Cnidarian

Preface:  I wrote this a little while ago...   but never posted it...  I found it while browsing through my files, and I think it is certainly worth posting to this blog that nobody reads...  So here it is...

I once knew a girl with a young son.  The boy had, what seemed to me to be, a most unusual yet beautiful way of expressing himself.  I have never heard anything so poetic from such a young voice, nor so clear and descriptive from any voice.  He used the simplest of conceptual imagery, and granted all things the emotions he thought they would naturally have.  One thing that he said while telling his mother about being belittled by a bully at school has stuck in my mind.  He told her that he felt like a flower whose petals had all been ripped off.  At first, that struck me as silly.  Then I thought that he was a little odd for talking about flowers when relating an experience where in my reaction would have involved more fists and less metaphor.  Then I realized, that when I was his age, and I was bullied, at least the first time, I would have felt the same way.  I never had such words to describe it though, and before I had time to find such words I was taught to speak with violence in the face fear.  I was taught to quietly clench my fists and plan a quick and violent attack, while the bully was attempting to spit fear in my ears, mind and heart.  It was not until years later that I began to learn the art of expression through subtlety and written word.  Even now though, with my years of experience, I know I possess only a fraction of the natural talent of that young boy.  With that in mind though, in this short scribbling of thought, I will attempt to compliment him through mimicry.  Lately there has been one simple image in my mind, and this is what I wish to expand upon, in the hopes that it may explain a part of who I think I am lately.

 

I feel like a jellyfish.

 

I feel translucent.  When people finally notice me all they see is a soft relatively shapeless blob.  I tell myself time and again that I can keep close friends, but I cannot let someone close without hurting them.  I have no eyes.  I navigate by touch, and so once I touch another, the damage may already be done.  I sting those I love, as easily and unintentionally as I sting those I have no feelings for.  The few I do not kill have become immune to my poison, numb to the pain I cause.  Eventually word spreads of my stinging arms, and my dark embrace and people learn to give me my space.  They give me wide birth to avoid my company.  They pray that the currents won’t push me their way.  Someday someone forgets about me though, and that is when I sting again, when someone forgets someday.

 

I know I have not always felt this way.   I may feel differently tomorrow, or the day after.  Tonight though, and for the past while, all I can think about is apologizing to the people I have hurt.  Only for the fear that my ambiguous apologies would only rekindle more suffering, have I not.  Until this passes, I hope those who can stand my sting will stay close, lest I be lost to the sea.

A lesson in humility

Not many people who know me these days would ever guess that I used to be shy.  When I say that I was shy, I mean debilitatingly so.  For a good portion of my life I had great anxiety when talking to almost anyone, and the majority of my conversations took place only in my head.  I tell you this now only because I realize that I have changed.  I fear that I have changed too much though, and that my outgoing and entertaining nature may be perceived as arrogance.  While I have some good friends who insist that this is not the case, I have caught myself more and more saying things that I wish I could take back almost immediately.  I think I have gone from being too scared to say anything, to not caring enough about what silly words may fall out of my head.  While I certainly only intend for my silliness to entertain, I am beginning to think that I don't put enough thought into it for others to see my sarcasm.  Sometimes even when I have taken a moment to plan what I will say I still end up blurting out something wholly unnecessary.

So I am going to make the conscious effort to say as little as possible.  This is not a vow of silence, so much as a promise to speak only when neccesary, or when I have something nice to say.  I wonder if friends will notice.  I wonder if friends will care.  I wonder, most of all, how this will change me and if it will resolve certain issues I have with my life right now.  In Buddhism this would be an exercise in "Right Speech" which is very good in the path toward enlightenment.  I suppose, in the end, all I would like is a little more enlightenment.

An old proverb says "The wise man speaks because he has something to say.  The fool speaks because he has to say something"  I have been a fool long enough.

The Oddity

Hey, all 5 of you who read this!  I just started writing a new story about a character that I will hopefully continue to develop.  I have plans for many adventures with him, so check him out.  I started a new blog for his stories, it is over on the right side under "My Other Writings" and it is called "The Burden and The Oddity"  ...  Leave comments...  Thank you.

Leaves in the Wind (this is the conclusion to "The Key")

She walks briskly through the cool breeze, which cuts through her scarf and sweater and causes her to shiver.  How could she let this happen?  How could she be so vulnerable?  It was all so damn stupid, such a stupid mistake. Leaves tumble across the sidewalk as she starts up the hill towards home.  Hot tears streak down her cold rosy cheeks.  She had promised herself never again, and now that promise was broken.

 ~

A thousand questions scream to a crescendo in his head.  In their roar he finds his answer.  It will not end like this.  If it ends it ends, but not like this.  He grabs his jacket as he crashes through the front door, not stopping to lock it, or even make sure it closes behind him.  He races down the stairs and out into the chill air and the setting sun.

 ~

She reaches the top of the hill and pauses.  Home is only a couple blocks more, but she feels lost, and out of breath. The low hanging sun makes her eyes squint, squeezing out more tears.  Her thick scarf is already damp with tears.  Why would he tell her such things?  Why would he let her in?  How did he get inside?  Why couldn’t they settle for good enough?  It was such a damn mistake!  They had been so happy. 

 

She hears her name.  She turns to see him running up the hill to her.  She feels like a deer in headlights, her mind screaming to run, but her body not listening.  Suddenly he trips and falls on the cold leafy concrete.  She barely hears him grunt out a curse.  As he gets up he stumbles and goes down again.  This time his grunt is considerably louder and more defiant.  She starts walking toward him slowly as he picks himself up once more.  He climbs the hill to her with determination.  She can see his knee is bloodied, and the palms of his hands are scraped.  She sees the confusion in his eyes.  She knew this would be the case, him so confused and hurt.  This was why she had promised herself to never let anyone in.  She had made that promise to protect them and to protect herself.  If they can’t get in they can’t hurt you, not really at least. 

 ~

As he makes his way up the hill he tries not to limp or fall again.  The burning in his knee and hands is a whisper compared to the roar of questions in his mind.  He has no idea what to say or ask or what to do.  He hadn’t really thought this far ahead when he decided to chase her down.  He is so close now, only a dozen steps away, and she is walking towards him as well.  He opens his mouth to let whatever words he has fall out. 

 

“I… I…  I… I Just…”

 ~

She stops two steps short as he begins to stutter.  What horrible mistake has she made?  Breaking him will haunt her for too long. 

 

Then she sees it.  Something unexpected in his eye, in his face, in his voice.  Determination.  He has not come to beg or plea or hurt her in return.  She thought he would do what they all do when she cuts them loose.  She thought it would only be more difficult with him because he had gotten so much closer to her truth.  She realizes now that he will not give up.  As the pieces of conversation from the night before come together with the man standing before her, she realizes how much he believes in her, how much he trusts in her.  She realizes now that he will not let go unless she screams for him to do so.  He will not give up on her. 

 

Maybe this mistake was not so horrible.  Maybe this was not a mistake.  Maybe if she trusts him, if she lets him stay for one more day, maybe it is worth the risk.  Maybe she can trust him one day at a time until the days become months become years become lifetimes.  Maybe one day at a time.

 

She takes a step toward him with her arms open and tears at the corners of her eyes.

 ~

He stops stuttering when she takes another step.  He steps up, wraps an arm around her waist, and the other behind her shoulders and pulls her close.  

They kiss.

 

She whispers in his ear, “Do you promise?”.

 

He smiles as his cheek touches hers.  He squeezes her close.  The questions are quiet now and he says the only thing left in his head.

 

“I can’t do this without you”

~ 

She helps him hobble home.  They go home together.

The Key

She wakes gently into the cool light of the afternoon sun, as it dances across the floor and sneaks up onto the bed.   The air stirs with gentle music from the other room, the scent of tea, and the warm crackle of the fireplace in the main room.  She rolls over and stretches her arms across the soft pillows and comforter.  It has been a long time since she has felt this comfortable in a bed other than her own.  When she sits upright, hair beautifully tousled, she sees him rocking gently in his chair, scribbling away in his pad.  He smiles at her and takes a sip of tea.  The pot sits on the little table next to him with an empty cup waiting for her.  

She is about to say something nice when the memories of the night before come crawling back to her.  She loses her words in the questions that were asked.  She loses her thoughts in the truths brought to light.  Simplicity seems not so simple anymore.  She turns and slides her bare legs from under the covers.  Her clothes have been carefully folded and rest on the chair next to the bed.  She slips on her jeans and shirt, and buttons up her sweater.  As she goes to take her keys from the top of the dresser she sees what he has done.  The late afternoon sun cuts through the bare tree limbs outside the window and shines off of the single key lying on top of a letter.  The key has a red ribbon tied through its hole and the only words she can make out through the swollen water in her eyes is the letter's title, which is too beautiful and too personal and touches a part of her that she had forgotten long ago.

She takes a breath, dries her eyes, and smiles.  She turns to him and walks.  He starts to rise from his chair to offer her tea or breakfast.  He starts to rise from his chair to walk her to the door.  He starts to rise from his chair for a thousand little reasons that are all just excuses to show her his love.  He starts but she stops him with a finger on his lips.  She pushes him back in his seat and as he rocks forth again she meets him with a kiss, her hands on his broad shoulders, his hands on her waist.  She thinks of something to whisper, some reassurance, but nothing will pass her lips.

She gathers her bag from the floor by the door, and before he can object she is gone into the autumn evening.  He rises from his chair and walks over to the dresser and sets down his pad, still open to the page where he has drawn her beautiful sleeping face, peeking out from under the covers.  The sunlight still kisses the key atop his heartfelt words, changed only by the watermark of her tear.  A tear runs down his cheek as he stares out at the low hills covered in fallen leaves, at the wispy clouds through the branches by his window, as he asks himself a thousand questions.

A Drawing For My Fake Mom's Fridge

Such A Person

Have you ever met such a person?  A person whom at first glance appears healthy normal and cool, but on closer inspection acts more like a parasite than anything else?  A selfish sloth, who uses their shallow wit solely to bully those around them into providing them with what they desire?  The type of person Aesop fabled as a grasshopper, mooching from the ants when winter arrived?  I know such a person, and he makes murder seem too kind.  The problem is, sometimes he is funny, sometimes he is a good friend.  Sometimes I don't think about caving in his hollow skull with a blunt object.  

For those of you put on edge by my words of ill-intent, rest assured, I learned my lesson the first time, and the authorities will never find the body should I need to "make the world a better place" again.  The problem with "grasshopper" is that he knows I am an ant.  He knows I work hard and prepare for the worst.  He knows that I am diligent, honest, and helpful.  He does NOT know that my problem solving thought processes have been developing several possible ways of making him disappear, should he choose to take advantage of my good nature any more.  Again, though, I go too far.  The truth is that I don't mind helping him.  All I want is respect for the aid I provide, credit where credit is due.  I do not ask that he tells everyone what a great help I was, only that he thinks before choosing to make a wisecrack at my expense.  

My response to any such wisecrack could be, and should be, to just not help him anymore, but I cannot stand to watch people suffer like that.  So it seems quite logical to put him out of my suffering.  

To go upstairs, retrieve the staple-hammer, from my toolbox, return to where he sits not doing his homework, and beat him until he exsanguinates from a thousand little staple wounds.

To light the grill on the back deck, let it get nice and hot, then ask him to check on the dinner I am cooking for us.  When he opens the grill, I could easily kick his feet out and press his face against it, simultaneously smashing his head with the lid.

Have you ever met such a person who inspires such rage that you daydream of doing evil things that you know you will never do?  Yet, those fantasies make you smile and chuckle in the most wicked of ways.  Do sane people dream of murder and mayhem? 

On The Flip-Side

Have you ever met such a person?  Such a person who forces you to smile?  Who leaves social convention and preconceptions of cool behind, and ignores all else in the quest for actually connecting with others?  Such a person, who at first glance seems quirky, silly, and maybe even crazy?  Upon further inspection though, you discover that they ARE quirky, but actually quite serious, and should certainly never be written off as crazy because they just might actually "get it".  Heaven is a place filled with such people.  People with open eyes and open hearts.  People who give rather than take.  Praise rather than judge.  

I know such a person.  Truth be told, I know a few.  Beauty comes naturally to them, though it takes an open eye to see it.  In my experience they don't constrain themselves to modern convention, caking on makeup, wearing the latest skimpy fashions, or dying their hair to match the faceless masses.  Beauty comes naturally to them.  After you see their nature, their beauty becomes impossible to ignore, and is in fact one of the few sweetly welcomed distractions from the hustle and bustle of life and the daydreams of rage.  

Have you ever met such a person who, while not perfect, is kind enough, happy enough, smart enough, and funny enough to make everything seem new and good?

The Truth

While I do fantasize about culling the overwhelming population of lazy and stupid and lazy stupid people, I could never start down that path.  First of all, there are WAY too many of them.  Secondly, we appreciate the sunshine much more after it rains.  The dullness of their characters adds by contrast to the luster of the bright.  In fact my greatest lamentation about the person I dream of bludgeoning stems from the fact that I see so much more potential in him.  Whether I am right or wrong, I want to believe that he could, one day, with lots of practice, be one of those who brings light to the lives of others.  Either way, he is my friend, for now, which is why I vent here (where very few read) rather than taking a more physical approach.  

The truth is also that I do not know if I fit into either of these categories.  I, of course, hope I am one of the latter, but I know I have selfish tendencies at times.  Honestly I don't think I want to know.  Knowing that I am a good person would make me cocky and give me a sense of entitlement, which would basically put me in the selfish category.  If I never know where I stand, but always think that there is hope I might be a good person, I will continue to strive toward that ever distant finish line.

Are you such a person?  

Breaking Down to Zen (or at least having tea)

Walking, talking, and giggles, it makes me laugh a little.  The torture paused for now, I set myself free.

The coyote is out of mind.

The tacos are delicious, the conversation light.  The door cracks open a little more, calling me into the night.

The lamb screams.

The one I had before is back...  Very confusing.  The one I have now pays little attention and does little to impress me.

The pig revels in the filth.

The flirt is short and sweet, with promises of future, but no morsels for the meantime.

Confusion silences the nuisance, and I smirk a little.

All's the same at my favorite place, the happy vibes of the longhaired tribe.  My soul feels warm and electric.  My mind finds quiet concentration.

Maybe here I'll find my humor, maybe now I can make them laugh.

The candle flame is fire, and the meal was cooked long ago.

Collisions, Incisions, and Mud

I think I over-think and then I act on impulse. 

Words blurt out, and then I wince on the inside... but somehow it is still ok. 

I laugh and love life when someone plays the game with me, but now I see how funny it is when their game gets tangled in this chaotic maelstrom.  I smile as I recognize the competition.  I smile as I realize that this was completely unintentional, that worlds have just collided and my hand has not yet been played.  My poker face is straight, my eyes are full of cat.  I cut my way into curiosity and leave my card there, for when it begins to itch I'll be selling the cure.  With that I set my cup back down, the mud in the bottom foretelling future flirtation with a worthy adversary.

TWIST

The Way I See Things, people are evil.

It is a simple truth, which I believe holds the key to redemption.  We as individuals, and as a worldwide community, do little other than destroy all we purvey.  This seems an extreme statement, but the evidence is in front of you everyday.  If you are unfamiliar with the crowding of forests and wildlife habitats due to humanity's ever-expanding territorial sprawl you are a fool.  Think of all the killing we do, whether through crime, war, neglect, poaching, slaughter, or simply smashing bugs that we don't like.  The next time you sit down at a meal, look at the food before you.  Smell it.  It is beautiful and smells delicious doesn't it?  What will it look and smell like when you are done with it?  Not so pretty.  Eating, something we must do to live, arguably the basis of our existence, is nothing more than appropriation via destruction, as Sartre once put it.

My point here is that we are evil, and there is no escaping it.  Maybe being evil is the reason for living though.  Maybe if we weren't evil, if we were born whole and perfect with nothing but nutty-goodness inside of us, this life would lose meaning.  Maybe, if we were born as sheep, defenseless and delicious, we wouldn't have the chance, the tools, the weapons to protect ourselves from the other evil things in the world.  I think life might be a game, might be more than a game.  Life might be a puzzle where we must figure out how to use our evilness to accomplish something better, to smite other evil, to hold aloft the few and precious pieces of purity in this world.

Maybe this is just,

The Way I See Things.

Chagrin

She pulls and bites and grabs and scratches.  She smothers with kisses, as she forces my face to touch hers.  She screams "LOVE ME!" without saying a word.  She thinks she loves me, or wants to love me.  She hasn't seen the darkness though.  She doesn't know.

The darkness came long ago.  It crept in slowly, unnoticeably.  The darkness is what forms when the stuff on the inside, the life that filled me, is taken out by so many hands.  The darkness is all that's left when you become hollow.  The darkness asks only one thing of you.  Fill it.  It is a void.  I have seen it swallow people whole, and now I refuse to feed it anymore.

I know what it wants.  I know how it hurts.  I know that she will not survive.  So I push her away.  I push her away because I care.  I care but I do not love.  I cannot love.  I have been ruined to a point where my love requires too much.  I ask for too much.  I am starved and greedy, resigning myself to only let in the few who may be strong enough to bond, to cope, to meet my selfish demands.

I wish I could love anyone.  I wish I was a better person in that respect.  I have not loved so many who deserved it, and I have hurt so many who have not.  I thought I was doing the right things, making the right choices, but as I look back I am only confused.  Maybe tomorrow I'll find hope, maybe tomorrow hope will smile at me.

She pulls and bites and grabs and scratches.  She smothers with kisses, as she forces my face to touch hers.  She screams "LOVE ME!" without saying a word.

I push her away.

Zealots and Zombies

When it comes to religion, two classifications of people offend me more than others. The Zealots, and the Zombies. These are the seeds of hate, division, and and holy war. They are the pox upon society as they have become the embodiments of a distorted and destructive conformity.

I only use the term "holy war" because it is one that you will readily recognize, thanks to the media coverage of the Middle East (which is anything BUT a holy war). A slightly more accurate description of holy war would be the crusades, or the fighting in modern Ireland, or along the gaza strip. Even these conflicts are motivated by issues which are unrelated to religion. Without getting too deep into the reasons for wars, or the finer points of each dispute, the simple fact I want to get across is that every religious text calls for peace. Trust me. I have read them*. So, in fact, every war is motivated by money, or land (which is really more money). The soldiers in these wars may be convinced that they fight for holy reasons, and in some cases they may even be justified in fighting, though God/Allah, Jesus, Buddha, and all the other deities agree that killing people is bad. War is in fact UNholy by definition.

Oky doky. Now that we have the oxymoron out of the way, I can explain the problems with zealots and zombies. Perhaps, some definitions are in order.

Zealot: A person who is fanatical and uncompromising in their pursuit of religious, political, or other ideals.

Zombie: A soulless corpse revived by witchcraft.

Soul: A person's moral or emotional nature or sense of identity.

Witchcraft: The practice of magic, esp. black magic. **

Black magic: Magic involving the supposed invocation of evil spirits for evil purposes.

So, zealotry seems fairly self explanatory. If you cannot accept rational truths outside the scope of your particular doctrine, if you press your beliefs upon others, if when you speak about your beliefs, you become overly excited, foam at the mouth, turn red in the face, and forget to blink, you are most likely a zealot. (My next sentence contains profanity, so if you are under the admission age for an "R" rated movie, you should cover your ears). If you are a zealot, SHUT THE FUCK UP! ... That is all I have to say about that. I hope that rational people see what I am trying to accomplish here. I mean, come on, be rational.

Zombies are a little more complicated, but still an accurate description for a large population of religious communities. People commit to religions to escape the personal responsibility of having to decide what is the right thing to do every day. They follow blindly. Their decision-making matrices have been replaced with a narrow-scoped, poorly interpreted, out-dated manual, often spoon-fed to them by a community of zealots who are being manipulated by captains with ulterior motives (assuming the zealots themselves don't have ulterior motives). Does this not accurately fit the previously stated definitions for zombies, souls, witchcraft and black magic?

The problem lies herein. There is more than one religion. This fact, thankfully, illuminates the fallacy of organized religion to those with open eyes, but gives reason for friction and conflict to to the blind. The sheeple (sheep-like people) are herded to and fro, and told where to graze, what to buy and who to love and hate. The zombies, composing the bottom echelon of the pyramid of evil, are the most populous. They go to Church, Temple, Mosque, or other institutions and get their brains programmed. They go to work and function like good little worker bees. They buy what the TV tells them to. They read what their pastor recomends. For the most part they are benign. Then one day they are in a situation outside of their dumbed down scope of proverbial knowledge. This is when shit happens. This is when they become malignant. This is when they metastasize. When they are "activated" by zealotry, they become the tools of mayhem, vessels of death and destruction, the harbingers of the very apocalypse they fear.

I do not know the cure for zealotry, but I am not ready to abandon the hope that the zombie sheeple may still be revived with an injection of reason and intelligence. What scares me the most is that I occasionally see zealots preaching to the masses around campus or in front of Planned Parenthood. I really, REALLY, really don't like the thought of all the people they may or may not be recruiting. People who will follow blindly, right up to the point where they hurt me for being a non-conformist.

Maybe it is just my cranky mood at the time I am writing this... but right now it seems to me that life sucks and then you die, and then you are born again, you get stabbed by a zealot, die again, so on and so forth. The most you can hope to accomplish between deaths is to gain another little piece of enlightenment until you eventually escape the cycle.

Gaining enlightenment can be accomplished while going to church. I don't want to imply that I hate all religions. What I fear and loathe are the regligious institutions, and the people who are only too eager to be brainwashed. Keep your wits. Keep your soul. Keep making decisions for yourself everday as to what you beleive is truly right and good in the world. Please.

Footnotes:

* When I say that I have read the religious texts, I mean that I have read many, to include the Bible, the Torah, the Q'uran, the Bahgvad Gita, the teachings of Buddha, and many documents about Taoism.

** This was the dictionary definition of witchcraft, which should not be confused in any way with the nature worshipping religion of Wicca, which I beleive is a very beautiful and fundamental wholesome faith.

Two From The Archives Of Craptastic Poetry

So here is the deal... the conundrum...  Whenever I write something lyrical or poetic, I find myself getting wrapped up in it, and striving to make it as true and non-cheesy and "cool" as possible.  Often friends will even compliment these works.  Almost inevitably though, I will come across these verses a year or so after writing them, and at that point they seem like some silly monologues from a movie, only I know that I was never cool enough to be in a movie (or have a movie made about me) so these scraps of lyrics seem even more silly.

That being said, I submit this for your approval.  Be kind, but be honest.  They were written over a year ago.

I Am

 

I am a tattered flag on a splintered mast.

I am a vessel made from broken pieces.

I am the thin line between the darkness of tonight and the promise of tomorrow.

I am the deepest strata of ocean, where the sunlight finally surrenders to the cold dark oblivion.

I am the last bastion against entropy.

I am a mess.

I am always willing to help.

I am utterly incapable of asking for help, even when I know I need it.

I am waiting for the clarity of my next life to answer my question.

I am so confused I will listen to anyone.

I am a watch that is set twenty four hours behind.

I am a thief, a liar, an imposter, and an abuser of hearts.

I hope I am a good person, but I am not certain.

I am not afraid of death.

I am afraid of a life without purpose.

I am hollow, from giving too much of myself to the wrong people.

I must be shallow, as I overflow with pride at the slightest nod from an intelligent girl.

 

I am who you see me to be;

            A friend,

            A scoundrel,

            A child,

            A father,

            An entertainer,

            An anonymous face,

            A bear,

            A minnow.

 

I am not the hero I want to be.

I am there to catch you when you stumble.

I am there to pick you up and dust you off when you fall.

I am honorable in my intentions.

I am a teacher as well as a student.

I am the river.

I am a voyeur of the living.

I am introspective.

I am not the cancer.

I am not the cure.

I am a pair of chopsticks standing in a bowl of rice.

 

I am my beliefs.

I believe that Homer Simpson was right when he said “trying is the first step towards failure”.

I believe that “doing” is the one and only step for success.

I believe that if you trust no one, no one will betray you.

I believe that if no one ever betrays you, you will never have the chance to forgive them.

I believe that the single greatest pleasure, for me, in life, is getting a beautiful girl to blow milk out her nose.

I believe that true clarity comes from understanding the confusion of others.

 

I am the serpent in the Garden of Eden.

I am not a saint, but I might be a Jin.

I am an iconoclast.

I am a catalyst.

I am complex.

I am simple.

I am broken.

I am whole.

I am me.

 

 On the flipside...   Here is a short essay I wrote a while back.  It is not lyrical in nature, but even as I read it now I fully grasp what I was thinking when I wrote it.  I still ask the same questions, I still wonder just the same.

Sometimes I wonder…

 

Sometimes I wonder who my true friends are and what they think of me. 

 

Sometimes I wonder if I was as nice as I could have been.  Should I have been so honest?  Should I have been more willing to smile and laugh at someone’s joke?  When people laugh with me are they just being kind?  Are they just taking pity on me?  I can’t find it in myself to fake laughter.  I wish I could.  I have tried before and the very sound of it makes me hate myself.  I suppose this is the same question of sincerity that I perpetually ask and consistently receive no answer for.  Should I stop caring about such a question that I will never see answered?  Does anyone else worry about such things?  I realize that such concerns are the trademarks of insecurity.  Which is more foolish, or, for that matter, less attractive, insecurity based on what may be a valid concern, or false security based on the assumption that everyone who smiles at you likes you?  If anyone perceives these questions as a weakness, then I should ask them not to waste time or conversation with me, for I am attempting to carve out the smallest social pocket to fill with people unafraid of being sincere.  Do not confuse this with melodrama.  Overreaction is just as bad as deceitful complacency, and in fact may be the source of it in good people who would otherwise be honest but for the fear of wounding the melodramatic bleater.

 

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll find an honest girl whom I can really connect to.  I wonder if the personality traits that I find attractive are intimately linked to those I loathe.  Am I looking for a farce, a myth, someone with definitively contradictive features?

 

Sometimes I wonder if life as a hermit would not be better.  Then again, the last time I set myself to that course I met a girl and fell in love.  Obviously that didn’t work out for me. 

 

Sometimes I wonder if the old friends that I don’t see anymore think of me as often as I think of them.

 

Sometimes I wonder what the future will bring.  I have some new adventures coming soon, so the odds of making more “true” friends are certainly increasing. 

 

Sometimes I wonder.

 

 

The Dream

This is actually a short bit that I wrote a couple years ago about a dream I had...  I just had the same dream the other night, so I thought I would post this.  Enjoy.

The Dream

 

In the darkness, calm washes over me.  Cool haze kisses my face, my cheeks and my closed eyes.  The fresh scent of dew and thunder fills my nose.  I open my eyes not to the brilliant sun, but to a grey autumn day.  The foggy type of day with light rains when magic happens.  I am sitting on a flat stone cliff.  The valley below is so deep I can see clouds pouring through it at a languid pace, and they appear as sheep lazily herded to pasture.  Beyond those clouds the river rages, but I hear only the faintest roar.  Behind me lies a small glade among the evergreens.  The grass and ferns, sparkling with dew, seem alive with the gentle breeze.  My mind is swimming inside itself as I try to understand where I am.  As I stare into the ravine and think of how I know this place, a wolf walks silently up to my side and sits with me.  As I admire his silver coat, he guards the valley with a watchful eye. 

“I shall help you with your burden.”

The wolf speaks with many voices.

“Burden?”

I can’t comprehend what burden he might help me with.  In fact I don’t even know what burden I am bearing.

“That is why I will help you, for you refuse to help yourself.”

Still confused, I finally notice the satchel of stones slung across my shoulder, resting at my side.

“Cast the largest stone into the river.”

As I rummage through the satchel, I notice each stone has a face on it.  As I glance at each, I remember my friends and family.  I find the largest stone, which has no face but I still recognize.

“Who are you?”  I ask the wolf.

“I am who you think I am”

“No.  If you were, you would not ask me to throw this away.”

The wolf now speaks with more of a roar.

 “You say you will not?  You would defy me?”

“If I must… then yes, I will defy you”

The clouds darken and thunder claps in the distance.  Lightning strikes the wolf and blinds me.  Before my eyes can see again, I can already sense that I am thinking more clearly.  Then there are cool fingers touching my eyes, and a chorus of feminine voices calming me in a language I cannot understand.

I open my eyes to a young face framed in silver hair that shines and flows as though it were in fact a fountain of liquid silver.  It is untamed and yet wildly perfect.  Her face literally glows with a faint white essence, and her eyes are silver of a shade only slightly darker than her hair.  I have the feeling that she is nude, but I cannot take my eyes from her face as she smiles at me with calming lips and knowing eyes.

“You are starting to remember now?” she asks in an angelic harmony.

“The trials.”

“Yes.”

As she speaks now she does not move her lips, but the music of her voices simply fills my mind.

“Matthew, you remember where you are now?”

“I do.”

“Then you remember your task.”

To my chagrin I do not.  I feel as though it is only a thought away though.  As I think of making up an answer or a lucky guess she smiles at me and shakes her head.

“Don’t worry my child. You will soon enough.  Start with the lessons.”

“First… Defiance.”

“Accomplished”

“Then… Acceptance”

I close my satchel with every rock still inside.  She smiles at me with approval.

“Sacrifice?”  I ask, though I am fairly certain that is the next lesson.

Rather than speak, or nod, she only tilts her head and looks at me curiously.

I shed my jacket and hold it open for her but as she slips her arms through the sleeves it grows and changes colors from brown and green to charcoal with silver embroidery.  It is now a magnificent cloak with a large hood which she pulls over her head.  The hood would have cast her face in shadow if she did not glow with that white aura.  I now notice the chill in the air has quite an edge to it.

“Remember the Numbers”

“I remember one, two, four, and five, and seven… and something about a fee for pie”

She smiles and I hear her loving laugh.

“Phi and Pi.”

I am embarrassed that I would think food might have anything to do with the meaning of life.

“There are more numbers for you to learn, but those are enough for now. Do not forget this either.”

Her finger cuts through the flat stone we are sitting on as though it were fine grey sand.  She draws a circle, and then puts five dots around the circumference.  She then draws an “S” inside the circle spanning it’s diameter from top to bottom.  Over the “S” she draws a perfectly symmetrical cross.  When she is finished her symbol fills with blood.  The blood turns to water, and the water evaporates.  The water’s vapors smell of an ancient memory, again just out of reach.

I feel something crawling all over me.  I look at my arms to find that, from every freckle, mole and scar, something is growing.  Some sprout thorns, while others weep a dull grey pigment, and yet others become raised letters I cannot read in shiny blue and white inks.  The thorns are large and sharp, and the script is hard and armor-like.  I now smell like a blend of woods, cedar, sandalwood, pine and sweet fern roots.

She pulls back her hood to reveal fiery red hair, still as wildly beautiful as before.

“Now you remember who you are?”

“Yes.”

“Then stand and your task will come to you.”

As we both stand a raven comes from the forest and alights on her shoulder.

“You will meet help along the way, and you will know them by this.” 

She touches my hand with hers and something secret courses through my arm and into my heart.

A rumbling begins in the forest, a noise far worse than the thunder of the storm.  As I turn to look, she takes my head in her hands and holds our faces so close I can feel her cool sweet breathe on my lips.

“The time is coming for your next step.  You will learn the identity of that blank stone.  I will not help you as I have before, but I will lighten your burden as I promised before.  Yes, I was the wolf, as I am the storm, the river and the fire.”

“The fire?”

“Tearing through your forest this very moment.”

Fear creeps into my mind, and shows in my eyes.

“I don’t understand.  Why?  I thought you were the forest and the mountains?

“No, you are the mountain.  That is why you could not be rid of your largest stone.”

“If I am the mountain why are you burning me?”

“Fire is not death, and death is not finality.  I am helping you as I said I would.  Now watch closely, open your mind, and choose your next answer wisely.”

With this she casts off her cloak and swings it around my shoulders.  Her body is covered in raised black tattoos of vines and plants that grow and entwine around her until her skin is the tone of slate with a raised floral pattern.  Her hair fluidly changes from bright red through several shades of brunette to a dark and glossy black.  Her silver eyes and lips are the only parts not consumed by the dark transformation.  White patches begin growing from her eyes and just as a white line begins to vertically split her torso, she turns and dives from the cliff.  I cannot see her after she passes through those low clouds, and I can’t hear a splash over the growing sounds of the storm and the fire.

I pull the hood over my head, and the raven, whom I had forgotten about, grasps my shoulder.  Something about the raven’s eyes makes me want to be dangerous.  With my stones around my shoulder, I look back at my serene forest and I see the fire racing towards me.  I face the cliff, take two steps, and then I plunge into the valley with arms spread.

~And Then I Wake~

Basking In The Sunlight

When I was young I had a concept of the perfect vase, should such a thing exist.

 

Smooth curves, elegant lines, and flawless clarity.  Perfection via simplicity.

 

In my pursuit of such a rarity, however, I quickly came to realize that not only was perfection a myth, but a boring one at that. 

 

A vase without color or flaw, provides no detail to catch the light or tease the eye. While sensual lines, and curves are always desirable, their varied composure and juxtaposition with one another increases their beauty exponentially, above and beyond the simple pairings of cold symmetry.

 

 

So I cast my vase to the floor.  I dashed my vase to pieces.

 

I found new shapes and colors, textures and glazes, and began to play with composing something better.

 

 

The vase made from shattered parts does not always hold water though.  Sometimes, for some reason, the flowers will not grow.

 

So it becomes a complex alchemy.  A science of the art.  To dream of a vase both beautiful and functional, and then to find one similar in a world of broken hearts.

 

But then one day as I toiled away to mend my own mistakes, I saw a vase with light and space, and everything else it takes.  Glimmers of color, and shimmers of light, a cool dark base and a mouth wide open and bright.

 

A combination I hadn’t expected, but had longed for, for so long.  I sit here now and think of how the light plays on her sides, a light that catches her mosaic for my unworthy eyes.

 

I couldn’t dream a dream like this, until it was before me, but now I have, and now I will, because this is the vase I want for myself.  This is the vase made for me.

 

 

 

Photos of Rodney - King of the Thunderlizards

Here's Rodney!  In his old habitat and new, and on me!