From my living room windows, the voice of Edith Piaf carelessly walks onto the heavy summer air hanging above 36th street. The piano mimics her steps, occasionally toeing out of stride and challenging the percussion that follows. Years and years have passed since her death, and the Little Sparrow continues to float in this procession of contained madness. Falling out of the window in slow motion, she carries me along and moves her hands through imagined knots in my hair, whispering lies I love to hear. The windows grow further and further away, until I can't remember the last lie, so I gaze into the painful dream that rests behind her face. We fall together but never hit the ground, and as Edith begins smoking cigarettes, I close my eyes and feel ashes fall over my face, burying me in careless dust. Then, just when I am unable to breathe, her pale lips produce the smallest stream of air, blowing the ash away from my face until I emerge from her spell. I open my eyes and see the needle spinning in the soundless void of a finished record.
7/18/10
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
- From Out of Nowhere -
Hello- I guess this is the official rebirth of my blog. I was initially using this in conjunction with a class/program at the U of M, but now (a year or so later?) I'm going to take it in a different direction. I have been writing quite a bit recently and I want to begin sharing it with people. Books? Who knows what those are anymore.. besides, real writers don't even write their own books... they're too busy ghost writing for others. :) This is not going to be chronological or themed in any way... just poems, stories, journal entries, etc... all from my treasured "cow style" composition notebooks. They're the best! Without further ado, from out of nowhere...
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The sound of rain falling for miles through the sky before it slaps the gray walkways and disappears into a giant expanse of depthless water. Each drop reminds me of forgotten dreams and trips on slow, winding trains. I would sit in the last car with a cup of coffee, each cup half as good as the one before, and watch the gravel sift from the heavy shake of the angry old train. The sun would find the trees before sliding down each branch, to where birds were already awake for hours, nestled between dry sticks, tangled towns of fishing line, and naked little eggs. The other passengers sat or lay half-reclined in their wicker chairs, baby blankets covering their laps, newspapers scattered about. They frowned from their physical discomfort, but smiled from their financial stability.
Occasionally, when seeing a beautiful girl walking down the isle, with warm rays of sunlight illuminating her body from the neck down, I would feel the impulse to leave my last car, my cup of coffee, and return to their world. We could probably have great conversations, agree on politics, maybe recommend books to each other. Still, every time I see her, I turn back down the tracks, watching the clouds and countryside move past, knowing that we are both headed for very different destinations.
And I'm used to it, too. All of it- the tired guitars I see around campfires and broken bridges, the shooting stars that float fast across the open water, the ancient lily pads that back away from jumping bullfrogs. Together, it all forms a sort of symphony that could seduce even the oldest of bachelors, the ones that never felt anything for anyone. Some call it a trap, a mere distraction when the ball is pitched or a favor you did for someone you didn't know that made you late for that last remaining ticket to the sold-out show.. or maybe its something as insignificant as a cloud that passes between you and one of them shooting stars. Still, that thing called love will always respond to the energy you give it.
I think about this whenever the sun goes home, when waves fight each other to gain a little ground, or when dry wood crashes down into a pit of red embers. There are wonderful people that live their whole lives alone, talking to their better half, mesmerized by what could have been and never was, and there are terrible people that live surrounded by others, infecting them with plastic expressions and expensive taste. I come and go between, learning what I can and switching my seat frequently. I don't pretend to have many answers, but when I meet young minds they can feel my age. They might watch me draw and smile at the emerging images, unaware that lines compose everything around them and light can be hid to produce something close to God. Its wonderful to watch this reaction, and for this, I smile too.
Breathing out, I look back down the tracks, behind the long, winding train, and watch another corner disappear into the distance.
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The sound of rain falling for miles through the sky before it slaps the gray walkways and disappears into a giant expanse of depthless water. Each drop reminds me of forgotten dreams and trips on slow, winding trains. I would sit in the last car with a cup of coffee, each cup half as good as the one before, and watch the gravel sift from the heavy shake of the angry old train. The sun would find the trees before sliding down each branch, to where birds were already awake for hours, nestled between dry sticks, tangled towns of fishing line, and naked little eggs. The other passengers sat or lay half-reclined in their wicker chairs, baby blankets covering their laps, newspapers scattered about. They frowned from their physical discomfort, but smiled from their financial stability.
Occasionally, when seeing a beautiful girl walking down the isle, with warm rays of sunlight illuminating her body from the neck down, I would feel the impulse to leave my last car, my cup of coffee, and return to their world. We could probably have great conversations, agree on politics, maybe recommend books to each other. Still, every time I see her, I turn back down the tracks, watching the clouds and countryside move past, knowing that we are both headed for very different destinations.
And I'm used to it, too. All of it- the tired guitars I see around campfires and broken bridges, the shooting stars that float fast across the open water, the ancient lily pads that back away from jumping bullfrogs. Together, it all forms a sort of symphony that could seduce even the oldest of bachelors, the ones that never felt anything for anyone. Some call it a trap, a mere distraction when the ball is pitched or a favor you did for someone you didn't know that made you late for that last remaining ticket to the sold-out show.. or maybe its something as insignificant as a cloud that passes between you and one of them shooting stars. Still, that thing called love will always respond to the energy you give it.
I think about this whenever the sun goes home, when waves fight each other to gain a little ground, or when dry wood crashes down into a pit of red embers. There are wonderful people that live their whole lives alone, talking to their better half, mesmerized by what could have been and never was, and there are terrible people that live surrounded by others, infecting them with plastic expressions and expensive taste. I come and go between, learning what I can and switching my seat frequently. I don't pretend to have many answers, but when I meet young minds they can feel my age. They might watch me draw and smile at the emerging images, unaware that lines compose everything around them and light can be hid to produce something close to God. Its wonderful to watch this reaction, and for this, I smile too.
Breathing out, I look back down the tracks, behind the long, winding train, and watch another corner disappear into the distance.
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