I don't like it.

I don't like it.

why?

Because it goes too fast.

why?

Because I have too much to do.

why?

Because I have to do everything.

why?

Because I have to be ready for anything.

why?

Because I can't afford to wait.

why?

Because I'm impatient.

why?

Because it goes too slow.

why?

Because I'm waiting.

why?

I believe the question is 'for what?'

How deep?

Yesterday 
I will rise from the water, 
hear the sky-blue grasses, 
and float to the bottom. 
You'll be waiting there,
where the sun sets on Sodom 


My heart, made of lead...
or is it tin?
When you struck it,
it rang through the din
amidst sounds of war
and the kiss of the wind.


But winter will come when you melt in the spring
And all of the dappled koi fish will sing
And mourn
for you. 
with me. 

Another E E Cummings Inspired Poem

How to be a Parrot: A Roadside Guide to Manners

(this still needs editing, but here's a rough copy)

When greeting a Passerby:

1.              Smile* and state the rough time of day it is, as if the person didn’t know already, proceeded by the undescriptive, “Good.” (ie "good morning") Upon this the stranger should repeat such greeting.

         

*For this approach use the "plaster smile." Lifting the cheek muscles gently, expose your teeth just enough to show you have them. If you don't have any, keep your lips closed. It should have a crescent moon shape, although it's okay if it has a boxy or line-shape, so long as it's not curved down. If you can't remember to smile, coat your teeth in something nasty tasting to make it easier.

2.    If you, for some reason or another, have not yet walked passed the stranger, ask them how they are. And unless the person is at all honest or interesting, they should say "... Good."If the person has not grown completely bored of the hum-drum exchange, then they will proceed to ask you how you are. Ignore the urge to dump your life's problems on your fellow conversationalist. Remember, this is a stranger, not a psychologist. You'll both be happier thinking that the world is fine and dandy. So reply by simply stating, "...Good." If they are a talkative person they might try to explain why they are doing "good."

3.    You can answer politely to their explanation by more enthusiastically stating "That's... good." Or if you happen to have a thesaurus on hand you might be creative enough to say, "That's great." And depending on what you know from our few short (yet insanely dull) moments about that stranger you can decide to abstain from further boredom or to say something. 

4.    If you decide to continue your torturous exchange, remember that the point that is being made to obnoxiously repeat the word "good" does actually serve a purpose. The goal in meeting someone is to be able to totally forget them 5 seconds later. You've got enough on your mind. It is therefore, vital that all random comments that come out of your mouth are simple to understand, lacking in vocabulary, and completely obvious. Comments on the weather are nice, especially if one uses the words "good, bad, cold, nice, and hot" frequently. Do not use the phrase "Do you remember...?" In fact don't ask them anything that might cause either of you to have to think. It would mar the perfect stupidity.

5.    Pay attention to body cues to know when your conversation-partner has grown impatient. You both have better things to do other than flap your jaws about. Transition the greeting/conversation towards a close by saying "I really should be going." This is so the person not only knows you are bored and busy, but that you would like the conversation to end. Make them feel better about this by saying, "But it was nice to meet you." Even if this was not true in the least bit. They will probably repeat something similar to you like, "Yes I have to go too, and it was nice to meet you too." And of course, don't forget to say the final "Goodbye." This maybe be repeated multiple times until someone is actually bold enough to leave. 

After studying these steps and explanations, I will give an example of the ideal conversation. Take mental note that the roles between who speaks first can be reversed. 

You: "Good morning."

Them: "Good morning. How are you?"

You: "Good. How are you?"

Them: "Good. I like this nice weather."

You: "That's good. I like the nice weather too."

Them: "It's better than last week."

You: "Yes. It's good."

Them: "Spring is a nice time of year."

You: "Yes."

(continue to talk about the weather for far too long)

You: "Oh, I really should be going now."

Them: "Oh, yes."

You: "It was nice to meet you."

Them: "It was nice to meet you too"

You: "Goodbye."

Them: "Goodbye."

--Then you walk away. Don't forget this step or it could lead to awkwardness. 

And if you still can't remember the numbered steps listed above, even with an example, try this acronym:

Prepare for greeting- smile before you say anything

Act sincere

Repeat: You'll do this often

Repeat: The more the better

Obvious statements

To the point- no sidetracking

Now go out and introduce yourself to the world! Just don't really say anything.

What I Learned From Tomato Plants

Tomatoes are not really made for winter. It's a little too cold for them to survive. Why then, come spring, do we find our garden a forest of tiny cherry tomato plants?

...because they left behind a lot of seeds. Even where a full grown (and I mean BIG) plant can't survive the snow and ice,  the special tiny seeds stay alive, but dormant. Particularly the cherry tomatoes survive well. They drop hundreds of fruits to the ground, knowing that their seeds will outlive them.

The lesson?

Even when certain parts of ourselves can't survive the trials of life (like my dancing abilities or really old friendships) it's the bits of things we learned and planted that will stay to grow in another spring. I can't remember the name of the girl who shared her pencils with me in second grade, but the lesson learned has survived. I can't always speak with the people I love, but the bits and pieces I can say will survive on to grow in other places, in other times. Just like seeds.

The Rhetoric of Death

To illustrate the concept of death and life, it would be best to imagine a very long string, stretched from one end of a city to another. Imagine this string can extend out into the very reaches of the country and then of space; continuing forever in opposite directions. This string represents Existence, in all of its infinite length. But however long this string is, life itself, or one’s conscious knowledge of life, lies between two central points on this line. These two points represent birth and death, and between them, one’s conscious Life. (This “Life” does not include the infinite aspects of Existence, but is the finite sum of one’s conscious existence within this life on Earth.) Thus, Existence is segmented with a birth, a death, and, somewhere between these two, a Life.

Within Life, there is the full extent of memory. But neither birth nor death itself is a memory. There is no conscious basis of knowledge wherewith to conceptualize the first experience of birth, and as a result it is not a true memory. Death isn’t a true memory either because death is the end of Life’s memory, and thus Life itself. The only way that one can have any knowledge of death is through experiences with death affecting other’s Lives. This would make death the ultimate idol because it is only known as it is experienced through the inherent beliefs of the human race, through one’s mind, and through descriptions and portrayals of the definition of death given by other people.

Despite the fallibility of the reality of death, it retains its eloquence and reliability through its acceptance as an end to Life. All have knowledge of Life, because it is the most simple of all axioms. Hence Descartes famous “Cognito ergo sum.” Essentially there is a proof in which the reality of Life leads to the reality of death which, in turn, leads to an acceptance of the finite quality of Life. And just as one accepts Life as a finite existence, one must accept the binary; the infinite quality of the Existence. However, within the acceptance of all of these realities, there lies a quintessential paradox: Truly one cannot simultaneously conceive of a finite Life, and yet an infinite Existence. Nor can one conceive of only one, but not the other. To deal with this paradox, humanity has instituted three layers of ‘loopholes.’ While they are interconnected and could conceivably be listed in any order, here they are ordered from simple to complex, within the supposed order of their invention. (Although this is understandably arguable, as much of it lies outside of the realm of written history.)

The first loophole that is accepted to explain the binary of Life and Existence (finite and infinite) is religion. While there is a plethora of personal beliefs, religions, and philosophies, in order to be qualified as a belief, all must find some way to explain this binary. Many religions use the explanation of humans as eternal beings whose Lives are probationary states. This probationary Life is a test wherein all will be answerable to a judge or god-figure to determine the quality of future Lives or the future Existence. (What follows Life is also a topic of great debate; but whether it is an infinite number of Lives that will make up Existence, or whether there is only one Life within Existence is not the topic of this paper.) These religions explain that humans do not have a conception of pre-Life or post-Life because that would detract from the probationary state of Life.

Other belief systems, which deny a god-figure, or even a personal, spiritual Existence, will instead accept an Existence for matter, or for life in general. The concept of one’s death is held within the context of a “circle of life:” even after death, other humans, animals or matter will continue to exist. Humans do not have a concept of the infinite Existence simply because humans do not need it and can’t really conceive of anything infinite anyway.

Essentially, religion and atheism accomplish the same goals, and explain the dualism of Life and Existence. However, while the belief spectrum does explain how, and to some extent why, the binary exists, it fails to procure a unit of measure for Life. This unit would aid in the separation of Life from Existence, or finite from infinite. Otherwise, subtracting a finite piece of figurative string, from the infinite whole, would procure a piece that is also infinitely long. Herein lies another paradox and the second loophole: the invention of time.

The true measure of Life, is infinitesimally small. But if humans were to attempt to measure Life this way, Life would become infinitely long, and no one would be able to move out of a moment, because all moments would last forever. While time is measured by the constant clocks, calendars, and movement of the stars, time is not measured proportionally over one’s Life and therefore does not “feel” constant. One year to a ten year old is 10% of their Life, but one year to a fifty year old is 2% of their Life. This is also directly proportional to the amount of memories, forgotten or remembered, that have gathered in one’s Life. All past memories are known to be finite, and all future possibilities are unknown and infinite. In the finite mind all concept of time is compared to a sum of past memories and future possibilities. This concept of Time as is conceived, is what separates an old man from a young boy. Were the man to lose his concept of Time or, in other words, lose his memory, he would think of Life just as the young boy. In a sense, measured time is given by social constructs, but Time is given through proportionality to our past memories of Life. Together, time and Time contribute to a more tangible idea of the finite and infinite.

However, Time and even time, are still relative. Separating the moment where Time is one length from when a memory is added and Time changes, requires further separation than even clocks, calendars, etc. can give. It requires a written record, which is the third and final loophole.

In the history of things, it is the written word that distinguishes the timeless realm of the ancients, to the more conceivable realm of history. The idea of the record enables the finite to be recorded, thus further distinguishing it from the infinite. Further more it allows death itself to be utilized as a message. This can occur because of the reality of the finite, as exhibited by the record of the past, and its extension into the finite Lives of others. Death becomes the message spoken by those who have died to those still in Life. Death is a part of every message, otherwise the message would have no force because Life would not be seen as finite. In fact, death is so much a part of every message, that it can become the speaker. In which case the speaker-death delivers a message of three levels, each level constituting a different level of knowledge about death.

The first level of message is that of becoming aware of the finite qualities of Life. This axiom can be taught through the medium of the record. The second level is that of being inspired by the infinite qualities of the Existence. This level of consciousness can be given through the influence of the past memories or future possibilities that make up one’s concept of Time. The third, and most crucial level is that of moving one to action. This level comes from a simultaneous understanding of the finite and the infinite given through one’s placement on the spectrum of personal beliefs. While the understanding is personal common sense, it will differ from person to person according to their beliefs.

Besides acting as the message and the speaker, death will eventually become part of one’s Life, as it is an innate quality of a mortal being. It is for this very reason that death has the ultimate control over one’s Life. It is the idea that upholds the tower within the panopticon, controls the gaze of its all-seeing eye, and instills fear in the heart of the captive Living. This is the fear that moves one to progress, to be inspired, to learn. The knowledge of this end pushes mortals to a beginning, to hope, to Life.

While the binary of Life and Existence is one of epic paradoxical proportions, it appears as a simple question of life, answered only with death:

“To be, or not to be…”

An Easter Story

The Shepherd’s Dog

“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” John 15:13

Sunny could easily recall the cold Christmas morning when he was placed outside The Shepherd’s hut, just a newborn puppy. His fluffy, white fur made him almost impossible to distinguish from the snow that lay piled up outside the hut. The Shepherd took an instant liking to the young dog, whom he figured would make a good sheepdog. Sunny was given to a bitch who could raise him and teach him how to be a good sheepdog. Sunny, however, needed no teaching. He was a natural leader. He didn’t chase the sheep; the sheep followed him. He didn’t really notice, though, it was as if he expected them to simply follow him, which he did. It was apparent, to anyone who had been around Sunny for very long, that he seemed to understand more than the other animals. In fact, he knew some things that no body else did. He saw more, smelled more, listened more, and would often just sit and stare off towards The Shepherd, waiting for additional instruction. There had never been such an attentive herder.

And yet for all of his obedience, his insightfulness, his perfection, he could not stop the events that seemed to draw him in.

In the distance a thunderclap echoed around the valley, bouncing off the hills, and stampeding down their grassy slopes. The sky became darker and, though it was only late in the afternoon, it was as though the blank depths of night had enveloped the land.

Sunny watched from a distant hill as Jewels approached the center of the flock of sheep. Their pungent smell didn’t seem to bother the scruffy looking dog as much; he wasn’t as cleanly as Sunny. In the center of the herd stood the huge figure of Fair-Sight, the ram. Sunny watched as Jewels began to speak to the ram, and their voices seemed to echo in his mind.

“What will you give me if I give him to you?” Jewels asked Fair-Sight quietly. His black and white coat was camouflaged with the dirty sheep.

“Twenty,” was the ram’s reply.

“Forty, he’s The Shepherd’s favorite.”

“How about thirty? I can’t believe I’m arguing with you about this, you puny, flea-bitten, drooler.”

“Very well.” After collecting his prize, Jewels walked away from the flock of sheep looking smug. Sunny watched him go towards the barn where dinner was about to be served. Sunny silently followed suit. Although his insides felt cold and distant, he could feel The Shepherd watching him, and he knew he was not alone in his suspisions.

Sunny trotted over to where John and the others were waiting for him to join them. He could feel the sense of quiet that comes before the storm, the still contemplation before the battle. Before the dogs commenced their meal, he stood to speak to them.

            “My fellow sheepdogs, I feel that I must leave you soon. And I don’t want you to forget me…”His statement was interrupted by a chorus of howls.

            “Master, why are you leaving?!”

            Sunny looked down and as he spoke a hush fell over the crowd of dogs, “I fear I am to be betrayed.”

            Peter howled, “Master, if the flock of sheep conspired against you, I alone would stand by your side.”

            “Oh Peter, your words are empty, although your intentions are pure. You would deny me three times in the time it takes the rooster to crow.” Peter was shocked at this statement and said nothing in response.

            “Master, would I do such a thing?” asked Jewels quietly.

            “Perhaps if you have to ask, you already know the answer.”  He was solemn as he replied and Jewels looked down. “But, as I said, I don’t want any of you to forget me, what I have taught you, or done for you after I leave.” He paused.

“Look at the food that sits before us. If I could, I would sacrifice myself to feed you, to save you. Whenever you see food, remember that I would die so that you could live.” The sheepdogs thought this a rather strange statement, but it was a common thing to hear Sunny use such enigmatic references.

“Look again at the water we are about to drink. If I could, I would suffer anything to give you water that you could drink so that your thirst would be quenched and your bodies cleaned. When you see water, think of how I would suffer anything for you.”

James looked at his food, thinking of how it would be to eat Sunny for dinner, and his appetite was quite lost. “I am not sure I understand…”

“You will. For now, just know that you should always remember me.”

Just as the dogs were about to finish eating, a shrill call echoed out over the valley and the sheepdogs began to feel the first drops of rain. Together they ran across the rolling hills, howling a song of bitter joy at the work facing them.

Sunny and the other sheepdogs worked perfectly together. It was almost a dance, with the tom-tom of rain, and the musical yips and barks ringing out over the Highlands. The dogs felt the rush as they raced around and around, their tired muscles pumping towards the finish, wherever it was. Endure, endure, to the end, to the end. Soon the sheep were gathered in for the night, to rest in the shelter of a warm barn. The Shepherd saw the sheep into the barn and then walked up towards the hut.

Sunny crowded into the barn with the other sheepdogs and the sheep. The stench of wet, dirty sheep offended his sensitive nose, but Sunny didn’t move to leave. It was his job to watch the sheep, and he would take full responsibility for this. Soon the sheep had huddled together and the dogs joined in their corners to watch the sheep. Peter, John and James lay near Sunny and quickly dozed off.

Sunny felt empty without The Shepherd’s watchful gaze. He tried to find that other part of his conscience that was always connected to The Shepherd, the Master. It was silent in his mind, as though it had turned its face from him.

Suddenly a violent wind shook the fragile barn. The support near Sunny shook and threatened to collapse. Sunny was standing in a flash and ran over to the thick, decaying beam. A piece of rotted wall fell outward letting a frightening gust of cold rain into the barn. Sunny knew what he had to do. He leaned against the beam with all of his weight, which wasn’t much, and somehow managed to hold up the beam from crashing to the ground. It took only a few moments until his small muscles began to quiver… shake… spasm beneath him. The shear weight of the support should have been enough to crush him. Somehow he held on. He sobbed as he felt one of his canines splinter under the power of his clenched jaw. The bitter taste of blood filled his mouth, but he had not the strength to swallow. All of his power was absorbed by the beam that was slowly crushing him.

A burst of wind and rain flooded through the crack that had formed in the wall, drenching Sunny in icy water. He almost welcomed the drips of pure water as they ran down his snow-white coat. To try to take his mind from the pain, he thought of how every drop of water that ran over his skin was enough to wash all of the sheep that ever were and all of the dirt they ever bore in their coats.

Soon the wind changed directions, just for a moment, and Sunny called out to James, Peter, and John, who had not woken yet. “Peter, can’t you help me with this? Please don’t fall asleep, I need your help.” But Peter did not wake and Sunny was forced to continue to hold the beam as the wind changed directions once again.

By this time Sunny was shivering with the icy water which had clumped his feathery white fur. He was beyond exhaustion. He felt that he held the entire flock on his back, their lives were supported by his small figure, which was the only thing standing between them and being crushed in the damp, crypt of a barn. Once more he tried to wake his sleeping fellows, to no avail. Sunny stayed standing, thinking to the three, ‘Sleep on now, and take your rest. ‘

Just as Sunny’s legs were beginning to collapse beneath him, he gave a final heave and righted the faltering beam. Amazed and exhausted he collapsed to the ground.

Somewhere in Sunny’s mind he could feel the presence of The Shepherd returning. It was as though the sun had formed a blanket with the sky and covered his weakened body with it. Sunny gathered his strength and understood, as he always had, his purpose. Watch over the sheep. Take care of the sheep. Love the sheep. Die for the sheep. His life was not yet done. His work was not yet finished.

As opened his eyes again, Peter, James and John were just waking. It was still night, and although the wind had stopped, the rain continued to drip down outside. In front of the dogs stood Fair-sight and the other rams, and off to the side, stood Jewels. Sunny felt his exhausted body shake beneath him, but no pain could compare with what he had suffered. Something in the ram’s matted dirty face told Sunny, that this would be a final punishment.

“Show us your awesome master, Jewels,” Fair-sight commanded. “Give him a kiss from me, because my neck doesn’t seem to reach down for enough that I can do it.” Jewels trotted up to Sunny and licked his black nose.

“Thank you Jewels. Your work is done here and you may leave now.” Jewels slinked away as the group of rams surrounding Sunny. Peter ran forward and charged the nearest ram, biting his ear clean off. Sunny sighed.

“Peter, I must go with them. It is my time now.” Peter backed away sullenly and the group of sheep tried to herd Sunny away. Although he did not fight them, he was almost too weak to stand, and he struggled to walk.

As Sunny moved away from Peter he watched him carefully, wishing that he could understand. Peter stood in shock and watched him walk away. Before Sunny was out of ear shot, he heard a small sheep come up to Peter and ask, “Aren’t you one of the dogs that herds with Sunny?”

Peter was annoyed and quickly replied, “No. I’m not.” Another lamb approached and asked, “Aren’t you the one that cut off my daddy’s ear trying to protect the white dog?”

“No, I’m not.” And before a third sheep could ask him, Peter quickly said, “I do not know this Sunny you speak of, I am just a sheepdog.” Sunny hung his head in sorrow and waited for the fated cry of the pre-dawn light. Just as he predicted, the rooster crowed, and with one last pained look towards Sunny, Peter collapsed in despair.

The rams led Sunny to another part of the barn where Cry-Face, the ancient ram stood. It was this ram that usually decided who would be sacrificed to the wolves, so they would not attack the sheep for the coming year. Cry-Face began to question Sunny.

“What have you taught the sheep about not following the rams? What chaos are you preaching to the sheep?”

“Why don’t you ask them? I spoke openly.” One of the rams kicked Sunny’s bruised back. “If I have said something wrong, tell me, kicking me won’t resolve anything.”

Cry-Face became frustrated and told the other rams that he could not do anything to condone Sunny, but that they should take him directly to Pilot and demand his death.

            Sunny felt sorry for the poor sheep, that didn’t understand his job. He was their protector, their leader, their savior, and they didn’t understand.

The group of sheep walked Sunny over to the far corner of the barn where a small door faced the forest. Normally, this door was guarded by Jewels, but he had disappeared. On the other side of the doorway stood a hunched figure, a wolf. It was Pilot, the Alpha wolf. The rams backed slowly away, in awe of the wolf’s size and power.

“Do you know why you are here?” Pilot’s deep voice vibrated out of the darkness.

“I am here because the rams did not have the means to kill me, but you do.”

“Is that so? Haven’t you made yourself a leader of the flock? What gives you a right to be better than The Shepherd?”

“I rule in The Shepherd’s stead. That is my purpose, to die protecting the sheep.”

“What is sacrifice?” Pilot muttered darkly.

He stepped out of the shadows and into the light. His voice rose to cover the noises of the sheep, addressing them all, “And you tell me that this is the one you wish to offer me as a sacrifice. I ask you, what has he done wrong to deserve such punishment? What of Barb-of-Us, hasn’t he done more wrong than this puppy?”

A voice jeered out of the audience, “He has done wrong to us and we want him dead. We are better of with a thief than a dog that thinks he is a man. I say kill him!”

“YEAH! KILL HIM!”

“MAKE HIM SUFFER.”

“What do you say, Sunny, shepherd of the flock?” Pilot growled, “It doesn’t matter to me. You’re just dinner.”

Sunny was silent.

A chorus of cries arose and drown out Pilot’s menacing words. The sheep were baying their death chants and the rain picked up pace against the roof.

“Very well. His death be on your wool.” Pilot’s pack filled in the barn and surrounded Sunny, forcing him out into the rain.

Sunny knew it was over and gave himself to them. He had no need of his life if it could not be used to watch over the sheep. With this simple thought, Sunny surrendered to the flesh ripping pain, the sharpest of teeth, the longest and blackest of nights. They would leave nothing behind, nothing but his white fur, neatly arranged on the grassy hill.

One of the sheepdogs nosed through the underbrush. She picked through all of the scents, still finding nothing that smelled like Sunny. She sighed. Looking up to the crests of the hills she watched where the first rays of the sun beamed out over the valley. Immediately the light rested upon her and she felt it’s warmth spread to her whole body. She closed her eyes and as she opened them she could see, far off, the form of a small white dog making his way towards the sheep.

We must learn

Am I made of the yellow wool
that's been sewn onto my soul?
But it was already there.
It was already there.

Like everyone, I wore my face,
I prayed my god, I walked my race.
But could I, for a moment, pause,
turn around, escape these jaws?

Nein.

I saw and counted past,
but faster hearts beat still.
The tolling clock of life
upon Death's window sill
did strike
and strike
again.

It's death to those who walk here,
and worse for those who run.
For it is worse to never grow;
to wear the noose and never know.

So now, dear reader, turn away
forget-a time, sleep deep:
Secretly, did not you want
to not-see Germany?

Run Away Free

It's something that I've waited for: The drop to fall from the icicle, the pregnant buds on the maple tree outside my window, the lengthened day.
I have suffered enough of snowless cold; I want Spring.

I want warm rain and thunder. I want to play in the dirt in the garden, to start my seeds in their usual places at my window. I want to feel the grass surround my feet. I want the quiet joy of fresh life to fill my nose, my eyes, my dreams. And then I want it to explode in a burst of color.
I want to sit in the sun.

Why am I still writing?

Just One Bijillion

What can I do to stop these words from becoming bare, dry bones? They are dragged with the wind that scrapes them from cold ashes. A fire once burned here, but it has gone. The warmth of truth is lost under layers of stories; stories made of words. And words are but the peeling of tinted glass that turns the sunlight cold.
This is my existence to you, my unknown Reader. We are an onion. I am a thousand, a million, a bijillion layers from you, and yet "you" only exist in contrast to "I", just as "I" only exist in contrast to "you". We are one in definition, and yet opposite by definition.
 And regardless of how far I write, whether it is to fill the pages of a book, or the infinite expansion of the memory, I will never reach the beginning. Just as you, Reader, will never reach a single meaning of this very large onion. We exist in layers.
The whole of the onion, made up of only layers, is written in white and lines. These are the words I use. I just pull them off, and stick them on as I see fit. And Reader, you mustn't take them seriously, for they are not the truth. They are mere representations of thoughts of ideas of feelings of dreams of existence, without which, I would be nothing. How many times have these meaningless words been mummified into dreams? How many more times have these false dreams been resurrected into lies? These lies that are felt, thought, spoken... How many times are they yet reborn?

You must trust me a lot to still be reading: I would advise you to not believe me so readily. After all, it is what got me this far. And I don't even exist; I'm just a ghost. No matter how many times you wrench the sheet from my misshapen form, there will always be another. And the deeper you reach into me, the more layers you place on yourself.
Keep reaching Reader; you will never find me.

I am Just One Bijillion.

The Window Story (II)

Here is the second part of the Window Story. Pieces of the allegory that don't quite fit with the first, you'll have to excuse, assume that the island is in the middle of the big lake mentioned in part I.

Look down at that small island. Do you see it? It’s the one with the forest on it... yes, that’s it. And if you look right along the edge of this beach, you can see her standing here: the girl with the dark hair and deep red wings. She flew here, traveling from far away, from the town she grew up in. But now she cannot fly: the air is perfectly still, as calm and smooth as it has been for a few months. She is patient and will wait for her wind to come back so that she can finish her journey. Besides, there are things she must do while she waits.

She walks away from the beach towards a trail almost hidden from view. As she avoids stepping on the tough oat grasses, her bare feet leave dimples in the sand dunes. Her wings are folded close to her back, the tips of their black-red feathers almost brush the ground. The small trail weaves through the ever-denser pine trees and small palm fronds and curves around a pool of clear water. Eventually it branches off towards a small house.

Since she landed here two moths ago, she has planted a garden and is trying to keep up with her studies. There are other homes and other people on the island, but few are close enough to her to become her friends because everyone is so occupied with their travels. A few good friends will visit her often. They usually spend time chatting or working together. But as far as she knows, she is the only permanent resident of the island; she is the only one stuck here, waiting for her wind.

She misses the simplicity of life in her hometown; her rose garden, the hummingbirds and butterflies, her childhood friendships that were filled with carefree laughter: she misses talking to the Wing Man. But more than anything she has ever known, she misses flying. She loves her wings and stubbornly refuses to put them away, even though there is no wind to fly with. She wears them, letting them hang down her back, absorbing the sunshine.

She has grown to love the little island, it’s busy traffic of travelers coming and going, the beaches, the clear, white sun. There is, however, one place she avoids; the cliff. Just like in her hometown, the cliff overlooks a steep drop into the black sea, but she doesn’t avoid it for that reason alone. She avoids it because it reminds her of what it felt like to take off, to finally leave the ground. Being near it makes her wings ache. She longs for the familiar twisting pain that pinches her back when she spreads her feathers to the wind, for the power that rushes out to her wings.

Everything that has to do with cliffs or flying or even wings; her sketches and stories and poems, have all been locked in a chest in her bedroom closet. But sometimes, on dark nights when she can’t sleep, or when restlessness settles in on her heart, she will pull them out. She will write again. And then she’ll push them back into the chest and relock it.

But now it is morning, and she is walking home from the beach. The shade of the trees feels cool and mimics a breeze. She carefully pushes her wings from her back just enough to stretch them in the cool air. She hums a little and sighs as she steps around an uprooted tree whose twisted roots stretch high into the air. She trips a little as she carefully ducks her wings under after her. Reaching out to catch herself, she yells out and falls right into a man on the other side of the fallen tree.

“Ow… oh, I am so sorry!” The man just stares at her. “I just tripped and I totally knocked you over. I’m so sorry!”

“I can see that.” He is middle aged and is carrying a large bag.

“I really should just move that tree: in fact, I’d better’d do it now. Well, actually it’s a little big…” She sizes up the tree and realizes that it is half buried anyway.

The man scratches his moustache a bit and shakes his head, attempting to clear the shock off of his face. “I’m not totally convinced it was just the tree. Why are you walking around with such cumbersome wings? Why not fly… or take them off or something?”

“I… I like them. But I…”

He sighs and cocks his eyebrow, “You don’t have any wind?”

“Well, no. Not now.” She looks at him, wondering how he can tell.

“Why don’t you get a new pair?”

“A new pair of wings?”

“Yes.”

“There is no Wing Man on this island.”

“There is now.” He puffs out his chest a bit.

“Wait… you’re a Wing Man?”

“Yes.” She looks at his bag again and he turns from where he is sitting on the ground and begins to undo a series of ties at the top. He has a large pair of wings too. His are not made of feathers, but of a sheer iridescent material; like a thin sheet of mother of pearl. The veins that stretch through them are easily visible, and while they catch the scattered light beautifully, it makes them look rather fragile.

“My great-uncle is a Wing Man and he has taught me his trade. I’m rather young for a Wing Man, I know, but I was able to learn all that I needed in a short amount of time. I left my great-uncle’s forge, and I decided to settle here. You see, I’ve developed a different kind of wing. They are lighter and a little faster to make.” He is finally able to open his bag. “But they are so new…”

He digs around in his bag for a moment before drawing out a pair of his new wings. They are beautiful. A deep sky blue swirled with a shimmering green, sculpted into the graceful wing shapes of a dragonfly.

“They are amazing. Can I touch them?”

“Yes, of course.”

They feel like cold skin, but smoother. They give in to her touch although they are pulled tight over the veins. As she grazes her fingers over them she feels a breeze pass over them: they tremble, aching for the sky. Suddenly all of her memories of the cliff, the Wing Man, flying… her memories of the wind crash upon her. She breathes in slowly and the smell of the wind fills her. But it feels foreign.

“Would you like them?” The young Wing Man offers them to her.

“Oh, I… I don’t know...”

“Come on, take them! You can go down to the cliff and try them out. You’ll be able to fly again!” He smiles at her, but she is still wary.

She sighs, “Well, alright then. I suppose I could use some good wind.” She takes them gently from him.

“Here, let me help you trade them out.”

“I, oh… okay.” He gently takes off her large red feather wings and places the dragonfly ones on her back.

“Well? What do you think?”

“Oh… they are lovely…” She can barely feel them they are so light. In the corners of her eyes she can see them bouncing the light onto the trees.

He grins proudly. “Oh, I’m so glad you like them.” She tries to smile.

“Well, I do hope you enjoy them. I suppose I’ll be off to find other wingless people now.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you very much.”

“Do tell me how they work for you!”

“I’ll be sure to do that.”

They say their goodbyes and continue on their ways. She carries her red wings in her arms, close to her heart. They feel so much heavier than the wings on her back. She wonders how the dragonfly wings will hold her up. It’s so strange that the young Wing Man was so eager to give his wings away. How could he know who she was, or which wings she would need? But he must have been taught everything his great-uncle knew so he would have just known… Worried thoughts circle around in her head and before she realizes how far she is walking, she is coming upon the back edge of the woods. She knows she can’t really let herself fly off the cliff, but then she wouldn’t have anything to tell the Wing Man. These wings; they aren’t hers; she has a pair, a perfectly beautiful, durable pair. And she has her familiar wind… it’s just not here… She knows the Wing Man meant well, but she can’t accept them. Still she keeps walking towards the cliff.

She grasps her red wings and doesn’t slow her pace. This wind… it feels better than nothing. It feels better than the stillness of the beating sun, better than the silent waiting. She pauses at the bottom of the cliff to set down her red wings before continuing. She reaches the edge and stops. She pushes out the dragonfly wings and the wind picks at them, begging them to jump for the sky. They are so frail and thin, she doesn’t really believe that they will be strong enough… but to fly, the thrill. A crazed joy fills her as the wind plays in her hair and pushes it around her head. The dragonfly wings want to fly so badly, they seem to be twitching all on their own, beating rapidly and raining bits of light around the edge of the cliff. She laughs and throws her arms out to the sunny blue.

No.

Something inside her, a memory, snaps back. She remembers a promise made to her. She pushes herself back to the ground, away from the edge of the cliff. She feels the thin wings bend underneath her as she rolls back down the hill. She bumps down and comes to rest next to her feather wings. She groans as she pushes herself up. She winces as she realizes that she has damaged the dragonfly wings. They are horribly bent and torn and the left wing has a hole in it. She pulls them off her back and lays them down next to her red wings. She feels sorry for breaking them, but a small part of her is grateful that she didn’t try to jump into the wind. She reaches for her soft, blood red wings and places them back on her shoulders. Their familiar weight comforts her as she gazes at the mess of iridescent tatters. She picks them up and they flutter sadly. The young Wing Man will be able to fix them, but she can do nothing.

Softly, she whispers, “I’m sorry.”

A Window Story (I)

Two years ago I wrote this allegory-thing to try to make sense of my feelings and help me think through things. It was a progressive story about myself, the idea being that it was a "window" into my thoughts. I felt I should include it in my blog because it's a nice story and because it is definitely me. This is the first part I wrote, and you can tell that my voice as a writer has changed since then when you read the second part. Well actually this first part is split up into even more sub-parts that I wrote over a week or so, but it's pretty much all the same time. For the sake of preserving the "historical" and typo-ful aspects of the writing, I'm leaving the mistakes in it.

A Window Story

...The ability to see more out of a window has nothing to do with what angle you look at it, and everything to do with how close you are to it...

       There is a town, not far from your nose. See it's right...here!  Do you see the lake? The soft sandy beach with tall grass, the hills that surround it?  The grass is green now, because it's spring in the town. Which is a special time here, more than other places. You see, it's the time that the children can fly.

       The Wing Man is the oldest of all of the people. He has been here since before the town existed. All year he creates wings to give to any child who could want them. But every pair of wings is different. The young children often choose small delicate wings. These have to be repaired and do not hold the children in the air very long. Sometimes the children choose heavy wings. These are powerful, but only if you are strong enough to use them. Most children who choose these get hurt.  But the young children almost never keep their wings, they will usually give them back to the Wing Man.

       As the children of the town grow older their wings become more and more realistic. They have more profound flight feathers, and the young adults fly higher and higher, with each passing year. One day they will make a decision to leave the town with their wings.

       Do you see that lake over there? The big, blue one? Can you feel the wind, as it turns unpredictably from hot to cold? One day those young adults will, with their chosen pair of wings fly out over the lake. They hope that they will catch a warm breeze so they can fly all the way to the other side of the lake. Everyone knows that whatever is over there, it absolutely wonderful, because few people ever want to come back. They send messages about how blissful and beautiful it is there, and how it's just like it was before, only instead of flying, they go soaring!

...But if one was to catch a cold wind... and fall... the wings that would have carried you, could drown you. Some correct their false judgment of the winds before they get to far from shore, and are able to carry themselves to shore... some perish in the deep blue waters.

       This is what all of the children prepare for with their simple wings; the chance to fly, and then, to soar.  

       But in this town there is a strange girl. She sees herself as just a bit above all of this. Can you see her? In that house, the pretty stucco one, with red shutters. Yes, that's her. You see, she thinks that this is all just too dangerous. She thinks, 'Why, on earth, would someone want to be that high above the ground? How is that any fun at all?' She has it so nice here in her little cottage, by the sea. Where the gulls cry and the hills roll on and on into the sunset...why would you want to leave?

       Do you see her beautiful garden? She grows roses, every kind. There are red ones, white ones, pink ones, orange ones, green ones, and even a purplish-brown color. But her favorites are the almost black ones. She keeps these in the very back of her yard, next to her favorite sitting rock. Often she sits there and plays her flute for the birds that enjoy her flowers. She sketches pictures of her butterfly friends too. Their pictures cover the walls of her house.

       But one thing that she does.... that she never wants anyone to know about.... is when she stands in her tree and watches the other children. She watches them with their wings. How they swoop and dip, how they are always grinning. But then she watches them begin to fall... she watches their eyes get big and as they scramble for some hold on a cruel wind...they are dashed to the ground. She vows to herself that she will never fly.

 But inside... deep inside... she knows she will, and all she can do is hope that the wind will favor her wings.

  Years go by. The girl is often left behind by the other children. Even though they come to visit her garden, she doesn't fly with them, so they can't really understand each other. One day, the Wing Man comes to her door. She leads him in, through her house, to her beautiful garden. 'Why is he here?' she wonders. For some reason she decides to show him to her favorite sitting rock. They sit down.

 "Why don't you have a pair of wings yet?"

 "They scare me.." She can only whisper, because she knows that all she really wants is lying in the Wing Man's large burlap sack.

"There is nothing to be scared of. It is only a fear of change that makes you scared. You do not really feel fear about the actual wings. Is this not true?"

 The girl is silent.

 "Here."

 Out of his sack come the most beautiful wings she has ever seen. They are of the same almost-black-red rose color as the flowers that share the garden with her. Their softness startles her, and how smoothly they fit between her shoulders. They are not a burden at all. In fact... it's hard to describe. It's like there is nothing left in the world to be scared of, like whatever happens you, you will always have your wings, your freedom....your love.

 The girl looks at the Wing Man. ' Can I really fly?'

 'Only if you think you can.’ He smiles and limps out of her garden.

 The girl watches him go.

 As soon as he is gone, she runs to the hills around the lake. You can see them, there, with the tall green grass. She tells herself that she will be careful and that she won't let herself go too high. And she keeps her word. But, Oh! Is it ever amazing! To FLY!!!!

 She goes home. And comes again the next morning, and the next. Every morning she returns to spend her time rolling and turning under the sun's bright rays. Everyday she goes a little higher, and every day she forgets the ground.

       Her garden slowly fills with weeds. Her roses wilt, and thorns grow where roses were. Thistles fill the space where white roses once perfumed the air. And as the summer passes the colored roses wilt away. One rainy day she decides to sit in her garden again. She notices for the first time how bedraggled it looks. The rain mixes with her tears. She plucks up her last almost-black-red rose. She holds it too her chest and wishes with all her heart that she didn't have to choose. If only there was some way... but she has to fly. 

       Or does she... if after being free and happy for so long, would it be possible to give back her wings? Could she forget what it was like...to fly? Could she fix the damage to her roses?

 Or could she leave this all behind, and fly over the lake? What if the air turned cold? Would she survive? If the air were warm, would she ever come back? Would she ever see a rose again? She sits on the rock, there, in the rain. With her rose and her tears and tries to decide. But all she can think of is her broken heart; her broken heart with the pieces that don't fit together.

.             .              .

The girl looks up into the rain. The small drops look just like stars falling from the sky. Silly stars, what's wrong with being in the sky? Why not just stay up there where it's safe, and dark. And all you have to do is twinkle... the girl cries herself to sleep.

 She wakes up... and rises to a clear blue sky. She knows now, you can see the determination in her eyes. She will fly. Yes, and maybe she'll come back and grow her roses, or maybe there will be roses on the other side. She doesn't let her self think of a sandy grave. She still grasps the last rose to her heart and stands on unsteady feet. But with each step she gains confidence, and with each moment her eyes are drying. Why did she cry? She spreads her wings and airs them dry as she walks. She doesn't know how far it is to the other side of the lake, so she doesn't want to use her energy to fly now.

 Do you see her? Standing on the precipice? Looking down, down, at the dark black water, and then up, up, at the pale morning sky. She tries to feel the wind, but all she can fell is the smell of autumn, dried leaves, and mossy water. And with everything the smell of a fresh coat of rain. The birds can fly, why can't I? She spreads her wings...

 and leaps for the sky.

 .                .              .

 She isn't too far from shore now. And she is rising. Higher and higher. She can't remember why she was scared, or why she didn't try anything before. Flying is absolutely wonderful... how could she have ever doubted? And the wind is perfectly warm against her wings. In fact she doesn't even have to beat them at all, she just drifts, and dreams. The land falls behind her, and the gulls are far below. She turns to look one more time at the shore. And there stands the Wing Man. He is smiling, knowing that with her wings, and with her wind. She is another angel in the sky.

 He knew all along that to love is to fly.

a mlarg poem

This is something I threw together last semester. I was contemplating Deconstructive theory and anyone lived in a pretty how town by E.E.Cummings (and just so you all know, this is one of my favorite poems EVER, so you have to look it up before you read this). I was frustrated with myself for being love-struck and easily distracted, and I was feeling guilty for sitting a spider's web. I was also feeling rather silly for thinking I should write a poem about what I was thinking, rather than doing my math homework. Procrastination sometimes makes decent poetry though, so I thought I'd take advantage of it... this was the resulting mess:



I wish I lived in a pretty how town

This here spider

Sitting next to me,

Is going to have to learn to share.

This is my chair.

Granted it’s her web

That I sat in.

So she can sit or spin it again.

While I type.

And spin.

I wonder

Should I try to forget?

How anyone is real

(he loved noone)

and noone

had

to

say

goodbyeandnoandneverand

(worst of all)

ihavent&dont&wontcare

noone had to pluck her eyes out

chop her heart up into little itty bits

(It killed noone, you know; to do that)

Should I try to forget?

How noone lives on

heartless (because it’s chop suey)

blind (‘though it’s nothing glasses can fix)

and she tries not to think

about before

                        before

before love sat in her web.

When something loses its center.

does it collapse?

Or does it try to keep building out.

as fast as it can?

When something loses all structure.

does it disappear?

Or does it try to support itself.

with chop suey heart

and unattached eyes

and a face of iron indifference?