I left the sonnets in the cupboard
haikus behind the door
pressed flowers like Alfred Prufrock
and left them on the floor
they said:
you are woven gossamer
silk threads in violent dance
I stole for you the moments
I could not leave to chance
in the downfall of a kiss
a diction soonest made
that all the king’s horses
could not have sweeter laid
but you, you dream inspired
unrequited and unresolved
and in the shadow of your thirst
my self in answer called.
it is fitting
that you be here
now.
that the way you hold yourself
is in length with the way I remember you
kneeling, beside my desk
and how you shiver
is how I hold you
in my mind
it is fitting
that you still fit
so perfectly
Everytime I get on my motorcycle, I am putting my life into danger.
Than again, the same can be said for each time I get into my car. Or cross the street. Or swim in the ocean.
It’s a matter of degrees.
But the degrees matter. The feeling of danger when riding my motorcycle is a visceral one.
I take the proper precautions. I wear a leather jacket, full-faced helmet and riding gloves. I drive with a healthy paranoia and am heightened-sensitivity to the world around me.
Yet. It takes a single distracted driver, a slick spot in the road, or a particularly strong gust of wind to make my life…interesting.
And I love it.
The older I get, the easier it is for me to become insulated from the world. Safe and secure in my study, my car, my cube at work, routine becomes a comfortable cell.
That which makes it impossible for me to get my bearings.
I /need/ to be moving to know where I am.
I’ve come to realize something very important.
I have only so much room in my head.
Lately I’ve been filling my time – and my brain – with TED talks, Kahn academy lectures, web-found life tips, inspirational quotes, harmonica lessons….
You get the idea.
It’s like I’m trying to level up.
But it doesn’t work that way. I won’t finish watching a TED talk on the importance of classical music and suddenly become enlightened. There’s no SHAZAM!-like quote that will transform me into ‘The Renaissance Man’.
Nirvana is not a youtube video away.
I envision my head as a bookshelf. Some ideas and skills fit into nicely. Scientific method? Simple, elegant, easy to learn and implement – it’s like a slender leather-bound book that fits neatly on one end of the bookshelf. Save ten percent of my income for retirement? Not a problem.
But how about the principle of ‘Always be good to others.’?
Not so easy to fit – some things you do are good for some people, but not good for others; how do you reconcile that? What happens when being good goes against your own self-interest? It’s a big idea. It’s like placing a large, weird, abstract sculpture on the shelf. It’s not easy to follow every day, in every act I do. But it’s an idea worth striving for.
And! At least I can get my mind around that idea. There are some that I just can’t grasp in a meaningful way. Stuffing those ideas into my head is like trying to keep a sack of playful kittens in one place. There’s no way. And that’s fine – maybe I’m not ready for that idea. Or maybe it just isn’t the right idea for me.
But back to the point.
There’s only so much room in my head. And sometimes I try and cram in a bit too much.
I’m not saying I plan to stop watching TED talks – really, they kinda rock. But I think I’m going to slow down on collecting character-building facts, and focus on better understanding the pieces I’ve already got in place.
Imagine a well: a place filled with clever ideas and flagellant wit; a witch’s brew cultivated by time spent under covers and the company of self.
We cultivate mystery; a dark cupful of it. And we pour it out with friends, splash it on new acquaintances (those lucky few we keep around), tip it over on strangers. We go forth, anointing the innocent and the wicked alike, saints of surrender.
Yet what happens when we are too busy to refill the well? When we are found, caught, and held too long in the sun? It is subtle – responsibilities, true love, bosom buddies, beautiful art – they take up our time, and they teach us, and entertain us. And oh! how they keep us busy, filling us with laughter, and a sweet joy. It is like sunshine on wooden stairs.
—
Sometimes I miss the shadowed place under the stairs, the place where the well is replenished. Where good books are kept, and tattered red cloth, and secrets.
(and the occasional wolf)
I write sins for you the way hymns are written for the faithful.
It’s implied, the violence that threatens to spill beyond the boundary of my control. Fingers curling to fist before relaxing.
Hunger is the voice of need. It speaks to absence, but is not absent.
It is a knot, a dull ache in search of sustenance; it is an edged invitation, a sharp pang in search of prey.
I learn the language of hunger through abstinence. I resolve, make practice of restraint.
Leashed is too coy a word.
It is so easy to romanticize a state of human deprivation: we fast for purity, an expunging in search of clarity. But there is a wildness to this state and it calls to mind bestial devouring.
“Why is it so fleeting?” she asked from the edge.
I shrugged, but her back was to me, so I said, “We’re not meant to be trapped in happiness.” Head resting against rough bark, I closed my left eye, watching her through the right.
Her bare toes curled into the sand of the cliff, dipping under gnarled fingers of roots. “Trapped? What a sinister way to describe happiness.” She looked over her bare shoulder, “Pain isn’t fleeting. Are we meant to be trapped in pain?”
I switched eyes. The left eye caught the shimmer of the ocean past her silhouette. “Sharp pain is fleeting. It’s the dull pain that sticks around, and we endure. We’re adaptable creatures, us humans.” I plucked at the green poking through the grains of sand, now watching her with both eyes open.
“Well.” She pirouetted. “I think I am going to fall.” then, “I’m scared. I know the fall will be exhilarating, but eventually I’m going to reach bottom.” Hands thrown out, hair caught by the ocean breeze, she added, “And that’s going to hurt.”
I stood, pushing off from the tree, “Of course it’ll hurt.”
A grin, a step back, arms wavering for balance, and her words, “You won’t stop me?”
“You never stopped me.” Over her shoulder, I could see the ocean, “Besides, it’s not the possible pain that makes the fall so frightening.” I smiled and met her eyes as she leaned into the breeze, “It’s not knowing how far you have to go.”
Time with her was like wrestling a polar bear.
The polar bear! The slightly-confused ursine cousin, the snow-kissed emblem of the unintentionally cute, the sharp-tooth predator quite capable of making a meal of lesser mammals.
I?
I am miracle fruit. Freeze-dried ice cream. An hibiscus amid champagne.
I am the tracks in the snow.
a fox ran for the hill
red-tailed, I followed
only to lose
her, at the edge of the wood.
she was too small and I
too much of a thing not meant
for small spaces.
so I let her go