2013
Snow Reverie
11/14/13 10:01
I remember the time I was throwing snowballs at the street
I was aiming for cars
but only because I knew I'd never hit them.
Poor aim, weak arms, no practice,
I couldn't hit a bus at a stop light
Let alone a car going 40
Through the narrow window between the pine trees in front of my house.
But it was better than being inside.
Outside, in the cold, at the entrance to the slender tunnel-like igloo
I had excavated from the mound of snow shoveled off the driveway
chided by my brother for its total unsuitability as a snow fort.
It didn't matter to me, because I would lose any snow fight anyways.
So I had constructed this tunnel,
Impervious to my brother's perfectly arced shots,
Thrown with the weight of years of little league practice,
Straight at my head.
I stood at the entrance,
Solitary in my thoughts,
Armored in my child-size snow suit,
Packing wet snow together and hurling it without thought.
And shocked, totally shocked,
As I watched the snowball explode wetly
On a car's windshield.
As the car ground to a halt I disappeared, gopher-like, down my hole
Turning and peeking out, needing to know
But not wanting to be seen,
As what I now think of as a young man
Leapt out of the driver's seat and started bellowing.
Terror brought me out,
Saying sorry, swearing up and down that I was aiming for a branch.
That I'd never meant to hit the car.
The lie was new minted, not yet solid, and he had none of it.
His girlfriend or wife, getting out of the car, trying to calm him down
Telling him I'm just a kid, as he ignored her
And yelled at me to run inside and not come out again.
I ran, not inside but to the back of the house
The car drove off and I went in.
My mom saw the latter half of the exchange,
And wanted to know what happened.
I told her I'd aimed for the branch but hit the car,
Lied to her as I had lied to him,
Lied to myself.
Told myself the story until I could see it,
See the drooping snow-laden branch
That I had missed by a mile
Because I never hit anything I aimed for.
Because I knew that I had to believe it,
Or others might not, and I'd be caught.
Not yet in middle school, and already a method actor in training,
Believing it so hard that even now, writing this story,
I wanted to say that I had aimed for the branch, and not the car.
But I never forgot.
And I don't remember ever really throwing snowballs again.
Shame lingers in crisp detail
That fond remembrance can never match.
I was aiming for cars
but only because I knew I'd never hit them.
Poor aim, weak arms, no practice,
I couldn't hit a bus at a stop light
Let alone a car going 40
Through the narrow window between the pine trees in front of my house.
But it was better than being inside.
Outside, in the cold, at the entrance to the slender tunnel-like igloo
I had excavated from the mound of snow shoveled off the driveway
chided by my brother for its total unsuitability as a snow fort.
It didn't matter to me, because I would lose any snow fight anyways.
So I had constructed this tunnel,
Impervious to my brother's perfectly arced shots,
Thrown with the weight of years of little league practice,
Straight at my head.
I stood at the entrance,
Solitary in my thoughts,
Armored in my child-size snow suit,
Packing wet snow together and hurling it without thought.
And shocked, totally shocked,
As I watched the snowball explode wetly
On a car's windshield.
As the car ground to a halt I disappeared, gopher-like, down my hole
Turning and peeking out, needing to know
But not wanting to be seen,
As what I now think of as a young man
Leapt out of the driver's seat and started bellowing.
Terror brought me out,
Saying sorry, swearing up and down that I was aiming for a branch.
That I'd never meant to hit the car.
The lie was new minted, not yet solid, and he had none of it.
His girlfriend or wife, getting out of the car, trying to calm him down
Telling him I'm just a kid, as he ignored her
And yelled at me to run inside and not come out again.
I ran, not inside but to the back of the house
The car drove off and I went in.
My mom saw the latter half of the exchange,
And wanted to know what happened.
I told her I'd aimed for the branch but hit the car,
Lied to her as I had lied to him,
Lied to myself.
Told myself the story until I could see it,
See the drooping snow-laden branch
That I had missed by a mile
Because I never hit anything I aimed for.
Because I knew that I had to believe it,
Or others might not, and I'd be caught.
Not yet in middle school, and already a method actor in training,
Believing it so hard that even now, writing this story,
I wanted to say that I had aimed for the branch, and not the car.
But I never forgot.
And I don't remember ever really throwing snowballs again.
Shame lingers in crisp detail
That fond remembrance can never match.
Scents Memory
11/14/13 09:53
Lilacs remind me of my mother. My mom cannot smell, but when she could, her favorite scent was lilacs.
She's a practical woman, my mother. She may miss smelling flowers or tasting food, but ask her if she does, and you'd likely receive little more than a wry grin, and a handwave, and acceptance of her fate. Lord, grant me the serenity to accept, etc., etc.
But I find it harder to accept things. So every time I pass lilacs in bloom, no matter how hurried I am, I try to remember to stop, to lean in, to bring the cones full of heady little flowers close, and to breathe deep.
I like the smell of lilacs. I love my mom, but we had few things to connect us beyond the normal responsibilities of mother and son, and precious few topics of conversation, so even something as trivial as a love for lilacs was something I grasped at, desperately. So because they were her favorite, they're now my favorite as well. And I know from personal experience, that smells do not last in the memory the way sights and sounds or even tastes do.
No matter how many times I have smelled lilacs, when they are gone, I can't remember it. I can remember the pleasure of it, the words I would have used to describe it when I was smelling it. But I only truly remember what they smell like in the moment I smell them again.
And in that moment I remember every time I've smelled them before. I remember every time my mother said she loved the smell. I remember the time I convinced her to plant three small lilac bushes in our yard, because that way we would always have them, and how she agreed, even though Parkinson's had already robbed her of enjoying their aroma.
I remember buying them, planting them, watering them, watching eagerly for blossoms, pointing them out to her. And I remember, driving past that house years later, now owned by someone else, and the pain of seeing that they had been ripped out, along with all the trees, and in their place stood a white plastic privacy fence. I remember telling my mother on the phone, and I can HEAR her shrugging as she says it's not her home any more, they can do what they like. My mother is a practical woman. She's moved on without even trying.
She's a practical woman, my mother. She may miss smelling flowers or tasting food, but ask her if she does, and you'd likely receive little more than a wry grin, and a handwave, and acceptance of her fate. Lord, grant me the serenity to accept, etc., etc.
But I find it harder to accept things. So every time I pass lilacs in bloom, no matter how hurried I am, I try to remember to stop, to lean in, to bring the cones full of heady little flowers close, and to breathe deep.
I like the smell of lilacs. I love my mom, but we had few things to connect us beyond the normal responsibilities of mother and son, and precious few topics of conversation, so even something as trivial as a love for lilacs was something I grasped at, desperately. So because they were her favorite, they're now my favorite as well. And I know from personal experience, that smells do not last in the memory the way sights and sounds or even tastes do.
No matter how many times I have smelled lilacs, when they are gone, I can't remember it. I can remember the pleasure of it, the words I would have used to describe it when I was smelling it. But I only truly remember what they smell like in the moment I smell them again.
And in that moment I remember every time I've smelled them before. I remember every time my mother said she loved the smell. I remember the time I convinced her to plant three small lilac bushes in our yard, because that way we would always have them, and how she agreed, even though Parkinson's had already robbed her of enjoying their aroma.
I remember buying them, planting them, watering them, watching eagerly for blossoms, pointing them out to her. And I remember, driving past that house years later, now owned by someone else, and the pain of seeing that they had been ripped out, along with all the trees, and in their place stood a white plastic privacy fence. I remember telling my mother on the phone, and I can HEAR her shrugging as she says it's not her home any more, they can do what they like. My mother is a practical woman. She's moved on without even trying.
Equation
11/12/13 22:02
An old science teacher of mine once had a saying
Proximity plus hormones equals true love
And I know that it's true
I know that my blood has boiled
At the thought of a woman's bare shoulders
Because a gland
Somewhere in my my pelvis
Just squeezed some juice out into my bloodstream
Causing a conditioned response telling me
"Be fruitful and multiply"
Which my conscious brain then reinterprets as
"I'd really like to get to know you better"
And in this modern digital age, I know,
There is a world of bare shoulders
And any other bare thing I'd care to mention
Available for my viewing pleasure
That will generate all the hormones I could want
But not proximity
To see someone's face close enough to kiss
And know that a piece of glass is not in the way
To see their back arching and flexing
And know it is not an array of light emitting diodes
Blending their hues together to recreate
The idea of the shape
To hear a voice speak my name
And know it isn't a collection of metal and plastic
Vibrating to produce a reconstruction of the sound
The hind brain may not care
But I know the difference
And when someone catches my eye
And, in my gland-addled state
I think that I have caught theirs
The testosterone pushes me close
And keeps me there attempting conversation
Hoping for a hint that their glands
Are similarly extruding in response to me
The hindbrain hoping that familiarity will breed
Not contempt
Just breed
While my civil prefrontal cortex fights it
And asks with genuine interest about her day
And her mother
And her favorite television shows
Because I don't just want to satisfy my Sertoli cells
And generate a rabid pack of tadpoles
To go chasing down a tunnel
I want all of it
I want proximity
I want to eat with her
Talk with her
Walk with her
Watch movies with her
Comfort her
Hold her in the dark
I want the complete equation
Even if it's just the result of chemicals
Because my body is me
And my thoughts are bound in it
And cool rationality will never turn to me in bed
And wish me a good night's sleep
Proximity plus hormones equals true love
And I know that it's true
I know that my blood has boiled
At the thought of a woman's bare shoulders
Because a gland
Somewhere in my my pelvis
Just squeezed some juice out into my bloodstream
Causing a conditioned response telling me
"Be fruitful and multiply"
Which my conscious brain then reinterprets as
"I'd really like to get to know you better"
And in this modern digital age, I know,
There is a world of bare shoulders
And any other bare thing I'd care to mention
Available for my viewing pleasure
That will generate all the hormones I could want
But not proximity
To see someone's face close enough to kiss
And know that a piece of glass is not in the way
To see their back arching and flexing
And know it is not an array of light emitting diodes
Blending their hues together to recreate
The idea of the shape
To hear a voice speak my name
And know it isn't a collection of metal and plastic
Vibrating to produce a reconstruction of the sound
The hind brain may not care
But I know the difference
And when someone catches my eye
And, in my gland-addled state
I think that I have caught theirs
The testosterone pushes me close
And keeps me there attempting conversation
Hoping for a hint that their glands
Are similarly extruding in response to me
The hindbrain hoping that familiarity will breed
Not contempt
Just breed
While my civil prefrontal cortex fights it
And asks with genuine interest about her day
And her mother
And her favorite television shows
Because I don't just want to satisfy my Sertoli cells
And generate a rabid pack of tadpoles
To go chasing down a tunnel
I want all of it
I want proximity
I want to eat with her
Talk with her
Walk with her
Watch movies with her
Comfort her
Hold her in the dark
I want the complete equation
Even if it's just the result of chemicals
Because my body is me
And my thoughts are bound in it
And cool rationality will never turn to me in bed
And wish me a good night's sleep
Positive
11/06/13 23:49
I don't mean to give you the wrong impression.
I do have happy thoughts too.
I do enjoy the laughter of my niece,
The smell of flowers,
The sun in a blue sky,
A snappy dance tune,
A funny joke,
A deep conversation,
A warm embrace in the dark,
Or the light, it's all good.
I like chocolate
And video games
I know the words to Take On Me
And will happily sing them, loudly, on request
(but not in a crowded place, that would just be rude)
I want to find things so funny
That I will laugh, desperately,
Like I'd never done it before
And I'll never get to do it again.
I try not to sweat the petty stuff,
And I never pet the sweaty stuff
I smile at babies,
I thank my waiter,
I tell the checkout clerk to have a nice day,
And I mean it.
Dogs and cats usually like me,
Even if I make them nervous at first.
I relish and cherish these things
But I don't talk of them
Because I don't know what to say,
beyond "Yeah…that was good"
Because sadness has been my home,
And joy is just a country I visit,
And while my passport is in order,
And I know enough words to find my way around,
I don't speak the language like a native,
And I want to stay forever, or visit as often as I can
But all my things are somewhere else.
I do have happy thoughts too.
I do enjoy the laughter of my niece,
The smell of flowers,
The sun in a blue sky,
A snappy dance tune,
A funny joke,
A deep conversation,
A warm embrace in the dark,
Or the light, it's all good.
I like chocolate
And video games
I know the words to Take On Me
And will happily sing them, loudly, on request
(but not in a crowded place, that would just be rude)
I want to find things so funny
That I will laugh, desperately,
Like I'd never done it before
And I'll never get to do it again.
I try not to sweat the petty stuff,
And I never pet the sweaty stuff
I smile at babies,
I thank my waiter,
I tell the checkout clerk to have a nice day,
And I mean it.
Dogs and cats usually like me,
Even if I make them nervous at first.
I relish and cherish these things
But I don't talk of them
Because I don't know what to say,
beyond "Yeah…that was good"
Because sadness has been my home,
And joy is just a country I visit,
And while my passport is in order,
And I know enough words to find my way around,
I don't speak the language like a native,
And I want to stay forever, or visit as often as I can
But all my things are somewhere else.
Thick Skin
09/24/13 23:19
We were all there for a reason
Mostly, to be kids
But also set apart,
Because we were different
Because we believed in God
Or at least our parents did and made us go
And I felt alone, even there
But still more a part of something
Than anywhere else in my world
And in between the games
And the corner romances for the lucky ones
There were hymns to lose myself in
And prayers to something mightier than myself
And calls to serve the world in God's name
One night, they showed a film
That tried to explain hunger to us well-fed youths
And there I learned that 10 million children
Died every year before the age of five
Those were the days of wristwatch calculators
And I did my calculations
And later, when we were asked what we thought
The room was silent
Until I raised my hand
And solemnly announced that over 1000 children
Had died in the hour since we'd watched the film
At which point all my young brothers and sisters in Christ
Laughed at me
I felt like they hadn't processed what I'd said
So I told them 19 children
Had died in the last 60 seconds
And most of them had starved to death
And this was followed by still more laughter
I know now that they were just being kids
I know now that they were laughing at me
At the nerd who had pulled out his calculator
And not at the daily death toll of 27000 children under 5
But it didn't matter
And it doesn't
They poisoned God that day
And it wasn't until years later that I knew it
I stopped believing in Him sometime after college
Less, I think, because He made no sense
And more because so many his followers were hypocrites
Myself as much as anyone
I too had heard the cry of 10 million dead children
And I had done nothing
I had not given up all I possessed to go and save them
I had not given a dollar a day to feed a starving child
I had not volunteered at a soup kitchen
I had not even donated to a canned goods drive
And I was, and am, ashamed
But at least, I could console myself
At least I had not laughed
And two months ago, a homeless man
Set up shop behind my office
Right behind the dumpster
An open air living room
Complete with a carpet, cushions, and a chair
We asked him to leave
He did not
We called the cops
They didn't move him
From our second floor window we watched
As he slept in the day,
So thin
The kind of thin you get by not eating for days
And then one day, a sharp, sudden summer rain came down
And I drily pointed out the man
Lying in the rain,
Rolled up in a heavy sheet of plastic
Motionless in the deluge
And the moment I said it
I realized in a way I had not before
How far I had come from who I was
And I no longer believe that a God looks down
To judge me for my callousness
But somehow, that just makes it worse
As the room looked down
And laughed
Mostly, to be kids
But also set apart,
Because we were different
Because we believed in God
Or at least our parents did and made us go
And I felt alone, even there
But still more a part of something
Than anywhere else in my world
And in between the games
And the corner romances for the lucky ones
There were hymns to lose myself in
And prayers to something mightier than myself
And calls to serve the world in God's name
One night, they showed a film
That tried to explain hunger to us well-fed youths
And there I learned that 10 million children
Died every year before the age of five
Those were the days of wristwatch calculators
And I did my calculations
And later, when we were asked what we thought
The room was silent
Until I raised my hand
And solemnly announced that over 1000 children
Had died in the hour since we'd watched the film
At which point all my young brothers and sisters in Christ
Laughed at me
I felt like they hadn't processed what I'd said
So I told them 19 children
Had died in the last 60 seconds
And most of them had starved to death
And this was followed by still more laughter
I know now that they were just being kids
I know now that they were laughing at me
At the nerd who had pulled out his calculator
And not at the daily death toll of 27000 children under 5
But it didn't matter
And it doesn't
They poisoned God that day
And it wasn't until years later that I knew it
I stopped believing in Him sometime after college
Less, I think, because He made no sense
And more because so many his followers were hypocrites
Myself as much as anyone
I too had heard the cry of 10 million dead children
And I had done nothing
I had not given up all I possessed to go and save them
I had not given a dollar a day to feed a starving child
I had not volunteered at a soup kitchen
I had not even donated to a canned goods drive
And I was, and am, ashamed
But at least, I could console myself
At least I had not laughed
And two months ago, a homeless man
Set up shop behind my office
Right behind the dumpster
An open air living room
Complete with a carpet, cushions, and a chair
We asked him to leave
He did not
We called the cops
They didn't move him
From our second floor window we watched
As he slept in the day,
So thin
The kind of thin you get by not eating for days
And then one day, a sharp, sudden summer rain came down
And I drily pointed out the man
Lying in the rain,
Rolled up in a heavy sheet of plastic
Motionless in the deluge
And the moment I said it
I realized in a way I had not before
How far I had come from who I was
And I no longer believe that a God looks down
To judge me for my callousness
But somehow, that just makes it worse
As the room looked down
And laughed
Sonata in Train
06/25/13 22:38
As he waited on the platform, the train he didn't want sang to him in a key of D. First the brakes loosened in a high brassy tone. Then the wheels joined in, starting with a low and quavering "O", then soaring upwards, like a coloratura long out of practice. But all of it in D, D, D. Not higher, not lower, but a pitch perfect D. The train paused again, and the song ceased, replaced once more by the roar of the engine and the drone of lights, and the tired sighs of the wind.
He looked around. There was no one else on the platform. He thought, madly, "It's singing just for me." His mind concocted reasons, that it was meant to lure him, that it was lonely, feeling empty, singing siren songs in D, saying "Come in, and see where I might take you."
And part of him heard the song and was tempted. He imagined himself, standing up, laying down his burdens, stepping aboard the train, never looking back. No one would know his name, no one would know his face, his habits, his tastes, what he knew, what he didn't know. He imagined himself, the blank slate he had not been since being born, ready and capable of being who and whatever he wanted to be.
But then his mind, for better or worse, didn't stop imagining. He imagined failure. He imagined finding himself in a city where he knew no one. He imagined no one knowing his name, his face, his habits, his tastes, what he knew, what he didn't...and he imagined that maybe no one would care. He imagined himself with no work, no food, no home, and, ties cut from the world he left behind, no place to go back to.
The train shifted once more, and the D rang out again, sharply and yet softly. But the siren song made his stomach churn now with dread possibilities of being led onto sharp rocks and oblivion. And so he stopped his ears, and waited once more, oblivious.
He looked around. There was no one else on the platform. He thought, madly, "It's singing just for me." His mind concocted reasons, that it was meant to lure him, that it was lonely, feeling empty, singing siren songs in D, saying "Come in, and see where I might take you."
And part of him heard the song and was tempted. He imagined himself, standing up, laying down his burdens, stepping aboard the train, never looking back. No one would know his name, no one would know his face, his habits, his tastes, what he knew, what he didn't know. He imagined himself, the blank slate he had not been since being born, ready and capable of being who and whatever he wanted to be.
But then his mind, for better or worse, didn't stop imagining. He imagined failure. He imagined finding himself in a city where he knew no one. He imagined no one knowing his name, his face, his habits, his tastes, what he knew, what he didn't...and he imagined that maybe no one would care. He imagined himself with no work, no food, no home, and, ties cut from the world he left behind, no place to go back to.
The train shifted once more, and the D rang out again, sharply and yet softly. But the siren song made his stomach churn now with dread possibilities of being led onto sharp rocks and oblivion. And so he stopped his ears, and waited once more, oblivious.
An Empty Plate
06/25/13 22:38
I am trying to be patient.
I wish you understood how hungry I am.
Patience was never my strong suit.
Waiting to sate hunger, doubly so.
Like a dog staring at a steak on the other side of the glass,
I sit here, waiting for the right moment.
It's not natural, holding off hunger this long.
It's not right, being denied so much as a potato chip.
You and I both know this is no four star restaurant
This will not be exotic
Gordon Ramsay is not in the kitchen,
Haranguing some poor sous chef,
Questioning his manhood, bringing him to tears
All for the sake of preparing for us
A perfect dish of roasted pheasant cheeks
This is a solid, simple meal.
Entree, salad, side dish, a glass of water.
Maybe wine, if we're feeling daring.
But the meal is never ready. The chicken is too dry,
The mashed potatoes, too wet, the salad, too oily,
And before I can raise a fork to my mouth,
Before I can even savor the aroma, overspiced though it may be,
You send it away, saying not right, not right, not right!
We will not eat until everything is RIGHT.
I keep silent, I don't complain, because I know it would do no good,
Because I know that context is important to you,
That a meal where something is out of place
Where something is NOT RIGHT, is worse for you than no meal at all.
And I try to be on the same page, because that's what I SHOULD do.
So I sit, and smile, and chat, and ignore the couple in the next booth over,
The thin plywood barrier between us and them not obscuring
Their groans of ecstasy over the Chilean seabass,
The scrape of silverware, the smacking of lips,
The crunch of celery, the slurp of bisque.
At first it's easy, because I know the food must come sooner or later,
But with each denied platter of steaming sustenance
Snatched away by your unrelenting standards,
My own benchmarks sink ever lower,
I want to cry out, object, plead, beg,
Cry out that I don't need filet mignon, I just need filling
And finally I find my eye more and more drawn to other tables.
And when your attention is fixed elsewhere,
When I'm sure my gaze will go unnoticed,
Staring, through hooded eyes,
At the food others are eating.
As my stomach gnaws, and our conversation grows more terse, I grow suspicious
That somehow this is MY fault, that you, dissatisfied with me,
Are subconsciously subjecting me to some Pavlovian punishment,
That I am become the Kate to your Petruchio,
Denied everything I want and need in the name of my own benefit,
Until I learn, instinctively, to be what you want.
Well, I'll show you, I think, gnawing my own fingernails off meekly
As I stare at someone else's starter.
Visions fill my mind of another diner turning to me,
Holding forth a morsel of blood rare beef,
And in a low voice, saying, "Would you like some of mine?"
And no steak in the waking world tastes as good as this unfaithful fancied forkful.
A sense of guilt inevitably follows after,
As I tell myself that, of course, I could never eat another person's entree
Even if it were offered, which of course, it never will be,
That it will be dinner with you, or none at all
And that I will wait, and wait, and wait,
Until it's finally, mercifully, right.
I wish you understood how hungry I am.
Patience was never my strong suit.
Waiting to sate hunger, doubly so.
Like a dog staring at a steak on the other side of the glass,
I sit here, waiting for the right moment.
It's not natural, holding off hunger this long.
It's not right, being denied so much as a potato chip.
You and I both know this is no four star restaurant
This will not be exotic
Gordon Ramsay is not in the kitchen,
Haranguing some poor sous chef,
Questioning his manhood, bringing him to tears
All for the sake of preparing for us
A perfect dish of roasted pheasant cheeks
This is a solid, simple meal.
Entree, salad, side dish, a glass of water.
Maybe wine, if we're feeling daring.
But the meal is never ready. The chicken is too dry,
The mashed potatoes, too wet, the salad, too oily,
And before I can raise a fork to my mouth,
Before I can even savor the aroma, overspiced though it may be,
You send it away, saying not right, not right, not right!
We will not eat until everything is RIGHT.
I keep silent, I don't complain, because I know it would do no good,
Because I know that context is important to you,
That a meal where something is out of place
Where something is NOT RIGHT, is worse for you than no meal at all.
And I try to be on the same page, because that's what I SHOULD do.
So I sit, and smile, and chat, and ignore the couple in the next booth over,
The thin plywood barrier between us and them not obscuring
Their groans of ecstasy over the Chilean seabass,
The scrape of silverware, the smacking of lips,
The crunch of celery, the slurp of bisque.
At first it's easy, because I know the food must come sooner or later,
But with each denied platter of steaming sustenance
Snatched away by your unrelenting standards,
My own benchmarks sink ever lower,
I want to cry out, object, plead, beg,
Cry out that I don't need filet mignon, I just need filling
And finally I find my eye more and more drawn to other tables.
And when your attention is fixed elsewhere,
When I'm sure my gaze will go unnoticed,
Staring, through hooded eyes,
At the food others are eating.
As my stomach gnaws, and our conversation grows more terse, I grow suspicious
That somehow this is MY fault, that you, dissatisfied with me,
Are subconsciously subjecting me to some Pavlovian punishment,
That I am become the Kate to your Petruchio,
Denied everything I want and need in the name of my own benefit,
Until I learn, instinctively, to be what you want.
Well, I'll show you, I think, gnawing my own fingernails off meekly
As I stare at someone else's starter.
Visions fill my mind of another diner turning to me,
Holding forth a morsel of blood rare beef,
And in a low voice, saying, "Would you like some of mine?"
And no steak in the waking world tastes as good as this unfaithful fancied forkful.
A sense of guilt inevitably follows after,
As I tell myself that, of course, I could never eat another person's entree
Even if it were offered, which of course, it never will be,
That it will be dinner with you, or none at all
And that I will wait, and wait, and wait,
Until it's finally, mercifully, right.
Cold
04/09/13 21:24
I love the cold.
Truly.
People nod and smile when I say this, but they don't understand that I mean it.
Really.
I love it.
I welcome the cold into my arms as a mother does her child.
The first time I suck in a shockingly cold breath of air I breathe deep and snap my teeth shut, biting it off in chunks like a particularly crisp apple.
The first time I breathe out and see fog, I smile quietly and say, out loud, "Hello old friend."
I love the cold.
I feel more awake, more alive, more alert in the cold. I rise earlier, work harder, move quicker, see more, hear more.
I love the cold so much that I sometimes turn off the heat and throw all my windows open in winter, gather every last blanket, and sleep like a baby with my body under my mountain of blankets as the icy breezes drift across my head.
And when I wake, I throw off the covers and race about my frigid apartment, swiftly gathering myself for the day, every surface and every object shockingly awake to the touch.
My enjoyment of cold is privileged, I know. An accident of place and person. I know all cold is not created equal, and I would not be so enthusiastic if I were living in Siberia or North Dakota or the street, if I were not 6'8" and just a little bit pudgy. If I didn't have at least the option of closing my windows and shutting the cold out of my home.
I love being warm in spite of the cold. I love wearing my winter clothing like a suit of armor. Putting on seven layers of fleece, a hat, wool socks, hiking boots, wrapping three large scarves around my head until I look like some turbaned earth-toned version of the Michelin man, then walking out on the bitterest night of the year, and standing placidly on the sidewalk as people rush by, cursing the weather, cheerfully asking "what's the problem?"
I love going out into the forest in the cold. The silent, still forest, more peaceful than it has ever been. No, that's a lie. Not still, not silent. Different. The fluttering of leaves replaced by the sweep of wind and the creak of bare branches. The cacophony of birds distilled down the few hardy souls who are sticking it out, calling to each other and to me. The riot of colors that was spring summer and fall now distilled to whites, grays and browns. Like a haiku, it says more than it seems to, and in my quilted armor, I sit on a bench, or a rock, cradling the cold I love, and contemplate.
Truly.
People nod and smile when I say this, but they don't understand that I mean it.
Really.
I love it.
I welcome the cold into my arms as a mother does her child.
The first time I suck in a shockingly cold breath of air I breathe deep and snap my teeth shut, biting it off in chunks like a particularly crisp apple.
The first time I breathe out and see fog, I smile quietly and say, out loud, "Hello old friend."
I love the cold.
I feel more awake, more alive, more alert in the cold. I rise earlier, work harder, move quicker, see more, hear more.
I love the cold so much that I sometimes turn off the heat and throw all my windows open in winter, gather every last blanket, and sleep like a baby with my body under my mountain of blankets as the icy breezes drift across my head.
And when I wake, I throw off the covers and race about my frigid apartment, swiftly gathering myself for the day, every surface and every object shockingly awake to the touch.
My enjoyment of cold is privileged, I know. An accident of place and person. I know all cold is not created equal, and I would not be so enthusiastic if I were living in Siberia or North Dakota or the street, if I were not 6'8" and just a little bit pudgy. If I didn't have at least the option of closing my windows and shutting the cold out of my home.
I love being warm in spite of the cold. I love wearing my winter clothing like a suit of armor. Putting on seven layers of fleece, a hat, wool socks, hiking boots, wrapping three large scarves around my head until I look like some turbaned earth-toned version of the Michelin man, then walking out on the bitterest night of the year, and standing placidly on the sidewalk as people rush by, cursing the weather, cheerfully asking "what's the problem?"
I love going out into the forest in the cold. The silent, still forest, more peaceful than it has ever been. No, that's a lie. Not still, not silent. Different. The fluttering of leaves replaced by the sweep of wind and the creak of bare branches. The cacophony of birds distilled down the few hardy souls who are sticking it out, calling to each other and to me. The riot of colors that was spring summer and fall now distilled to whites, grays and browns. Like a haiku, it says more than it seems to, and in my quilted armor, I sit on a bench, or a rock, cradling the cold I love, and contemplate.