Scribble Scrabble

Mystic

2010-05-31T17:38:00.001-07:00

I believe that the future was told by a man
I seem to think that he has big rough hands
And that he loves and touches the land
His brain is extended above his head.

Oh, muttering and prayers pass from his lips.
He's got scraps of leather and beads at his hips.
And a drum in his chest, I can hear from the hills.
He's got a look in his eye that can heal; that can kill.

And his dear dear woman, with ribbons around her wrists,
She stands in the sun, and gives her body a twist
And dust around her ankles, cloud around her feet
Scarves encircle her, like in a deep dream.

Her hands brush against golden fields,
And birds cry at her crown,
And the bees come at her swishing sound,
And all I can think,
Is, "Dear, what to do now?"
Spirits in the trees and ghosts in the ground.

*Note: Didn't even bother with grammar or proofreading.

Jenny Long

2009-11-16T18:44:00.000-08:00

Often when walking the halls of the community college that I attend, I observe those around me and their actions for a while. The corresponding ideas associated with the observations are allowed to ferment in my mind until I decide to turn them out to be free and wild on pieces of paper or in words unleashed from my otherwise silent mouth. I cannot resist noticing how different and similar we all happen to be. How we fit so well into these prefabricated molds created by corporations that are influenced by society or celebrities that follow trends religiously. It would be a lie to say that seeing them in all of us didn't leave a bitter taste on my tongue, like chewing pecan bark.

I am well aware that I also have a prescribed mold. It fits me so well that it hugs the curves of my body and the edges of my personality as snug as a pair of 3-pack K-Mart gloves. With a quick and simple exercise of imagination, I can turn the whole educational institution into a great big box of chocolates and peer inside to view all of the confections dressed in their brown crinkled skirts and sat in their charted places. Scanning over them row by row, I can see the smooth outsides and perfect drizzles of varying shades until I stop shocked at one marbled chocolate unlike the rest. The map beside the nutritional information does not show this sort. It does not belong in this spot. It is on display for everyone to see; a zebra mess of dark and white chocolate which proves to be an obvious failure at blending in.

Oh, and the feeling that one will get when they know that they are stuck in the wrong box and the only way to escape is to be plucked from it, and transported by way of palm by some higher being or between fingers to the correct box. What anxiety is to be had with the knowledge that you haven't legs and the only right you have to mobility is to be chosen. The stresses that are pressed upon the chosen one. A burden that none exactly long for.

Jesus, Harry Potter, Skywalker and Frodo Baggins were all the chosen. I can't say that I like the idea of being crucified or chased around by strange evil spirits or otherwordly beings. So, when I walk the halls of the community college that I attend, I observe those around me and their actions for a while and wish for a few seconds at a time that I could adopt them, but the truth is that all efforts of adoption would be in vain for a million reasons that I would rather not take the time to explain.

Fountain of Youth

2009-08-29T15:38:00.001-07:00

Tucked in a corner of a very cluttered, yet immaculate home is an olive green tufted faux velvet recliner. It bears a rip on the left arm rest and a small coin-sized stain on the seat from when the owner of the chair busted his pen while figuring a cross word puzzle. He, a dear old man, sits in the outdated chair and over his bifocals, watches his tiny wife buzz around their living area. She busies herself with arranging ornamental doilies and dusting crystal and ceramic knick-knacks; some purchased at dime stores by their adorably scrappy grandchildren and others acquired throughout the years at truck stops, state line gift shops, church Christmas parties, through door to door intermediate school fundraisers and in other predictable places and ordinary ways. She fusses over his shoes left by his chair and he keeps quiet with only a grin as a sign of acknowledgement. She bickers and he chuckles; and so this is their daily routine.

"Oh me, hon. This pickin' up after you, sure does throw my back into a foul mood." She hunches over and places her hand on the small of her back.

"I have got to sit down."

"What? You say your back hurts?" The dear old man can't hear.

"Yes, hon. That's what I said. I'm gonna take a rest."

He ruffles his newspaper and reads the obituaries. She takes a few steps backward and slides herself on their twenty year-old sofa and tucks her skirt between her knees, simply because modesty will always weigh heavy on her mind. She studies her hands for new bruises and then considers her fingernails. The old man sets his coffee mug and paper on the end table and pushes back on the arm rests to set his ancient chair into a recline. He nods off to sleep and his mouth opens slightly, allowing for a steady and low rumbling snore.

She was a bean pole with long straight hair and a sweeping gaze. She walked like a giraffe with the red sun setting color to her skin and the breeze catching hold of her hair; she was easily noticed. Straight lashes shaded her eyes and posed questions of mystery. She was plain in a peculiar way and he liked it. She stood in a field of cotton and he contemplated approaching her, but then he looked down at his dirty hands and noticed his bare feet. So instead he kept working for his meager wages and called out weights of cotton bales and she scrawled the accounts down on her pad of paper that was to be presented to the farmer who was away at the National Cotton Convention. Sweat poured from his brow and blurred his vision, but he reckoned it couldn't blur that pretty thing standing tall in her home sewn dress. She watched his mouth as he called out a weight and she scribbled his words and smiled.

The old man woke with a start, flickered his eyes and adjusted his glasses. He pushed his weight forward and when his feet touched the carpet, he scooted himself to the edge and forced his body up slowly with his back slightly bent. With hands on his thighs, he eased into standing position and looked at his wife who sat on the sofa with a notebook. She wrote in wide curled cursive a list.

"What's that you got there?"

"Oh, I'm writing down a few things to get from the store."

"Ah, well, make sure you get some of them snack cakes. I ain't sweet enough." He laughed with his eyes.

"All right." She marked on the paper and smiled.

migraine.

2009-07-22T02:21:00.000-07:00

I discovered a demon today. A very vicious and feminine brand in the most grotesque and harsh way. She wore no flowers or pleasing perfumes; no soft skin to smooth across and around her angelically sculpted body. Her eyebrows spoke volumes of anger and cruelty, while the snarl beneath her chiseled nose didn't emit words, but aggravated huffs and puffs and moans that testified to misery.

Her skin was a deadly white-blue, nearly fluorescent, and it stretched across and around jagged and protruding bones. Her breasts were merely barely filled water balloons tacked to her skeletal chest. Her ribs, a xylophone that could never sing a joyful tune. Lungs full of ash; they spewed with every frightening cackle. Her locks; they were not corn silk, but dry corn husks angling from her head. Her eyes held no shine and not even in the depths of them could one find the slightest beginnings of happiness. Love. Nothing. A seamstress of the highest artistic esteem could stitch big black matte buttons over her sunken sockets and not a soul could tell the difference.

Arms, naturally two, were splintered branches and her legs spindly and spideresque. I saw the nails growing from her fingers and they were but miniature unfiled and unkempt ebony tusks, but her teeth happened to shine white. The better to chew on flesh, I guess.

Never in my day did I think I would stumble upon such an evil spirit or medium of any kind; nor did I believe one could live so close to me. I felt that if I ever uncovered something so cruel and hideous, it would be in a dark alley or in the ghettos with the tortured homeless. A third world country, perhaps. A neighborhood victim of drug abuse? However, I came upon this creature at home. In my mind. In my head. In some darker place or corner in my body.

And she tore at the muscles in my legs and made me weak. I felt her start from the back of my head. She scraped her feet against the dusty white from my beaten skull and ran to the front with an axe. She chopped herself to my vocal chords and molested them. They cowered and made the sounds she enjoyed. The whimper she craved. Never in my day did I believe my body would become her slave.

Love Poems

2009-07-08T17:44:00.000-07:00

I used to think everything
God created was beautiful,
then I met
your mother.

Basement Bobby

2009-05-09T16:05:00.000-07:00

Basement Bobby, he locked all of his doors.
He hid under the floors;
Terrified of nuclear war.

His soul was nice and sheer.
It was tinted with fear.
I knew that boy could love,
With a fragile heart like that.
Oh, constantly worried about,
Coming under attack.

He slept with unscented,
Candles by his bed,
A handgun under his head.
Yeah, if the Koreans came,
He'd blast 'em dead.

Oh, and at night,
Bobby held me tight,
Like a castaway would an oar.
Sort of like a lonely man,
Might clutch a whore.

When the hours stretched long,
We'd sing to his scratchy,
Emergency radio.
He would whisper to me,
Soft, soft, soft and low.

He did so,
In case if we were bugged.
But I'd like to imagine;
He did it for a romantic touch.

I miss Bobby and his sea of paranoia.
A sea that he drowned in, I guess.
His fatigues and post traumatic stress.
I miss his hatch and his theories.
Even his war documentaries.

He used to whisper.

Diabetic.

2009-04-11T18:33:00.001-07:00

When I looked inside myself, I saw God.
Little specks and residues attached to my insides.
And now when I take a peek, I see nothing.
And I wanna see something. Something.
But how do you coat yourself,
With that sort of beauty?
Truth?

What to do?
What to do?
What to do?

I thought of putting you in a pot over a fire.
Caramelizing your sweetness, like Creme Brule.
Spread it thick on my skin and let it dry.
Let it stick and let it stay.

Oh, but where can I get these ingredients?
God, when did I first block you out?

I let you down. Let you down. Let you down.

When I looked inside myself, I saw God.
Little specks and residues attached to my insides.
And now when I take a peek, I see nothing;
I wanna see something. Something.
Lord, I see nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Geometry of Spirit

2009-04-11T18:16:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I smell my youth,
and I hear whispers in forgotten rooms.
I remember the laughter, the screaming,
The crying and the squeals of excitement.

And the sounds, they taunt,
And say, "Dear, Where have you been these past few years?"

And I shudder and I lie,
"I've gone to the other side of the moon."
"I will be back soon."

Kisser

2009-04-05T18:46:00.000-07:00

She placed her mouth against the warm peach and busted it with her teeth. It burst like a sudden sunrise rushing from her lips and through the gap of the ivory columns stuck in her gums. She made a mess of her face and her hands got sticky. Her nose scrunched and her eyes crinkled with every purposeful bite. Chewing sounds filled her ears and nothing could be heard because of it. All but the buzzing of thoughts in her head. Thoughts like, Isn't it curious? All the ways we can lie with our mouths?

He laughed at her ridiculous state. Oh, the trouble of consuming a peach. No better than a plum. He grinned at the shine on her chin. She caught his stare and looked away shyly, chewed, swallowed and out of embarrassment giggled.

"Don't watch me. I look stupid. These things are impossible to eat tastefully."

"I can watch if I want... You look like a second grader, by the way."

"Shut up."

"...Maybe kind of act like one too."

She held the peach up to her eye, surveyed the ruts and gathering juice in the craters created by chomps and sing songed, "You're just trying to get a reaction."

"Mhmm."

"Ever think about how people lie?"

"I haven't spent too much time thinking about how people lie. I just know that I don't like it. There's not much else that I hate more than lying. Dishonesty. All of that."

"No one likes it. I just mean, have you ever thought about how when someone fakes a smile? Isn't that a way to lie? Or even something simple like asking someone how they are doing and they say they're fine. Is that big enough to count?"

"I don't think that's really very bad. Sometimes you have to smile."

"Yeah, but don't you have to lie every once in a while?"

"I guess in certain situations it's sort of necessary. I don't think you have to."

"Just think about it, though. We can lie by smiling, speaking, kissing..."

Peachy liquid gleamed on her bottom lip. He thought, Does she lie to me?

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yeah. I lie to you."

"How did..."

"I could tell. You got quiet after I said that. You were looking at my lips."

"Well, what do you mean you lie to me?"

"Nothing..."

"No. What do you mean? You can't just say 'nothing' and go on like it's fine. I want to know what you mean."

"Sometimes I kiss you when I'm mad. Sometimes I say that things are alright when they're not and then I smile at you so things will be okay. I lie. I do it so you won't worry or get angry when there wouldn't be any need. I'm just being honest."

"You're just being honest? Honest?"

"See. I shouldn't have said anything. Now you'll second guess everything I say."

"Kiss me."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because...you won't believe it."

She finished the peach and tossed it on the ground. It rolled and collected dirt on it's flesh. They stared at it and watched the dirt covered fruit attract pieces of grass and bigger unidentifiable specks. Words fresh on their tongues, but not enough energy or courage to shake them off, they stood quiet avoiding eye contact and touch.

"I don't want to be bad fruit. A dirty peach."

He walked over to the destroyed peach and held it in his hand. He gave it a squeeze and looked at it long and hard. She nervously stood shifting her weight from side to side. He looked up at her and back at the peach.

"Don't.."

He squeezed it again and brought it to his mouth and took as big as a bite as possible; gathering the remaining meat of it with a rake of his teeth. He moved the bits around his tongue and swallowed.

"No. Why... Why did you do that?"

He said nothing and walked back rigidly, but embodying a slight clue of humor.

"Was it good?"

"Yes. Very."

Secret.

2009-04-03T18:09:00.000-07:00

She rounds the corner from Merchant to Post Office Street and counts her steps and the cracks in the cement and pays slight attention to the driblets of moisture that collect on the side of her finger. She holds a plastic biodegradable cup filled with overpriced espresso and skim milk. An iced latte or in all reality, a temporary stamp of class and/or status.

She walks with an air of determination, motivation and force. A runaway train with a belly full of hot coal and legs shiny like steel. Her bones are aerodynamic and her hair fluttering flags claiming her nationality: Upper class.

I hate to admit that I am sitting at a bistro table watching her walk like she walks everyday. I time my lunch hour by her approaching shadow and excuse myself for the outdoor seat and discount brewed coffee.

I am jealous and she is unaware of my jealousy and even my existence. I only bake her low fat muffin every morning and brew her 3 minute green tea. However, I have learned that some people won't even blink an eye at me.

Swirl.

2009-03-22T15:42:00.000-07:00

"I don't know what to say, Sam. I really don't. It's like some jerk pulled the plug out of the bottom of my foot. Covers with pretty chains are sort of tempting, right? It's all gone though. All gone."

"What are you talking about, Claire?"

"Aw, the bathtub, Sam. The bathtub."

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"It's the inspiration, babe. It all drained out of me. That desire to create left. It's a damn disappointment. It's depressing. I wonder if that makes me empty?"

"Claire, do you hear what you are saying?"

"Of course I hear it. Of course. I'm saying it, right? It is me speaking, right?!"

"You're a fool. No one keeps a bathtub full of water. It gets stagnant. Cold. Unpleasant. Dirty. Everyone drains...their bathtubs."

"I don't know. I take showers."

"That's a constant drain and replenish."

"So, you get what I'm saying right?"

"Yeah, I get what you are saying. Well, I think so."

"...And you understand how I feel?"

"Yeah, sure. Everyone has felt that way. You analyze too much, Claire."

"I know... Hey, it's Spring now. Do you want to go to the beach?"

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

"Mhmm. The water never gets stagnant there."

"True. Have you ever wondered what the undertow is or why there are whirlpools?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's the collective lack of creativity on earth? That or means of travel to another world?"

"I don't know why you thought anyone pulled the plug, honey..."

Acids and Bases.

2009-03-11T09:15:00.000-07:00

She was an orange. No, a tangerine. Although he was younger, he was like an old man that regularly had too much fruit. He kept a knife in his pocket for cutting chunks of apples. Precisely, of course. He slowly cut rounds of peaches, nectarines, mangoes and he sliced open avocados; his tongue wedged between his teeth and concentration all over his face. It was almost laughable as it was inexplicably admirable; the work he made of dressing and consuming fruit. Well done and enjoyed. Fruition.

The tangerine did not pay much attention to his knife and the way he made it move across the skin, close to the rind and around the core and seed. Of course she was aware of it, but she did not permit awareness to turn to realization or analysis of his carving and chewing. She paid the most attention to the creases around the ends of his mouth and found a pleasing state when the creases unfolded and then entrenched once again. Then, she also found the flashing in his eye remarkable and the determination that it gleamed.

They met at a farmer's market in the hot June sun. She was not particularly beautiful being round, but still notable. She was bright and ripe and soft enough. She rolled around the market just the right way and her purity was obvious and paradoxically inviting. Hands often moved towards her, but stopped and found another. She was just produce, but never did the thought cross her mind. The tangerine believed in other things greater and foolishly, assumed that everyone else did as well.

She had a look of pathetic confusion about her and he boldy asked her where she was from in the line in front of the citrus booth. Caught off guard, she began to respond with her jaw slightly loose and her eyes wide. "Oh," she cracked in broken English.

"I come from Kalymnos Island, in Greece."

"Greece? I've never been there, but I hear it's beautiful."

"Oh, yes," she caught herself gushing. "My island is very beautiful. Magnificent caves and a blue ocean. Much more than here."

He grinned at her zippery words. "Yeah. The beaches are like mud here."

She gave him a shy smile, and edged forward in the line carrying a canvas tote bag full of lemons, one lime and a clementine. The wind wrapped her cream colored skirt around her ankles and flipped her hair away from it's natural parting. A calmness enveloped her and all seemed right in the world, the way it does when you stand in the sun on your day off buying fruit better than the kind at the grocery stores. How the world turns, trees grow with branches heavy and people fall; It's all gravity. Sometimes, the downward spiral and the bruises are preventable.

We run water over our fruit and pray for purity. We pull and peel, expecting the fruit to shed it's skin naturally when the right season comes. We hope that it all retains purity and the likeness of Godly intention. She was a tangerine and he was on old man. He dropped his knife. A woman took shape. She no longer naive. He scrubbed.

6:45 AM - In The Parking Lot Before Work.

2009-03-09T16:02:00.001-07:00

Maybe if I had a special camera, I could display the clashing colors and societies I observe. I could have them printed and we could place them on walls. I might make stencils and I could take paint and vandalize buildings with it. You and everyone else could see the art that they make accidentally. It is the most mysterious brand.

You know, I wouldn't be completely against the idea of a Tivo box on my mind. You and me, babe... We could snuggle on the couch and watch in horror and confusion and in awe of the recordings that I have made. A mixture of thought and actual sight. I would let you edit them on your computer, set them to music and we could brainstorm for a title. I would insist that we hide them, the way that some people hide sex tapes, graphic love letters or seductive photos. In my spare time I would construct misleading covers with deceptive titles on the front, the true title on the inside.

They would read, "A Day at Sam's Club.," "Get Out of Debt Free!," and "Macrobiotic Dieting: Pros and Cons." No one would want to touch them.

How about it? When you watch the tapes, will you wonder about me? I think I'd wonder about myself. We would keep it a secret and you would still love me despite the shocking things watched in the dark room. We would delight in the frightening honesty.

The Local Kitchen #2

2009-03-02T16:11:00.000-08:00

A pan sits lonely on the burner while blue-yellow flames lick at the bottom. The Mexican flower walks by. She hesitates to move past and she looks up questioningly at the chef. He nods like a father might when a child stares at the cookie jar.

Her eyes are lit and her hands move gracefully, swinging slowly by her sides as she floats towards the walk-in refrigerator and in she goes; breath in puffy clouds. The door slams shut after her. She takes an economy size tub of butter from a shelf inside and places it on her hip. She pushes the door open with her back, and spins relaxed; determined to make this part of the day last. Then from a shelf on the wall she pulls down a plastic container of lard.

From a drawer, she handles a spatula and scoops out a bit of butter and a chunk of lard and slaps it on the heated pan. Her neck is damp and wisps of hair cling to it, visible through her hair net. She grips the kitchen utensil and puts a slight pressure on the fatty solids, sliding them sluggishly around. It resembles a large snail, creeping in circles, leaving a trail of slime. She scoots it along with pleasure and sweet satisfaction evident by the curl at the end of her lip.

No one could ever understand the impression put upon her as she eases the fat into melted liquid. A time in which a task is completed when no one can get into her head and no sounds can scrape a way into her ears. She nudges the lumps in hoops and they get smaller and smaller and they swim in their own liquid. She hums and displays picturesque tranquility, looking at the pan is if it were a cradle holding a newborn baby. She sings.

The chef lumbers behind her and tosses a container full of chopped vegetables, catapulting them into the pan. Squash, red potatoes, zucchini, and other green veggies covered in spices friendly to the nostril. Her moment is gone. Her singing stops. She drops the spatula and she drifts away to the simmering soups. She stirs. She hums. She waits.

Tomorrow will come. She works everyday.

In My Car In A Parking Lot. 7:45 AM.

2009-02-28T19:51:00.001-08:00

I saw her removing metal from holes in her body. She's modern, you know. Bolts of different sorts in her cartilage and skin. She screws up her face while looking at herself with a compact in the car. She doesn't know that I can see and I don't know why I watch. Her avant-garde ways are unaccepted here, so she temporarily removes them.

I saw her again, putting metal into the holes of her body. She's modern, you know.

The Local Kitchen

2009-02-27T19:29:00.000-08:00

The kitchen works with rhythm. A salsa around the stove, precise stepping and twisting of their wrists and dipping of their hips. An arm high in the air and a flick of the wrist, spice dusts are catapulted upward and down they fall like light snow flakes in January, February or even early March. They mix in with the oxygen and sneezes are snuffed out by forearms. Spice dust finally falls into boiling pots of gourmet soups concocted by a foreign chef with an accent thick like tortilla batter compared to such a broth that rolls and burbles in a shiny stainless steel pot. Yelling and and talking and laughing in dialects and a language that I cannot understand. The clink and clang and bang of metal causes them to sway. When the cadence chopping of carrots and celery causes their knees to bend and their neck to shift and curve.

I dance to this music as well, in secret. I smile at the musicians and applaud their performance. Then turn and push the doors open and serve the soups that will be gulped, sipped and slurped by the upper class type. Superior bodies in Dolci and pretty eyes shielded by Chanel. Clean and dainty fingers take the silver spoons, dip them in and feed themselves; unaware of the ingredients thrown in and prepared by hands less perfect than their own. Foods created by hands better than their own, by bodies elite to their own, by dancers and by musicians. They don't know about the moves and shouts. Deaf to the music, they consume a bit of magic.

Humanities 1301

2009-02-26T19:06:00.000-08:00

They are vexatious pigeons balanced on a wire. The five of them twittering and pecking at their own feathers, scavenging for things best left unmentioned and split ends, perhaps? Observe, they do, turning their heads around freakishly while fluttering their velvet eyelids with a purpose less honorable. They move about in sharp peculiar motions, a sense of birdbrained curiosity envelopes their blank black eyeballs.

Flapping and tweeting distracts me from my notes. I cannot concentrate and frustration washes over me in thin weakish waves. It's not so bad, I guess.

This isn't the city. I cannot run wildly; arms flailing violent and voice at a maniacal screech into their group with the intent to spook. If this were the city and they poky little pigeons with cocked heads and royal strides, I would run into the mess of them and flap away in terror, they would.

This is college, so I can't. Instead, I draw their figures in a composition pad and the words, "I wish I could."

Bender.

2009-02-23T09:50:00.000-08:00

He chugged along the country road in his twenty-year old beat up truck. The exhaust a testimony to cold weather as was his fingerless gloves and knuckles that bent to grip at the steering wheel. He paid slight attention to the conservative talk radio station and paid lots more attention to his dead and quiet heater. Sight was bad since the defrost died along with the heater, so he flipped his windshield wipers on and off. On and off. On again. He cursed the fog and all of winter and his prehistoric vehicle hummed back at him in agreement.

He was new to these parts, you see. A stranger to this half of the country, the elements and the people including their sort of mannerisms. He still had much to learn, seeing that he had only been to one truck stop and a waffle house. A quiet man, was he. The only rumbling he made were grunts, curses and short fragmented sentences that spoke of indifference to everything in the world and all the creatures inhabiting it. However, it was a veil he wore over his lips. This morning he cooed at a stray cat with dirty fur and scratches on it's head and he gave the vagrant thing a dish of warm milk and a slice of leftover bacon. He reached out to pet the tomcat and it rubbed it's head along the curve of his cracked palm. He felt something besides snarled fur and heard more than small thundering purrs.

He grew up in the woods with an angry and resentful father and he convinced himself that he missed his mother, however he couldn't remember her voice, eyes or face. He knew, though, that if he could conjure the thought of her beauty or even an ounce of her love he'd miss it all dearly. He never really spoke much 'cause the sperm donor of the house didn't care to listen.

His father used to stumble over to a cot beside the oven and drift to a profound bout of sleep brought on by the warm and fuzzy liquor stagnant in his prominent belly. Sweaty hair and greasy faced, exposed gut marked with black fibers and chin rough with whiskers, he awakened often typically to roar, fight and strike then guzzle himself back to visions of little sense. He had little time for children. Especially the accidental and bothersome kind. He wasn't bothered for very long. He blew himself away one night in a drunken stupor. That was an accident too.

So, Roy, which was his name, never really learned to love or talk or socialize like the rest. He remained in the woods and wandered the thick forest and got his meat from wild game and nourishment from a sad excuse of a garden. Occasionally he would go to town to fetch supplies, but it was a rare and monumental journey. A day full of wonder and suppressed excitement and confusion as well. He had planned for a week or so to pick up some flour, sugar, soap and various other staples so he made a great list in careful, although still sloppy handwriting. He washed his face, slipped on his fancy schmancy shoes, and donned his heavy coat. He ran water over his comb and pulled it through his dirty blonde hair. He didn't shave. He did that yesterday. So, he skipped that and in tight circles he scrubbed his teeth with off brand toothpaste and a toothbrush that needed to be thrown out and exchanged for new. He took out his list and scribbled, "toothbrush."

In his truck he listened to the only talk radio station that would come in and a caller came on rambling about home problems. The host asked the caller why he wasn't happy and the caller replied, "I don't know, really. I just think happiness isn't here for me. I have everyone that I love here, everything I need and nothing has really gone wrong. I just don't feel like I'm doing much good here. I just don't."

In a sweeping fit of sentiment and sudden sadness he cracked and touched his face with his also cracked hands. He mumbled pathetically, "I'm cracked. Inside and out. Outside and in. Why am I not smooth? I need to be smooth."

He felt the whiskers on his face. Prickly like a porcupine's back. It was rough like his father's was. He repetitively rubbed his jaw and his chin and ran his thumb and lower part of his palm over his cheeks. It wasn't going to come off. He rubbed harder and his face was reddening and his fingers becoming irritated, but he rubbed even harder and looked at himself in the rear-view mirror and saw that his skin was aggravated and he had scratched himself and teeny tiny blood beads emerged from his pores.

"I don't know. I'm not doing any good here. I'm not doing any good here. I'm not doing good!"

The sound of audible words shocked him. He drove by town, past the county limits sign, through the next town and so on until night fell around him and his bumped up truck.

"I just don't think happiness is here for me, there for me. There. Back there. No!"

He cried. Pulled over. Watched through salty eyes. Glanced at the clock. It was 6: 47 AM. He was so tired that he wasn't tired. He saw something peculiar and splendid. His stinging eyeballs transfixed and interested.

They were like missiles linear to the hills of the land, always symmetric and moving at the same distance from bottom to top. They shot by like bullets from his rifle; visible through the gaps of forest; white-shadowed with bark and dark with star shaped foliage scattered about the tops. The lights flickered through all white, silver-blue, red, orange and yellows; whirring speedily and blending in a hurry. So, like machines pump and roll and turn he watched the people come from around the bend and pass his truck by and by and by. He couldn't count that high, or so he thought. They were machines themselves, in the way that they sat mechanical pushing peddles and shifting sticks, fixing faces and bringing mugs to lips and objects to ears. Buzz, buzz, buzzing to their places of work. It was the end of the road for him. The old road, that is. Obviously this road was brought to life with the mixture of technology and it's waste with nature and it's oxygen, then people and their urgent appointments and high priorities. It was a mix.

He choked. Maybe I might mix in. Maybe I might.

So, he started up his ancient truck, his first love and drove into this new town, down this new road with this new feeling and a new plan. He took the list from the pocket of his coat, tossed it to the passenger seat and decided to make another list. Scribbles resembling job, life, friends, love and toothbrush.

Homesick

2009-02-21T14:35:00.000-08:00

We had muddy feet and walked upon the earth carpeted with yellowed leaves and dead cut grass. We played with earth worms and bullfrogs by the creek and sang educational rhymes learned in school. We clapped hands and called out to wizards and leprechauns that enchanted the forest. You were my childhood love, and such recalling on those innocent days full of wonder and humble elementary amusement causes me to wish to talk to you. I guess I haven't seen you since the age of nine or ten. Still, I speak.

I wonder how you have been and what you are up to, and I think it is kind of funny how you can start together and leave the world apart. I know it is the most natural way, but thoughts enter my head and leave my mouth without much reason behind them. I guess I can't help it, like I can't help the following. Perhaps my inquiries or my curiosity turn to you, because in all my days you have been the symbol of purity and innocence, which makes sense of the time we spent together combined with the knowledge of our early age. I have to know. Have you lost it too?

Are we all the same? I remember the first black spot on my youth, however still very spotless due to the investigation that we take part in while growing up. We played the game that most all children play, a rite of passage for that segment of our lives.

"What do boys look like?"

And I saw.

"What do girls look like?"

And I let you see.

Is that where it begins? The breed of exploration that is potentially dangerous starts at six or seven? It's wrong to think, I know, but when did the exploration come back into play and when did you start your journey? How far have you gotten? I've always loved to travel and the idea of traveling to strange and foreign places. It seems like a common desire. I guess lots of things are common.

It's funny to think of how I was as an awkward girl with a freckly face and tangled hair and how I've changed. Honestly, I have kept the awkwardness, but abandoned the freckles and matted hair. I was an explorer and now the world continuously tempts me to explore dark, strange, exciting, beautiful and new places that I probably can't afford to travel to. I am beginning to understand that life is a whole lot like traveling and childhood mixed together.

We love to travel and see and do and record. We meet people in other countries and states and no matter how many lists we make, we pack up and forget something somewhere. We leave things in hotel rooms and taxi cabs. We exchange contact information with our new friends and eventually we lose contact. Then we sigh, come home and snuggle back into the familiarity until we get bored. Naturally, we buy plane tickets or hop in our cars and we investigate the world again, thoroughly and with excitement. We never ever want to go back. Never! At home we have school and chores and work and children. It makes me want to go farther and farther away, and I wonder if you feel the same?

So, if traveling is so new, exciting, beautiful, dark and great; Why do we always get homesick? Or is it just me?

Compare and Contrast.

2009-02-18T21:51:00.000-08:00

As a child, teenager and a young adult and during all the years before the end of high school, I never thought of college or institutions for a higher or costly education. It simply didn't come to mind so when the small town school catapulted me out of the district and handed me a piece of paper confirming the giving, receiving and storing of knowledge, I panicked. This meant that I was supposed to imagine large sums of money for a university within my reach until it magically appeared in tall heaps on my kitchen table. I was expected to excrete it and thank the government for the laxative, all the while knowing that without a good system or clear pipes everything backs up. So, I have to ask for help again and take the plunger they give. Next thing you know I'd find myself scrubbing toilets with a $.55 toothbrush and my own spit. Down with the sewer system.

I never really made plans like they say you should. I constructed five year wishes in my head that were poorly organized and made up of whimsical thoughts and sugary daydreams. I wanted to run away after high school, see the world and write books. I didn't need much. Just someone to love, a place to live and some food to eat. I could walk and ride my bike. I could scribble in composition notebooks and find an old typewriter at the pawn shop. I would lay in the grass at the park, I would lay in the grass in the fields, I would lay in the grass in the courtyard, I would lay in the sand and lay on the cement and watch the clouds float by and I would see revelations in the sky and words of wonder would come to mind and I'd sigh and marvel at how the earth and the people in it got so beautiful. The beauty of freedom and simple living and less worrying would be my sustenance that energized my will to live in a state of romanticism constantly recorded my by cheap Papermate pen.

I guess my dreams have doomed me. I scribble notes in class rather than stories and ideas that could evoke emotion and excitement in the core of my bored being. Deadlines and papers due for grades in classes that I hold no interest in and sadly the incentive of a degree does not bait me to run and sweat for it. The equations and certainly unchanging answers without room to move suppress my creative center and trample it. It twists and turns and cries out for help for it is stuck in some unpleasant spot in my body without oxygen and space.

"Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!"

Can a person like me open one door without closing the other? I kind of doubt it. I'm almost afraid to try. Do you see what I am doing now? I am reasoning. I am thinking. I am creating pre-packaged thoughts and tying a bow around them to make it look unique and formulating worries that stem from warnings heard from mouths that speak for others before them. You know, I could finally go to sleep now. I could make this so poetic that you would cry. I could crawl into my bed and dream again. "No," says society and the authoritative figures in my life.

"You need to worry, and stress and crush creativity. Creativity doesn't make money. Creativity doesn't feed families. Creativity is lazy and too easy. Creativity is for them and not for you. Creativity is weird! You need to study, study, study and wash out the thoughts in your brain with unimpassioned words that do not warm your heart, but slow it down with intellectual apathy. Those words, if memorized, will give you filthy green happiness. Memorize them, girl! Let them cleanse you!"

I think I'll start skipping showers. 'Cause I'm not sure if this cleanliness smells right.

Perception

2009-02-17T20:43:00.000-08:00

Everything is dark and my head is so crammed full of shadows and fog that the light cannot seep through any cracks so I may see. Daily, I time my footsteps to the tapping of my smooth-handled cane and speak kindly to my dog.

"Sadie, baby. Do you see any cars?"

Its a joke of sorts. She whimpers sometimes and I feel the leash tug or tighten and I follow with the practiced illusion of confident strides and graceful steps. As I walk, I single out the sounds that erupt around me and I listen to the savage mixing of the rush hour orchestra. I play the role of the director with my cane and I keep to the beat, or so I imagine from day to day. My heart falls in an odd way when I note the musical padding of Sadie's traveled paws. My life is a testimony to the phrase, "Man's best friend."

You know, sometimes, and it's hard to say, I feel like less of a man. I've never felt feminine, because I'm definitely not, but it makes me nervous to think that asking for help could potentially put my masculinity at stake or even damage my ego. My way of living has taught me humility and I'm glad for it, because it's not an easy thing learned for most people. However, there are times that really get to me, like when the restroom doors have no braille on the sign and I'm forced to listen for voices and hope that I'm right, when the smell of the milk is off and I have to ask her to read the expiration date or when I can't clasp her damn necklace before we go out. Although, I can say that I'm quite skilled at the art of unclasping other sorts of things. Yet, It's when she has to drive me places and I have to endure the rock and sway of her swerving car and pray to God that we make it out alive. The age sixteen meant nothing to me and a license still has no place in my wallet at the age of twenty-seven.

I have to admit that she does make me feel like the better kind of man, and I've grown aware of the fact that I experience things that other men simply cannot or have not tried to. I have at times wondered what she looks like in her nakedness and questioned the exact show of her skin and color of her soft coiled locks. She's described it all to me, but in the end it doesn't matter because I touch it in such a special way that no one might be able to understand. Sometimes gently, barely, forcefully or with varying pressures of my hands. She's a never ending maze and mystery, although how familiar I've become with it. I can hold my hand just above her skin and feel the heat rising magnetic to meet my touch if from a hug or squeeze or touch of her face, even. She's a faint music box that creaks out tiny sounds that I interpret and guess at. I have memorized the sounds that relate to certain touches, embraces, brushing or grazing and those murmurs and whispers tickle and tease my ear and rewards my ego. She reassures my manliness and I hope that she believes how I praise her femininity and compassionate heart. I know things about my woman that the seeing man doesn't notice of his own.

During some of our most intimate times she asks to look at my eyes and I let her. I've wondered what she sees, so I used some of my courage and asked her and she let out a breath of air, and I knew she had smiled. She said, "I see a man. My man."

Luna

2009-02-16T09:53:00.000-08:00

When dusk arrives, families gather to wish the day away and to laugh about previous happenings and humorous encounters. They hug and kiss and eat their balanced supper and after consuming a hearty meal the children are sent off to bed and the adults take refreshment in the form of dessert edible or not. The sky is always bruised as if it took a beating from worldly daylight hours, and so the systems of the earth are damaged by all the evils committed by man and woman. The fire red sun dips down in reclusion between the green hills like an angered child finds comfort in the breasts of their mother. Then the sun sobs itself to sleep and the light of the child is lost for the night as it slumbers in the darkness.

The moon makes her appearance and the world is darkened and shaded in. She shines through it with her blue light down and low and she peeks in with squinty eyes and the men in mischief scurry beneath her gaze and she watches the couples embracing in rhythmic movements and youngsters dancing and taking advantage of their youth. A spy she is, and the stars shine and bring hope to those alone in their beds and alone in the bars and alone in their troubles. They give hope to me and sometimes I wonder if I might have a conversation with the moon about all the things she observes and all the things she hears. Sometimes I even wish I was the moon so that I could watch over the world and shine my light in the darkness of the earth and also the world.

My time of contemplation begins at dusk after I watch the sun retreat and Luna emerge and after I hear the families laugh and the couples exchange tender words. We are safe here or so we feel we are in this part of town, and we leave our windows open to the fresher air. At night I hear snores, sleeping sounds that resemble "om" like one would make while meditating, or disruptions of the rest that are followed by, "hum" or "oh." They waft out of the windows and enter the funnels of my ears and I smile because I have had the opportunity to observe the most simplistic form of peace and tranquility.

Occasionally, the other part of town makes me want to pick up my pace and turn off my imagination so I do not become afraid or too nervous. I see lone bodies shuffle slowly and I listen to whistles coming from directions that I cannot place. The slams of car doors or dumpster tops startle me, but after my feathers are ruffled a bit they quickly lay back down. Farther into that part of town you can hear music and see women dressed scantily and sauntering seductively, cops sitting in dark cars and men with bottles and cigarettes.

Then there are the varying types of music and the activities that go along with it. Bass and savage rhyming lyrics, baggy jeans, swisher sweets, big 40's and slang. Mariachi music, tequila, dancing and lime. DJ beats, bouncers, neon colors and clubbing twenty-somethings. Slow jazz, coffee and somber middle aged snobs. Apathetic screaming followed by sad melodies, hipsters and artsy music posters. Colored mohawks, spikes, black boots and energetic guitar riffs.

I hear it all, see what I can and I am made aware of the fact that I'm an outsider and instead of feeling left out I feel let in. I can taste it all and delight only in what I wish of each. Yes, sometimes I wish I were the moon. If I were, I would let you call me Luna. I would shine silver.

C&E

2009-02-15T15:42:00.000-08:00

Sometimes when people walk by me on sidewalks, at grocery stores and even at work, I make my eyes glitter and I smile extra bright and I hope for some sort of raw human reaction. There is something thrilling about how one can affect the other's actions or even view of the day or people in general. I feel that I must enjoy being close to people if even in discreet harmonious ways, in a slightly rough honesty or in a vaguely kindred manner. It is a prevalent unconscious desire, I believe.

I think one day I might delight in deliberate affection and wait for the response with intense expectancy. I will make conscious decisions to love someone and experience the genuine effect that comes after the anticipation. I wonder who is making such decisions and who is thinking upon them, because not only I could keep those kinds of thoughts as orderly as possible in my head however wild and sudden they are.

So, when people walk by me on sidewalks, at grocery stores and even at work, and when I make my eyes glitter and flash my brightest and most jovial smile, thoughts pass and questions pop in my brain like heated corn and oil.

I saw a man yesterday and he swaggered sober with a cup of tea warming his sizable knotty fingers. He was alone and I noticed that he greeted people that he didn't know and asked them how they were doing or what they thought of the muggy weather. Most were polite, smiled and gave brief answers and short cordial laughter. I wondered if he was suffering from the most horrible disease of loneliness, and if he was, how he coped beautifully. My head was popping and I thought that perhaps he had a lover who had left the country for business and he didn't know what to do with his time, or maybe she had died in a terrible accident or perhaps some sort of vicious woman found him unlovable. Maybe he had a nervous nature around the attractive opposite sex. It could be that he drinks hot tea, because there was not a smaller set of hands to keep his warm. Perhaps the liquid in the cup brought him the most heat to his lips that he'd get.

I gave the man my smile, asked him about his day and he told me that it was great so far. He told me to enjoy the afternoon and I twinkled my eyes and with words laced with laughter, I asked him to enjoy his as well. I saw something light up in his eye and I realized that my concern was noted. We parted and he swaggered one way and I glided the other.

I heard someone humming behind me loud, then softer, then quiet. A smile touched my lips and my eyes glittered and it was the most natural reaction that I had yesterday.

New Suburbia

2009-02-09T22:13:00.000-08:00

A woman carrying her child in a sling watches me bug-eyed from the bench placed at the edge of the sidewalk. I discreetly steal a look at the mother kangaroo, or so she seems to model herself after one; and how could I not picture her or create an unfolding scene in my head, like I am?

Alarmed, she is hopping away to her humble home with her environmentally friendly car parked in the drive and the plastic yellow and red dome toy car lying on its side in the manicured yard that surrounds the new age house and household. That's what I think of when I see her sporting her organic cotton cream colored capris and violet "Namaste" T-shirt along with her "This is not a plastic bag" tote. She's probably offended by my Chuck Taylor sneakers and leather messenger bag. So, she hops away to safety. It's either my attire or the hurried pace that I keep and the fixed look on my face that warns onlookers that I am thinking about something important that requires intense attention and any sort of disturbance will suffer the wrath of my fury. I guess I exaggerate the whole fury thing, but the intense concentration on my thoughts happens to be very accurate.

Life naturally gets me to thinking and so do strolls on sidewalks that bear the scattering of differing human beings that I observe and silently make potentially false conclusions about. I can't help it, I tell myself, I'm curious.

Spitting Ink.

2009-02-07T09:44:00.000-08:00

"Maybe I'm just a joke," she confessed in an undertone.

The girl sat in the grass with her back at the old trees, her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms encircled them and her chin cradled between her parallel kneecaps.

"What are you doing, baby? Talking to your feet?" He grinned and let out a subdued chuckle. He pressed his tongue against the back of his bottom row of teeth. She almost smiled at this.

"No," she sighed innocently and also defensively to a inconsiderable degree. "I just feel like I'm not the person that I'd like to be or maybe even the person that others think I am, you know?" She lifted her head and flicked her eyes in his direction, searched his face for his raw and unbiased thoughts on the matter.

"Babe. I am in love with whoever it is that you are." He stared at the black sky above.

"See, you don't even know who I am or what to call me. I'm just 'whoever'." She loosened her arms and fell on her back. The blades of wild and unkempt grass scratched the back of her neck and the sides of her face. It was an elemental irritation that was welcomed.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't really know what I am trying to say."

"Yes you do. You just don't want to say it."

"Yeah, maybe. Perhaps I'm afraid of the truth and once I reveal it, I have no way of escaping it or undoing it or fixing it or something..."

"Why don't you just spit it out, babe?"

"'Cause. I don't exactly know how to spit. I guess no one has ever taught me?" She pushed herself up on her elbows and surveyed the grass that stretched out in front of them and then the man that sat beside her. He worked his mouth and shifted his jaw from side to side and spit like he thought a real man would or like a true spitting enthusiast might, maybe even a baseball star.

"That's how you spit," he laughed.

She erupted in laughter and fell on her back again and he did the same. She turned her head to face him. "We are disgusting, darling. Really. Not only that, but odd and not just slightly, but wholly." She giggled and her eyes twinkled.

"I know who I am. I've got it figured out."

"Who are you then, Anika?"

"I'm just a human and I'm going to mess up all the time and doubt everything, because, really, isn't that what we do?"

"Yeah, I guess so. What made you think of that, anyway?"

"Oh, just looking at the stars and watching you spit."

They grinned at each other like two mischievous children and straightened their bodies and their eyes to watch the stars in the inky sky. He snaked his arm around hers and she gave his hand a squeeze.

"We really are quite strange."

Confession.

2009-02-04T09:28:00.000-08:00

I am rigid in the church house. I am ice cold and practicing a frozen demeanor on the last of a row of chairs that once in the good old days were rows of pews. I feel like someone has packaged me in plastic wrap, because I see everything clear and I feel, too. However, there is no movement. Sitting and observing; I am displaced and in such a state, I begin to realize and understand how the outsiders feel, and also how we enforce their label upon them. They come outsiders and they leave outsiders. They stumble in on Sunday morning seeking love and forgiveness and a dear kind soul to help them to Him. Black blindfolds tied around their heads and they cry in pathetic mumbling murmurs, "Help me take it off." We gather around and tighten the binding material. I think a lot of us have forgotten how to love and also the art of untangling and undoing nasty knots.

I watch them from the back of the church and see them in another light; a darker light, if you will. They stand and sing and clap and shift their eyes from side to side examining "the others" in disgust. They are the people who group together with those who are entirely like themselves. They do not find ways to entice "the others" to join, but rather with their "godly love," intimidate "the others" from their "holy gang." I do not capitalize the "g" in "godly love," because this is not the God I know. He is loving, unlike us.

I can't help but imagine these people in their homely kitchens standing nervous, one-legged, on dining table chairs and balancing on counter height stools screeching, shrieking and screaming, "Look! A Mouse! It's different from me! Get it away!" Heavy breathing and feigning weak ways that of the stereotypical housewife, they shudder and cry, "Kill it, honey! Kill the wretched thing!"

I see it now. They abhor then divide. Superior sides of an atom. Pure people with clean hands, they are, separating themselves from those who might jeopardize their ways. Ha, their compassionate love! So, they stand in between the pews and on the pulpit and in the choir on elevating stools of various heights and they sing as loud as possible stretching their throats and folding and unfolding their vocal chords and they shout in tongues that I do not know. I know it is real, but is it all? They are placed on their hierarchal elevators and while they stand, they look down at us with an antsy sense surrounding themselves. I can still see them in their kitchens shrieking and shaking violently in wild abandonment and fear.

I am wriggling from the plastic wrap that binds me, but also guards me from the puddle I sit in. The ice melted and I didn't notice.

I am praying silently, "Why don't we love the mice? Why won't the princesses ever kiss the frogs? Don't we know they are men and women? Princes?"

I pull the plastic from my shoulders and hop about in the chair, whispering, "Who tightened our blindfolds and why did we ever put them on?"

No one sees me. No one notices my struggle. The piano loud and banging and the preacher sweats. Eyes closed and heads bowed. I break free from this mess and tip toe out.

"I'm gonna go find Jesus," I state in determination.

Molly Mundane.

2009-02-02T11:02:00.000-08:00

I like burps and gurgles; the kind of humming that you hear in the morning when the coffee percolates. I also like the eerie kettle whistle that sounds off through the house; awakening the dust, the cat, the birds outside, my bones and my conscious mind. It’s also true that I enjoy the racket from mouths when sipping and nursing hot beverages. They slip and break the early silence and I find it grotesque, amusing and oddly enough, funny.

I turn these momentary things that I admire over and around in my head this morning, because I’m sitting at this clean hardwood table that gleams in the morning sun all alone with my very own pot of coffee and enough silence to bottle up and hand out to politicians as a literal gag gift. It’s alright, because I have the right to pick and choose, do I not? Thinking of this causes me to realize that I live such a silent and calm life, and I’m pretty sure the beloved majority would claim it undesirable. I would protest such a claim and fight against that sort of biased statement.

“You see,” I say to the imaginary crowd that gathers in my brain, crawling from the wormy folds just to listen to my thoughts.

“I get to listen. I get to hear. My gift is observation and realization and I covet it. I hold it tight, keep it warm and alive, and bury it into my breasts. I will never let it get away. Never.”

“Turn the television off,” I whisper right under my heavy breath.

It is a static that I cannot bear, and an unnatural chatter that clashes with my organic morning and beats barbarically at my skull. No, really. I’m being serious. I cannot identify the mood that I am in this morning, but it proves to be rebellious, but mostly and simply, bad in the best sort of way. My head hurts and I am momentarily thinking of lobbing a chicken’s head off. It’s an image and an action from my past that I’ll never be able to erase. I was raised in the country.

I believe that the television is made for late nights or lazy rainy or snowy days. It should always remain black and blank until a movie is rented or bought. Then it may be watched, mouths open wide or cuddled on the sofa. Maybe even a tissue box at my stocking feet. The morning is made for silence and coffee and reading and writing and soft kitten purrs or the shuffle of making breakfast. It isn’t made for loud music or obnoxious morning shows, but for secret messages, morning prayers, long looks, soft laughter, private thoughts, hushed conversation and seductive staring.

However, at this polished table with my magically evaporating coffee and mysterious emptying mug, I have no one to send secret messages to, to look at, converse with, and stare at or seduce. I want to make breakfast for someone, a man, and watch him eat and drink and swallow and sip. Then exchange a smile and a kiss or two or three or four or five or more.

I can’t help but smile at myself though, because even when feeling sad my thoughts still run through at the pitter pattering beat of hope. I am young. I have energy. I have purpose. I know. I am Molly Gregory and I love the morning and imagination and reading and coffee and I will see the world and explore. I will finish this cup of coffee, I will take a shower, blow dry my hair, apply makeup to my bare face and clothes to my naked body, open my door, lock my door and greet the day. I will. I am. I will. I am. I did.

I really did. At this moment I walk, and the nearly fresh air, (if it weren’t for pollution), acts like a mild cleanser for my nostrils, lungs, intellect and actual physical head. I thank God that I do not have allergies.

“Thank you, God.”

Handicraft

2009-01-30T08:26:00.000-08:00

I sat lifeless in the backseat of a car that an acquaintance drove. She was one of those fun, slightly crazy and flamboyant girls that might wear neon pink tights and vintage dresses. She handled her car in the city traffic with her knee and danced with her hands to Le Tigre. A guy with a lip ring was stretched out in the front seat beside her. He was from some very uninteresting band that we saw a few hours earlier. My friend that knew everyone, sat to my left and the guy who wore a corduroy vest talked to my right about the Austin music scene. I wasn't listening.

My body was turned off and my limbs lay limp. The arms attached to my shoulders seemed to belong to someone else for they were turned up, along with my red splotchy palms and creamy white wrists. I believe the only things turned on were my brain and overly stimulated eyes. However, my brain was no doubt turned to a foreign station that I rarely listen to. It seems that my neck was at a ninety degree angle, but I doubt that was so, given how uncomfortable a position that would be. I wouldn't dismiss the possibility, because it is true that my flesh and bones were numb. I guess my ears worked as well, because I remember staring upward and hearing loud music, laughter and excitable words thrown about in the small confinement of the compact car. It was all background noise for me and with the volume turned down low.

I had tunnel vision and viewed the existence above my eyes; looking up at the backseat of the window while simultaneously watching through it. There were tall buildings illuminated fashionably, conservatively, commercially and in a modern manner. They approached, arrived and left, as if I were sprawled out on a conveyor belt that ran through the city at inconsistent speeds. Fast, slow and then faster before a hasty halt followed by sudden acceleration. The sky glowed yellows, greens, reds and blues; all divided and sometimes mixed. Flying by and standing still so I could finally admire the clashing of natural light and sky with man-made fluorescent colors that shone soft.

I imagined, or envisioned or hallucinated these handy men dressed in T-shirts and white overalls. They held five gallon painting buckets, three men on each side, following the roll of the car in a magic sort of way that I neglected to conjure in my brain. They would nod at each other and then shout together, "One! Two! Three! GO!" With a swift swing of the ugly buckets, a movement that was done in a well practiced style, paint of various colors would take flight from the buckets like waves might rush from the edges of the earth if it floated flat in our galaxy. The colors went splat on the backseat window, in all their glorious bright and dark shades, tints, tones and hues. It mixed and mingled violently, beautifully and almost passionately then ran down from the top to the bottom of the window. It was as if we were driving through a psychedelic shower. The men would admire their creation and become anxious to make more. They all reached for a pocket in their overalls and took a spray bottle in their hands, and sprayed and shot at the window. They would begin to erase the combining paints and watercolor rain. When the bottles were back in their pockets, they moved like soldiers and grabbed sque'gees that hung from the pant leg of their painting garb. I watched their repetitive dragging across the window until it was streak free and clear. The art would be gone until a new block.

One man smiled down at me in a fatherly sort of way and a blonde one informed me in a stern voice that I should be more wise. The dark mustached man reassured me. The others stared, scrutinizing the window and judging my face and state.

"Don't worry," he said. "You'll be alright. Just fine."
"Will I?" My brows scrunched up and confusion glazed my eyes, no doubt.
"Yes. It's not really your fault, honey," he soothed. "You just watch the light show. You didn't know."

The blonde man scolded me with his sky blue eyes.
"Why do you trust everyone so easily?! What goes on in your head? Anything?!"

He shook his head and picked up his bucket and they made themselves ready to paint again.

"I don't know," I answered. "I don't know."

Scratches

2009-01-30T08:13:00.000-08:00

I was on my way home when I first saw you. It was through a glass window of a book store. The kind you pass up everyday and never notice. You were flipping through the dusty and yellow aged pages of an old hardback. The faded olive colored cloth cover was worn at the edges and fraying. I looked for a title, but it had mostly been rubbed off. There were still specks of gold embossing that flickered in the rays of light let in by the window. You stopped at a page and smiled at the words like a half moon, lighting up the darkened shelves just enough to catch a wandering eye, or even a fixed one.

What hit me and still gets me is that you have somehow manipulated my words and thought processes. You make me sound and feel like a poet. I've never thought much of words, but now I am desperate for them so that a sentence worthy of reading, remembering or smiling at would be made.

I wanted to walk into the book store and recommend something, then leave with a simple, "hello." It's just that I don't read much and I could not speak. So, I walked on instead of in. I thought that would be the end of it. It wasn't.

BMX BIKE

2009-01-30T07:55:00.000-08:00

I think I'm ready to start over in a way. To be honest, a lot of people have let me down, and I'm sure I let them down as well. There's something about a lot of people that really gets me, like juvenile views and these wacky actions that are supposedly cool and original, but lots of the times are kind of obnoxious and faked in order to blend in with the other "wacky" people with open minds that are rather very closed. Closed to some things that are simply right or true or conservative, as if those are all trappings of the devil. Some think so, mostly because we'd like to sound smart, modern and cultured for the sake of well, looking like we are. That, or we are afraid of appearing to be old and white haired bible thumpers or law readers or strict old timers that look at the world through the tunnel of a rolled up section of crossword puzzles or of the World News section of the newspaper.

I don't know. I'm by no means perfect or right or totally original. However, I realize some things just like other people do, and I write about it here for others to read which is pretty pathetic and kind of lame. So what. I get it and I'm fine with it. I'm not cool, or wacky, or into these things that others are into and I don't really care and it doesn't really bother me. I'm probably happier than I've been in a long time, because I'm getting this new start kind of feeling. This shedding of skin and launch into a new kind of independence. Anway, I get why people like the stuff they like and I understand that, whether I am comfortable with it or not, that I'm not interested. Sometimes you have to be interested to be accepted or paid attention to. You have to like things or do things to be a part of the conversation or the group, that all the thirteen year olds try to model themselves as. You have to be interested and active in order to connect or to understand whatever it is that everyone is so excited about.

I'm not, though. I'm not interested in lots of things that all of these people are. Perhaps it makes me boring or strange or bookish. That's alright. 'Cause I'm okay with getting excited about whatever it is that excites me, and I'm okay with seeing things in certain lights, because I happen to think they are beautiful.

I guess the point is, that I like a lot of people, but sometimes I don't understand them and I'm sure they wouldn't really understand me, and sometimes I feel guilty or like I'm on the other side of a toll bridge and I just don't have the right kind of currency. I might have let people on the other side down because of it, and it's rather unfortunate, I'm sure. However, it doesn't mean that I'm ahead or behind or better or worse. Maybe, we are just supposed to go different directions.

Maybe my North is their South and my East is their West. Perhaps. Maybe. I bet.

However, what good is betting? Our currency happens to vary. I guess finding out would be best.