Some Observations on a cold December morning

My eyes are burning at work today, as they were yesterday too. Too much time on the computer, perhaps?

The sun was out this morning, but now it is hidden behind fields of gray.

Flowers. Over-rated (i.e. valentine's day) and yet, equally under appreciated. As Eckhart Tolle says, flowers are God incarnate, beauty for beauty's sake. Yes, they are essentially for pollination, and yes, their bright colors and fragrant scents only enhance this crucial goal, but in regards to humans, they are completely functionless. Yet we love them anyway. Flowers bring us light, beauty, and love. That is their ultimate purpose.

I simultaneously crave frigid snow and cozy warmth. You know, the classic scene: curled up infront of a fire with a cup of tea and some music while the snow blankets the trees outside. Foggy windows, crisp bursts of wind, hats, scarves, cold hands and cold noses, all waiting to be warmed by the touch of another. Kisses help too, of course! :)

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…”