Wednesday, October 31, 2012

The Better Love


Could someone please explain …. where the blazes is the time going this year?  It seems to be flying by so fast.  Tomorrow is November already, done with the Halloween shenanigans and preparing for yuletide elf duties.  This year, with all of its blessings and a few imprudent decisions still has a little bit of life to be lived yet and obviously, more words to be written.  I can honestly say that since I’ve started this blog, I have been focused on and always mindful of literary pursuits so reading and writing has really started to fulfill me in a way it never has before.  That is a good feeling.  Fostering my artist and feeding the Muse, nothing like it.  It helps to move through things that offer emotional strain, it helps to then find solace in the comfort of comrades and it is helpful to know joy in acknowledging gratitude when the chips are down.  I tend to break out in a ruby red rash of sentimentality when I feel a year closing in.  Come November, inching toward the Christmas season my mushy heart tends to be verbose with love and thankfulness for just about everything and everyone I love. 

One of the things I really love is being part of the Open Heart Forgery gang.  I submitted a poem for the latest edition that is available for public consumption throughout the Halifax area.  I am working on a little something now to submit for the very last edition of 2012 but in the meantime, here is the poem that can be seen compiled with other talented local writers  in the latest issue:

The Better Love

the better love
was left behind

its weight
pressed into
tight stanzas

undefined
undetermined

denied

the better love
was disadvantaged

deprived of ripeness

the better love
was the best love

now unrequited
the saddest love

of all

Universal theme, no?  Something I believe each and every one of us can relate to or has related to.  Unrequited love, never felt so good as it does in a poem. 


I finally finished reading John Taylor’s memoir, In The Pleasure Groove.  I savoured every page to make it last as long as I could.  His story is one not so uncommon for those whose rise to fame was fast and furious but in saying that, none too revealing.  He came across as apologetic which I expected knowing the tender soul he is and very protective of those he holds closest.  His loyalty is endearing and I did learn a few new things about the guy whose face was plastered all over my bedroom wall for much of my teen years.  And while I know it was a brave undertaking to share his story, I feel as if he held a lot back and skimmed the surface instead of really digging deep.  I understand the reservations of sharing so it is not a true criticism but more of an observation and that I understand what it is to bear your soul in words.  It’s not an easy task. I just know that it was lovely to spend time reading about someone I have admired for my whole life and whose career has broadened my knowledge and tastes for other kinds of music, art and authors and by virtue of a loving fan-based, introduced me to some of the most amazing people I am happy to call friend.  I’ve always been in the pleasure groove because I am a fan of his and continue to revel in the music he creates with my favorite band.  It’s one of those things that has defined who I am and led me to so many fascinating discoveries.  The beat goes on.

Now that I’m done Mr. Taylor’s book I have decided I am going to make the commitment to re-read all of Carol Shields’ books.  I am still missing her volume about Jane Austen but it shall be mine.  I plucked Unless down from my shelf this morning to carry along to work with me.  I decided to start with Reta’s tale because it delves into my most prized virtue, gratitude.  Carol Shields was a stunning scribe.  She made ordinary things extraordinary, built memorable characters and imagined stories that leave you full of humanity and wonderment.  She is also a hero of mine painted by a completely different brush.  I’m pleased with myself for coming up with the bright idea to enjoy her books again as I have many times over.  My insides will be rich and my breathing will come easy as it always does with time spent in her stories.

Happy last day of October, Halloween.  It’s raining and windy here today, residual effects of Hurricane Sandy who has devastated much of the East Coast of the US.  This weather could pose a real problem tonight for the littles out and about trick or treating.  I had my Halloween fun on Saturday evening with my best friend, hamming it up as a trailer trashy gal, complete with a wig that had beer cans for curlers.  It was a fun time, being silly and being in the company of folks who enjoy laughing, spooky treats and good music.  I suppose though if there are no little ghouls to claim tonight’s treats, I’ll have to eat them all. Aww shucks.

Remember kids, witches don’t like to fly their brooms when they are angry for fear they will fly off the handle.

In propinquity,
Nic



Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Aubade



Aubade is a fabulous word.  I fell in love with it and couldn’t stop thinking about it so I did what comes naturally, I wrote a poem.  Aubade is the opposite of serenade, one a morning song, the other of the evening.   By definition, aubade is in fact a ‘song of the morning’ and has also been defined as ‘a song or instrumental composition concerning, accompanying or evoking daybreak’.  If you were to take it at its literal meaning, as it was intended, it would be ‘a song from a door or a window to a sleeping woman’.

In poet John Donne’s heyday, aubades were written from time to time, including his piece, ‘The Sunne Rising’, a striking English example expressing the original intent of the poem type boasting courtly love.  In more modern times aubades have taken on a more abstract theme one of a person parting at daybreak as opposed to separating from a lover.  A prime example being the poetically charged piece simply titled ‘Aubade’ by Philip Larkin (it’s worth a search in Google if you are a poetry head).

In the Middle Ages, aubades were often repertory of troubadours and their travelling ways.  The more modern day scribes have taken it upon themselves to experiment and have bent the rules to allow for a more flexible meaning and a broader reach for the subject.  I think both versions are wonderful.

Aubade

the hour is hollow
après sunrise

the moon lifts
arousing dawn

&

a tiny song
sung softly

in a hushed whisper
between parceled lips

awakens the blue
clarity of daylight

dialogue between
parting lovers

is mournful

affection is evanescent

**

Sing your heart out.

In propinquity,
Nic

PS – A wonderfully talented writer friend sent me some great thoughts on ‘Whistle’ and I’m happy to report that because of her smart feedback I am expounding on the writing to strengthen their story. I'm a touch excited.


Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Curriculum Vitae, Ars Poetica


I was playing around with words today, stealing seconds and minutes throughout between busy spurts at my work desk.  I had difficulty focusing on any one thing for too long; my head has been pounding like a bass drum for forty-eight hours now but somehow I still managed to pull up my proverbial socks and stay lucid and poetic-y.  This verse was a mere shell, scratches on scrap paper and then I started working it around until it was singing up at me.  It’s a little on the esoteric side I know but I’m going to save this one for the next Open Heart Forgery reading.  I can’t wait to unleash it and read it aloud.

It’s really just about writers and what they do, how they do it, why and for whom.  I admit, I often would only write for myself but now that I have this little home on the interweb I’m content to share my words instead of hoarding them in writing books tucked away for safe keeping.  I’m all about letting words breathe now, less tense about releasing what I write and so pleased to have friendly readers (even if you don’t always enjoy or ‘get’ what you’re reading, I still appreciate you being here).


Curriculum Vitae, Ars Poetica  

Discreetly, in my own words
& in my own passionate assignation
I have anthologized my last soliloquy
& all that has escaped me.

With the aid of notable presence,
active exercises
& conceptualized patterns

supreme fiction and paradoxes
inhabit the middle.

What is written first
& the last voluble lexes
disclose the shapes of the world
mirrored against my internal theatre.

With ambition, I seek
stronger sympathies for artistic labor
by my oblique ability to infiltrate
rococo ingenuity & lure capricious counterparts.

I, without hesitation, by my own assertion
endorse charmingly ribald admissions
that the veneration of my elevated artist

is

imaginative realism
dominated by the constant desire
to upend conventional expectations.

Abstain your banishing of poetic currency
from the support of penciled illustrations
look forward to the precipice of peace
& permit me to push the margins of excess.

This bookish ideal has persisted for centuries
& whether it was meant to confirm or deceive
a litany of language remains a constant curiosity.

Cease to falter on a fulcrum of reservation
or consent your acute perspective to hinge
on egregious grammar & snarled semantics
it is certain the result is commonly chimeric.

Subtly, in my own pristine voice
& in my own arcane acknowledgment
I am the architect of a true sequential story
& all that I have been hard done by.

Don’t leave me to weep
don’t repudiate my place

or

deny me the challenge to
cultivate an audience for poetry.

It’s a writer’s life,
& an extraordinary duty.

Visit me, my entangled alliances
& my fine assortment of verses.

I am a good hostess,
let me read to you.


 **

And as a sidenote: once I’m finished reading John Taylor’s highly anticipated memoir Into The Pleasure Groove, I’m going to dig in and explore some of Wallace Stevens work.  How did I not know how wonderful he was before this!? I can’t wait to read every poem he’s written.

Second sidenote: thanks so much to everyone who stopped by to read ‘Whistle’.  I received so many lovely notes of praise and even some constructive criticism, all of which were so appreciated.  It was also quite a coo to have my Dad who has so often in the past toted my lust for writing as a passing fancy lament how much he liked it and proceeded to ask open-ended questions about the characters and then where I planned to submit it?  Alternate universe? Perhaps but still a welcome surprise.  So thank you again for taking time out of your busy lives to read and share your thoughts.  It means oodles.

In propinquity,
Nic

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Whistle - A Short Prose Piece


I have been obsessed with the US election debacle.  In my downtime I spend some of it reading the latest news from the Globe & Mail, The Huffington Post and Salon.  Somewhere along the way, in my reading,  I saw a reader comment and the poster’s name was Joseph Whistle.  Quirky and unique.  It stuck in my mind and eventually a character started to form around the name, bones, beginnings and then he took full shape into the man I’ve come to know on paper as Joseph William Whistle. 

I promised myself I would get back into the practice of prose.  Obviously as you can ascertain from my blog posts, I have procrastinated.  I made a goal last Fall to write a short story.  Failed.  Then I made a promise to myself in the Spring, broke that promise.  It’s only now, having stumbled over such a peculiar name that I have written and finished (perhaps for now) and new piece of prose.  I shared it with a few friendly readers who offered kind words so I feel confident to share it here with you now. 

I also have to thank my Mom.  She proofread it for me and served as my second set of eyes, catching little oopsies that my familiar eyes kept missing.

Initially, the story belonged to Mr. Whistle but as I kept writing, Caroline’s voice became stronger and it was her POV that stood out.  It was such a pleasure spending the better part of this week with them, listening to Big Band music, exploring history and a love story sustained by friendship and the ability to overcome hardship in the face of adversity.  Their story is positive, passionate and spiritual. 

After reading ‘Whistle’ one of my friendly readers said that it reminded him of his grandparents.  His Grandma used to say she looked forward to going to sleep so she could see Sam, her husband.  It solidified my time spent with the Whistles and in a very clear way, made me feel like I had done them justice.

I hope you enjoy.



Whistle

“Of bowlers, bonnets, beanies and berets, you my darling Joseph William Whistle, look most dashing in the former.”   My husband loved when I’d say that to him as he pulled on his gray woolen overcoat, tied his favorite weathered burgundy cashmere scarf around his neck and topped his thin snow white hair with his reliable bowler hat; hard felt with a rounded crown and small curled rim. He’d sweetly reply, “Of all the sapphires, rubies and diamonds in the world, you my darling Caroline Isobel Whistle, shine brighter than them all.”   Faithfully, he’d kiss me softly against my cheek and be off to take Beans for a walk. 

Joseph loved Beans more than anything in the world. Well, Beans and his big band record collection of course. There were so many occasions where I’d arrive home from playing bridge at the Women’s League to find Joseph sitting in that old threadbare wing back chair, puffing on a pipe, reveling in the sounds of Dinah Shore or Harry James with that little brown terrier curled up in his lap.  So in love they were.  Man and dog, the best of friends.

We had a short courtship, a painful and frightening separation early on and a long, loving marriage.  He was the only man I ever loved, my purpose and my hero.  The days pass slowly now that he’s gone but I use my time wisely to remember bygone days fondly and to honour my husband’s life and his gifts to the world.

We met in early August, 1939.  Halifax was bustling and come fall I was slated for secretary school, a fair seventeen year-old with wide eyes focused on the future.  I spent summer days with girlfriends lounging on Silver Sands Beach, sunning and reading.  I was serious about escaping the confines of what was expected of women then, house-cleaning, motherhood, ‘female enslavement’ I used to call it.   I was smart, curious and nothing got past me.  Quite a quandary for my mother to have a daughter with qualities back then that could have been considered nuisances.  No man liked an intelligent woman with a head on her shoulders, except for Joseph Whistle.  In true Joseph style, he was horsing around with a few of his soldier buddies in the sand.  I was minding my own business and he went and tripped right over me, landing across my legs.  Flustered and sweaty, he looked up at my exasperated face and his broke into the widest of grins.  “I do believe I’ve fallen for you, little lass.”  I thwacked him with my newspaper in disbelief and he broke out in a fit of boisterous laughter.  I couldn’t help but laugh too.  His face, red with comedy and his strong handsome jaw line pressed into my leg caused a flood of dizziness through me, but it was his eyes, kind blue eyes that made me fall instantly in love with him.

Later that night, we waltzed in the dance hall and when it was time to part ways, he kissed my forehead, tipped my chin and backed away slowly, “You haven’t seen the last of me, little lass. Isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell I can stay away from you.” We were inseparable for the next few weeks, embarking on adventure after adventure, kissing in corners and talking.  Boy did we talk.  About our dreams, our future together, me with a good job making my own money, and someday after his time served in the military, his writing career.  Whistle was an audacious man, gallant; spirited except he wasn’t showy or arrogant but splendid.  He was respectful, had good manners, good looks, an exquisite wardrobe and impeccable taste.  We fit.  Perfectly.  In passion and in perseverance. It was a very innocent time.   I relish those early days together before the war.

The beginning of the Second World War fell on September 1st, 1939 when Germany invaded Poland.  Six days after war was declared Joseph joined his brothers of the 1st Canadian Infantry Division and landed in Britain on January 1st, 1940.  Every day he was gone was a struggle.  Our tearful goodbye left a giant hole in my chest.  It was so difficult to stay focused on my school-work, worrying and wondering if he was ok, praying, and I prayed so hard, for a quick resolution and his safe return.  We wrote letters, I more than him.  Once in a while I would find his handwritten assurances waiting for me in the mailbox, messages of hope and strength and sometimes desperation.  In every letter he would muse, “Your sweet face keeps me safe, my darling Caroline.  Wait for me.”  I’d always reply, “I’ll wait two lifetimes for you if must, my darling.”  And I would have.

My Joseph returned to Canada, one of the 540,000 wounded in the war.  Severe leg injury.  They told him he may lose it but managed to save it.  They told him he’d never walk without some kind of aid but he refused to believe it and worked tirelessly throughout his therapies.  He said to me one particularly trying day while trying to go without his leg brace, “Cazzy, as soon as I’m steady on both feet, I’m going to marry you and we’ll dance every day after.”  I held back my tears, encouraged him and said I looked forward to being his wife.   “We make a good team, little lass.”  We certainly did.

He didn’t talk much about the war.  About combat or the things he did or saw, especially not about his brief incarceration in a German POW camp.  I’d sometimes ask him questions when he’d wake up in a cold sweat from night terrors.  Hoping that perhaps talking about it would help alleviate some of the trauma he bottled up inside.  Those efforts were always unsuccessful and often my queries angered him.  I would wake to a heartfelt apology and a wash of sadness when he would say to me, “I don’t want to share the horrible things with you, Cazzy.  I need you to look at me with loving eyes, not fear or loathing.  The way you look at me is how I survive.”  I decided it was best to honour his wishes.  He lost so many comrades because of the war, the pain that invaded his eyes was too much for either of us to bear so we devised an unspoken agreement to leave the past behind us and work at moving forward.

Joseph trumped them all and was successful conquering the leg brace.  We were married at Christ Church in downtown Dartmouth, scattered family and friends present.  I wore a simple v-neck shaped neckline, with bust and waistline emphasized by soft shoulder gatherings, the veil was hip-length and scalloped with modest embroidery. Underneath the veil, my tresses were coiled in tight twists, the rollers were carefully removed so the curls would stay firmly in place which proved to be an arduous task.  Joseph, much to his dismay but at the urging of his over-bearing mother, wore his service uniform.  He had his heart set on wearing his recently procured bowler hat with a tuxedo style suit.  At his mother’s insistence though, he denied his own wishes and fulfilled hers.

There he was, my darling husband, gracious and sincere, mingling with our guests, raising the roof with his witty jokes and shenanigans, sweeping the dance floor with his mended leg, so agile you’d never know he'd suffered devastating injuries.

And so it began, finally, our life together.  I committed myself to a man with a startling eye for beauty, for intricacies, an untapped reserve for patience, someone who was emotionally sophisticated despite his time overseas.  I’d often tell him he was an old soul full of new life.  He’d quip with his prominent Whistle chuckle, “I’ve got eight lives left, little lass and I’m spending them all with you.”

I was doing well working as a secretary in the office for Woolworths, Joseph spent his days in our little house around the corner from the church we were married in, writing.  He had always intended to write long epic stories based on the history books he loved to read but when he sat down to write all that came to him were limericks, poems and children’s tales.  He wrote non-stop.  I’d arrive home for dinner every day and find him clacking away at his Underwood typewriter, pages strewn everywhere.  He delighted in his children’s writings and a publishing contract followed.  Joseph was a natural born story-teller, he’d visit schools and share stories with the children.  He loved their lack of pretension he said.  Joseph’s foray into children’s literature came from the fact that his war injuries hindered the ability to have children of our own.  There were no visible scars but the ones you can’t see are always the worst of them all.  To compensate, he’d throw his wild and colourful imagination into stories of dragons and fairies and far away lands full of adventure, puns, poems and prose.  Illustrated of course by his skilled hands.  “Publish or perish.” He’d always say with a twinkle in his eye.

Children’s literature led Joseph to a venture that we both made handsome profits from.  Publishing.  He branched out from writing to publishing and mentoring young writers.  I left my well-paying post at Woolworths so that I could work along-side my husband.  I answered his telephone, took his messages, organized his calendar, calculated his books and before long, Whistle Publishing was a full-fledged success.  Started off in our kitchen then grew so big we had to rent space in Halifax to accommodate our needs.  Every Christmas he and I would dress as Mr. and Mrs. Claus for our in-house Christmas party. Whistle could ho-ho-ho better than the real Santa they all said and those precious children would climb into Joseph’s lap and tell him what they wanted for Christmas.  They had no problem listing their wishes, a new bicycle, a doll, one boy even asked for a new nose because he sneezed too much!  Goodness, those parties were delightful.  One little girl looked up at Joseph and said in her small gentle tone, “Santa, do you have any children?”  He hesitated a moment too long, I saw him blink away a tear that sprung to his eye and replied, “All of the good boys and girls in the world are my children, dear heart.”  The tiny child in his lap nodded and added, “You’re the best father, Santa.  You take care of all of us pretty good. For Christmas, I wish for my Dad to be just like you.” As he undressed out of his Santa suit that night in the bathroom, I’m certain I heard him weeping behind the door.  Crying for the children we’d never have, the ones he so desperately desired.

Joseph’s inability to father any children of his own is why Beans became so important to him.  He was never much for animals but one afternoon he came home carrying a kennel and when he opened the grate this yappy little puppy poured out. He took great care to train the dog, heck, in the beginning he paid more attention to Beans than he did to me!  I didn’t mind too much, his furry companion made him happy and that was all that mattered.  I did however insist that Beans not be allowed in the bed.  He agreed but as even I grew fonder of him, the rule was broken more often than not until Beans weaseled his way between us nightly.  Joseph always used to say that human beings are prone to secrecy and he wasn’t much for secrets as they spur on lies and hinder authentic and true human connection.  That’s why he loved children and Beans so much.  He said, “No matter what, a kid is always gonna tell you the God’s honest truth. And your dog, well, you won’t find loyalty anywhere else like it. Rare commodities in this world, honesty and loyalty.  And of course there’s you, my darling Cazz.” He was always right.

I believe in Heaven because of Joseph.  He was such an intelligent gentleman and sometimes he talked to God.  From this place on earth, he was certain someone was listening in heaven, even before he became ill.

I was always moved by his vulnerable nature, often hidden to the world, even in sickness but he wasn’t afraid of weakness.  He embraced it.  Even in all of the tragedy he endured during his time in service, he used every nightmare to propel his reality to new heights of happiness.  He continuously flourished. He was content to live in the world and allowed every event to play out as nature intended.  He’d say, “No time to cry over spilt milk, little lass, I’m one of God’s soldiers, he never gives me anything I can’t handle.  It’s all part of the master plan.”  That was his philosophy.

When he got sick he said, “Don’t worry, my darling Caroline, I’m invincible.  I’m going to live forever.”  It was Whistle’s way of masking his fear of the cancer that invaded his body and settled in his bones. 

Our days were full of medical appointments, people poking and prodding and sticking needles in him.  Joseph would say, “I feel like a human pin-cushion.”  The vibrant man I loved for most of my life slowly started to weaken and take the shape of a stranger, even to himself.  The pain became intolerable but right up until he couldn’t stand it any longer, he walked Beans each day.

Joseph visits me in my dreams and together we take long languid walks.  His bones are strong, there’s a spring in his step yet his hair is still white as the driven snow.  He shares with me the architecture of Heaven, its colors, its denizens and that only in Heaven can you learn to truly love the world and only in Heaven are you privy to the true path to enlightenment and afforded the privilege of beautiful celestial music.  He says to me, “Listen carefully, my darling Caroline.”  And when I am still, standing with his warm hand in mine, eyes drinking in the golden sky above us, I can hear it.  A chorus of Angels, the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.  I smile and say, “I wish I could stay with you here forever, my husband.”  He squeezes my hand and whispers, “It isn’t your time yet, little lass.  You still have work to do.  Give us a smile.”  I hold him close feeling daylight drawing me from my dream.  “Greet the day, my love.  I am with you always.”

Those moments bedside in his final days remain some of the saddest I’ve lived and I’ve endured war, the loss of both brothers to the Germans, Joseph’s injuries and is long road to recovery and then the death of my parents, one right after the other to poor health.  Our conversations were silenced by the unpleasantness of pending loss yet our deep affection for one another indicated otherwise.  Hands clasped together, loving whispers spoke volumes, he said even though I would be the one left behind, he knew in his heart of hearts we were both at ease with death.  It was peaceful sitting together quietly allowing our unconditional love and the air we breathed in compose the end of our earthly story.  And even now that he’s been gone for some time, it’s the stillness I appreciate most.  It feels like Joseph, sounds like him.

It’s just me and Beans now.  Sometimes I sit in Joseph’s worn wing back chair, stroking the dog’s little head, he blinks sleepily and I talk to God.  I pray in thanks, that my journey intertwined with Joseph’s.  That such a strapping, handsome dare devil fell across my beach blanket and took such a shine to me.  I give thanks he returned to me from a war that claimed so many.  I offer gratitude for our good fortune, for our successes, for our failures and the lessons we learned from them.  But mostly, I pray that Heaven is just like my dreams and that when I am finished my work here in my humble human form, Joseph will be there waiting for me in the light, fashioned in his trusty bowler hat, arms open, welcoming me to our eternity together; his ninth life.  He did promise to spend them all with me.

**
In propinquity,
Nic

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Curve Of The Earth


There’s no question that music is a great motivator for me, a wealth of inspiration and more often than not, I can’t write unless the stereo is on or I’m safe in my headphones.

For example, I’m working on a new short story which I will hopefully be able to write, polish and share here with you.  While getting to know the characters who introduced themselves to me, I found myself listening to ‘Big Band Cantina’ on iTunes radio, fitting for them and helpful for me to delve deeper into their story.  I sometimes like to ‘listen’ to my characters through music. It allows me to gain greater insight into their whole heart.

On occasion music inspires me in a completely different fashion.  Sometimes a song culls a piece of writing just because something moves me.  I am compelled to share this piece with you because I think the song is stunning and you’d be well advised to seek it out and have a listen.  Performed by Death on Mars from San Diego, recently nominated for a San Diego Music Award, ‘Curve of the Earth’ is beautifully sad and haunting.  In turn, I wrote a piece in homage, mixing my prose with the compelling lyrics.


Curve of the Earth



Everything is truncated.  And you don’t want to know the reasons; or that I know where the how is the why and the who is the what.  I’m not supposed to be here but here I am, swallowing down a simple prescription, humming temperance hymns and falling down for being proud. 

Blue means bruises …

I’m too young to kneel and too old to sequence together the frames of 2am TV and late night radio station static.  I’m misanthropic, any chance I get to deviate from the plane, to bend and shape, bow to resemble the pure arc of a charmed mood-altering ring, I pursue the path and suspend straight through until the regrettable end.

Taking advantage …

Wait, don’t stop reading.  I bought into the myth, so will you.  I am many things but I am not completely devoid of joy.  Look at me, so full of pant and drive, personifying the full assault of the senses the ripened continuation of my oeuvre warrants.  It’s natural movement, slow and sullen. It’s not a performance but a generosity.

Round and round and round we go …

Our correlation is slender but consequential.   I admit it is intricate and polarizing, pushed up against imposing scenery; multi-coloured, multi-layered, three dimensional, where land like sea is distinct from sky and I can’t tell us apart because we’re spliced together like a movie reel, the product of our heads governing our heart’s territory. 

Falling so fast …

Where was I after the crash?  I was idle, soaking up vivid depictions of confidence, setting words on fire, stirring the doggerel.  The tenacity of the action stretches you, lays you out, exposed, and leaves you thirsty for some type of parallel, any variation to a person, thing, a place, a memory.  And yet most of the time we reside flat, formal, a far cry from the anticipation and passionate reverberation our earnest imaginings and the acumen of our years dictate.

Drowning in fire, burning in water …

And what of you?  You are alone but infinitely superior to all.  You leave an unbelievable inscription on my integrated ingredients, elusive yet magnified, reduced, organized by irrelevant value.  And after all that you’re still poised to fracture, still restless, passive, at rock bottom, slouched against the headboard.  Your heart is wrung and yet mirrors a sliver of moonlight so minute that if you blink you might miss it.

Trying to stand still …

Life is full of surprises.  Unaccompanied I have become incongruous, a sore admission but accurate.  Creative impulses occupy the mind, a cause to celebrate yet the kindred assimilation of the notion chastises.  Perhaps the greatest love had the audacity to disarm, reducing it all to the fragrance of noise and an expurgated version of carefully constructed compromise, leaving me with an immense desire to weep -- despairingly so, unapologetically so.

Tripping over sidewalk cracks …

And again, you?  You laugh and raise your glass, masking your dormant sensuality with eloquent silence; a fact I knowingly underestimate to endorse my own secret longings.  And what a coincidence that we are both filled with some kind of reverberated light.  It is not contagious but exclusive and in good accord with all of the sobriquets lent to such things.

Weightless for now …

It’s like Charles Bukowski said, “There will always be something to ruin our lives, it all depends on what or which finds us first.  We are always ripe and ready to be taken.”  You can’t help but consent.  So, for now, the only proper thing to do, while we wait patiently to be annihilated is to drink and embrace the inherent strengths of deployed rapture, embracing the cusp of the night or the beginnings of morning.

Heels over head …

To avoid risking ridicule, to skirt being endowed with lacerating critiques, I relent, with my interior anesthesia, hang on the periphery of understanding, face blazed, orating an entire vocabulary stanch and articulate to transmit the temporary bliss of being blithe and buoyant.  All that is constant and paralyzing are not strangers to me and I may not offer anything of beauty or of extraordinary measure but when envy has a gift for you, you take it and pass it on.

Brown eyes turn to tears …   

Everything is abridged.  The whole mania is edited by conscious concern and patience in anticipation for the quantum leap.  You know the interchange.  You inspire it.  You encourage it despite my penchant for liking to be let down.  And if you stick around long enough I’ll be pixilated somewhere between the inflections of rhetorical choices and gradient flight.  I’ll swindle the floorboards up and lure the ceiling down, just because I can.

Overlooking the edge …




And in the end it’s like a song,

            a verse

            a chorus (times two)

            more verse

            more chorus (times two)

            the bridge

            the last chorus (times two)

            the fade out …

The curve of the earth never looked so perfect…

           

I’ve been slack on the blogging this month but you know how that goes when life gets busy.  I still scribble every day, read and do crosswords to stay sharp.  I even spent part of my Thanksgiving dinner coloring with the kids at the dinner table, anything to stay creative.

My goal this week is to piece together all of the bits and pieces I’ve scratched on paper for this new story I’ve got my head in.  It’s proving to be both a pleasure and a challenge.  I want to do these two justice so slow and easy it’ll be.

Until next time, stay classy.

In propinquity,
Nic