What is it?
It's a jumbled mess, whatever it is. The Genesis of an Abortion. The Exodus of False Lives and Lies. A Revelation of a Journey that bears no resemblance to moving from Point A to Point B in a logical manner. The hand of Fate, deliberately leaving its subjects no choice.
A contradiction.
A deception.
Many deceptions.
Bullshit, as they would say.
Who are they? Forms and figures - phantoms, perhaps - of imagined ideas and actions that are ostensibly controlled by one who is Real. But they are the Banal. The ones worth time are those that - they who - what the fuck ever - are uncontrollable. With lives and half-lives of their own.
They are radioactive. Born dead and only interesting when inanimate. Those who lie, steal, murder, rape. Those who stop the liar, the thief, the killer, the rapist. The object of their existence is to take others to the abject principle and show that humanity - the very act of thought - knows no bounds. Good and Evil are one and the same. Always have been. Always will Be.
God does not exist here, for there is more than One. Gods exists here, and there are less than Zero. The shadows of social imagination create their power struggles and cast out those who are too weak to follow, too weak to care.
It is apathy that starts the war. Empathy that fights it. And sympathy that makes everyone a liar.
The sun never sets on Empiricism. Darkness falls upon the Land of the Arousing Sun. Superficial eroticism is the reason for everything. It's - she's - beautiful, and that's why she's wanted. It's also why she's killed.
Was she an infant? Whose skull was crushed beneath the boot heel? Was she a child? Who stole her innocence and replaced it with an overwhelming guilt that will lead her to the water that the horse will drown her in?
As an adolescent she was coveted. And taken. By many. And a prisoner in adulthood, freed only by the merciful finger of the Reaper.
He was a baby fed to the wolves because father was bored. He was a child introduced to sexual assault by means of example. He was the teenager whose life of crime began with a coming-of-age in a prison cell. He was the adult who bred more criminals.
Where are the heroes now? Who are the Myths that walk on water and turn blood into wine, bread into flesh, piss into vinegar, and excrement into dessert?
Are they waiting for the sky to fall? Or are they simply falling from the sky? To rely on Icarus for rescue is a foolhardy decision. To wait for the Peregrine to arrive is to wait forever.
Is forever worth waiting for? Perhaps if it comes with supple nipples and a wet vagina. Otherwise, what's around the corner might do just as well. He just wants to watch her breasts bounce and her buttocks gyrate. Old, young, immoral. It doesn't matter if one is careful. The careful are never caught. Crooked police only fail to police.
Who is the killer who sheds a tear? Her mind is a jumbled mess, whoever she is. The second coming of a Faith that never returned. The first coming of a Legend that never arrived. Her hand is taken. In love. In lust. Hearts whose beatings are rivaled by only that of erect penis and swollen labia.
Ugly words describe the enjoyable. And by whose command? An author - authors - whose names will never be known because their followers took pride in taking credit. It's only a Sin if they disagree. It's a Virtue if no one agrees.
The true Faith lies in not believing blindly, but in believing in the face of proof that it's a lie. True hope lies not in the wanton tossing of pennies into a fountain, but in the willingness to use the tricks of an enemy against the enemy. And Eye for an Eye. And Tooth for a Tooth. Ashes to Ashes. Dust to Dust.
It's a race, and the good - not the Good - will win because they will pull the trigger first. When they turn to smile, is it a friendly gesture? Or are you merely next?
Art is expression and expression will not be censored. The Truth is not meted out in doses. It is not colored by subjective moral. It simply is. They enjoy watching others die. They enjoy blood spurting from vein and artery. They enjoy placing their tongues in places that make her squirm. They will try anything twice.
Save your judgements for your own thoughts. They care not. If you cannot stand to bear witness to all that will transpire, then gouge your eyes and burst your ears. Turn out the lights and lock the door. That you cannot tell the monster from the paramour is of no concern to them. They'd just as soon kiss you and fuck you as they would kill you and cook you.
They are what they eat. And they're all cocks and pussies. Hard, soft, warm, and wet. Like the rains, dependent on the time of year and the mood of the wind. Doldrums just mean they have to make their own fun, and whether you're a player or the game depends solely on nothing at all. Merely the mood of the wind.
The world, the universe - existence - is a fucked up place. Chaos reigns and only those destined to fail believe there's an order to it all. Moving forward is the only option. Leave everything behind. That is the fine line between predator and prey.
Anything goes here. Leave your sensibilities at the door. Or don't come in. Laugh. Cry. Scream. If you aren't taken to the limit of acceptability - and beyond it - then this view is a failure.
Are you afraid yet? You'd better be. You're a fucking idiot if you're not.
Welcome to The Mindscape.
Enjoy.
Showing posts with label metaphor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label metaphor. Show all posts
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Thursday, December 2, 2010
In the Wind
The vortex tears through the landscape, ripping apart everything in its unspoken need to feed oblivion. Objects passing by mere blurs in peripheral vision, though the roar in the air remains a deafening constant. Occasionally, there's a momentary scream, piercing and mercifully brief. He's labeled the ones higher in pitch as "children," and he'd be pained to learn how accurate the connection is. His muscles are exhausted; there are no calories left to burn. But he's holding on with fingers locked. He's no idea what foundation the metal bar is attached to, but he's certain it will not hold forever. For the life of him, he can't figure out why he just doesn't let go. Are seconds of life that precious?
Reality turns inside out. Winds, usually invisible, paint themselves with remnants of dust and water. He can only look down, towards the gaping maw that wants to swallow him. Breathing is almost as difficult as hanging on, and each inhalation feels strangely like a lung has collapsed. He's always wanted to fly, but now only wants to kiss the Earth, even with pieces of it stuck in his throat. There's a chorus of screams, passing marginally slower, and below his feet he sees the bus disappear into the nothingness. A fleeting impression of pity gives way to the realization that, unlike him, they didn't die alone. Perhaps that's what he's waiting for. A companion to travel with to the other side.
The pursuit of knowledge is destroying existence, and the irony is laughable, but the fear of asphyxiation prevents the joke from being enjoyed. There's another joke in watching one's life flash before their eyes, but it's lost its humor in light of everyone's life flashing before his eyes. Density increases under rapidly strengthening gravity, compacting the whole of human history into one small molecule. He can feel his fingers about to snap, the bones fracturing and the ligaments stretching beyond recovery. Hearing more screams, he forces himself to look up. The shape of a body rapidly approaches and he lets go metal in order to grasp flesh.
He doesn't know who the body belongs to and doesn't really care. Eyes stay closed under the sensation of falling. Their embrace is tight, passionate, and cognitive of their ultimate fate. Giving in, he finally appreciates the wind. He's never been in love, doesn't know what it looks like, or even where it lives. Maybe it'll take him there.
Reality turns inside out. Winds, usually invisible, paint themselves with remnants of dust and water. He can only look down, towards the gaping maw that wants to swallow him. Breathing is almost as difficult as hanging on, and each inhalation feels strangely like a lung has collapsed. He's always wanted to fly, but now only wants to kiss the Earth, even with pieces of it stuck in his throat. There's a chorus of screams, passing marginally slower, and below his feet he sees the bus disappear into the nothingness. A fleeting impression of pity gives way to the realization that, unlike him, they didn't die alone. Perhaps that's what he's waiting for. A companion to travel with to the other side.
The pursuit of knowledge is destroying existence, and the irony is laughable, but the fear of asphyxiation prevents the joke from being enjoyed. There's another joke in watching one's life flash before their eyes, but it's lost its humor in light of everyone's life flashing before his eyes. Density increases under rapidly strengthening gravity, compacting the whole of human history into one small molecule. He can feel his fingers about to snap, the bones fracturing and the ligaments stretching beyond recovery. Hearing more screams, he forces himself to look up. The shape of a body rapidly approaches and he lets go metal in order to grasp flesh.
He doesn't know who the body belongs to and doesn't really care. Eyes stay closed under the sensation of falling. Their embrace is tight, passionate, and cognitive of their ultimate fate. Giving in, he finally appreciates the wind. He's never been in love, doesn't know what it looks like, or even where it lives. Maybe it'll take him there.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Mirror
In a far off place, on the other side of my mind, there's another side of my mind in a far off place. Through the mirror of sleep I can see it. Paradise. And Hell. Shattered imagery that will not stick to memory, instead bonding to strange laughter or beads of sweat noticed when eyes suddenly open. It is no threat in the daylight. Under the blanket of solar shadow, however, it is as terrifying and inviting as anything in waking life. Fear and love worth never waking from. False memories worth waking for. In a far off place. On the other side of the mirror.
Words spoken, unspoken, and understood. Language is not the barrier. Only impression. Adjective describes nothing, yet everything's in the detail. Adverb paces nothing, yet everything's in the movement. A revolution of revelation, whispered and warred in strange worlds that exist only in the chemical reactions of one. The serpent is terrifying, but it does not understand why. Though it may bite me, it is also the rope with which I pull myself from the cliff. An adversary with clawed gloves provides an outstretched hand. The blood here isn't real. But I won't learn that until I wake. When I'm on the other side of the mirror.
The closet is full of secret and skeleton. In a closeted world, there is no shame. The mirror is full of false light. It's no wonder that the suns here are not real. Water cannot be navigated except by flight. The mirror shatters when the fingers of the sea drop me. It is an abject failure that I've not yet learned to defeat Icarus. Or learned from his mistake. There is no need to, for this world is mine. Sanity defined by which side of the mirror I learned this from.
She's here somewhere. Always, hidden in the desires of shadows, constantly shifting with the comfort of a pillow I can't actually feel. I've heard her sing. Heard her whisper. Smelled her a thousand times. Touched her. Made love to her. I try to remind myself I've never seen her. But she's real. Radiated or reflected. She's real. The reason for the sweat on the sheets, for the blanket on the floor, for the loneliness when pupil adjusts to encroaching light. On the other side of a mirror whose waves reflect nothing but the setting sun. I need to figure out how to watch the sunrise of a far off place.
Words spoken, unspoken, and understood. Language is not the barrier. Only impression. Adjective describes nothing, yet everything's in the detail. Adverb paces nothing, yet everything's in the movement. A revolution of revelation, whispered and warred in strange worlds that exist only in the chemical reactions of one. The serpent is terrifying, but it does not understand why. Though it may bite me, it is also the rope with which I pull myself from the cliff. An adversary with clawed gloves provides an outstretched hand. The blood here isn't real. But I won't learn that until I wake. When I'm on the other side of the mirror.
The closet is full of secret and skeleton. In a closeted world, there is no shame. The mirror is full of false light. It's no wonder that the suns here are not real. Water cannot be navigated except by flight. The mirror shatters when the fingers of the sea drop me. It is an abject failure that I've not yet learned to defeat Icarus. Or learned from his mistake. There is no need to, for this world is mine. Sanity defined by which side of the mirror I learned this from.
She's here somewhere. Always, hidden in the desires of shadows, constantly shifting with the comfort of a pillow I can't actually feel. I've heard her sing. Heard her whisper. Smelled her a thousand times. Touched her. Made love to her. I try to remind myself I've never seen her. But she's real. Radiated or reflected. She's real. The reason for the sweat on the sheets, for the blanket on the floor, for the loneliness when pupil adjusts to encroaching light. On the other side of a mirror whose waves reflect nothing but the setting sun. I need to figure out how to watch the sunrise of a far off place.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Image
"Have you seen what she looks like?"
"Oh, shit yeah. She's gorgeous."
"Is she cool?"
"No clue. Never talked to her."
How strange, then, is an image that can not only turn a head, but turn a mind? One sensory input affecting the whole of perception and of perspective. Yes, it can be touched, but the tactile sensation will be no different than that of any other photograph. There is nothing to look forward to but the realization of yet another absence from a life already wounded by absence. That the introduction was never made makes not the farewell any easier.
"What the Hell is the point of that?"
"I don't know. Just needed it in my life."
"A photograph?"
"No. An idea."
How wonderful, then, is an image that can not only capture a moment gone, but inspire moments to come? Eyes downward, dark brown hair tucked behind an ear, and a smile from a brief experience that will never be shared again. An artificial memory burns into natural memory, interpreted differently for each viewer. To one, she's gorgeous. To another, she's a daughter. To yet another, she's unwanted competition. To all, she's just a photograph. Nothing more than color and light frozen in a world in which all living things eventually go blind.
"An idea of what?"
"Of something worth writing about."
"Can't you just make shit up?"
"It's better knowing it's really out there."
How depressing, then, is an image of something that will never been seen with real eyes? Distance between reveals the world to be a large place, though the image itself claims otherwise. Through the eyes of the camera, a thousand words can be any thousand words. Perfection is as subjective as description, no two describe a picture the same way, and no one describes a picture the same way twice. Maybe a lover yesterday and an enemy tomorrow, or vice versa. Whether idea or impression, she is always beautiful.
"But you don't know. She's just an idea. She could be a bitch."
"She's not. She's a sweetheart."
"How can you tell that from a picture?"
"Because I wrote her that way."
"Oh, shit yeah. She's gorgeous."
"Is she cool?"
"No clue. Never talked to her."
How strange, then, is an image that can not only turn a head, but turn a mind? One sensory input affecting the whole of perception and of perspective. Yes, it can be touched, but the tactile sensation will be no different than that of any other photograph. There is nothing to look forward to but the realization of yet another absence from a life already wounded by absence. That the introduction was never made makes not the farewell any easier.
"What the Hell is the point of that?"
"I don't know. Just needed it in my life."
"A photograph?"
"No. An idea."
How wonderful, then, is an image that can not only capture a moment gone, but inspire moments to come? Eyes downward, dark brown hair tucked behind an ear, and a smile from a brief experience that will never be shared again. An artificial memory burns into natural memory, interpreted differently for each viewer. To one, she's gorgeous. To another, she's a daughter. To yet another, she's unwanted competition. To all, she's just a photograph. Nothing more than color and light frozen in a world in which all living things eventually go blind.
"An idea of what?"
"Of something worth writing about."
"Can't you just make shit up?"
"It's better knowing it's really out there."
How depressing, then, is an image of something that will never been seen with real eyes? Distance between reveals the world to be a large place, though the image itself claims otherwise. Through the eyes of the camera, a thousand words can be any thousand words. Perfection is as subjective as description, no two describe a picture the same way, and no one describes a picture the same way twice. Maybe a lover yesterday and an enemy tomorrow, or vice versa. Whether idea or impression, she is always beautiful.
"But you don't know. She's just an idea. She could be a bitch."
"She's not. She's a sweetheart."
"How can you tell that from a picture?"
"Because I wrote her that way."
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Waking; Warning
"Get up, baby."
Alarms blare in the background - foreground, really - and eyes reluctantly open. The ignition that is arousal sparks an explosion that blasts away the dream. Five more minutes would be lovely, and is all that's desired. Is it procrastination when there's nothing yet, or left, to do?
"Shit. Already?"
Bodies move to programming; years of muscle memory. Life is waiting and reaction is procreated survival. But there's nothing revealed when the curtains open, nothing learned when the impact comes. The flash is blinding, but fails to illuminate in spite of its glow.
"You gonna get up or do I have to get you horny?"
Arousal is prepared while a mind awakens. Memories this early are never clear, never sure if they're still dreams. Eyes wander, hesitant, and a choice is made. None witness save a poster on a ceiling, and she offers no advice. Deceptively demure eyes do not point the way and supple, quivering lips remain silent.
"As good a way to wake up as any, I suppose."
Worn clothes worn, reminders of chores unfulfilled. One wonders if appearance would be so important in the land of the blind. It feels good enough with eyes closed. And open eyes are not necessary for a follower of dreams. The muffled gasps sound so loud.
"For fuck's sake, hurry up."
Feet hang off a bedside, afraid of what lies beneath. Monsters might make the world more interesting, but it's the floor that's too cold. He wants to stay in bed and continue the moment, for spirits enjoy their revelry without decisions in the way. This has become monotonous. Nightmares, never banal, reveal that sleep is truly living.
"Once more into the breach, eh, babe?"
Blankets comfort, even when they're too warm. And loneliness can be cold at night. Both serve as reminders of false memories; fantasies in the dark. There is no time for games, but there's grace in the playing. Open mouths taste the ambiance and closed eyes are not necessary, but oh, how wonderful they can be. If nothing else, they disguise the fear of embarrassment.
"I hate waking you up."
"I love it when you wake me up."
The joke's finally over. Both men want to get home. But they're going to have to survive the mortar attack first. The hands of far away lovers guide their aims and they know the fallen bodies of their enemies will revisit them later in life. At least they know it will be in the comfort of their own beds... and the foreplay won't be as deadly.
Alarms blare in the background - foreground, really - and eyes reluctantly open. The ignition that is arousal sparks an explosion that blasts away the dream. Five more minutes would be lovely, and is all that's desired. Is it procrastination when there's nothing yet, or left, to do?
"Shit. Already?"
Bodies move to programming; years of muscle memory. Life is waiting and reaction is procreated survival. But there's nothing revealed when the curtains open, nothing learned when the impact comes. The flash is blinding, but fails to illuminate in spite of its glow.
"You gonna get up or do I have to get you horny?"
Arousal is prepared while a mind awakens. Memories this early are never clear, never sure if they're still dreams. Eyes wander, hesitant, and a choice is made. None witness save a poster on a ceiling, and she offers no advice. Deceptively demure eyes do not point the way and supple, quivering lips remain silent.
"As good a way to wake up as any, I suppose."
Worn clothes worn, reminders of chores unfulfilled. One wonders if appearance would be so important in the land of the blind. It feels good enough with eyes closed. And open eyes are not necessary for a follower of dreams. The muffled gasps sound so loud.
"For fuck's sake, hurry up."
Feet hang off a bedside, afraid of what lies beneath. Monsters might make the world more interesting, but it's the floor that's too cold. He wants to stay in bed and continue the moment, for spirits enjoy their revelry without decisions in the way. This has become monotonous. Nightmares, never banal, reveal that sleep is truly living.
"Once more into the breach, eh, babe?"
Blankets comfort, even when they're too warm. And loneliness can be cold at night. Both serve as reminders of false memories; fantasies in the dark. There is no time for games, but there's grace in the playing. Open mouths taste the ambiance and closed eyes are not necessary, but oh, how wonderful they can be. If nothing else, they disguise the fear of embarrassment.
"I hate waking you up."
"I love it when you wake me up."
The joke's finally over. Both men want to get home. But they're going to have to survive the mortar attack first. The hands of far away lovers guide their aims and they know the fallen bodies of their enemies will revisit them later in life. At least they know it will be in the comfort of their own beds... and the foreplay won't be as deadly.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Living Backwards
"Ka-blam, elimination! Lack of education!" - Big Mama, The Fox and the Hound, 1981
She's heard the term, "a child going older," but she never realized that most were applying it to her. A false halo filled with the pride of a false independence hung gently and comfortingly over her head. She'd only paid rent at one place in her entire life, and that was at a discounted rate a brother had secured for her. Her first time away from home ended in disaster. Her second time, too. Still, she tried everything to fake growing up and out. After all, living off of parents is the only thing that signifies remaining a child, right? Living with a grandparent, a sister, a boyfriend, a co-worker, and a husband of convenience was simply part of the plan to make independence less expensive.
When your dirty clothes are piled to the ceiling is not the time to learn how to do laundry. When your footprints let you know where you've tread is not the time to learn how to use the vacuum. That your hand was held so tightly is only killing you now. That your eyes only ever looked to the shadows of your parents is why the world seems so strange. Hear no, see no, speak no does not apply to knowledge, but you revel in your ignorance and call it innocence.
She's loathe to accept cautions for what they are, preferring instead to interpret them as criticisms, never stopping to realize that people are trying to help. False halos from those who do not believe in her god will not affect her, regardless of their benevolence. Her Tower of Babylon is already built and those who love her watch in futility as she tumbles down its steps. She adores the descent, though, ignoring the bruises and convincing herself that no flight is accomplished without pain. Without the stern prodding of a parent toward the edge of the nest, she remains afraid to truly fly. Adults only learn to glide on the wind by flapping their wings and this one refuses to flap.
When you finally hit the ground, expect no womb to return to. When you finally accept that your wings are too old to learn to fly, expect no sympathy. Convince yourself that your god fated this life for you as wonder why happiness is so elusive. Convince yourself that independent thought is dependent on constellations and Tarot cards. Hear no, see no, speak no does not apply to wisdom, but you revel in your eradication and call it experience.
She's heard the term, "a child going older," but she never realized that most were applying it to her. A false halo filled with the pride of a false independence hung gently and comfortingly over her head. She'd only paid rent at one place in her entire life, and that was at a discounted rate a brother had secured for her. Her first time away from home ended in disaster. Her second time, too. Still, she tried everything to fake growing up and out. After all, living off of parents is the only thing that signifies remaining a child, right? Living with a grandparent, a sister, a boyfriend, a co-worker, and a husband of convenience was simply part of the plan to make independence less expensive.
When your dirty clothes are piled to the ceiling is not the time to learn how to do laundry. When your footprints let you know where you've tread is not the time to learn how to use the vacuum. That your hand was held so tightly is only killing you now. That your eyes only ever looked to the shadows of your parents is why the world seems so strange. Hear no, see no, speak no does not apply to knowledge, but you revel in your ignorance and call it innocence.
She's loathe to accept cautions for what they are, preferring instead to interpret them as criticisms, never stopping to realize that people are trying to help. False halos from those who do not believe in her god will not affect her, regardless of their benevolence. Her Tower of Babylon is already built and those who love her watch in futility as she tumbles down its steps. She adores the descent, though, ignoring the bruises and convincing herself that no flight is accomplished without pain. Without the stern prodding of a parent toward the edge of the nest, she remains afraid to truly fly. Adults only learn to glide on the wind by flapping their wings and this one refuses to flap.
When you finally hit the ground, expect no womb to return to. When you finally accept that your wings are too old to learn to fly, expect no sympathy. Convince yourself that your god fated this life for you as wonder why happiness is so elusive. Convince yourself that independent thought is dependent on constellations and Tarot cards. Hear no, see no, speak no does not apply to wisdom, but you revel in your eradication and call it experience.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Checkmate
She's always been the type to lie. Her initial reaction to any statement that ended in a question mark. The truth left her empty - always did; always will - so why not lie?
Funny that an honest man is better at it than she is.
He'd lost interest in her long ago. And she knows she needs to be with another liar. It's the only way for her life to mean anything. He should just get up and walk away, but she challenged him to this game. And he's stubborn about challenges.
"I love you," she says. It is an opening move meant to disarm, but he's seen that one before.
"I don't care." Riposte. A pawn in the open. Will she chase it? Or does she still not know the rules?
"You never did." She tries to widen her puppy-dog eyes, knowing the value of visual reinforcement. They quickly shift to a disgruntled squint in response to his refusal to take his own eyes off the board.
He does see her expression - both of them - and holds back a confident laugh. She's beautiful, no question about that, but if ever the cliché concerning inner beauty were true, it is now. Her pale skin hides tissue diseased in its existence. A rotting corpse living in a spoiled and wasted body, white knights foolishly attempting rescue. Bishops skirting the issue from corner to corner.
Good thing, then, that the rook prefers the blunt, direct approach. "Your move," is his only response.
They are queen and king in every sense of the irony. She, powerful in motion and overbearing beyond the limits of patience, failing to recognize that she exists only to protect her king. He, subtle in motion and preferring to hide behind a wall of peers, failing to recognize that his queen is his best asset. Still, he can survive without a queen. She is lost without a king.
She castles, shifting her king to another location. It is a strategy that does not exist in the real world. A lie on the battlefield. How apropos, he thinks. How useful, is her own thought on the matter.
White falls to black and black to white, leaving chips of gray in the wake of simplistic frays. He lives here, in the gray, knowing that is how the world works. She prefers the black and white of wrong and right... and as long as she is on one side, she believes her motives to be pure.
"I've never lied to you," she claims, knowing he will recognize this as a lie. Still, better than a half-truth, which she oddly disdains. One or the other is her philosophy. Purity, if one would.
"A secret is a lie." It is a statement not intended for her, for she is unwittingly incapable of keeping secrets. But he knows it will piss her off.
It does. With a quick and violent swipe, the board and its pieces are sent to the floor. He flinches, holding his hands close to his chest.
"You don't get it! I just wanted to be happy!" she yells.
"And what does that entail, exactly?" It is a question she's never been able to answer, not even with a lie.
"Fuck you." Ah, that old staple. She storms off.
He can't resist. "You lose."
She turns and glares at him. "We didn't finish." There is pride in her sarcasm, both in her voice and in her eyes. She begins to laugh and leaves the room.
Watching the door slam shut, he allows a small smile. He no longer cares to prove anything to her. Opening his left hand, his king is revealed. Placing it on the table, bereft of battlefield, of ally, and - most importantly - of enemy, he whispers, "Checkmate."
He pities her, truly. Such a person can never be happy, and he knows she knows it. Searching for pieces of games she will never finish, she will be as empty of life as the room will be when he, too, leaves.
Closing the door behind him, he takes one last glance at the king on the table. Devoid of conflict, it stands alone, content in its peace. And patiently awaiting the next player.
Funny that an honest man is better at it than she is.
He'd lost interest in her long ago. And she knows she needs to be with another liar. It's the only way for her life to mean anything. He should just get up and walk away, but she challenged him to this game. And he's stubborn about challenges.
"I love you," she says. It is an opening move meant to disarm, but he's seen that one before.
"I don't care." Riposte. A pawn in the open. Will she chase it? Or does she still not know the rules?
"You never did." She tries to widen her puppy-dog eyes, knowing the value of visual reinforcement. They quickly shift to a disgruntled squint in response to his refusal to take his own eyes off the board.
He does see her expression - both of them - and holds back a confident laugh. She's beautiful, no question about that, but if ever the cliché concerning inner beauty were true, it is now. Her pale skin hides tissue diseased in its existence. A rotting corpse living in a spoiled and wasted body, white knights foolishly attempting rescue. Bishops skirting the issue from corner to corner.
Good thing, then, that the rook prefers the blunt, direct approach. "Your move," is his only response.
They are queen and king in every sense of the irony. She, powerful in motion and overbearing beyond the limits of patience, failing to recognize that she exists only to protect her king. He, subtle in motion and preferring to hide behind a wall of peers, failing to recognize that his queen is his best asset. Still, he can survive without a queen. She is lost without a king.
She castles, shifting her king to another location. It is a strategy that does not exist in the real world. A lie on the battlefield. How apropos, he thinks. How useful, is her own thought on the matter.
White falls to black and black to white, leaving chips of gray in the wake of simplistic frays. He lives here, in the gray, knowing that is how the world works. She prefers the black and white of wrong and right... and as long as she is on one side, she believes her motives to be pure.
"I've never lied to you," she claims, knowing he will recognize this as a lie. Still, better than a half-truth, which she oddly disdains. One or the other is her philosophy. Purity, if one would.
"A secret is a lie." It is a statement not intended for her, for she is unwittingly incapable of keeping secrets. But he knows it will piss her off.
It does. With a quick and violent swipe, the board and its pieces are sent to the floor. He flinches, holding his hands close to his chest.
"You don't get it! I just wanted to be happy!" she yells.
"And what does that entail, exactly?" It is a question she's never been able to answer, not even with a lie.
"Fuck you." Ah, that old staple. She storms off.
He can't resist. "You lose."
She turns and glares at him. "We didn't finish." There is pride in her sarcasm, both in her voice and in her eyes. She begins to laugh and leaves the room.
Watching the door slam shut, he allows a small smile. He no longer cares to prove anything to her. Opening his left hand, his king is revealed. Placing it on the table, bereft of battlefield, of ally, and - most importantly - of enemy, he whispers, "Checkmate."
He pities her, truly. Such a person can never be happy, and he knows she knows it. Searching for pieces of games she will never finish, she will be as empty of life as the room will be when he, too, leaves.
Closing the door behind him, he takes one last glance at the king on the table. Devoid of conflict, it stands alone, content in its peace. And patiently awaiting the next player.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
A Slow Crawl to a Cliff's Edge
If ever there was needed a reminder of how brutal life is, none is needed now. Blood in the sands, falling from the skies, obscuring the seas. That there is a wound is obvious. Where it is... less so. There's a ridge just up ahead; perhaps the view from it will reveal all. Wise men are found on mountains, yes? Perhaps there is wisdom to found.
There's blood under fingernails, and legs can't be felt, but survival requires movement and becoming a feast for carrion is not yet a given. There are wings circling overhead. Manmade? Or feathered? One could be rescue. Both could be death.
Streets in the desert don't care what they're called, for they're still desert. The mountains ahead have a name, surely, but they don't seem to mind their own namelessness. They are and will be for some time; it is a crawling man who is in danger of fading. But nature designed him resilient, and feral thought will not allow surrender. Even if conscience does.
An inch at a time eventually becomes miles, and distance is ultimately crossed. Knowing how far would be desirable and, likely, responsible. But greed felt in lungs struggling to breathe spreads to hands grasping at purchases to pull them along in a desire to be defined by living.
This is not a summit's peak, but a cliff's edge, and the difference is unimportant. Get up. If you're going to fall, do it here, do it now. There's still air beneath you.
There's blood under fingernails, and legs can't be felt, but survival requires movement and becoming a feast for carrion is not yet a given. There are wings circling overhead. Manmade? Or feathered? One could be rescue. Both could be death.
Streets in the desert don't care what they're called, for they're still desert. The mountains ahead have a name, surely, but they don't seem to mind their own namelessness. They are and will be for some time; it is a crawling man who is in danger of fading. But nature designed him resilient, and feral thought will not allow surrender. Even if conscience does.
An inch at a time eventually becomes miles, and distance is ultimately crossed. Knowing how far would be desirable and, likely, responsible. But greed felt in lungs struggling to breathe spreads to hands grasping at purchases to pull them along in a desire to be defined by living.
This is not a summit's peak, but a cliff's edge, and the difference is unimportant. Get up. If you're going to fall, do it here, do it now. There's still air beneath you.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Beautiful Water
In the blue, over the blue, twin seas collide. Patience amid chaos, currents of wind and water caught between the hopes of breath and blood, longing for a moment that will never come. Storms of fury, propelled by lust, levied by the construct that some call love. But, they are not, and it is not. Merely the glint of beauty under a sun that shines everywhere, as long as they are nowhere.
In the blue, over the blue, hopes give way to reality. Impatience amid order, nature continuing her course between invention and convention, coming to a moment that never happened. A hurricane of thought, eroding memories unlived, but imagined. She is beautiful, though alone. Hints of what lies beneath blinded by a face that would again launch a thousand ships.
She is blue, within the blue, alive on a literal and figurative island. Patience amid order, following the rain as it washes away conscience and the remains of the day. Precipitation on the precipice, flowing down the path of least resistance while wondering what it would be like to be a flake of snow. Creativity gives way to necessity, and tears obscure a visage so wonderful when smiling.
There is no blue within the blue, as one shade fades into the next. Impatience amid chaos, enjoying the arrival of coming and going on a whim. She loves being wanted and wants to be loved, but knows that rivers of desires run to no command but their own. There is no beauty like water's, and none like the tiny beads of sweat, almost imperceptible, on the body of a woman I'll never see.
In the blue, over the blue, hopes give way to reality. Impatience amid order, nature continuing her course between invention and convention, coming to a moment that never happened. A hurricane of thought, eroding memories unlived, but imagined. She is beautiful, though alone. Hints of what lies beneath blinded by a face that would again launch a thousand ships.
She is blue, within the blue, alive on a literal and figurative island. Patience amid order, following the rain as it washes away conscience and the remains of the day. Precipitation on the precipice, flowing down the path of least resistance while wondering what it would be like to be a flake of snow. Creativity gives way to necessity, and tears obscure a visage so wonderful when smiling.
There is no blue within the blue, as one shade fades into the next. Impatience amid chaos, enjoying the arrival of coming and going on a whim. She loves being wanted and wants to be loved, but knows that rivers of desires run to no command but their own. There is no beauty like water's, and none like the tiny beads of sweat, almost imperceptible, on the body of a woman I'll never see.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Irrewind, 20100501: Metaphor II
When I started these Irrewind thingies, I led off with a group of writings I call "metaphoric prose." Sounds obvious, I realize that, but to me "metaphoric prose" just means a poem too lazy to be in a poem format. Thanks to some unexpected motivation last summer, I sort of went on a tear of the things and knocked quite a few of them out. Not my favorite style of writing, but I found them useful when writing other things, and I did enjoy them.
Anyway, here are more:
"The Strange Walk That is Memory Lane"
Nostalgia's a strange thing. Okay, maybe not, but it is a curious thing that so many find reaching into mail boxes on memory lane such an addicting sensation. Most of the time nothing is there but junk mail. Sometimes, however, letters completely forgotten are pulled out and delivered anew. Maybe it's a memory sent, maybe received... Read More
"Beauty; Fear: A Fairy Tale"
Fear in beauty. Beauty in fear. Opposite ends of a compass that only points in one direction. Shy in the face of a beautiful woman is the same as fear in the face of drowning. The more beautiful it is, the better to kill you with. The curious snake bearing poisoned apples, the avalanche of pure white sliding down a mountain, a smiling cat... Read More
"Memoir of a Forgotten Memory"
There's a friend lost somewhere. There always is. Someone or something that brought out childhood laughter, someone or something that was there to hold when the sky fell. A neighborhood crush, maybe a teddy bear. A random snippet of a show on television. A sad movie whose title was never known. Or, perhaps, the perfect angle... Read More
"Sine Nomine"
It's imagined many ways. To the left, to the right, straight ahead with eyes closed and the hope that nothing goes awry. So many thoughts into so few spans of time. A sensation longing to endure, betrayed by a lifetime seemingly unwilling to begin. In the dark, a mirror or a photograph, perhaps real or just of the mind's eye... Read More
"The Whale and the Albatross"
It's empty out here, but there's air to breathe closer to the surface. Silence is relative, the gentle breeze and the crest of wave so familiar they make no noticeable sound. Cloud and island are all that break the landscape of blue deserts. A setting sun and its reflection point the way home and to a much needed rest. Tomorrow, sunrise will... Read More
Anyway, here are more:
"The Strange Walk That is Memory Lane"
Nostalgia's a strange thing. Okay, maybe not, but it is a curious thing that so many find reaching into mail boxes on memory lane such an addicting sensation. Most of the time nothing is there but junk mail. Sometimes, however, letters completely forgotten are pulled out and delivered anew. Maybe it's a memory sent, maybe received... Read More
"Beauty; Fear: A Fairy Tale"
Fear in beauty. Beauty in fear. Opposite ends of a compass that only points in one direction. Shy in the face of a beautiful woman is the same as fear in the face of drowning. The more beautiful it is, the better to kill you with. The curious snake bearing poisoned apples, the avalanche of pure white sliding down a mountain, a smiling cat... Read More
"Memoir of a Forgotten Memory"
There's a friend lost somewhere. There always is. Someone or something that brought out childhood laughter, someone or something that was there to hold when the sky fell. A neighborhood crush, maybe a teddy bear. A random snippet of a show on television. A sad movie whose title was never known. Or, perhaps, the perfect angle... Read More
"Sine Nomine"
It's imagined many ways. To the left, to the right, straight ahead with eyes closed and the hope that nothing goes awry. So many thoughts into so few spans of time. A sensation longing to endure, betrayed by a lifetime seemingly unwilling to begin. In the dark, a mirror or a photograph, perhaps real or just of the mind's eye... Read More
"The Whale and the Albatross"
It's empty out here, but there's air to breathe closer to the surface. Silence is relative, the gentle breeze and the crest of wave so familiar they make no noticeable sound. Cloud and island are all that break the landscape of blue deserts. A setting sun and its reflection point the way home and to a much needed rest. Tomorrow, sunrise will... Read More
Friday, December 18, 2009
The Lovers Spectra
Hues disperse as they run away from me. Vermilion, long abandoned, laughs in the distance. The brothers Crimson and Maroon stand together, forming an image of a bleeding heart, but the Blood soon runs out. Whoever made the mistake of attributing Red to love never understood what it meant to be angry. The Cardinal flies to catch its fleeting bird while Scarlet looks on as her lover flees Tara. Bloodshot eyes amid alcohol's Blush fail to numb Rosy cheeks. The sunset reveals brief Magenta as it fades, first into Lavender, then into the arms of Ultramarine and Navy.
She smiles under a Turquoise light, satisfied that her Cerulean dreams no longer include me. Eyes, Azure in mood, though not in color, stare right through the indignance of a shade lost between Blue and Violet. The effective absence of Indigo reveals my ultimate fate: lost and alone under the cold stars of Cobalt, whose lights are too far away to provide warmth.
Fade to Black.
She smiles under a Turquoise light, satisfied that her Cerulean dreams no longer include me. Eyes, Azure in mood, though not in color, stare right through the indignance of a shade lost between Blue and Violet. The effective absence of Indigo reveals my ultimate fate: lost and alone under the cold stars of Cobalt, whose lights are too far away to provide warmth.
Fade to Black.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Gateway
The smell of cedar is out of place. Israel is not to the south and there are no trees. He doesn't know what death smells like - perhaps it does smell like wood - but he is resolutely certain that fear should smell like something else. The nitrocellulose in the air does little to staunch the odor. Cedar among blood. It's an interesting scent and its strange pleasantness makes it nearly intolerable. He's not sure how much more of it he can stand, for it reminds him of a Lebanese woman he was once in love with. She's a wonderful image that he would welcome under normal circumstances, but he needs to control his fear; not fight it. There is already an enemy here and memory need not join the fray. He heard, years ago, that scent triggers memory better than any of the other senses, but he only now believes it. The last thoughts he has before he shakes the distraction is that he's thankful he's not a bloodhound. And that he's afraid.
***
"What the fuck are those things?" Campbell screams, less a question and more an excuse to vent frustration.Whatever those Things were, they just kept coming. Campbell, a soldier who tends to think in ratios and statistics, is all too aware that each rifleman in his unit was only issued 300 rounds of ammunition each. He is also all too aware that he has less than 50 rounds remaining... barely a magazine-and-a-half.
"Calm the fuck down," Corporal Roarke orders, even though she is the same rank as Campbell. Technically, Campbell is her superior since he's the Bravo-Team leader and she leads Charlie-Team, but she has a reputation for being extremely calm under pressure and had fast become her squad leader's favorite. Still, she wonders the same thing as Campbell. The Things seem endless in number and ammunition reserves are, without doubt, on everyone's mind. Unlike Gerstmann, the other woman in the squad, Roarke keeps her hair long - she prefers femininity when not on duty - and notices dried blood obscuring her brunette locks. She had been standing next to Hashimoto when the Things appeared out of nowhere and practically decapitated him. Anyone else might have frozen in shock at the sight, but Roarke didn't earn her "Icy Bitch" moniker for no reason. Regardless, she remains terrified, just like everyone else. The rescue team, after all, is in dire need of rescue.
***
Project Gateway was in its sixth year when the distress signal reached Earth. It was short and consisted of a simple message: "Help me." Controversy immediately spread across the various space agencies involved in the project. The foremost issue was with the message itself. Help "me." Project Gateway involved 37 deployed astronauts and those in the psychoanalytical industries felt it rather strange that the pronoun hadn't been "us." The base conclusion was reached that the message meant the other 36 people on Iapetus were already dead when the message was sent, but the bureaucrats running the project ignored that interpretation and chalked the message up to panic and the sender being in an otherwise irrational state of mind.
The second controversy was a rehash of one of the original debates surrounding Gateway. A few legislators, upon the recommendation of high-ranking military personnel, tried to insert law enforcement and combat personnel into the mission, but their concerns went unheeded. Despite the general history involving space exploration, in which a majority of the astronauts and cosmonauts were of military background, the space agencies felt that since no one had ever knowingly went into space armed for combat, there was no reason to start now. Critics of this pointed out that no one had ever knowingly ventured so far away from their homeworld, and every possibility - including alien encounter - should be considered. The recommendation went unheeded, and the 37 astronauts eventually selected for the project were all from science, medical, engineering, and construction backgrounds.
For the rescue mission, dubbed Operation Gatekeeper, the military perspective won out, and a 13-man squad of infantry - hastily trained for space service - was launched from Vostochny on a course for Saturn's moon. A second ship, one loaded with more scientists, doctors, engineers, and builders, would launch from Cape Canaveral a few days afterward.
That was seven months ago.
***
The sensation of fireworks fades into reality, revealing themselves to be ballistic flashes from the end of a gun barrel. There's little opportunity for the eye to interpret the color on the walls. It is not a rainbow if no one is around to see it, and here there is no rain. Darkness engulfed the corridors to begin with, and the spitting light ruins his ability to devolve into the nocturnal creature he desperately needs to become. He secretly wishes his fingers were made of eyes so he could touch what little light there is, but his hands tightly grasp his weapon and he would've remained blind regardless. Shadow does not seem to work here and only creates more shadow. He tries to ignore the false realization that there is something tactile in the instants between the bursts of gunpowder and the abysmal void, but he is unable to. He is fighting through a black hole whose gravity is not only robbing him of his ability to see, but his ability to comprehend. The absence of light is a wall his fear cannot break through. This rabbit hole provides no looking glass.
***
"ACE in," Roarke shouts as she hurries to apply a pressure dressing to Sipalia's - the Alpha-Team leader - bleeding forearm. Campbell is far too unstable at the moment and nobody has seen Sergeant Greene since the first wave of the Things appeared, so Roarke was ostensibly in command. She already knows everyone is dangerously low on ammunition and that the only casualties are Hashimoto and Sipalia - and perhaps Greene - but reverting to a standing operating procedure helps her control her growing fear. If she loses it, there is a strong possibility that the rest of the squad will, too. The unintentional arrogance behind the thought makes her crack a smile, but she knows it's true. She can't help who she is. Never could; never will. All she can do is her job and hope they can shoot their way to the light at the end of the tunnel... if there is one.
Eight ammunition, casualty, and equipment reports yell in from the rest of the squad. At first Roarke is alarmed at so few a number, but quickly realizes that eight is the number she should've expected. The total ammunition count is less than ten percent of their issue. Defending their position against another onslaught is going to be next to impossible. The dropship is on the other side of Gateway and contact with the Capricorn orbiter was lost during the second assault, so there is no way to coordinate any feasible extraction with the ship's crew, if they are even still in orbit. Last Rourke knew, the Capricorn had docked with one of three Iapetus survey and communication satellites in order to run diagnostics.
The squad is holed up in one of the prefabricated corridors that the original Project Gateway team had brought with them, so there is a bright side - as bright as irony will allow - to things. Behind them is the incomplete science lab, which is habitable and whose only current access is through the prefabbed corridor. The only other way out of the corridor is into Gateway Station itself, which means that Roarke only has to conduct a defense in one direction. Unless, the thought fearfully creeps its way into Roarke's mind, the Things can live in space. No, no... Vasquez had blown one out of an airlock and the Thing had seemed to die. They should be all right, in that sense.
Sipalia winces as Roarke finishes patching him up. "We're going to have to fight our way out of here, you know," he says, as plainly and unemotionally as possible. Through the doorway into the rest of the station and back to the docking ring where the dropship awaits. Neither Sipalia nor Roarke has any idea if the pilot and crew chief are still alive to fly them out of there.
Roarke nods. "Once more into the breach, my friends. Once more," she mutters, barely audibly. She's never sounded so unconvincing in her life.
***
The breeze doesn't betray its source. Movement or pressure, the wind keeps its lips sealed. Could it speak, it might not say what he wants to hear. His attempt to stay as quiet as possible reminds him of how crickets compose their songs, with toothed wings vibrating against each other. He's had this thought before, the very first time he made love to a woman. Penetration creates an interesting sonata of bodily fluid and function, and obsession with noise turns into lustful symphony visualized. No matter how silent, it is deafening. Here, his weapon is his percussion; his screams of fear his brass; his breath his woodwind. The disturbing humor that listens in the back of his mind now plays for him a requiem of violin, viola, and cello.
Ahead of him light slithers its way through cracks in a door like the serpent in the garden. Let there be should be an invitation as warm as the bosom of an eager harlot, but he knows it is merely a harbinger of danger. The doorway warns him that the apple should not be taken while it taunts him that there is no other option. It is no matter, for he has long passed the point at which a physiological or psychological effect begins to be produced.
As he walks through the threshold, into the company of the Things, his mind returns from its sojourn to the unknown. He finally remembers what happened to the others and how he's survived for seven months, but not, it seems, how he obtained a military-issue carbine. Overwhelming are the sensations of color and poetry, flesh tearing from bone, the scent of a Lebanese woman's skin and the taste of her nipples, the inhalation of blood, memories of earning diplomas and doctorates, the impact of hitting water, the glowing smile of his first girlfriend...
... and a vague recollection of being born.
*Followed by Surface
***
"What the fuck are those things?" Campbell screams, less a question and more an excuse to vent frustration.Whatever those Things were, they just kept coming. Campbell, a soldier who tends to think in ratios and statistics, is all too aware that each rifleman in his unit was only issued 300 rounds of ammunition each. He is also all too aware that he has less than 50 rounds remaining... barely a magazine-and-a-half.
"Calm the fuck down," Corporal Roarke orders, even though she is the same rank as Campbell. Technically, Campbell is her superior since he's the Bravo-Team leader and she leads Charlie-Team, but she has a reputation for being extremely calm under pressure and had fast become her squad leader's favorite. Still, she wonders the same thing as Campbell. The Things seem endless in number and ammunition reserves are, without doubt, on everyone's mind. Unlike Gerstmann, the other woman in the squad, Roarke keeps her hair long - she prefers femininity when not on duty - and notices dried blood obscuring her brunette locks. She had been standing next to Hashimoto when the Things appeared out of nowhere and practically decapitated him. Anyone else might have frozen in shock at the sight, but Roarke didn't earn her "Icy Bitch" moniker for no reason. Regardless, she remains terrified, just like everyone else. The rescue team, after all, is in dire need of rescue.
***
Project Gateway was in its sixth year when the distress signal reached Earth. It was short and consisted of a simple message: "Help me." Controversy immediately spread across the various space agencies involved in the project. The foremost issue was with the message itself. Help "me." Project Gateway involved 37 deployed astronauts and those in the psychoanalytical industries felt it rather strange that the pronoun hadn't been "us." The base conclusion was reached that the message meant the other 36 people on Iapetus were already dead when the message was sent, but the bureaucrats running the project ignored that interpretation and chalked the message up to panic and the sender being in an otherwise irrational state of mind.
The second controversy was a rehash of one of the original debates surrounding Gateway. A few legislators, upon the recommendation of high-ranking military personnel, tried to insert law enforcement and combat personnel into the mission, but their concerns went unheeded. Despite the general history involving space exploration, in which a majority of the astronauts and cosmonauts were of military background, the space agencies felt that since no one had ever knowingly went into space armed for combat, there was no reason to start now. Critics of this pointed out that no one had ever knowingly ventured so far away from their homeworld, and every possibility - including alien encounter - should be considered. The recommendation went unheeded, and the 37 astronauts eventually selected for the project were all from science, medical, engineering, and construction backgrounds.
For the rescue mission, dubbed Operation Gatekeeper, the military perspective won out, and a 13-man squad of infantry - hastily trained for space service - was launched from Vostochny on a course for Saturn's moon. A second ship, one loaded with more scientists, doctors, engineers, and builders, would launch from Cape Canaveral a few days afterward.
That was seven months ago.
***
The sensation of fireworks fades into reality, revealing themselves to be ballistic flashes from the end of a gun barrel. There's little opportunity for the eye to interpret the color on the walls. It is not a rainbow if no one is around to see it, and here there is no rain. Darkness engulfed the corridors to begin with, and the spitting light ruins his ability to devolve into the nocturnal creature he desperately needs to become. He secretly wishes his fingers were made of eyes so he could touch what little light there is, but his hands tightly grasp his weapon and he would've remained blind regardless. Shadow does not seem to work here and only creates more shadow. He tries to ignore the false realization that there is something tactile in the instants between the bursts of gunpowder and the abysmal void, but he is unable to. He is fighting through a black hole whose gravity is not only robbing him of his ability to see, but his ability to comprehend. The absence of light is a wall his fear cannot break through. This rabbit hole provides no looking glass.
***
"ACE in," Roarke shouts as she hurries to apply a pressure dressing to Sipalia's - the Alpha-Team leader - bleeding forearm. Campbell is far too unstable at the moment and nobody has seen Sergeant Greene since the first wave of the Things appeared, so Roarke was ostensibly in command. She already knows everyone is dangerously low on ammunition and that the only casualties are Hashimoto and Sipalia - and perhaps Greene - but reverting to a standing operating procedure helps her control her growing fear. If she loses it, there is a strong possibility that the rest of the squad will, too. The unintentional arrogance behind the thought makes her crack a smile, but she knows it's true. She can't help who she is. Never could; never will. All she can do is her job and hope they can shoot their way to the light at the end of the tunnel... if there is one.
Eight ammunition, casualty, and equipment reports yell in from the rest of the squad. At first Roarke is alarmed at so few a number, but quickly realizes that eight is the number she should've expected. The total ammunition count is less than ten percent of their issue. Defending their position against another onslaught is going to be next to impossible. The dropship is on the other side of Gateway and contact with the Capricorn orbiter was lost during the second assault, so there is no way to coordinate any feasible extraction with the ship's crew, if they are even still in orbit. Last Rourke knew, the Capricorn had docked with one of three Iapetus survey and communication satellites in order to run diagnostics.
The squad is holed up in one of the prefabricated corridors that the original Project Gateway team had brought with them, so there is a bright side - as bright as irony will allow - to things. Behind them is the incomplete science lab, which is habitable and whose only current access is through the prefabbed corridor. The only other way out of the corridor is into Gateway Station itself, which means that Roarke only has to conduct a defense in one direction. Unless, the thought fearfully creeps its way into Roarke's mind, the Things can live in space. No, no... Vasquez had blown one out of an airlock and the Thing had seemed to die. They should be all right, in that sense.
Sipalia winces as Roarke finishes patching him up. "We're going to have to fight our way out of here, you know," he says, as plainly and unemotionally as possible. Through the doorway into the rest of the station and back to the docking ring where the dropship awaits. Neither Sipalia nor Roarke has any idea if the pilot and crew chief are still alive to fly them out of there.
Roarke nods. "Once more into the breach, my friends. Once more," she mutters, barely audibly. She's never sounded so unconvincing in her life.
***
The breeze doesn't betray its source. Movement or pressure, the wind keeps its lips sealed. Could it speak, it might not say what he wants to hear. His attempt to stay as quiet as possible reminds him of how crickets compose their songs, with toothed wings vibrating against each other. He's had this thought before, the very first time he made love to a woman. Penetration creates an interesting sonata of bodily fluid and function, and obsession with noise turns into lustful symphony visualized. No matter how silent, it is deafening. Here, his weapon is his percussion; his screams of fear his brass; his breath his woodwind. The disturbing humor that listens in the back of his mind now plays for him a requiem of violin, viola, and cello.
Ahead of him light slithers its way through cracks in a door like the serpent in the garden. Let there be should be an invitation as warm as the bosom of an eager harlot, but he knows it is merely a harbinger of danger. The doorway warns him that the apple should not be taken while it taunts him that there is no other option. It is no matter, for he has long passed the point at which a physiological or psychological effect begins to be produced.
As he walks through the threshold, into the company of the Things, his mind returns from its sojourn to the unknown. He finally remembers what happened to the others and how he's survived for seven months, but not, it seems, how he obtained a military-issue carbine. Overwhelming are the sensations of color and poetry, flesh tearing from bone, the scent of a Lebanese woman's skin and the taste of her nipples, the inhalation of blood, memories of earning diplomas and doctorates, the impact of hitting water, the glowing smile of his first girlfriend...
... and a vague recollection of being born.
*Followed by Surface
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Irrewind, 20091128: Metaphor
So, being somewhat of an archivist (and a little vain), I've decided to post weekly "indexes" in order to highlight some older material. As one can tell, I'm calling these indexes "Irrewind." Get it? Do you? Huh? Huh?
Anyway, back in June I hit a bit of inspiration. Life was, as it always is for all of us, moving right along earlier this summer and there were more than one fairly significant reality-altering events for me. I wasn't sure of it at the time, but a long-lost friend I had reconnected with on June 4th and 5th (whom I've since re-disconnected with) lit a fire under my ass... the result: I got a little prolific. Initially, most of the writing involved rather convoluted life metaphor, but it's since settled down into banal fiction and really bad poetry.
Without further adieu, presenting a handful of "metaphor" pieces (some of which are very weird): the first Irrewind!
"A Simple Dance Through an Otherwise Complicated Day"
Posture's up, hand's outstretched. There's a sudden thrill, a subtle thrill, as another takes your grasp and lets you spin around the room. Following you, maybe leading you, you don't know. The confusion from peripheral imagery flying by, constantly changing but always... Read More
"Abandon"
Somebody's counting on you, you know. Somebody needs you to stand up and walk through that open door. Who? Maybe you don't know. Why? Maybe you don't care. But somebody needs you. Do you stay in your seat, safely wedged in between a woman who won't shut up... Read More
"Falling Through Life Like Sky Through Rainbow"
You remember what it feels like. The moment of realization that made all the preceding moments of frustration worth it. It works, and now you know why. You now have the choice to stand on your own two feet and make your own decisions. The person holding your hand... Read More
"Motion"
Tell me one more time and I might believe it. I might, maybe, perhaps, except that I already know it's a lie. I've always known it was a lie, and until recently, I didn't care. Some part of me hoped that you'd stretch the truth so far, the truth itself would snap out of it. Belief is a... Read More
"A Weight the Wind Will Not Carry"
In the waning days of Autumn there's a bridge to nowhere that two will cross anyway. Falling leaves dance a last dance before hitting the ground, waiting for a wind to carry them back across. Hued skin embraces the White of Snow, and for an instant, hearts beat in... Read More
Anyway, back in June I hit a bit of inspiration. Life was, as it always is for all of us, moving right along earlier this summer and there were more than one fairly significant reality-altering events for me. I wasn't sure of it at the time, but a long-lost friend I had reconnected with on June 4th and 5th (whom I've since re-disconnected with) lit a fire under my ass... the result: I got a little prolific. Initially, most of the writing involved rather convoluted life metaphor, but it's since settled down into banal fiction and really bad poetry.
Without further adieu, presenting a handful of "metaphor" pieces (some of which are very weird): the first Irrewind!
"A Simple Dance Through an Otherwise Complicated Day"
Posture's up, hand's outstretched. There's a sudden thrill, a subtle thrill, as another takes your grasp and lets you spin around the room. Following you, maybe leading you, you don't know. The confusion from peripheral imagery flying by, constantly changing but always... Read More
"Abandon"
Somebody's counting on you, you know. Somebody needs you to stand up and walk through that open door. Who? Maybe you don't know. Why? Maybe you don't care. But somebody needs you. Do you stay in your seat, safely wedged in between a woman who won't shut up... Read More
"Falling Through Life Like Sky Through Rainbow"
You remember what it feels like. The moment of realization that made all the preceding moments of frustration worth it. It works, and now you know why. You now have the choice to stand on your own two feet and make your own decisions. The person holding your hand... Read More
"Motion"
Tell me one more time and I might believe it. I might, maybe, perhaps, except that I already know it's a lie. I've always known it was a lie, and until recently, I didn't care. Some part of me hoped that you'd stretch the truth so far, the truth itself would snap out of it. Belief is a... Read More
"A Weight the Wind Will Not Carry"
In the waning days of Autumn there's a bridge to nowhere that two will cross anyway. Falling leaves dance a last dance before hitting the ground, waiting for a wind to carry them back across. Hued skin embraces the White of Snow, and for an instant, hearts beat in... Read More
Friday, October 30, 2009
A Sunset Backwards
Time's subjectivity makes me laugh. Sleep never lasts long enough and the workday is always too long. Someone once told me that I'm lost in my dreams, but how can a person get lost in something that goes away to an electronic beep at six in the morning? Being found shouldn't happen in a bedroom. Not unless what's lost is a wallet or a set of keys. Then again, who cares about a wallet when there's no money? Screw the credit cards. It'd be a blessing in disguise to lose those bastards.
Think of the store around the corner. Now imagine walking there. Of course you won't, since it's too far and the car runs just fine. Of course, while you drive the two minutes you'll wonder why the fuck you didn't just walk. Distance likes to hide in the mire of subjectivity, too. Swamps have a nasty habit of encroaching my mind when I'm sick of humidity and big bugs. Makes me wish for Wal-Mart to come in and clear out the land so I can get discount prices. But then I'll swap stories about how this place used to be a beautiful wilderness. Maybe that's why so many people choose to live in the desert... the grass isn't greener on the other side, because there's only tumbleweed.
So where does one go when the landscape turns brown? The North Star doesn't point anywhere useful, it just reminds us that when we're lost, we at least know one cardinal direction. If only the mountains weren't blocking my view. Few have the energy to climb, and the burning cigarette lets me know that even fewer have the lungs. Five minutes of life, lost. But are they a happy five minutes? Time that goes by so fast that we don't even notice? If that's the case, then who cares? Light up and smile. And if they're an unhappy five minutes, and a long life is what you're after, acknowledge the fact that your lifespan has increased subjectively. It doesn't matter what the statistics say. We already know. There's nothing new under the Sun.
Can't recall the last sunrise that warmed my smile... Maybe if I remember a sunset backwards.
Think of the store around the corner. Now imagine walking there. Of course you won't, since it's too far and the car runs just fine. Of course, while you drive the two minutes you'll wonder why the fuck you didn't just walk. Distance likes to hide in the mire of subjectivity, too. Swamps have a nasty habit of encroaching my mind when I'm sick of humidity and big bugs. Makes me wish for Wal-Mart to come in and clear out the land so I can get discount prices. But then I'll swap stories about how this place used to be a beautiful wilderness. Maybe that's why so many people choose to live in the desert... the grass isn't greener on the other side, because there's only tumbleweed.
So where does one go when the landscape turns brown? The North Star doesn't point anywhere useful, it just reminds us that when we're lost, we at least know one cardinal direction. If only the mountains weren't blocking my view. Few have the energy to climb, and the burning cigarette lets me know that even fewer have the lungs. Five minutes of life, lost. But are they a happy five minutes? Time that goes by so fast that we don't even notice? If that's the case, then who cares? Light up and smile. And if they're an unhappy five minutes, and a long life is what you're after, acknowledge the fact that your lifespan has increased subjectively. It doesn't matter what the statistics say. We already know. There's nothing new under the Sun.
Can't recall the last sunrise that warmed my smile... Maybe if I remember a sunset backwards.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Destination Unknown
Instinct failed the species. The ability to think developed as some sort of misguided chance to survive. Yes and no were suddenly abstract concepts, shedding their emotional components in the face of nascent logic. Magic disappeared over time. And the world became a series of facts in the realm of the understood, misunderstood, a place to escape. Someone said the sky was falling, and everyone believed it except for the trees.
Blue was no longer just blue, but shades of sensations related to standing in the rain. Refreshing for some, while others just run around and get wet. No longer was the process of eating merely the process of finding food. Food needed to taste good and, despite where it all winds up, has to look good. A convolution of primal nature than only the ability to think could create. Intelligent design is a myth that only adds aesthetic to an equation that the universe couldn't care less about.
Footprints in the sand have long been replaced by rubber and metal streaks on long strips of frozen oil. The moon has been touched by the bodies of men. Thinking takes us everywhere, and nowhere at all. We're still here, after all, and we always have been. Artists and scientists create the vast landscape of interpretation that the rest of us struggle to tread through. Nobody really wants to be where they are... with thought came regret... and an ounce of it can poison the ocean that is memory.
Leave it to thought to turn migration from a seasonal activity into a curious one. Knowledge is better for it, but is existence? Atheists and a theist can't seem to agree, which probably means they're all wrong. No one knows where they're going, they just think they know they're going to get there, so perhaps they're all right. The world is a large place until you've seen it all. And when that happens, you can just make up another.
Plans have failed for so long, maybe you're like me and have decided to give instinct a try. One last grasp at magic, so to speak; an attempt to break free from the cage of thought. Someone said the sky is falling, but I know that's a lie, for I've fallen out of it and it didn't hit the ground with me. Or maybe it did but my view was blocked. Perhaps I should have stayed and taken a longer look around. Perhaps, but at the time I don't think I cared. It happens. I really don't even care where I'm heading, as long as it's out of this place.
I just want some air to breathe.
Blue was no longer just blue, but shades of sensations related to standing in the rain. Refreshing for some, while others just run around and get wet. No longer was the process of eating merely the process of finding food. Food needed to taste good and, despite where it all winds up, has to look good. A convolution of primal nature than only the ability to think could create. Intelligent design is a myth that only adds aesthetic to an equation that the universe couldn't care less about.
Footprints in the sand have long been replaced by rubber and metal streaks on long strips of frozen oil. The moon has been touched by the bodies of men. Thinking takes us everywhere, and nowhere at all. We're still here, after all, and we always have been. Artists and scientists create the vast landscape of interpretation that the rest of us struggle to tread through. Nobody really wants to be where they are... with thought came regret... and an ounce of it can poison the ocean that is memory.
Leave it to thought to turn migration from a seasonal activity into a curious one. Knowledge is better for it, but is existence? Atheists and a theist can't seem to agree, which probably means they're all wrong. No one knows where they're going, they just think they know they're going to get there, so perhaps they're all right. The world is a large place until you've seen it all. And when that happens, you can just make up another.
Plans have failed for so long, maybe you're like me and have decided to give instinct a try. One last grasp at magic, so to speak; an attempt to break free from the cage of thought. Someone said the sky is falling, but I know that's a lie, for I've fallen out of it and it didn't hit the ground with me. Or maybe it did but my view was blocked. Perhaps I should have stayed and taken a longer look around. Perhaps, but at the time I don't think I cared. It happens. I really don't even care where I'm heading, as long as it's out of this place.
I just want some air to breathe.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Potential Energy
Leg's trying to kick, but it's hard to throw a foot when sitting down. The night air is crisp and the lights of the local excuse for a city beckon with false promises of forgetful adventure. There's music I haven't heard somewhere, but I'll be damned to know what it is. Today's cigarette didn't help... my lungs still want to scream and I want to run. It's time to go, but who the fuck knows where?
Dan Black's kicking on the radio, but nobody here knows who he is. The night air envelops the truck and a breeze that lacks humidity feels good across the side of your face. There's a new restaurant on the corner of a new building in a shopping center, and the restaurant next to that one is closed for business. Japanese food. It might be good, but you've already driven by. Nicotine gum is a piss-poor replacement for a friendly burn. Self-destruction can be fun if done properly.
The Merlot's been chilled a little too much, but who gives a shit? The night brings moths and spiders to the artificial light above your head and below your ceiling. There's a new book that has to be read, even before the other book that's been started but not yet finished. Why worry if the plots will mesh together in your mind? You briefly find it funny that growing marijuana is slowly gaining legality, while growing tobacco is quickly becoming a futile exercise. The water at the beach is undeniably warm, and it's a wonder the desire to go swimming in the moonlight hasn't been succumbed to yet. Writing in the passive voice sure adds a lot of forms of "to be" to a paragraph, doesn't it?
Life's picking up speed, and people you don't want to leave behind are going to be left behind. Hell, people you didn't want to leave you behind have left you behind. Everything's too kinetic these days. What's wrong with having a conversation behind smoke-filled eyes? Sure, your clothes will stink, but if everybody does it, no one will notice. There sure are a lot of beautiful women in life. And their legs are kicking. You'd better behave, asshole.
It's time to go. Have a cigarette across state lines. It might taste better there.
"They annoy me, those who employ me. They could destroy me. They should enjoy me." - Dan Black
Dan Black's kicking on the radio, but nobody here knows who he is. The night air envelops the truck and a breeze that lacks humidity feels good across the side of your face. There's a new restaurant on the corner of a new building in a shopping center, and the restaurant next to that one is closed for business. Japanese food. It might be good, but you've already driven by. Nicotine gum is a piss-poor replacement for a friendly burn. Self-destruction can be fun if done properly.
The Merlot's been chilled a little too much, but who gives a shit? The night brings moths and spiders to the artificial light above your head and below your ceiling. There's a new book that has to be read, even before the other book that's been started but not yet finished. Why worry if the plots will mesh together in your mind? You briefly find it funny that growing marijuana is slowly gaining legality, while growing tobacco is quickly becoming a futile exercise. The water at the beach is undeniably warm, and it's a wonder the desire to go swimming in the moonlight hasn't been succumbed to yet. Writing in the passive voice sure adds a lot of forms of "to be" to a paragraph, doesn't it?
Life's picking up speed, and people you don't want to leave behind are going to be left behind. Hell, people you didn't want to leave you behind have left you behind. Everything's too kinetic these days. What's wrong with having a conversation behind smoke-filled eyes? Sure, your clothes will stink, but if everybody does it, no one will notice. There sure are a lot of beautiful women in life. And their legs are kicking. You'd better behave, asshole.
It's time to go. Have a cigarette across state lines. It might taste better there.
"They annoy me, those who employ me. They could destroy me. They should enjoy me." - Dan Black
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Fearless
No, there are no guarantees, just like there are no answers. Logic is not sovereign here. Magic should be, but it isn't. No one is sure either exists. Intention matters only to the one intending, the rest will judge execution, and rationality has been executed. Suicide seemed so exhilarating until waking up in the arms of a dead lover.
Heads roll, not from the guillotine, but from the thoughtless purity of lust. Love is little more than justification for brash decision, and this is why it is compared to war. Both take their victims, and the survivors move on. The face that launched a thousand ships destroyed two countries and created another, undiscovered. Fears are shed for those left behind as she sails beyond the horizon.
No testament, old or new, has ever revealed what it means to be human. "Because," is a pitiful answer to the question, "Why?" The wisest don't even ask. Lords and Kings fall because they are not their fathers. Fathers fail because they do not choose their daughters. And if their favorite remains silent, what does it matter that subjects remain foolishly loyal? What she wants is known only to herself.
If it's going to happen, there's no need to worry about it. Silence is a torture, but she's persisted a decade; there's no reason to question her impatience. Summer has begun, and misunderstood dreams will follow. Her balcony never seemed so far away, but it's not too high to climb. An arm is outstretched, though it's unclear if she's offering her hand or keeping her distance. Perhaps she's waiting for the Fall.
Take the hand. What is there to lose?
Heads roll, not from the guillotine, but from the thoughtless purity of lust. Love is little more than justification for brash decision, and this is why it is compared to war. Both take their victims, and the survivors move on. The face that launched a thousand ships destroyed two countries and created another, undiscovered. Fears are shed for those left behind as she sails beyond the horizon.
No testament, old or new, has ever revealed what it means to be human. "Because," is a pitiful answer to the question, "Why?" The wisest don't even ask. Lords and Kings fall because they are not their fathers. Fathers fail because they do not choose their daughters. And if their favorite remains silent, what does it matter that subjects remain foolishly loyal? What she wants is known only to herself.
If it's going to happen, there's no need to worry about it. Silence is a torture, but she's persisted a decade; there's no reason to question her impatience. Summer has begun, and misunderstood dreams will follow. Her balcony never seemed so far away, but it's not too high to climb. An arm is outstretched, though it's unclear if she's offering her hand or keeping her distance. Perhaps she's waiting for the Fall.
Take the hand. What is there to lose?
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Momentum
You're carried in the direction you're already going, spinning out of control since you lost control. It's human nature to flinch. Nobody would fault you for letting go of the steering wheel, but you let go simply because you like the way it looks as it turns. Body crashes forward through cold, hard glass as everything else starts rolling to the left. This is going to leave marks, and most will never be seen. Why you're smiling as the world starts tumbling is beyond me.
Finish that thought coming out of your mouth and things will change direction. Speed, too. It's called velocity, and its sudden stop hurts. That you choose words like you choose ammunition is both your boon and bane. A wound that draws blood will heal, but wounds that draw pain echo in memory. You haven't slowed down, merely turned sharply, and everyone vomits. Life is revealed as the cruel joke it is, but at least you're finally laughing now.
You're carried by a canopy of silk dragging you away from the aircraft. You've been trained to change direction, "slip away" they call it, but that lie only works when standing on the ground. Wind is the only master up here, and your wings are false. The only thing slipping away is sanity, sliding into fear. Pain wakes you up again as you hit the ground. One way or another, you're going to hurt. You're laughing so hard, you're crying.
Every mistake you've ever made has put you on this road, in this place. Right here, right now is nothing more than the sum of your actions, driven blindly until you wound up where you needed to be. A ticket would’ve brought you here; a map would've shown you the way, but fewer roads would’ve been taken. Without control, there's no way to learn from fucking up; without wrong turns, there's no way to know what was missed. The joke is over.
You're carried by emotion, unaware of any thought. Why your opponent deserved a blackened eye doesn't matter. Maybe you were pushed to the ground like you remembered, but that won't be on the video. Anger finds a strange way to release itself, because it can't be held for long. What's worse is that you like it. It's said that love makes the world go 'round, but you know that's not true. Love does nothing. Sin is responsible for progress. But now you know, and you can smile again.
Taking the long way around finally seems worth it. Experience has tempered impatience, though swinging pendulum remains a persistent enemy. Too early and you wouldn't have been ready; too late and she would have been gone. Reaction and thought travel at the speed of light, and though there's hesitation between sunset and sunrise, it doesn't matter. Dreams happen in the dark when roads are harder to see.
You’re carried by momentum, realizing that love does nothing because it wants to be seen as you drive by. She's standing in the way and you're looking forward to the impact. Broken glass will be soft and warm. Why you’re smiling as the world starts tumbling finally makes sense. It’s too late to stop, and you didn’t want to, anyway.
Finish that thought coming out of your mouth and things will change direction. Speed, too. It's called velocity, and its sudden stop hurts. That you choose words like you choose ammunition is both your boon and bane. A wound that draws blood will heal, but wounds that draw pain echo in memory. You haven't slowed down, merely turned sharply, and everyone vomits. Life is revealed as the cruel joke it is, but at least you're finally laughing now.
You're carried by a canopy of silk dragging you away from the aircraft. You've been trained to change direction, "slip away" they call it, but that lie only works when standing on the ground. Wind is the only master up here, and your wings are false. The only thing slipping away is sanity, sliding into fear. Pain wakes you up again as you hit the ground. One way or another, you're going to hurt. You're laughing so hard, you're crying.
Every mistake you've ever made has put you on this road, in this place. Right here, right now is nothing more than the sum of your actions, driven blindly until you wound up where you needed to be. A ticket would’ve brought you here; a map would've shown you the way, but fewer roads would’ve been taken. Without control, there's no way to learn from fucking up; without wrong turns, there's no way to know what was missed. The joke is over.
You're carried by emotion, unaware of any thought. Why your opponent deserved a blackened eye doesn't matter. Maybe you were pushed to the ground like you remembered, but that won't be on the video. Anger finds a strange way to release itself, because it can't be held for long. What's worse is that you like it. It's said that love makes the world go 'round, but you know that's not true. Love does nothing. Sin is responsible for progress. But now you know, and you can smile again.
Taking the long way around finally seems worth it. Experience has tempered impatience, though swinging pendulum remains a persistent enemy. Too early and you wouldn't have been ready; too late and she would have been gone. Reaction and thought travel at the speed of light, and though there's hesitation between sunset and sunrise, it doesn't matter. Dreams happen in the dark when roads are harder to see.
You’re carried by momentum, realizing that love does nothing because it wants to be seen as you drive by. She's standing in the way and you're looking forward to the impact. Broken glass will be soft and warm. Why you’re smiling as the world starts tumbling finally makes sense. It’s too late to stop, and you didn’t want to, anyway.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
North Countries
To the young, the death of youth seems a cause to celebrate. In the summer between graduation and whatever happens next, there's an endless festival of singing and dancing away adolescent inhibitions. A wait begins for the freedom of adulthood that will never come, ultimately replaced by the recognition that the death of youth is cause to mourn.
For one, there is another wait, but of this he is unaware. He remembers its beginning, a day secured in memory. Winds from northern California, turning into gusts off the Sierra Nevadas, swept through her hair. Blonde reflection in the lights of the biggest little city in the world seemed an overwhelming image in carnival mirror. A friend's cruel intention prevented further encounter, but subconscious wiser than he etched her face in thoughtful watercolor and safely kept it from fading in the sun.
Gusts continuing their course pushed him to a life as a soldier. North Carolina winds became faithful companion to young paratrooper and carried him safely to the ground on many occasions. Though she would often occur to him, immaturity spared him painful reflection and granted an absence of yearning. A curious safety net for an occupation in which thought is an enemy of balance and instinct, the tightrope. The circus of life had provided an unusual, merciful respite.
A gentle westerly blew him further East, as far as East as it could take him. And not once, but twice. In a realization of unhappiness, he hastily fought against the currents and returned to the place he thought was home, but found only enemy hearts and broken dreams. Ever loyal winds soon carried him back to the Atlantic, where a wait lasting over a decade abruptly came to an end. Blonde reflection in the lights of experienced eyes, nostalgia and euphoria in elegant jamboree.
Still, there are few happy endings in life, and thanks to the errant timing of hurricane, his wait will begin anew. This time he will not be spared the yearning, but it no longer matters. He knows now that he's spent his entire life waiting for something, and now that he finally knows that the object of his patience exists, he'll gladly wait once more. He's peripherally aware that he'll never see her again, but he'll wait. If necessary, all the way until his funeral.
For now, he will sing and dance away fearful inhibitions. And dream of the girl of north country fair.
For one, there is another wait, but of this he is unaware. He remembers its beginning, a day secured in memory. Winds from northern California, turning into gusts off the Sierra Nevadas, swept through her hair. Blonde reflection in the lights of the biggest little city in the world seemed an overwhelming image in carnival mirror. A friend's cruel intention prevented further encounter, but subconscious wiser than he etched her face in thoughtful watercolor and safely kept it from fading in the sun.
Gusts continuing their course pushed him to a life as a soldier. North Carolina winds became faithful companion to young paratrooper and carried him safely to the ground on many occasions. Though she would often occur to him, immaturity spared him painful reflection and granted an absence of yearning. A curious safety net for an occupation in which thought is an enemy of balance and instinct, the tightrope. The circus of life had provided an unusual, merciful respite.
A gentle westerly blew him further East, as far as East as it could take him. And not once, but twice. In a realization of unhappiness, he hastily fought against the currents and returned to the place he thought was home, but found only enemy hearts and broken dreams. Ever loyal winds soon carried him back to the Atlantic, where a wait lasting over a decade abruptly came to an end. Blonde reflection in the lights of experienced eyes, nostalgia and euphoria in elegant jamboree.
Still, there are few happy endings in life, and thanks to the errant timing of hurricane, his wait will begin anew. This time he will not be spared the yearning, but it no longer matters. He knows now that he's spent his entire life waiting for something, and now that he finally knows that the object of his patience exists, he'll gladly wait once more. He's peripherally aware that he'll never see her again, but he'll wait. If necessary, all the way until his funeral.
For now, he will sing and dance away fearful inhibitions. And dream of the girl of north country fair.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Stardust
A slumbering impatience burns away as falling star touches the crown of the world. Light begins to scatter as an aimless journey finally reveals its destination. Joy gives way to melancholy as ground quickly approaches, bringing the realization that this view is being captured for the first and final time.
An all too brief glimpse of beauty, blue and white, as friction melts away fear. Her body, once an imposing reflection in the distance, now seems inviting... a fitting place to rest. There's a scream of triumph as youthful lust streaks through cloud, finally knowing what it means to fly.
The lives of others pass by as emotion and sensation, frozen for so long and long since forgotten, reawaken in time to enjoy falling in love. The impact will take but a mere moment, but it will be in her arms. The mystery of gravity finally solved.
Oh, what a view she was.
An all too brief glimpse of beauty, blue and white, as friction melts away fear. Her body, once an imposing reflection in the distance, now seems inviting... a fitting place to rest. There's a scream of triumph as youthful lust streaks through cloud, finally knowing what it means to fly.
The lives of others pass by as emotion and sensation, frozen for so long and long since forgotten, reawaken in time to enjoy falling in love. The impact will take but a mere moment, but it will be in her arms. The mystery of gravity finally solved.
Oh, what a view she was.
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