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11 November 2011

Did you see my hands shaking?

I wasn't ready to see you yet. You only told me goodbye a couple of weeks ago-- and I hadn't yet stopped chasing the tail of your words around my mind.

But there you were. In that grey jacket you sometimes wear.

"We're matching," I didn't say.

The autumn sun looked good on you.

"Hi!" Too cheerful, I know.

But you were kind-- are kind. Thank you for smiling and for reminding me how we tried to get our picture in the paper.

"And you? How are things with you?"

I tried (a valiant effort, I think) to smile-- effortlessly.

Be real.

Be natural.

... I babbled.

"So, you mean it's a little stressful?"

You know too well what my smile means.

But it's okay, I know what your smiles mean too.

"Good luck with everything," I said.

"Have a nice life," you didn't say.

The sunshine looked thin on that dark spot that had been your shadow a moment ago. And my hands were shaking. I don't know why. I hadn't even really thought of you for a whole day.

To a boy

16 January 2010

You sat across from me in the LRC once. The headphones pressed against your ears barely muffled the heavy beat of music pumping from your i-pod. The tapping of your pencil against that desk's edge was nearly lost in the clicking typing of so many concentrating students.

But then, for perhaps one can only contain so much music, suddenly your lips parted and out came loud and clear a few bars- unaccompanied and unrehearsed, a concert for the 4th floor. Did you know just how much you wanted to sing along?

I laughed then, at first quietly in my head, and later louder to my friends, but now I'm waiting at my bus stop, singing along with the Rob Thomas that no one can hear but me.

I understand now. Sometimes you just can't keep it all inside.

100

01 October 2009

Read me, a treasure map. See me, my language which draws in the style of Monet: impressions of my mind in brush strokes of type. Count me, my words which add to multiply: the some-thing of all is the greater part. From your crow's nest look over, in and under--standing, look out through your telescope of reading glasses. Measure and triangulate the latitude of my thoughts; take a sounding of my paragraphs for the sandy bottom. Find me, what's buried at the center: X marks the spot. Read me, lost thoughts sketched on velum, floating in an old bottle.

The morning cometh

12 September 2009

Today rose early, as I slept-- before my deep night's slumber had even thinned to a twilight torpor.

His entourage marched solemnly ahead in long royal robes of velvet shadows.
The canyon winds, who had held their breath so reverently in the midnight anticipation,
began, quietly at first, to whisper amongst themselves--
and then applauding through the aspens, they welcomed the first glow.
For trumpeters, the birdsong cried his coming!

Fresh faced, he glowed with the pale pink, sun-kissed promise of a summer day.
Over the cusp of the road to the east, he peered, then stepped, and then danced
into the receding night.

There were those waiting that saw him,
that leaned out of windows thrown wide,
that felt his new glow on their expectant faces,
That saw Today come.

But I slept, my shades drawn, dreaming about a fishing boat that doubled as a circus clown--
a meaningless phantom that sailed always away into my dim unconscious.

An unexpected complement

10 September 2009

"You know what you are?" he said, "You're a Wendy-bird, and we are your lost boys."

I smiled. He is not generally one for giving complements especially in front of his posse of friends, so I struggled to understand the smack in his words. But it was lost on me-- I liked the way that sounded: me, their Wendy-bird.

I feared my smile, or my loss for words would give away my delight as such a complement. I flippantly changed the subject, but kept the smile, savoring that moment sitting amongst my lost boys.

An unexpected incident

04 September 2009

An explosion in a fascinating thing to consider. Of course, the first law of thermodynamics creates an interesting puzzle of potential and kinetic and unstable energy. How could such an apparent imbalance be a reality?

But there it is, all the same: A nearly minute quantity of potential-packed matter instantaneously becomes an extraordinarily large and beautifully violent living bouquet of saffron and magma,

And then ash.

Can you imagine what it is to be that pregnant bomb sitting still, containing quietly a supernova in miniature?

Personal hygiene

12 July 2009

Shopping for deodorant is a metaphor for my life.

First off, I'm out, and though I believe I could live quite happily and independently without deodorant, I feel the social pressure to get some of my very own. Also, it's comforting to know you smell good.

So I went to the store yesterday to look around, scope out my options, weigh the opportunity costs.

Eight rows of sticks and sticks of antiperspirant: roll-on, gel-on, 24/7, night time, black-safe, unscented, tropical spice-- there seem to be an inordinate number of choices, but they all break down into three types:

There's the friendly kind, the kind you always get, the one that smells neutral and doesn't make a mess, and because you always get it, you know you can confidently expect it to work 50% of the time. Not a high percentage, but it's the confidence here that's key.

Then there's the expensive new brand, that exotic, mysterious smelling New Formula with a sparkly package and marketing promises that may in fact change the course of your whole thus-far-lack-luster life.

And then there's the very safe and very reliable, unscented brand that is plain and boring and one of a kind (because only one brand was crazy enough to try to market a deodorant that doesn't smell Powder Fresh and doesn't have a catchy slogan, and doesn't wear a packaged like an ice cream bar)

And of course I had to smell them all. I nixed the fruit scented ones right off (I'd rather not develop a Pavlovian connection with the smell of my sweat and watermelon), and the baby-powder ones we're too old-ladyish for me. Turns out the "Rosepetal" smelled more like toilet bowl cleaner, and I just couldn't imagine putting "Sexy Intrigue" in my arm pits.

I finally just grabbed one of my 4 or 5 tried-and-half-true regulars-- they smelled and looked just the same as always, safe- and half- reliable, but as I turned to go, I couldn't pull myself away from the All NEW! sparkle of something different and more exciting.

The safe unscented sat bland and undisturbed on the edge of the shelf.

And I stood, weighing my options, confused, and a little frustrated. Did I want to pay that much for the new, alluring, untried brand? Did I really want to stick with the same-old-same-old that I knew wasn't really what I wanted? Maybe I really was better off al natural.

I pulled the unscented, reliable stick off the shelf, grabbed a chocolate bar, and check out.

I tired it this morning, with low expectations. Turns out this one actually scented, a sweet and refreshing smell like the clean outdoors or early morning dew. That was a pleasant surprise. I think I may have found a new favorite.

Disappointed love

01 July 2009

My very first love had a deep voice. Deep and mellow, a rich croon that was sophisticated and gentle, and no doubt a shock of wavy dark hair, slacks and a loose tie for that confidently casual look.

Tall, dark and handsome he paced the stage of my minds eye, his stories, his bluegrass band, his live audiences' laughter became the soundtrack to you young life. And as I grew, he claimed the gift of perpetual agelessness, joining me every Saturday night, just as he had always been, broadcasting live from the shores of Lake Wobegon--he was NPR's Garrison Keillor, the same steady, warm voice I had always swooned over.

Today I turned on the TV while fixing some re-heated dinner and suddenly I heard his voice. It was like smelling the cologne of your high school sweetheart, and I looked up to see my Garrison Keillor,

"I grew up in a quiet town..."

But I was confused by the man talking on screen-- he was portly with wild gray hair and a plain face with piggy eyes behind unflattering round glasses. There was nothing exceptional about his appearance other than, perhaps, a drab coat which fit him exceptionally ill, and red sneakers exceptionally obvious beneath too-short pants. He could be described as nothing short of dull, but his thin lips moved and out came that voice, that music, that memorizing murmur-- could this really be that man? Could this really be my Garrison Keillor in the flesh?

I closed my eyes and listened for a while, imagining again the handsome stranger that ought to belong to that voice. Then I shut off the TV and finished my dinner in silence.

Fido the pachyderm

24 April 2009

The elephant sat between us on the front porch like some lazy family dog. I leaned against your deck chair to block him from view, but he just watched us dolefully, and you and I sat, as usual, in silence. I was too busy taking my own pulse to ask if you minded the intrusion- after all, I had first named him and invited him to follow us about.

When our usual contemplative and lonely silence became too uncomfortable, you commented, in passing, on his pachydermine proportions, and I could think of no reply but, "Why? Don't you see--things could have been so different."

Instead, I said "How true."

And we each returned to our busy solitude-- I, blankly staring at the empty browser window, you, intently watching the screen of your i-pod.

"I could go for a burger or two."

"Bacon cheese burger?"

"Done"

There wasn't room for him in your little car, but that's the way I prefer it. All our best conversations happen in the Wendy's drive-thru.

Words recently swallowed

13 March 2009

The saddest word in any language is the unvowelled and unenunciated mumble which might have pulled thought into reality: the shadow of a conversation which crosses the welcome mat into the house of "Might Have Been" and leaves reality outside a little lonelier.

A truth I could not tell you:
I'd love to have dinner with you. I'll pay if you'll drive.

Over goldfish

14 February 2009

I can't have you?
   good heavens,
I never thought of you like that;
       a possession to gather,
       a piece of luggage with my tags.

As just some friend, I had thought to draw something deeper from your closedness,

but I don't want to have you.

Who asks to own sunshine, or fresh water, or happiness? I don't claim you
       like some item at will-call.

Excuse me

08 January 2009

You stubbed my toe.
Though I suppose the fault is mine for leaving it hanging out there for any careless fellow to trip over.
But you hardly noticed my foot
or my wince.
In fact,
now I'm not sure you ever noticed me at all.
But no harm done--
I've put on band-aids before.
Besides, it's not like you broke any major vital organs.

Not even wensleydale?

13 August 2008

So, I’m reading this great book about changing your life completely just by being ridiculously honest about yourself. So I’d like to practice here:

Confession #1: I ate the whole box of Trader Joe crackers,

Confession #2: in just four days,

Confession #3: and I’m not sorry. Except I am sorry that Mom took the rest of the smoked Gouda.

Well, I feel so much better.

Train of thoughts

29 February 2008

I woke up late and decided to dress in last winter’s olive green. My hands looked for my Gap-long-sleeved in the colorblind dim of 7:15, feeling and weighing any darkness with arms.

But. I’ve developed a habit of putting away clothes in my laundry bin, or in the Rubbermaids under my bed, or sometimes in the bankerbox on my closet shelf. Rarely will I fold clothes into my chest of drawers, and only with great patience and soji will I ever hang up a thing. This makes dressing more like treasure hunting, the excitement of which is usually enough to entice me out of bed. This morning, however, the excitement was lost on me as I rummaged, grumbling, though all my worldly possessions.

The brush-teeth and out-the-door hour ticked past as I emptied my drawers and repacked them.

I don’t particularly like olive green. I didn’t like it last winter either, but since I had decided upon the thing, I couldn’t see much sense in reconsidering. In fact, at 7:45 it’s still difficult to see much of anything.

Five blocks away, the bell rang delivering students from 7 am class, and I found my gapstretchT folded between two pair of jeans—incidentally, right where I put it Saturday.

I was late to for Greek, but what’s a few minutes on a lovely spring morning? Some students get a week of spring break—you wouldn't begrudge me 10 minutes?

Though it was a bit cool for a real spring break. Fortunately, I wore a sweater buttoned up warmly all day.