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?

Street Wars

I can see them out my window

figures darkened from the night lights

wild creatures of the moonlight

fiery eyes from corner stoplight

They're here to war by streetlight

         ...just outside my window.

I can see them out my window

as they stand to face each other

silent glares from friend to brother

black-souled tears from reject mothers

here for hatred of each other

          ...just outside my window.

                  BANG.

He lies outside my window.

Blood seeps to fill the land.

The men run past my window,

hot black leech in hand.

I stand to lock the window.

Charmer

You feel beautiful,

don’t you?

With your head held high,

watching me.

You sway,

in a trance;

held fast by the sleek notes

of the soft piping lute.

They glaze your skin

like oil over dark water.

Everyday I lure you out to the street.

The crowd slips around you

to watch me;

to see how I can control you.

You are charmed.

You can’t stop your movements

because you are afraid.

Afraid that I will hurt you,

or worse,

that I will leave you.

But I will never escape this basket,

I have no legs.

I felt like writing poetry last night and I came up with this. I'm still unsure about the ending, and I'm not sure if it makes sense "as is". I'm hoping it turns out like that spinning dancer optical illusion where you look at it once and she's going clockwise, and then you blink and she's going counter clockwise... 

Sailing

I read the paper the other day.

They say a storm is headed this way.

In the early morning weekend hours,

"Hurry up, before the deals go sour!"

So I'll go out and ride the wave

and spend all the money I've ever saved.

on junk that's washed up on people's shores;

all piled high on their garage floors.

Gathering all those treasures, so cheap.

buried in seas of boxes deep,

all for me to buy and keep.

a mismatched broken china plate,

a colorful sock without a mate,

a hopelessly tangled marionette,

stringless shoes and broken barrettes,

a jar of crafty google eyes,

a snow-globe with no snow inside

a lamp, a spoon, a back-porch railing

a microwave, a harpoon for whaling...

… How I love to go yard-sailing!

As I have loved you

I

            I have lived to know a tale of irrevocable love: as endless as the stars, as moving as time itself. I was there, at their wedding, sitting on the front row, as the scene played out before my eyes. I could feel her joy like the first flowers of spring, his steadiness as a river’s murmur. Together they were a representation of life. And I saw the whole thing blooming.

II

Margret knew she was going to hate going to the supermarket, but she went anyways. She didn’t like the idea of wandering around, her unmade purchases laid bare in the bottom of her cart. She would have taken one of the hand baskets, but she knew she couldn’t stock her dorm in something so small. So she got a cart and pushed herself up against it, attempting to appear as small as possible.

She wandered about for 15 minutes trying to figure out whether oats would be nearer to the crackers or the flour. Pushing the cart in front of her, she walked past the cold cereals, looking for the aisle with the cooking goods. She felt as slow as an old lady. Surely there had to be some large bags of flour and oats and wheat, just like her mother used to buy: the big 25 pounders. A bag like that would last at least a year between her and Jenna. But then again, maybe Jenna didn’t like oatmeal, or oat pancakes, or granola. How could anyone not like granola?

Not watching where she was going, she was forced to swerve out of the way of a large case of day-old doughnuts. After realizing she was in the frozen section, her arms gave way to goose bumps. She would just have to ask someone who knew where the oats were. She shivered again and turned her cart around.

There was a man in a royal blue polo two aisles down, stacking soup cans. Making her way ever so nonchalantly towards him, she hugged the edge of the long bin of cold cut meats. He was busy turning the soup cans so that the labels all faced forwards. She wheeled her cart ever more cautiously forwards, gathering up enough courage to speak. It’s just a question about oats; just the oats, not his name.

“Excuse me... I, uh...” She cleared her throat as the man turned around. “You wouldn’t happen to know where the, uh, oats are, would you?” He stared at her for a few moments, attempting to piece together what she had said, then he raised his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry, I don’t work here.”

“Oh, I just thought...I see now. Your blue shirt...”

He laughed awkwardly. “I must look like...”

“Yes, yes it does.” Inside, she grimaced in embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no, don’t worry.” His face softened a bit, and he cocked his head. “What was it you said you were looking for... oatmeal?”

“Oh, just oats.”

“Hmmm... well, they are probably next to the cereal.”

“Well that’s what I thought, but they aren’t there.”

“Are you sure? I just bought some two days ago.”

“Well, I can look again...”

“Here, I’ll come with you.”

            She paused for a moment, trying to decide if it would be more awkward to refuse or accept. “Well, I wouldn’t want to interrupt what you were doing...”

            “With the soup cans? Oh. No I was just, uh, straightening them. So they look nice.” He cleared his throat.

            “Oh, well, alright then.” She wondered what was wrong with her. He grabbed a cart nearby that held a few dozen cans of soup, and pushed ahead of her.

            Her mind tried to focus on the aisle passing by, but her eyes kept slipping to the man in the blue shirt. He had dark blond hair, cut short to hide natural curls. He looked vaguely familiar, but so do most of the people you see at the supermarket. He stopped at the very end of the aisle, looking down at some small containers.

            “Here they are.”

            “That’s it?” There were only a few rows of cylindrical containers; none could have held more than three pounds.

            “Yeah. It’s not much, but it’ll do for a college town. We don’t have a whole lot of selection ‘round here.”

            “Oh, well that’s not... I was just thinking... Don’t you have any large bags? Like 25 pounds or so?”

            He laughed again, seriously amused this time. “What would you want that much for?”

            “So that you don’t have to go to the store very often.”

            “Do you live very far away?”

            “Well, no...” She stopped, realizing that she was close to giving personal information to a total stranger. “I just don’t like shopping.”

            “Oh.” He looked rather deflated. “Well, there are the oats. That’s all they have as far as I know.” He put his hands on the cart to wheel it away.

            “Well, thank you.”

            He turned back around and flashed her a small smile. “You’re welcome.”

            He walked away, passively glancing at the cereal. Margret disdainfully grabbed two canisters of oats. It wouldn’t matter whether Jenna liked them or not, two containers wouldn’t last that long. And it’s just so expensive to buy in small amounts.

III

Joey looked at himself in the mirror. Straightening his collar, he smoothed his eyebrows out evenly. He shaved, washed his face, and combed his hair again, hoping that this time it would go exactly where he wanted it. Giving up, he left the bathroom and, before he grabbed an apple, he checked that his backpack was zipped shut with the zippers on the right side. Finding it satisfactory, he unplugged the toaster, locked the door, and stepped outside. He stared down at the sidewalk as he made his way towards the bus stop near his apartment, being careful not to step on the cracks in the cement. He did this more out of habit than actual superstition. In his opinion, the only bad thing about walking under ladders or breaking mirrors was the chance of having paint dripped on you or getting cut by glass. He arrived at the bus stop at 7:57, leaving the seat at the end of the bench free.

            It was only the third day of the second week of his freshman year, and he’d already found his comfortable niche within his environment. Consistency, he thought, was needed for a perfect balance of time. And the balance of time was needed for time to pass, so that change could occur more smoothly. He’d worked hard over the summer to carefully distance himself from his family and old friends so that the transition would be easier. And so far he’d been able to successfully avoid all feelings of homesickness by letting the time just slide by.

            Eventually, the bus arrived (three minutes late) and he took his usual seat behind the driver. He liked sitting on the left side of the bus because it was the west side and was therefore cooler. (By a matter of 5 degrees, he suspected.)  

            When the bus stopped at the corner of Main St. and University, Joey stood to exit first; he hated being in crowds because it made him feel like a pack animal. He walked to the Keller Science Building trying to increase his stride to make up for the lost time at the bus stop. If he got to the building five minutes early, he would have time to eat his apple before he went in to class. He arrived at the steps to the building only three minutes early, but was able to eat his breakfast by the garbage can and throw the core in with two minutes to spare for the stairway climb to the third floor.

            He started at a trot, but broke into a run as the chimes of the nearby bell tower began to chime half past. Luckily the microbiology professor was frequently late to class as well, and had a clock that was thirty seconds slow. He arrived before the professor shut the door, but not in time to take his normal seat at the front, right side of the room. Instead he slid into a desk at the back of the room. Without looking at his backpack under the table, he was able to pull out his books and laptop. He quickly set up his things and then time was running smoothly again.  

            Directly to his right sat a young lady with blond hair. It was swept back in a ponytail that reached to the base of her neck. There was something familiar about her… She must have felt his eyes on her because she turned towards him, away from the professor who was fumbling with his computer. She gave him an odd reproachful look and squinted at him, not brave enough to smile. Perhaps she recognized him too. Or maybe not. She turned to face forwards, and he soon went back to taking notes.

            As soon as class ended he turned to her, almost expecting her to strike up a conversation to cover for gawking previously. The familiar woman, however, was almost all of the way to the door. Joey grabbed his things and started for the door, hoping to meet her and introduce himself. He made it in time to catch her interest as he came up beside her in the hall.

            “Hi, I’m Joey.” She nodded and then turned to walk away. “Do I recognize you from somewhere?”

            “Well, actually, I’m Margret, and you look sort of like this guy I met at the store last night.”

            He paused for a moment, “Oh, yeah! That’s where I met you… Hey, I’m sorry about that. And now I probably seem like some kind of stalker.”

            “Not really…” Of course that was exactly what she had been thinking, but she didn’t admit it. For some reason manners are more important to be kept around total strangers.

             “Well, it was nice meeting you… Margret, right?”

            “Yes, or Maggie. I prefer Maggie.” She mentally winced at her blunt tone.

            “Oh, okay. Well it was nice meeting you anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He smiled and waved half-heartedly. They split apart as she went off towards the student center and he started for the library.

Joey watched for sidewalk cracks, deftly changing his stride to slip between the lines. He had this pet peeve when it came to new acquaintances; like an itch. He had to get to know them until he could classify them in his mind: random person, best friend, girlfriend, enemy, boss or teacher, and so on. Margret, or Maggie, didn’t seem to fit into any of them yet: he couldn’t place her in a category. So she hung in his mind; thoughts of their conversations mixed around in his head in total chaos.

IV

They didn’t know how it happened, but it did. One day he made the excuse that he needed some papers that might be found in the student center. She helped him find them and they had lunch together. The next day they walked to the library. They began studying together, although neither of them really needed it.

Love happened. They didn’t realize it. It caught the corners of their mouths and pulled them into smiles. Their eyes met across the classroom and restaurant tables; attracted to an opposite pull. It sneaked up on them and wriggled in to the backs of their minds, becoming cozy there. Sometimes it ran around bumping into feelings and causing wrecks on inter-cortex highways. Other times it blew itself up and wouldn’t let them think about anything else. Sometimes it was selfish, this parasite love, but most of the time it made them happy.

Parts of them were lost in the becoming of a pair. Their lonely fears and apprehensions were overridden by holding hands and walking stride for stride on sidewalk cracks and down long supermarket aisles. He forgot the discontinuity in the soup cans; she forgot to hide behind her shopping cart. The world, to them, made sense because it consisted of only one another. Time was reinvented, dissolved into the hours apart and the moments together, like night and day. They became shortsighted, each only seeing the other. Everything else was just scattered light. This opaque world comforted them; it hid them and protected them. To them, it was love.

V

“Come on, Maggie!” Joey hollered down over his shoulder.

“If I was going any faster I’d be tripping over your feet!” They both laughed between short breaths. And they climbed faster.

It had been Joey’s idea to come up this mountain, even though neither of them particularly liked hiking. But a friend of his from sociology had suggested it to him as ‘the most romantic spot there is.’ While Joey was unsure whether or not his friend had been joking, he figured he could always wait another day if this turned into a mess. So far, however, things were going well.

The temperature was approximately 72˚ and it was 7:42. Spring break was fast approaching and with it came the free time to spend together. This had placed both Joey and Maggie in irrevocably happy moods. Maggie had packed them both a simple dinner of bread and cold spaghetti. They planned on waiting until it got dark, and then carefully finding their way back down the mountain by flashlight. (The flashlight was Maggie’s stipulation; she did not want to slip or get lost or, worst of all, lose Joey. Although she didn’t tell him the last worry.)

They finally huffed up the last stretch of bumpy trail and collapsed on a bench. While they were catching their breath they were able to look out off the lookout point. Both were too full of happy blood-rushed thoughts to actually see very much of the view. For a few minutes both of them exchanged idle conversation. Joey finally mentioned that he was a little bit hungry. Maggie agreed, although she wasn’t really hungry. She was more nervous than hungry. Since they had stopped hiking she had noticed that Joey was getting a little bit antsy; she was wondering what was bothering him.

Maggie reached into her backpack and pulled out the forks, bread and butter, and cold spaghetti. She quickly remembered to produce the customary hand sanitizer and napkins. Together they ate their bags of spaghetti in comfortable silence. Maggie would snort the occasional nervous laugh and would then assure Joey it was because she just thought it was strange to eat spaghetti from a bag. She was pretty sure, however, that it had much more to do with the fact that she was nervous.

Joey finished eating first and Maggie told him that he could have whatever was left because she was full. Joey wasn’t shy around her anymore so he finished off the bread and then they both cleaned up the trash and folded it up into the backpack. (Joey’s was perfectly folded, and when Maggie wasn’t looking he went back and re-folded hers as well.)

After sitting in silence for a few moments Joey cleared his throat. “Well… I ummm… You know what?”

“What?”

“We could try climbing up that rock over there, the bigger one…”

Maggie had to admit it would be a change in scene, and more off the beaten path. “Alright. You lead the way.”

Joey smiled grabbed her backpack and headed off towards the rock.

“Hey! I was going to carry that!”

“Not for now, you aren’t. It’s my turn.”

“Sure. Carry it when it’s mostly empty,” She teased.

“Hmmm…. good point. I could carry you instead!”

Maggie’s face turned a little paler, although Joey couldn’t really tell because it was getting dark. “Yeah, No. Not up this rock, you aren’t.”

“Oh, why not…” He pulled himself up onto the rock. “Could I do it after we get to the top?”

Maggie rolled her eyes, “I’ll think about it.”

Joey grinned. “Okay!”

Maggie pulled herself up after him. But before they’d walked to the top of the rock, Joey stopped abruptly. He turned around to meet Maggie just as she walked into him. He grabbed her around the knees with one arm, and then swung her up so that she was facing him. She threw her arms around his neck, mostly out of fright.

“Gahh! Joey!”

He laughed. “See, it’s not so bad.”

“Oh, Joey… I feel sort of helpless,” Now that she was totally in his arms, she wasn’t sure whether she wanted down or not.

“We all feel like that sometimes…” He could feel this turning into his perfect moment. “We all feel sort of helpless and lost. Maggie, I used to feel like that all the time… before I met you.” He gently set her back onto her feet. She was sort of disappointed at this, but she could feel something hanging on the ends of his sentences… a little pause. So she waited for him to finish speaking.

“Maggie, I have to tell you that I’ve never felt so complete around anyone else. I’ve never been so comfortable or happy, and I don’t want that feeling to end. You see, I love you.” He reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a small box. Maggie was temporarily paralyzed.

“M-Maggie?” He cleared his throat.

She could only nod and give him an encouraging look.

His voice gained strength as he opened the box and sunk to one knee. “Maggie, will you marry me?” She imagined it was bells that were ringing in her ears. Looking down in the opened box she could see, even in the semi-darkness the glint of a beautiful silver ring with a small emerald on it. She put her hand over her mouth and looked from the ring to Joey and back again.

Somehow she was able to speak through the shock, “Yes, of course I will.” She threw her arms around his neck and he rose to stand again, lifting her up as he went. “I love you too,” she sobbed into his collar.

“Oh, Maggie!” He spun her around once and then set her down again. “This is fabulous! We can get married in the summer…” His excited voice mixed with hers and together they were dancing around on the top of the rock, rejoicing from the top of the world. A world so far beneath them that they didn’t notice it; just as they’d never noticed it before.

VI

Desert looked out over her vast dry skin. Her beauty had worn with age, shrunken by the mountains that blocked her from the seas, hardened by the callous wind. She felt ugly and grey and old. The succulents that freckled her surface were shriveled; the animals wavered in the heat. Pain was ever present on her face. Desert missed Rain.

She remembered distinctly his liquid eyes. She pictured the way they filled with tears when they saw her, in her forgotten, barren state. He would swoop down upon her, angry with Spring for forgetting her once again. He and he alone would bestow upon her the gifts of life and fertility. He would cry for her. Only Rain truly loved Desert, only he had seen her in her beauty.

But he was not here now, not yet. He had a long journey over many high mountains bringing the heaviest loads straight up against every other form of life that needed him. If he spilled a drop, the rest would fall and none of his precious gift would make it to Desert. He carried all of his memories of Desert in his eyes. He could not cry until he saw her. He could not miss her, or he would never make it over the mountains. But this was never easily done, for Rain loved Desert very much, and there were some years he didn’t make it. He would fall onto the mountain and cry his tears out. They would slip down the hills, into the valleys to be stolen by the humans and trees and animals. And she would suffer without him, suffer but never die. And he would know how she suffered, but he could not cry. He must save his tears for Desert.

And Desert had waited for a long time. It had been many years since she had seen Rain, and she yearned to be with him again. But this summer evening, when Desert awoke, she could feel a pressure building over the mountains. A solemn call was sounding through the sky; a thunderous roar off mountains and penetrated valleys. She knew he was coming and with all of her soul she cried to him. All around her and within her there was silence. Most of the creatures were silent because they knew that Desert was talking to Rain, all except the humans.

There was a group of them, milling about on her wizened skin, setting up for a ceremony. Humans, Desert knew, were deaf to silence. They did not understand what it meant. But they would see soon enough; Rain was coming. She would teach them to know beyond their learned ignorance and their false superiority.

She watched a dark sun rise. Clouds boiled up over the mountains as more humans began to gather. It was a wedding; a binding of two souls for only life and until death. The humans knew nothing of immortality, nor did they understand undying love. The life that cycled in her veins was charged and driven by this love, untainted with impermanence. 

            Desert watched the ceremony begin. The joiner was nervous about the darkness, but he didn’t understand it. None of the humans did. But Rain was coming anyway. He was coming and the Desert was gathering her heart to meet him. She would see him again, the way stars touch in the sky. And this would be a memory for the humans, a parable of true love. Which love could never be civilized or broken; never disposed. True love, as Desert knew, was pure and natural; a gift given to perpetuate life. She would show them this love, even if they never saw it.

            She opened her skin. She opened her heart, her ears, her mouth. And last she opened her eyes. And Rain filled her sky. Above her and beyond her and covering her, he took her in his eyes. Rain saw the drought-stricken Desert, and tears fell. Rain fell. He fell upon her. They were one and the same and, for this moment there was only life and love (which are one and the same).  

Rain ran over everything. He blew aside the ceremonial wedding aisle, and instead, there were puddles, spotting the ground with primeval soup. Desert laughed as drops splattered the humans and scattered them apart from one another. They were running away from natural truth. Instead of silks and satins, Rain and Desert wore dirt and tears. It was not a promise to be together “until death did they part.” Rather it was a covenant to always return, the passion to never forget, as long as Earth should go on. Rain’s love for desert was his only thought, his only desire: to care for her, to leave all he had, and take nothing away. He would sacrifice all, and Desert would be young again. Her beauty would bloom brighter than the tropics, and life would be reborn in a way unmatched since the first creation.

The humans watched the rain fall. They watched the thirsty ground pull the water deep inside itself. Rain pounded them as they drove away in their cars. They thought a wedding was ruined. But this had been a wedding of passions that words could not speak, a journey of unparalleled faith. This love was natural, the roots before the distortions of human love.

The bride and the groom returned sometime later when Rain’s tears were almost all spent. They looked around at their wedding scene. Everything was wet. Desert’s skin had been soaked into a smooth mud, the cacti were drunk and swollen with water. The air smelled sweet and humid and for once the humans were silent. They listened to the soft caress of Rain, they saw the darkened womb of the dirt, they wondered at the birth of the natural beauty of the land. Their wedding had been ruined by the passion of a storm, but it had left an imprint on their souls. The humans held one another and could almost remember… remember the time before memories, when everything was innocent and beautiful and pure. They promised to love one another, as the desert loved the rain, until body became soul and blood became time.  

And around them Rain clung to Desert and promised to love with the same passion as he had, as he did, and as he would forever. He promised to return to her, to give her all he had. Wisp by wisp the wind dragged what was left of him away. He called to her, his thundering voice but a whisper, As I have loved you…