Praise

I gasp, jumping back a little and then shaking my head, "Do you ever knock?"

"Uh, no hands?"

"Well, you're going to have to start announcing yourself somehow. I'm starting to get a little paranoid."

"I think you know when I'm coming."

"Perhaps, but I never know why," I say with a stiff jaw. 

"Careful, you don't want to hurt yourself." 

If he wasn't right, I would clench my teeth; but he is, so I slowly relax the muscles next to my ears and take a deep breath. 

"Why are you here? If you're looking to gloat, it won't be necessary." 

"What? You don't want me to say, 'I told you so'?" 

"If I concede that you were right, will you leave me alone?"

He starts laughing, beak open wide, wings flapping.

"That's not why you're here," I start to ask timidly, but it becomes indicative before I can add the inflection.

"No," he says in between chuckles.

I look quizzically at him, confused. 

"Not exactly."

"He loves you, you know. He just wants you to trust Him."

"I know He does."

"Remember the time when you had no plan? And you just kept walking, putting one foot into the dark before He could put another lamp at your feet? Remember how scary it was to trust someone that completely?"

"It wasn't scary, because I did trust Him. It felt good to know that someone who knew better was in control."

"..."

"Oh, so that's why you're here?"

Ever the stoic cynic, he tries to suppress a smile, "You've got it."

Humbled, I reply, "Thanks for reminding me between Sundays."

"He's taken pretty good care of you, don't you think?"

"Yes. I wish I knew why."

"Is that the only word you know? 'Why'?" 

"How did I know your new attitude wasn't going to last?"

"No, no. It's not 'how,' it's 'why'?"

I purse my lips, roll my eyes, and walk away. 

Floating Intellect: Becket

Becket was the first of my four "Floating Intellect" characters, but also the most difficult to write. When I originally put this piece to paper several months ago, I was unhappy with it: I didn't--and still don't--think it captured his internal dialogue. It is, in fact, more of a character sketch. However, I recently came back to this and couldn't help smile at how true a sketch it is. I took nothing away from the original, any editing included additions.  

No matter how many times he saw her, it was like seeing her for the first time. The eyes always got him first: deep, clear, sea-green fringed by long, straight, dark lashes against even-toned olive skin. Aside from their apparent aesthetic beauty, her eyes contained a certain liveliness like the first days of spring after a harsh winter; an expressiveness reflective of the passionate undertones she gave every pursuit, action, or thought. He saw the world obscurely, stepping outside of and removing himself from everything in his observations. The world always seemed a little distorted, like he was looking at it through a glass bottle, or a fog had rolled in and made it hazy, or forever gray as the result of eternally-overcast skies; and then she walked into the frame with her eyes, clear and bright. 

She looked sharp against the fuzzy world, a sketch in pen right in the center of a watercolor. If his world looked overcast, it wasn't due to clouds, but because she carried the sun within her--a lamp in his unclear landscape; a Jacques-Louis David or a Leutze, rich colors, clean lines, and clear scenes to his Dali or Escher, surreal and distorted into a labyrinth for the mind. Where everything felt to him like a hazy dream, she stood out in crisp reality, a vision within a vision. Her eyes always stood out the most, beacons of life and clarity, he felt himself powerless against the gravity of them, caught in the orbit of their atmosphere. When she entered a room, even if he did not face her, he could feel the direction of her gaze like one feels the world suddenly get lighter when the sun breaks through for the first time on  a cloudy day. 

So many times he wished her gaze might be directed at him. So many times he imagined her eyes alive with feeling at the sight of him. So many times he had imagined looking with passion and adoration and longing into her eyes and having those same emotions returned with equal fire. He imagined the conversations--long, intellectualized, philosophical--they would share; deigning--no, daring--to daydream about his thoughts embodying themselves and stepping down the steps of his fantasies outside the walls of his mind to walk back into his life in her form and figure. 

That was it, the apex of his existence: the idea of having her--the only thing, person, place in this world who actually existed to him--to exist with him, to make life real for him, to finally be realized with all his senses and not just fabricated in his mind. For now, however, she existed only in his writings and sketchings. He lived flesh, bone, and blood in his internal sphere surrounded by a miasmic atmosphere of no substance, no clarity, no shape--punctuated only by her presence as equally flesh, blood, and bone as his own. If only he could conflate their two spheres, like two bubbles or clouds, morphing into one another to create their own world...

But he was only a Pygmalion without at Aphrodite, his apotheosis in front of him with no way to melt away the stone.

Running. Away.

"Hello again."

I roll my eyes, "What are you doing here?"

"This isn't my fault you know. You called me here."

"I did not."

If he had eyebrows, he would have raised them right then as he blinked at me. Instead he puffed his feathers at the neck, "You have to be joking."

"I didn't do it on purpose. I didn't know this was going to happen."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"Same thing I always do."

He cracks his neck as if he's about to beat me into a pulp, but he doesn't. "It's a fine day for running. "

"...Yes... lovely."

"You have your mother's feet."

I suddenly see where this is going, "And her weak knees, that aren't much good for running."

"You've never been one to avoid the impact."

"No, I just avoid other things."

"You have your great-grandmother's nose, and you're as tall as she was, aren't you?"

"One inch taller."

"Do you ever feel like, maybe--just maybe--you're more like them than you think?"

"I know I am."

"Want to go for a walk?"

I look suspiciously at him.

"You walk, I mean. I'll just come along and commentate."

Suddenly, I'm crossing a different street: its four lanes are reminiscent of a time when they made it wide enough to turn around a wagon and full team of horses in one easy u-turn. I know it only too well. Very few people know that this street is named after my family--we've lived on this road for seven generations.

I cross the broad street to smaller one. "Remember when you came home from a walk and your mother was standing out in the yard, your pink Easter dress all finished?"

"Yes, I remember, and the four o'clocks climbing up the white clap-board siding to poke their heads in through the windows."

"Do you remember your room with the plush pink carpet tucked away in the basement?"

I nod fondly, "The window faced east."

"Your window still faces east."

"Always."

Now the road is a shepherd's hook on which someone stepped, it's much more narrow--two lanes instead of four--we walk up the drive to the front porch to sit in the rocking chairs.

"Remember watching thunder and lightning storms from this porch?"

"I like watching the trees battle the wind, electrified by the lightning, drooping from the heavy rain."

"Remember the time you and Little slept outside in a tent in the summer?"

"Mmmhmm."

"And racing across the yard to get the mail?"

"He was faster, with his spindly legs, he always got there first; but I'm stronger, so I just pushed him out of the way."

Now we are walking across a parking lot, rows and rows of yellow lines interrupted by superfluous speed dips. I purse my lips.

"Now this might sting a little."

"Yeah, yeah, let's get it over with."

We go to the little parking lot first, next to a small, sacred building.

"Remember..."

"Yes, yes, yes. How could I ever forget?"

"Remember sitting here in the spring, totally lazy, studying bio and history?"

"Yep."

"Remember that rainy day when you made fun of the other team's cheerleaders in their rain ponchos?"

"We lost that game."

The roads are much more narrow now, barely two lanes, and certainly not a safe two lanes.

"You could leave here now and it would only be a dream, like you'd never been here. You'd go back to other roads. Except you can't keep from running."

"..."

"Where will you go this time?"

"Somewhere where it's always overcast. Where the sky isn't blue, but gray. Somewhere where I can wear long sleeves all the time and hide behind them."

"You don't think your reasoning is a little flawed? That maybe 2400 miles is enough?"

"Or too much."

"Now we're getting somewhere."

"Remember that house on the river? Or the one on the coast?"

"Now you're just going backwards."

"By going forwards?"

"Why do I feel like we've had this conversation before?"

"Because we have."

"Isn't this where you say 'You worry about the future too much'?"

"Not this time. This time, you don't trust enough."

Stay: Where or Starlight

I've heard this tune before, in another time and place

and yet tonight I hear a different song. No one has 

sung it before.  It comes to me unexpectedly, but I know 

it instantly when the bass-line starts, like the repetition of

a dream long hidden by the veil of morning. 

It is not the dream that comes to me in my waking 

hours, the dream so clear I could write it again and again, the dream 

so certain it is scary.

Yet here is a question mark of a revelation, crawling 

from the black hole of stays and and wheres and reasons to leave.

This precocious point of punctuation settles itself on my shoulder,

a firm hand of approval looking forward into an unknown future. 

Où et Quand?

Je ne te chercherai encore,

Je ne te rechercherai toujours,

Tu pour qui les photos sont brulés 

Tu pour qui j'alunirais, amaigrirais, et

me dimunirais. 

À cause de toi, je ne peut même parler 

ni avec confiance, ni avec langue de ma naissance.

À cause de toi, if faut que je me toujours cache

aux tes yeux qui me font trembler, aux tes emotions 

qui sont toujours nues. 

Je ne dois marcher ce chemin, malgré que c'est doux,

je ne veut pas me tuer ou de toi m'embéguiner comme 

des amours qui sont complètement fous. 

Je ne dois passer mes jours avec un coeur qui est 

lourd, qui est plein de desespoir, me faisant une femme

sans aucune ardeur, volant de moi mon valeur,  et l'abilité 

d'être un prosateur. 

Je ne te cherche encore.

Translation: It has come to my attention that this post is pretentious (I mean, I am a French major). Bear in mind that I wrote it when I was supposed to be writing a French paper. I have difficulty switching from French to English and since I was already thinking in French and listening to French, it seemed like the natural thing to do. In turn, it actually turned out to be the perfect language for the poem and it's connotation, so I'm sad not everyone can enjoy it the way it's meant to be; therefore, for those who don't read French, here is the very literal translation. (For the curious, the title "Où et Quand" refers to the movie Amélie. Look it up.)

I will not search for you again,

I will not always seek you out,

You for whom the photos are burned

You for whom I would land on the moon, make thin, and

deprive myself.

Because of you, I can not even speak

with confidence, nor with the language of my birth.

Because of you, it is necessary for me to always hide myself

from your eyes which make me tremble, from your emotions

which are always naked.

I must not walk this path, despite how sweet it is,

I do not want to kill myself or infatuate myself with you like

those loves who are completely crazy.

I must not spend my days with a heart which is 

heavy, which is full of despair, making me a woman

without any ardor, stealing from me my worth/strength, and the ability

to be a writer of prose.

I do not still search for you. 

Exhibit F

What's wrong with me, I keep thinking. They keep telling me I should be angry, affronted, incensed by these things, but I'm not. I don't feel attacked--even though I'm told I should be-- by your rhetoric or your accusations just as stereotypical as the stereotypes of which you accuse me of ascribing to you. You complain that no one can understand what you've experienced, everyone is ignorant to your plight, and this is how you justify your anger--how you justify feeling angry at me for not feeling angry. I bear it all with a strong back, not mentioning that no, actually, you're not the only one. Actually, I've been there too and SURPRISE!!! I'm still there. Despite having walked sixteen-hundred miles in your shoes, I still can't understand your anger. I can't look into the past and hate for the things that happened, I can't even look at present occurrences and feel such rage. Am really so impervious and apathetic? I'm just beginning to think I'm defective and then WHAM!!!!!! one word fills me with hot, flowing, volcanic rage: function.

Function?!!? Wtfunction!??! "Function"?? Excuse me? I don't see the "function" in that. Would you be so kind as to enlighten me? After all, condescending is what you do best, and since I'm so ignorant... Oh good, you will? Present your case, I'm listening. But know that your prior history is against you. 

The Defense presents exhibit A: "Social Connectedness"

Proscecution: Connectedness? What makes anyone think they need this to connect? Believe me, I've been doing it for years. It takes class and gasp! maturity to do it, but it works. I foster "connectedness" by actually caring about people and lives. It's not where you are, but what you do where you are. 

Defense: ..

I don't even let him finish his ellipsis. 

Maybe I should draw you a picture; I'll try not to make it too complicated, I know you're not an art critic. 

Ya know all those little threads that connect us to others and hold us together, the ones whose fibers you assert are made of this thing? It didn't fashion my fibers, it cut them. These fibers supported my cradle, but it cut them and sent it crashing. These fibers made the foundation of my home, but it came at it like a jackhammer. It cut the legs off my dinner table, it even took the silverware. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We were discussing connections, no? Tell me sir, what connections mean most to you in your life? ... Yes, indeed, I agree. What if I told you it robbed me and and every other person I know of those same relationships, of those socialities? What if I told you that I'm too scared to form those relationships for my future because of it? It  is the elephant in the room, the bridge-breaker, the dearly beloved disgruntler that keeps me from getting too connected in those connections you yourself consider most important. I say "no" to it because if I don't I know I can't say "yes." ... Oh, I can connect, just not where it counts. I have to wait for eternity if I ever expect it to. 

Exhibit B: Reciprocity

Prosecution: Ever heard of a pot-luck? Same concept, fewer consequences. I've even got a great recipe for you:

3 cups 20 questions

1 cup sugary-sweet small talk

3 tablespoons mutual interests and 

a pinch of respect (a little goes a long way)

Let simmer until pleasant to the taste. Add a shared personal experience for increased flavor, if desired. Enjoy!

It really is a rather delicious dish, it can even be nutritious. In my experience, it has given me food poisoning, the kind that leaves you hanging over the toilet for hours. It has never done anything but take things away from me. Reciprocity? Psh. 

Exhibit C: Acting like an adult

Prosecution: I know all about acting like an adult, I've been doing it since I was three. I had to act like I was thirty, it  took my childhood, after all. It made me have to act like an adult because the real adults in my life couldn't. So the next time you feel like you want to act like an adult, remember that it  will only infantilize you. Have you ever lamented your child growing up too fast? Maybe if you would stop acting like a child, you wouldn't turn around and find an adult you don't know. 

Exhibit D: It's fun!

Closing Remarks: Yes, I'm closing now, because I can tell your arguments are getting weaker. When I say, "I don't want to see my friends at their worst," I really mean this: 

I care about you as a human being, as a friend, a colleague, a fellow scholar, a member of a community. I respect you. A wise man once said if you dwell on a person's weak points you will be able to see nothing else, but if you focus on his strengths, those strengths will grow brighter and brighter until there is no weakness. I want you to be so bright in my eyes, that the sun gets swallowed in your light. 

I mean this too: 

I don't want to see others make  weapons into a recreation. I don't want people to play with guns. Atom bombs are not toys, you don't share them with friends in the spirit of reciprocity, you don't connect with people over them, and they aren't going to make you a man. There is nothing fun about shadows so heavy they make me stoop. There is nothing fun about my pain. What I really mean when I say, I don't want to watch my friends act like dumb circus animals is that I rather not watch someone mock my pain. 

...

...

...

...

[I'd like to skip exhibit E and go on to exhibit F: Function.]

A not-so-emo poem: Sublime Sunday

Aside: An awful lot of my posts have been given to melancholy,

making it seem as if my life/thoughts are nothing more than a dark,

dismal hole of emo-like self-pity. Therefore, I present some more 

light-hearted fare as an offering of thanks for my bountiful 

blessings.

It's an ambrosial Sunday, the sun
sparkles through frosted windows. It's
a heavenly day for a rapture, a hallelujah chorus and
the Second Coming.

I've reconciled with the wind, an orb of nectar light
sits suspended in my throat and pours
honey in words-- sticky and sweet with a smile.

Crocuses coo their heads from the ground,
captures of a coquettish spring. Inextinguishable
clouds design a dismal day, but I won't be brought low today.

I find peace in the pendulous purity of what it means to
breath, expanding my ribs with solitude though
surrounded. There is no cacophony. Top to toe I am
harmony.