July 16, 2012
A meeting of minds is always a love song, a twirling dance, weaving itself into an explosion of ideas like a double-helix DNA strand. We explode like grains of sand, drawing our lines by the billions.
The meeting is captured, threads tangled in a newborn tapestry. One side reaches out tentatively - that side is me, waiting for the moment of necessitated recession.
You are the other side, thrashing about, a storm that crashes and enlightens, pours itself out, never empty and never full.
The helix twists.
There is newness, a heaven of amalgamation - then: creation.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Q: What happened when you left?
A: We kept walking.
Q: Did you have a destination?
A: Far away. Just to survive.
Q: How many of you made it?
A: Not many. And we left children behind. Anyone who had to be carried. Anyone who couldn't keep up.
Q: Whose decision was that?
A: Everyone's. It was necessary. Children can be made again...not the same ones, of course. But for survival's sake, they can be made again. And those couldn't keep up, they understood.
A: We kept walking.
Q: Did you have a destination?
A: Far away. Just to survive.
Q: How many of you made it?
A: Not many. And we left children behind. Anyone who had to be carried. Anyone who couldn't keep up.
Q: Whose decision was that?
A: Everyone's. It was necessary. Children can be made again...not the same ones, of course. But for survival's sake, they can be made again. And those couldn't keep up, they understood.
Rage
July 9, 2012
It is almost always worthwhile to rage at the state of the world. Humanity is a disgusting race, in all our forms, and it is maddening to be a helpless cog in the machine that tosses its potential away. It is always a good idea to put yourself in an uncomfortable situation because horizons should always be stretched. There is always more to a moment than meets the eye.
I need to write a story that disorients us like a labyrinth, that sprouts creatures we haven't seen since Ovid but which we run into everyday.
"What have I become?" it will ask, as every time it looks in the mirror, it gets introduced to a different face. The ancient forest will be our modern streets, Narcissus the wannabe wasting away on egotism.
It will be an assignment for myself. Read, model, write. Read, model, write. The ink must start flowing again. because we can be nothing without pain.
It is almost always worthwhile to rage at the state of the world. Humanity is a disgusting race, in all our forms, and it is maddening to be a helpless cog in the machine that tosses its potential away. It is always a good idea to put yourself in an uncomfortable situation because horizons should always be stretched. There is always more to a moment than meets the eye.
I need to write a story that disorients us like a labyrinth, that sprouts creatures we haven't seen since Ovid but which we run into everyday.
"What have I become?" it will ask, as every time it looks in the mirror, it gets introduced to a different face. The ancient forest will be our modern streets, Narcissus the wannabe wasting away on egotism.
It will be an assignment for myself. Read, model, write. Read, model, write. The ink must start flowing again. because we can be nothing without pain.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
May 28, 2012
The only lover who ever touched me was the Muse,
with its pornographic imagery flaunting impossibility -
but it stroked me with its asexuality
while all the other lovers were too distant
or imaginary.
And so I drowned in its song,
in the waves of insanity that crucify sound
minds along the daytime shore.
I joined it there, pinned across its T, horizontally,
remembering my future like a distant
past and cursed the sand beneath me
while the other victims screamed beside the sea.
The lover is that maddening melody,
intoxicating, a torturous mind-joined-to-heart
obsessed with ethereal births incessantly rising
and receding, windblown on the page.
But the Siren, the Muse, who subdues passion with rage
killed me on the day I was born.
Yet its music never taught me the
only thing I ever learned -
to release the million billion grains of sand
that spear into us,
to succumb to that sea, to be impervious
with glee.
Instead, it pulls my hand, obliterates lust with desire,
suffocates flesh with dust
and while time passes unseen,
I miss my life for its dreams
and the Muse continues its dance.
It is a lie, you must know by now, that Artists are
born with Chance - we are crippled and chained
from our first instant in the air.
And yet, you take my other hand, unfettered by the Muse,
although to understand only brings us farther apart.
And yet - you dare to love the absence that is me,
overflowing with the elements of rain and sun.
The worst of it is over,
for we are young,
and the Muse always claims
the best of us before we have begun.
You've undone me, my dear, but the
Must will always have my ear,
and do you think you can dig
deep enough to release me
from the Siren's sphere
that wraps itself around me in the sand?
The only lover who ever touched me was the Muse,
with its pornographic imagery flaunting impossibility -
but it stroked me with its asexuality
while all the other lovers were too distant
or imaginary.
And so I drowned in its song,
in the waves of insanity that crucify sound
minds along the daytime shore.
I joined it there, pinned across its T, horizontally,
remembering my future like a distant
past and cursed the sand beneath me
while the other victims screamed beside the sea.
The lover is that maddening melody,
intoxicating, a torturous mind-joined-to-heart
obsessed with ethereal births incessantly rising
and receding, windblown on the page.
But the Siren, the Muse, who subdues passion with rage
killed me on the day I was born.
Yet its music never taught me the
only thing I ever learned -
to release the million billion grains of sand
that spear into us,
to succumb to that sea, to be impervious
with glee.
Instead, it pulls my hand, obliterates lust with desire,
suffocates flesh with dust
and while time passes unseen,
I miss my life for its dreams
and the Muse continues its dance.
It is a lie, you must know by now, that Artists are
born with Chance - we are crippled and chained
from our first instant in the air.
And yet, you take my other hand, unfettered by the Muse,
although to understand only brings us farther apart.
And yet - you dare to love the absence that is me,
overflowing with the elements of rain and sun.
The worst of it is over,
for we are young,
and the Muse always claims
the best of us before we have begun.
You've undone me, my dear, but the
Must will always have my ear,
and do you think you can dig
deep enough to release me
from the Siren's sphere
that wraps itself around me in the sand?
May 8, 2012
"I am here," says the angel.
"I know," says the Little Girl.
"You should give it a try, being with people."
"What's the point? Pretending I'm happy? Turn myself into a doll with a painted face. What does it matter when it's all going to be over sooner rather than later?"
"Because if you pretend you are happy for long enough, you just might become it."
"Me? You know that's not true. You know I have always been alone and I always will be. They'll discover my corpse days or weeks later because the smell is unbearable. Not because anyone misses me."
"You will be with us by then. Scattered."
"Now would be a good time to take me. Now. Why can't you take me now?"
"Soon, Little Girl. Soon."
"I know. I can feel the poison."
"You can still choose to stay."
"There's nothing to live for. No one to come home to. No life ahead of me. I choose to go. Just make it painless. And fast."
"I am here," says the angel.
"I know," says the Little Girl.
"You should give it a try, being with people."
"What's the point? Pretending I'm happy? Turn myself into a doll with a painted face. What does it matter when it's all going to be over sooner rather than later?"
"Because if you pretend you are happy for long enough, you just might become it."
"Me? You know that's not true. You know I have always been alone and I always will be. They'll discover my corpse days or weeks later because the smell is unbearable. Not because anyone misses me."
"You will be with us by then. Scattered."
"Now would be a good time to take me. Now. Why can't you take me now?"
"Soon, Little Girl. Soon."
"I know. I can feel the poison."
"You can still choose to stay."
"There's nothing to live for. No one to come home to. No life ahead of me. I choose to go. Just make it painless. And fast."
The Incision
April 30, 2012
You are my horizon,
my brand in the dark -
a wish unreachable
but years prove unteachable.
And between us is a string
that we've pulled taut,
fragile as a life
between the scissors we bought.
You are my horizon,
my brand in the dark -
a wish unreachable
but years prove unteachable.
And between us is a string
that we've pulled taut,
fragile as a life
between the scissors we bought.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
April 26, 2012
"I should be used to it by now," the Little Girl says. Because the loneliness is acute tonight.
"Some things don't change," replies the angel.
"Obviously...But I grew up and things are still the same. I've been waiting my whole life for my generation to catch up, or for me to move backwards. But it's the same. I'm still alone. And there is still no one to talk to except for you."
"I don't count to you?"
"No. You are nothing more than the air I breathe and the voice inside my head."
"You know I am more than that."
"Shut up," she says. "I can't feel you."
"I cover you," says the angel.
"I know."
"You can come with me if you choose to."
"No. That is running."
"And you are not used to running?"
"I wouldn't call it running. More like attempting new frontiers. There are some things in life I couldn't live with anymore. New scenery was not a desire. It was a necessity."
"Are you afraid?"
Fear is consuming. Of course. But it is an emotion I turn off. At least it is one I put aside. Fear paralyzes. So I do what I have to do."
"I should be used to it by now," the Little Girl says. Because the loneliness is acute tonight.
"Some things don't change," replies the angel.
"Obviously...But I grew up and things are still the same. I've been waiting my whole life for my generation to catch up, or for me to move backwards. But it's the same. I'm still alone. And there is still no one to talk to except for you."
"I don't count to you?"
"No. You are nothing more than the air I breathe and the voice inside my head."
"You know I am more than that."
"Shut up," she says. "I can't feel you."
"I cover you," says the angel.
"I know."
"You can come with me if you choose to."
"No. That is running."
"And you are not used to running?"
"I wouldn't call it running. More like attempting new frontiers. There are some things in life I couldn't live with anymore. New scenery was not a desire. It was a necessity."
"Are you afraid?"
Fear is consuming. Of course. But it is an emotion I turn off. At least it is one I put aside. Fear paralyzes. So I do what I have to do."
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