I took a bite of the food before me. It was sweet. It was sumptuous. The alcohol that went with it was bitter. My taste buds were pleased. But I was satisfied only because I felt each bite softly settle on my tongue and each cool sip roll down and soothe my parched throat.
I saw a painting. Strokes and splashes. A startled moment from a distracted conversation when the painter caught something that didn't belong. A flash of sadness in a face contriving to be happy. Furious, inspired fingers scooped paint and stretched it into slopes and curves. Blades and brushes were employed. A face was born. Eyes took light. And my hands demanded to be laid on the picture.
I found a song. I was waiting for it, longingly, lazily. The song found its way to me. I listened. And again. I listened with my eyes open. I listened in darkness. I cupped my face in my hands and listened with the beat of the air rushing in and out of my lungs. Then I listened to it loud. Really loud. It seeped through my skin, quietly surged through each cell of my body and burst against my heart. Then I lost caution. Found myself expecting soft breathing on my back. Smiled as I imagined a smile behind me. And waited for a touch.
We think. We create. Love, ideas, images, music, poetry. A magnificent universe of intangibles. So much of it a collective dedication to a touch. That once was. Or happily still is. Or the dream of a touch. Infuriating hope that refuses to be quelled. Agonizing, undying dream of a touch that might some day be.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
An Absurd Little Bird
Mmman it's a sucky day!
No no no no none of that Bridget's-having-a-bad-day material. We're going to write something deep today.
Aaargh!!! Feeling lazy, crazy and out of control. Can never do anything right
Come now, focus focus...try pickin' a subj. Music? Hmm? Philosophy? Try Life. Yes...LIFE
I mean...really...how did we get so incompetent? such an ear-reddening experience, when your colleagues look at you as if you were a sewer rat having a go at a job. Who do they think I am!?
Who am I? See that's a good start.
Oh zip it Aristattle. Zip it good. Zip it tight. Zip it like a body in a bag.
I -
And did you see the look on her face yesterday? She's been trying to teach me to sing for years, her effort mounting to millenia..
See...that's your problem. Always overdoing it. Joy, grief, lust, self-reprimands, eating, fighting. Always over the top..get a grip chickie.
What are you my mother now.
Of course not. I'm you.
...................................................................
HELLOO VIEWERS! I'M YOUR HOST, VOICE like HONEY. WELCOME TO ANOTHER EPISODE OF 'WHAT IT'S LIKE TO BE ME', A FASCINATING (script to the crypt buddy. can't stray from the lines) PEEK INTO THE WEAVE OF CONTRADICTIONS THAT IS LIFE. MY LIFE. YOUR LIFE. OUR LIVES. SO YOU NEVER HAVE TO FEEL ALONE AGAIN (although you're probably not anyway, what with the thriving cosmopolitania in your bopper, whacko) TODAY'S SUBJECT HAS ALSO BEEN FEATURED IN THE HIT SERIES 'VOICES IN MY HEAD'. CONTENTS OF THE NEXT HOUR OF VIEWING MAY BE EXPLICIT. WE ADVISE YOU TO SHUFFLE CHILDREN AND IMPRESSIONABLE PEOPLE INTO THE NEXT ROOM.
No no no no none of that Bridget's-having-a-bad-day material. We're going to write something deep today.
Aaargh!!! Feeling lazy, crazy and out of control. Can never do anything right
Come now, focus focus...try pickin' a subj. Music? Hmm? Philosophy? Try Life. Yes...LIFE
I mean...really...how did we get so incompetent? such an ear-reddening experience, when your colleagues look at you as if you were a sewer rat having a go at a job. Who do they think I am!?
Who am I? See that's a good start.
Oh zip it Aristattle. Zip it good. Zip it tight. Zip it like a body in a bag.
I -
And did you see the look on her face yesterday? She's been trying to teach me to sing for years, her effort mounting to millenia..
See...that's your problem. Always overdoing it. Joy, grief, lust, self-reprimands, eating, fighting. Always over the top..get a grip chickie.
What are you my mother now.
Of course not. I'm you.
...................................................................
HELLOO VIEWERS! I'M YOUR HOST, VOICE like HONEY. WELCOME TO ANOTHER EPISODE OF 'WHAT IT'S LIKE TO BE ME', A FASCINATING (script to the crypt buddy. can't stray from the lines) PEEK INTO THE WEAVE OF CONTRADICTIONS THAT IS LIFE. MY LIFE. YOUR LIFE. OUR LIVES. SO YOU NEVER HAVE TO FEEL ALONE AGAIN (although you're probably not anyway, what with the thriving cosmopolitania in your bopper, whacko) TODAY'S SUBJECT HAS ALSO BEEN FEATURED IN THE HIT SERIES 'VOICES IN MY HEAD'. CONTENTS OF THE NEXT HOUR OF VIEWING MAY BE EXPLICIT. WE ADVISE YOU TO SHUFFLE CHILDREN AND IMPRESSIONABLE PEOPLE INTO THE NEXT ROOM.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Aging
Drink makes me gregarious. I make good conversation when under the influence. I'm true, honest, articulate and definitely not boring. Well, that is at least the impression I have impressed upon myself.
Accumulated data suggests that the defendant can get crass. Can be as crass as that athletic little fillie in a hot pink lycra dress, who gaggles on about her genetically inherited figure and then lists the number/amount of each type of fatty food she ingests in a day. Crass, yes. However, a loss of delicacy certainly does not imply a downward spiral in deliciousness of soda-fountainhead generated life truths, spasmodically spewed to the general glee and ticklement of little innocent bystanders. No, not little, innocent bystanders. Little innocent bystanders.
The downside of this apparent lightheadedness is that one lets one's guard down so that when one is quite merry making an ass of oneself, misery pounces on the unwitting singular. Or compare it with climbing a masochistic ladder and then wheee-ing down the slide attached to it, at breakneck speed. It's fun till your bottom hits the bottom a little harder than previously expected. Leaving one gawping and on the verge of tears.
On a portentous evening not too long ago, my climb up the ladder began with the unfortunate realization that all the people around the watering hole (or at least a few to many) were looking at my two pretty friends. Before you grunt as a sign of disgust and fatigue, let me just say that humans have had vanity challenge issues ever since they were lice-picking monkeys. So puh-leese. Anyway, didn't a sodden old joker once say life's all about the small things.
Zen knows I won't be the first one in the line of word-users to admit to the ugly-duckling complex, with a Hyde twist of course. That said, I also do feel pretty sometimes (sheesh) and have an absolute blast splashing around in the shallow and scented.
To stick to the point though, I was mighty pissed for not getting any attention in spite of the fact that I should be used to this sort of thing by now. Did I mention that everything that’s not matter in the Universe is in fact my ego? Be that as it may, I was pissed. Then I was pissed about being pissed. You know the sort of thing. Too tedious to elucidate.
At such points in life, the Wise One in me disentangles herself from the mess I’ve got myself into and speaks to me in the second person. We had the following conversation the next morning:
Me: *!@!$!#!@
Wise One: You need to stop being repetitive.
Me: All a guy ever wants in a girl is big hips narrowing into a waist like a bottle-neck and then blossoming into just the right amount of bosom.
Wise One: Yes, you were very voluble in stating that opinion last evening.
Me: Ye-es. Apparently not the sorta thing one’s supposed to declare to an unsuspecting clientele. I think it’s perfectly tame. Well at least I tried to be poetic with it. No-one was looking at me! (Burble burble).
Wise One: Is there a mandate on that?
Me: Oh shaddap. I’m funny, witty, talented.
Wise One: So?
Me: Well they should at least glance if not swoon and die.
Wise One: Don’t people have the prerogative to look at anything that pleases their eye or otherwise?
Me: I suppose so (whiny and spluttered)
Wise One: Well what in the name of grunge are you sobbing on about then?
That was the clincher. Vain I shall probably be forever and more but it’s ludicrous for me to expect the general public to indulge in my vanity with the same degree of zest as me. What's more, it's absolutely and unconditionally unpardonable for me to then get self-righteous about the whole thing. So as things stand, I have conquered the beastly brat within. Life promises to become interesting. Maybe I’ll even start writing in the third person.
Accumulated data suggests that the defendant can get crass. Can be as crass as that athletic little fillie in a hot pink lycra dress, who gaggles on about her genetically inherited figure and then lists the number/amount of each type of fatty food she ingests in a day. Crass, yes. However, a loss of delicacy certainly does not imply a downward spiral in deliciousness of soda-fountainhead generated life truths, spasmodically spewed to the general glee and ticklement of little innocent bystanders. No, not little, innocent bystanders. Little innocent bystanders.
The downside of this apparent lightheadedness is that one lets one's guard down so that when one is quite merry making an ass of oneself, misery pounces on the unwitting singular. Or compare it with climbing a masochistic ladder and then wheee-ing down the slide attached to it, at breakneck speed. It's fun till your bottom hits the bottom a little harder than previously expected. Leaving one gawping and on the verge of tears.
On a portentous evening not too long ago, my climb up the ladder began with the unfortunate realization that all the people around the watering hole (or at least a few to many) were looking at my two pretty friends. Before you grunt as a sign of disgust and fatigue, let me just say that humans have had vanity challenge issues ever since they were lice-picking monkeys. So puh-leese. Anyway, didn't a sodden old joker once say life's all about the small things.
Zen knows I won't be the first one in the line of word-users to admit to the ugly-duckling complex, with a Hyde twist of course. That said, I also do feel pretty sometimes (sheesh) and have an absolute blast splashing around in the shallow and scented.
To stick to the point though, I was mighty pissed for not getting any attention in spite of the fact that I should be used to this sort of thing by now. Did I mention that everything that’s not matter in the Universe is in fact my ego? Be that as it may, I was pissed. Then I was pissed about being pissed. You know the sort of thing. Too tedious to elucidate.
At such points in life, the Wise One in me disentangles herself from the mess I’ve got myself into and speaks to me in the second person. We had the following conversation the next morning:
Me: *!@!$!#!@
Wise One: You need to stop being repetitive.
Me: All a guy ever wants in a girl is big hips narrowing into a waist like a bottle-neck and then blossoming into just the right amount of bosom.
Wise One: Yes, you were very voluble in stating that opinion last evening.
Me: Ye-es. Apparently not the sorta thing one’s supposed to declare to an unsuspecting clientele. I think it’s perfectly tame. Well at least I tried to be poetic with it. No-one was looking at me! (Burble burble).
Wise One: Is there a mandate on that?
Me: Oh shaddap. I’m funny, witty, talented.
Wise One: So?
Me: Well they should at least glance if not swoon and die.
Wise One: Don’t people have the prerogative to look at anything that pleases their eye or otherwise?
Me: I suppose so (whiny and spluttered)
Wise One: Well what in the name of grunge are you sobbing on about then?
That was the clincher. Vain I shall probably be forever and more but it’s ludicrous for me to expect the general public to indulge in my vanity with the same degree of zest as me. What's more, it's absolutely and unconditionally unpardonable for me to then get self-righteous about the whole thing. So as things stand, I have conquered the beastly brat within. Life promises to become interesting. Maybe I’ll even start writing in the third person.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
On the Rocks - Bottom
Signing in. Drunk. Desperate. Progenitor of bad jokes. Graceless. Words desert me. Humour feels betrayed and returns in kind. Grace is the end of hypocrisy. Grace is unachievable.
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