It's Showtime!

Imagine this: next fall, NBC's Thursday night line-up will showcase your standard Hollywood balloo, including but not limited to a whole-hearted family citcom (young, thin wife marries old balding fat guy) followed by your typical one-hour teen soap (boy meets girl, girl is oblivious to boy's flirtations, boy gets over girl, girl falls for boy...), and--the #1 New Show of the Year-- "TV on TV," a stimulating program in which the viewer watches other viewers watch TV. It's original! All-new! Never been done before!

And oh so realistic.

The thing is, you never see characters on TV actually watching TV in the show. Why?? Because it's boring, uneventful, and straight up a waste of time. Simply put, most Americans would not consider "go to work, come home, heat up dinner in the microwave, watch two hours of crap TV before going to bed" a plot-driven, interesting, event-filled life. So instead, we go through these motions ourselves and look to other, make-believe characters to live out the lives we so secretly desire.

Meanwhile, our asses are getting fatter, our brains our getting dumber, and family? friends? fun? Sorry, we just don't have the energy for all of that...

I say all of this only because I see it happening to myself. I work all day at a job that I love, but by the time I get home, it's 7, 8, 9 o'clock in the evening and I am completely wiped out. So I do what so many of us do in similar circumstances: I scramble up some eggs, grab a blanket, and make myself comfortable. Maybe, if I just lay still long enough, I'll have the energy to write, or return those phone calls, or go to that yoga class. Until then, there's always "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" or "Law and Order: Criminal Intent" to look forward to...

Now if I can only find that damn remote...

A Sandbox Pep Talk

Question: When did life become so hard? It's one of those things they don't tell you when you're a kid, how hard life is going to be. They--and I'm using the collective "they" here-- just want you to color pretty pictures of trees and flowers and smiling triangle people. No one ever sits you down and says:

Hey, things may be great right now, but it isn't always going to be. Sometimes, life is going to bitch-slap you across the face and knock you flat on your ass. Yeah, you can get back up again, but life is a begrudging bastard and will probably knock you back down. And each time this happens and you stand back up--which, of course, you have to do-- you rise as a slightly different person. Not necessarily better or worse, but different. So you gotta be ready. You gotta stand strong, no matter what happens. And you gotta work for what you want. Cuz you see, Life--that begrudging bastard we were talking about earlier-- isn't always going to give you what you want just because you want it. Like I said, you've gotta fight for it. Ok, that's all for now. You go on and play in the sandbox and build your castles in the sky. But when the time comes to stand strong and fight, you better be ready. Be ready to face Life head on. No fear, ok? Now go on... have fun with your new friends. Make something pretty before the mean kid comes over and knocks it all down.
I love you. *Hug*

Restraint

If life were a prickled pear

I would sink my fangs into it.

If life were an operatic melody,

I would sing with all my might.

But our days are not always juicy,

And all songs are not meant to be sung.

Sometimes, it is best to listen

And let your mouth water instead.

* artwork: Juicy Pear by Nicole Etienne

517 Patterson

Uphill

  by Christina Georgina Rosetti

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

   Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?

   From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?

   A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.

May not the darkness hide it from my face?

   You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

   Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?

   They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?

   Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

   Yea, beds for all who come.

Luck of the Irish

Falling Slowly

Eyes that know me

And I can't go back...

Dublin's city streets speak to me.  The girl with the hoola-hoop of fire breathes out your name with icy precision.  My neck prickles and the urge to take your hand invades my sweaty palm.  Swift as your love, the prickling disappears.  I can feel the stubble of your cheek under my tentative fingertips, so harsh and inviting.  Without pre-emption, I slap you.  My palm, still sweaty, makes contact with your cheekbone.  There is a salty sense of satisfaction in the contact, deliberate and clear, like a high note sung in perfect pitch.  My jaw tightens at the sight of your tears.  Then I realize: you do not cry for me.  It is a physical response to the sting, that is all.  I could fill two dozen dixie cups to the brim with tears cried in your name, but your own cup reeks with arid indifference.  No.  You cry no tears for me.

Nostalgia

Do you remember?  Do you remember what it felt like, loving me?  Because as I recall, I loved you too, once upon a time.  Once upon a time, we loved each other.

I read your letters now.  Half a decade has gone by since the moment of no return, the moment when we turned our backs on one another.  It was ultimate and tragic and more than sincere.  I read your letters.

I hurt you; you hurt me.  Back and forth, one then the other.  Did it ever really end?  Because even now, as I read your letters and hear your voice in my head, I know the pain anew.  I feel the ache of your abandonment and the stab of my own culpability; I rediscover that guilt with an odd sense of ownership, of pride.  Like a spider, dangling inches above the fiery pits of hell, so I played with your adolescent vulnerabilities.  Jonathan Edwards knew what I was doing to you, even then.  He was a dangerous man, all the more frightening because of his stance behind the pulpit, leering out at his audience, beckoning them to disagree, to tempt him with their mortal doubt.  In that sense, he and I were one in the same, each consumed with self-righteous indignation, obsessed with the implications of our sins.  

You were my spider, and yet two played the game.  You say you opened yourself to me, but you were ultimately afraid of losing your torturer.  The fear consumed you, tugging at your insecurities; it consumed us.  I couldn’t smell it then, but my olfactory senses are stronger now.  I know the particular stench of fear if only because it has haunted my gut for 24 long years.

You were my spider, but who dangled whom?  The thread that connected us, well, it connects us still.  But where did the fire pit end and the briar patch begin?  My fingertips held the silk, yes, but there was a distinctive pull, a soft tug tug, tugging away from my clinging grasp. Yes, yes, I remember it now.  I still feel the silk slipping through my small hands, so fragile with uncertainty and false vibrato.  I gasp, stunned by the sudden emptiness, but it is too late.  And so I seize another’s seductive twine and the cycle continues.  Meanwhile, the fire burns below.

Thus, the question emerges:  Was I the goddess of your universe, tempting you with damnation?  Or was my heart ultimately holding you back from the flames you so desired? 

Do you remember?  Because I cannot.  I will not.

“My sweetest downfall”… so it says in a song. 

 I think of you. 

“The Bible didn’t mention us…not even once.”

Edwards would be disappointed, I’m sure. 

“I loved you first…I loved you first.”

So sings the sweet chords of her softly smirking lips.

“Beneathe the sheets of paper lies my truth…”              

Word Drops

The girl sits by the window.  Her blood pulses in cadence with the patter of rain.  The rain smiles and she thinks of him. 

  His music acted as a giant band-aid plastered over her aching heart and it was by a chance of fate—oh such an overused word!—that she found the subsequent band so lacking.  After only three songs, she decided it better to spend the evening floating on the remnants of his echoing chords than to bury them with the lesser notes of another.  So she left.

  And there he was just around the corner, standing and laughing and chatting, right along her direct path home.  The girl stumbled in surprise, then quickly regained her footing in a vague attempt at maintaining her cool.

 “The blue hoody suites him,” she nodded to herself, an odd proclamation for a stranger.  She glanced down at her own attire of jeans, black tee, and red jacket.  The girl immediately kicked herself for not doing something with her hair before leaving the house.

  They only spoke for a few brief moments, boy and girl, exchanging simple words and toothy grins.  He initially mistook her for another ogling fan, interrupting her intended handshake with a hug.  The girl was taken aback, even a bit flustered.  She inhaled a gust of mountain air and laughed.  The nerves had kicked in, she was sure of it.  A sudden craving for water and a conveniently positioned hand-rail overwhelmed her, yet she pushed on, molding the words out of her mouth, praying that her voice did not give in to the temptation of a quiver. 

  Then, without preemption or agenda, the words found themselves and flowed with as much sincerity as she dared, for fear of a salty residue.  She said what she wanted to say, but did he understand?  Could he feel her gratitude or was his warm smile the product of an innate abundance of joy?  Of course, it was impossible for him to know everything, to hear in her words the heartache of her loss, the sadness of a life so abruptly foreign and empty.  The girl exerted her strength in moments of challenge, but her shell felt so fragile in the presence of one as beautiful as he. 

  You see, the boy was a musician with a smile as big as his heart, a heart as big as his voice, and a song bigger than either.  When on stage, he reminded the girl of an old Harry Chapin song: “and he sang from his heart…and he sang from his soul…oh he did not know how well he sang, it just made him whole….” A sad tale, in the end, a song about a man who sang for the unadulterated joy of singing but, when pressured to live his dream and share his gift with the world, was cruelly rejected and sent away, never to sing again.  Like the man from Chapin lore, the boy had a gift, a gift that came from a place so deep and so innate it felt otherworldly and sublime, yet overwhelmingly raw.

 But in the place of rejection, the boy found open arms and open hearts.  Oh there were some who dismissed him, of course, those who turned him away and belittled his gift.  The world is a paradoxical place when it comes to the grand themes of Love! War! Hate! and Art!, just to name a few.  Music is a vessel for all of these and thus beautifully instigating. Yet, even in the midst of the myriad of colors swarming around him, the dark with the light, the boy was a magnet for sincerity, the most rare and treasured of gems.  His fans adored him, partly due to the power and insight of his music, but also because of his approachability.  They rushed to his side for a chance to tell their story, to express their love.  So many people with so many stories to tell, so many mouths burbling away from somewhere deep, deep down in their gut of guts.

 Which brings us back to the girl in the red jacket.  As she found herself face to face with the boy in the blue hoody, pouring out her “thank you’s” and oh-so-eloquent “you’re awesome’s,” a belated sense of elation began to overtake her.  It was only two weeks prior that she had considered the possibility of meeting him, of having the opportunity to express her deep appreciation for his music and what it had meant to her.  However, as quickly as the thought crept in, she immediately swept it away, labeling it as “silly” and a “fool’s hope.”  Still, as much as she liked to deny it, the girl was a closet optimist, an eternal dreamer immune to the irrational!  Despite the most valiant of efforts, the aforementioned idea escaped her imprisonment and mingled with the stars to secretly foil her presiding gloom.  In short, Life had other plans. 

  Thus the girl attributed her state of elation to the irony of her current predicament.  Had she left the show early with the aim of hunting down our dear musician and torturing him with her flattery?  No.  Did she attend the concert with the soul purpose of running into him?  Certainly not.  Let it be assumed, then, that her intentions were pure; this was no crazed fan looking for an autograph to adorn her bare cleavage.  But still, the idea persevered!  Without even realizing it, the girl had unleashed her dream into the macrocosms.  The universe acknowledged said idea with a smirk and, just as spring’s answer to a fastidious lawn is a well-placed dandelion, so Life nudged the girl forward, beckoning her to challenge its plan. 

  “Are you a writer?” he asked. 

  The girl’s chest rose and her throat tightened as she answered: “Well…actually, yes…yes I am.”

  Meanwhile, the universe chuckled knowingly.

  The elation that had so recently consumed her fled for cover as a new, more powerful feeling surged forward: a renewed sense of purpose.  The girl in red may have been dense about many things in her life, especially when those things involved men, but she could take a hint when it was blatantly thrust in her face.  And this—the musician, the idea, the thank you, and now, the ultimate question of writing—this was a hint of massive proportions.  Like most things in life, the girl’s obsession with the written word came in waves.  At times, she felt as though life were being filtered through her brain in narrative form, laid out in beautiful imagery and perfect syntax.  Adjectives and adverbs would drift in and out, hovering above her like a cloud raining letters and words and punctuation!  Still, there were periods of drought, terrible times when all was blank.  The previous six months had been frighteningly dry and with the drought of words came an even deeper drought of spirit. 

  Without warning, the events of the past year rushed forward like a run-away train on methamphetamines.  The love, the confusion.  Graduation, co-habitation.  Moving across the country to start a new life in a new land with The Guy (capital “T”, capital “G”).  Sweet kisses of a naïve heart.  To work, to teach, no more! And in comes the rain. The sexless nights and lonely days, only to be dumped for Africa-yes, the country-land of fire and wisdom.  Rushing back home in a whirlwind of tears and question marks.  Being greeted by smiling faces and worried eyes.  Still more questions:

  “What will you do now?”

  “Where will you go?”

  “What’s your plan?”

 “Yeah, don’t you have a plan?”

 Plan…plan….plan…   The word had echoed around the caverns of the girl’s mind for the past two months, poking her, haunting her with the future.  Often she would find herself gasping for air in the middle of the night, gripped with panic, cowering beneath an imaginary beast standing guard over her resting place and waiting for the right time to attack.  Thirty seconds later, frightened by the dim light of her bedside lamp, the beast would dissipate into thin air, as illusive and untouchable as a shadow.

 Ah yes, The Infamous Plan. 

 The boy’s eyes were now upon her.  He said she reminded him of Flannery O’Conner.  She thanked him, blushing at the flattery.  Granted, O’Conner was not known for her beauty, but she was a strong southern woman with a gift for telling stories of the bizarre and grotesque.  For the girl in red, it was the perfect compliment.

  “I’m sorry you’ve had a rough time of it lately,” he said, referring back to her initial proclamation of thanks, “but hey, at least you have your writing.”

 “Ya know—you’re so right,” she nodded enthusiastically,  “I always have my writing.”  As the words tumbled, so did the weight, the ever-growing bulk of worry and uncertainty that had mounted itself upon her shoulders over the preceding months.  As she lifted her now-weightless arms up for a farewell hug, the girl felt a surge of energy, of possibility.  Some may call it hope.  Hope for the future.  Hope for, if not The Plan, at least A Plan.  Hope for a new start.

 Finally, with a great deal of effort, the girl walked away from the boy.  His gaze followed after her for a step or two before being redirected by the next eager fan waiting just around the corner.  He would soon board his bus, a carriage of glass and steel that would transport him to yet another destination, another crowd, another heart to mend.  Meanwhile, the girl continued along the sidewalk, oblivious of the cracks that would normally dictate her stride. 

 “What a night…” she sighed to herself, tracing the outline of her smile with a finger. 

  A soft thud upon her shoulder interrupted the girl’s quiet reverie.  Startled, she looked up just in time for a delicate little word to drop upon her nose, followed by another and another until the girl in red found herself swimming—and skipping and dancing and splashing—in a literary downpour.