Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘Observations’ Category

“What happens to poems and texts unwritten?” Good question. I would like to think they continue to live, they continue to flit and float and grow and change until they are pinned down, or rather penned down on page or byte. However I also beleive that even after it is penned a verse or song does not die, it continues to change and grow with each reading. Words are the onlything thing I know of that can continue to live and change and grow and become something even more powerful even after they have been housed and boxed, as long as there are eyes to read and minds to comprehend nothing ever writen can die.

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

“man came from nothing and to nothing he will return.”

I do not agree with that. We are born from love and passion, and we leave behind those who’s lives we’ve touched.

Read Full Post »

I walked along the beach tonight, that defining edge between two worlds. Instead of feeling dwarfed by the hugeness of the ocean or the vastness of space with its myriad of stars which I could not name, instead of being made small by all this enormity, I felt like a giant, a colossus.

I felt the power of God and was not afraid for it was the same power he had given us, give to Man.

I am Man and Man has conquered both the sea and the land and one day space too will fall under our husbandry. And even if I had made a single misstep and fell to the currents and the larger predators of the sea Man would still prevail. I did not feel small, as I suppose I should have, instead I laughed, not in the face of God but with Him

Read Full Post »

Tumbling and Rumbling
Drinking and Laughing
Skin against Skin
Squeals of Delight
Laughter and
Soft secretive Kisses.

We surprise each other.

But time slips away
and steals me from you.
My situation cannot be avoided;
it’s last call and I must be aboard.

I’m surprised by you,
that the memory of you should be
so compelling.

Soon cold Reality will reclaim me.
But for now I insulate myself
with Memory.

of Laughter and Soft Lips
of Tumbling Dark Hair
of the Taste of Your Kiss
of your Smile
of a few Hours of our Time
Which continue to Haunt me.

Read Full Post »

Old men gathered around a pipe, pointing and arguing as though it were a piece of art. As though their lives were tied to it; that small piece of pipe.
Which, being metal mongers, men of steal and heat, I suppose they are tied to it.

Across the bay the battleship sits quiet; low and heavy in the water. Her guns point east and west towards the falling and rising sun. Helicopters and jets pass overhead. The wind shifts. I adjust my shotgun and sigh, I’ll be wet with the rain soon.

Read Full Post »

One of his most vivid memories is of him and his half-brothers finding a dead deer and poking it’s eye with a stick until it popped.
“It was green…” He remembers.

All of his brothers are Half-brothers. His life is full of half remembered instances, stop stills of an unfinished film. Being dropped off with a grumpy old women and two or three of her other charges, her dirt lawn and harsh voice, the laughter of the other children. Being kicked out of elementary school because his best friend pissed on the door of a rival school.
“He had to go, he thought it would be funny. I don’t know why they kicked me out…”
He describes his school life as quiet and boring, he had friends but they weren’t close. He fell out of touch all together with the friend who just had to piss after he had moved to a different school 4 miles away. The first time he heard of his parents divorce,
“I was playing outside the house, no-one else was home and these two strange men came up the walk and took me away with them…”
Weekends with Dad and his four half-brothers, weekends with Mom and his two half-brothers.

He had a girlfriend at the end of high-school, he broke up with her. “why’d you beak up with her?” I ask him, never really expecting an answer.
“She was… (he nods his head as if confirming long held suspicions) … a bitch.”
Everything he says is slow like this, as though each word has to be turned one way then another, carefully inspected to be sure it is the right one. “Bitch” must have been the perfect description in his mind. During ‘lengthy’ speeches of say eight or more words, to include several sentences, he clears his throat often, as if to be sure we understand how much effort is required from him to talk. He doesn’t seem particularly unsure of what he is saying, nor insecure with saying it, just unsure he would like to speak at all. As if by letting these few stories leave his mouth they might leave him. They would no longer be his own life, his own private joke.

He moved out at the end of high-school, he and his girlfriend moved into a house together. It was cheap for them, his grandfather owned the place and charged a minimal amount, yet large enough to teach his grandson the economics of living. Soon after a friend of his from high-school moved in with them. The girlfriend and the friend did not get along.
“Why didn’t they get on?”
“He hated her… (shrugs) She was a bitch”
During these few years nothing much happened; he worked at warehouse, hung out with his half-brothers and his friend, his girlfriend became increasingly unhappy and he became dissatisfied with her. Their breakup was as placid and boring as their relationship. That was the only story he had to relate to me from this time in his life, the ‘breakup story’. They were at a grocery store getting necessities for the super-bowl party they were to attend at his half-brothers place. The argument was over the party, she didn’t want go. She wanted him to stay with her at home, he wanted to drop her off and go the party without her.
“…So she said ‘You just don’t want to be with me!’ and I told her she was right. The next day she moved all her stuff to the room next to mine.”
“She didn’t move out that night?”
“No, she stayed with me that night and when I came back the next night she had moved out.”
A month and a half latter he joined the Navy.

He has never lived what he would consider an interesting life. Every sentence ends with an ellipsis, every story he tells, the few I can get him to tell, is told with the same monotone. Still he is a happy and contented person. The kind of person for whom the most amazing thing he has ever seen has only elicited a small grunt of  appreciation. He is an interesting person though, if only because he is so quiet, so non-committal about life. Because of this, because he has so few stories to tell, the ones he does tell leave the listener wanting more, leave the hearer strangely effected, moved. You can feel the impact to his life that each event has had through the few words he lets grudgingly drop. These are the things that stick out the most in a life that is otherwise tapioca blandness. A few defining moments of childhood, confrontations of adolescents and decisions of adulthood. And when you think about it, that’s all any of us have. Sure we might have more to say, might even make some of it up, but when you strip it down, its just a bunch of bright spots in the film of our lives. The most defining moments of a man don’t have to be worthy of a novel, most would not even get a novella. Often the most defining thing about us will barely merit a sentence yet will carry all the force of a Pulitzer prize winner.

“It was green…”

Read Full Post »

Trust. Hard to earn, easy to loose. Whenever someone tells me that they trust me I feel nervous. Now I have to live up to that trust, to make sure they haven’t misplaced their trust. Huh. That’s a funny phrase, misplaced trust; “Hey, I’ve lost my trust, can you help me find it?” Anyway, trust is a responsibility. To some it comes naturally I guess, they would never betray any ones trust, much less a friend. To others of us it’s something we have to work at; ‘This person trusts me, I can’t let them down.’ So when my friend told me today that I was one of the few people he trusted I accepted it for what it was and privately said to myself ‘oh, shit.’ There are several people who have placed their trust in me and whom I have never let down but even so it is a nerve-wracking thought. I myself tend not to trust anybody, not because they are not trustworthy but because I put more faith in human fallibility than not, mine as well as others. So I guess the whole premise of this is that trust is a scary thing that is not easy to live up to, even harder to give but oh-so-easy to loose.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »