Friday, June 21, 2013
diplomacy.
And this time
I toe the line a little
make it look smart
like an informed decision
when it was all fly
all touch and go.
wet dreams
I had a dream I played a piano on a beach; an overcast cove, hemmed in with grey cliffs that fell to the shore in crumbling slants. And it was cold. Cold in my dream, where my feet touched the sand, and the waves sucked at the piano legs pulling them closer to water with every crash, and creeping of foam, pulling us both, the piano and I, into the sea. The dark wood was grainy and old, and I could trace the knots and veins with my eyes as my fingers met the keys, and curved over them in heavy octaves and flourishes, and trills. It was so real. I played until I ached, and I woke with the melancholy song still ringing in my ears.
And now I sit at my keyboard, thinking. I have a memory of playing a neon piano in the desert, about this time last year. I had crawled out of a dust storm, hiding behind an army jeep until it passed... miles from my own encampment. As the storm abated, I saw it - coming out of the dust like a dream. I went to it, laid down my pack and my water-skin and played all that was in me. The loneliness, the fear, the joy, the curiosity. The sun returned and beat down, washing out the vibrancy of the pink and green flourescent keys, and at long last I looked up to see a gathering of people watching at a distance. They pleaded for me to go on, but I could not, my throat choking with either the dust or surprise; I could not tell the difference. They offered granola bars, cold water, and a few hugs. I accepted what they gave, feeling at once both fearful and awe. I took my leave of them, and continued my walk as another storm rolled in, blotting out the sun. I did not know where I was going again, but somehow hours later, wound up mute and exhausted at my camp and slept until nightfall...
I have this dream of playing my heart out in every corner of the world; in strange settings, in woods, and fields; on city-corners.
And yet I still stand here, frozen, pondering these black and white patterns, trying to remember the tune from last night. I am voiceless without it.
What does such a dream mean?
And now I sit at my keyboard, thinking. I have a memory of playing a neon piano in the desert, about this time last year. I had crawled out of a dust storm, hiding behind an army jeep until it passed... miles from my own encampment. As the storm abated, I saw it - coming out of the dust like a dream. I went to it, laid down my pack and my water-skin and played all that was in me. The loneliness, the fear, the joy, the curiosity. The sun returned and beat down, washing out the vibrancy of the pink and green flourescent keys, and at long last I looked up to see a gathering of people watching at a distance. They pleaded for me to go on, but I could not, my throat choking with either the dust or surprise; I could not tell the difference. They offered granola bars, cold water, and a few hugs. I accepted what they gave, feeling at once both fearful and awe. I took my leave of them, and continued my walk as another storm rolled in, blotting out the sun. I did not know where I was going again, but somehow hours later, wound up mute and exhausted at my camp and slept until nightfall...
I have this dream of playing my heart out in every corner of the world; in strange settings, in woods, and fields; on city-corners.
And yet I still stand here, frozen, pondering these black and white patterns, trying to remember the tune from last night. I am voiceless without it.
What does such a dream mean?
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
alchemy
All weight on one leg,
a tired stance,
she stood in the kitchen,
leaned against the counter.
Hands in white flour
up the elbows,
flecks in her long dark hair
and across her chin, forgotten.
Her steel tools laid out like a surgeon.
Her mouth is hard,
her brows are furrowed,
working quickly, deftly,
in the autumn late afternoon
as the dough formed beneath her gaze.
As her shoulders rolled
and fingers, drawing in, pushing out,
she took the collection of plain words
(eggs, milk, yeast, water)
and cast them into one
(bread).
Then the stove opened its mouth;
became a flaming gateway to hell,
and here she strains and sweats,
like the blacksmith who toils and worries
until his craft stands true in battle.
And she smelted aromas of
garlic and olives
and vinegar and lime.
She poured out and cooked off the
basil and butter
and white wine and thyme
until it resembled a loaf of gold.
Where her feet touched the floor,
the flour scattered and danced about,
forged a path for her next step;
making way for the next secret quest
in hallowed transmutation.
And she rose in height and majesty
until Merlin himself, in awe of her cunning
would beg for a taste
only a small bowl
of the simple milk and honey that came from her high table.
And she smelted aromas of
garlic and olives
and vinegar and lime.
Like a goddess, she composed
basil and butter
and white wine and thyme....
..."What's cooking?" he whispered into her ear,
and the spoon in her hand clattered to the floor in shock
as her raw daydream was cast off
like a cloak from a dark queen's shoulders.
"Dinner," she whispered, with a swift kiss
to the husband returned from work.
a tired stance,
she stood in the kitchen,
leaned against the counter.
Hands in white flour
up the elbows,
flecks in her long dark hair
and across her chin, forgotten.
Her steel tools laid out like a surgeon.
Her mouth is hard,
her brows are furrowed,
working quickly, deftly,
in the autumn late afternoon
as the dough formed beneath her gaze.
As her shoulders rolled
and fingers, drawing in, pushing out,
she took the collection of plain words
(eggs, milk, yeast, water)
and cast them into one
(bread).
Then the stove opened its mouth;
became a flaming gateway to hell,
and here she strains and sweats,
like the blacksmith who toils and worries
until his craft stands true in battle.
And she smelted aromas of
garlic and olives
and vinegar and lime.
She poured out and cooked off the
basil and butter
and white wine and thyme
until it resembled a loaf of gold.
Where her feet touched the floor,
the flour scattered and danced about,
forged a path for her next step;
making way for the next secret quest
in hallowed transmutation.
And she rose in height and majesty
until Merlin himself, in awe of her cunning
would beg for a taste
only a small bowl
of the simple milk and honey that came from her high table.
And she smelted aromas of
garlic and olives
and vinegar and lime.
Like a goddess, she composed
basil and butter
and white wine and thyme....
..."What's cooking?" he whispered into her ear,
and the spoon in her hand clattered to the floor in shock
as her raw daydream was cast off
like a cloak from a dark queen's shoulders.
"Dinner," she whispered, with a swift kiss
to the husband returned from work.
Friday, November 9, 2012
the cinnamon toast excursion
I attempted to make cinnamon toast this morning.
It was a favorite amongst my sister and I growing up, in the winter months. The recipe calls for butter melted over bread (in the oven, so the edges of the bread get toasty) and then a sprinkle of brown sugar and cinnamon. By age 8 I had mastered it and have made it a personal tradition to serve it on the first cold day of the year.
Such was today, as I rolled out of bed, still in my work-clothes from last night. Glitter abounded in my unkempt hair and on my face from the Christmas Overstock Decorations that crowd the Craft-store, where I am employed. But no matter. I didn’t care much to clean up or look decent on my day off. I only wanted 2 things: for my pounding hangover headache to go away, and for some cinnamon toast.
I stumbled into my kitchen, found the leftover german rye bread. After a decent lather of butter, I stuck it in the oven, set on broil. The moment I left the kitchen, all trace of remembering my breakfast was lost, and I sat down to compose a new song at the piano. 30 minutes later, I looked up to see my apartment wreathed in smoke and I quickly dashed back into the kitchen to save the charcoal remains of my breakfast from the inferno of the oven.
The blackened slab crumbled the moment I brought it into cooler temperatures. With a heavy sigh, I retrieved a new piece of bread, spread new butter on it, and stuck it back in the oven.
As fate would have it, my pounding headache was driving me to insanity. Too impatient to wait, I downed a couple glasses of water and then sat in front of my computer, briefly picking up my latest studies of graphology and lock-picking. A couple minutes passed and I wandered back to the kitchen, retrieving the beautiful, goldened toast. But with my thoughts still attached to my studies, I neglected to read the labels of the bottles in my spice cabinet.
When I returned to my desk, I found to my dismay that the cinnamon was in fact actually cayenne pepper, and the thick dose of it, coupled with the sugar, was enough to ruin my morning.
Eyes streaming, I deemed myself unfit to be awake, and retired to bed, where I slept off the remainder of my hangover with the sad realization that my 8 year old self was certainly more capable, responsible, and self-sufficient than I am now.
It was a favorite amongst my sister and I growing up, in the winter months. The recipe calls for butter melted over bread (in the oven, so the edges of the bread get toasty) and then a sprinkle of brown sugar and cinnamon. By age 8 I had mastered it and have made it a personal tradition to serve it on the first cold day of the year.
Such was today, as I rolled out of bed, still in my work-clothes from last night. Glitter abounded in my unkempt hair and on my face from the Christmas Overstock Decorations that crowd the Craft-store, where I am employed. But no matter. I didn’t care much to clean up or look decent on my day off. I only wanted 2 things: for my pounding hangover headache to go away, and for some cinnamon toast.
I stumbled into my kitchen, found the leftover german rye bread. After a decent lather of butter, I stuck it in the oven, set on broil. The moment I left the kitchen, all trace of remembering my breakfast was lost, and I sat down to compose a new song at the piano. 30 minutes later, I looked up to see my apartment wreathed in smoke and I quickly dashed back into the kitchen to save the charcoal remains of my breakfast from the inferno of the oven.
The blackened slab crumbled the moment I brought it into cooler temperatures. With a heavy sigh, I retrieved a new piece of bread, spread new butter on it, and stuck it back in the oven.
As fate would have it, my pounding headache was driving me to insanity. Too impatient to wait, I downed a couple glasses of water and then sat in front of my computer, briefly picking up my latest studies of graphology and lock-picking. A couple minutes passed and I wandered back to the kitchen, retrieving the beautiful, goldened toast. But with my thoughts still attached to my studies, I neglected to read the labels of the bottles in my spice cabinet.
When I returned to my desk, I found to my dismay that the cinnamon was in fact actually cayenne pepper, and the thick dose of it, coupled with the sugar, was enough to ruin my morning.
Eyes streaming, I deemed myself unfit to be awake, and retired to bed, where I slept off the remainder of my hangover with the sad realization that my 8 year old self was certainly more capable, responsible, and self-sufficient than I am now.
Friday, October 5, 2012
6 months after the office door slammed
Far too often now, I find that
my lips are moving in time to the voices
from conversations that happened many months ago,
eyes drifting from this painting, to the original drawing
but they are no longer the same.
And I am shredded, stripped, no longer primed
for even the lean rigger brush leaves me torn asunder.
My hands are messy with the source.
And I wash it away, 30 seconds at a time,
until I worry there won’t be any water left
and still the stain remains.
my lips are moving in time to the voices
from conversations that happened many months ago,
eyes drifting from this painting, to the original drawing
but they are no longer the same.
And I am shredded, stripped, no longer primed
for even the lean rigger brush leaves me torn asunder.
My hands are messy with the source.
And I wash it away, 30 seconds at a time,
until I worry there won’t be any water left
and still the stain remains.
companion guilt
Your naked eyes swam with trust
as the purr left your throat.
And my dark wings blotted out of the sun
while my hand was forced to destroy your plague.
I sing songs in your memory
to fill up the silence during the day.
Why did you have to be so little?
as the purr left your throat.
And my dark wings blotted out of the sun
while my hand was forced to destroy your plague.
I sing songs in your memory
to fill up the silence during the day.
Why did you have to be so little?
Monday, October 1, 2012
boyish in nature: open letter
Anne -
I hope you are sleeping soundly.
I wanted to write a little, because writing allows me to think more logically. I tend to stop and start too much when I speak, and it sometimes frightens me to be met with such direct questions... especially ones I have no easy answers for (I do appreciate your questions, clarifications, and advice, though. Please don't stop). I just wanted to explain a little about my current situation, since you were asking and it will help to clear my head to see it laid out.
A little (blunt, but short) history:
I met William in a creative writing class in Houston, TX and he is the first man I have ever loved. This was around the time I was starting to "bloom" as my friends said, and began thinking about relationships and sex in general. I started realizing I might be attracted to women around this time, but did not give it much thought and sought after William. Due to money and mental health issues, I lived with my parents at the time, who expressed their hatred of him instantly, on account of his family being Catholic. When they found out he was an Atheist, I was forbidden to see him any more. I still did of course. 8 months later, he was given a job offer in California. He took it, and moved out there. 10 months later, after much heart-ache, I had finished my associate's degree and saved up barely enough to move out there with him. Once I moved in however, all of his talk of getting married fell by the wayside. I attributed this to his history of being cheated on by previous girlfriends, and let the matter drop.
Before I continue, I'd like to say that he has made me the happiest I've ever been. We are best friends, and are surviving very well out here all by ourselves. Our personalities mesh wonderfully. We never argue. Which is why I feel all the guiltier, because I feel that if I were just a "normal" female, I wouldn't be ruining this ideal relationship.
Our problems stem from me, I believe. The catalyst. I thought I could be happy in a monogamous relationship, but as much as I try to stamp the urge down, I keep fantasizing about being with a woman. This was fine for a long time, and William and I used to sit in parks or in restaurants and make a game out of who could find the best pair of breasts. It was always really funny, it filled me with a sense of pride when I was the only girlfriend invited to "guy's nights".
One night, in a drunken conversation, he told me it was unfair that he'd had so many partners, and I only had him. He wanted me to go out and have the "college" experience and figure out my own sexuality. I took him up on his offer and found a girl who was willing. We got as far as starting to make out before I panicked and told her I couldn't do it anymore. When I told him of what happened, he acted dejected and said he didn't want me seeing anyone anymore. It was confusing, but I let the matter drop. After that first taste, the urge to be with a woman was starting to grow. I tried bringing it up to him, twice over the course of a year, and each time ended poorly. Not in a yelling match, but in cold shoulders and resentment. So I have learned to not speak of it in front of him. Between this, my lowered libido, and my tomboyishness... he is not as happy as he could be. I cut my hair off recently and started asserting more masculine traits, it really seemed to bother him and he stopped joking around with me so much. I can see that my actions are starting to make him sad, but neither do I want to stop. I want to be boyish in nature, and I want a woman... and I feel ... at the same time... that I am being selfish... but also that these requests and actions are not all that unreasonable. Especially when one of them was originally laid down by himself.
When I told him that I was feeling more and more guyish, his face dropped. He told me I needed to figure out what I wanted, and that until then, our relationship is on hold.
So now I'm in a heady mess of questions I don't know how to solve. The way I see it, there are 2 sides of the problem.
Do I really want to be a full-time guy, and am just sticking with a female presentation for society's sake, because its comfortable? Because I'm afraid? If I never take on my full "identity" will I regret it? Am I staying with him because I'm scared of the alternative?
And on the flipside...
Am I over-fantasizing about being a guy, as a means to escape my underlying problems (ie. PTSD? anxiety? depression)? Is my relationship just not what I need right now, and this is something easy to blame it on? Am I capable of that kind of sabotage? If I were to break up and live alone, am I capable of surviving on my own?
I am having trouble deciding and so in the meantime, I'm currently taking an androgynous route. I hide my chest with sports bras, cut my hair short, and neglect make-up (something not very commonplace in my routine to begin with). After years of theatre and studying people, my mannerisms are masculine. The double-takes and stares I get on occasion amuse me to no end. It's comfortable here, and my boyfriend seems to be fine with it for the time being. I may stay here and explore for some time. I just.... don't know how else to proceed at the moment because I'm so scared of losing him and ruining everything.
But in the end, I never know if I actually WILL have an answer. I don't know if I can be married, which is the end result, with him. But I don't know if I can be a full-time man. I fantasize about having my own place, smoking a pipe, inviting friends over, chasing after women, being dashing, suave, sociable, and hospitable. I want to wear suits, and be called a sir. But I don't want to completely throw away my feminine side. It's fun to pull that out of the closet once in a while, and wear make-up, and flirt with abandon... I am confusing to myself. I just don't know what I want.
Well, no. I take that back. I do know what I want.
I want my dual nature to be acceptable. I want to be able to switch from being a she to he and then back again without a blink of the eye. I want society to respect me. I want my boyfriend to understand that I am not abandoning him. I want to live at 221 B Baker street and solve mysteries...
I'm sorry. I know this is quite a lot and starting to get silly. When I began this, I only expected this letter to be a paragraph. My, how its grown.
Humor aside, I'm scared. Genuinely scared. I'm feeling very dark at the moment. I will openly admit that I feel like self-harming, but I won't. Not tonight. I just hate that feeling. I have an ice pack on the back of the neck to help reduce the craving (I read a medical paper on this phenomenon once, and it's actually fairly effective). I am sorry if any of this at any time is triggering for you. That is the last thing I want.
I appreciate our conversations more than I can express. You are so beautiful, and I hope I can help in any way.
I just wish I knew who I was...
What character I am meant to be...
With much love and confusion,
Rook.
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