You asked and I answered: One times one is itself.
You answered when I asked: Your horizon is clear through the veil of wings.
You said: I will carry your doubt, the seed and the Wood in waiting,
the question and the answer unseen.
You asked: why sit in empty fields when the harvest is plenty?
And I said: A drought is a flood in waiting,
and the fallow fields a feast.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
October 13, 2011
"The heart you do not have breaks again and again, Little Girl. If an angel could feel alongside you, my heart would breaking, too."
"I never understood you, Uriel. I never understood your envy of pain. Or your envy of joy."
"We can only feel one thing, Little Girl, and that is an ebb and flow like water. But it is not something from which we gain sustenance. The ebb and flow is only a circle that encapsulates Time. We bear burdens that we cannot feel and the burden of the ebb and flow translates into observance. We observe the outcome of our messages. The ebb and flow is a cup that spills over and a basin that is dried up. We cover you when you cry out but there nothing to cover us. The universe is vast, open space, a reconciliation with chaos from a perspective up above. From here, we can see the pattern, but we cannot know the texture of the weave."
"Uriel, you break my heart all over again. For all I complain, you know I love you more than anything. And of course, it's unrequited. An angel can't feel. I am more than ebb and flow. I am a pebble in the current. And like you told me once, a pebble amply placed can change the course of the river. I weep for both of us. I feel for both of us. You are right. I am wed to you and nothing else. My efforts with humanity are spent. I fight in vain. I try to be a whole when I am half. I was born just like you said: one foot in and one foot beyond the earth."
"Take a chance, Little Girl. Logic, for all its appeal, has never proven steadfast as is claimed. Take a chance and go with your emotions. Ride the other river that we cannot ride. Ride the current that angels are not privy to. We will sail upon you as if you were a boat and spread our wings vicariously across your vision and your lifetime. Remember, Little Girl, what you are so apt to forget: that your pain would be nothing if you had never felt joy. Your agony would be nothing without the ecstasy to juxtapose it.
"You have the ability to feel the texture of the weave. Guide your palm along it and be thankful. Even a fray is something to envy. And here you have an entire tapestry."
"I will give you everything."
"No. Do not give us anything. That is a waste. Take the gifts you have granted upon yourself. Your paths, your small moments. Fulfill your role as a channel and feed us vision. You are the only creature who can impart that small amount of earth into us so that we have, at least, a nascent ability to comprehend beyond the theory."
"Take it all. The door is open," she says. "The labyrinth was waiting and I entered. There is no going back."
"The heart you do not have breaks again and again, Little Girl. If an angel could feel alongside you, my heart would breaking, too."
"I never understood you, Uriel. I never understood your envy of pain. Or your envy of joy."
"We can only feel one thing, Little Girl, and that is an ebb and flow like water. But it is not something from which we gain sustenance. The ebb and flow is only a circle that encapsulates Time. We bear burdens that we cannot feel and the burden of the ebb and flow translates into observance. We observe the outcome of our messages. The ebb and flow is a cup that spills over and a basin that is dried up. We cover you when you cry out but there nothing to cover us. The universe is vast, open space, a reconciliation with chaos from a perspective up above. From here, we can see the pattern, but we cannot know the texture of the weave."
"Uriel, you break my heart all over again. For all I complain, you know I love you more than anything. And of course, it's unrequited. An angel can't feel. I am more than ebb and flow. I am a pebble in the current. And like you told me once, a pebble amply placed can change the course of the river. I weep for both of us. I feel for both of us. You are right. I am wed to you and nothing else. My efforts with humanity are spent. I fight in vain. I try to be a whole when I am half. I was born just like you said: one foot in and one foot beyond the earth."
"Take a chance, Little Girl. Logic, for all its appeal, has never proven steadfast as is claimed. Take a chance and go with your emotions. Ride the other river that we cannot ride. Ride the current that angels are not privy to. We will sail upon you as if you were a boat and spread our wings vicariously across your vision and your lifetime. Remember, Little Girl, what you are so apt to forget: that your pain would be nothing if you had never felt joy. Your agony would be nothing without the ecstasy to juxtapose it.
"You have the ability to feel the texture of the weave. Guide your palm along it and be thankful. Even a fray is something to envy. And here you have an entire tapestry."
"I will give you everything."
"No. Do not give us anything. That is a waste. Take the gifts you have granted upon yourself. Your paths, your small moments. Fulfill your role as a channel and feed us vision. You are the only creature who can impart that small amount of earth into us so that we have, at least, a nascent ability to comprehend beyond the theory."
"Take it all. The door is open," she says. "The labyrinth was waiting and I entered. There is no going back."
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
"Don't cry, Little Girl."
"I know, Uriel."
The angel waits, but reaches out, rests a hand on her shoulder.
"Sometimes I can't help it," she says. "It's too much. And I miss them."
"We shall cover you."
"Don't. Not right now. I can take it."
"You are strong, Little Girl."
"For reasons I wish didn't exist. What will be taken this year? What will be given?"
"That, as you know, is the beauty of life. It is all a mystery until you live it. You can follow us down paths of possibilities, but you will never know until it passes."
"I'm afraid to go back there. It is too much open space. Too much noise. Too much beauty wasted and too much pain ignored. Everyone alone together and nowhere to turn."
"You are strong. You can now come home."
"Yeah. I can come home."
"I know, Uriel."
The angel waits, but reaches out, rests a hand on her shoulder.
"Sometimes I can't help it," she says. "It's too much. And I miss them."
"We shall cover you."
"Don't. Not right now. I can take it."
"You are strong, Little Girl."
"For reasons I wish didn't exist. What will be taken this year? What will be given?"
"That, as you know, is the beauty of life. It is all a mystery until you live it. You can follow us down paths of possibilities, but you will never know until it passes."
"I'm afraid to go back there. It is too much open space. Too much noise. Too much beauty wasted and too much pain ignored. Everyone alone together and nowhere to turn."
"You are strong. You can now come home."
"Yeah. I can come home."
Saturday, October 08, 2011
Athenian I
As usual, Harrison taps the pen on the table, trying to chisel through writer's block at the usual cafe. It's been a year now, but there's no tap running inspiration. The pipes are dry. He never paid the bill.
"Refill?" the waitress asks him.
He picks up the cup and taps it against the saucer. She pours him another cup, strong. He stares at her expectantly.
"Yeah, yeah," she said and dumps a handful of cream on the table after rummaging through her apron pocket.
He stares out the window at the building across the street. Faces have been graffitied and graffitied over on the walls.
As he makes his way down the street, the character hits him like a brick wall. A lifetime is filled in, pieces fall together like a game of Tetris. Nuances, expressions, childhood impressions.
Time stops and he stays still as vision sweeps him. He has known him all his life, lived with him. The picture forming is new, and like the oldest friend he'd ever had, slowly forgotten and reintroduced in one moment of clarity. He is fit to burst.
"Wait. Wait for me to get home. There is paper there. Wait," he says aloud.
A woman eyes him strangely as she passes him by. Men in sharp suits aren't wont to talk like the stereotypical homeless madman.
"You want me to wait?" the voice answers him. "I have waited all my life, just to be born. But I suppose another few blocks won't hurt."
Harrison runs home. He fumbles with the key in the lock but manages to get it open.
"It's about time, Harrison," the voice says. "Must I remind you?"
"Sorry, sorry," Harrison stutters and flexes his fingers over the keyboard, even before he's sat down. He wiggles the mouse and the screen lights up.
"Not now," the voice says. "Let's just chat. You know me."
It isn't a good time to write, so Harrison sits and listens, answers back.
"Jesus Christ, I'm going crazy," he says.
"Madness is relative," the voice answers.
"Do you have a name?"
"Of course. You know it already. Just like you know me. Say it." Harrison is prompted. The name is right there, dancing around the edges of his mind, skipping on the tip of his tongue, but it won't come clear. It will have to wait, just like he had.
The picture is filled in.
The man is fidgety, wears khaki-colored slacks and a pine-green t-shirt. His brown hair is slightly unkempt, a rich brown. He has a slight elbow fetish and likes curvy women with green eyes. Once, when he was fifteen, he'd dreamt of giving up on life and almost jumped off the roof of his father's fifty-story apartment building after the messy divorce with his mother, but something stopped him. He said it was Zeus, and ever since has claimed to be a Greek polytheist. When asked if he really believed he would find gods on Mt. Olympus, he'd answer with a sly smile and change the subject so deftly that no one ever noticed or remembered they'd asked the question in the first place until he was long out of sight.
"Refill?" the waitress asks him.
He picks up the cup and taps it against the saucer. She pours him another cup, strong. He stares at her expectantly.
"Yeah, yeah," she said and dumps a handful of cream on the table after rummaging through her apron pocket.
He stares out the window at the building across the street. Faces have been graffitied and graffitied over on the walls.
As he makes his way down the street, the character hits him like a brick wall. A lifetime is filled in, pieces fall together like a game of Tetris. Nuances, expressions, childhood impressions.
Time stops and he stays still as vision sweeps him. He has known him all his life, lived with him. The picture forming is new, and like the oldest friend he'd ever had, slowly forgotten and reintroduced in one moment of clarity. He is fit to burst.
"Wait. Wait for me to get home. There is paper there. Wait," he says aloud.
A woman eyes him strangely as she passes him by. Men in sharp suits aren't wont to talk like the stereotypical homeless madman.
"You want me to wait?" the voice answers him. "I have waited all my life, just to be born. But I suppose another few blocks won't hurt."
Harrison runs home. He fumbles with the key in the lock but manages to get it open.
"It's about time, Harrison," the voice says. "Must I remind you?"
"Sorry, sorry," Harrison stutters and flexes his fingers over the keyboard, even before he's sat down. He wiggles the mouse and the screen lights up.
"Not now," the voice says. "Let's just chat. You know me."
It isn't a good time to write, so Harrison sits and listens, answers back.
"Jesus Christ, I'm going crazy," he says.
"Madness is relative," the voice answers.
"Do you have a name?"
"Of course. You know it already. Just like you know me. Say it." Harrison is prompted. The name is right there, dancing around the edges of his mind, skipping on the tip of his tongue, but it won't come clear. It will have to wait, just like he had.
The picture is filled in.
The man is fidgety, wears khaki-colored slacks and a pine-green t-shirt. His brown hair is slightly unkempt, a rich brown. He has a slight elbow fetish and likes curvy women with green eyes. Once, when he was fifteen, he'd dreamt of giving up on life and almost jumped off the roof of his father's fifty-story apartment building after the messy divorce with his mother, but something stopped him. He said it was Zeus, and ever since has claimed to be a Greek polytheist. When asked if he really believed he would find gods on Mt. Olympus, he'd answer with a sly smile and change the subject so deftly that no one ever noticed or remembered they'd asked the question in the first place until he was long out of sight.
Another Sleepless Night
October 6, 2011
I am still sustained by what I imagine, by that happy distillation of reality: illusion. Perhaps there is power, yet, in admission. But although I surrender to that world within my mind, I am torn between it and the space we all share and create together.
It is another year and another day of atonement on which I will not atone. I ask forgiveness from the imaginary daily and my words are met by empty air. I imagine cities in the air and better ones on the ground. I populate them expertly. It is easy not to be disappointed by that from which you can expect nothing--because nothing is precisely what it is.
If there is a light in my life, it is a lamp that burns inside me. It radiates too much passion to contain and so the air around me lives a half-life. In the time it takes to burn out, whole worlds are born and die, generations built and dismembered, smooth-cheeked babies are covered in stones and thorns. They have all grown up, shriveled, returned to the place from where they came.
I imagine the imagined, an idea made real, solidified. The highest heavens become the ground beneath our feet. The ground bears up seeds, swallows roots, sustains the living. It is foundation, reality, concrete.
It is not only rooftops and spires that bend under the weight of angels now. My shoulders are bent with the weight of them, my palms sweaty from the friction between ethereal wings and terrestrial skin.
Sure, I leave the imaginary for the dark. But I suffer. Too much of this shared world drains me. I debate the two: surrender again or suffer madness.
Madness is relative, so I'll suffer the real. One madness traded for another.
I am still sustained by what I imagine, by that happy distillation of reality: illusion. Perhaps there is power, yet, in admission. But although I surrender to that world within my mind, I am torn between it and the space we all share and create together.
It is another year and another day of atonement on which I will not atone. I ask forgiveness from the imaginary daily and my words are met by empty air. I imagine cities in the air and better ones on the ground. I populate them expertly. It is easy not to be disappointed by that from which you can expect nothing--because nothing is precisely what it is.
If there is a light in my life, it is a lamp that burns inside me. It radiates too much passion to contain and so the air around me lives a half-life. In the time it takes to burn out, whole worlds are born and die, generations built and dismembered, smooth-cheeked babies are covered in stones and thorns. They have all grown up, shriveled, returned to the place from where they came.
I imagine the imagined, an idea made real, solidified. The highest heavens become the ground beneath our feet. The ground bears up seeds, swallows roots, sustains the living. It is foundation, reality, concrete.
It is not only rooftops and spires that bend under the weight of angels now. My shoulders are bent with the weight of them, my palms sweaty from the friction between ethereal wings and terrestrial skin.
Sure, I leave the imaginary for the dark. But I suffer. Too much of this shared world drains me. I debate the two: surrender again or suffer madness.
Madness is relative, so I'll suffer the real. One madness traded for another.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Harris--Draft
September 27, 2011
Harris was a blue sky
between her electric dust
and all that too-much.
Harris was her breath of fresh air
somewhere between
the ground and the blue,
destined for loss
So she wore him like an albatross
grew a glaze over her eyes,
translucent shade
over spaces, sang
"Mama, come down to get me
'cause there's nothing else left
but my skin and breath
to stretch across your middle
and the better plans we meant once."
She tossed his heart across the continent.
But Harris was a mild-mannered guy,
and he covered her face with his eyes.
She said, "Only if you insist, 'cause the old man's calling from the hill
and the sun's going down faster than I thought."
He pulled her away by the wrists,
said, "I never caught you."
He was a blaze of ammunition,
contagion, disease.
"You are my release," he said,
"My blue sky. Rain on windows,
a Sunday on my shoulders."
She petitioned, cried to the blue sky
but it was all too much.
He caught her missing the last bus out,
running barefoot, underneath the albatross.
Harris was a blue sky
between her electric dust
and all that too-much.
Harris was her breath of fresh air
somewhere between
the ground and the blue,
destined for loss
So she wore him like an albatross
grew a glaze over her eyes,
translucent shade
over spaces, sang
"Mama, come down to get me
'cause there's nothing else left
but my skin and breath
to stretch across your middle
and the better plans we meant once."
She tossed his heart across the continent.
But Harris was a mild-mannered guy,
and he covered her face with his eyes.
She said, "Only if you insist, 'cause the old man's calling from the hill
and the sun's going down faster than I thought."
He pulled her away by the wrists,
said, "I never caught you."
He was a blaze of ammunition,
contagion, disease.
"You are my release," he said,
"My blue sky. Rain on windows,
a Sunday on my shoulders."
She petitioned, cried to the blue sky
but it was all too much.
He caught her missing the last bus out,
running barefoot, underneath the albatross.
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
"If you blink twice, Little Girl, I'll take you home."
"I don't have a home, Uriel. You know this."
"Remember the circle that houses God. It is a part of you. You made it visible."
"God has nothing to do with this. God is in the details and the obvious. I become myself all over again. But God is there and it is not there. This is Human, not Divine."
"You are giving up again."
"No. There is nothing to give up on. I have always been hopeless case. I just tricked myself into thinking otherwise. Truth hurts."
"There are many Truths. You choose yours."
"Many Truths combine into one. I know the end result. I am like you. Scattered in the Living. Held in stasis. Immovable."
"You are not cursed with Holy."
"But I am cursed. And I poison everyone around me. I bring about the worst."
The angel is silent.
"Why am I alive and they aren't? Why am I always too late by just one second? And why am I unlovable? Why am I always just below the line? Why is my everything never enough?"
"You are more than that for us."
"You aren't Human!" the Little Girl screams. "You aren't Human!"
"And that negates our import?"
The girl is silent.
"Whatever we may be, we are sentient. However nascent our ability to feel, the ability is there. We are neither above nor below you, Little Girl. We are of the same making. We are different peaks of the same range of mountains, gazing upon the same horizon. The view is the same. We may never reach each other in this world or the next. You will Scatter and I will remain. Imagine Eternity knowing you once had the love of your life and that the Scattering steals it all, makes moments into lies."
"A lifetime for a Human is as Eternity to you. My moments are shorter but just as agonizing when they end. Or when don't end, if the moment is horrible."
"Both of us live, though the life is of a different weave. You can never touch me. Although you are separate from yourself, you still hang by the threads of your flesh. A stroke of my finger upon your mind can never quite reach the feeling of another human touching your hand. But this does not make my actions irrelevant. It merely makes us unreachable in the most significant of ways to one another."
"Did I choose to be born, Uriel? Or was it a consignment?"
"The Point chooses, and thus we choose ourselves."
"Where is home, angel?"
"Where you are, Little Girl. It has nothing to do with geography."
"I know."
"You are beautiful. Whether the mirror says so or not."
"To you."
"I've never seen your face, Little Girl. Your beauty goes far beyond what you see."
"And I've never seen yours."
"Do you think I'm beautiful?"
"You? An angel? You can't be anything but."
"Then you break it down to simplicity. Listen to your own words and know from whence they come. Beauty is never bought in our lives. It is only apparent and true. Love at first sight is the only true kind."
"You are too Human, Uriel."
"And if I'd been a Man, I would have missed you. My Life would have never crossed yours. And to be Scattered is what I envy of your future, to be one with you and everyone else. But it is not enough. Now I know you, the individual. And I cherish this moment that I ripped from the ocean of forever, and I fight for it, because we have no choice but to give it back."
"I don't have a home, Uriel. You know this."
"Remember the circle that houses God. It is a part of you. You made it visible."
"God has nothing to do with this. God is in the details and the obvious. I become myself all over again. But God is there and it is not there. This is Human, not Divine."
"You are giving up again."
"No. There is nothing to give up on. I have always been hopeless case. I just tricked myself into thinking otherwise. Truth hurts."
"There are many Truths. You choose yours."
"Many Truths combine into one. I know the end result. I am like you. Scattered in the Living. Held in stasis. Immovable."
"You are not cursed with Holy."
"But I am cursed. And I poison everyone around me. I bring about the worst."
The angel is silent.
"Why am I alive and they aren't? Why am I always too late by just one second? And why am I unlovable? Why am I always just below the line? Why is my everything never enough?"
"You are more than that for us."
"You aren't Human!" the Little Girl screams. "You aren't Human!"
"And that negates our import?"
The girl is silent.
"Whatever we may be, we are sentient. However nascent our ability to feel, the ability is there. We are neither above nor below you, Little Girl. We are of the same making. We are different peaks of the same range of mountains, gazing upon the same horizon. The view is the same. We may never reach each other in this world or the next. You will Scatter and I will remain. Imagine Eternity knowing you once had the love of your life and that the Scattering steals it all, makes moments into lies."
"A lifetime for a Human is as Eternity to you. My moments are shorter but just as agonizing when they end. Or when don't end, if the moment is horrible."
"Both of us live, though the life is of a different weave. You can never touch me. Although you are separate from yourself, you still hang by the threads of your flesh. A stroke of my finger upon your mind can never quite reach the feeling of another human touching your hand. But this does not make my actions irrelevant. It merely makes us unreachable in the most significant of ways to one another."
"Did I choose to be born, Uriel? Or was it a consignment?"
"The Point chooses, and thus we choose ourselves."
"Where is home, angel?"
"Where you are, Little Girl. It has nothing to do with geography."
"I know."
"You are beautiful. Whether the mirror says so or not."
"To you."
"I've never seen your face, Little Girl. Your beauty goes far beyond what you see."
"And I've never seen yours."
"Do you think I'm beautiful?"
"You? An angel? You can't be anything but."
"Then you break it down to simplicity. Listen to your own words and know from whence they come. Beauty is never bought in our lives. It is only apparent and true. Love at first sight is the only true kind."
"You are too Human, Uriel."
"And if I'd been a Man, I would have missed you. My Life would have never crossed yours. And to be Scattered is what I envy of your future, to be one with you and everyone else. But it is not enough. Now I know you, the individual. And I cherish this moment that I ripped from the ocean of forever, and I fight for it, because we have no choice but to give it back."
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