Come meet me by my grave old friend,
And whistle wise lessons learned of days gone.
Come and scream against the players of your story
To the stone, that under lay I.
And rest your weary eyes on the peaceful grounds,
Where no judgment will render upon you,
Or cause you to turn a frown.
For the whispers of my neighbors will keep your peace
And send with you all our hope to the life of your shared breath.
Come meet me by my grave old friend,
And listen to you, will I, in silence
Until we can converse once again.
____________________
No story, it just came into my head and flowed through my fingers in the span of five minutes.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
HEADLINE: Overstimulation Bit the Ear Off Imagination!
Sad but true, my friends.
But in this particular game, Overstimulation was not 'benched', 'barred' or 'banned' from the almighty ring after it's appalling display but pushed up and paraded out by the punch-drunk hordes. And there was no tearful press-conference or ambulance waiting by to take the wounded Imagination off as he sat bleeding all over the canvas floor as all the EMT's left with everybody else. Yes, truly a sad sad day.
It has come to my attention that not even ten days ago, I was also one of those people. Listless, my mind was like one of those pictures that is made up of thousands of little pictures, (I'm sure you know the ones I'm talking about) yet there was no pretty, greater image to see. It was television fog. Or snow, whichever makes everyone happy. There was nothing to focus on and the second I tried, it was turning the dial of an FM radio really fast over and over again. Then I saw a two paneled comic on a site called fatpita that brought something to my attention. Of course, when I first saw it, I snorted with contemptuous laughter, rolled my eyes and agreed with it, as if I had discussed the idea just the other day and this drawing was the proof that smugly enforced MY snooty opinion (we've all done it before, there's not a one who can claim differently, some of you might even be doing it right now... think about it.)
Now, in the first panel of the comic sat a man reading a book, and surrounding him were bubble of places and adventures that evoked him to smile and dream. The panel below that was the same lad, looking a bit doldrum with a game controller in his hand as he stared mindlessly at the television. His thought bubble contained beer.
After seeing that, I quickly clicked on the link to see the next amusing and random picture, got bored, turned on Hulu, caught up on some TV series latest shows, looked for some new ones to get interested in, played a game of ISpy against my laptop, looked up current affairs, continued playing against the computer as I checked my email, then checked my phone, returned a text message and three hours later wondered when it had become so dark. Later I am sure, if memory serves, I picked up a cookbook, watched several episodes of Brisco County Jr. and then a movie...Mouse on the Moon, I believe all the while learning how to make the perfect Bearnaise sauce and other random things.
ENOUGH!!!
Each of the little pictures is an episode, an article, a song, a game. Hundreds of them, thousands even. There's too much. No wonder I can't focus! How can anyone? Are we all so happy with fuzzy brains that we akin it puppies rather than mold? If Aldous Huxley could see us all now, he'd laugh and close the lid to his coffin. And that silly little comic keeps popping up in the back of my mind, even now.
Hopes were raised high when the Harry Potter books came out and not just for the obvious reason of a good story. It's because people were picking up books again. A reintroduction if you will. People were beginning to see themselves in the tale; feel the atmosphere, the chilling fog. Feel happy and sad because they had the chance to take the time to know the characters, know their world and through this association and a touch of our imagination, we hoped for them to thrive and grow.
When the first sheets of paper were added into a stiff binding to preserve their content, the term 'book' was only truly known to monks (who produced them) and the political elite. It was a sign of wealth even to have one on your bookshelf, and now bookshelves aren't even used for books, but trinkets and figurines. It is lucky to find even a handful of tomes in a house that have been read by the occupants, let alone any at all. And now they are so cheap that they can be found for a quarter, which is instead used to buy a gumball or fake tatoo from a vending machine. So few anymore can remember or even once recall a time when they read so long that their body ached from it's still position and cursed it for being so disagreeable. Where you were so intrigued in a mystery or thought, that you read it until you realized it was so late that the next day was all ready upon you and cursed the characters for not giving you a chance to put the book down and had completely forgotten about the author.
We no longer have time to get to know anyone, let alone people who don't exists. Life is a flurry of shows that offer quick beginning, middle and ends- and people barely care about the middle. We want to see the boy get the girl; the houses get torn down and the family cry to see it back up; the rude people get what is FINALLY coming to them and the anti-hero get the unreformed criminal who likes to hurt cute baby animals for sports. It wouldn't be all bad... if there was any sense of restraint or self control... but we (yes we) don't. We watch episode after episode, feeding our cravings without really knowing what they are, but they are being fed, we think, and that's all that matters.
We have so much being shoved into our faces- people screaming that we should all care about this and that, we should all be informed about everything, and then we should watch others do foolish things for money so we can be amused by them for no particular purpose, laugh at the newest yet same sitcoms so we can be on the same page as our coworkers (lest you be caught not knowing who is sleeping with who and the witty thing they said about it on the show when you're standing around the water cooler), keep up with the dramas and explosions and heists and wrong doings and most recent inflammatory PETA commercial... It's exhausting to even type it all out. Sayings like, "I have to leave, my show is on soon." and "I'll wait for the movie to come out." are commonplace. It's become acceptable instead of revolting and people make plans contingent on these notions, other accommodating them, which fuels the idea it is, indeed acceptable.
I let my laptop and TV rest to plow through an old favorite of mine several day ago with nothing but the cars passing by and my neighbor trudging up the stairs for music. After I finished, I cursed myself for not putting it down earlier (as the sun was getting ready to rise), I knew the ending after all but I simply could not help myself.
This will be my second book in a month, and it's been over a year since the last time I indulged.... No, not indulged. There was plenty of time for it, I just chose not to. I turned on the Tv instead and that truly is a shame, especially with the realization that I'm not better than anybody else. I've noticed something, however, and that is, for the first time in years, I feel focused. I only hope I can return to being that person in the first cell of the comic.
Imagination has lost to Overstimulation, and no one seems to want to help the bleeding bugger out; but I suppose I can go look for the poor words ear and put it in a baggy with some ice.
Sincerely,
Dust in the Wind
But in this particular game, Overstimulation was not 'benched', 'barred' or 'banned' from the almighty ring after it's appalling display but pushed up and paraded out by the punch-drunk hordes. And there was no tearful press-conference or ambulance waiting by to take the wounded Imagination off as he sat bleeding all over the canvas floor as all the EMT's left with everybody else. Yes, truly a sad sad day.
It has come to my attention that not even ten days ago, I was also one of those people. Listless, my mind was like one of those pictures that is made up of thousands of little pictures, (I'm sure you know the ones I'm talking about) yet there was no pretty, greater image to see. It was television fog. Or snow, whichever makes everyone happy. There was nothing to focus on and the second I tried, it was turning the dial of an FM radio really fast over and over again. Then I saw a two paneled comic on a site called fatpita that brought something to my attention. Of course, when I first saw it, I snorted with contemptuous laughter, rolled my eyes and agreed with it, as if I had discussed the idea just the other day and this drawing was the proof that smugly enforced MY snooty opinion (we've all done it before, there's not a one who can claim differently, some of you might even be doing it right now... think about it.)
Now, in the first panel of the comic sat a man reading a book, and surrounding him were bubble of places and adventures that evoked him to smile and dream. The panel below that was the same lad, looking a bit doldrum with a game controller in his hand as he stared mindlessly at the television. His thought bubble contained beer.
After seeing that, I quickly clicked on the link to see the next amusing and random picture, got bored, turned on Hulu, caught up on some TV series latest shows, looked for some new ones to get interested in, played a game of ISpy against my laptop, looked up current affairs, continued playing against the computer as I checked my email, then checked my phone, returned a text message and three hours later wondered when it had become so dark. Later I am sure, if memory serves, I picked up a cookbook, watched several episodes of Brisco County Jr. and then a movie...Mouse on the Moon, I believe all the while learning how to make the perfect Bearnaise sauce and other random things.
ENOUGH!!!
Each of the little pictures is an episode, an article, a song, a game. Hundreds of them, thousands even. There's too much. No wonder I can't focus! How can anyone? Are we all so happy with fuzzy brains that we akin it puppies rather than mold? If Aldous Huxley could see us all now, he'd laugh and close the lid to his coffin. And that silly little comic keeps popping up in the back of my mind, even now.
Hopes were raised high when the Harry Potter books came out and not just for the obvious reason of a good story. It's because people were picking up books again. A reintroduction if you will. People were beginning to see themselves in the tale; feel the atmosphere, the chilling fog. Feel happy and sad because they had the chance to take the time to know the characters, know their world and through this association and a touch of our imagination, we hoped for them to thrive and grow.
When the first sheets of paper were added into a stiff binding to preserve their content, the term 'book' was only truly known to monks (who produced them) and the political elite. It was a sign of wealth even to have one on your bookshelf, and now bookshelves aren't even used for books, but trinkets and figurines. It is lucky to find even a handful of tomes in a house that have been read by the occupants, let alone any at all. And now they are so cheap that they can be found for a quarter, which is instead used to buy a gumball or fake tatoo from a vending machine. So few anymore can remember or even once recall a time when they read so long that their body ached from it's still position and cursed it for being so disagreeable. Where you were so intrigued in a mystery or thought, that you read it until you realized it was so late that the next day was all ready upon you and cursed the characters for not giving you a chance to put the book down and had completely forgotten about the author.
We no longer have time to get to know anyone, let alone people who don't exists. Life is a flurry of shows that offer quick beginning, middle and ends- and people barely care about the middle. We want to see the boy get the girl; the houses get torn down and the family cry to see it back up; the rude people get what is FINALLY coming to them and the anti-hero get the unreformed criminal who likes to hurt cute baby animals for sports. It wouldn't be all bad... if there was any sense of restraint or self control... but we (yes we) don't. We watch episode after episode, feeding our cravings without really knowing what they are, but they are being fed, we think, and that's all that matters.
We have so much being shoved into our faces- people screaming that we should all care about this and that, we should all be informed about everything, and then we should watch others do foolish things for money so we can be amused by them for no particular purpose, laugh at the newest yet same sitcoms so we can be on the same page as our coworkers (lest you be caught not knowing who is sleeping with who and the witty thing they said about it on the show when you're standing around the water cooler), keep up with the dramas and explosions and heists and wrong doings and most recent inflammatory PETA commercial... It's exhausting to even type it all out. Sayings like, "I have to leave, my show is on soon." and "I'll wait for the movie to come out." are commonplace. It's become acceptable instead of revolting and people make plans contingent on these notions, other accommodating them, which fuels the idea it is, indeed acceptable.
I let my laptop and TV rest to plow through an old favorite of mine several day ago with nothing but the cars passing by and my neighbor trudging up the stairs for music. After I finished, I cursed myself for not putting it down earlier (as the sun was getting ready to rise), I knew the ending after all but I simply could not help myself.
This will be my second book in a month, and it's been over a year since the last time I indulged.... No, not indulged. There was plenty of time for it, I just chose not to. I turned on the Tv instead and that truly is a shame, especially with the realization that I'm not better than anybody else. I've noticed something, however, and that is, for the first time in years, I feel focused. I only hope I can return to being that person in the first cell of the comic.
Imagination has lost to Overstimulation, and no one seems to want to help the bleeding bugger out; but I suppose I can go look for the poor words ear and put it in a baggy with some ice.
Sincerely,
Dust in the Wind
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
To Jane Austin, I salute you- May you never rise from the grave.
For a long while, I have been acquainted with the movies of 'Sense and Sensibility' and 'Emma'; from Alan Rickman being the gentleman who could melt any woman's heart and forgive him for every slimy line from his oiled hair to despicable attitude as Snape; to the proud Emma, who is the coolest and most accomplished of revolutionary woman of her time. Sadly, through it all, I failed to see the writer behind these stories and only the people playing the most seductive to whinney and intolerable of creatures. Never was the creator appreciated by me, myself and I.
However, I avoided 'Pride and Prejudice' like the black plague. I heard it was a romance, one of the first and turned my nose up at it.
(At this point I would like to inform you all that I was sucked into the world of romance novels while living with my grandparents for a short time during high school. My grandmother, having only read that particular theme from before the time I was born, bid me to pick one of the dozens up and give it a read before casting arrogant glares at the whole of the subject. So I did. And for a year following I was trapped, borrowing everything she had and going through a few books a week with little sleep due to my enrapture. I must admit, even when the storyline is abominable, even the smuttiest of novels grips you until the big, curly words of 'The End'. The problem is, once you reach the end, there is no feeling of satisfaction, your thirst is not quenched like most stories, and I found myself grasping, desperately, for the next read. I was in the clutches of obsession, hiding the books from friends, classmates and family like a drug habit within congress.
Going cold-turkey was the only and final solution.
Hi, my name is Rika, and I have been clean for almost eight years. *say hi to the wagon everyone*)
So there I am, killing time with my dear friend Stephany, trolling the ailes of, of all places, Target and low and behold in the book section there sits a paperback copy of 'Pride and Prejudice and Zombies'.
(To comprehend this next part you must understand I have an affinity for zombies that is seldom seen amoungst my own gender and can take on the best of the opposite. My old roommate Greg (a six+ foot tall Japanese lad) and I had contingency plans for what to do at our apartment complex, just incase an epidemic of that proportion should come about. That's right, we rocked it.)
I squeeled like a child being unleashed into a candy store with no budget, which may, or may not have drawn the attention of literally EveryOne around us. They all looked a bit worried to be honest... My friend, knowing my passion for the subject, bought me the book as a late Christmas present (this all happened two weeks ago) and I finished it a day later at 4am. Hence, my first, quasi-introduction to the written writings of Jane Austin began.
I followed it in the following week with the BBC's six episode version of the story with the alluring Colin Firth and then, tonight watched the Keira Knightly version.
I must rest-you-assured that this will not be a litany on why books should not be turned into movies or a Roger Ebert evaluation of the films; but I do hope to voice my sorrows and happinesses on the subject, in my own way.
It is MY blog after all.
The book, although very obviously changed from its original, keeps almost every single bit of dialog and sequence of events the same, only with a slight twist. It even strives to make the characters Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy exemplary from the societal norm, as they are in the first tale. So when I saw the British series, I followed it quite accurately in it's content.
The refreshing thing about Jane Austin's writing is the eloquent flow in which the tale is told. Every word is important and, unlike so many authors these day, not filled with a bunch of blarney and drama which is inconsequential to the plot, for hopes of making the story longer and more 'profound'. Characters come off as less in-depth and more cantankerous and annoying as ever. I appreciated the authors letting us fill in the gaps of the mundane activities of everyday life and move her plot forward so that we may be tickled with their goings on.
Unfortunately, with the newest version of this story, released in 2005, they (of course) do not have five or so hours to tell the full length of the book like the BBC production and condense everything into 2 hours, which hardly seems fair. An already quick-to-the-point romp is clipped so much that one's head is spinning and left with the feeling of being cheated a proper tale. One can not tell what just happened or if the characters have evolved at all and before they don't know it, important plot points have been passed with nothing more than a lingering word that they were there in the first place. Granted, there are some touching moments that make one feel giddy and hopeful which weren't in the 1995 version and their scenery is much improved with a richness in the cinematography which couldn't be achieved in that earlier time... If only the two could mate, it would make a perfect film.
So if you, dear reader, grow tired of reading this over-reaching refrain, pick up this classic. I promise, there's satisfaction at the end.
(And in other versions, at least there's zombies... did I forget to mention ninjas?)
However, I avoided 'Pride and Prejudice' like the black plague. I heard it was a romance, one of the first and turned my nose up at it.
(At this point I would like to inform you all that I was sucked into the world of romance novels while living with my grandparents for a short time during high school. My grandmother, having only read that particular theme from before the time I was born, bid me to pick one of the dozens up and give it a read before casting arrogant glares at the whole of the subject. So I did. And for a year following I was trapped, borrowing everything she had and going through a few books a week with little sleep due to my enrapture. I must admit, even when the storyline is abominable, even the smuttiest of novels grips you until the big, curly words of 'The End'. The problem is, once you reach the end, there is no feeling of satisfaction, your thirst is not quenched like most stories, and I found myself grasping, desperately, for the next read. I was in the clutches of obsession, hiding the books from friends, classmates and family like a drug habit within congress.
Going cold-turkey was the only and final solution.
Hi, my name is Rika, and I have been clean for almost eight years. *say hi to the wagon everyone*)
So there I am, killing time with my dear friend Stephany, trolling the ailes of, of all places, Target and low and behold in the book section there sits a paperback copy of 'Pride and Prejudice and Zombies'.
(To comprehend this next part you must understand I have an affinity for zombies that is seldom seen amoungst my own gender and can take on the best of the opposite. My old roommate Greg (a six+ foot tall Japanese lad) and I had contingency plans for what to do at our apartment complex, just incase an epidemic of that proportion should come about. That's right, we rocked it.)
I squeeled like a child being unleashed into a candy store with no budget, which may, or may not have drawn the attention of literally EveryOne around us. They all looked a bit worried to be honest... My friend, knowing my passion for the subject, bought me the book as a late Christmas present (this all happened two weeks ago) and I finished it a day later at 4am. Hence, my first, quasi-introduction to the written writings of Jane Austin began.
I followed it in the following week with the BBC's six episode version of the story with the alluring Colin Firth and then, tonight watched the Keira Knightly version.
I must rest-you-assured that this will not be a litany on why books should not be turned into movies or a Roger Ebert evaluation of the films; but I do hope to voice my sorrows and happinesses on the subject, in my own way.
It is MY blog after all.
The book, although very obviously changed from its original, keeps almost every single bit of dialog and sequence of events the same, only with a slight twist. It even strives to make the characters Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy exemplary from the societal norm, as they are in the first tale. So when I saw the British series, I followed it quite accurately in it's content.
The refreshing thing about Jane Austin's writing is the eloquent flow in which the tale is told. Every word is important and, unlike so many authors these day, not filled with a bunch of blarney and drama which is inconsequential to the plot, for hopes of making the story longer and more 'profound'. Characters come off as less in-depth and more cantankerous and annoying as ever. I appreciated the authors letting us fill in the gaps of the mundane activities of everyday life and move her plot forward so that we may be tickled with their goings on.
Unfortunately, with the newest version of this story, released in 2005, they (of course) do not have five or so hours to tell the full length of the book like the BBC production and condense everything into 2 hours, which hardly seems fair. An already quick-to-the-point romp is clipped so much that one's head is spinning and left with the feeling of being cheated a proper tale. One can not tell what just happened or if the characters have evolved at all and before they don't know it, important plot points have been passed with nothing more than a lingering word that they were there in the first place. Granted, there are some touching moments that make one feel giddy and hopeful which weren't in the 1995 version and their scenery is much improved with a richness in the cinematography which couldn't be achieved in that earlier time... If only the two could mate, it would make a perfect film.
So if you, dear reader, grow tired of reading this over-reaching refrain, pick up this classic. I promise, there's satisfaction at the end.
(And in other versions, at least there's zombies... did I forget to mention ninjas?)
A Dilemma's Quandry
I am in the crux of a dilemma (although the classification has yet to be set as to the type), and please bare with me as I try to explain:
When blogging first started in all it's sweeping popularity and sites like livejournal were no longer used only by teenage girls, I happened upon an evening news report on blogging (I'll be honest, I don't really watch the news). It was a convention. A room of a hundred some-odd people. At this point, at most conventions such as those hosted by comics, anime or Star Trek (to name a few) there are people- some dressed as this fictional person or that and excitedly chatting with their fellow obsessors over which Jedi could take on Superman. The point is, whether the voices are happy or annoyed, they fill the room with their resound.
Not so at a 'Bloggers Convention'. The only thing to be heard is the ticks of a hundred keys while peoples fingers fly across their boards.
That's right folks. It's a LAN party sans any games. A room full of people who sit and negate all personal contact, without even a word to those next to them. They read fervently and blog their opinions on the topics around the room. How can no one else find it sad that Star Wars and Harry Potter fanatics are having more fun?
I understand blogging in a single, very small sense: it is possible one can explain their opinions more eloquently and thoroughly in written form. Expressing thoughts becomes less embarrassing and one does not hold up to the same responsibilities for what is typed. But there in-lies the problem. So often has it been believed that anyone with a voice who's wrote and printed, cannot possibly be wrong. That if an unknown person has taken the time to write something they claim as 'truth', it is accepted by a greater number more than one without any evidence except a possible photo which has been photoshoped so much that it closer resembles Joan Rivers than the original content.
Words that are shallow and not properly thought upon and rolling with personal conjecture far beyond that of the unbiased tale they claim, are found in abundance here.
To understand the way they define words or to see their qualifications to give so readily their opinion on subject of import is not a luxury we, the reader get to have anymore. Lies, half-truths and double talk are harder to detect when not looking into a persons eyes or hearing their tone of voice.
It's unsettling. That's all I'm saying.
So, as any reader who has suffered my own onslaught of words above can tell, the mere act of typing this all out is my dilemma. I've never been one to keep a diary, journal or even a nice scrapbook. So what am I doing here, on a medium in which I hold much trepidation for?
Well, who knows. Maybe I'll figure it out tomorrow.
Sincerely,
Dust in the Wind
When blogging first started in all it's sweeping popularity and sites like livejournal were no longer used only by teenage girls, I happened upon an evening news report on blogging (I'll be honest, I don't really watch the news). It was a convention. A room of a hundred some-odd people. At this point, at most conventions such as those hosted by comics, anime or Star Trek (to name a few) there are people- some dressed as this fictional person or that and excitedly chatting with their fellow obsessors over which Jedi could take on Superman. The point is, whether the voices are happy or annoyed, they fill the room with their resound.
Not so at a 'Bloggers Convention'. The only thing to be heard is the ticks of a hundred keys while peoples fingers fly across their boards.
That's right folks. It's a LAN party sans any games. A room full of people who sit and negate all personal contact, without even a word to those next to them. They read fervently and blog their opinions on the topics around the room. How can no one else find it sad that Star Wars and Harry Potter fanatics are having more fun?
I understand blogging in a single, very small sense: it is possible one can explain their opinions more eloquently and thoroughly in written form. Expressing thoughts becomes less embarrassing and one does not hold up to the same responsibilities for what is typed. But there in-lies the problem. So often has it been believed that anyone with a voice who's wrote and printed, cannot possibly be wrong. That if an unknown person has taken the time to write something they claim as 'truth', it is accepted by a greater number more than one without any evidence except a possible photo which has been photoshoped so much that it closer resembles Joan Rivers than the original content.
Words that are shallow and not properly thought upon and rolling with personal conjecture far beyond that of the unbiased tale they claim, are found in abundance here.
To understand the way they define words or to see their qualifications to give so readily their opinion on subject of import is not a luxury we, the reader get to have anymore. Lies, half-truths and double talk are harder to detect when not looking into a persons eyes or hearing their tone of voice.
It's unsettling. That's all I'm saying.
So, as any reader who has suffered my own onslaught of words above can tell, the mere act of typing this all out is my dilemma. I've never been one to keep a diary, journal or even a nice scrapbook. So what am I doing here, on a medium in which I hold much trepidation for?
Well, who knows. Maybe I'll figure it out tomorrow.
Sincerely,
Dust in the Wind
Monday, January 18, 2010
Poem I: A Symphony on Time
A little background is necessary, to me at least, but you can find it at the bottom, let your own impression first be felt.
Time,
it is the beginning- it’s never-ending.
So unlike the clock- which resets after passing twelve,
The month, returning to day one-
Or year, reaching January yet again,
Time is infallible.
Flowing through our veins,
a part of every fiber.
The course of time never falters,
And continues to move on.
Yet we feel it’s not enough.
It’s too soon.
Something’s missing.
We’ve come too late.
Our time is limited.
It peeks and turns,
Takes a dive and soars.
It is questionable, laughable, and solemn.
Still, we are here-
Digging our fingers into the sand,
Clinging to each-other’s life,
With the unintentional hope:
We have the time to live.
A while back, a relative to my step-fathers family passed away quickly; the type of quick that is shocking and leaves you gasping for air as if having run a marathon after completing a lunch of twelve Big Macs. For, despite his aged years, this man was otherwise healthy and had even spent a delightful time in China. Ah, and I can hear the clicking in your heads, but please do not blame China, it wasn't their fault.
Indeed, this delightful man had spent his last conscious days meeting with his new-born grandchild and visiting with distant but beloved family members.
It went from a simple illness to the hospital a day later, passes three or four days and the family is left only to morn their loss to which there is no remedy. There is no Mary Shelly to rewrite this ending.
Thus a poem was asked of me to write in order to be read at the wake.
This poem was meant to be a bitter scrawling for the aggrieved, instead it turned into a single thought; to live.
Time,
it is the beginning- it’s never-ending.
So unlike the clock- which resets after passing twelve,
The month, returning to day one-
Or year, reaching January yet again,
Time is infallible.
Flowing through our veins,
a part of every fiber.
The course of time never falters,
And continues to move on.
Yet we feel it’s not enough.
It’s too soon.
Something’s missing.
We’ve come too late.
Our time is limited.
It peeks and turns,
Takes a dive and soars.
It is questionable, laughable, and solemn.
Still, we are here-
Digging our fingers into the sand,
Clinging to each-other’s life,
With the unintentional hope:
We have the time to live.
A while back, a relative to my step-fathers family passed away quickly; the type of quick that is shocking and leaves you gasping for air as if having run a marathon after completing a lunch of twelve Big Macs. For, despite his aged years, this man was otherwise healthy and had even spent a delightful time in China. Ah, and I can hear the clicking in your heads, but please do not blame China, it wasn't their fault.
Indeed, this delightful man had spent his last conscious days meeting with his new-born grandchild and visiting with distant but beloved family members.
It went from a simple illness to the hospital a day later, passes three or four days and the family is left only to morn their loss to which there is no remedy. There is no Mary Shelly to rewrite this ending.
Thus a poem was asked of me to write in order to be read at the wake.
This poem was meant to be a bitter scrawling for the aggrieved, instead it turned into a single thought; to live.
Usless Descriptive 1: The Majestic Plastic Bag
(That's right folks, step right this way and see...A plastic bag! Hooray!!!)
A single plastic bag has many uses, but most importantly it is an object of elegance and grace. Every time I go to the grocery store I see them in abundance and their purpose has no bound.
They hold my groceries from the store to the car to my home; afterward they become my garbage bags and in a crunch they can hold water. Sadly that is all some people see, but there is so much more.
The long, circular handles are melted together at the peak, leaving the left over material sitting snugly against the double layered plastic that eventually unfolds to join the sack. Another minuscule seam glides down from the top to the inside pleat, which develops at the base of the bag. The bottom is folded and ridged in the same respect as the tip of the handle, which in itself makes this embodiment of usefulness as efficiently made as a beehive. The creases and furrows in the translucently milky material fly in every direction, without meter or rhyme which reminds’ me of the oceans foamy surf during high tide.
Although the bag is tasteless and lacks in smell, when I touch its silky, smooth surface a soft sound of static erupts, like a television missing its channels. The more I move it the louder the sound becomes, almost as though I am turning up the volume. Despite the fact that it is longer than my forearm, I am able to scrunch it up diminutively so that it fits in the palm of my hand like a golfball. Even so, no matter the amount of times I crush the pliable bag; I can unfold it and restore the container to its original, soft plane.
Not many objects can boast such claims and actually demonstrate it. The glossy exterior of the plastic bag and naturally flowing and gentle nature makes it, above all, an entity of gracefulness and elegance.
A single plastic bag has many uses, but most importantly it is an object of elegance and grace. Every time I go to the grocery store I see them in abundance and their purpose has no bound.
They hold my groceries from the store to the car to my home; afterward they become my garbage bags and in a crunch they can hold water. Sadly that is all some people see, but there is so much more.
The long, circular handles are melted together at the peak, leaving the left over material sitting snugly against the double layered plastic that eventually unfolds to join the sack. Another minuscule seam glides down from the top to the inside pleat, which develops at the base of the bag. The bottom is folded and ridged in the same respect as the tip of the handle, which in itself makes this embodiment of usefulness as efficiently made as a beehive. The creases and furrows in the translucently milky material fly in every direction, without meter or rhyme which reminds’ me of the oceans foamy surf during high tide.
Although the bag is tasteless and lacks in smell, when I touch its silky, smooth surface a soft sound of static erupts, like a television missing its channels. The more I move it the louder the sound becomes, almost as though I am turning up the volume. Despite the fact that it is longer than my forearm, I am able to scrunch it up diminutively so that it fits in the palm of my hand like a golfball. Even so, no matter the amount of times I crush the pliable bag; I can unfold it and restore the container to its original, soft plane.
Not many objects can boast such claims and actually demonstrate it. The glossy exterior of the plastic bag and naturally flowing and gentle nature makes it, above all, an entity of gracefulness and elegance.
Memory 2: Season's First Storm
The world was raging outside my windows. Just sheets of glass and painted metal strips separating the inside of my home from the reckless abandonment of the drenched wind; my front door ached from the flows pressure. At first I thought to stay inside. It looked dangerous. Hostile. Drivers fled by, heeding nothing of their environment which was falling in branches around them. I watched, the destruction of my neighbors’ backyard; the palm trees swaying in hoola-hooping circles. The clouds indistinguishable from one another, a looming sheet of brooding gray. I could hear it all, and my eyes wandered restlessly back to the windows. No sooner did I try to ignore it to preserve my safety, was a raincoat in my hand as I wrestled to close the door and hop down the stairs in ankle boots to my car. ....
Back streets, I know them all. Often they are the best way to see where damage is done in neighborhoods, to see if any help is needed and feel the adrenalin from the ever threatening bush, but is also the key to safe travel. The largest hurdle to those of us comfortable driving in such conditions is everyone else and avoiding them is crucial. They are worse than the blinding pellets of water and the thrashing leaves on a busy road which others tend to either careen down or crawl up. Back roads allow certain securities in a road-mates behavior. They drive slowly, they easily avoid debris and the overall etiquette seems to invariably improve. ....
Where I am headed leaves my excitement building like the storm it seems. I park on a cemented shoulder in front of a small park placed snugly inside a little hill. It is isolated; a community of homes fall down the other side of the ridge, large cement walls built two person high surround their perimeter. Although the trees were planted by someone and not a weed dares hide in the lawn, the park swirls wildly. I walk past a play structure despite the concerned smirks from people driving by, at my back. The narrow paths have turned to flowing rivers, making the grass a less aquatic area to pass through, and I stroll to the valley rim. It is a rim, rising slightly above what feels like the natural ground, as if nothing more than an afterthought, an addition to the topography for the convenience of no other reason but to say one stood on the rim. A bottle, lain on its side, that is the valley. I can see the other edge as the water pelts at the soft tissue of my eyelids and the collar of my coat flaps against my right ear. ....
Facing the open canyon is equivalent to staring head on at the current of the storm which flows horizontal due to the wind. There is little to see, eyes are blurred from standing in the way of the busy rain. Turning to the right I can see what is coming in patches, to the left, where it is going, flowing on the wind in droves. Putting the storm at my back feels similar to the sensation of doing so on a beach, an action often deemed perilous if there is a want to keep standing and not get washed out to sea. ....
Jeans, jacket, brim of my boots, the wind catches them but so strong is it that they do not sway or dither but plaster against my body and hold firm in their wrapping. I hear the gale crash down the lip of the valley and desperately escape up to where I stand, thrashing against the hideous notion of being contained by walls of dirt. It spills beyond me with such force that I have to rethink my stance to that of a surfer, weight on my back leg, the front keeping balance. No sooner am I adjusted than a wave of a tsunami careens past me, the grass flattening completely and I wonder if my footing is soon to be lost. The intensity of it leaves me unable to move during the unrelenting minute, and reminds me that these are indeed forces, and although I have had my fun, I have disrespected it longer than is safe. My senses are restored. Nodding to the sky with an eared grin on my face I relent, giggling, gleeful, and go down stream and drenched, back into my car. ....
Reckless as it might have been, I feel unfettered. The electricity in the air has my body singing in concert as drops drip down my nose and throat. So often is the opportunity missed to play in the thrall of nature; a torrent of rain seldom lasts so long and mental notes turn into lost chances. ‘Next time’ isn’t always an adequate response as we miss our moment for something memorable. These I have, in abundance I am sad to recall… ....
But not this day.....
Back streets, I know them all. Often they are the best way to see where damage is done in neighborhoods, to see if any help is needed and feel the adrenalin from the ever threatening bush, but is also the key to safe travel. The largest hurdle to those of us comfortable driving in such conditions is everyone else and avoiding them is crucial. They are worse than the blinding pellets of water and the thrashing leaves on a busy road which others tend to either careen down or crawl up. Back roads allow certain securities in a road-mates behavior. They drive slowly, they easily avoid debris and the overall etiquette seems to invariably improve. ....
Where I am headed leaves my excitement building like the storm it seems. I park on a cemented shoulder in front of a small park placed snugly inside a little hill. It is isolated; a community of homes fall down the other side of the ridge, large cement walls built two person high surround their perimeter. Although the trees were planted by someone and not a weed dares hide in the lawn, the park swirls wildly. I walk past a play structure despite the concerned smirks from people driving by, at my back. The narrow paths have turned to flowing rivers, making the grass a less aquatic area to pass through, and I stroll to the valley rim. It is a rim, rising slightly above what feels like the natural ground, as if nothing more than an afterthought, an addition to the topography for the convenience of no other reason but to say one stood on the rim. A bottle, lain on its side, that is the valley. I can see the other edge as the water pelts at the soft tissue of my eyelids and the collar of my coat flaps against my right ear. ....
Facing the open canyon is equivalent to staring head on at the current of the storm which flows horizontal due to the wind. There is little to see, eyes are blurred from standing in the way of the busy rain. Turning to the right I can see what is coming in patches, to the left, where it is going, flowing on the wind in droves. Putting the storm at my back feels similar to the sensation of doing so on a beach, an action often deemed perilous if there is a want to keep standing and not get washed out to sea. ....
Jeans, jacket, brim of my boots, the wind catches them but so strong is it that they do not sway or dither but plaster against my body and hold firm in their wrapping. I hear the gale crash down the lip of the valley and desperately escape up to where I stand, thrashing against the hideous notion of being contained by walls of dirt. It spills beyond me with such force that I have to rethink my stance to that of a surfer, weight on my back leg, the front keeping balance. No sooner am I adjusted than a wave of a tsunami careens past me, the grass flattening completely and I wonder if my footing is soon to be lost. The intensity of it leaves me unable to move during the unrelenting minute, and reminds me that these are indeed forces, and although I have had my fun, I have disrespected it longer than is safe. My senses are restored. Nodding to the sky with an eared grin on my face I relent, giggling, gleeful, and go down stream and drenched, back into my car. ....
Reckless as it might have been, I feel unfettered. The electricity in the air has my body singing in concert as drops drip down my nose and throat. So often is the opportunity missed to play in the thrall of nature; a torrent of rain seldom lasts so long and mental notes turn into lost chances. ‘Next time’ isn’t always an adequate response as we miss our moment for something memorable. These I have, in abundance I am sad to recall… ....
But not this day.....
Memory 1: Views (A more poetic vein)
Desperate to find the sight,
I drive,
Sunset to my back,
Winding hurriedly up concrete walled streets.
Up ahead, I know there is something,
And I hope it holds my answer,
The vision I wish to behold.
I reach the lot and park quickly,
There is a scramble to secure the vehicle,
And I spring from the seat.
Up a meandering path I walk,
Hills and trees,
Set in a manicured lawn obstruct the outside world,
Trapping me on its corridor.
A suburban jungle,
With houses stories high stay to the left,
Kept safe by fences from rolling hills of wild grass.
I continue on,
Passing lovers perched on strew benches,
And dreamers gazing longingly ahead,
Until finally,
I reach my destination.
The path unravels into a grassy knoll,
Nestled against a small hill,
Which tosses the voices from the world around.
Up to the top I stroll,
No longer hurried,
And sit on a cement line,
Which divides the artificial from nature.
The sun is already set.
And the view is so wide
That one must continually shift their glance to capture it all,
Like a snake hunting its prey.
I try to catch the last glimpses of color,
The fading spectrum,
And study the sliver of mountains surrounding our horizon.
The view is gone,
Ebbing away from the loss of the sun.
Crickets begin their windswept song,
Children are laughing and crying,
Cars are rolling by on the street below.
I sit here alone,
Happy.
Because although I didn't get to see the sun,
I know exactly where it set.
I drive,
Sunset to my back,
Winding hurriedly up concrete walled streets.
Up ahead, I know there is something,
And I hope it holds my answer,
The vision I wish to behold.
I reach the lot and park quickly,
There is a scramble to secure the vehicle,
And I spring from the seat.
Up a meandering path I walk,
Hills and trees,
Set in a manicured lawn obstruct the outside world,
Trapping me on its corridor.
A suburban jungle,
With houses stories high stay to the left,
Kept safe by fences from rolling hills of wild grass.
I continue on,
Passing lovers perched on strew benches,
And dreamers gazing longingly ahead,
Until finally,
I reach my destination.
The path unravels into a grassy knoll,
Nestled against a small hill,
Which tosses the voices from the world around.
Up to the top I stroll,
No longer hurried,
And sit on a cement line,
Which divides the artificial from nature.
The sun is already set.
And the view is so wide
That one must continually shift their glance to capture it all,
Like a snake hunting its prey.
I try to catch the last glimpses of color,
The fading spectrum,
And study the sliver of mountains surrounding our horizon.
The view is gone,
Ebbing away from the loss of the sun.
Crickets begin their windswept song,
Children are laughing and crying,
Cars are rolling by on the street below.
I sit here alone,
Happy.
Because although I didn't get to see the sun,
I know exactly where it set.
Shame and Apologies of a Meddlesome Nature
Greetings,
From what I am told there is a problem with my current state of metal acuity.
For those of you who did not follow the above statement I will translate: My brain is causing me to, slowly, become a crazy person. And now I must catch the other up to the this current point.
By friends and family I am constantly being told I think too much, too fast and too distractedly to remain anything short of a complete nutter-butter if I do not find a outlet soon. And of course, wonders of wonder (and technology) we, the people no longer need to pay for a psychologist or other head-shrinking creature to deflate both our egos and wallets, for, instead can scream the torrent of our disdain with the world and all that is in it to random strangers on this, the internet.
So here will I unleash the state of my being upon you with writings, poems, dreams, content that could easily be used as blackmail if I actually cared enough to feel any sense of privacy (which is, of course absurd)...
I only hope you can keep up.
Sincerely,
Dust in the Wind
From what I am told there is a problem with my current state of metal acuity.
For those of you who did not follow the above statement I will translate: My brain is causing me to, slowly, become a crazy person. And now I must catch the other up to the this current point.
By friends and family I am constantly being told I think too much, too fast and too distractedly to remain anything short of a complete nutter-butter if I do not find a outlet soon. And of course, wonders of wonder (and technology) we, the people no longer need to pay for a psychologist or other head-shrinking creature to deflate both our egos and wallets, for, instead can scream the torrent of our disdain with the world and all that is in it to random strangers on this, the internet.
So here will I unleash the state of my being upon you with writings, poems, dreams, content that could easily be used as blackmail if I actually cared enough to feel any sense of privacy (which is, of course absurd)...
I only hope you can keep up.
Sincerely,
Dust in the Wind
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