I ache for something real, but I'm weary of hope.
I'm tired of digging, remaining so politely unearthed.
Rending my heart to the mirage of depth, I find that I'm sick of grasping at these mere shadows only to descend into these unmerciful laments.
The tide is coming in...
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Digging in the archives 03.18.08
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Little Blue Umbrella
I can count on one hand the number of times my family went camping. We're beach people... Sleeping in a tent while bugs crawl into our ears doesn't appeal to all of us! It's the time that's currently being represented by my thumb that I happened to recall today. It was as I was walking in the pouring rain through the streets of Philadelphia, huddled under a mangled blue umbrella, that I remembered one of the first of the few memories I have of camping.
My brave parents were selfless enough to attempt camping with their five children (10 and under). I don't remember the to and from or even the where and when. I just remember the part where all seven of us were packed into the tent preparing to fall asleep. It was raining, both my parents were frazzled from their efforts at setting up camp while trying to rein in their five unruly children and quite ready to collapse. I can clearly remember my dad trying to explain to us why we couldn't touch the tent fabric while it was wet. “Guys, do not touch the tent fabric while it’s raining because it will allow the water to leak into the tent and WE WILL GET WET!”
Well I don’t need to explain how the letter of the law arouses sin… I was born into my rebellious ways and I had to touch the fabric and see what he was talking about! I wasn’t the only one… Soon they had at least four out of five of their children directly ignoring the warning that was given. We proceeded to finger paint the thin ceiling of our small tent in a wildly inspired fashion. Or at least that’s how we saw things at the time. It didn’t take long before the rain made good on its promise to seep through the fingerprints of our curiosity and splash us with the consequences of our free will choices.
Needless to say, our camping trip came to an abrupt end and what had seemed to already be an eternally exhausting excursion for my parents became more like hell in the woods. My father’s poor head was already on its way to grey, and I’m quite positive that we helped it along on this memorable camping trip.
So here I am trying to stay somewhat dry on my journey to the subway station, and failing quite miserably, and I can’t help but contemplate how that childhood memory almost seems a shadow to the realities in my life now. I can’t help but picture the sky above me as the tent over my heart, my imagination conjuring up images of my now adult fingers tracing the fabric of my starry ceiling. I had never dreamt of the flood to which I was beckoning.
This time there was no fatherly warning about where I’d lay my fingers or what I’d reach for. This time it was just me and my desperate longing to explore and touch the outermost edge of my own comprehension. This time it’s just me clinging to a little blue umbrella, begging it to keep me from this rain that I cannot will away. I can’t help but feel for the umbrella, as it cannot bear the onslaught from the sky. Even with all of its courage and heart, this little blue umbrella will not be able to keep me from this flood. There’s just no staying dry this time.
I guess it’s time to learn to swim.
My brave parents were selfless enough to attempt camping with their five children (10 and under). I don't remember the to and from or even the where and when. I just remember the part where all seven of us were packed into the tent preparing to fall asleep. It was raining, both my parents were frazzled from their efforts at setting up camp while trying to rein in their five unruly children and quite ready to collapse. I can clearly remember my dad trying to explain to us why we couldn't touch the tent fabric while it was wet. “Guys, do not touch the tent fabric while it’s raining because it will allow the water to leak into the tent and WE WILL GET WET!”
Well I don’t need to explain how the letter of the law arouses sin… I was born into my rebellious ways and I had to touch the fabric and see what he was talking about! I wasn’t the only one… Soon they had at least four out of five of their children directly ignoring the warning that was given. We proceeded to finger paint the thin ceiling of our small tent in a wildly inspired fashion. Or at least that’s how we saw things at the time. It didn’t take long before the rain made good on its promise to seep through the fingerprints of our curiosity and splash us with the consequences of our free will choices.
Needless to say, our camping trip came to an abrupt end and what had seemed to already be an eternally exhausting excursion for my parents became more like hell in the woods. My father’s poor head was already on its way to grey, and I’m quite positive that we helped it along on this memorable camping trip.
So here I am trying to stay somewhat dry on my journey to the subway station, and failing quite miserably, and I can’t help but contemplate how that childhood memory almost seems a shadow to the realities in my life now. I can’t help but picture the sky above me as the tent over my heart, my imagination conjuring up images of my now adult fingers tracing the fabric of my starry ceiling. I had never dreamt of the flood to which I was beckoning.
This time there was no fatherly warning about where I’d lay my fingers or what I’d reach for. This time it was just me and my desperate longing to explore and touch the outermost edge of my own comprehension. This time it’s just me clinging to a little blue umbrella, begging it to keep me from this rain that I cannot will away. I can’t help but feel for the umbrella, as it cannot bear the onslaught from the sky. Even with all of its courage and heart, this little blue umbrella will not be able to keep me from this flood. There’s just no staying dry this time.
I guess it’s time to learn to swim.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Admission
"Bind me up in nickels and dimes
clothe my unrelenting pride.
Will you still meet me beyond next years demise?
Masking colorful dreams behind blind eyes,
I torture my desire and suffocate my screaming hunger.
I am a mere thief.
I steal mercy and beg for unconditional peace.
Tell me, has truth ever looked so appalling?
Find me.
Leave me.
Break me.
Keep me.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
5.31.11
You.
You're a train that has more stations than rails in my heart.
Songs secretly whisper your sound leaving melody and her companions feeling lonely and forlorn.
You.
You're the trace of lingering fragrance caught in this intersection that finds me passing through; stealing my thoughts and rendering me captured.
You.
You're the keeper of my secrets and now I can't even hear you holding them tight.
You.
You're the color which I won't forget, void, or reassign... Yet can no longer paint with.
You.
You're the memory within the memory folded inside of the dream. Sleep knows no escape.
You.
You're the touch that fingertips recall and the feeling that skin can't shake.
You.
So far from resembling a tragic mistake;
you are the beautiful ache.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Digging in the archives: Behold, a dry and weary land
Questioning the rhythm to which my heart finds its approval I am disquieted within.
Does my joy merely ride behind conditional sighs of relief?
The wells I’m drawing from warn me that they’re empty yet still I pull buckets of thirsty air from their silenced depths.
How long will these hands hold so tightly to the rope which I’ve appointed to save me?
Hunger bruises the walls of my heart in violent protest to emptiness.
I ache.
Will my lips forever defy the cup that’s been so freely set before me?
No, they will not.
This thirst must be quenched.
Does my joy merely ride behind conditional sighs of relief?
The wells I’m drawing from warn me that they’re empty yet still I pull buckets of thirsty air from their silenced depths.
How long will these hands hold so tightly to the rope which I’ve appointed to save me?
Hunger bruises the walls of my heart in violent protest to emptiness.
I ache.
Will my lips forever defy the cup that’s been so freely set before me?
No, they will not.
This thirst must be quenched.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Farewell
There are varying degrees of goodbye. There is the goodbye that will see you tonight at dinner. There's the goodbye that follows the "Oh, hi! I haven't seen you in a long time. I didn't know you shopped here!" The tearful goodbye confined within the time allotted by the train conductor. The goodbye that says "See i told you that you'd tire of me.." The goodbye that only lovers can know when the beginning of a mere weekend of separation can only leave them feeling bereft. The goodbye that breathes relief at the end of what could only be described as a nuisance. The goodbye that holds the one that you had lost and only just recently found once more. The bittersweet goodbye following the ongoing conflict and the love that stays even when it just can't win the fight. And then there's the goodbye that feels final and forever when 6 feet of earthen clay separates you until eternity finds you reunited.
But what about the long goodbyes? What about the goodbyes that have layers of color and texture that you can't predict? What about the goodbye that lingers, fingers laced in honest denial yet raw acceptance? This is where you trace your goodbye a hundred times, continually refreshing it in your heart and mind.
Catch.
Release.
Catch.
Release.
Catch.
Hold. Hold.
Let go.
I've come to the conclusion that there is no safe goodbye. Rarely will you find true closure in the controlled goodbye that you've so hopefully prescribed. Sometimes the end is just a drawn out intermission cloaked in the pretense of love grown cold.
I wish it was as simple and easy as once said and done. There are times that i wish my goodbyes would stick rather than turn around and say hello again.
My heart would much rather say goodbye while love is still alive, than be saying hello only to find that love has indeed truly died.
But, like I said... there is no safety in goodbye. More often than not, it's just a heartfelt line.
But what about the long goodbyes? What about the goodbyes that have layers of color and texture that you can't predict? What about the goodbye that lingers, fingers laced in honest denial yet raw acceptance? This is where you trace your goodbye a hundred times, continually refreshing it in your heart and mind.
Catch.
Release.
Catch.
Release.
Catch.
Hold. Hold.
Let go.
I've come to the conclusion that there is no safe goodbye. Rarely will you find true closure in the controlled goodbye that you've so hopefully prescribed. Sometimes the end is just a drawn out intermission cloaked in the pretense of love grown cold.
I wish it was as simple and easy as once said and done. There are times that i wish my goodbyes would stick rather than turn around and say hello again.
My heart would much rather say goodbye while love is still alive, than be saying hello only to find that love has indeed truly died.
But, like I said... there is no safety in goodbye. More often than not, it's just a heartfelt line.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
244
Nearly 9 months.
34 weeks.
244 days.
2,928 hours.
175,680 minutes.
10,540,800 seconds.
It's strange how very real time can become when you're folding each minute and coloring in every second. Suddenly moments hold names and hours find faces.
It's only when you're standing in your home anchored to the center of your favorite room, flames creeping up the newly painted walls, that you begin to count the number of times you stood there and bitterly curse the times that you just walked through. It's at that moment that every inch of those bright yellow walls crave your attention and you, in turn, crave theirs. Suddenly you'd risk your very life to save that scratch near the far right corner that you made 4 weeks ago. It's now that you're jealous for the empty space on the walls that have been yours for months. It's in this fragmented space in time that you have the audacity to wish you could dream for the emptiness within this small radius.
How long has this fire been breathing through these walls? And how long have you fought to just believe the flames away?
You're faced with a choice; scramble to save this domicile you've known as home... as safe... Or, flee with your life and the few precious belongings that sit within your feeble reach?
You'll run. You have to. But you wont run far. You'll stay close enough to at least feel the heat, to watch it's very last heartbeat. And this burning house won't beg you to stay... It will continue to burn until it's embers can only breathe your name.
But what if you had the choice to stay and watch it fall around you, unable to change anything, but untouched by the flames? Would you stay and watch, coveting every ounce of life and death left in it's bare bones? Or would you choose to leave it behind without looking back, rather seeking what seems to be the impossible courage to one day build again?
I can't say that I'd forsake the chance to remain till the very end... But here we are in skin that can do nothing but be repulsed by the scorching heat. Reality gives us no choice to remain yet survive. Death will not indulge idealism.
Still... There is beauty in these ashes.
34 weeks.
244 days.
2,928 hours.
175,680 minutes.
10,540,800 seconds.
It's strange how very real time can become when you're folding each minute and coloring in every second. Suddenly moments hold names and hours find faces.
It's only when you're standing in your home anchored to the center of your favorite room, flames creeping up the newly painted walls, that you begin to count the number of times you stood there and bitterly curse the times that you just walked through. It's at that moment that every inch of those bright yellow walls crave your attention and you, in turn, crave theirs. Suddenly you'd risk your very life to save that scratch near the far right corner that you made 4 weeks ago. It's now that you're jealous for the empty space on the walls that have been yours for months. It's in this fragmented space in time that you have the audacity to wish you could dream for the emptiness within this small radius.
How long has this fire been breathing through these walls? And how long have you fought to just believe the flames away?
You're faced with a choice; scramble to save this domicile you've known as home... as safe... Or, flee with your life and the few precious belongings that sit within your feeble reach?
You'll run. You have to. But you wont run far. You'll stay close enough to at least feel the heat, to watch it's very last heartbeat. And this burning house won't beg you to stay... It will continue to burn until it's embers can only breathe your name.
But what if you had the choice to stay and watch it fall around you, unable to change anything, but untouched by the flames? Would you stay and watch, coveting every ounce of life and death left in it's bare bones? Or would you choose to leave it behind without looking back, rather seeking what seems to be the impossible courage to one day build again?
I can't say that I'd forsake the chance to remain till the very end... But here we are in skin that can do nothing but be repulsed by the scorching heat. Reality gives us no choice to remain yet survive. Death will not indulge idealism.
Still... There is beauty in these ashes.
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