Master Deceiver

Silence is a master deceiver. It signifies nothing,

yet conceals more meaning than  words that  fill its space--

words, like bubbles, so delicate and evanescent 

that to speak them would destroy;

words, like lost ships sailing an uncertain course

trying for a destination, yet failing to come close;

words, like arrows in the bows of young men,

unknowingly sent forth in the wrong direction;

words, like leaves falling softy where they land

yet never taking place in their original home again

words, like kisses sweetly shared-- 

the love between a pair;

words, words that I cannot say, 

because there's silence there;

words I cannot wish away

the ones that must be heard; 

words I so desire to speak

they must not be inferred;

words whose silence leaves me weak

unspokenly  beat against my heart;

words, these words that pain me so--

I fear that we must part. 

Wild Grapes

What I wouldn't do for you--

Tender, sweet young vines of promise,

I blistered my hands under a burning sun when I built

your fences.

I exhausted every muscle when I constructed the watch tower

to keep my eyes on your delicate fruit

and I gave up the peace of the night to keep you safe

I broke my back and bruised my knees when I dug the soil 

at your base 

It pained my heart when I made the wine press

even though I knew you were made to be crushed between two stones

so you could become what I'd planted you to be. 

I cared more for you.  .  .

Yet you synthesized the sun for your spoil,

and took ravages from the soil;

favoring foul waters you 

spurned the sweet fountain

despite everything I did for you...

and I didn't know, couldn't know...

until I tasted your sour, wild grapes,

whose harsh acid I still taste on my tongue,

whose bitter flavor still makes me cry, and

whose smooth, firm skin still deceives my eye

I loved you,

but can do nothing with wild grapes.

How to Write like Paige

I know you all want to emulate me, so I've taken an inventory of my style and come up with the following:

1. Use "as if" a lot and "seemed" a lot.

2. Metaphors, similies, and personification most often involving nature are a must.

3. Insert one biblical and/or Mormon reference 

4. Make the Mormon references so obscure and specific, that one would need the author's explanation to understand them (Hint: "Dairy Queen" is about Mormon culture, specific to the South Davis County area). 

5. Insert one word everyone will have to look up. But only one. 

6. Poetry is all about you, but none of the prose is. 

7. Make references to pop culture, most often in the title of a piece. 

8. Make this pop culture reference obscure in case you don't want anyone to know what's going on. 

9. You must have equal parts shallow to balance out deep--but not necessarily within a piece. 

10. You're only sincere once.

11. Take heavily from personal experience. 

12. Fall in love with and understand your male characters better than your female ones. 

13. Complexly present the simple. 

Part 2

The scented smoke curls tugged her fingertips and pulled her with child-like enthusiasm into her memories. 

She was eleven again. Her hair was long and fine and a free-of-chemical-color-additions mousy brown. She wore it in a lazy ponytail, whisps of hair coming out at the crown and catching her eyelashes. She sat curled up in a rocking chair on the porch, her white-and-blue polka-dot dress contrasting her earthy tanned skin, rough from too many days in noon-high summer sun. She pulled her spindly brown legs up to her chest and curled her arms around her shins, resting her head on her arm while situating her dress around her to preserve her modesty. She sat very still and watched and listened for the earth to move around her. 

She felt small and unnoticed in her chair on the giant, covered wrap-around porch. If it weren't for her nut-brown skin and blue polka-dots, she would have faded into the white railings and posts and clapboard surrounding her. She felt like just another of the many potted plants and ornamental trees scattered along the porch: sedentary, expectant, accesory. This was her unexpected hiding place. She could sit here all day, in full view, and escape the notice of the many people coming and going--their heavy footsteps echoing across the boards of the porch as they continually ascended and descended the steps all day long, their hats in hand--their movements and their business muffled and distorted through the windows and lace curtains that separated them. She knew the ladies would politely ask "Where is Mary Elizabeth?" without wanting any real answer. The men would awkwardly shuffle their feet, unaware she existed. 

She liked the porch. It kept her from being savage. Her shy, almost feral antisocial tendencies kept her in trees all day. The porch made her civil. 

She looked out across the sprawling lawn and old, heavy trees dutifully extending their arms without wavering. She squinted as the sun commenced its descent, its frappant rose-colored light escaping past the baldachin to hit the wall of windows behind her, bathing her in a glittering reflection--John's sea of glass mingled with fire. She watched calmly while the sun paved everything in amber, cloaking the trees and the clouds and the lawn in a warm glow of kisses. She breathed the fearsome kingdom as the peepers began their greetings. 

He came with the peepers. She'd hear the latch on the door and his slow, heavy feet on the porch planks. She  imagined his finely-polished brown shoes like her skin against the sterile white. He came and stood beside the open chair next to her, enjoying the peepers. He would reach into his light-colored jacket and remove his pipe and tin, pinching a small amount of tobacco and setting it in the bowl, before returning the tin again. He'd strike a match and flick it away. One puff... two--one to greet the night and another to bid farewell. He'd sit down in the rocking chair, unhooking the button from his jacket so he could sit comfortably. Together they would watch the sun give her last caresses through the trees before winking away. 

Wary

I know now why I am wary of you,

why I'm careful about what I say and do:

It's because I'm afraid to leave pieces of

myself with someone else--

pieces, like old photographs, they stuff in a box

and put on a shelf.

I'm afraid of having no part of you

to carry with me when we're gone;

or that I may have too much with me,

that the missing may be long.

I'm afraid I may get used to seeing you

at the same times every day, 

so much that I cannot move on

when you've gone away. 

I've put my heart too much in you--

I've stitched yours in with mine.

I fear the parting hole won't heal--

no needle and thread with time.

So I try to cut my ties with you

before they're strongly made; 

I'll pretend it never happened,

force the memories to fade. 

I try and want and cannot do

--that I'm still wary is true-- 

but it is because I find I care too much for you. 

 

Weeping Without

I know how those widows go without--

why they do not weep for their beloveds 

or grieve overly long,

why when the shock of a new silence leaves 

their lives they find a new peace in days without sound--

they go without because they know 

the going will not be long;

and yet I weep because I know you are already gone

and will be forever. 

I am already without you though I do not want to be so. 

Somehow the pearls of Peter's gate will not shine,

if I must pass through without you.

Nor will angelic choirs sing so sweetly as your own voice

softly saying my name with more praise than 

any alleluia chorus. 

The ennui of saintly wisdom would envelope me,

only because it would seem less wise than your own words--

with succinct sentences edifying the heart better

than any of their tomes--

you explicate "love" and "faith" and "hope" with 

greater understanding than their own authors. 

I think only weeds would grow in an Eden without you--

or else the petals of all those paradisiacal flowers would 

wither and brown in the drought of your presence, the sun

not rising if you will not help it. 

Though I'd inhabit marbled palaces, they would

be only mud and pitch in your absence. 

 

Even God's glory is dim without your light. 

This is not the peace and rest the preacher told me.

The widows do not weep because they are not always without.

I weep because I am already without you for always. 

Mon Cher Aza or Zilia Renamed: II

She remembered when he found out she’d be going away to college—his response, though wordless, said more than anything they’d ever said to one another. They’d been sitting in the only class they ever had together for all of high school. Unusually for that day, he sat in front of her. As the students all went around and said where they were going to school, what they were doing with their lives after graduation, she remembered his reaction when the teacher got to here. She’d held off telling him personally, waiting for the right moment; but she never got up the courage, and then it was her turn and she had to say it, with him sitting right there.

 

She saw his back tense and then relax with defeat when she said it. And then he was still with the shock of it. He didn’t turn to look at her the rest of class. They didn’t joke or make cynical comments to one another. They didn’t try to make the other break out laughing at inappropriate times, casually fall asleep on the other one’s desk. Today was not a day to play with his unnaturally moldable hair, which she often did until he looked like he’d been in a bad fight—a fight he’d won, at least. His body language asked her why she’d chosen to go away. It asked why she hadn’t told him before, why she hadn’t consulted him before making this decision like he’d wanted to do with her.  And she knew she was right because he said as much to her later—on the night when she went home a cried, confused at what she’d done.

Here under the tree, she felt his arm around her and she knew he remembered too. This gesture forgave her.

Together they walked on—the trees lights distilling drops of forgiveness and healing, whispering promises for a future of many similar walks together. She settled into his side with a sigh as they turned a corner. She saw their figures looking back at her in the reflecting pool—strangely distorted by the floating orbs of light that crossed the surface. They stared at one another in the reflection and her throat caught and fear seized in her stomach. “Ella…,” he began, concerned.

She pulled away, still looking at his reflection only. “In one of my classes,” she began, “we read about a Peruvian woman taken from her home during the 18^th century. She went to live in France and her betrothed—separated from her—lived in Spain. She remained faithful to him, writing him letters and standing constant in the faith they shared. When she found him again the languages and cultures they adopted separated them. They were too different.”  She always did this, saying but not saying what she meant. She only did it with him, because he understood.

“Are you sure,” he asked, his voice failing a little.

“I’m sorry. I’ve made my decision. I don’t understand it, but I’ve made it just the same.”

“I guess I just thought, even after three years…”

“I’m not coming back here when I’m done.”

“And I’m not leaving again.”

“I got sick of missing you too soon. I had to find my way without you.”

“I never did.”

“You will now. I’ll help you”

Mon Cher Aza or Zilia Renamed: I

It seemed like High School all over again. She ran out the door as soon as he pulled into the drive, so he didn’t have to talk to her father or brothers. She sailed over the front porch step and landed with a bounce on the fresh snow.  She got to the car just as he stepped out and shut the door behind him. Standing there, shoulders set at an angle with his back to the car, he looked down at her. For several moments they stood, inches from one another, not saying anything—just staring—taking each other in for the first time in what seemed like too long. Finally, he broke into the first honest smile he’d had in a long time. “Well,” he said, “Are we gonna go or not?” She shook out of the moment and skipped to the other side of the car, but he got there before her and opened the door—“Since you wouldn’t let me come up the porch properly,” he explained. 

It’d been over three years since they’d been for a drive like this; yet it seemed as natural as if they did it every day. Off into the darkness, cocooned in the stillness of fresh snow and the silence of a night when people opted to remain in their houses, they drove. And talked. They talked like they were trying to find their voices again after having been mute for three years. She recited all about college while he diligently asked about her classes—requesting details of every semester, every class, wanting to know about professors and papers. He asked her about parties and her friends. What had happened to the roommate with whom she hadn’t gotten along sophomore year? Had they reconciled—yes, yes, she’d answered, they’d slowly reconciled; they were civil now, at least. What was the East like, he’d asked her. He’d only ever been to New York and not liked it. What was the town like where she lived?  She chattered on about everything as if they owned time. She asked him about his life on the West coast. What was it like working there? What sort of people did he encounter? She prompted him to tell her stories about his adventures. He could tell stories so well, he’d carve out of her emotions she hadn’t even known existed. With him around, she never wanted for entertainment. She understood entire paragraphs from his tone and inflection, such that she could always get out of his stories so much more meaning than anyone else could—though they felt it. It was as if he painted a landscape with his pitch and she was the only one who could see how all the colors fit together.

They talked until they felt hoarse, opting to miss their dinner reservation because eating took too much time away from talking. Instead they drove down streets they never knew existed though they both grew up in this town.  They continued until the lake extinguished the sun and darkness closed them in. Soon they sat in silence, quietly watching the headlights illuminate their next steps.

“I can’t drive around like this forever, you know,” he said.

“Yeah yeah, well, I’m not the one who planned this.”

He laughed. “Very true. Alright, I know what we’ll do.”

He wound his way with purpose through suburban streets until they got onto the freeway. “Where’re we going?”

 “You can’t wait ten minutes to find out?”

She started to clear her throat to lecture him about how she loathed surprises, but he cut her off, “I know, you always want to know what’s going on—but I’m not going to tell you. I’m sure you can guess. We don’t keep things from one another very well.”

They parked downtown away from the office buildings. As she reached for her door-handle he chastised “HEY!” and she immediately put her hands in a fist in her lap, trying to look demure. As he opened her door he sheepishly took her hand and said, “ I didn’t want you getting out onto the ice by yourself. What if you fell?” 

He kept her hand firmly in his as they walked past the houses pressed up against the life of the city. “Mm, I like that one,” she pointed to a brick house with a pitched roof and a sloping yard. “It’s small,” he commented.

“I like small.”

“It’s old.”

“I’ll bet it has beautiful hardwood-floors. Besides, it’s not about how a house looks, but how it feels. You think those houses you see in home-shows with their great rooms and home-theaters feel like home?”

He squeezed her hand, “You’re right. I agree.”

They walked until they got to the heart of downtown, where there were so many Christmas lights you had to look up to remind yourself it wasn’t the middle of the day. They walked around, observing the Nativity scenes from different countries and commenting on the lights.  As they walked past one of the fountains, he looked at her and frowned. “What?”

“Your ears are bright red.”

“Yes, did you know it’s winter? I hear it gets cold this time of year.”

“I just wasn’t thinking about you being cold. I’m sorry. We should go back.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I have a hood.” She reached behind her head with her free hand to try and get it, but only looked silly, flailing her arm in many failed attempts. He laughed and took both his hands and situated the fur-trimmed hood around her head, which made him laugh harder.

“Stop. Why are you laughing?”

“Because you look… you just look… so…”

“So what?”

“You’re just this little pixie of a thing in a huge down coat and fur-lined boots and this little head peeking out underneath your furry hood. You look like an Eskimo.”

“That’s incredibly racist of you. I’m horribly affronted.”

He chuckled and grabbed her hand again, walking away, “Come on.” Yet she continued to stand there. “No. How do you know I’m not really upset? You just made fun of me. And the Eskimos!”

“How do I know,” he repeated, looking back at her—defiance detailing her features, “How do I ever know anything about you? How do you know anything about me? It’s not like I’m just reading a book. It’s like reading a book I wrote. I know all the rhetorical devices, all the particulars of the diction, all the secrets of punctuation. It’s always been that way. Even when our only mode of contact was letters I could understand even what you weren’t saying by your penmanship. Vocal inflection isn’t any different.”

“That’s annoying. I don’t want you to know everything.”

“That’s why you’re the same way about me. It makes us even.”  She took it as an acceptable answer and walked on with him, closer than they’d been before.

They stopped under a giant chestnut tree covered in warm orange lights. They looked above them at the web of spindly arms forming a glowing canopy beyond their heads. Looking up at the infinity of lights, she thought about what he’d said, about her being able to understand him the same way. It was true, she thought. She thought of all the sorts of animals that communicated using only sound-radar, and how they were almost the same way. Even then, when they didn’t say anything or when she couldn’t hear his voice, she knew exactly what he was thinking.

 

Part I

She'd grown accustomed to the sights and sounds and smells of the alleyway leading to her apartment--so much so that she thought nothing of them as she found that narrow opening between the two buildings--the kind so slim you'd need someone to point it out before you'd know it was there. The smell of the bakery mixing with the coffee shop below, the familiar grating of gravel beneath her feet, the clanging of pans from the restaurant next-door--all filled her with a familiarity akin to neglect. Only when she'd been gone for a few days and come back did she notice them, as if their absence had somehow made them more pronounced. The acclimatization with the scene left her listless, languid matched with the lull and ease of her day, always the same. 

Today walking through the alley, she passed the open door of the coffee shop's very back room, the one only regulars knew existed. Through the darkness of the back room, silent tendrils of  smoke whispered out to her, tugging her clothes and pushing the small of her back towards the open door. Instantly her throat burned and her eyes misted with Pavlovian memory. Years along, she'd never forgotten that smell--the way muscles remember how to form words or preserve posture. Standing shaded against the brick wall her breath drew heavy and reluctant as her conscious memory joined her hidden one.

She'd never liked a man with a propensity for a pipe. Then again, she'd never known too many men who had such a one. When she did, however, the vehemency with which she abhorred burned her like a hell within her heart. She supposed it still did; but she couldn't walk away from the smell of the pipe seducing her through the open door, settling itself in the crevices of her gray-matter, masochistically burning her esophagus. 

It was a finer tobacco--this she discerned and this she preferred. It wasn't the cheap cherry-infused sort that smelled of cough syrup and latex, it contained none of the false sweetness of  vanilla bean, or the foppishness of rosehip. No, this tobacco was finer than that--this tobacco carried a story in it's smoke, like the aromas caught in the droplets of a fog; it's history so deep, one could have divined the fates of nations down to dates in its ashes. Every puff was a paragraph from its story--the steel that broke the soil, the man who planted the seed, the hand that plucked its leaves--each puff another tale to sustain a princess hoping tonight wouldn't be her last in this Arabian court. It reminisced about its old friend the bowl and gave praises to the bend while delighting fondly in its schoolmate the stem. 

Yet that is not why she stopped, tethered to the product of disintegration's chaos. She did not stop because of the song it sang of itself, but because of the song it played within her--note by note, slowly now. Its fingers dusted off books hiding in the shelves of  her bones. It found old photographs in the trunk of her attic mind. It unearthed old letters stuffed away in the pockets of her heart. The dark, woodsy, rich scent held out its arm like the perfect gentleman it was and gave her a dashing, gentle smile before proposing a saunter by the lake, its ripples forming new memory-scenes across its surface. 

Promises

The grasses bend their golden heads under 

the dusty-hot sun, aching burden of 

catatonic stillness, joints sticky shafts

creaking in the quiet.

Somewhere a sound stirs that 

is not tempest or fire but a restless

excitement for the forthcoming--a 

palpable ambient electricity. 

Slowly at first, the grasses raise their heads

and dance--their rustlings assuring 

whisperings--a comforting caress 

rippling to every horizon of the soul.

2,4,2,8

2,4,2,8 in B major

remind me that I left you,

remind me that it's been 782 days since 

I saw you,

remind me that I wanted so much to 

save you--

but only ended up hurting you,

remind me that we've sat 782 days 

on something we haven't been able to say

but with our intonations,

remind me that I lacked faith in the measure

with which you could love me,

remind me that no matter the fervency with which I ache 

to feel your arms again I think I might break if I do,

remind me that I could have seen you,

remind me that I chose not to or that you

promised me a beautiful life but I planned another one

without you 

and forgot to tell you

or that I looked ahead and saw what I could have with you

or that I weighed my options and chose--again--

to be away from you

that I've tried again, again, and again to erase memories--

like our future--of you

and yet they still come through

with 

2,4,2,8 in B major

Hugs

Why do I get the impression this is what goes through some people's heads when they ask me for a hug? 

Apt? I think so.

The Eyebrows Have It

I'd been suspicious of it for awhile, but didn't want to admit it to myself due to it's sheer oddity; yet I can't deny it any longer. 

You know those get-to-know-you surveys you get at church and sometimes in class *cough* seminary *cough*? Or those get-to-know-you games you play on the first day of camp or during freshman orientation? People always want to get to know me with the question: What is the first thing you notice about the opposite sex? (You mean, besides the fact that they're the opposite sex, right?) People randomly ask me this even when they aren't trying to know me, as in--after they've known me for a long time--as if this is going to give them some new insight into my life. 

Everyone always tells me my answer is a cop-out. I guess it sort of is. I have heretofore answered this thusly: There are certain features that I like, and if the individual has them, that is what I notice first. 

Well, last night while shamelessly watching 27 Dresses with my friend James Marsden showed me what a lie that answer is. There is, in fact, one feature that I notice first about the opposite sex:

Eyebrows.

I should have known. My first crush had--and still has--strong eyebrows. Part of the reason I am not attracted to blonds? They rarely have good eyebrows. Now, those who don't have strong, well-sculpted eyebrows need not worry. The eyebrows' contribution to the overall character of the face as well as expression are both considered during the evaluation process. 

And I subsequently realized something. All those people who thought they could blow the door wide open on the Paige-psyche with that question were kinda right. You see I soon derived a direct connection between my preference and personality--that is, my appreciation for boldness and expression.

My appreciation for a bold pair of eyebrows mirrors my appreciation bold art, people, actions, music, literature, etc, etc. 

I hate impressionist painting (about the only French-produced thing I can't stand) because it lacks a boldness and conviction. There's no heart in that moment, no passion. Likewise, the angle of an eyebrow puts the passion I'd look for in an individual in every statement.

Really strong, dark eyebrows always attract my attention. I usually don't like them at first--considering them to be unattractive. Yet something about their brashness always wins me over. Similarly, I often find brash people to be quite distasteful--only to have them become my favorites. There is something unabashed about everything they do and say--I appreciate their unapologetic actions. I like people who aren't afraid to strongly be themselves, even when I'm not, and nothing is more impressive than confidence. Confidence is appealing--even on complete punks, who are usually the confident ones. Just as bold eyebrows always attract my attention, so will a bold move on the part of one of these individuals. In fact, I've been known turn down date invitations  and instead feign ignorance because the invitation lacked the boldness of being straight-forward. 

One might also form a link between the eyebrows and my taste in music and literature. When the eyebrows aren't strong, it helps when they are put to good use--properly expressive or contributing to the character of a face. The music and lit doesn't have to be mind-blowingly strong. You don't have to be the best instrumentalist or the strongest creative talent. I just want it to be well-done. I want it to have something distinctive and interesting. I want to be able to identify a group or an author after hearing or reading a portion of their work  because there is something about it that is tainted with them. It might be the use of metaphor or the particular grit of a singer's voice. I want expression in everything I hear and read--a message, a tone, a feeling manifest by diction or instrumentals. 

There are a lot of other qualities that I notice: certain hair-and-eye-color combinations, body-type, even bone-structure. There are also other qualities that I like about everyone and everything in my life; yet, the eyebrows have it. 

I guess that question actually has some validity for getting to know a person; because yes, I did just analyze myself based on what I notice first about the opposite sex. I'll never discredit that question again.

Hope

One curled foot: first step on a cold wooden floor--
a startled intake of breath,
silver-dollar eyes frightened and pleading,
arms reaching out--
searching--
just beyond your fingers.

Plodding on wishfully-winged heels I
totter, tiny toes carrying future
ages.

Hesitantly lifting the
next step from the ground,
I search for something solid;
my foot comes down.

Again, step again. Foot comes down.
Relief and triumph become
color in my cheeks, lights in my eyes.

Steadier now, confident now
I plant my whole foot down;
shooting tiny roots of promise
beneath the ground;
I wave my arms spiritedly--exultant
at the footing I've found.

Yet no matter where, or how firm,
or how many steps may land...
I hope you'll be there to hold my hand.

Close

Doors. Boxes. Deals. Cabinets. Bottles. Stores.

Petals. Minds.

Windows. Trunks. Accounts. Pantry. Gates. Street.

 Past. Eyes. 

Screens. Laptops. Highways. Faucets. Bags. Houses.

 Future. Mouth.

Drawers. Books. Bidding. Fridges. Bags. Arenas. 

Opportunities. Hands.

Garage. Pianos. Captions. Microwaves. Lids. Meetings.

Letters. Arms. 

Curtains. Suitcase. Restaurant. Oven. Milk Carton. Investigation.

Conversations. Arteries, valves, veins and ventricles. 

Too much, too close. 

Dairy Queen

It's not a holiday weekend here, like at the Dairy Queen. 

I'm not having a girls' night with 

my friends while we wait for the 

men, doing their duty as always. We

let them go in the Spirit of the weekend. 

I didn't iron your dress-shirt for you before you left

because you didn't wear one. 

I didn't watch you shave in the mirror

to give yourself that all-important clean-cut 

look after a lazy day. 

Nor did I smile to myself at the pride

left in the scent of your shaving lotion.

You didn't leave with your grandfather and brothers

but went out with different boys to "live it up"

instead of sitting still...still...still.

I didn't sigh to myself that yes, here was Heaven

a little sooner, watching you 

walk down the path and look back.

I'll never see you at the Dairy Queen on a Saturday night,

just like the others in your white shirt and suit--

tie and tacks and pinstripes and expressions the only

outward feature that distinguishes you

from the other like-purposed men. 

Doute

Like a snake it whispers behind 

my ear and coils itself

around my spine--

it constricts around my rib-

cage and squeezes my heart. 

This ground forming waves beneath me:

my boat capsizes into the 

winter flurries that obstruct my view

of a true north I'll never

find.  

The pendulum 

swings from ear to ear 

and upsets lady justice

with her scales. 

The clock's second hand is 

a hostage

holding resolve for ransom 

while action and conviction

deliberate over sums. 

It explains away those

certain thoughts

with a hissing caress

I tick away with 

my shoulder 

until the ticking touches me

and it becomes itself. 

Halo

Yes, it's true you have a light

that's burned into my soul. It is 

small and dim, but I see it there 

when you are not looking. 

On the days when I dare myself to touch it

I reach out, and I'm glad I did.

In that brief moment, our two lights join,

embracing one another

they leave behind the bands 

that hold themselves to us and

reach out their once-feeble arms 

to touch across cities, countries, continents--

emboldened by the spirit they find there...

but my light withdraws in fear and shame

when it can see no halo beneath your 

collar. 

Crosses in the Sky

The weeks are waning, the long night is growing dim,

somewhere we set down our pens and seal the last stamp

before blessing the hands that carry our thoughts

one final time. 

Again, our tails form crosses in the sky

and we leave behind imprints of ourselves

to join the moments that will never be born--

so ghosts that were may plan for the ones

that never will be--the dreams of distant days

before I was me. 

Comfort yourself 

that something of the air I breathed

will breath in you;

something of the scenes I saw, 

you'll see;

something of the ground I walked

will know your feet--

and it would seem as if you were me.

We step into new waters, 

with unpredictable tides

tumulted by winds and floods. 

I give you no words now,

but premonitions of what I may be

and the assurance that--whatever 

our crosses--

you may always be a part of me.  

Team Mascots

This is the kind of stuff I'm going to miss when I'm away:

Today, my little brother came home with his first pair of shoes for cross country (from our favorite running shoe supplier DeBoer's!) and his uniform. I'm excessively excited. In my enthusiasm, I asked my brother how practice was going. He said that there was a group of fast runners, medium-paced runners, and slow runners and he was in the medium-paced. I was fairly impressed (seeing as how he rebuffed my offers to go running with me all summer and sat on the couch instead). Then he said, "But all the slow runners are girls." 

To which I replied, "So you're a slow man."

"Yes, but I'm not the slowest."

"Are you the slowest man?"

"No, the team mascot is slower." 

Biggest laugh of the day, and I'd even watched two episodes of The Office, so that's saying something.

Lessons from Hello Kitty

I spent the weekend with my awesome friends at the not-nearly-as-awesome BYU. Saturday morning, Ashley made me toast with an imprint of Hello Kitty's face in the Hello Kitty toaster. I loved it; not because I love Hello Kitty, but because I derived a certain satisfaction out of eating her face. As Cat said, "I approve of violent eating tendencies." 

Letters: Dear W&L French Program,

Can I tell you how much I love you right now? I mean, really, truly love you. Not only do I NOT have to write a thesis for you, but I only have three classes left. So technically, that's three French classes I have to take over six semesters (well, if we were really getting technical it's four semesters and two terms.) If I really felt like it, I could graduate with you as my only major this year--even though we both know that won't happen.  Now I only have to do a research project, which, let's face it, I've already done several times with relative success. The only thing I have to worry about now is whether to do a project on French Banlieues or the puzzling and somewhat disturbing trend of women going in the convents in French literature. I love one less stress. xoxoxo 

Widow's Mite

The day is a singular, pure, bright white: the kind that contains every color-- blues and pinks and yellows--with it's mid-summer evening warmth. It emanates from a central sun, ignoring constraints of time and space--mortal things finite minds cannot overcome. Like a pair of welcoming arms it reaches out and around and pulls you in a safe embrace. It is filled with the beauty, power, and hope of a sunrise; and the stillness, strength, and comfort of a sunset. It's splendor attracts the awe of every face: captured eyes, open mouths, stilled breath. 

Their single file forms a string of brightly colored beads coiling their way like an eternal rosary through gentle hands of light, each bead taking it's turn for prayer. The never-ending line inches forward in an attempt to arrive at the source of beauty and light whose gravity has them hooked. 

Some come in ermine with their golden staffs, precious rings and shining shoes. Others have their castles, crystal windows glistening between ruby bricks set with agarwood doors. They all beam their store-bought smiles with undeniable pride, lofting their trophies to the sky for others to see. 

They lay their trophies at his feet their sense of self-satisfaction swelling in their overly puffed chests; with each one he blinks and nods and waves them on. 

I come with my dirt-and-sweat-streaked face in a pair of ripped-and-torn thrift-store jeans, my eyes already too care-worn. I open my grubby, calloused hands and lay my barely beating heart at his feet. He stops and smiles and opens his arms to wave me in. 

You Should Be an English Major

You should be an English major--

    the way you read between my lines

   and do a close-read of my life;
or a biochemist, the way you slap
me between sheets of glass
and make me your specimen.

I can't hide anything from you.

You're like a forensic scientist,
telling where I've been and what
I've done with a single cell;
or an archaeologist--
the way you dig through my dirt
to discover how I lived.

You shape my entire story.

You could be a psychologist--
the way you sift my brain through
a sieve to analyze me.
You are God, the way you know
and created me. I worship at your feet;

but what I really need is a
heart surgeon
to stitch up the shards
you left when you were
done
with me.

"Did you..." she began, hesitantly, "Did you know right away... that ... that you were dead?" 

He chewed the corner of his bottom lip thoughtfully. "No," he answered slowly, "No. I did not know right away." She watched him as he reminisced quietly, his already faint eyes becoming glassy as he looked past her shoulder at a memory to which she did not have access. 

Uncomfortably and uncertain that he would hear her over his reflection, she spoke timidly. "When, when did you know?" It seemed like a safe enough question, not too invasive, althogh she didn't so much want to know when; instead, she burned to know how, but the word seared through her like a ribbon of fire when she thought about it. 

In reality, he didn't seem dead, not really. After all, she'd had enough conversations with him to know that he could carry on a conversation as well as anyone with a brain and a skeleton. He had human habits, she'd noticed--like biting his lip. He had human qualities: he was sometimes impatient, but not unkind when he was--instead he mostly sounded annoyed. In fact, he had seemed perfectly human to her the first time she'd ever encountered him, not at all like she'd imagined someone who was dead. Besides his habit of fading, rather than walking in and out of her presence, he looked perfectly human; human enough to touch, to go about daily life as any living being and not raise alarm, human enough that his chest still rose and fell with the slight suggestion of a steady breath. How had he known he was dead, then? Had he seen his own body? The thought made her tense. How had he died? For all their conversations, she'd never inquired--she'd never asked what she now considered vital questions. 

As if he could discern her thoughts he suddenly jerked to change his attention. "When," he repeated, a crease forming between his brows--another all-too-human quality--"for some it only takes a few minutes before they know. For others, it could take hours." She couldn't imagine going hours and not knowing you were dead. It seemed impossible to her. "It takes a certain kind, a rare kind, to go that long." 

"So, when you do know...," she began tentatively, as the ribbon shot through her again, that acute indication that perhaps she didn't want to and shouldn't know. 

"How do you know," his finished for her, his eyebrows raising inquiringly? She nodded, swallowing hard. It wasn't like she was expecting him to tell her that he knew because of some terrible, catastrophic event or realization. It wasn't like she was really afraid of what he would say. Though she felt pulled by some invisible thread that yearned for her to know, the ribbon that twisted its way through her rib cage told her that something within her resisted his answer. 

He seemed to contemplate how best to explain to her, angling his head slightly. When he arrived at an answer, he nodded once and regarded her gently. "You do not know you are dead until you try to do something that requires a body and discover that you cannot." 

She looked at him for several moments, confused at what this meant. She thought of all the things it took for humans to talk: vocal cords, the muscles of the face, mouth and tongue, and so many other things that were necessary that she probably didn't know about. He spoke to her just fine, she thought. He could walk, although he was entirely able to float as well. It seemed to her that he had it backwards. He could do things without his body that he couldn't do with it. What could he possibly mean, you didn't know you were dead until you tried to do something that required a body?

Silently, and without looking her in the eyes, he crossed over to where she stood. He slowly reached out his hand as she watched, breathlessly, and gently put his hand over hers. She wondered for a moment why he let it hover there, without actually making contact. Then she realized that he was touching her, and yet she felt nothing. He moved his hand away as she finally understood. 

Letters: Dear Blog,

I'm sorry you are so devoid of my virtual ink. I have, as of late, abandoned your pixels for the paper of my journal. I just needed a more private relationship. While I am sorry for your sake, that I've concluded three series, know that new and exciting things wait for you.

Someone to Frost my Cake

I love baking. A lot. Yesterday, I baked a cake for a family 

party. All was coming out roses until it came time to frost. 

I'm not gonna lie: I've never frosted my own cake before.

Decorating I can do, but putting down the frosting canvas 

is not my specialty. As I frosted the cake, it fell apart on me. 

It turned out fine in the end, but it wasn't nearly as pretty 

as the cakes my friend always frosts for me. As I lamented 

her absence, I really wished I had her there to frost my cake.

I gather the cocoa, the sugar, the flour;

I pour in the water and oil.

Mixing, mixing, turning, and whisking--

the batter splatters the counter, the bowl 

and my hair. 

The smooth satin mixture tumbles into the mold,

then I shut the oven door. 

Heat and rising, wait and harmonizing.

The clock dings done, cooling commences, 

the filling and frosting await. 

Assembly begins, the filling goes in, the layers 

form their spire--the cake goes up, to scrape the 

sky as it goes higher and higher. 

As soon as I step back to admire

it buckles and frowns--under the frosting

the facade topples

down. 

I didn't have the perfect hand, 

to frost my cake and it still stand. 

At the baking and assembling I'm well adept,

but I always fail at this important step;

so next time I venture out to bake,

I'll bring a friend to 

frost my cake. 

Stay: Leaving

I remember the pigments a different way--

bejeweled and gilded tones--

standing with cocked heads and clasped hands. 

I see the fuzzy edges of the original

viewed darkly through despair

and forming shadows that were never there:

misunderstood representations

for which there was no 

interpretation--

seen now through the clear-cut

kaleidoscope of hope and hindsight bias

the pictures of possibilities change into 

unpredictable patterns.

New expressions form under different light;

scenes and stories not yet explored

darken the past and illumine emotions.

The brush strokes are the same... I just see more of them now.

Silencing Archimedes--in prose

I look up from closing the cover on a dusty book, listening for the sound of stirring wings. I hear silence instead. Even my own breath is too shallow to make a sound. My finger makes a comet's tail in the distinct gray film that coats the table. It is the only mark I will leave here, and like every comet's tail, it will fade. 

Books sit many days untouched, the curtains smell musky, boards creak uncomfortable under my feet, not used to strangers. I walk to his perch, left without its occupant since Nimue. In the dark room, there is little not to see. I imagine his head pressed next to his side and his yellow eyes shining as they circumspect me. 

I open the curtains to let in the light, destroying the images of the darkness. Clouds of dust erupt from the curtains in plumes and dance in the sunlight before settling on lamps and furniture. The new sun creates shadows where before there were none. I appreciate the dark corners with their mysteries and welcome the clarity of open spaces. I take them both together.

I examine the perch sympathetically and smile sadly. It's occupant is obsolete. I hang up his wings and walk away. 

Silencing Archimedes--in poetry

He comes and folds his wings on purple days

before the clouds can break above the mind

when hazy meadows hover after eyes

and heavy clouds hang in the heart and head.

Inquest in his searching eyes, swiv'ling skull

is wisdom's guise--doubt, cynicism and 

pride prompts present'ment and unrest. He chides

with spiked tongue and talons, disturbs the fog. 

But the Sun comes, cutting clouds, dispelling 

doubt and expelling all unease. Now new light

colors meadows in the dawn; and diff'rent 

birds sing down my sanguine mornings.

I do not hear the night bird's sound anymore.

I hang up his wings to the perpetual day. 

Letters, Dear Depeche Mode

Letters: 

So, I think a lot about internal dialogues--my own and that of others--and lately my internal dialogue has consisted of letters, and I don't mean the alphabet kind. While going throughout my day, I'll often think something like "Dear Raisins, I love you for being so delicious, easy to carry, and child-friendly. I heart you. Sincerely, Paige" These letters have never before met paper, and, with a very few exceptions, have never been said out-loud. I feel that I should change this; therefore, I present, probably more for my own amusement rather than yours, a new series: Letters. 

Dear Depeche Mode,

SotU is, as expected, utterly brilliant. It is, admittedly, rather similar to "Angel", but no matter, it was there that I first found and fell in love with you. You are, undoubtedly, the gods of my hallowed electronic rock--even the Pet Shop Boys can't compete with you globally, which makes "Sounds of the Universe" so apt a name. It was your industrial sound and skill with the synthesizer that emblazoned you on my arms. Furthermore, with your lyrics, we are of one heart and one mind. I cannot praise you enough. xoxox

Paige

P.S. Love for influencing my beloved band The Killers. 

Memoir Part I: First Words

I think our first words reflect our personality. My brother's first words? "Thank you." Mine? "Uh-oh." My brother has been polite ever since, while I have been getting into trouble. In fact, my earliest memories are of making mischief, disregarding parental authority, and suffering the consequences of disobedience. This is the story of my earliest vivid memory.

As a child, I enjoyed watching my father mow the back lawn. As a prefiguration of my future spectator skills, rather than actively participating in the lawn-cutting process, I would watch from my bedroom window. From two stories above, I watched the entire thing from my own box-suite. I climbed onto the stool I used to climb into bed at night and pressed my tiny nose against the greasy window-screen. My three-year-old perspective made Dad seem so far away as he guided the reliable John Deere mower in straight rows. He would call up to me from below and scold me for leaning against the window screen. As much as it was his habit to mow the lawn, it was mine not to listen to his scoldings.

More often than I did not obey my father, I did not listen to my mother. To my father, I was difficult and stubborn. To my mother I was a tiny titan of terror. One of my first terrorist acts in fact, was to run about the house screaming because I refused to wear a crisp, white blouse and tartan skirt to church, not because I did not like either; but because I found my mother's pleadings and sighs of frustration amusing.

This, however, does not explain my first words. I came so frequently to hear "Uh-oh" because that is what my parents would say before they reprimanded me for my mischief. If the consequences were sift, they were equally as frequent. Apparently, I would have presented a problem to Pavlov's entire procedure. Instead of learning from the consequences of my actions, I merely regarded them as a price to pay to do what I wanted. I would gladly sit in time-out if it meant I could draw on the walls. Thus, in time, I came to utter "Uh-oh" as my first words in recognition of my wrong-doing and in anticipation of my sentencing. 

Short-listed

A sharp flurry of wings startles me and I hastily create a cage above my head with my arms, cowering.

"What are you doing?"

"Please don't hurt me."

"Oh no. I'm not going to resort to violence this time."

"You're not?"

"No. I'm too disgusted. How could you let this happen?"

"Well, gee, Archimedes. I seem to be asking myself the same thing" I respond acidly. My attitude quickly changes, and I bite my lip, looking up at him, "Should I be worried about this?"

Shaking his head he answers, "I don't know. I just don't know." 

"Should I just go with it and see where it goes from here?"

"Do you think that's wise?"

I give him my hopefully-maybe smile, "Maaaaaayyybeeeeee???"

"I'm thinking no. However, I think you need to prepare yourself in case it isn't." 

"Good point. Okay." After a pause, "Are you worried?"

"Yes. That's a pretty short list to make."

One inch of track

It's a gentle pull of a string, barely a twitch of the muscles holding a thread between the thumb and forefinger. The ripple starts out slow, a subtle quiver over still-quieter waters. It travels across continents with their restless young rivers and their ancient lakes. The miniscule vibrations of many individual fibers cleaving together travel their way down a series of synapses. It shivers and quivers where a seed falls, where new ground breaks under the plow, where footsteps travel there and back again. 

As it circumnavigates its pattern, its dither begins to quake. It's cloth becomes taut. The sinews bind and lock. They are sealed. 

Stay: Hanging Day

I walk into the "Stay" gallery and he's putting away his brushes and pigments. "I see you've hung the one from last time." 

"It fits, doesn't it?" 

"Yes!"

"How do you like my new one?"

I walk over to where it's dry on the easel, waiting to be hung. It has all my favorite colors. I could have painted it myself. 

"May I help you hang it?"

"Certainly."

Analysis

I just sit and look at him, elbow on armrest, temple resting against a relaxed fist. He clicks his beak at me, "You look exhausted." I don't even try to reply, falling asleep in my seat. He blinks. I'm not too tired to suppress a faint smile. "It's been awhile...," he says. 

"Yeah."

"You're completely gone." 

"No, not yet." 

"Then may I direct you to the first page, third paragraph?" I dig through my bag until I find it, my rarely used notebook, and flip through it's pages to find the faint words. There it is, the fourth sentence, the one I couldn't believe when I heard it the first time or when I read it the million times after. 

"It seemed so impossible then."

"Paragraph six now--anything stand out?"

"Same thing as usual."

"Keep going."

"Oh, I get it. The last sentence of paragraph six corresponds with paragraph three sentence four?"

"In this case, yes."

I keep reading, but paragraph eight stings. "If only sentence four didn't come without the others. Why is it so hard to find sentences four and two at once? Sentence four was the hardest to fulfill and now I've found it, but I'm missing two. Three just out-right frightens me." 

"That doesn't mean paragraphs three and six are connected to eight. There's some very distinct diction there." At once I wish there wasn't. "No you don't. Hold off on paragraph eight for awhile. Don't forget it, but don't worry about it either. There's plenty of time for that paragraph." 

"You're right. As for the others..."

"O ye of little faith." 

"Yeah, yeah. Rub it in."

"Thanks, I think I will."

Fireflies

It's darker than a normal night, the blooming clouds cover the stars and let down their sparkling tresses--soft whispers of rain that accumulate slowly on new, broad leaves and fall in great heavy drops onto green grasses and weeds reaching their arms to the branches above; the mists pack the dusty earth, and I walk through an active fog. The trees surrounding me form unfamiliar shadows in varying degrees of dark. Fingers of light from a lone lamp grope their way through zealous leaves and trace the rings of ripples in the river under the rain. The yellow light is a faux-friend--a scant substitute for the milk-light of the moon. 

I make my way under and across bridges. I walk on damp trails and mud splatters my calves and wet weeds slap my feet. I pick  through the darkness only by the feel of the cut earth under my steps. Only the sound of the river rushing against rocks or lazily lapping its calm banks accompany me. 

The mist and the fog subside and I raise my face to look for the sky between the canopy; but I see no white lights above me--only the fleeting, flickering lights blinking beneath the leaves. They are ephemeral and esoteric, but they are bright--glowing orbs of miniscule lights. On this night, it is the yellow, blinking lights of fireflies that break the dense darkness

Entertainer of the Year

You know what bothers me? When I'm really into a musical artist and I really admire their work and then I go onto YouTube or I google them only to find out they are ugly/boring/performance challenged.

Don't take this the wrong way, it in no way diminishes the quality of their music; but I ask, no I beg, you: Where have all the entertainers gone? Where are the men and women so staggeringly cool that we'd bid for their snot on eBay Scarlett Johannsonn style? Where are the performers who can get the adrenaline and hormones of their fans to pump to the beat of their bass-line? Where are the entertainers so suave they need groupies for their super-fabulous groupies? In short, where are the musical artists who aren't just talented musicians/lyricists/collaborators, but icons, idols capable of inducing an iconoclasm so cataclysmic they put a love-'em-or-hate-'em, Roman-Catholic vs. Greek-Orthodox like rift in the music world that no producer with more power than the Pope could fix? The ones who put a pretty face on the music without being a Disney-marketed robot? 

I want someone whose beads of sweat from the stage will make me shiver rather than shrink, someone for whom I climb over a railing on pain of security-guard brutality just to touch, someone for whom I'd fight through barbaric crowds just so they could sign the forehead of my first-born.  I want an entertainer worthy of exhausting my voice with slick lyrics at a concert, who'll keep my on my feet until they bleed and I lose all feeling in my toes, a performer worthy of the superficial blue light of my cell-phone at the end of a swaying arm--the modern day cigarette-lighter encore. I don't want someone with a Zac Efron eyebrow-grazing hair-flip who can pound a few notes on his Casio in his garage for a few cheap pennies while teeny-boppers tap their toes. 

No.

I want a front-man who can turn sleek tricks into a microphone while his seductively subtle buddies back him up on bass, drums, and a guitar; someone so sleek you can't resist turning him into a pin-up. 

While all this may come across as a little shallow, I assure you, all his appeal isn't in his looks--oh no--it's his talent, his stage-presence, his off-stage charisma, that make him so approachable, so almost-attainable, so desireable. Any likely candidates, you ask? I have a few.

Adam Levine of Maroon 5

*Sharp intake of breath* Please excuse me while I think lusty thoughts...

No one does five o'clock shadow the way Adam does. There's something about the stubble and low brow that always makes him look freshly ravaged or about to be, which means anyone with hormones can't help getting caught in his gravity. He has the sort of persona that at once pulls you in and repels you, making you want him that much more; and of the men on this list, his eyes are by and far the most seductively suggestive. He's the kind of mysterious that's impossibe to touch: you know there's something dark and--let's face it--probably dirty, going on underneath that perfectly gelled head. While he is admitedly not a superior musician, he uses that to his advantage. He doesn't just use the guitar as an instrument, he uses it as a prop Furthermore, he knows the secret every white guy who can't dance should know: bounce. If you can't dance, bend one knee, put a little movement in the opposite hip, give a slight swagger to the shoulders and BOUNCE. You will be irresistible. In summation, he is like the samba of performers: full of enraged passion. Anyone who owns the power stance like that is a top performer. 

Unfortunately for Adam, he has Megan-Mullaly syndrome. When performing, you'll never meet anyone more entertaining. In real life, he's not much of an icon. I wouldn't stalk him. True, he has the type of charismatic and quick wit that makes you giggle. Too bad that translates to adorable rather than attractive. My little brother is adorable. Puppies are adorable. Men after whom you secretly (or openly) lust are not adorable. Men you want to date are not adorable. I know famous people actually are real people--even if their reality is a little skewed. Regardless, I want a true idol on-stage and off. Poor Adam is just too cute. 

The verdict. 3.5/5 for great on-stage presence, but a poor off-stage performance (the same as "I Am Sascha Fierce!" Beyoncé-ouch). 

This next one might surprise you (no, not you, Cat). Rivers Cuomo. That's right, I said it. The dweeb from next-door, the one who grew up and went to Harvard and then started a band? The one you thought would be living in his mother's basement forever? Yep. Even though "Make Believe" was the dud, that's when Rivers stopped being the dorky guy from next-door who played in his garage when he wasn't designing video games and became the quirky guy you met at the poetry-jam: intelligent, still shy, but comfortable enough to be confident. Sure "Say It Ain't So" immortalized them on Rock Band, but something about Beverly Hills made him so much more attractive. 

He's a shy performer, no doubt, but the kind that keeps you clinging to his every breath and head-bob, which he does better than anyone else (it's that inner rocker simmering somewhere up top). Unlike Levine, Cuomo is actually competent with a guitar and the juxtaposition of emaciated white guy with the instrument that wields so much pop-culture power and has so much appeal gives Cuomo that extra bit of edge. Combine that with his West Coast, Chuck Taylor and indie mismatched style and you have a performer who's  awkward and humble but still curiously captivating (like the guy at church who looks like a twelve year old, but you'd still date him anyway). Chances are, a conversation with Rivers would probably cover everything from Comparative Lit to Cheez Wiz, and it would be the most interesting conversation you would ever have. 

So, because he is so improved as a performer while still maintaining his down-to-earth personality, Rivers gets a 4.0/5.

It's inevitable that I include the next performer. He is, after all, more or less the epitome of everything I've ever wanted in a human being of the opposite gender. I could exhaust you with details, but I won't. Simply put, he's an edgy Mormon--two words you all most never find together. The Killers front-man Brandon Flowers is truly a man for the masses. 

In his Brightside days his boyish, dandy good-looks caught the eye of many a female (a quite a lot of males, if we're being frank here). With the release of the Ode to Depeche Mode Sam's Town (if you don't believe me, check Violator, those of you who criticized Sam's for being too "American") Flowers gave up the razor for some scruff. He also became the only man I've ever seen who can pull off the porno/mexi-stach without looking like a pedophile (sorry Rivers, it's true). Plus, anyone who looks as if he's been outfitted by Jared Gold will alwways have those same sleek lines. Now that he's blurring the lines between existentially exploring what it means to be Human (if I hear one more criticism of that lyric!) Flowers has started shaving again (sometimes) and has sprouted feathers from his shoulders à la glam rock. Flowers evokes memories of the music world's other Mormon-paradox: Arthur Kane of the New York Dolls, only with a much better haircut. As Brandon puts it perfectly, "I don't know why more people don't wear sequins."  His ability to reinvent himself and look good EVERY time is a rare find. He could dress in a burlap sack and not shower for a week and still be as slick, tempting, and alluring as ever. Yes, I said it, he could make homeless hot. 

But all this eye-candy (or cocaine, or lsd in his case, I can't decide which) isn't going to do much if your only stage -trick is shuffling your feet. Fortunately for Flowers, this is not the case. Instead, he is utterly fascinating--Chris Martin from Coldplay fascinating. Hypnotic even. You keep watching him just waiting to see what he'll do next, and he never disappoints. He's not a Justin-Timberlake-Sexy-Back smooth mover. Oh no. You'll never find this guy in New York night club. Brandon's style exudes a much older and much more musical-history educated style, where his only influence isn't Michael Jackson (ahem, JT). It's down-to-earth, organic, unassuming and indifferent. It matches his gravelly, warm-velvet, passionate voice. He is, therefore, as much a captivating figure to hear as watch. 

He's similarly talented. Let's not overlook the lyrical brilliance of "Mr. Brightside" and the rest of one of the best debut albums ever (I'm only slightly biased). Despite grammar debates surrounding Day and Age's first single "Human," I still maintain the lyrical superiority of their third album. Whereas many bands tank or miss the mark with their third (often experimental) album, The Killers managed to to produce an intensely beautiful record--and for an album soaked in synth-o-pop, that's hard to do. But... this is about Brandon. The point is, that even beneath all that synthesizer, his soulful lyrics and voice make you stop just short of idol-worship. 

And he's entirely unavailable. He has a lovely family to whom he is incredibly devoted. He must, therefore, be observed from afar, which only adds to his allure. There's something about a man who is both intellectually and physically untouchable that makes you want to erect a shrine to him à la a young Truffaut to Balzac in Les Quatres Cent Coups: candles, photos, a little plagiarism... and from then on he's your principal creative inspiration. Score 4.4/5

This next artist has yet to drop his album as of the writing of this post, but I'm anxious, anxious, anxiously anticipating it. So far, he's been playing hole-in-the-wall venues while making some very important connections--which means Gary Go is still pure, and has everything going for him. I have very strong feelings for this man, who got me through an entire exam week during which I lived and breathed the science building. When you've spent that much adrenaline/emotion-filled time with someone, you're bound to make a connection. 

I love this man for several reasons. First of all, he's the physical amalgamation of everyone on this list. He has the sleekness of Levine, the intellectual geek of Cuomo, and the edge and surprising intelligence of Flowers; and yet he's refreshingly unique. For one, he's the only person on this list who plays the keyboard, which means as a performer his dynamic is entirely different. He doesn't have the attitude or the swagger of a guitarist but rather an unpretentious, I'm-lost-in-my-own-world energy. It's comfortable and down-to-earth. Off-stage, listening to him is like having a conversation with your childhood friend: totally natural. 

Since I'm struggling to coherently characterize the brilliancy of this man for you, we're going to have to me rather methodical about this from here on out. 

Look: Honestly, his look is what inspired this entire post. My initial reaction to the first three seconds of his his video? "Please be the lead singer and not a hired actor. You're so good looking. Please tell me you're talented and interesting too." Confirmed. As soon as he opened his mouth to sing, I knew I was sunk. The thick indie glasses get me every time. Every. Time. The subtle faux-hawk? I approve. the cheeky smile? I'm a fan. He dresses incredibly well too. He's usually in well-tailored suit or sweater combo that accentuates how trim he is (and how could he not be with the running he does in his video?) and shows he's indie-inspired without reverting to girl-tight jeans. And trim he is indeed. Sparing his near-Steven-Tyler sized mouth, he's fairly perfect. Perfect enough that I sincerely question his sexuality. If it weren't for this bloke's personality, I'd be convinced that he swings the opposite way. 

Personality: This is the one time, the ONE time when "cute" actually makes a guy attractive in a non-younger-sibling kind of way. That's because his cute factor is underlined by how laid back and at ease he always is. Yeah, there's the coquettish cocking of the brow and a little serious brooding, but in truth, he's just a fun-loving guy. Take for example, his cover of Lady GaGa's "Just Dance": In a session with Britain's "The Sun" he introduces himself as "Gary Gaga" at about 1:45 into the cover he starts singing "This is the point where someone in the song does a rap, but I'm not a rapper. No! So I'm not gonna try to rap 'cause it would be really bad; but I can sing like a rapper like this: like a rapper, but I'm really not I'm just singin' really fast. Oh yeah, not a rapper but I try my best."  The thing about it, is that he doesn't miss a beat. It's total improvisation. I can't improve well enough to think and speak at the same time let alone play the keyboard and keep a beat while coming up with something to say. Furthermore, the "Introducing" video on his website absolutely increases my faculties (yes, Ashley, yes it does!). It's fascinating and different. ("They told me about how Paul McCartney was really dead and there was clues to it in the art work.") He's the type of person whose could talk about his brushing his teeth and make it sound like a legendary adventure. Moreover, there is the subtle semblance of the slick air possessed by Levine and Flowers. (I admit it, I love watching his eyebrows while he's singing.)

Singer/songwriter quality: His style is absolutely different from that of anyone else on this list, partially because of his personality, partially because he's the only Brit (which absolutely makes a difference in my opinion, I don't care how British-influenced The Killers are, they're stil from Vegas,) and partially because he's so green. His lyrics don't match the brilliance of Flowers, they are initially a little trite because of their inspirational nature. However, it is just for that reason that he gets a gold star. In a time of "Love-in-this-Club" and despondent lyrics, he's really rather refreshing. I actually do appreciate being able to bust my lungs to something that wouldn't make the adults around me (or me for that matter) blush. He sings the other half of my internal dialogue--that is, the half that isn't thought in sarcasm with raised eyebrows at how stupid the world is: you know, my nice side. The lyrics and melodies are the tracks for the commute, or standing in line for lunch at your favorite coffee shop for lunch, or enjoying that perfect Saturday afternoon with the family. They aren't party anthems, epic punk protests, or boy-band ballads. They aren't folk, or acoustic, or your typical singer/songwriter either. There's something definitely different about him but certainly undefinable. 

Gary Go's album hasn't even dropped yet, and most people have never heard of him. I expect this to change however when he kicks off touring with Take That! on what promises to be a pretty legendary summer tour of Europe. He'll pick up some indispensable PR performing for over a million people. If he can catch the attention of such an iconic band, he'll be sure to catch the attention of their many fans and then some. Now if only I could get him to cross the pond...

I had to take off something for the fact that he has yet to release an full-length album and head his own tour, but for all his potential he gets a final score of 4.7/5

Samson

Barren, I cried.

In faith I waited

Abstaining from the fruit of the vine. 

For you--

You who I consecrated to the Lord. 

You went into Canaan, looking to join yourself to my 

Misery.

My pleadings you ignored,

Recklessly riddling away the life I gave you. 

To my shame and yours 

You planted the wrong seeds,

You plucked the wrong flower, and

You pulled the wrong petals.

You have now only the strength 

Enough to die.

In your revenge

You are not mine.

If you can't stand on your feet...

"Hahaha," he laughs rhythmically.

"What?"

"Sucker."

"Oh no. Not. This isn't what you think it is."

"Sure, uh-huh."

"Really. I promise."

As usual, he doesn't believe me. I just roll my eyes and keep walking.

"I know that look--that grin betrays you."

"So what if it does. I'd rather the whole world know it." My response surprises him, I know. In a sense, I like to think I've known all along, that I'm not surprised; in reality, no calculations or planning on my part, nothing I could have wanted or imagined in my overly active imagination could even touch on how sublime this is. 

For the first, and maybe the last time, he has a soft expression. I think he's even cracking a smile. That doesn't stop him from reminding me of my responsibilities, "I think you owe someone something."

"You don't get anything. This was all me." His expression instantly hardens.

"No," he screeches, hitting me over the head. "No!"

"Ow! It was just a form of speech. I didn't mean it literally. Do you have to be so violent?"

"With you? Yes."

"Well, it wasn't necessary this time. I'm learning my lesson. I know better than that."

"Therefore..."

"I know what I need to do," I say quietly. Hitting my knees, I look up slyly. "Hey, how do you bow your head?"

He scowls at me, gives a screech and flies away. 

So...

"Hey." 

"Hey." 

"It's been a while."

"Uh-huh."

"How you been?"

"Fine."

"Looks like you figured things out."

"Um, yeah. Yeah. I think so. "

"Good for you."

"Thanks."

"This is awkward."

"Have you noticed  how things just seem to be awkward all the time and how that's what people say?'

"Yes."

"Yeah..."

"So... you're cool now, right?"

"Yeah." 

"Can we still have these conversations?"

"Who are you?"

"Oh yeah. I'm supposed to be cynical and sarcastic; but I can't make fun of you, so it defeats the purpose." 

"Yeah, I know I'm good."

"You should come up with another problem so I can rib you about it."

"Nah. I'd rather not."

Stay: Gallery Again

I walk up to him, biting my bottom lip the way I do when I'm trying to suppress a laugh. He's sitting in the "Stay" room, easel set up in the middle of the room holding a large canvas. He focuses so intently on his work that he doesn't notice me come in to stand beside him. I barely touch his elbow, and he jumps a little. He looks up at me, beaming when he recognizes me. He starts cleaning his brush on a pure white cloth. 

"What do you think," he asks, nodding his head towards the painting. 

"I like it," I reply, attempting stoicism when really I'm fit to burst. A single eyebrow tells me he doesn't believe me. "Well, it's not finished yet," I try to cover. 

"Exactly. It's not finished."

I realize now as he's cleaning his brush, staining the once-soft white cloth with pigment, the part I play in making sure those pigments meet canvas again. He gets up and walks away, leaving me with the unfinished work. It's larger than the others and even though it's not finished; it's an instant favorite. It's different from the others, markedly so. Yet, the style is the same. The strokes were all applied with the same hand. The colors in their infancy will contain the characteristics of their precursors. I look at it, displayed on the starkly-simple light wood easel in the center of the room, away from the lights that illuminate its siblings. Even in the shaky shadows, it still outshines the others. 

Looking at the collection around me, I want to curl up in a corner and set up house. I love this collection more than all the others, even the ones I should love more, the ones anyone would guess I did love more; but this one is my secret. I never want it to end. There's no reason it should continue, but secretly I always want a working easel in this room. In it's simplicity and quiet, unassuming beauty, it's all I've ever wanted but thought I could never have. 

Reluctantly I remember that all rooms have walls that must connect and end. 

Stay: Gallery

I've learned to keep my hands behind my back in galleries. You could press your nose to the piece of work and not get in trouble, but once one of your fingers escapes, the guards descend on you like vulture. For once, I'm glad I have to keep my hands locked behind me. I don't want to touch a thing. 

It's a large gallery, with lots of rooms and corridors with labels like "Childhood" or "Recurring Themes." Some corridors never end, while some rooms are unfinished: blank spaces on bone-gray walls, spot-lights waiting to illuminate colors--at once I shudder to think that these rooms are unfinished, thinking that someone has already exhausted their subject-matter. Some rooms are entirely empty. In one another painting is being hung. In another I observe the artist applying new strokes of color to his work, a part of the process. 

I go through each room slowly, examining each piece. I disagree with some: the colors are wrong, they are too graphic or too honest; they stab me the wrong way in the gut, or the chest, or the throat. They mix the sublime and the grotesque. A few make me walk away. 

Not this one, though. This one makes me smile, faintly yes, so you couldn't tell unless you knew me. It's a smile reflective of the painting that evoked it: small, inconspicuous, but filled with light and meaning and emotion. The colors are simple but poignant. The scene is casual and quotidian. The characters appear so common at first sight they could have been cut from a catalog. It is, in almost every way, an insignificant piece; but I stop and stare for awhile anyway. 

A man strolls up next to me, but rather than looking at the painting that so transfixes me, he turns his gaze on me. "What do you think?"

"It's perfect. Who's the artist?"

"I am. I did all the paintings in this room." 

I suddenly wake up to look around and recognize the series. 

"It starts over there," he points. 

I walk to where he indicated, "I can't believe it all started here." I walk around, shaking my head, looking at each one. They form a story, these seemingly insignificant snapshots. 

"Is it over," I ask when I reach the last in the series.

"I'm not sure," he responds, "for this stage at least, for this collection. I think we might repeat some of these scenes though. What do you think?"

"I hope we do, " I answer quietly.

"You sound like you doubt it."

"I do."

"Well don't. I want to keep painting."

"And I want you to have reason to."

I start to walk away, but turn just before I clear the door, "What's it called, this collection?"

"Stay."

Moonlight Serenade

It's a slow day turned to night

when the moon slips through waves 

of clouds, tempests drowning stars--

the sky is dark and you are playing a fiddle. 

We listen to birds settle their wings on branches

and bury their beaks in their feathers 

to keep themselves warm. 

We peek at each other through our fingers

and look for lights through the trees 

just now getting new leaves. 

We lie in open fields and watch 

dew form on the blades of grass 

undisturbed by our breath.

Somewhere in the dark, 

lying on our backs,

our hands touch--

the sky is dark and you are playing a fiddle.