My answer is you don't. It is not humanly possible…
You will not wake up every day and like the person next to you. You will in fact wake up one day and actively dislike them. You will do and say horrible things to one another (with great self control you may only think them but they will still be there and you will both feel them). You will look at that person and realize suddenly that you don't even know who they are anymore. I can make no guarantees other than you will be sad, hurt, misunderstood, and at times feel desperately alone while you lay next to one another in bed. You will meet other people who you find attractive and incredibly interesting; who you are certain if you were only free of your responsibilities could be a better match for you. Should I go on?
Now there's another problem. We all have a mountain in our future. Most of us will not be so lucky as to have it show up while we are doing something great for others and which we are passionate about. Between now and then we have a choice. We can accept the fact that those relationships are not possible or we can choose something else.
The key to all of this is what we call Love. Loving someone is allowing them to be whatever it is that they are and choosing to like them anyway. There are times when it will be easy to do that… There will be others when it is extremely difficult… There will be others still when you just have to fake it until it becomes only extremely difficult again. Don't confuse allowing someone to be what they are with allowing them to be reckless or abusive with your heart. But you can criticize, correct, fight, and direct while still liking someone very much.
And I think that is the advice I have. To always remember no matter what, that even as you struggle with what you are, they are, and the relationship is in any given moment, there is a place where your hearts met and that cannot be undone. You can trash the relationship if you like but your hearts will always recognize one another and smile upon meeting. Let them.
Oscar Wilde has a line in his play The Importance of Being Earnest: If you promise not to take too long I will wait here for you the rest of my life.
That's kind of the idea. We can choose any number of adventures to pursue, choosing what to do is far less important than choosing who to do it with.
=>
You have to love a restaurant with a self serve fountain soda machine. It's one of the few things that you have control over as a child. Here's your cup go pick what kind of soda you would like. We all know the answer. Suicide! I want it all… that's right just put all of them together right here in this one cup. Mmmm, thanks much. The problem as I have already stated is that no one has orange soda on the fountain anymore. Believe it or not the orange was the one truly key ingredient. Nothing else really mattered but without the orange it just isn't the same. I never even noticed until it wasn't there anymore. If you don't believe me go give it a try. You'll have to take a can of orange soda with you.
Things change- Most things are neither good nor bad- We take care of that.
Orange soda as a metaphor for life and relationships… Odd but somehow it works. (At least from where I lay here in the grass)
M- You looked beautiful on your day. L- is a fabulously lucky man! There will always be room in my heart for you both.
It's been a full couple of weeks, weddings and deaths. Both always make me take a moment to reflect. To kind of step outside and look in on myself and the life I'm choosing to surround myself with. Not always a good thing to do.
Ronnie's plane flew into the side of a mountain in Colorado.
He was twenty five years old.
I haven't seen him much in the last couple of years. He's been working as a travel nurse. Helping people and traveling, it fit well with him. He had just started a new job in Arizona as a flight nurse. They were on the way to pick up a patient, bad weather and such.
Done.
I know that he was loved. I know I have friends who are hurting. I know this world is a poorer place for me to spend the next sixty years in (any of us for that matter) without him here. He added value to this place and the hearts of more than a few.
=>
One of the people I really like (high praise) got married. I happen to really be fond of her husband as well. It's funny but that seldom happens. She and I talked on the phone for a while a day or two before the wedding. She asked if I could give her any advice on how to make a relationship of that nature work. It was a question that struck me as funny seeing that she knows my history with relationships. I honestly couldn't come up with anything good at the moment so she suggested I write it down.
I still don't have anything good.
I have been thinking about it though. Here's the problem: (One of them anyway) I was on my back in the grass the other day watching the clouds. You know how this works. That one looks like a turtle, this one a goat, that one a monkey. If you look back to the first one it's no longer a turtle but a jet car. I stopped bouncing from cloud to cloud and just watched one. It was constantly changing in small subtle ways. The edges blurry and shifting, rolling back onto itself like waves crashing on the beach then running back out to the sea again and again. As I watched it became thing after thing after thing. People do the same thing. We are constantly changing and shifting. Our moods, ideas, dreams, thoughts, feelings, fears they all constantly boil and bubble moving and shifting. We are never the same person in any two moments.
The cloud game is often shared with another person. Both looking at the same shifting clouds through the eyes of different lives and seeing the same things differently. The problem is that we all have things that we want to see. We all have an agenda. We look at one another and form relationships with people we can't hope to truly understand. We see them (both the people and the relationships) through eyes that we can not trust. We see things, no matter how hard we try through filters of our own hearts and minds. None of us truly seeing reality if such a thing even exists.
So the question remains… Somehow understanding the problem better doesn't always make an answer easier.
How do you have a relationship for fifty some odd years with a person who is constantly changing, while you are constantly changing, and neither one of you truly sees the other person as they are but rather as some variation of that which you want them to be.
My answer is you don't. It is not humanly possible…
You will not wake up every day and like the person next to you. You will in fact wake up one day and actively dislike them. You will do and say horrible things to one another (with great self control you may only think them but they will still be there and you will both feel them). You will look at that person and realize suddenly that you don't even know who they are anymore. I can make no guarantees other than you will be sad, hurt, misunderstood, and at times feel desperately alone while you lay next to one another in bed. You will meet other people who you find attractive and incredibly interesting; who you are certain if you were only free of your responsibilities could be a better match for you. Should I go on?
Now there's another problem. We all have a mountain in our future. Most of us will not be so lucky as to have it show up while we are doing something great for others and which we are passionate about. Between now and then we have a choice. We can accept the fact that those relationships are not possible or we can choose something else.
The key to all of this is what we call Love. Loving someone is allowing them to be whatever it is that they are and choosing to like them anyway. There are times when it will be easy to do that… There will be others when it is extremely difficult… There will be others still when you just have to fake it until it becomes only extremely difficult again. Don't confuse allowing someone to be what they are with allowing them to be reckless or abusive with your heart. But you can criticize, correct, fight, and direct while still liking someone very much.
And I think that is the advice I have. To always remember no matter what, that even as you struggle with what you are, they are, and the relationship is in any given moment, there is a place where your hearts met and that cannot be undone. You can trash the relationship if you like but your hearts will always recognize one another and smile upon meeting. Let them.
Oscar Wilde has a line in his play The Importance of Being Earnest: If you promise not to take too long I will wait here for you the rest of my life.
That's kind of the idea. We can choose any number of adventures to pursue, choosing what to do is far less important than choosing who to do it with.
=>
You have to love a restaurant with a self serve fountain soda machine. It's one of the few things that you have control over as a child. Here's your cup go pick what kind of soda you would like. We all know the answer. Suicide! I want it all… that's right just put all of them together right here in this one cup. Mmmm, thanks much. The problem as I have already stated is that no one has orange soda on the fountain anymore. Believe it or not the orange was the one truly key ingredient. Nothing else really mattered but without the orange it just isn't the same. I never even noticed until it wasn't there anymore. If you don't believe me go give it a try. You'll have to take a can of orange soda with you.
Things change- Most things are neither good nor bad- We take care of that.
Orange soda as a metaphor for life and relationships… Odd but somehow it works. (At least from where I lay here in the grass)
M- You looked beautiful on your day. L- is a fabulously lucky man! There will always be room in my heart for you both.
Bright and Shining
The mistakes… I'm not sure I could count them if I tried. I definitely do more wrong than I do right. I say the wrong thing. To harsh or not enough. Insensitive, selfish. I do the wrong thing or maybe just at the wrong time. It's hard to tell the difference sometimes.
It's like night. Looking up at a clear blue black sky. Every mistake is a star. A tiny pinprick of light shining down from that darkness. Some smaller, some larger. Some go shooting across the darkness like a fireball flung down from the heavens so glaring and vivid that you can't ignore them even if you tried.
In the more remote parts of this planet the sky at night is more bright than dark. Across the Milky Way the sky just kind of becomes a white blur or a kind of a haze. The mistakes taking over the entire sky so many pinpricks you couldn't plug them if you had a million fingers and even if you could you would never be able to figure out where to start.
I know the sky is delicate, I've seen first hand how easy it is to make another hole. It often seems as if the mistakes are unstoppable. How can anyone stand to be close to a madman with a hole punch hell bent on eradicating the darkness, destroying all beauty and peace.
Getting it right on the other hand, now that's a rare occurrence. That number is easy to count. You don't need an abacus for the math, a fourth grader will suffice. It's almost like an endangered species or the Loch Ness Monster. You want so badly for it to exist. People spend countless hours searching but sometimes they're just hard to come by.
So how do we tolerate one another? How do we manage to grow close? How do you manage to spend time with someone much less enjoy it when it seems that all they are doing is poking holes in your night sky. Which is funny because mostly they're just getting in the way of you doing the same thing.
Those stars I was talking about. We never see them during the day. It's not because they aren't there. But the sun shines so brightly that the holes, the tiny pinpricks, even the fireballs they all just somehow fade away. The mistakes are still there they just don't really matter so much anymore.
I pray that in those relationships that really matter, the occasions on which we get it right, those moments shine so brightly in our hearts and minds that all the millions of mistakes just fade into the background. In the face of Love one good moment outshines more bad than you can imagine with three of our small brains.
Now if you'll excuse me I need to get back to work, I have got a lot of holes still to make today and I seem to be running out of daylight.
It's like night. Looking up at a clear blue black sky. Every mistake is a star. A tiny pinprick of light shining down from that darkness. Some smaller, some larger. Some go shooting across the darkness like a fireball flung down from the heavens so glaring and vivid that you can't ignore them even if you tried.
In the more remote parts of this planet the sky at night is more bright than dark. Across the Milky Way the sky just kind of becomes a white blur or a kind of a haze. The mistakes taking over the entire sky so many pinpricks you couldn't plug them if you had a million fingers and even if you could you would never be able to figure out where to start.
I know the sky is delicate, I've seen first hand how easy it is to make another hole. It often seems as if the mistakes are unstoppable. How can anyone stand to be close to a madman with a hole punch hell bent on eradicating the darkness, destroying all beauty and peace.
Getting it right on the other hand, now that's a rare occurrence. That number is easy to count. You don't need an abacus for the math, a fourth grader will suffice. It's almost like an endangered species or the Loch Ness Monster. You want so badly for it to exist. People spend countless hours searching but sometimes they're just hard to come by.
So how do we tolerate one another? How do we manage to grow close? How do you manage to spend time with someone much less enjoy it when it seems that all they are doing is poking holes in your night sky. Which is funny because mostly they're just getting in the way of you doing the same thing.
Those stars I was talking about. We never see them during the day. It's not because they aren't there. But the sun shines so brightly that the holes, the tiny pinpricks, even the fireballs they all just somehow fade away. The mistakes are still there they just don't really matter so much anymore.
I pray that in those relationships that really matter, the occasions on which we get it right, those moments shine so brightly in our hearts and minds that all the millions of mistakes just fade into the background. In the face of Love one good moment outshines more bad than you can imagine with three of our small brains.
Now if you'll excuse me I need to get back to work, I have got a lot of holes still to make today and I seem to be running out of daylight.
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