"There is nothing as humbling as acceptance." -W.E.

Abstraction comes so much easier than incriminating details. 'Long-distance relationship'--a contradiction in terms? I find myself riddled with jealousy these days, with a vigor that I've never considered myself capable of. No, there's no being above anything earthly, as long as we're earthbound. And still the phone doesn't ring.

Really, I should make the attempt to fall asleep. Early mornings don't agree with late nights, or so they tell me. I guess that's all I got anyway. Consummately distracted, you know.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/8/09)

"The tears will help to keep your need at bay." -Beth O. (Ahhhh!)

In the time it takes to take a breath, the splendid second side swipes depth of focus, telling of a moment's motion muddled gray and glowing fuschia--scented sweet and taking notion--wrings exception from the bland folks' trust fund and pays beyond your imagination.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/8/09)

...

Distress call. Derogatory confession in dark crystal-reflected company. Quitting entire populations & listening still to lies--we float warm through our own impressions of a likely reality. Wishful thinking on songs, at dawn's last unlit plateau. Look down to beat-up, well-loved flat sandaled memories--beautiful? Of course, that morning-after awards fumbling, must be savored and kept well-hidden from proponent fools of well-rehearsed love at first touch. Curvaceous lettered thoughts in-bred from scrawling, scribbled (raw) & bloody emotion coloring that tearful pink. Stressed lull, lullabying the frozen infant to wiggle, once more its toes.

Un-painting.

I wrote it on my canvas with a paintbrush, fancying myself a writer. "Write about the lives you represent. Write in the forgotten, as though memory were necessary. Type out black and gray, the versions of existence you seem to remember, the feeling of someone almost there with you, who you can't quite recall. Whose face faces yours blankly, flutters on the edge of recollection before just gone--now that you've gone away. Disappeared entirely to wherever you are this time? No one can mourn for the selves they buried, intentionally all alone. And then the voice, it spoke from below, not from above. I could not understand the words it wore..."

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/3/09)

Tropical melodies for a Saturday evening.

I'm not stoked about the gradual phasing out that happens with most people from our lives. It's such a LAME shortcoming, so unintentionally unfortunate, and utterly self-pitiful. But what can you do? The process takes two, at least, and it still seems preferable to many people than taking some semblance of responsibility for the deaths of the relationships we half-heartedly enter into. (What is it?: "El cielo es azul, just don't go telling everyone." - C.O.)

Ha! Well, to be "not stoked" about something is nonetheless not that freakin' bad, eh? My weekend is meant for maintenance, I'll maintain, but I believe it's my greatest weakness by far. Instead, six-mile-muddy Buddha-charmed hikes trump, and hours of reading sci-fi-fantastical works of art. My mind's a mess when it looks at the bigger picture, but ah, what splendid focus it can muster! One thing at a time, and the mention of a holistic healing of self is as meaningless as an abstraction of language from a word.

What else? Cold feet, and the insured certainty of self-deception in everything we do--still hopefully in these tiny-tiny ways. For instance, finally taking the time to write something (silly) just when comes to us an opportunity to do something readily necessary. As though utility were something shameful! and to be denied whenever possible. Cheap? "Whatevs."

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/2/09)

Mmm... Sweet potatoes are sWeEt, Potato!

The key is to not stop -- to not gain comfort from cessation, or give servitude gently to sleep. But it is very much a challenge to keep awake through bad dreams, and ever more so through the unimagined pleasure of those we deem good. Goosebumps break out like the prickling of gratitude, tipped at your toes when they watch as though dreaming, tight-rope walkers' feet that don't belong to the ground, nor their routine. Brittle red ribbon, hung loosely like expectation unmet and focus as yet unlooked upon. Throw away the silly reasons why! This minute exists solely for the self you mean to be--but only right this minute--look not beyond, because vision stops dead there. Look not above, because you'll only catch god's henchmen looking down, sick with jealous love. Not resentment, but admittedly, hardly love at all by now. Then look not below either, except to dream wonder into the earth, your stepping stone sufficient. Question lightly the hand-written note, even as you enjoy its solemn or joyous message. Massage into stress the hope of new life, and old alike. Ancience like spearmint breath warm on waiting skin; newness like carrots that burgeon--singularly miraculous, each crimson-orange crown resplendent with green and traceless of gray. Decay like brave sacrifice, understanding the ridiculous self-flattery imbued in the prospect, still unhumble in the lesson learned in giving up for the sake of balance. Giving over to the blissful, beatific utopia of KaRmic VisIon--a universal scale weighing out the promises, promising aLL to all it holds dear. Shatter the concept of considerate justice, at the expense of experience allowed & entrances wide-open. Honest.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/1/09)

...

Which flavor determines you?
Which color-coated combination?

Honey chestnut; chocolate-tainted cinnamon!
Blackened blueberries; desert-tinted cafe!
Date-coated flaky coconut flooding cream!

Bright white chili water drains streaming from gray eyes
and oh! if there's no such thing as taste...
Breathe deeper, and take note:
tomato-scarlet brandished
multi-grain cous-cous,
separates and joins to fall like sand falls
always made or unmade, really the very same.
Think into your blessed cherry-blossom messes
glide-float-fallen, cradled with bedded-down brown grasses.

(No dear, I want you to untangle your hand from my hair,
please, unwrap your draping arm from my tense shoulders
and go. Soft joy-faux pleadings, take them from my ear
and tuck them back there in your wallet of unholy white.)

...

fluttering chatter lingers by the swing-set
grandparents step separate, back from boy
playing in the sandbox, silently judging the sunlight.
talk of past years, but few still, through
the voice of an eight-year-old speaker--
where history is mysterious pretense
stepped-in for living desires.

where thought-stream dives beneath
written word, the back and forth,
exchanges of energies divide/derive.
shoed feet on man-placed sand, out of sync
with expectation, the grains barely can
(re)cover their ground. lain almost
by accident about our uncovered
fingers, between our invisible sounds.