They say there is a tree...
It's not a tree of life,
nor a tree of poisoned fruit.
It isn't particularly majestic,
nor does it cut a commanding silhouette.
It does not sway in the breeze of 1000 lost memories,
nor do song birds don't sing songs of its emerald leaves.
It isn't a tree that gives,
nor is it lovelier than a poem.
Kids do not swing from its branches into back woods swimmin' holes.
It doesn't signify hope or love.
It's not threatened by evil loggers.
It's not over tall or overly mighty.
It doesn't look like a witch's hand reaching into the blackest night.
It's not an Earthly lightning rod begging to be struck by the angry bolts of Zeus.
It's not a great tree,
nor a terrible tree.
But...
Of all the things it's not,
It is still a metaphor
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Of Road Turtles and Crayons
There is a stillness to this street.
The cracked pavement silent without the steady ump thump of tires on its weather beaten scars and holes
Illuminated in the warm darkness by the flickering filament of a streetlight.
Its piss yellow cone shining like a candle screaming sanctuary into the surrounding void.
No drunks stumble on the chips in the sidewalk. No giggles of children as they pull each other in obnoxiously colored plastic wagons.
A near off motion light flicks to life betraying the presence of an invading cat.
But no one to see the stillness but for me and my pen.
I gaze at upon the road turtles in their forever unflinching lines.
In rank and file they sit as a uniform train of braille to alert the morning commuters what way traffic is on-coming. Alerting the drivers of impending mortality as they quest for their morning coffee.
But for now, just stillness. Good night road turtles, rest well for tomorrow will be soon.
Insomnia can be a beautiful thing.
I sit on my stoop and gaze toward the sky. I watch the clouds shift and float a part. I watch them change colors as a reckless child spilled his crayon box.
The colors shifting and bleeding before exploding into darkness all in an instant that lasts the blink of an eye, but also as slow as a breath.
Then the child picks up his crayons in the dark before heading home. Based on the eternal Mother's call of the street lamps lighting. For a few hours of stillness and calm, his room is nothing but the endless tidiness of night.
Only for him to awaken and kick the box over again. He frantically picks them up before his mother notices, before setting the scene once more.
Of cerulean blue sky, white clouds tinged with a hint of grey and finally scribbling in the lemon yellow sun to the sounds of the first birds of spring.
Good Morning crayon child, let me hang this day on the fridge.
The cracked pavement silent without the steady ump thump of tires on its weather beaten scars and holes
Illuminated in the warm darkness by the flickering filament of a streetlight.
Its piss yellow cone shining like a candle screaming sanctuary into the surrounding void.
No drunks stumble on the chips in the sidewalk. No giggles of children as they pull each other in obnoxiously colored plastic wagons.
A near off motion light flicks to life betraying the presence of an invading cat.
But no one to see the stillness but for me and my pen.
I gaze at upon the road turtles in their forever unflinching lines.
In rank and file they sit as a uniform train of braille to alert the morning commuters what way traffic is on-coming. Alerting the drivers of impending mortality as they quest for their morning coffee.
But for now, just stillness. Good night road turtles, rest well for tomorrow will be soon.
Insomnia can be a beautiful thing.
I sit on my stoop and gaze toward the sky. I watch the clouds shift and float a part. I watch them change colors as a reckless child spilled his crayon box.
The colors shifting and bleeding before exploding into darkness all in an instant that lasts the blink of an eye, but also as slow as a breath.
Then the child picks up his crayons in the dark before heading home. Based on the eternal Mother's call of the street lamps lighting. For a few hours of stillness and calm, his room is nothing but the endless tidiness of night.
Only for him to awaken and kick the box over again. He frantically picks them up before his mother notices, before setting the scene once more.
Of cerulean blue sky, white clouds tinged with a hint of grey and finally scribbling in the lemon yellow sun to the sounds of the first birds of spring.
Good Morning crayon child, let me hang this day on the fridge.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Art is pain Highness....
I spoke with a long time friend today.
One of those friends who, even if you don't speak for days or weeks or months, you know that one simple message will start the flood of conversation as if the rest of the outside world happens in but a single blink of an eye. Like two time travelers, two extra dimensional beings that are witnessing the expanse of human history in the gaps of breaths between your spoken words.
The type of friend who,regardless of physical distance, you still feel closer to than the constant drones who inhabit the same street or bus or cubicle farm with you.
This is a recant of one of those stories. We spoke truths to each other in allegories that the resting world around us couldn't even begin to understand. We spoke about the difference between burritos and pizza and how each equates to self love and depression.
So in this talk she said to me both the most beautiful and saddest thing to me.
She said, "I sometimes let my mind rest on what could be, with the man who helped me see who I am and what I should be doing with art."
But yet... She admits with an untold sorrow that these creations, that these framed pieces of her soul would not be without the pain of love. The pain so deep of lost longing that living hurts more.
I pause and allow her to continue her thoughts. That statement alone bringing forth conflicting emotions of happiness and pain. Her paintings are breathtaking. I won't say that they are angelic, as that would deface the art, comparing it to such a cliche apparition as angels.
She continues... "The moment we made eye contact years and years ago... I felt l had already known him before. He said he felt that way too"
She allows herself another pause to gather her thoughts before continuing further.
"It doesn't matter now."
And that is when I see it. No... that's the not the right adjective for the sensation. It wasn't saw or felt, as much as an awareness. The feeling of impending sorrow. Feeling like the man who starts the projector at the first public viewing of Old Yeller at a preteen summer camp.
She Continues. "What was once there isn't any more and that's okay. I'll just leave it packed away in the place I keep things that are beautiful and powerful as well as painful and better off in the past.
One of those friends who, even if you don't speak for days or weeks or months, you know that one simple message will start the flood of conversation as if the rest of the outside world happens in but a single blink of an eye. Like two time travelers, two extra dimensional beings that are witnessing the expanse of human history in the gaps of breaths between your spoken words.
The type of friend who,regardless of physical distance, you still feel closer to than the constant drones who inhabit the same street or bus or cubicle farm with you.
This is a recant of one of those stories. We spoke truths to each other in allegories that the resting world around us couldn't even begin to understand. We spoke about the difference between burritos and pizza and how each equates to self love and depression.
So in this talk she said to me both the most beautiful and saddest thing to me.
She said, "I sometimes let my mind rest on what could be, with the man who helped me see who I am and what I should be doing with art."
But yet... She admits with an untold sorrow that these creations, that these framed pieces of her soul would not be without the pain of love. The pain so deep of lost longing that living hurts more.
I pause and allow her to continue her thoughts. That statement alone bringing forth conflicting emotions of happiness and pain. Her paintings are breathtaking. I won't say that they are angelic, as that would deface the art, comparing it to such a cliche apparition as angels.
She continues... "The moment we made eye contact years and years ago... I felt l had already known him before. He said he felt that way too"
She allows herself another pause to gather her thoughts before continuing further.
"It doesn't matter now."
And that is when I see it. No... that's the not the right adjective for the sensation. It wasn't saw or felt, as much as an awareness. The feeling of impending sorrow. Feeling like the man who starts the projector at the first public viewing of Old Yeller at a preteen summer camp.
She Continues. "What was once there isn't any more and that's okay. I'll just leave it packed away in the place I keep things that are beautiful and powerful as well as painful and better off in the past.
Silly school girl thoughts that do nothing but lend fuel to the hurt."
I straighten my hat to obfuscate the tear forming in my eye as think about that sentiment. Empathically her pain splashes over me in moonlit waves. I thrash the arms of my mind struggling against drowning in the black pool of the ink I prepare to spill. I look up at the moon and lose myself for a moment. I stop flailing and give up the struggle and begin to sink into the expanse.
But then I am saved. Saved by my own twisted revelation. So I look up and reply.
"You see..." I begin. "The words you just said to me are the most beautiful and sad things I have ever experienced. Beautiful because like all things there is a poetry to it. The words themselves paint an lasting image in my mind. Burned forever in my thoughts like a warn out polaroid. But, sad because you feel that this a bad thing. I don't have a school girl box that i keep beautiful and painful things from the past.
Pain is what fuels me. Every word I write, every drop of ink I spill onto a page is a piece of the agony in my soul. The pen is an open scarificator, destroying a piece of myself each time I put it to paper. There is no way to stop it. I can't create out of joy. I can't put on a smile and reminisce about untold loves and happiness.
Even if I write something amazing and kind, something about the smiles on flowers or the way the sun dances between rain drops, there is a sadness to it.
Even at my best, my thoughts are never happy, they are just illusions painted by a temporary lack of sadness. Similar to how, according to science, darkness is just blackness painted by the absence of light."
I assert still that her box of silly school girl thoughts and my deep void of agony are the same, we just perceive them differently.
Both are a coal fire in a boiler room.
Hers on a train that chugs around evergreen and snow covered tips of mountains, puffing out clouds of smoke like little spirals against a sun rise colored sky. Elegant smoke shapes that children will lay in the fields as her train passes and discuss the semblances hidden with in.
Mine on a rickety old engine, carrying cattle carcasses and hobos from one soul crushing city-scape to another.
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