We connect.
Connections.
That we will maintain.
Invisibly, eternally.
And it is when the world is its most indecipherable, that it is working at its best.
Tonight, I connected to Bach.
This one is for Sebastian.
Another time, removed away
And whispered him the notes to play
Arranged the symphonies undone
Conformed the instruments to one.
With ease of gift as giver does
As if the music always was
The ivories cry from tender touch
Caressed by he who heard so much.
10 violins persist and move
With passioned song to sound and sooth
"A" minor lingers, shines, and glows,
In symphonies the whole world knows.
Brass and string alike adieu,
The tender genius no one knew
Who explained heaven without Word,
And shall remain forever heard.
December 31, 2006
December 30, 2006
Starting the New Year with LD
“Listen carefully to the sound
Of your loneliness
Like a heartbeat…
'Drives you mad.
In the stillness of remembering what you had.
And what you lost.
And what you had.
And what you lost.”
-Fleetwood Mac
LD - I really like that song except for the music, and the vocals.
Me - What? What do you like about it then?
LD - The Words.
Me - Then why don't you just say, you like the lyrics, instead of saying, you like the song, and then listing all the things you don't like.
LD - That's what I said.
Me - I know. Why don't you just say, "I like the lyrics."
LD - Because I didn't know you liked them too.
Me - Not me. You.
LD - You don't like that song?
Me -(huffs) No. YOU don't like that song.
LD - But I do! I love that song! Except for the music and the vocals.
Me - You have to buy the next round because you're making my head hurt.
LD - Sounds like a good reason to me. Hey! Let's have doubles!
Of your loneliness
Like a heartbeat…
'Drives you mad.
In the stillness of remembering what you had.
And what you lost.
And what you had.
And what you lost.”
-Fleetwood Mac
LD - I really like that song except for the music, and the vocals.
Me - What? What do you like about it then?
LD - The Words.
Me - Then why don't you just say, you like the lyrics, instead of saying, you like the song, and then listing all the things you don't like.
LD - That's what I said.
Me - I know. Why don't you just say, "I like the lyrics."
LD - Because I didn't know you liked them too.
Me - Not me. You.
LD - You don't like that song?
Me -(huffs) No. YOU don't like that song.
LD - But I do! I love that song! Except for the music and the vocals.
Me - You have to buy the next round because you're making my head hurt.
LD - Sounds like a good reason to me. Hey! Let's have doubles!
December 24, 2006
Breath
I used to carry a small leather backpack instead of a purse. It contained all my purse things, plus deodorant, toothbrush, condoms, and a few other essentials because you never know where you're going to spend the night.
I used to take my passport with me on dates, because you never know.
Prepared, for life's adventures. Inviting them, attracting them. Ready.
There are certain sounds the earth makes that let you know you're exactly where you're supposed to be. If you listen closely, if you pay attention, you can actually hear:
The universe sighing.
I used to take my passport with me on dates, because you never know.
Prepared, for life's adventures. Inviting them, attracting them. Ready.
There are certain sounds the earth makes that let you know you're exactly where you're supposed to be. If you listen closely, if you pay attention, you can actually hear:
The universe sighing.
December 18, 2006
An Evening with Ray
"You can build a mansion, but you just can't live in it
You're the fastest runner but you're not allowed to win
Some break the rules, and let you cut the cost
The insecurity is the thing that won't get lost."
-Howard Jones
And Ray said:
That's how calculating I am. I would travel a thousand miles to avoid confrontation with you.
Everybody's got an outlook, or a terminology. And nobody's wrong. Life is a view.
You know that bullshit people give you and they say, oh, I only said it because I was angry. That's bullshit. Let me tell you something. You never said anything more real in your entire life.
You make your own reality
I don't want you to gauge me. I'm not going to say it, and risk your not liking me.
I don't mean it like that. I don't know everything. Tunnel vision. I said what I said to protect myself.
I don't want to be the pompous asshole who is always right.
I think we just had some real emotions. The compliment to you, is that we are all nuts, but I love you.
-Ray
And if butterflies had antlers,
And if whispers could hold the weight of a sword.
You're the fastest runner but you're not allowed to win
Some break the rules, and let you cut the cost
The insecurity is the thing that won't get lost."
-Howard Jones
And Ray said:
That's how calculating I am. I would travel a thousand miles to avoid confrontation with you.
Everybody's got an outlook, or a terminology. And nobody's wrong. Life is a view.
You know that bullshit people give you and they say, oh, I only said it because I was angry. That's bullshit. Let me tell you something. You never said anything more real in your entire life.
You make your own reality
I don't want you to gauge me. I'm not going to say it, and risk your not liking me.
I don't mean it like that. I don't know everything. Tunnel vision. I said what I said to protect myself.
I don't want to be the pompous asshole who is always right.
I think we just had some real emotions. The compliment to you, is that we are all nuts, but I love you.
-Ray
And if butterflies had antlers,
And if whispers could hold the weight of a sword.
December 14, 2006
Clear the Way
Sometimes I get it,
And the way is clear.
It may not be your fault. But you still have to clean up the mess.
It may not be your spill. But you can't let anyone else slip.
I was in his car, he knew the way.
He made it look so easy. He made it look clear. And sometimes I get it.
I was in his car and the way looked so clear, and we
and you
but I
You have to have an odd number of things. An even number just dosn't look right.
It has to be odd.
I remember the lunches. The Jetson's lunchbox. The chocolate pudding snack packs with the little metal lids that were sharp enough to cut your fingers. I remember the little red cardboard box of animal crackers with the string handle, and the baloney and orange American cheese sandwichs on Wonder Bread, in a little Tupperware the exact size of the sandwich. I remember. The way was clear.
I remember wanting her to like me.
I remember wanting him to leave.
I remember hiding in the bathroom, and the Dopey washcloth, and the smell of Ivory soap.
I remember what he said. I remember the Words.
Sometimes I get it,
And the way is clear.
And the way is clear.
It may not be your fault. But you still have to clean up the mess.
It may not be your spill. But you can't let anyone else slip.
I was in his car, he knew the way.
He made it look so easy. He made it look clear. And sometimes I get it.
I was in his car and the way looked so clear, and we
and you
but I
You have to have an odd number of things. An even number just dosn't look right.
It has to be odd.
I remember the lunches. The Jetson's lunchbox. The chocolate pudding snack packs with the little metal lids that were sharp enough to cut your fingers. I remember the little red cardboard box of animal crackers with the string handle, and the baloney and orange American cheese sandwichs on Wonder Bread, in a little Tupperware the exact size of the sandwich. I remember. The way was clear.
I remember wanting her to like me.
I remember wanting him to leave.
I remember hiding in the bathroom, and the Dopey washcloth, and the smell of Ivory soap.
I remember what he said. I remember the Words.
Sometimes I get it,
And the way is clear.
Schism - by Tool
I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them fall away
Mildewed and smoldering. Fundamental differing.
Pure intention juxtaposed will set two lovers souls in motion
Disintegrating as it goes testing our communication
The light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so
We cannot see to reach an end crippling our communication.
I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them tumble down
No fault, none to blame it doesn't mean I don't desire to
Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over.
To bring the pieces back together, rediscover communication
The poetry that comes from the squaring off between,
And the circling is worth it.
Finding beauty in the dissonance.
There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away.
Mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting
I've done the math enough to know the dangers of our second guessing
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication.
Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy any
Sense of compassion
Between supposed lovers/brothers
- Words
Brilliantly Written
By TOOL
Mildewed and smoldering. Fundamental differing.
Pure intention juxtaposed will set two lovers souls in motion
Disintegrating as it goes testing our communication
The light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so
We cannot see to reach an end crippling our communication.
I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them tumble down
No fault, none to blame it doesn't mean I don't desire to
Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over.
To bring the pieces back together, rediscover communication
The poetry that comes from the squaring off between,
And the circling is worth it.
Finding beauty in the dissonance.
There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away.
Mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting
I've done the math enough to know the dangers of our second guessing
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication.
Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy any
Sense of compassion
Between supposed lovers/brothers
- Words
Brilliantly Written
By TOOL
December 10, 2006
December 08, 2006
Words Are Everything: My Tribute to Jeffrey Johnston
"Sticks and stones can break your bones, but Words can take a life."
-www.jeffreyjohnston.org
The beautiful young man in this picture is Jeffrey Johnston. Jeff hung himself on June 29, 2005. He was 15 years old. The Words hurt too much. Jeff committed suicide after suffering for two years from the torment of a bully. The bully posted hateful messages, lies, and Words of terror and anger online, to such a degree that Jeff lost all hope.
You can read about the story here.
Debbie Johnston, Jeffrey's mother, a true hero in our time, has taken her unspeakable pain and loss, and has turned it into something positive and life saving.
To read more about her work to create anti-bullying policies and laws through "Students for Safer Schools: Students, parents, and teachers committed to raising awareness about bullying and suicide prevention," please visit the official site:
Think before you speak. Use your Words wisely.
And for God's sake, take responsibility (unlike the bully and his father)
for the things you do,
the Words you say,
the people you hurt,
the lives you affect.
"Overall I'm just a normal kid..."
-Jeffrey Johnston, 2003
December 07, 2006
Umm, it was research. Yeah, that's it. Research.
"I need you to rewrite this."
I'm making Stroganoff. "I think you need to research your topic more thoroughly."
When he called earlier, he asked if he could stop over to talk about this job. I began preparing immediately. Mmmm... What a great excuse.
I'm layering in the sour cream. He's looking over my shoulder. "What are you doing?"
"I'm seducing you." It wasn't my first job with him. I'd written for him before. I had noticed his cheekbones, and his jawline. It was 1993 and the number one song, Duran Duran's Ordinary World, was playing on my boombox.
"Very funny." He looks around and sees the table is set for two. Politely, he does not take off his double breasted suit jacket. He glances at his watch, probably wondering about how much time he has before my dinner guest arrives. "You wrote what I asked for, but it's not working."
"That's because you need to research your topic better. I'm telling you. Research. And I can help you with that." My kitchen smells delicious.
He's standing there in his perfectly tailored designer suit. In his shoes that cost more than my mortgage. He opens the top button of his crisp sapphire blue shirt, and pulls his tie loose. "I never believed anyone was actually bisexual."
"Interesting point of view." I stir. He's taking a whiff. It's inviting. I lower the flame and wipe my hands off on the dishtowel, tucked into the front pocket of my cut-off shorts. Daisy Dukes, barefoot, cropped t-shirt falling off my shoulder. The perfect amount of not-much make-up. My long hair is swept up in a clip, lots of whispies falling everywhere. I'd spent about an hour putting together this hap-hazard natural look.
He's about ten years older than I am. I've always been interested. But there is an art to this.
He's handsome, divorced, successful. All these Words mean many things, and nothing. He's aware of his surroundings, and completely unaware at the same time. "I always thought it was a step, on the way to admitting you're gay." He's eyeing the Merlot on the counter. He raises an eyebrow. It's a good bottle.
I slide two glasses out from underneath the wine rack and set them on the counter infront of him. Temptation is an art.
"May I?" His voice is deep. He seems pleasantly surprised.
"Please."
"Are you sure? It looks like you're expecting someone."
I grin. "I am."
He slides his jacket off. "I wanted the articles to be about the transition. Where the main character begins to date members of the same sex, but isn't ready to admit he is gay. So he claims he's bi, and still spends time with the wife, just to sort of slow things down in his head." He hands me my glass.
I watch as he tastes and looks at the bottle. "It's your article series. If that's what you want to say, then that's what we'll say. It probably does happen that way sometimes."
"I'm lost." He sips again, he looks for the body in the glass. "But then again, I don't think I even know any bisexuals."
"Research. Know your topic." I set the bowls out on the little bistro set. I sit, and begin to eat. He looks surprised to discover he's the dinner guest I've been cooking for. He sits slowly.
"Have you ever had a relationship with another man?"
He puts his napkin in his lap. "No, I've never been with a man."
I finish swallowing and sip my wine. "But have you ever had a relationship. Another guy that you spend a lot of time with, that you connect with. That you don't think of sexually, but still you just can't wait to see. A friend, but more than a friend."
He closes his eyes briefly as he swallows. "This is really good, Veronica. Thank you." His lips fill with color. "And, yeah, I have had relationships with guys that I could describe like that, although I probably wouldn't."
By the second bottle of wine, I had explained the Kinsey scale. And Queer Theory. And camaraderie. And the levels of relationships. I begin to explain that bisexuality is a broad term, that can mean many things. Like successful. And then I reveal.
I lick my lips. "I've had good emotional relationships with women. But I'm finding sex with women to be lacking. I have only had really good sexual relationships with men."
He looks eager. I see several reactions cross his handsome face. "You're bisexual?"
"By some definitions, yes."
"How many definitions can there be?"
"Haven't you been listening?" I glance at the clock, and clear the table. "I believe we are defined by our hearts, not our genitals. I do not believe that you can be labeled bi or gay or straight simply by the sexual history you have. I believe what defines you as bi or gay or straight, is your ability to feel romantic love."
I set a third bottle of wine down for him to open. "I don't believe that just because a guy fucks another guy, that he's gay. I have had great sex with my vibrator. Does that mean I'm not straight? Does that mean I prefer machinery to men? Of course it doesn't."
He's rolled his sleeves up, and he's opening the bottle, "If we drink this bottle, I'm not going to be able to drive home." He grins at me.
"Open the bottle. You're not going anywhere." He is still as I touch his hand. I lift his wrist and look at his watch. He can't completely figure me out.
I unlock the back door. "I'm expecting someone."
He begins to look a little nervous.
"The guy in your articles, is married to a woman. And he has sex with a guy in his gym. From those facts, we can not know if he is gay, straight or bi. Any one of them is possible."
He sits back and says, "I'm listening."
"Ok, first possibility is that he could be gay, in denial, in the closet, not in love with his wife. That's a definite possibility, but it doesn't mean he should be labeled as bi while going through these steps." The wine is poured, and my anklets make a little tinkling sound when I cross my bare legs.
"Next, there is the possibility that he's bisexual. To me that would mean that he really is in love with his wife, but has a romantic attraction to this guy in the gym. Note, I said romantic attraction. Not just sexual. And there is still the third possibility that this guy is straight. He could be in love with his wife. He could even be happy in his marriage, but in addition to that, feels sexually attracted to this guy in the gym. And has acted upon it."
He looks intrigued, but nervous about whoever it is I'm expecting. He keeps glancing at the window. God, he's handsome.
He turns as the kitchen door opens and she comes in.
"Laura, this is Sam, the guy I told you about, that needs to do some research."
He stands, politely. Shakes her hand. Smiles. She's wearing cut off shorts similar to mine. "Are you two sisters?"
"Nope. We're lovers." She giggles a little as she answers him.
I pour her a glass of wine.
I look right at him.
And he grins back at me, as he finisheS connecting all the dots.
What better way for him to research his articles on bisexuals,
than to spend the evening...
with two.
"Any world, is my world...
Every world is my world..."
-Ordinary World, by Duran Duran
I'm making Stroganoff. "I think you need to research your topic more thoroughly."
When he called earlier, he asked if he could stop over to talk about this job. I began preparing immediately. Mmmm... What a great excuse.
I'm layering in the sour cream. He's looking over my shoulder. "What are you doing?"
"I'm seducing you." It wasn't my first job with him. I'd written for him before. I had noticed his cheekbones, and his jawline. It was 1993 and the number one song, Duran Duran's Ordinary World, was playing on my boombox.
"Very funny." He looks around and sees the table is set for two. Politely, he does not take off his double breasted suit jacket. He glances at his watch, probably wondering about how much time he has before my dinner guest arrives. "You wrote what I asked for, but it's not working."
"That's because you need to research your topic better. I'm telling you. Research. And I can help you with that." My kitchen smells delicious.
He's standing there in his perfectly tailored designer suit. In his shoes that cost more than my mortgage. He opens the top button of his crisp sapphire blue shirt, and pulls his tie loose. "I never believed anyone was actually bisexual."
"Interesting point of view." I stir. He's taking a whiff. It's inviting. I lower the flame and wipe my hands off on the dishtowel, tucked into the front pocket of my cut-off shorts. Daisy Dukes, barefoot, cropped t-shirt falling off my shoulder. The perfect amount of not-much make-up. My long hair is swept up in a clip, lots of whispies falling everywhere. I'd spent about an hour putting together this hap-hazard natural look.
He's about ten years older than I am. I've always been interested. But there is an art to this.
He's handsome, divorced, successful. All these Words mean many things, and nothing. He's aware of his surroundings, and completely unaware at the same time. "I always thought it was a step, on the way to admitting you're gay." He's eyeing the Merlot on the counter. He raises an eyebrow. It's a good bottle.
I slide two glasses out from underneath the wine rack and set them on the counter infront of him. Temptation is an art.
"May I?" His voice is deep. He seems pleasantly surprised.
"Please."
"Are you sure? It looks like you're expecting someone."
I grin. "I am."
He slides his jacket off. "I wanted the articles to be about the transition. Where the main character begins to date members of the same sex, but isn't ready to admit he is gay. So he claims he's bi, and still spends time with the wife, just to sort of slow things down in his head." He hands me my glass.
I watch as he tastes and looks at the bottle. "It's your article series. If that's what you want to say, then that's what we'll say. It probably does happen that way sometimes."
"I'm lost." He sips again, he looks for the body in the glass. "But then again, I don't think I even know any bisexuals."
"Research. Know your topic." I set the bowls out on the little bistro set. I sit, and begin to eat. He looks surprised to discover he's the dinner guest I've been cooking for. He sits slowly.
"Have you ever had a relationship with another man?"
He puts his napkin in his lap. "No, I've never been with a man."
I finish swallowing and sip my wine. "But have you ever had a relationship. Another guy that you spend a lot of time with, that you connect with. That you don't think of sexually, but still you just can't wait to see. A friend, but more than a friend."
He closes his eyes briefly as he swallows. "This is really good, Veronica. Thank you." His lips fill with color. "And, yeah, I have had relationships with guys that I could describe like that, although I probably wouldn't."
By the second bottle of wine, I had explained the Kinsey scale. And Queer Theory. And camaraderie. And the levels of relationships. I begin to explain that bisexuality is a broad term, that can mean many things. Like successful. And then I reveal.
I lick my lips. "I've had good emotional relationships with women. But I'm finding sex with women to be lacking. I have only had really good sexual relationships with men."
He looks eager. I see several reactions cross his handsome face. "You're bisexual?"
"By some definitions, yes."
"How many definitions can there be?"
"Haven't you been listening?" I glance at the clock, and clear the table. "I believe we are defined by our hearts, not our genitals. I do not believe that you can be labeled bi or gay or straight simply by the sexual history you have. I believe what defines you as bi or gay or straight, is your ability to feel romantic love."
I set a third bottle of wine down for him to open. "I don't believe that just because a guy fucks another guy, that he's gay. I have had great sex with my vibrator. Does that mean I'm not straight? Does that mean I prefer machinery to men? Of course it doesn't."
He's rolled his sleeves up, and he's opening the bottle, "If we drink this bottle, I'm not going to be able to drive home." He grins at me.
"Open the bottle. You're not going anywhere." He is still as I touch his hand. I lift his wrist and look at his watch. He can't completely figure me out.
I unlock the back door. "I'm expecting someone."
He begins to look a little nervous.
"The guy in your articles, is married to a woman. And he has sex with a guy in his gym. From those facts, we can not know if he is gay, straight or bi. Any one of them is possible."
He sits back and says, "I'm listening."
"Ok, first possibility is that he could be gay, in denial, in the closet, not in love with his wife. That's a definite possibility, but it doesn't mean he should be labeled as bi while going through these steps." The wine is poured, and my anklets make a little tinkling sound when I cross my bare legs.
"Next, there is the possibility that he's bisexual. To me that would mean that he really is in love with his wife, but has a romantic attraction to this guy in the gym. Note, I said romantic attraction. Not just sexual. And there is still the third possibility that this guy is straight. He could be in love with his wife. He could even be happy in his marriage, but in addition to that, feels sexually attracted to this guy in the gym. And has acted upon it."
He looks intrigued, but nervous about whoever it is I'm expecting. He keeps glancing at the window. God, he's handsome.
He turns as the kitchen door opens and she comes in.
"Laura, this is Sam, the guy I told you about, that needs to do some research."
He stands, politely. Shakes her hand. Smiles. She's wearing cut off shorts similar to mine. "Are you two sisters?"
"Nope. We're lovers." She giggles a little as she answers him.
I pour her a glass of wine.
I look right at him.
And he grins back at me, as he finisheS connecting all the dots.
What better way for him to research his articles on bisexuals,
than to spend the evening...
with two.
"Any world, is my world...
Every world is my world..."
-Ordinary World, by Duran Duran
December 06, 2006
The Bend
His apartment is sad. It looks like nobody lives there. Milk crates, a mattress, some clothes. No care. Not even an attempt to be a home.
We can only bend so far. And then we break.
I used to know him. I used to know his hands, and his thoughts.
I remember Tony. I remember being in San Francisco with Tony, in 1986. We sat in the Achilles Heel, and he told me about the love of his life. He told me that when he came out of the cloud of pot smoke around him, she was gone. He had lost her. And as he finishes telling me, he looks up, and there she is. Standing outside of the cafe. Looking at him through the window.
He comes out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. "Sorry that took so long."
"It's fine." I can't complain. I am the one that insisted he shower. It had been days.
He walks into the kitchen and looks around. He knows there's almost nothing there. But he looks, as if hopeful that miraculously something might appeared. Or maybe he's thinking about another kitchen. Another place he was. He takes a beer.
I remember Phil. I remember Carolyn the black jack dealer, that turned his world upside down. I remember she wanted to get married and have children, and he didn't. So she left. And she got what she wanted. I remember Phil would sneak out of his girlfriend's bed, in the middle of the night, to do drive-by's past Carolyn's house.
His eyes are sad. As sad as the apartment. He looks at the floor. "She's in the house. She told me to leave, and I did. I didn't even argue. I left with nothing but the clothes on my back." And the guilt. And the hole in his heart.
We can only bend so far. And then we break.
I used to know him. I used to know his hands, and his thoughts.
He makes his way toward me. I'm sitting on the floor at the window. I'm listening. He sits next to me. "She'll never forgive me. She'll never get passed this." He bends. At the knees, and the waist. He bends, and he lays down, putting his head in my lap.
I run my hand over his wet hair, feeling the water soak into my jeans. He whispers, "She'll never take me back."
I remember Danny, telling me his wife was the woman that came after the woman he really loved. I remember everyone was surprised when he and his wife seperated. I remember, I wasn't.
I offer to get him something to eat, I could be to the store and back in a few minutes. He declines. I ask if there's anything I can do.
"Just this," He says. "Just this."
We can only bend so far. And then we break.
I used to know him. I used to know his hands, and his thoughts.
We can only bend so far. And then we break.
I used to know him. I used to know his hands, and his thoughts.
I remember Tony. I remember being in San Francisco with Tony, in 1986. We sat in the Achilles Heel, and he told me about the love of his life. He told me that when he came out of the cloud of pot smoke around him, she was gone. He had lost her. And as he finishes telling me, he looks up, and there she is. Standing outside of the cafe. Looking at him through the window.
He comes out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. "Sorry that took so long."
"It's fine." I can't complain. I am the one that insisted he shower. It had been days.
He walks into the kitchen and looks around. He knows there's almost nothing there. But he looks, as if hopeful that miraculously something might appeared. Or maybe he's thinking about another kitchen. Another place he was. He takes a beer.
I remember Phil. I remember Carolyn the black jack dealer, that turned his world upside down. I remember she wanted to get married and have children, and he didn't. So she left. And she got what she wanted. I remember Phil would sneak out of his girlfriend's bed, in the middle of the night, to do drive-by's past Carolyn's house.
His eyes are sad. As sad as the apartment. He looks at the floor. "She's in the house. She told me to leave, and I did. I didn't even argue. I left with nothing but the clothes on my back." And the guilt. And the hole in his heart.
We can only bend so far. And then we break.
I used to know him. I used to know his hands, and his thoughts.
He makes his way toward me. I'm sitting on the floor at the window. I'm listening. He sits next to me. "She'll never forgive me. She'll never get passed this." He bends. At the knees, and the waist. He bends, and he lays down, putting his head in my lap.
I run my hand over his wet hair, feeling the water soak into my jeans. He whispers, "She'll never take me back."
I remember Danny, telling me his wife was the woman that came after the woman he really loved. I remember everyone was surprised when he and his wife seperated. I remember, I wasn't.
I offer to get him something to eat, I could be to the store and back in a few minutes. He declines. I ask if there's anything I can do.
"Just this," He says. "Just this."
We can only bend so far. And then we break.
I used to know him. I used to know his hands, and his thoughts.
December 03, 2006
And Again
Penny Lane: How old are you?
William: 18.
Penny Lane: Me too! How old are we really?
William: 17.
Penny Lane: Me too!
William: Actually, I'm 16.
Penny Lane: Me too!! Isn't it funny? The truth just sounds different.
William: I'm 15.
-Almost Famous
There's a huge difference between a drunken honest mistake, and a highjacking.
And there are things that bear repeating.
"When I break, I wish no one in my place."
-Love Spit Love
The road split. And the life that I did not choose keeps going and going.
"No matter where you go, you will always have a place.
Can't you see it in my face?"
-Badfinger
We don't own the Words. The Words own us.
"I know I got a bad reputation
and it isn't just talk, talk, talk.
If I could only give you everything
You know I haven't got.
I couldn't have one conversation
If it wasn't for the lies, lies, lies.
And still I wanna tell you everything
'til I close my eyes."
-Freedy Johnston
Give me a chance to fix it. Tell me where it's broken. And I swear I will give you 3 things: my best, the truth, and an apology.
"God, it's so painful.
Something that's so close
Is still so far out of reach."
-Tom Petty
You can only sin with your heart.
"You're already falling,
It's calling you back to face the music.
And the song that is coming through.
You're already falling.
The one that is calling
Is
You."
-Moody Blues
The Last Word
William: 18.
Penny Lane: Me too! How old are we really?
William: 17.
Penny Lane: Me too!
William: Actually, I'm 16.
Penny Lane: Me too!! Isn't it funny? The truth just sounds different.
William: I'm 15.
-Almost Famous
There's a huge difference between a drunken honest mistake, and a highjacking.
And there are things that bear repeating.
"When I break, I wish no one in my place."
-Love Spit Love
The road split. And the life that I did not choose keeps going and going.
"No matter where you go, you will always have a place.
Can't you see it in my face?"
-Badfinger
We don't own the Words. The Words own us.
"I know I got a bad reputation
and it isn't just talk, talk, talk.
If I could only give you everything
You know I haven't got.
I couldn't have one conversation
If it wasn't for the lies, lies, lies.
And still I wanna tell you everything
'til I close my eyes."
-Freedy Johnston
Give me a chance to fix it. Tell me where it's broken. And I swear I will give you 3 things: my best, the truth, and an apology.
"God, it's so painful.
Something that's so close
Is still so far out of reach."
-Tom Petty
You can only sin with your heart.
"You're already falling,
It's calling you back to face the music.
And the song that is coming through.
You're already falling.
The one that is calling
Is
You."
-Moody Blues
The Last Word
December 02, 2006
What Word
How would you choose to be remembered.
What Word
would you like people to use, when they describe the way you were.
Giving.
Kind.
Good.
Do you live your life with that Word in mind.
What will they say,
When you are gone.
What Words will represent your intentions, your deeds, your life.
What will be your legacy.
If you had the opportunity to shape how others will forever know you,
Oh wait...
That's right.
You do.
What Word
would you like people to use, when they describe the way you were.
Giving.
Kind.
Good.
Do you live your life with that Word in mind.
What will they say,
When you are gone.
What Words will represent your intentions, your deeds, your life.
What will be your legacy.
If you had the opportunity to shape how others will forever know you,
Oh wait...
That's right.
You do.
December 01, 2006
Trajectory
The imagined path. The way, as you see it, in your head.
He isn't what I was expecting. But then, who is. He's very tall, and soft spoken. "I can't use this." He hands it back to me as if it's dirty. "No one can relate to this. I don't know what you're thinking."
I've dealt with him for years, but never face to face. This is the first face to face. His face. My face.
People don't want to hear about how good your life is, he tells me.
They don't ask how your holiday was so that you can tell them what a great time you had. They ask, so they can commiserate with you. They want to talk about how bad theirs was. They want you to relate. They do not want you to do better.
He tells me, the best things I write come from depression.
I tell him I have wonderful depressions. I sink into them, where the winter echoes, and I am saturated. I push myself deeper, underneath the water.
But that isn't the whole story. That isn't the only place I can hear echoes. That isn't the whole trajectory of the Words.
It's sad, that only the darkness seems to count.
We each had an expectation for this meeting. We have each been disappointed.
Trajectory.
Misfire.
He shakes his head as if he's waiting for my apology. I think that's it. I think he wants me to apologize for writing this. For being happy.
I break as hard as the next poet.
But in between the breaks,
There is an incredible life
Waiting to be had.
Why shouldn't I write about it.
"I understand." I nod. But I don't. Not really. I understand what he is saying. I just don't understand why it is this way. I turn to leave, and he begins to stop me. But I go.
Life is too short to deal with mean people.
Walk away.
I follow my heart.
There have been moments.
Making love on mescaline at sunset in the Mojave Desert.
Being backstage at the Meadowlands in Jersey with Aerosmith.
Listening to thunder.
Drinking pints of Guiness in a pub in Dingle, Ireland, singing Irish folk songs.
Walking through the Louvre in Paris between the Michelangelo's and losing my breath from the beauty.
Flying in a helicopter over the glaciers in Alaska.
Laying on the floor in my house with my dogs, all piled on top of one another, sleeping soundly.
Jet skiing in the ocean, off Grand Caymen with great friends.
Watching the whales leap out of the water in both Maui, and Glacier Bay.
Staring into my lover's eyes at the alter, saying I do.
Swimming with the dolphins in Honduras.
Snow mobiling in Vermont. Eating hash brownies and singing old KISS songs with a room full of total strangers. Getting a standing ovation. Caring. Drinking dirty martinis in New York City. Shaking Ken Daneyko's hand. Waking up. Laughing. Finding really good pizza. Smelling freshly cut grass. Feeling.
Writing. Everyday.
Writing.
I am having the most beautiful life.
The sunshine echoes.
He isn't what I was expecting. But then, who is. He's very tall, and soft spoken. "I can't use this." He hands it back to me as if it's dirty. "No one can relate to this. I don't know what you're thinking."
I've dealt with him for years, but never face to face. This is the first face to face. His face. My face.
People don't want to hear about how good your life is, he tells me.
They don't ask how your holiday was so that you can tell them what a great time you had. They ask, so they can commiserate with you. They want to talk about how bad theirs was. They want you to relate. They do not want you to do better.
He tells me, the best things I write come from depression.
I tell him I have wonderful depressions. I sink into them, where the winter echoes, and I am saturated. I push myself deeper, underneath the water.
But that isn't the whole story. That isn't the only place I can hear echoes. That isn't the whole trajectory of the Words.
It's sad, that only the darkness seems to count.
We each had an expectation for this meeting. We have each been disappointed.
Trajectory.
Misfire.
He shakes his head as if he's waiting for my apology. I think that's it. I think he wants me to apologize for writing this. For being happy.
I break as hard as the next poet.
But in between the breaks,
There is an incredible life
Waiting to be had.
Why shouldn't I write about it.
"I understand." I nod. But I don't. Not really. I understand what he is saying. I just don't understand why it is this way. I turn to leave, and he begins to stop me. But I go.
Life is too short to deal with mean people.
Walk away.
I follow my heart.
There have been moments.
Making love on mescaline at sunset in the Mojave Desert.
Being backstage at the Meadowlands in Jersey with Aerosmith.
Listening to thunder.
Drinking pints of Guiness in a pub in Dingle, Ireland, singing Irish folk songs.
Walking through the Louvre in Paris between the Michelangelo's and losing my breath from the beauty.
Flying in a helicopter over the glaciers in Alaska.
Laying on the floor in my house with my dogs, all piled on top of one another, sleeping soundly.
Jet skiing in the ocean, off Grand Caymen with great friends.
Watching the whales leap out of the water in both Maui, and Glacier Bay.
Staring into my lover's eyes at the alter, saying I do.
Swimming with the dolphins in Honduras.
Snow mobiling in Vermont. Eating hash brownies and singing old KISS songs with a room full of total strangers. Getting a standing ovation. Caring. Drinking dirty martinis in New York City. Shaking Ken Daneyko's hand. Waking up. Laughing. Finding really good pizza. Smelling freshly cut grass. Feeling.
Writing. Everyday.
Writing.
I am having the most beautiful life.
The sunshine echoes.
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