Monday, January 19, 2009
Saturday, January 17, 2009
could've been
I received an invitation to my ex-boyfriend’s wedding last year and decided to bring an extremely good looking man to the reception as my guest. The only problem is, Mike knows me too well. “How much did you pay for this one?” he asked coyly. “He’s my live-in boyfriend. We’ve been dating for over a year,” I announced to the entire table. With eyebrows all around raised, several awkward seconds pass before I, of course, cave and share the truth because it’s something we would have laughed for hours about over coffee in the morning, in a different world. I motioned him inwards and whispered in his ear, “He came with a deep discount because of the prosthetic leg.” Mike recoiled, trying to suppress the mad giggle I know far too well. Looking over at my date, his eyes traveled downwards and then back to me. We locked eyes for a moment and both had to duck into ourselves, checking outright laughter. This is, after all, a formal occasion. Red-faced and still sputtering, he heads back to kiss the little Mrs. when the champagne glasses start ringing. I can’t help but notice that he glanced over his shoulder at me as he walked away.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
thunk
It’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen. Right up there with my father carrying one sixth of the casket of his best friend’s daughter and cracking up crying when someone says “it’s not a very heavy load, at least” and old men sitting alone and expressionless on park benches.
It breaks my heart to see it, but I keep turning the porch light back on and going over to see it, the little broken neck turned grotesquely into the snow that fell just this morning. The streak-free shine of the transparent murder weapon, blocking out the winter chill. I heard the bang on the patio door earlier in the afternoon, when I was watching the birds pick seeds one at a time out of the feeder we hung from the silver maple out front. I said to no on in particular, “stupid bird just hit the window” and went over to investigate. The poor little thing was on the ground, writhing, twisting it’s brown striped and freckled wings without effect.
“Daddy!” I cried, as if I were six again. “Daddy! It’s suffering!” Silence responded from the other room like a punch in the mouth. “Daddy!” I tried again, “shouldn’t we do something?” Still, no response. Finally the little bird ceased to move anymore and lay still. “I think its dead.” I announce, still talking to without regard to who’s listening. “Maybe it’s just stunned,” my mom interjects, unhelpfully. “It might wake up and fly away.” Several hours later and it’s still there. The sad little twisted bones and the possibility of flight cut short by an invisible foe. The tail feathers erupt at an odd angle, suggesting catastrophe.
Every time I think about the thunk and the show of death it performed I feel a little more dead on the inside; like the sadness is washing over more of me with each thought. And yet I know I’m going to walk back over there once again before I climb under my covers, flick the switch back to the on position and look at that little bird one more time.
It breaks my heart to see it, but I keep turning the porch light back on and going over to see it, the little broken neck turned grotesquely into the snow that fell just this morning. The streak-free shine of the transparent murder weapon, blocking out the winter chill. I heard the bang on the patio door earlier in the afternoon, when I was watching the birds pick seeds one at a time out of the feeder we hung from the silver maple out front. I said to no on in particular, “stupid bird just hit the window” and went over to investigate. The poor little thing was on the ground, writhing, twisting it’s brown striped and freckled wings without effect.
“Daddy!” I cried, as if I were six again. “Daddy! It’s suffering!” Silence responded from the other room like a punch in the mouth. “Daddy!” I tried again, “shouldn’t we do something?” Still, no response. Finally the little bird ceased to move anymore and lay still. “I think its dead.” I announce, still talking to without regard to who’s listening. “Maybe it’s just stunned,” my mom interjects, unhelpfully. “It might wake up and fly away.” Several hours later and it’s still there. The sad little twisted bones and the possibility of flight cut short by an invisible foe. The tail feathers erupt at an odd angle, suggesting catastrophe.
Every time I think about the thunk and the show of death it performed I feel a little more dead on the inside; like the sadness is washing over more of me with each thought. And yet I know I’m going to walk back over there once again before I climb under my covers, flick the switch back to the on position and look at that little bird one more time.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
the edge
I've heard it said that you've got your whole life ahead of you. Though all of a sudden, the rest of the crew has surged forward to center stage and I'm left standing alone in the back, trying to remember which foot is supposed to move where and wondering whether its worth it to try to catch up, or if it would be better just to run off stage and console myself over a basket of greasy fries in the cafeteria.
Of course, there remains the question of whether or not its really worth smothering my face in cooking oil when the zits start popping up. All of a sudden, center stage seven beats behind doesn't seem like such a bad option after all.
On the other hand, there remains the problem of trying to do something I was never cut out for in the first place. Turns out that during rehearsals, my mind was on the fryalator the entire time.
However, I am worried that if I don't do something, I will spend my entire life wondering who it was that put the toliet paper roll on backwards before realizing the only person it could have been was myself, then analyzing the whys and whatfors of backwards toliet paper for the rest of a wonderful evening with only myself and my basket of pimples for company.
Of course, there remains the question of whether or not its really worth smothering my face in cooking oil when the zits start popping up. All of a sudden, center stage seven beats behind doesn't seem like such a bad option after all.
On the other hand, there remains the problem of trying to do something I was never cut out for in the first place. Turns out that during rehearsals, my mind was on the fryalator the entire time.
However, I am worried that if I don't do something, I will spend my entire life wondering who it was that put the toliet paper roll on backwards before realizing the only person it could have been was myself, then analyzing the whys and whatfors of backwards toliet paper for the rest of a wonderful evening with only myself and my basket of pimples for company.
Friday, January 2, 2009
juncture
New Year's Resolution.
Write.
You say that I can. That it's a natural talent given to me by the one that created and creates and cares and destroys, but I don't utilize it like I should. You say that when my thoughts flow out into letters that create words seaming into rivers of sounds, patterns of expression and conclusions it means something to those around me, but I choose quiet introspection and a silent inner commentary of the lives around me over communication.
I've wished to be talented my entire life. I wanted to draw cartoons of the nasty teacher and make my classmates laugh, but my artisan apprenticeship fell short with a few lines and circles. I wanted to be an athlete, running like I was born to, dodging defenses with the ball dancing at my feet, but my stardom fell short with a few clumsy passes and zero points. I wanted to be in movies, on stage or spend time behind a microhpone, but my inclination towards enternainment fell short when I realized I'm not entertaining.
I've wished to be good, to be famous, to be accomplished at anything, but discounted my ability to compose passages that mean something to someone. Ignoring the one thing I can do without wondering if I'm good enough. Blocking out the one thing I can do without having to constantly second guess myself. Ignoring my ability to put feelings into words, onto paper and spread. I'm done wishing for something that isn't going to happen. I'm done wondering why I'm not good at anything that counts, when something I am good at is right in front of my nose. Writing counts. Writing is my talent. I can't change it or make it count for less or more. Writing is.
New Year's Resolution.
Write.
Write.
You say that I can. That it's a natural talent given to me by the one that created and creates and cares and destroys, but I don't utilize it like I should. You say that when my thoughts flow out into letters that create words seaming into rivers of sounds, patterns of expression and conclusions it means something to those around me, but I choose quiet introspection and a silent inner commentary of the lives around me over communication.
I've wished to be talented my entire life. I wanted to draw cartoons of the nasty teacher and make my classmates laugh, but my artisan apprenticeship fell short with a few lines and circles. I wanted to be an athlete, running like I was born to, dodging defenses with the ball dancing at my feet, but my stardom fell short with a few clumsy passes and zero points. I wanted to be in movies, on stage or spend time behind a microhpone, but my inclination towards enternainment fell short when I realized I'm not entertaining.
I've wished to be good, to be famous, to be accomplished at anything, but discounted my ability to compose passages that mean something to someone. Ignoring the one thing I can do without wondering if I'm good enough. Blocking out the one thing I can do without having to constantly second guess myself. Ignoring my ability to put feelings into words, onto paper and spread. I'm done wishing for something that isn't going to happen. I'm done wondering why I'm not good at anything that counts, when something I am good at is right in front of my nose. Writing counts. Writing is my talent. I can't change it or make it count for less or more. Writing is.
New Year's Resolution.
Write.
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