Flit frightful underground, fret falling through the floorboards atop the vast (expectation of) below. Stay low and be hollowed of all air when the fire comes a-raging. Feel its gentry wind of breath whisper conspiratorially against the eavesdrop of your neck. (Don't tell me where we're going.)
"Frequenting dragons temper, my light is the light of a door as the wind and rain create stained glass on my heart!" (-M. at the drop of a line, sagely.)
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/30/10)
![[Un]fortunate Philosophies](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwu6S7Pc2oMwWth-cUInhseYn0wmMdJwf7OwNj3AlwmT16FJiUljP8V3yXWTUnNCrlfrMTqvCW9WZq7BaOmi0KBcOCyP-e2huKiWMrDHCyXuOsCFN_xrecCYpFzqyNC1jAJugc/s660/BlogPic2.jpg)
Nation's flower fumes orange-pink.
The bite precedes the writing, and follows it too. Waiting as excuses do, on the far back of your tongue. "Only Monday", like it hasn't come before, or won't come again. But none like this. (Ever, nor never again.) Granola blends with yogurt hoarding ripe slices of banana, and the weather looks mischievously in at the weather channel: snow-covered palm trees; sun shining (some) rain (on) down.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/29/10)
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/29/10)
Zen-talk.
No sense "trying" to BE. The flow of the words counter-intuit the words if the words are speaking silence. Not right, but true. And natural in the most open sense of the WORD. MY words look a certain way, even when they think/try to mean something altogether different. La otra arte. The other art. El arte del otra. The art of the other.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/28/10)
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/28/10)
...
BRIGHT AS LIGHTNING TUNNEL DIMS / VISION SWIMS ALONG THE FRINGE / dream of tasting lovers' whim / grim gaze designates the end / ENTRANCE SWALLOWS NOT ONE DISSENT / DESCENDS BEYOND SHY MOCK RESENTMENT
revved up and reviewed! - an email.
I wish there were more words for 'love', like 'tilt' or 'stellar' or something that vibrates your fingers like music playing right through the keyboard as you type. Like 'evol'-ving into this timid poetic rhythm of a heartbeat, filling a chest like a symphony...
And then the night was almost over, but all it meant was that the morning was waking up, so i never had a chance to grieve. And anyway, maybe grieving's beside the point, or mistaken, or already been done. Or there's always tomorrow night, too, if all we've ever needed is an excuse to cut loose. And dance the friggin' macarena.
My eyes would love to look into yours. They've been complaining relentlessly, but are of course also easily distracted. Hence all the casebooks on this side of the country. There were these scenes in this movie, where they'd dance and just look at each other, and how does that seem so impossible to me? I need to learn how to make eye contact without thinking, especially of what to say next for the excuse to break it. So scary--but why? Too much riding on it? Too much to hide? Hopefully not, I'd like to just think that that's usually what you see in the movies, and so it's hard to break the habit. That is, of looking down and smiling, rather than looking up expressionless.
[w00t! Well, that was a whole lot of random gibberish!]
I feel like my feet miss you, and my rib cage, and my exposed back at night. I feel like my hair has fallen slack out here, so my goal is to not let my smile fall down with it, silly. And since my mind's the only thing about me that has no fear of forgetting, all i have to do is think of you--and there my lips go curling up again. Every time i breathe i mean to be disloyal to my misery, and its temptation--cuz frankly, it never did send a get-well card to either of us, now did it, love?
Love. My tilted head, stellar at sprouting your smile--like so many flowers in my mind, and all singing their sunshine vibrato.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (1/21/10)
And then the night was almost over, but all it meant was that the morning was waking up, so i never had a chance to grieve. And anyway, maybe grieving's beside the point, or mistaken, or already been done. Or there's always tomorrow night, too, if all we've ever needed is an excuse to cut loose. And dance the friggin' macarena.
My eyes would love to look into yours. They've been complaining relentlessly, but are of course also easily distracted. Hence all the casebooks on this side of the country. There were these scenes in this movie, where they'd dance and just look at each other, and how does that seem so impossible to me? I need to learn how to make eye contact without thinking, especially of what to say next for the excuse to break it. So scary--but why? Too much riding on it? Too much to hide? Hopefully not, I'd like to just think that that's usually what you see in the movies, and so it's hard to break the habit. That is, of looking down and smiling, rather than looking up expressionless.
[w00t! Well, that was a whole lot of random gibberish!]
I feel like my feet miss you, and my rib cage, and my exposed back at night. I feel like my hair has fallen slack out here, so my goal is to not let my smile fall down with it, silly. And since my mind's the only thing about me that has no fear of forgetting, all i have to do is think of you--and there my lips go curling up again. Every time i breathe i mean to be disloyal to my misery, and its temptation--cuz frankly, it never did send a get-well card to either of us, now did it, love?
Love. My tilted head, stellar at sprouting your smile--like so many flowers in my mind, and all singing their sunshine vibrato.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (1/21/10)
Gatherings of Wines & Just Desserts!
Still have exams to contend with--the first tomorrow morning, in fact. But the other night was entirely worth tomorrow's potential stress. It was a dessert and wine party, from 9-1 am on paper--but of course, the long-train ride and intended study hours meant for me, it was from more like 9:30 - 12 am. Considering I never meant to stay past 11, however, the party was a really good time. Great people to meet (besides L & J, that is, who of course I'd met before :), like four water signs--2 Scorpios with great tattoos, one a Piscean photographer/slash film-maker, me, and a lovely girl with a sad, long-distance story, who was nonetheless about to leave for a nine month stint abroad--traveling everywhere from New Zealand to Japan to China to India to Amsterdam to Spain to Scotland. !! Doing what? Well, street performing, probably some of the time, or whenever a decent theater/venue failed to present itself. So amazing, all of these folks' stories. And the wine!! And the understanding!! Divine. So, then it was over, and I scrambled out having missed M's call. All the lovely time spent, still recognizing sharply how much fun he'd have been having, were he with me.
On the train(s) back home--an hour-or-so-long journey. I stuffed myself into a corner and focused on the good tunes pumping into my eardrums, wondering if I'd miss another call while underground. At a nameless stop, two people wandered into the train, among loads of others, and sat near me. One was a kid with a satin emerald coat: dark-hair & eyed, swaying as though to the music of his own massive headphones. He sat down heavy on the seat right in front of me, not looking at me and my having to move my knees out of the way to allow it. The other was an older, dark-skinned man--clearly homeless, clearly intoxicated, holding an old plastic water bottle full of booze in his right hand, and eying me meaningfully from the slightly deformed half of his face. He sat down right next to me, so that I was effectively locked in to my corner seat, between the two of them.
What ensued was subtle, most of the time, and my attention was taken up mostly by my latter neighbor--though my former still stayed in the back of my mind. The guy next to me was named "Wilton", and the first thing he said to me was a half-question, half-demand--wanting to know what I was listening to and wanting to hear it for himself. I took off my head phones with a smile and let him lean towards me, pressing one of the speakers to his ear. I asked, laughing at his bewildered expression, "Do you like the Indigo Girls?" He asked back, "Were they ever on TV?" and I said, "Probably!", not having a clue. Seeing my smile still fixed, he naturally misunderstood it, and put his big hand over mine, folded in my lap, leering, "Well, hun, if you like what I like, and if I like what you like, maybe we can like things together, sometime..." Tightening my smile but not letting it go completely, I pointedly removed his hand from my lap and let it drop back onto his, telling him easily, "I don't think you like what I like, but thanks for the offer." Luckily, he took the hint and it wasn't too bad after that. He told me thanks for chatting and he'd let me get back to my music now, but when I did he asked me if i had any Michael Jackson before launching into his own theories of the life, times, and tragedies of said pop star. The gravamen of his point i could even partially agree with--which is that no one really knew the guy at all, when it came right down to it, and the fact that half the world loved him with all of their might really has nothing to do with it.
All the while this back and forth went on, I was half-aware of the kid right in front of me. No longer looking straight head or swaying, he'd bent down to hold his head in his hands, elbows propped up on his skinny knees. At this point, being confused again by the continuing semi-conversation, Wilton began to tell me how i was mad cool for talking to him, and was i sure i didn't want to meet him on the train again next Friday, but before the lady doth protest too much, the train came to another halting stop and the kid in the thing green coat stood up shakily and meandered off. That's when Wilton stopped mid-come-on and looked down between where the kid's legs had just been, "Whoo-ee!" he exclaimed, "That kid done just lost his shit!" I looked down and sure enough, a giant circle of chunky puke had appeared right where a moment ago it wasn't, and right-quick I took the opportunity to grimace overtly and get myself out from my locked in corner, telling Wilton there was no way i could sit next to a pile of puke for another hundred stops! I climbed through the suddenly open space, careful not to step on the defiled place floor of the A-Train, and switched seats to a nice snug spot between a couple Asian girls a few sections down. Wilton, too, got up, and wandered to another seat. When he bent down to sit in it he somehow managed to spill beer over the front of his pants, and it was then that I noticed an open beer can tucked into the inner pocket of his jean jacket. Seeing the spill himself, he got up again and wandered further down the train from me, not really grinning anymore, and then out of my sight.
Looking straight ahead myself, now, i noticed the advertisements that took up the whole top part of the train I was on. There was a picture of a gorgeous black woman in evening gown, with chains in her teeth. The chains flowed over to wrap around the neck of an equally gorgeous white woman, similarly dressed, whose head was thrown back in ecstatic laughter. It was a Remy Martin liquor ad, and the caption read: "Things are about to get interesting." I laughed out loud and thought--that's not drunk. Tonight--just now--pawing sober girls and losing your cookies on the fucking train...this is what drunk looks like. Still, I had to give Wilton credit too--I'd just seen the difference between a professional alcoholic and a silly amateur kid who just couldn't hold it together. Well, I guess everyone has to be good at something. And anyway, who ultimately turned out to be the more offensive, right? Ha! Sheesh. Anyway.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (12/6/09)
On the train(s) back home--an hour-or-so-long journey. I stuffed myself into a corner and focused on the good tunes pumping into my eardrums, wondering if I'd miss another call while underground. At a nameless stop, two people wandered into the train, among loads of others, and sat near me. One was a kid with a satin emerald coat: dark-hair & eyed, swaying as though to the music of his own massive headphones. He sat down heavy on the seat right in front of me, not looking at me and my having to move my knees out of the way to allow it. The other was an older, dark-skinned man--clearly homeless, clearly intoxicated, holding an old plastic water bottle full of booze in his right hand, and eying me meaningfully from the slightly deformed half of his face. He sat down right next to me, so that I was effectively locked in to my corner seat, between the two of them.
What ensued was subtle, most of the time, and my attention was taken up mostly by my latter neighbor--though my former still stayed in the back of my mind. The guy next to me was named "Wilton", and the first thing he said to me was a half-question, half-demand--wanting to know what I was listening to and wanting to hear it for himself. I took off my head phones with a smile and let him lean towards me, pressing one of the speakers to his ear. I asked, laughing at his bewildered expression, "Do you like the Indigo Girls?" He asked back, "Were they ever on TV?" and I said, "Probably!", not having a clue. Seeing my smile still fixed, he naturally misunderstood it, and put his big hand over mine, folded in my lap, leering, "Well, hun, if you like what I like, and if I like what you like, maybe we can like things together, sometime..." Tightening my smile but not letting it go completely, I pointedly removed his hand from my lap and let it drop back onto his, telling him easily, "I don't think you like what I like, but thanks for the offer." Luckily, he took the hint and it wasn't too bad after that. He told me thanks for chatting and he'd let me get back to my music now, but when I did he asked me if i had any Michael Jackson before launching into his own theories of the life, times, and tragedies of said pop star. The gravamen of his point i could even partially agree with--which is that no one really knew the guy at all, when it came right down to it, and the fact that half the world loved him with all of their might really has nothing to do with it.
All the while this back and forth went on, I was half-aware of the kid right in front of me. No longer looking straight head or swaying, he'd bent down to hold his head in his hands, elbows propped up on his skinny knees. At this point, being confused again by the continuing semi-conversation, Wilton began to tell me how i was mad cool for talking to him, and was i sure i didn't want to meet him on the train again next Friday, but before the lady doth protest too much, the train came to another halting stop and the kid in the thing green coat stood up shakily and meandered off. That's when Wilton stopped mid-come-on and looked down between where the kid's legs had just been, "Whoo-ee!" he exclaimed, "That kid done just lost his shit!" I looked down and sure enough, a giant circle of chunky puke had appeared right where a moment ago it wasn't, and right-quick I took the opportunity to grimace overtly and get myself out from my locked in corner, telling Wilton there was no way i could sit next to a pile of puke for another hundred stops! I climbed through the suddenly open space, careful not to step on the defiled place floor of the A-Train, and switched seats to a nice snug spot between a couple Asian girls a few sections down. Wilton, too, got up, and wandered to another seat. When he bent down to sit in it he somehow managed to spill beer over the front of his pants, and it was then that I noticed an open beer can tucked into the inner pocket of his jean jacket. Seeing the spill himself, he got up again and wandered further down the train from me, not really grinning anymore, and then out of my sight.
Looking straight ahead myself, now, i noticed the advertisements that took up the whole top part of the train I was on. There was a picture of a gorgeous black woman in evening gown, with chains in her teeth. The chains flowed over to wrap around the neck of an equally gorgeous white woman, similarly dressed, whose head was thrown back in ecstatic laughter. It was a Remy Martin liquor ad, and the caption read: "Things are about to get interesting." I laughed out loud and thought--that's not drunk. Tonight--just now--pawing sober girls and losing your cookies on the fucking train...this is what drunk looks like. Still, I had to give Wilton credit too--I'd just seen the difference between a professional alcoholic and a silly amateur kid who just couldn't hold it together. Well, I guess everyone has to be good at something. And anyway, who ultimately turned out to be the more offensive, right? Ha! Sheesh. Anyway.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (12/6/09)
M,
I love you. And still...
...you've never nuzzled my neck;
...you've never met my whole family;
...you've never touched me so softly, or gently;
...you've never kissed my toes,
.....or asked me, "Can I give you a massage?"
...you never hold my hand
.....or stare at me
.......or make me feel beautiful
.........or strong
.........or loved.
After all this time, you still give me reason
...to question you.
.....Your commitment,
.......your authenticity,
.........your eyesight,
.................hindsight,
.................foresight.
I ask you to write down key words,
...the substance of your love--
.....Me. "Why?"
You do write me. (Why do i love you so much for that?!)
...It reiterates in short-hand what you've
.....already expressed.
'That I'm a great girlfriend.' Not Me. What I Do For You.
You then give me permission to come home
...even though you don't guarantee that you'll be there.
And I'm not sure if I want it--either one. Anymore.
...Because where's my permission? My allowance? My
.....guarantee? My promise? My compromise? My sacrifice? My
.......evidence? From You. You never question how I love you,
but it's not because you're more secure.
...It's just that I don't let you.
... (Remember?)
...you've never nuzzled my neck;
...you've never met my whole family;
...you've never touched me so softly, or gently;
...you've never kissed my toes,
.....or asked me, "Can I give you a massage?"
...you never hold my hand
.....or stare at me
.......or make me feel beautiful
.........or strong
.........or loved.
After all this time, you still give me reason
...to question you.
.....Your commitment,
.......your authenticity,
.........your eyesight,
.................hindsight,
.................foresight.
I ask you to write down key words,
...the substance of your love--
.....Me. "Why?"
You do write me. (Why do i love you so much for that?!)
...It reiterates in short-hand what you've
.....already expressed.
'That I'm a great girlfriend.' Not Me. What I Do For You.
You then give me permission to come home
...even though you don't guarantee that you'll be there.
And I'm not sure if I want it--either one. Anymore.
...Because where's my permission? My allowance? My
.....guarantee? My promise? My compromise? My sacrifice? My
.......evidence? From You. You never question how I love you,
but it's not because you're more secure.
...It's just that I don't let you.
... (Remember?)
"No time like the present to be where we are!" Right.
Toothache. Two and a half years old; almost as old as we are. Just as biting, here and now. Tomorrow is my last class before exams: a question and answer session. Optional. I'm going, but I don't have any questions to contribute--they'll come, i know. I go to listen to the answers. I will go to learn how to ask...what? Anything. The point is to keep talking--to remind everyone you're still there. To remind yourself that you're still here, even though you're counting down the days.
Twelve left. But they won't just pass, you will chase them away. Everyday, filling your time with worries and false confidences and sudden arrogance and sweet songs and almost-theres! Not waiting like you'd like, but walking to the end of the line--only to remember the inverse relationship of an end to a beginning; that beginning to its end. I wonder if I'll even notice when the one meets the other and begins again? Probably I won't. "But the circle never cared so much as the square."
Silly stuff. Really, I'm just too full of everything out there--in here--that we let ourselves be filled with. It's like that coffee cup that you can't even sip down for fear of spilling. And I'm not ready to spill. And I should probably cut down on the coffee anyway. So I end-without-ever-beginning to mention the reason I came in the first place. Better to guess, and no good having to remember. Tonight, anyway.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (12/4/09)
Twelve left. But they won't just pass, you will chase them away. Everyday, filling your time with worries and false confidences and sudden arrogance and sweet songs and almost-theres! Not waiting like you'd like, but walking to the end of the line--only to remember the inverse relationship of an end to a beginning; that beginning to its end. I wonder if I'll even notice when the one meets the other and begins again? Probably I won't. "But the circle never cared so much as the square."
Silly stuff. Really, I'm just too full of everything out there--in here--that we let ourselves be filled with. It's like that coffee cup that you can't even sip down for fear of spilling. And I'm not ready to spill. And I should probably cut down on the coffee anyway. So I end-without-ever-beginning to mention the reason I came in the first place. Better to guess, and no good having to remember. Tonight, anyway.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (12/4/09)
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