It is an autumn day, with leaves turning every color and hanging onto their branches for dear, sweet life. Sweet, short life. And then: swirl and fly and fall. Rest.
Here is a girl sitting in a chair at a table on a patio next to a wall of brick. She doesn't have to dream of beauty because it is all around her in the chilly autumn air, full of the dance of the dying. The cool air turns to winter.
She doesn't have to dream because the better dream is here, sitting next to her in an identical chair, watching the same scene, breathing the same air. And yet:
"I'm here for this," she says, waving her arm around. She means that she is here for the beauty.
She is young, so she expects beauty to be equated with love and miracles.
She is young and so the notion of "seeing with my own two eyes" means "seeing with our two sets of eyes" and gleaning the same lesson from the world.
But youth is soon introduced to the concept of dimension and varying perspective: the fact that a miracle can never mean a fairy tale. The fact that a miracle is simple, no fanfare, just the compromise of two people agreeing to sit in one place, accepting that their own four eyes will look at the same scene and understand two entirely separate universes occupying the same space and time.
"I'm here for this," she says, indicating dying leaves. Beauty.
"I'm here for this," he counters, indicating beauty, as he pats the brick of the building fondly. Beauty: defined as institution. Defined without noticing one tree, or one leaf swirling on the wind, all danced out.
Two people agreeing to sit in one place and taking in two entirely separate universes occupying the same space and time. (Definition.) The girl learns that everything is relative. She learns that nothing is.
She is young and so it irks her because the maiden in the tower knows only one dimension: the down of fantasy. The rescue and the happy ending.
Harmony: A pretty word that is all too often, and unfortunately, misunderstood as agreement. But agreement = tolerance. Harmony does not = agreement. Harmony: A clashing of two minds existing side-by-side in rhythm, creating a weave. Because harmony can only be made of a minimum of two paths crossing, existing in tandem, tolerating each other and making something new with their differences so that the clashing resonates pleasantly.
Two universes from the same scene at the same time.
What is true?
"I am here for this," she says, indicating nature.
The young believe that can work. "This is why we can never work," he says. "Because I am all about bricks and stones. Ground, cement. How it all comes together on a Curriculum Vitae. And you - you're all about dreams and stars and nature. Full of passion. Too much passion."
"And you hate that?"
"I don't know."
"You hate what it does to you. Passion spilling out of everywhere. Your brick dam can't hold the water. You hate what it does to you. You don't know how to deal with feeling. You don't know how to take it."
"No." He isn't good at expression, but she knows him too well. A whole conversation goes on in a moment, only with a glance of the eyes.
No, he says, although no words are spoken. "I can't handle feeling. I break under emotion. I break under the weight of being human, so I avoid it. You are human enough for both of us."
He runs. Running consists of a turn of the head, silence, a walk in the other direction. But most of all, running consists of a staying in place when she is there waiting, across the room.
She grows up when she stops waiting.
She puts her words and her passion away like gloves in a drawer even though she knows perfectly well that a person's nature cannot be locked away like the Lost Boy's shadow. It breaks out. It conquers without any help.
She learns to create miracles instead of trusting in them. She learns not to be annoyed by four eyes looking on the same scene seeing two different universes. She learns to rejoice in it.
She learns that there is no other way between one human being and another. She learns that if a moment or series of moments seem to be a fairy tale, they are only extravagant pretty lies.
She decides to trust in bricks and leaves but keeps quiet about it. What she she sees with her own two eyes is a private celebration, a private parade, without the fanfare.
Friday, March 07, 2014
Friday, January 03, 2014
(Draft 2)
The only lover who ever touched me was the Muse,
with its pornographic imagery flaunting impossibility -
but its asexuality stroked me
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.
The Lover is that maddening melody, rising
and receding in waves across the windblown page.
But that Siren, the Muse, subdues passion with rage,
pulls my hand,
obliterates lust with desire,
and while time passes unseen I miss my life for its dreams
as the Muse continues its dance.
It is a lie that Artists are born with Chance,
born crippled and chained.
And who would take my other hand, unfettered by the Muse,
understand that comprehension pulls us farther apart?
Who would dare to love the absence that is me?
But enough of the brooding.
You must know: the worst of it is over, for we are young,
undone before we've begun.
Because no matter the depth or the distance,
or the time spent staring into the sun,
the Muse will always have my ear.
And who could be the one
to dig deep enough to release me from the Muse's sphere
that wraps itself around me in the sand?
with its pornographic imagery flaunting impossibility -
but its asexuality stroked me
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.
The Lover is that maddening melody, rising
and receding in waves across the windblown page.
But that Siren, the Muse, subdues passion with rage,
pulls my hand,
obliterates lust with desire,
and while time passes unseen I miss my life for its dreams
as the Muse continues its dance.
It is a lie that Artists are born with Chance,
born crippled and chained.
And who would take my other hand, unfettered by the Muse,
understand that comprehension pulls us farther apart?
Who would dare to love the absence that is me?
But enough of the brooding.
You must know: the worst of it is over, for we are young,
undone before we've begun.
Because no matter the depth or the distance,
or the time spent staring into the sun,
the Muse will always have my ear.
And who could be the one
to dig deep enough to release me from the Muse's sphere
that wraps itself around me in the sand?
Thursday, August 15, 2013
June 26, 2013
The truth is that I'm lost. There is nowhere on earth that is home. As always, happiness is fleeting and I love what cannot ever love me back. Never mind it -- I should be content anyway. And I am.
America is a large mansion, full of drafty rooms, filled with space and things that decay after not so long. We scream and speak loudly to fill the space between us. Somehow, I don't think all of that sound will ever be enough. But a tight space is claustrophobic. There is no place for those of us who search. We are pulled back and forth between large and small.
Being back here is a soft reminder that I was right to leave. It is hard to leave my family and harder to stay with them. I am a ghost to them, someone they don't know anymore and someone who was always a step apart. I try to make a family elsewhere but the only real family I'll ever have is the voice inside my head - the vision of that certain, inevitable future that awaits me at the end of any road I'll choose.
It is good to write again. I have missed it. I have missed the steadfast companion of words that run down my arm and drip onto a page like water. I have missed the companion of traveling alone, of the open road, of transience.
Should I ask if love is a word or a compilation of actions? Or a feeling that burns once and then goes out? - Or a feeling that settles and takes root to spread across the continent of time that is a lifespan?
If it is a word, I never received it. If it is a fire, I burned it out. And if it is a continent, I require a flight across it to see it from above.
But if it is not any of those, if it is merely a convenience to postpone the guilt of destroying a friend, then I require the truth.
The truth is that I am lost. I grew up in this house. It is as if I never left. Is the way I miss the people i love a waste of energy? Have I burnt them all out either way by coming and going?
Should I ask if love is a song instead? If it is a missing note, or the melody played too many times on repeat?
If it is a song, then I am the voice that sings it to an empty room. I know they think they've lost me. That I'm a memory that didn't grow into the life they imagined for me. I'd rather fill a room than a drafty mansion.
I'd rather contract the walls and disappear. It's the opposite of what I used to want.
I wanted to be remember, but memory is painful. I wanted to be understood but some things are impossible.
Now I go home to a place far away from the one where I was born. But it isn't home. Because the truth is that I am lost.
Will there ever be someone who loves me completely the way I love? It seems to be the one important thing I am unable to do. I am incapable of making someone happy. And I want to so much - but I can't fix the world.
If I can do anything, though, I suppose I can let things go. Maybe nothing and no one can make him happy. The one thing that is certain is that I cannot make him happy - but that he deserves to be.
Even if nothing and no one can make him happy, the fact that I can't is a certainty. If there is someone out there, he deserves to meet her...So I will go. The longer I stay just postpones the inevitable.
I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.
Perspective from a distance is always a help - aids in showing what joys I can survive living without. But I love him and he will be free of the chains I am. He is happiest alone, at least until he meets his match.
I reacquaint myself with my own bed and my own sheets, with my hands and my loneliness that only stood off in the corner for a little while. Still I know I'll ask the empty room I sing an endless love song to if there is anyone out there for me. I will send a futile request into the air hoping that somehow, someone will feel it and come to me.
Let me be the love of your life,
the battle and not the field,
the stab and not the sword,
the hand and not the dagger --
Let me be the cornerstone that breathes in the bend of the arch.
I wish it could be you, my darling, and because I love you, you are free.
The truth is that I'm lost. There is nowhere on earth that is home. As always, happiness is fleeting and I love what cannot ever love me back. Never mind it -- I should be content anyway. And I am.
America is a large mansion, full of drafty rooms, filled with space and things that decay after not so long. We scream and speak loudly to fill the space between us. Somehow, I don't think all of that sound will ever be enough. But a tight space is claustrophobic. There is no place for those of us who search. We are pulled back and forth between large and small.
Being back here is a soft reminder that I was right to leave. It is hard to leave my family and harder to stay with them. I am a ghost to them, someone they don't know anymore and someone who was always a step apart. I try to make a family elsewhere but the only real family I'll ever have is the voice inside my head - the vision of that certain, inevitable future that awaits me at the end of any road I'll choose.
It is good to write again. I have missed it. I have missed the steadfast companion of words that run down my arm and drip onto a page like water. I have missed the companion of traveling alone, of the open road, of transience.
Should I ask if love is a word or a compilation of actions? Or a feeling that burns once and then goes out? - Or a feeling that settles and takes root to spread across the continent of time that is a lifespan?
If it is a word, I never received it. If it is a fire, I burned it out. And if it is a continent, I require a flight across it to see it from above.
But if it is not any of those, if it is merely a convenience to postpone the guilt of destroying a friend, then I require the truth.
The truth is that I am lost. I grew up in this house. It is as if I never left. Is the way I miss the people i love a waste of energy? Have I burnt them all out either way by coming and going?
Should I ask if love is a song instead? If it is a missing note, or the melody played too many times on repeat?
If it is a song, then I am the voice that sings it to an empty room. I know they think they've lost me. That I'm a memory that didn't grow into the life they imagined for me. I'd rather fill a room than a drafty mansion.
I'd rather contract the walls and disappear. It's the opposite of what I used to want.
I wanted to be remember, but memory is painful. I wanted to be understood but some things are impossible.
Now I go home to a place far away from the one where I was born. But it isn't home. Because the truth is that I am lost.
Will there ever be someone who loves me completely the way I love? It seems to be the one important thing I am unable to do. I am incapable of making someone happy. And I want to so much - but I can't fix the world.
If I can do anything, though, I suppose I can let things go. Maybe nothing and no one can make him happy. The one thing that is certain is that I cannot make him happy - but that he deserves to be.
Even if nothing and no one can make him happy, the fact that I can't is a certainty. If there is someone out there, he deserves to meet her...So I will go. The longer I stay just postpones the inevitable.
I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.
Perspective from a distance is always a help - aids in showing what joys I can survive living without. But I love him and he will be free of the chains I am. He is happiest alone, at least until he meets his match.
I reacquaint myself with my own bed and my own sheets, with my hands and my loneliness that only stood off in the corner for a little while. Still I know I'll ask the empty room I sing an endless love song to if there is anyone out there for me. I will send a futile request into the air hoping that somehow, someone will feel it and come to me.
Let me be the love of your life,
the battle and not the field,
the stab and not the sword,
the hand and not the dagger --
Let me be the cornerstone that breathes in the bend of the arch.
I wish it could be you, my darling, and because I love you, you are free.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
NOUCO: Alison I
ALISON
It has been years since I felt the tracker hunting me down, but here it is. That old familiar feeling of the mite crawling around in my brain, trying to crack the code that hides me.
The headaches are becoming more frequent now, growing in intensity. I know it is the tracker.
It isn't like I didn't know this day would come. I can see it. In all but he most improbable of futures, I am tracked. In 50% of all probable futures, I am found. Which means the trick is to choose the right 50 of the 50/50 so that I am not found.
Time Telling is a game of probability where the dice we throw are ourselves. It is a game of weight and balance, measuring between the genius of what Man can create and what he is made of. And man can never understand what he is made of. The human body is a miracle. The brain is nature's best technological feat.
I am good at hiding from technology. Bit if the tracker is boosted by another Time Teller, I'll have to reevaluate my situation. We can always see past the wires. Unless the Time Teller lies and tells them I'm not in view. The scope is too small. Something like that would be a miracle. But Time Telling is a miracle, so who are we to judge?
If the trackers is boosted by a Time Teller who doesn't lie, I'll have to reevaluate my situation. Retrain my cloaking mechanisms, meditate more. It means I'll have to breach my cover for awhile, make myself more vulnerable, subtract hours from my linear day. I'll have to find David and hope he hasn't been compromised...in one way or another.
Today is January 7, 2013. "Today" is a relative term. I have seen "Today" like it was tomorrow and like it will be yesterday. But here you are experiencing this little slice of time like it has never been and never will be again. And here I am trying to tow the line between both experiences and tell it in a language someone else can understand.
Today is January 7, 2013, twenty-one linear years to the future from the First Encounter between me and the New Agency. I was the typical age of a Second Generation at the point of First Encounter: somewhere between three years old and five.
My talent was my own, nothing created by a biochemical genius in a lab. boosted, maybe. Enhanced, controlled - definitely. But they didn't pick me out because they saw the Time Signature. They discovered that later.
I was a great bargain. I was chosen originally for my superior intelligence, for my advanced motor function, calm temperament in the face of unconventional stresses and for my advanced creativity.
The Time Signature came later, maybe triggered by unconventional stress. I inverted my mind - extreme introversion - when faced with stress. The calm for which I was recruited was not calmness at all. It was misinterpreted Time Signature Introversion.
If cool calculation can be used as a weapon, a Time Teller can destroy whole universes if given the correct dosage of the Time Serum. The information I report makes me more valuable than seven armies. And no one will ever suspect how or why information was breached.
It has been years since I felt the tracker hunting me down, but here it is. That old familiar feeling of the mite crawling around in my brain, trying to crack the code that hides me.
The headaches are becoming more frequent now, growing in intensity. I know it is the tracker.
It isn't like I didn't know this day would come. I can see it. In all but he most improbable of futures, I am tracked. In 50% of all probable futures, I am found. Which means the trick is to choose the right 50 of the 50/50 so that I am not found.
Time Telling is a game of probability where the dice we throw are ourselves. It is a game of weight and balance, measuring between the genius of what Man can create and what he is made of. And man can never understand what he is made of. The human body is a miracle. The brain is nature's best technological feat.
I am good at hiding from technology. Bit if the tracker is boosted by another Time Teller, I'll have to reevaluate my situation. We can always see past the wires. Unless the Time Teller lies and tells them I'm not in view. The scope is too small. Something like that would be a miracle. But Time Telling is a miracle, so who are we to judge?
If the trackers is boosted by a Time Teller who doesn't lie, I'll have to reevaluate my situation. Retrain my cloaking mechanisms, meditate more. It means I'll have to breach my cover for awhile, make myself more vulnerable, subtract hours from my linear day. I'll have to find David and hope he hasn't been compromised...in one way or another.
Today is January 7, 2013. "Today" is a relative term. I have seen "Today" like it was tomorrow and like it will be yesterday. But here you are experiencing this little slice of time like it has never been and never will be again. And here I am trying to tow the line between both experiences and tell it in a language someone else can understand.
Today is January 7, 2013, twenty-one linear years to the future from the First Encounter between me and the New Agency. I was the typical age of a Second Generation at the point of First Encounter: somewhere between three years old and five.
My talent was my own, nothing created by a biochemical genius in a lab. boosted, maybe. Enhanced, controlled - definitely. But they didn't pick me out because they saw the Time Signature. They discovered that later.
I was a great bargain. I was chosen originally for my superior intelligence, for my advanced motor function, calm temperament in the face of unconventional stresses and for my advanced creativity.
The Time Signature came later, maybe triggered by unconventional stress. I inverted my mind - extreme introversion - when faced with stress. The calm for which I was recruited was not calmness at all. It was misinterpreted Time Signature Introversion.
If cool calculation can be used as a weapon, a Time Teller can destroy whole universes if given the correct dosage of the Time Serum. The information I report makes me more valuable than seven armies. And no one will ever suspect how or why information was breached.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
August 26, 2012
"I thought that an arrow pointed the way."
"And so it does."
"But you never told me which way that was. Wrong or right?"
"Perhaps all paths converge, Little Girl, and so an incorrect path is the right one because a misstep tells you the truth."
"So the destination isn't the point."
"Not so much, Little Girl."
"Will I ever stop being your Little Girl?"
"You will always be a moment in Time. You have always seemed the same to me, enough to make me wonder what a Man feels, how he sees."
"When the Gypsy stole my heart and scattered it, did you catch it, Uriel?"
"Perhaps I did, for the breadth of my wings is wide and the vision of my eyes is keen."
"Answer me! Do you have it?"
"And if I did, what would it gain you, Little Girl?"
"The chance of putting back together again."
"There are some things nothing can fix. To reform ashes into what they once were? You would need to bend back Time. But if you bent it back, you would not be you. You can grow a new one, Little Girl."
"But the old one had hope."
"A new one can have more than hope."
"And so it does."
"But you never told me which way that was. Wrong or right?"
"Perhaps all paths converge, Little Girl, and so an incorrect path is the right one because a misstep tells you the truth."
"So the destination isn't the point."
"Not so much, Little Girl."
"Will I ever stop being your Little Girl?"
"You will always be a moment in Time. You have always seemed the same to me, enough to make me wonder what a Man feels, how he sees."
"When the Gypsy stole my heart and scattered it, did you catch it, Uriel?"
"Perhaps I did, for the breadth of my wings is wide and the vision of my eyes is keen."
"Answer me! Do you have it?"
"And if I did, what would it gain you, Little Girl?"
"The chance of putting back together again."
"There are some things nothing can fix. To reform ashes into what they once were? You would need to bend back Time. But if you bent it back, you would not be you. You can grow a new one, Little Girl."
"But the old one had hope."
"A new one can have more than hope."
August 23, 2012
"Uriel, help me."
"You are capable of helping yourself, Little Girl."
"What a great friend you are," says the girl.
"I was never your friend, only your guide."
"I guess you're right. But it was nice to think otherwise."
"Since when are you one for deception?"
"Since never. But sometimes a half-truth is nice."
"You know I cannot feel," says the angel.
"Yes you can. You have been taken from me because of it, and you have been rewritten."
"An angel is a blank page upon which humanity writes the story of itself."
"And God?"
"You know better than to ask of God. you have heard. And you have seen. God is the voice inside your head and the promise that is broken. Now, Little Girl, take in the world around you. Feel the wind on your skin, hear the music in your ears. If you are looking for a different God, you have found it in this. Content yourself with that, for there will be no love for you."
"There will. But only in one direction. Uriel, I know my place."
"Yes, Little Girl. You know your place and you fit perfectly in the space between my wings."
"Take me now, Seraph! What is there for me to make in the world?"
"Everything, Little Girl. You have hands to form a universe, to grasp what you desire. You have ground on which to walk and air to breathe and lungs to accept it. You have a heart that can feel and a mind that can collapse and construct Time and its absence. You have a cliff from which to jump."
"And you, Uriel?"
"I have Vision and the lack of everything that you possess."
"You are capable of helping yourself, Little Girl."
"What a great friend you are," says the girl.
"I was never your friend, only your guide."
"I guess you're right. But it was nice to think otherwise."
"Since when are you one for deception?"
"Since never. But sometimes a half-truth is nice."
"You know I cannot feel," says the angel.
"Yes you can. You have been taken from me because of it, and you have been rewritten."
"An angel is a blank page upon which humanity writes the story of itself."
"And God?"
"You know better than to ask of God. you have heard. And you have seen. God is the voice inside your head and the promise that is broken. Now, Little Girl, take in the world around you. Feel the wind on your skin, hear the music in your ears. If you are looking for a different God, you have found it in this. Content yourself with that, for there will be no love for you."
"There will. But only in one direction. Uriel, I know my place."
"Yes, Little Girl. You know your place and you fit perfectly in the space between my wings."
"Take me now, Seraph! What is there for me to make in the world?"
"Everything, Little Girl. You have hands to form a universe, to grasp what you desire. You have ground on which to walk and air to breathe and lungs to accept it. You have a heart that can feel and a mind that can collapse and construct Time and its absence. You have a cliff from which to jump."
"And you, Uriel?"
"I have Vision and the lack of everything that you possess."
August 19, 2012
"Shh, Little Girl," says the angel. "I will cover you now."
"Yes, please," the girl relents. "Please cover me for a long time."
"Always."
"I give up again."
"You never came out of it."
"Must you remind me?"
The angel laughs. "I have never reminded you. I merely open your eyes to the moment in which you have always been. Your fate met you at the beginning. Try to avert your eyes and it stabs you in the back. Best to face it willingly. Nothing will change you."
"You are not being very helpful, dear."
"I am not meant to be helpful. I am only an arrow pointing the way."
"And an arrow isn't helpful?"
"It is not an arrow on a spear."
"Maybe that would be better."
"You are not ready to come with us yet and so, we do not carry a spear for you."
"Oh, yes, you do. You just don't throw it. I know you never miss. How could you? When everything is destined from the Point?"
"Does it hurt?" asks the angel.
"Does what hurt?"
"You. Now."
"Everything hurts. Would you like some? Take it!"
"As you know, if I could feel, I would take it all from you. Or share it. But I am incapable."
"Of course. Of course you are incapable. Like I am incapable of saying anything to a human being and having it understood."
"It will be one, day Little Girl."
"By people? Or by you?"
"Yes."
"Nice answer," says the girl. "Avoiding. As usual."
"What did you expect?"
"Nothing. I expect nothing. You've trained me well."
"You have only trained yourself. As you know, we could be nothing more than a whisper you cannot hear, if you so wished it."
"I have always found sanity in the madness that is you, Uriel. Don't ask me how. But it is true. I would rather be mad with you than without you. Because my own race sells me short. Or I sell them short. Or whatever it is. How should I know?"
"You know, Little Girl. Like you know that we cover you."
"Let me deal with this alone."
"You have never dealt with anything else wise."
"Yes, please," the girl relents. "Please cover me for a long time."
"Always."
"I give up again."
"You never came out of it."
"Must you remind me?"
The angel laughs. "I have never reminded you. I merely open your eyes to the moment in which you have always been. Your fate met you at the beginning. Try to avert your eyes and it stabs you in the back. Best to face it willingly. Nothing will change you."
"You are not being very helpful, dear."
"I am not meant to be helpful. I am only an arrow pointing the way."
"And an arrow isn't helpful?"
"It is not an arrow on a spear."
"Maybe that would be better."
"You are not ready to come with us yet and so, we do not carry a spear for you."
"Oh, yes, you do. You just don't throw it. I know you never miss. How could you? When everything is destined from the Point?"
"Does it hurt?" asks the angel.
"Does what hurt?"
"You. Now."
"Everything hurts. Would you like some? Take it!"
"As you know, if I could feel, I would take it all from you. Or share it. But I am incapable."
"Of course. Of course you are incapable. Like I am incapable of saying anything to a human being and having it understood."
"It will be one, day Little Girl."
"By people? Or by you?"
"Yes."
"Nice answer," says the girl. "Avoiding. As usual."
"What did you expect?"
"Nothing. I expect nothing. You've trained me well."
"You have only trained yourself. As you know, we could be nothing more than a whisper you cannot hear, if you so wished it."
"I have always found sanity in the madness that is you, Uriel. Don't ask me how. But it is true. I would rather be mad with you than without you. Because my own race sells me short. Or I sell them short. Or whatever it is. How should I know?"
"You know, Little Girl. Like you know that we cover you."
"Let me deal with this alone."
"You have never dealt with anything else wise."
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