 |
| http://www.katiesuewest.com |
...for the day the world stopped being okay.
-L (10/10/13)
![[Un]fortunate Philosophies](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dFQ82zKjN5s/S9Ypciuk6cI/AAAAAAAAAPE/6H-qgIQDbyM/S660/BlogPic2.jpg)
Showing posts with label (muses). Show all posts
Showing posts with label (muses). Show all posts
These nights as they were.
Remember when we used to write ourselves to sleep at night? And managed somehow not to fall again awake? How our eyes stayed closed, all night, and we never had to try to remember how feeling so, felt.
It's hard for me to remember now. Now that you're not here to remind me. And by 'you', maybe I mean 'me', the way I used to be.
I watched an old YouTube video I'd made of myself, for M., singing to him on his birthday in 2009. God I looked young. And happy! Deliriously so, back before I knew any other way to be -- except vicariously. Such a bizarre peek into my own once-mind; once-energy; once-unrecognized fate.
Tonight one of your songs came through my headphones. Although it's always been there, all this time, it suddenly appeared as though lost for ages. Indeed, it had been, somehow. Lost amongst and amidst and underneath the many-blanketed boundaries of far less dangerous songs. And I heard it again. Tore into me briefly; too easily; still familiar. Before the numb set in again.
And it was like I realized for the first time how thick that blanket has become; how unavoidable. How indistinguishable. Only in contrast with a context that used to drench me in my own tears, could I see it as something separate from myself. Something I've not become, so much as am covered by. Perhaps shielded. Perhaps shrouded. As one would shroud the newly dead, as though not wishing that one to see. To see its own cessation.
But so as not to leave it there...
-L (9/9/13)
It's hard for me to remember now. Now that you're not here to remind me. And by 'you', maybe I mean 'me', the way I used to be.
I watched an old YouTube video I'd made of myself, for M., singing to him on his birthday in 2009. God I looked young. And happy! Deliriously so, back before I knew any other way to be -- except vicariously. Such a bizarre peek into my own once-mind; once-energy; once-unrecognized fate.
Tonight one of your songs came through my headphones. Although it's always been there, all this time, it suddenly appeared as though lost for ages. Indeed, it had been, somehow. Lost amongst and amidst and underneath the many-blanketed boundaries of far less dangerous songs. And I heard it again. Tore into me briefly; too easily; still familiar. Before the numb set in again.
And it was like I realized for the first time how thick that blanket has become; how unavoidable. How indistinguishable. Only in contrast with a context that used to drench me in my own tears, could I see it as something separate from myself. Something I've not become, so much as am covered by. Perhaps shielded. Perhaps shrouded. As one would shroud the newly dead, as though not wishing that one to see. To see its own cessation.
But so as not to leave it there...
-L (9/9/13)
"Counting my losses, wasn't sure if I should count you." -D
"Fear is the opposite of faith." But fuck faith. And fuck fear, too.
Luckily, when you've had your heart torn in a major way, all subsequent disappointments seem insignificant by comparison.
"But I refuse to be concerned with condescending advice, cuz I'm the only motherfucker that can change my life." -I.T.
-L (8/19/13)
Luckily, when you've had your heart torn in a major way, all subsequent disappointments seem insignificant by comparison.
"But I refuse to be concerned with condescending advice, cuz I'm the only motherfucker that can change my life." -I.T.
-L (8/19/13)
"'Would that life were a song!?,' blazed those olive eyes."
(OUCH! God forsaken.) I fell out of bed again this morning. It's a mad thing, this bewildered occupancy you've taken up in my mind.
Indeed, like grinning men in beat-up cars -- wearing glasses and looking straight ahead. Like tiny-tiny girls as cute as this -- muttering with a purpose. Oh! Like skateboarding women, holding on strong with one hand -- tattooed calves painted.
What if you knew me? What would your opinion look like?
I don't understand... I like being so separate. We are arbitrary and irreparable, like the smell of pine on my palm and the utter listlessness of a waning light; like pursed lips in anticipation, waiting to flinch. Is it lyrical, at least, the meaning beyond the words?
"And they've got these long benches, see, and you have to stand up and hunch over to eat so all the chili falls out! It's awesome...it's awesome."
Now I'm feeling more at peace. It dawns on me that within our mind and soul's creativity IS the place to dwell. And that I haven't read my Tarot for quite a long time... So there it is, my conclusion: I always start the Fool, and after the journey, end up the Magician again.
-L (8/5/13)
Indeed, like grinning men in beat-up cars -- wearing glasses and looking straight ahead. Like tiny-tiny girls as cute as this -- muttering with a purpose. Oh! Like skateboarding women, holding on strong with one hand -- tattooed calves painted.
What if you knew me? What would your opinion look like?
I don't understand... I like being so separate. We are arbitrary and irreparable, like the smell of pine on my palm and the utter listlessness of a waning light; like pursed lips in anticipation, waiting to flinch. Is it lyrical, at least, the meaning beyond the words?
"And they've got these long benches, see, and you have to stand up and hunch over to eat so all the chili falls out! It's awesome...it's awesome."
Now I'm feeling more at peace. It dawns on me that within our mind and soul's creativity IS the place to dwell. And that I haven't read my Tarot for quite a long time... So there it is, my conclusion: I always start the Fool, and after the journey, end up the Magician again.
-L (8/5/13)
"When you record the moment, you record the death of the moment." -D.C.
Where am I at? And how do I feel? Such complicated questions, every time. Easier to talk shit on paper/in person than it is to cop to the fact that we'd really rather not know.
But know we do! Can't not. Still, "don't waste your worry on me, I always find what I need. Come and go as I please -- I've got my skeleton key." -D
Stuck in this tight spot between wantingwantingwanting and utterly unwilling to give any more than I'm given. Not sure if I should get over this, or just hone it down keenly into the sharpest of survival skills -- exploited in every sense of the word. Follow myself into the foolish fellowship of the fallen, rather than picking myself up again and moving the fuck on? It's only that I'd like to learn to keep still; to cease with the ceaseless motion that's haunted my movements for years now. Learn to sit with it.
"'I miss being strong,' she told me, and leaned down to give me her lips. We went on, reaching out toward bliss & contrition -- but really, it ended there."
Well, well then. And even so. Every minute of every day has a place to be; a person to see; a date to keep. I look around sometimes in wonder, wondering how I made it here with everywhere I've been before. They say hindsight is 20/20; it all looks like a big freakin' mess back there to me. Deductive reasoning be damned!
"I left through her big oak-black front door, seen only in the brief dark of the evening before, and didn't intend to enter through it again."
-L (7/29/13)
But know we do! Can't not. Still, "don't waste your worry on me, I always find what I need. Come and go as I please -- I've got my skeleton key." -D
Stuck in this tight spot between wantingwantingwanting and utterly unwilling to give any more than I'm given. Not sure if I should get over this, or just hone it down keenly into the sharpest of survival skills -- exploited in every sense of the word. Follow myself into the foolish fellowship of the fallen, rather than picking myself up again and moving the fuck on? It's only that I'd like to learn to keep still; to cease with the ceaseless motion that's haunted my movements for years now. Learn to sit with it.
"'I miss being strong,' she told me, and leaned down to give me her lips. We went on, reaching out toward bliss & contrition -- but really, it ended there."
Well, well then. And even so. Every minute of every day has a place to be; a person to see; a date to keep. I look around sometimes in wonder, wondering how I made it here with everywhere I've been before. They say hindsight is 20/20; it all looks like a big freakin' mess back there to me. Deductive reasoning be damned!
"I left through her big oak-black front door, seen only in the brief dark of the evening before, and didn't intend to enter through it again."
-L (7/29/13)
"Swing Lo, Oh Magellan"
Day after my 29th birthday, and despite the fact of having spent it entirely at the beach, not a lick of sunburn on my skinny-skin-skin. Most likely had something to do with the overcast weather, and the sun not even peeping out from behind its cover of clouds -- but I'd like to fancy folks a little charmed on their birthdays, too.
So many things going down. None of which I ever really get into here, I've noticed. Except peripherally; details at large in the ether. Why is it so much easier to stop writing than it is to stop talking, right when we're in the thick of it? Maybe sounds just carry more easily than fingertips? Maybe my fingers always feel a little on edge. Perched. If not waiting, then what?
The truth of the matter is that I may be developing a soft phobia to honesty. It's bad business, too, cuz how can you start a sentence with, "The truth of the matter is..." and avoid all the skepticism willing to rain down onto you upon earful of a self-professed phobia such as this one? Truth v. Honesty? Maybe they are not as complimentary of commentary as one would think/hope/expect. Maybe instead, one can be truly honest in her outpouring of deceit; or one may be exceptionally truthful without opening even a shred of a doorway, onto whatever she has in her to be honest about.
Ah well. C'est la vie, my dark and stormy love. C'est la vie.
-L (7/22/13)
So many things going down. None of which I ever really get into here, I've noticed. Except peripherally; details at large in the ether. Why is it so much easier to stop writing than it is to stop talking, right when we're in the thick of it? Maybe sounds just carry more easily than fingertips? Maybe my fingers always feel a little on edge. Perched. If not waiting, then what?
The truth of the matter is that I may be developing a soft phobia to honesty. It's bad business, too, cuz how can you start a sentence with, "The truth of the matter is..." and avoid all the skepticism willing to rain down onto you upon earful of a self-professed phobia such as this one? Truth v. Honesty? Maybe they are not as complimentary of commentary as one would think/hope/expect. Maybe instead, one can be truly honest in her outpouring of deceit; or one may be exceptionally truthful without opening even a shred of a doorway, onto whatever she has in her to be honest about.
Ah well. C'est la vie, my dark and stormy love. C'est la vie.
-L (7/22/13)
...
cowgirl-urban punctuated woman,
straw-weaved hat smiling the warmth of the sun.
saunters beside her buttoned-up boyfriend.
pauses when the pit
bends to sniff her boots,
and recalls to memory her scent from before.
beyond another moment, beneath the obvious sky --
between two sets of eyes, seeking.
the brevity of event, curiously concludes.
trail-less, girl walks on
grin-traces fading.
dog circles twice, to lay itself down again.
straw-weaved hat smiling the warmth of the sun.
saunters beside her buttoned-up boyfriend.
pauses when the pit
bends to sniff her boots,
and recalls to memory her scent from before.
beyond another moment, beneath the obvious sky --
between two sets of eyes, seeking.
the brevity of event, curiously concludes.
trail-less, girl walks on
grin-traces fading.
dog circles twice, to lay itself down again.
Red-brick silences.
As a matter of fact, I am tired. And my cat nestles snuggled underneath my pyramid bent knees and blankets. I didn't realize it before, but now I see.
First week full-time at my firm. Utter amazingness, the rate at which everything might suddenly come together. I can hear hawks and parrots and airplanes and AC units and rustled, muffled wild animalsounds -- all from the comfort of my own bedroom.
Tomorrow, I'll need to get out of here early to go see a person later that I hardly know, but would like to know less-hardly. In the mean time, I'd like to learn to say: "You shouldn't have called, you know... If you've already decided to be bored."
But not delicate -- not now, you'll notice. (And so on and so forth, before falling asleep.)
-L (7/8/13)
First week full-time at my firm. Utter amazingness, the rate at which everything might suddenly come together. I can hear hawks and parrots and airplanes and AC units and rustled, muffled wild animalsounds -- all from the comfort of my own bedroom.
Tomorrow, I'll need to get out of here early to go see a person later that I hardly know, but would like to know less-hardly. In the mean time, I'd like to learn to say: "You shouldn't have called, you know... If you've already decided to be bored."
But not delicate -- not now, you'll notice. (And so on and so forth, before falling asleep.)
-L (7/8/13)
...
wind-wilderness tinted, distinctive gaze.
endless-bound, guileless, ravenous blaze.
joyous life written with an effortless smile,
bright silent butterflies, falling in line.
(my dear, you will not stay defined...)
blues romance distraction, momentarily aside:
tune softly and bravely, sounds intertwine.
fingertips floating, freedom gently enslaved.
grateful breath taken; not shallow, nor saved.
endless-bound, guileless, ravenous blaze.
joyous life written with an effortless smile,
bright silent butterflies, falling in line.
(my dear, you will not stay defined...)
blues romance distraction, momentarily aside:
tune softly and bravely, sounds intertwine.
fingertips floating, freedom gently enslaved.
grateful breath taken; not shallow, nor saved.
For the day of the missed flight.
"It's all the mornings we missed for sleep, as the sun glides over our apartment..." So what more can we do, but catch this one? How amazing! How mediocre. How ours to say, this time around.
Maybe I would have felt more in-tuned, more in-awe, had the choice been made for him. Maybe the miracle would have seemed more divine, than the plain truth of a choice. Maybe I'm not used to being chosen -- even if only in part -- so as not to be able to recognize the distinct divinity therein.
It's those secrets you share in knowing everything there is to know about one another; the behind the scenes "Action!"; that Frances Ha moment. It's the clearing of the mystery, out of your before-blurry eyes, just in time to see the magic unfurl. "Once upon a time..." I thought I knew the end to that story. Now I just know better. Now I know to wonder, what else?
Such a small, beautiful thing, and perhaps moreso in that so few will notice; give it more than a passing and uncertain glance. But such a thing is, here, mine to behold. If not to live first-hand, than blessedly, graciously, through the crystalline clear eyes out of which you
..................................................................................................................................glitter.
.....................................................................................................................................radiate.
........................................................................................................................................pulse.
...........................................................................................................................................look.
Suddenly back at me.
-L (6/17/13)
Maybe I would have felt more in-tuned, more in-awe, had the choice been made for him. Maybe the miracle would have seemed more divine, than the plain truth of a choice. Maybe I'm not used to being chosen -- even if only in part -- so as not to be able to recognize the distinct divinity therein.
It's those secrets you share in knowing everything there is to know about one another; the behind the scenes "Action!"; that Frances Ha moment. It's the clearing of the mystery, out of your before-blurry eyes, just in time to see the magic unfurl. "Once upon a time..." I thought I knew the end to that story. Now I just know better. Now I know to wonder, what else?
Such a small, beautiful thing, and perhaps moreso in that so few will notice; give it more than a passing and uncertain glance. But such a thing is, here, mine to behold. If not to live first-hand, than blessedly, graciously, through the crystalline clear eyes out of which you
..................................................................................................................................glitter.
.....................................................................................................................................radiate.
........................................................................................................................................pulse.
...........................................................................................................................................look.
Suddenly back at me.
-L (6/17/13)
Not big on make-up, shoes, or a-holes -- but you do what you got to.
In the heart of the state, rolling along at toddler speed. The road whispering gravel all the way.
"Well maybe we'll get lucky and we'll both grow old, well I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I hope so..."
Heart, body, mind, soul. Three out of four ain't bad, folks! (And I'll shave my legs when I want someone to touch them, yo.)
When you don't get to have it the way you want it, are you willing to have it the way it is?
-L (6/10/13)
"Well maybe we'll get lucky and we'll both grow old, well I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I hope so..."
Heart, body, mind, soul. Three out of four ain't bad, folks! (And I'll shave my legs when I want someone to touch them, yo.)
When you don't get to have it the way you want it, are you willing to have it the way it is?
-L (6/10/13)
"We'll leave a noooose on the aaattorney's desk..."
[I needed you more on some days than others. But you weren't there either way. And I survived.]
Months and months. "Rolling through the days with the gratitude of steam." Where am I now? Why do I stop writing? I need something new from myself. I need a truth, as of yet unthought of. And I need a story, other than my own -- at least until I can step back in as author once more, rather than playing within and throughout the sweet commitments I've given in to surround me. The emerald-stitch blueroyal, covers my eyes like a dark & weighted sheet, so that I cannot see past my sight. And for now, that's all right.
I went looking for a poet tonight. (Why is it important to record these minutes?!) I didn't know her name, but I knew what her sage voice sounds like -- her experience infiltrating its intoning rhythm. Hmmm... anyway. I'll find her soon, but tonight, with this momentary loss of inspired, I took joy in settling for hot tea in a tall glass, reading a page and a half of my slow, faux-intimate novel. And for a bit, considered gravely a particularly thirsted-for interaction, which was half-flirt, half-fret/fearful, as it left me glad but increasingly anti-climactic -- as though fading into ridiculous clumsiness, accompanying the unfamiliar scorch of my feeling shy.
My ears listened their fill of Margot and the Nucleur So & So's; my feet played cold together, swept beneath the blanket. I missed my sworn enemy, because he used to be my great love. Then, he had warmed my feet with the fleeting-est of lovers' looks. I bit my tongue to beat back the sensation the only way I knew how, because the only thing more distracting than pain is worse pain. Or at least, that which is more immediately painful, and thus inescapably tangible, as memoried musings never are. Only then might self-medication be an option worth faithful exploration, for some suddenly lonely night.
[Besides which, missing him pissed me off. That helped, too.]
-L (6/3/13)
Months and months. "Rolling through the days with the gratitude of steam." Where am I now? Why do I stop writing? I need something new from myself. I need a truth, as of yet unthought of. And I need a story, other than my own -- at least until I can step back in as author once more, rather than playing within and throughout the sweet commitments I've given in to surround me. The emerald-stitch blueroyal, covers my eyes like a dark & weighted sheet, so that I cannot see past my sight. And for now, that's all right.
I went looking for a poet tonight. (Why is it important to record these minutes?!) I didn't know her name, but I knew what her sage voice sounds like -- her experience infiltrating its intoning rhythm. Hmmm... anyway. I'll find her soon, but tonight, with this momentary loss of inspired, I took joy in settling for hot tea in a tall glass, reading a page and a half of my slow, faux-intimate novel. And for a bit, considered gravely a particularly thirsted-for interaction, which was half-flirt, half-fret/fearful, as it left me glad but increasingly anti-climactic -- as though fading into ridiculous clumsiness, accompanying the unfamiliar scorch of my feeling shy.
My ears listened their fill of Margot and the Nucleur So & So's; my feet played cold together, swept beneath the blanket. I missed my sworn enemy, because he used to be my great love. Then, he had warmed my feet with the fleeting-est of lovers' looks. I bit my tongue to beat back the sensation the only way I knew how, because the only thing more distracting than pain is worse pain. Or at least, that which is more immediately painful, and thus inescapably tangible, as memoried musings never are. Only then might self-medication be an option worth faithful exploration, for some suddenly lonely night.
[Besides which, missing him pissed me off. That helped, too.]
-L (6/3/13)
"Children, Broad Ripple is burning..."
Two weeks and I don't know what is worth writing; every beginning feels like it will end. And end in the feeling that blogs like mine are far too self-congratulating; far too anti-social to be suffered even in Texas. And I'm not in Texas.
Even so, I realized that I love making others feel loved, and that with you it's different. It's different because I'm half in love with you -- and because it's the half I don't trust.
The half that loves you, loves you with no rhyme or reason; no track record. No reasonable rate of return. It's a love I can't define or pin down or explain, and I'm probably wise when I try to explain it away. But then there it is still, when I half look: that half of my love that you own, but have never come close to claiming.
So while I do love to make others feel loved, I can't do this for you. Not when with you I only have half my love left; not when you haven't filled that rift with half of yours.
It's dishonest even to try, really -- although I do at times try, and I am in fact dishonest. But at the end of this beginning, I stand by the proposition that dishonesty is a thing generally to be avoided, when one can be so wily. When one cannot, however, one must fall back on her more loyal defenses. Like the white flag of play-dumb friendship. Safety in the scarcity of color.
And the cat, curled up on the lap, gently clawing at the keyboard. Altogether unimpressed.
-L (5/27/13)
Even so, I realized that I love making others feel loved, and that with you it's different. It's different because I'm half in love with you -- and because it's the half I don't trust.
The half that loves you, loves you with no rhyme or reason; no track record. No reasonable rate of return. It's a love I can't define or pin down or explain, and I'm probably wise when I try to explain it away. But then there it is still, when I half look: that half of my love that you own, but have never come close to claiming.
So while I do love to make others feel loved, I can't do this for you. Not when with you I only have half my love left; not when you haven't filled that rift with half of yours.
It's dishonest even to try, really -- although I do at times try, and I am in fact dishonest. But at the end of this beginning, I stand by the proposition that dishonesty is a thing generally to be avoided, when one can be so wily. When one cannot, however, one must fall back on her more loyal defenses. Like the white flag of play-dumb friendship. Safety in the scarcity of color.
And the cat, curled up on the lap, gently clawing at the keyboard. Altogether unimpressed.
-L (5/27/13)
"We cannot relinquish butterflies and return to uninterrupted road." -A.L.
Birthday number twenty-eight. And three days from taking the bar exam. Not the most mixable of substances, but we're pulling it off anyway, nonetheless. Not that time gives us much of an option in the matter.
Things like the essays in this book help: http://www.scribd.com/doc/93144782/Things-That-Are-Essays-by-Amy-Leach
As do sunset sailing trips, and celebratory supportive words, and demonstrative love coming from (almost) all directions of our life. And books, too. Lots of books. (Books that aren't legal treatises.) Promising themselves to us - in now less than five days and counting...
Counting down to being fully present again. Maybe you'll notice when it happens. Maybe you won't. Maybe I can say the same about me.
And maybe we'll just have to wait and see.
-L (7/21/2012)
Things like the essays in this book help: http://www.scribd.com/doc/93144782/Things-That-Are-Essays-by-Amy-Leach
As do sunset sailing trips, and celebratory supportive words, and demonstrative love coming from (almost) all directions of our life. And books, too. Lots of books. (Books that aren't legal treatises.) Promising themselves to us - in now less than five days and counting...
Counting down to being fully present again. Maybe you'll notice when it happens. Maybe you won't. Maybe I can say the same about me.
And maybe we'll just have to wait and see.
-L (7/21/2012)
III. He exhaled his brewing anger, trying to let it leave him.
He'd been working on his patience. He'd been working off his pride. But he hated her being right about him.
Trying to let it go, he began, "Okay. The way this conversation just went, I guess we both know by now that we're coming to our end. You know? It's just...we've been going different directions lately. I've decided we should make it official."
"Ha!" she laughed bitterly, now despite herself. "You've 'decided to make it official'? You mean, the fact that you're leaving because I'm still grieving, and you're over it? Rad. How magnanimous of you, dude. Well let's then. 'Make it official.' We can start with you getting the fuck out of my shop. How's that for official?"
By now her voice had risen in anger. She was pacing the limited floor space unconsciously as she spoke, and had absent-mindedly turned the lock on the front door entrance to engaged, as well as the sign hanging from it to "Closed." Locking them both in out of habit, despite what she was saying. That freezing her from a moment ago he still couldn't handle; this boiling version he could. Almost blind-folded by now. Even with his hands tied.
He walked to her then and positioned his body directly in her orbital path. She nearly ran into his chest before she realized he was standing there, and her instant hesitation was enough for him to infiltrate and redirect her quick-breathed pounding heart by wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tightly against him. She didn't even struggle this time. Just tightened for a moment before letting herself fall into him. Not wrapping her arms back around him, of course, but no longer fighting either.
He wondered how it was possible to know someone so well, and still be able to let that person go. Love or not, really being beside the point. He supposed he'd find out before long. He supposed they both would.
-L (2/5/12)
Trying to let it go, he began, "Okay. The way this conversation just went, I guess we both know by now that we're coming to our end. You know? It's just...we've been going different directions lately. I've decided we should make it official."
"Ha!" she laughed bitterly, now despite herself. "You've 'decided to make it official'? You mean, the fact that you're leaving because I'm still grieving, and you're over it? Rad. How magnanimous of you, dude. Well let's then. 'Make it official.' We can start with you getting the fuck out of my shop. How's that for official?"
By now her voice had risen in anger. She was pacing the limited floor space unconsciously as she spoke, and had absent-mindedly turned the lock on the front door entrance to engaged, as well as the sign hanging from it to "Closed." Locking them both in out of habit, despite what she was saying. That freezing her from a moment ago he still couldn't handle; this boiling version he could. Almost blind-folded by now. Even with his hands tied.
He walked to her then and positioned his body directly in her orbital path. She nearly ran into his chest before she realized he was standing there, and her instant hesitation was enough for him to infiltrate and redirect her quick-breathed pounding heart by wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tightly against him. She didn't even struggle this time. Just tightened for a moment before letting herself fall into him. Not wrapping her arms back around him, of course, but no longer fighting either.
He wondered how it was possible to know someone so well, and still be able to let that person go. Love or not, really being beside the point. He supposed he'd find out before long. He supposed they both would.
-L (2/5/12)
II. And when he went the wind called him on his game.
The narrow beige leaves fell insistent on his shoulders, called by the persuasive gust. He nearly turned back. Maybe he should have.
Too late. Indie came out of the shop saluted by a jingling bell atop the door. Her smile was bright; her eyes were guarded. As defensive as she always seemed to be, now. She gave a slight wave of hand inviting him to join her inside, then slipped back in again without waiting for him to respond. He followed her through the jingling door.
The bookshop gave off the appearance of having just been born, as it always did. Stacks of books on the ground piled as high as his waist, ranged from classic literature ever-more-real-than-life, to stranger-than-fiction nonfiction. Indie picked each one by hand, and the endeavor had gradually become her entire existence during the past year-and-a-half. That's why he was here, really. Because she was different.
"I know why you're here," Indie announced suddenly, default smile gone. Her tone already sounded spiteful. Deadened. Resentful. Maybe rightfully so.
"Is that right?" he answered automatically, already feeling defensive. This is why he had to do it. He hated it when she challenged him so pointedly like that. It felt too dramatic. Almost embarrassing. And he resented her right back, for doing that to her otherwise lovely voice.
"Yes. You've been sitting on that park bench across the street, staring at my shop all morning. You've been steeling yourself. Why else?"
"You tell me," he replied, annoyed despite himself. Despite the whole morning he'd spent preparing himself against it, as she noted.
"No. Let's just call this one your fight, shall we?"
"So we're fighting now, are we?" he shot back.
"Mitch, please. Just tell me why you're here. Let's just get this over with. Please."
-L (2/1/12)
Too late. Indie came out of the shop saluted by a jingling bell atop the door. Her smile was bright; her eyes were guarded. As defensive as she always seemed to be, now. She gave a slight wave of hand inviting him to join her inside, then slipped back in again without waiting for him to respond. He followed her through the jingling door.
The bookshop gave off the appearance of having just been born, as it always did. Stacks of books on the ground piled as high as his waist, ranged from classic literature ever-more-real-than-life, to stranger-than-fiction nonfiction. Indie picked each one by hand, and the endeavor had gradually become her entire existence during the past year-and-a-half. That's why he was here, really. Because she was different.
"I know why you're here," Indie announced suddenly, default smile gone. Her tone already sounded spiteful. Deadened. Resentful. Maybe rightfully so.
"Is that right?" he answered automatically, already feeling defensive. This is why he had to do it. He hated it when she challenged him so pointedly like that. It felt too dramatic. Almost embarrassing. And he resented her right back, for doing that to her otherwise lovely voice.
"Yes. You've been sitting on that park bench across the street, staring at my shop all morning. You've been steeling yourself. Why else?"
"You tell me," he replied, annoyed despite himself. Despite the whole morning he'd spent preparing himself against it, as she noted.
"No. Let's just call this one your fight, shall we?"
"So we're fighting now, are we?" he shot back.
"Mitch, please. Just tell me why you're here. Let's just get this over with. Please."
-L (2/1/12)
All rise for the vacancy.
The house across the street is vacant now. It's viiisible... Gone. Viiisible... Gone as she watches its image fluttering over the roof of her own house, jumping on the oversize trampoline in the back yard. She expects that it's forlorn enough to be gathered up and scattered by the wind, after all that it had and had lost - but it just sits there, steady as nothing is.
It is an atrocious house, to remain so unmoved.
Living in that house, one can come to believe of the leaves to cackle as they fall. She too has surpassed her salvation - the sucker - like pencil marks invisible on skin but felt nonetheless. Like Jesus, even, or as poised as this moment seems to think it is. She's lost her unknowing companion, so that she might now remember that it's cold.
The in-between is what she wants. Its darkness. Like writing the words for their depths, or wondering about truth.
She sat in her car a few days ago and saw an old man walking, as slow as you like with his hands behind his back as though pondering. It hit her, then, the beautiful intricacy of this life. The excruciating frailty of this web that at times is the last strength in the universe. The only truth: that this life will go on; that hers won't. Whether it tears or shatters or snaps, or is tossed from some traitorous vehicle.
Her life had seemed so complicated, but that old man...she knew his life must be complicated as well. It would consume him. He had needed a change of scenery just to comprehend the one from which he'd come. It was surreal and perfect. That was it. Astounding, the sheer perfection of all these fumbling attempts to attain something already possessed. Like bus-ride snippets of conversation, conveying the almost-magic of the everyday. Just that there wasn't any to begin with, all along.
-L (1/29/12)
It is an atrocious house, to remain so unmoved.
Living in that house, one can come to believe of the leaves to cackle as they fall. She too has surpassed her salvation - the sucker - like pencil marks invisible on skin but felt nonetheless. Like Jesus, even, or as poised as this moment seems to think it is. She's lost her unknowing companion, so that she might now remember that it's cold.
The in-between is what she wants. Its darkness. Like writing the words for their depths, or wondering about truth.
She sat in her car a few days ago and saw an old man walking, as slow as you like with his hands behind his back as though pondering. It hit her, then, the beautiful intricacy of this life. The excruciating frailty of this web that at times is the last strength in the universe. The only truth: that this life will go on; that hers won't. Whether it tears or shatters or snaps, or is tossed from some traitorous vehicle.
Her life had seemed so complicated, but that old man...she knew his life must be complicated as well. It would consume him. He had needed a change of scenery just to comprehend the one from which he'd come. It was surreal and perfect. That was it. Astounding, the sheer perfection of all these fumbling attempts to attain something already possessed. Like bus-ride snippets of conversation, conveying the almost-magic of the everyday. Just that there wasn't any to begin with, all along.
-L (1/29/12)
Continuable...
They drove through the silence together, and out of it again when the beach came into view. The waves roared and licked the shore like a pride of lionesses.
"I feel like I'm starting all over again," she told him in a low voice. He felt like he was starting new; they felt the same then, but reacted to the feelings in different ways. "I can't seem to focus wholeheartedly on anything anymore."
"Maybe you don't need to now - maybe you're not supposed to," He told her with an undetectable edge of desperation to his words. He wished he could lend her his acceptance of the way things are, however they happened to be.
She pulled the lumbering beast of a vehicle over, killing the engine the moment the back wheels hit the gravel of the shoulder. The headlights extinguished themselves under her demanding hand even before the truck glided to a stop, and they immediately began to drown together, submerged in the wake of the heavy darkness dimming the cab.
-L (1/27/12)
"I feel like I'm starting all over again," she told him in a low voice. He felt like he was starting new; they felt the same then, but reacted to the feelings in different ways. "I can't seem to focus wholeheartedly on anything anymore."
"Maybe you don't need to now - maybe you're not supposed to," He told her with an undetectable edge of desperation to his words. He wished he could lend her his acceptance of the way things are, however they happened to be.
She pulled the lumbering beast of a vehicle over, killing the engine the moment the back wheels hit the gravel of the shoulder. The headlights extinguished themselves under her demanding hand even before the truck glided to a stop, and they immediately began to drown together, submerged in the wake of the heavy darkness dimming the cab.
-L (1/27/12)
I. Trying on an old suit, to see if it still fits.
Women walked past him on rubbery legs. Their back-forth sway leaving nothing to be desired; their bodies teeter-tottering down the street. Somewhere in the sky he was sure that wars raged and songs were sung both in victory and defeat, honoring the fickle results. Here at his feet, just the same. An endless battle cry.
Across the street, he knew he had a problem. He could visualize it; taste it thick in the back of his throat; it tingled his third eye. The realization that a proverbial set of cross-roads hung in the balance, four-dimensional-like, held no end to irritation for him. Who the hell asked for mid-life-crisis damage-control at the age of 29? "Not I, said the Frog!" Not while he had no intention of passing himself off as a Princely prick.
But 'change is inevitable,' so the drowsy people say, too stoned to not let it happen to them. Again and again. And again, again. He never asked to evolve, doing so always just seemed to roll into life and back out all at once, without ever giving him a chance to protest. And so it goes, the changing happened; he'd let down his guard and the stones swept in and knocked all his doubts on down. His proverbial barriers disintegrated like the faceless, formless theories they all along remained - not standing and then falling so much as shifting outside existence's own idea of them. And anyway, he can't say he's anymore sober than the next guy. Or gal, for that matter.
In any case, she sat across the street. Behind that front desk; atop that rigid redwooded chair. And behind her, atop the stepping stool the two used to re-shelve books, he was sure stood the other her. The her whose heart he'd have to break, sooner than even he preferred. Or so he thought, hoped, expected, understood would likely be the case. But then, you never know with people, do you? Even those people about whom you know everything else.
Perhaps every heart-break breaks differently, no matter how many times one's heart is broken. For all he knows, she'll learn to use it against him as a way of gaining some inward advantage in the face of her newest new life - the one she'd soon be living without him. Or maybe she'd crumple like a tipsy teenager, all the way into herself, while watching her prom date suck face with the high school whore. Or fade away as already gone as today's front-page headliner, into the void of ever-hungry boredom.
He wondered which form of heartbreak could seduce his own heavy heart back in love with hers. He wondered whether it was worth it. He supposed it didn't much matter, either way. Soon, he'd be going in.
-L (1/25/12)
Across the street, he knew he had a problem. He could visualize it; taste it thick in the back of his throat; it tingled his third eye. The realization that a proverbial set of cross-roads hung in the balance, four-dimensional-like, held no end to irritation for him. Who the hell asked for mid-life-crisis damage-control at the age of 29? "Not I, said the Frog!" Not while he had no intention of passing himself off as a Princely prick.
But 'change is inevitable,' so the drowsy people say, too stoned to not let it happen to them. Again and again. And again, again. He never asked to evolve, doing so always just seemed to roll into life and back out all at once, without ever giving him a chance to protest. And so it goes, the changing happened; he'd let down his guard and the stones swept in and knocked all his doubts on down. His proverbial barriers disintegrated like the faceless, formless theories they all along remained - not standing and then falling so much as shifting outside existence's own idea of them. And anyway, he can't say he's anymore sober than the next guy. Or gal, for that matter.
In any case, she sat across the street. Behind that front desk; atop that rigid redwooded chair. And behind her, atop the stepping stool the two used to re-shelve books, he was sure stood the other her. The her whose heart he'd have to break, sooner than even he preferred. Or so he thought, hoped, expected, understood would likely be the case. But then, you never know with people, do you? Even those people about whom you know everything else.
Perhaps every heart-break breaks differently, no matter how many times one's heart is broken. For all he knows, she'll learn to use it against him as a way of gaining some inward advantage in the face of her newest new life - the one she'd soon be living without him. Or maybe she'd crumple like a tipsy teenager, all the way into herself, while watching her prom date suck face with the high school whore. Or fade away as already gone as today's front-page headliner, into the void of ever-hungry boredom.
He wondered which form of heartbreak could seduce his own heavy heart back in love with hers. He wondered whether it was worth it. He supposed it didn't much matter, either way. Soon, he'd be going in.
-L (1/25/12)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)