SIDEWAYS EIGHT PROJECTS

Always thinking, but not necessarily writing it down, or sharing what I’ve written.  We each separately long to be understood at our innermost and loved.

To hear the sighs of others and the echoes of whispers and wounds behind them.

This is what it is to be human.

To be known.

To belong.

To love and be loved.

To be a part of something that is so much larger than just ourselves

that is almost humorous to think of our selves.

You have kept me alive.

Looking to be filled

searching where we know it isn’t

Because we don’t know where to search

But we must

start

Somewhere.

We see the cycles, but can’t or won’t break free

Else,

We don’t know how

Which magnifies our frustration

For the total awareness

Coupled

with the lack of release.

Why?

Where does that peace go

When I leave it?

Burning embers aglow

Orange brightly solidified and breathing

Pulsating.

Enough to warm my chest

my heart

My well being

And my sense of purpose on this earth for a night

I love you.

I would say “you know who you are”

But you don’t.

And,

Like the fire,

That is more than enough for tonight.

As darkness captures the backyard in a cold stare, I soak in the silence and am grateful.  So far this deprived state of sleep is pressing in from the back of my head.  A hard to get nap sure sounds far off and rare, and the violence around me is hate filled.  But I am alive,     and able to simply go to bed.  So i will.  As my body naturally fades further, and my eyes grow to a point where I simply cannot lift them, I will drop off the face of the earth.  I will free fall and forget about everything for just a little while in the grand scheme.  It is well with my soul.  The aroma of nothingness is intoxicating.  Good night world.

Second day of the month, the moth goes up in flame as it shoots up from the tip of my thumb and sparks the same as it ever was.  Everyone know the tune? Soon my numb and dark gangly body will lay horizontal and press into the mattress like a headached eye into the shoulder of a loved one.  This , that, and the other thing occupy my mind if not my time, and my mind time is working overtime blindsided by the morning tide and this beriding sense of being deprived wanting the mind time to be mai tai time and for there to be a new episode of parks and recreation on hulu, but two and two do not come together four that one.  We write because we have to at times, but is it a craft?  Does it speak the truth, and does it speak it beautifully?  Great questions to ask if you are being interviewed on the radio, or signing to a bus full of ninjas each chained calmly to his bench.  But what of the craft?  When can what is asked be not the subject of laught    her, and i both have questions, seemingly, seamingly without answers.  we love.  one love.  without answers but moving forth, one day at a time, honestly giving much, for the purpose of sucking out the marrow, and profiting not but for ourselves.  That all mankind without exception be welcome.  What is it going to take?  To make or break?  Up above it all kind of love, a whole lotta friends, two birds, and maybe a mountain or two.

Snow is falling, work’s not calling, the wind is swaying branches, I begin to playing ranches, castles, and urban centers for their value in the precipitation. Evidently the universe is magnificent. “I may lie to my heart, but my heart never lies to me” says Ben in speaking of friends. How is it when things that don’t have a clear beginning ever come to an end. Introspection in those benevolent directions, which get spoken of at picnics and funerals, within groups of three or four. Possibly two. When I dream, I forget it has happened and it impacts me not. The images are not burned into memory, or framed by scaffolding for passers by. I have ideas of what those dreams might contain, but no evidence to support my theories. This stage will confine ideas only downwardly. We can all use more upward movement in our lives. Just think, if there are infinite possibilities, possibilities, there are infinite outcomes. Take shelter. Breath easy. Sled. Repeat.

We while away the hours looking for clues in speech; looking for signs in language. Gifts can be exchanged occasionally, but not all of the thoughts that pass. Can I understand someone else’s plight? Will their burdens and hurdles be something that I can breathe in? If only the contents of a heart could truly be known. If only the rhythms of a soul’s desire could be understood. If only the innermost dreams had a voice to advocate rather than a future to suspend. I am happy for the rainfall, because I choose to be happy. I understand that it gets hot, windy, cold, and snowy at inopportune times. The ground thirsts. People everywhere are hungry for the extraordinary. Meeting Nadia was extraordinary. I am sorry for the loss of her father. Life hands me momentous photos and brief captions. I return to life murmurs and the occasional laughter. If there is a spot to find, or a destination to be that is home, it might as well be there, if that is where the heart is. The roof wouldn’t fit anywhere else. It isn’t big enough for the dreams to be.

The explosion took place first within his mind, and then upon the screen before him.  Time slowed to reveal the pattern in the darkness despite the trace amounts of light he’d been given.  These dates and details that once seemed rote memorization, now began to unfold in an entirely new way.  When did this become the basis for reality that so greatly affected him?  Is he a she?  only the reader truly knows.  Smoke and dust clear to reveal the debris scattered across the floor.  The ornate fixtures and delicate patterns covering the entire expanse of the ceiling have been reduced to a massive sweeping project that dares to look back up at the gaping sky.  The big sky winks back at the onlooker who can’t quite assess the damage yet.  Eyes close and re-open.  He is becoming a new man one day at a time, however, this day may be his last, and the transformation is not yet complete.  These words run through his head as well as a barrage of still images from recent times.  This happily ever after may need to be placed on hold until further notice.  Gains made on previous expeditions seem to be filed away in a vault that may or may not be accessible by its owner.  Ever changing.  Ever seeking.  Ever evolving are the ways of this journey and the one who is on it.  Developments within programs are intriguing but not necessarily cost effective.  Sitting in the waiting room may lead to fidgeting, anxiety, stress, deprivation of spirit, and an alacrity in demeanor that makes absolutely no sense and puts others on edge.  Round pegs fit into round holes.  Square pegs and such.  When I see the smoke billowing from the explosion, I wonder if I am him secretly or if she is me.  When did we forget to open doors, and draw back the curtains from our windows?  Did the panic set in before the engagement?  How wholesome can one gentleman be?  How saintly can a poetess seem?  We are each dreamers, and we are not the only ones.  Unlike predecessors who lacked the same power of retrospect upon the same number of years, we can choose to be naive to the past mistakes, repeat them, and curse the wind for blowing over us as if we are the only ones that it affects.  The main character decides to play out his part even if if means his own death.  The story becomes more interesting without an agenda or a forecast of the storm.  Poseidon rules the seas, and no dweller of earth can manage to wield his trident except perhaps the one laying in the newly formed rubble if he heals.  These events carry on.  Not every great novel is written.  Some are simply lived in Thoreau’s quiet desperation.  Explosions seem to occur every day when we don’t focus on the scale, but rather, on the impact upon character and the human condition.  Can you see it before it happens?  This wedding of opposites leaves room at the reception for any number of outcomes.  The yellow flag gathers dust, for the most part, lies ignored.  Dramatic inquiry aside, we can each lay beside the character and empathize or not.  We are angels in desolate places waiting to return home.  We are flying clowns waiting to entertain the ideas held within our wildest dreams.  Excitement turns into stoic stares back up at the sky.  We are engaged with our own small stories and often neglect the bigger picture that is unfolding.  A muted explosion is like a nervous breakdown in a halted elevator.  Life goes on.  Lists are made.  Groceries are purchased.  Feasts are had.  Leftovers are boxed up.  Dogs eat table scraps.  People hurt each other unintentionally.  Lovers find ways to reconcile.  Dreamers find ways to continue.  When do the final credits roll?  He lays there facing up.  His back is upon the floor.  The light cuts through the element of fog that meanders its way across the skyline.  I don’t know if the character will live or die.  Sing with me until the story reveals itself.  Patterned obelisks lean to the southeast side of the atrium.  Wall tiles rest from their game of leap frog.  Dust settles.  Laughter continues on the page but not over the phone.  The plaques focus on the positive, but fail to tell the whole story.  Fragmented lives become epic characters in narratives who wish to get their ever loving hands on the author.  I love you, but you must die.

Sit back relaxing, asking myself no questions, basking in the peace, that’s more interesting than those grad school twins.  Writing at night like old times in the not-too-distant past.  Deciding not to fight while flying a kite that is electrified in the form of driving on the highway at night in a torrential downpour, wishing I was wrapped in an afghan on the couch at the farm with my book in my hand, and you in the other.  Oh brother, why art thou sooo sentimental?  You call out your druthers and say it’s incidental.  Here we are, way past the rental.  Coming into the umpteenth viewing,  Spewing out random acts while chewing the fat and the gum, even if we are feuding, and it’s confusing,  as to why and how and with what words we are using, I’m choosing to let it go and let it be, if and when the emphasis on we becomes what it was when we felt free.  Sitting back relaxing, thinking of the classroom chattering, with Uncle John’s Band playing, saying ‘good song’ and walking back.  This weekend, amidst the rain, pathways will be forged, mouth will be gorged, and I will attempt to churn beauty from pain.  I’ve learned to restrain myself when necessary, when I don’t believe it would do any good.  But I blame the message sender’s carry, and nary a one I say I’ve lost.  Thank you for reading, thank you for seeking the meaning from bleeding internally at the risk of repeating myself twice.  What in the world are you on boy?  He says as convinced as third grade bully.  So purely unsure you almost have to love them, but choose not to, because you too were bullied.  It willfully nestled and wrestled themselves a home in a bed.  These things become other things, and silver rings get lost near sandbar beachfronts in the Chesapeake.  Let us speak from the heart or not at all.  Let us not attempt to control in part or in all from the block to the gun to the finish.  Build up not diminish.  Sit and wish the softness of words can still harden an impact.  And, if the speech is slurred, I can arc my back and demonstrat.  Time to take a momentary break to Finnish people everywhere, what is the equivalent to buying you a pint of Guiness then?  I will happily buy you a pint of your choosing if you let me let loose on a dime in this new thing.  Boat cushions push into my temples and I lavish them.  Relaxing when, I drift off to sleep . . . . .       

(Late Entry – Written 7/4/12)

The smell of gunpowder in the air, the scent is explosive and I stare, through the leaves of the trees and glare, of the residual smoke from the affair.  Fireflies glow by in pairs, the surrounding thunder is almost a dare, to jump from the rooftop and swear, you can tell by my face I don’t care.  These fireworks light the spark in me, though I only see their tops through the trees, I drip with sweat and Kingston tears from the beginning, as I step from the shower to the breeze.  Reds and blues, yellows and greens, oranges and purples, I wonder what it all means.  We celebrate independence but we’re locked in and connected, It was even before my teens, that I was somehow misdirected, I live a life consumed by examination though expected, to smile and laugh though uninspired and dejected.  Turn every season, turn to the upside, focus on the pause and positive connective.  There is love, there is joy, there is peace, and there is wonder, beneath and amidst the same sky I cry, sounding thunder.  Three-sixty almost amber gloaming, mind racing, soul roaming, across the tops of the trees to the nether, where its never this hot, though there’s change in the weather.  The interest does not come, but there are interesting stares, she likes him, he likes her, the world’s filled with interesting pairs.

Wherever one is from can feel like home, wherever one is going can be good.  I sat on the peak, but for the birds, alone, simply dreaming all the dreams that I could.  Descending, unending, this too shall pass, tomorrow in the daylight I will rest on the dampened grass.  Staring up at the roof that I visited tonight, but the fire worked a menace in me, while it gave off warmth and light, my heart calls out to countless skies, though my voice is silent, and my eyes are open to the stars, here comes the sun, hellos and goodbyes, and a spirit escaping from its confining bars.