Naturalee
Current mood: cold
Category: Writing and Poetry

This skin I clothe to protect from sun has long since began drying
It seems to crack as the hot wind draws all moisture out into the world
Discarding the flight as another gear in the machine of balance
Between you and I, rubbing with evolution en route to ruin
As a matter of course before the rain.

The rain heals the surface, filling some troughs with a binder of heart
To bring raw endings together to fit and swell with the rush
Of blood reaching neglected corners, cultivating the scars as
Punctuation for the changing seasons of repel and attract that
We practice only out of habit now.

Yet below the surface the sweetly penetrating wet has been dripping
Taking away some small pieces of the soil and placing a clay
Very stout and thick with years of build up, never dry, never weak
Only thinner and thicker with the moisture from the changing seasons
Lumbering through the layers.

And yet, all hide a chamber formed from expansion and contraction
A sculpted bubble that holds fast its shape and presence all day
The spot where more used to reside, tended by another with
Hands that smoothed the jagged deposits and saw more fear
Than failure in the till.

Now that ground has festered with pus; a deep, hollow black
That sloshes with its weight from side to side following
Any movement with its own ripple of snarl and silence
As it coats the inner hallows with penetrating black;
The only remainder of a soul left to rot.

Now all who try can easily draw the liquid out into the light
As it gurgles between the cracks under your feet
Churning with convection as your straw finds the soft crack
Used so many times to test the consistency and read the gauge
Of half empty, or full, and rising fast.

And so, I bubble and churn, not for you but because of you
You deposit energy and moisture to recharge the cycle
Which turns to fodder for the cauldron boiling beneath
The placid face of one who's been lost and stopped mapping
The route back home in the rain.

10:06 AM - 2 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Thursday at Dinner
Category: Writing and Poetry

            The intensity of his eyes pushed them from side to side, pressing what fleeting attention he had to watch the crowd that flowed all around us.  He chewed with an expression of confusion, punctuating each crushing chomp with a whistle from his stuffed nose.  The pace slowed as his mouthful of food broke down, leaving him to focus on the empty stare his distractions birthed, looking through and past the walls acting as boundaries for the restaurant. 

            "OK, so ’how have things been,’ you ask?  You really want to know, huh?"  His tone betrayed the source of the tightening jaw, the darting eyes.

            "Yeah man.  I mean, it feels like a month since we even talk…"

            "I’ll tell you how things have been… shitty.  That’s how they’ve been.  Work has been ridiculous, just ridiculous!  There I was, working, busting my ass to get all the returns processed as quickly as I could.  Do you have any idea how tedious that shit is?  I have to get each movie, make sure the DVD isn’t scratched or at least not too scratched to sucker the next one that comes in the door, then make sure the DVD matches the case, check the case, then scan the barcode, verify everything in the computer and change the status of the thing in the system.  And if that isn’t fun enough, then I get to put them all in alphabetical order on a library cart.  Of course once the cart is full, then I have to drag myself around the store in circle after circle after circle, putting each one of the stupid little boxes in their stupid little cubby holes, just like I did the day before and in just the right spot."  He bit hard into a thick sandwich, mangled in his anxious hands, crunching the bits of iceberg lettuce with purpose.  "So yeah, through all of that," he muttered from behind the fresh chunk of ripped meats, cheese, and vegetables, "these ’people’ I’m around; these damn Cretans I bump into and have to work with, they are all just standing around in a pow- wow, talking about some website they came across.  I don’t know, something about cats jumping on video… I don’t know anything about that shit, you know?"  He paused to take a drink of his iced tea.

                 His fingers gripped the glass container tightly, making a squeak with every centimeter the clammy skin touched.  His mouth seemed to quiver as he drank, foreshadowing the next wordy tide.

            "Maybe that’s my fault for not understanding how important these cats are, but come on, right?  Isn’t that what breaks are for, for Christ sake?  You have to take fifteen minutes for every three hours you work to just screw around and talk about bullshit.  It’s the damn law!  Isn’t that enough?  Really, isn’t it enough to have your bullshitting rights protected?  I’m the first one to admit that I do love to just stand around talking to people, but there’s a time and place for that… and it’s not when I’m doing all the work on a shift.  And you know what pisses me off even more?"  I half shook my head in acknowledgement, fist and mouth full of spiced fries.  "What really gets me going is that we were already one person short for the night.  Yeah, that’s not the biggest problem in the world, God knows, but it means we have to watch each other’s backs a little more.  Or at least give the impression that we are, even if bullshitting is all we really want to get done.  They didn’t even have the courtesy to lie to me."  His face fell dead, releasing the wrinkles that had formed from years of enduring an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.

            I looked at him blankly, unsure if his new found silence was the sign I should start responding, still chewing the bits of food.

            "I don’ know.  It just really bothers me when people bring their outside lives to work too much.  Tim," he seemed to snap out of his head and pointed at me with a long, bony finger, "You know Tim, right?  He’s the kid that usually works the register farthest from the front door.  Kind of shortish, has a bit of a tub.  Goofy kid… I think he’s still in school.  Anyway," he shook his head vigorously to get back to his train of thought, "This guy walks in, same night OK, moping and humming and hawing and just being a rock in the stream for everyone.  He gave everyone these big, puppy dog eyes and would just make sure that we all knew he was feeling very affected that day.  John, the guy I told you that story about falling asleep in a cab and having no idea where he was when he woke up; he told me Tim was just being ’emo.’  I assume that means he was just being a dick.  You know, like he was just waiting for someone to take the bait.  And of course, who bites?"  He took a dramatic pause and breath for emphasis, trying to sweeten the punch line. 

"Tina.  Of course Tina bit, she has this need to try and fix people.  It’s bad, I’m telling you.  She even does it to customers.  Same night, incredibly- you know, this was a worse night than I even realized now that I’m telling it over- Tina goes off and tries to get to the bottom of why this older guy was wanting to rent some boilerplate ’barely legal’ porno by asking all these question she thought were real clever and covert, but just came off as someone who took one psychology class in high school and assumed she knew it all.  It was painful, I’m telling you.  So anyway, Tina asks Tim what was wrong with him.  Well, he had definitely been waiting the whole night for that, so he launches into how his girlfriend seems distant and uninterested and that he doesn’t know how he is going to deal with living in an apartment with her when he just knows she is cheating on him.  Instantly all the women came from the corners of the store and surrounded him.  Standing there, I just couldn’t help but think of fights for G.I. Joes or what have you in the playground.  Same thing: this half- circle of mostly coworkers stroking his hair and reassuring him that she is still interested and that she wouldn’t deserve him if she would cheat."  He chuckled under his breath, lifting his tiny frame off the hard wood booth seat to adjust the long tails of his tuxedo jacket.        

"I just had to laugh," he continued, pushing the remainder of his sandwich to the edge of the metal- topped table in some disgust, "The kid is looking for something to worry about?  How about alimony, hm?  Cervical cancer?  How’s this one: a lifetime of work and no real resume to show for it?  Shit, how about rent?  I’m sure he is one of the ones that can stay here and work at this job because his parents developed DDT and got rich or something else just as horrible.  I would gladly trade him a possibly distant girlfriend for just one of those.  Hell, I’d even take his young, ecstasy- drilled brain and a side of growing pains again if he really wants to feel down.  What’s that line from As Good as it Gets?"

I knew exactly which line he was talking about, as we had a nearly- identical conversation some two weeks prior.  The setting for his outrage was a different night, but if I was honest, it was a rehashing of all that we had ever talked about since I had met the man.  "You’re a disgrace to depression.’  Nicholson says it to Greg Kinear I think," I said slouching back from the remnants of my meal. 

"Oh yeah, that’s the one alright.  That’s so true with Tim.  He’s a disgrace to depression.  He hasn’t even tasted real pain yet.  I mean, driving a BMW versus a Land Rover isn’t a problem.  Sandals versus Nike tennies is not a problem.  This guy gets a damn bruise and he’s probably running to the emergency room.  You wanna smoke," he said, already standing and removing a cigarette from the pack with determination. 

"Ah, yeah, OK," I said, standing in what felt like slow motion.  He had already gone through the door of the place, finding the optimal spot to smoke, taking care that we were far enough from the door that he wouldn’t have to endure the looks of passersby.  I quietly light my cigarette, watching him look out over the parking lot, full of cars shimmering in the afternoon sun.  After several moments of silence, he turned to me with a serious look.

"I don’t know… I think I’m right about this.  I’ve thought about it for a few weeks now and I have to be right.  I mean, just standing around?  Just talking about how your life pisses you off?  Who cares, right?  Why do they think they can burden my life with their problems?  I mean, don’t they once stop to consider what might be on my mind?  My dog died… oh yeah, by the way, Sammy died last week.  I was destroyed and just… you know.  It wasn’t fun, but did I say anything to anyone?  No, of course not.  Why would I bring that to work?  Even more so, why would I even bring that to people I care about?  I have always been the one who people talk to, who helps them out, so why would I burden people who I’m trying to help constantly?  Maybe that’s the thing; maybe they just don’t help like I do.  Maybe they draw energy, not provide it.  I don’t know, I’m rambling."  He deepened his stare across the multicolored sea of metal, waiting for the thoughts to fade somewhat.  "So yeah, how are you?"

I was looking at the ground, automatically inhaling puff after puff and looked up at him, his eyes still glazed.  Since we last spoke, I had gotten a new job, met and lost multiple girlfriends, had a small nervous breakdown, and even resolved to stop using my car so much to save money.  The images of the past few weeks ran through my head in a flash as a bright stream of everything I had thought and felt.  My mind started forming the words to describe and explain, to update him on my life as it was.

"Ah, not much,’ I said passively.

"Nice, well, that’s always a good thing too.  I gotta get outta here man… I’m sure the place is falling down around them, so I’d better get back.  You know, I’m the only one who can do anything even resembling work.  See ya buddy… and thanks for the talk!"  He skipped off across the parking lot, puffing his cigarette, staring off into the distance with the same face, the same expression, from a lifetime of déjà vu. 

10:44 AM - 3 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

The River
Category: Writing and Poetry

Troy stared through the ground, pacing slowly in a small circle. He placed the toes of his alternating shoes in the octagon of the red pavers that lined the walkway stretching a few hundred yards in either direction, then becoming swallowed by a thick grey fog that had rolled- in while he watched and waited. He added to the cover as best he could with cigarette after cigarette glowing in his hand, followed by thick plumes held together with the cold, drifting on the still air and disappearing into the dome that continued to engulf the riverbank and surrounding area.

Words were broken and mumbled as he fought back the ripple of the damp evening air, constantly tugging at the woolen coat that hung like a patterned skin from his hunched frame in an attempt to seal out the world. He wanted more than anything to be left in his thoughts, as if he found himself staring at the glassy water flowing almost imperceptibly toward a far off sea by chance. That he was walking and came upon the spot that seemed so familiar for no good reason.

His legs started to shake as the air seemed to swirl around him, making the puffs of smoke irregular and forced as he began jumping in place slightly and rubbing his shoulders and arms incessantly. Frustrated, he threw the red tip to the ground, watching the small trail of smoke rise from what was left of the smoldering tobacco and sat with a deep sigh on the hard wooden bench. He seemed to guard the seat from the environment, spreading himself out to make the wood warm to his body temperature. As the bench warmed, he then tightened his limbs together, attempting to store what warmth he felt within him.

The warmth had been fading slowly as he spent what felt like years looking across the surface of the icy flow that dominated his view. He thought about the shock of diving into the serene surface and could feel his breath leave his lungs in a rush, supported by small breaths that escaped in a spasm of his stomach. He felt the hair on his neck stand on end and begin to crystallize in the humidity and frosty air.

Analise stepped gingerly through the undulating mounds of grass and plant, under a low canopy of drooping branches and leaves made black from the grey light that surrounded the world. She kept her delicate hands in the waist pockets of her fashionable pea coat, playing with a piece of metal in her right hand. She subtly chewed on the inside of her lower lip, forming folds she imagined as thick and white, being drained of blood and feeling. This was a game she loved to play when there was something she didn't really want to think about. Mostly, it didn't work to shut her mind off, but rather limit how much she would think. As the lip would go slightly numb, she would release her teeth and feel the blood rush back, once again feeling the shape of the soft skin. Eventually, she would move to the other side and begin the distraction again.

She looked from the ground to see the river cutting a swath through the city, acting like a freezing vein flowing without obvious purpose back to a beating heart she had never laid eyes on. Thinking back, she recalled countless hours spent wandering the long path that served as an outline for the river in its modern form. She enjoyed walking past shops for coffee and video stores featuring films set in far off lands that might as well never really existed. She cataloged the hours spent talking with other river walkers, usually stories about their mutual love and the others that had shared the secret. Moreover, she thought about her perfect day.

Analise stopped to take a photo of a pelican, fish freshly plucked from the river and wriggling in its long beak, which posed on a pylon just feet from her camera. She smiled at the click and grind of snapping the picture and advancing the film for the next moment that would, inevitably, inspire. Her hands lowered slowly, as not to destroy the precious moment, her grin grew wider as the instant came and went. She rested her arms on the metal railing and looked up river, noting how many people had also felt the call of the bank on that sunny day. She looked to the right and saw a man staring out on the water, resting on the railing as she was. He lacked running shorts or a dog, the signs typical of a river frequenter. He was without the obligatory satchel to hold a camera, nor paints and an easel indicating his motivations. In fact, the only movements he made to hint that he was not a statue was a near- constant chain of cigarettes being smoked, with the occasional reach into his inner jacket pocket to choose the next one for immediate consumption.

She continued on her walk, making sure to keep her mind on the pace she moved, slowing to the point that she felt as though she floated down the causeway, smiling and occasionally stopping to chat with passersby that caught her eye or imagination. She walked for what she guessed was an hour or two, eventually turning around and walking back the way she had come. One of her favorite parts of the walk was how quickly things changed. The people she saw on her way out had gone home by then, dogs decidedly walked and exercise exhausted. The day itself changed the way the red pattern of concrete looked, casting all in a deep burnt orange hue with the sun of the morning, then receding into deep shadow as the long light of the afternoon and evening sunk ever- lower behind the towering buildings of the metropolis that surrounded.

To her surprise, one thing had not changed as it should… the man in the long coat persisted at staring into the dark water that meandered by his position. Analise stopped at the sight of him and opted to sit to watch the man more. She found a wooden bench and sat quietly, taking a series of photos chronicling his deliberate movements, which revealed a sense of pre- planning to her. The particular way he slowly brought the burning tubes to his mouth and thoughtfully drew the thick smoke into his mouth; the way he allowed a single puff to break from the blob, only to be mysteriously pulled- in through his nose and mixed with the rest somewhere deep in his lungs and expelled again like a soft sigh.

No matter how many pictures she took and how similar they would be when developed, the man fascinated Analise. For as long as she had understood the magic of the river, there had never been an interruption to the flow of time. There, standing amongst an increasing pile of black- tipped cigarette ends, stood the only other time traveler. She felt a sense of near duty to find out just how dedicated he was, so she vowed to continue taking her pictures until one of them left.

The last light of the day came and went, yet the two remained in their separate areas, showing no signs of budging. Finally, after several hours and two rolls of film, Analise decided it was her time. She bit her lip hard as she wondered how this person, who seemingly had only just started enjoying the river, could outlast her. She gathered her things and sluggishly started the direction home. Casually, she looked over her shoulder to get a last glimpse of the man, but he was gone. As if he had never been there, only leaving the ring of former cigarettes in his wake. She was dumbfounded and turned to bite the other side of her lip, when she noticed the man had left at the same time.

Usually, as an attractive woman in a park at dusk, she would take this as a cue to move quickly to a public place to feel safe again, as she had been taught by every teacher and guidance counselor she had ever been in contact with. This time, she simply watched as the man walked parallel to her path, pointed toward an old subway shell used for an entrance to the underground maze of tunnels and track.

Troy walked briskly, trying to avoid turning his head. He had noticed the woman watching him, or at least, he could feel her watching him for some time. Although deeply unsettling, he found himself feeling like everyone, no matter the place or situation, was watching his every move. As a result, he would often have his blank mind, which he tried to keep most of every day, halted by the fear that he was observed. As he continued to think about this fact, he would agonize over every movement, every sound he made; he would practice what to say to a clerk when it was his turn if there was a line. Often, he would memorize phrases as answers to typical questions: 'how are you today,' 'nice weather we're having,' etc… it was the only way he found to be able to handle the daily connections he felt forced to make.

He walked faster and faster to the station, stopping suddenly at the top of the stairs leading to the noisy depot below, and looked up toward where the woman was. To his shock, she stood directly across the street from his entrance, standing at the top of the steps to the southbound entrance, staring directly back at him. At that particular moment, the typically bustling traffic of downtown cleared by a chance combination of red lights further up the road, punctuated with the faint sound of cars and buses coursing through the adjacent avenues. Neither recognized the other, nor made any gesture… they simply stared at each other.

Analise looked without blinking, trying to make a memory of the man's face, lit dramatically by an overhead light at the northbound entrance. Troy rubbed his eyes and thought to himself that she had to be a figment of his imagination, as in spite of the lock their eyes seemed to hold on one another, he never once considered his actions, or thoughts, or anxiety. He could only try and remember her and how it felt to see another person for who she was and would never be, namely the one person he had a true connection with.

Troy's concentration and stare were broken by a shove from a soon-to-be-fellow traveler rushing into the lit shell, pushing through the clumps of people sprinkled down the long set of stairs. He looked back to the woman as she turned and went down the stairs of the opposite station. Troy thought about how he would probably never see the woman again. He considered going to the other side of the station, but it would take him so far away from where he needed to be, he just couldn't see how he could get to bed on- time and in any shape to actually sleep. The schedule was a difficult thing to break for Troy and he wanted to make his first exception right that moment, but decided that maybe going the opposite direction was for the best. He thought about all the hassle and expectations that come with love and relationships, even sex. He had decided long ago that he would not play the dating game, but rather open himself to the world and wait for it to respond.

For the first time since he had decided to simply wait, the world had, in fact, responded to him in the form of the mysterious woman.

He rushed down the stairs, pushed recklessly through the turnstile and into the platform of the subway station. He breathlessly walked up and down the length of the loading area, all the while looking across the bramble of tracks and garbage and steel girders to the opposite side to get just a last glimpse of the vision. Two trains came and went with no sign of her, so he took the next northbound, sitting with a large sigh on the plastic bucket seat. As soon as his mind was off the woman, he began replaying all the faces people had made at him while rushing up and down the loading area, instantly feeling the grip of his anxiety taking hold. He could feel the eyes of all the passengers in the car converging on him, noting the way he was nervously playing with the pocket flap of his wool coat or remarking to themselves how much he was sweating from nervousness and his complete lack of physical stamina.

Analise had already walked in her door, automatically throwing her keys right into a small dish she kept by the door for other keys and loose change. She liked to swing the door open, turn on the light, toss the keys and wait for the jingling splash that came from them hitting the change. She would usually then proceed to strip to her underwear while making her way to the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothing behind on the floor. She immediately slipped into her comfortable clothes, a pair of fitting sweatpants and a tank top she ripped slightly some months before. She gathered the rolls of film and went to her bathroom which, when properly set up, doubled as a very small, but functional darkroom. She had installed hanging lines the previous year, going rounds with the landlord about the noise and the holes that were drilled in the wall. After much convincing, she calmed him down enough to simply charge her slightly more every month as opposed to being evicted on the spot.

Troy announced his arrival home with a new cigarette to replace the one he had finished between the subway and his door. He pulled on the knob, as he had become accustomed to after a few months of not being able to lock or unlock the door without a string of words that would make a sailor blush. Although none of his neighbors were sailors, they were quite offended by the putrid words he spouted every evening. Eventually, one anonymous neighbor slipped a note under his door, reading only: "Just pull on the fucking knob you idiot!" Troy never found out for sure who had left the note, but he had spent every moment while at home keeping an ear out for any conversations that were had in the common hallway, trying to piece together who these people were that he was surrounded by. More importantly, who would have the nerve to do such a rude thing?

Mostly, Troy sat in his living room watching TV and sipping tomato or apple juice, depending on what he needed more that particular day. After the strange day he had, he felt the need for something sweet to end the night on a good note. This practice came out of years of near sleepless nights spent staring at the crack in the ceiling above his bed and thinking about all the small interactions of the day and how he was unable to truly connect with anybody, on any level. He found if he drank something sweet and just watched hours of mindless television, the more immediate residue of the demoralizing day could be wiped away, at least enough to get some decent sleep.

For the next few months, almost everyday during the week and usually twice on the weekend, Analise and Troy would be at the river. Analise was interested in continuing her photos of the area and the man, whom she dubbed Adam, and would make a point of not crossing his path. She never wanted him to know how many photos she had taken and continued to snap, as to avoid the inevitable anger, but more importantly so that she didn't affected what he did. She liked the idea of being someone who could truly see the people in a crowd and somehow photograph a piece of them that slips out from under the public exterior. She thought of it as the moment of transition between protection and vulnerability.

In her experience, she had never come across a person that was as good at guarding himself as the man at the river. She looked at her photos and noticed he actually showed more soul, in spite of his lack of interactions, than pretty much anyone else she had photographed. She stared at the photos of him smoking and looking out on the water and somehow felt she knew what he would be like to talk to. She loved his confident posture that wasn't too confident, almost as if it was an accident that he had such a presence. Often, she thought back to his face under the subway entrance light, his green eyes piercing through her more and more with each recollection.

When she could, she would try and make a day of her photo captures. That's how she described it to the few of her friends and acquaintances she felt would at least try to understand: "captures." Every photo she took seemed different than every other she had taken of the mysterious man. Somehow, in spite of the fact that very little sign of his emotions or reactions were visible, he expressed a deep, robust longing for something. Analise had stayed up many nights thinking about what that could be. She was fascinated by the idea that a person could be waiting for something by, at least as it appeared to her, celebrating nothing; staring at near- featureless water, saying nothing, moving the absolute minimum to keep blood circulating. She found herself pouring over the small differences between the hand positions across the many photos, or the way his hair fell across his face on the day with the sneaking breeze that seemed to come up from the ground. She marveled at how she could actually make out the five or so snowflakes that clung to his eyelash when it began to spit a rare flake or two, his breath and smoke forming like a nebula around him.

In the morning she would get up and make a large thermos of coffee, usually some exotic blend that seemed to have a hint of clove in the bouquet of it. She would toast a bagel and make her way to the train, casually biting into the kosher bread wrapped in a paper towel to protect her hands. Throughout the ride she would finish her bagel and load her first roll of film for the day, smiling at every crank and snap her small machine produced. Once at the river, she would usually start by finding a more secluded spot and sit, waiting for the ghost or dreamer or what/ whoever he actually was, to appear.

Troy would drift through the entrance of the river walk park without an acknowledgement of it, his eyes fixed on the water that seemed to pull him with its current. He would then find a spot to rest his body, leaning against something but never sitting. The river allowed him to clear his head, the water acting as a visual mantra for his overwrought brain. As he stood, memories and thoughts would flutter into his mind as abrupt synapses, full of a lifetime of connotations and associations, casting all that he had seen to that point in the light of who he found himself to be at the time. He told himself repeatedly never to think of one thing, but wanted to let those thoughts fill his empty consciousness and pass by, dictated by some censor deep in the mechanics of his body and brain. They past and would deposit small minerals of experience, making him understand what had happened and feel as though he could know the truth of what he did in his everyday life, as it happened, if the concentration could be sustained.

To his disappointment, he found he had an ever more difficult time keeping his concentration if he wasn't at the river or, even though it scared and confused him, near the strange woman who took pictures. He would occasionally catalog his surroundings when the urge to contemplate and worry and scrutinize became too great. He would always look for the woman, usually some distance back and pointing a camera toward the river. He would force himself, only for a moment, to consider that she was taking pictures of him and would prepare for his body to go stiff with fear and paranoia. Through every interaction before and after the river, he fretted over the thought that people's memories acted as cameras to replay all he did to them and how strange or stupid he appeared to others. He lived in a self- monitored world of his own creating.

There at the river, looking at the water, he never felt anxious about being the subject of the woman's attention. In fact, he had a sense of honor in that such a beautiful, obviously friendly, obviously normal woman could find anything in him. She didn't know him at all and was already interested. This was a first for Troy and he came to the conclusion that she could be his soul mate. To that point, Troy hadn't believed in such a thing as a soul mate, as he felt no one really understood him. Somehow, by not knowing whom he was but persisting in being interested, the woman made him think twice about it. He had considered this for weeks and finally decided, there by the river, he would talk to her. Moreover, he thought he might need to talk to her, if nothing else to know her name, as he had thought about her as simply "woman," which seemed a bit too distant for the relationship they had by then.

And so, for the first time, he sat nervously on one of the wooden benches he had passed and ignored so many times before. The day was grey and cool, the perfect setting for important things to be said, as he saw it. He always had associated cool, foggy days with important thoughts and feelings, almost like the air trapped the overtones of what people all over the city were saying to each other and holding them, concentrating them, and returned in the form of a near- unnoticeable mist of intention and meaning. He puffed away at his smokes, reciting in a hushed tone what he would say to the woman of his dreams. How could he explain to her she understood him better than anyone else; that she occupied his mind with mysterious and beautiful thoughts… that she somehow saw through him and his distracted façade? He looked at the river and inhaled and thought and sighed and groaned, trying to pull the words from the pregnant air.

Analise stopped cold at the sight of the man on the bench. She had come to tell him that she would not be able to continue taking pictures of him, as she was becoming more and more wrapped up in who he was and didn't have the patience to play out that curiosity. When she saw him sitting and rocking ever so slightly in the cold shadow, her heart fluttered with an excitement that weakened her knees slightly. She released her lips, white from lack of blood and came from behind him, keeping her hands firmly in their pockets at her hips. "Hi," she said abruptly in an unsure and slightly pained way. Her forehead bunched together to form a fold of expression she wasn't really sure of.

Troy choked slightly on a mouth full of smoke, stood up awkwardly, trying to avoid looking at her until he couldn't justify it any longer. He slowly looked up from the red pavers and into her frosty blue eyes and noted to himself that they probably looked even brighter than normal set against the drab day. He gasped slightly upon seeing them for the first time. "Hi," he said slightly whispered, punctuated with a clear of his throat. "Hello, hi, hi."

They stood some two feet apart, looking into each other's eyes and studying the details of the other for the first time. Troy scanned her face, following the soft lines of her cheeks and eyes to her dainty ears and along her jaw to her pink lips. Analise read the wrinkles around his eyes as the document of his thoughts, along with the sandpaper stubble that clung to his stark features as proof of his automatic life, the part that couldn't be controlled by his distractions.

Several moments past, one silent as the last, with only the deep sound of a ferry traveling the river somewhere along its way. The city clattered and cradled the two in a bubble of quite, understanding more with every detail stored and interpreted. Analise smiled a very kind and knowing grin, making Troy's eyes light up more at her face glowing. Troy smiled too, softening his eyes with understanding, showing the depth of his crows' feet and hinting to the thoughts that already percolated in his brain.

Analise removed her small hand from the right pocket and handed Troy a metal locket. Inside, he found a picture of a simple, hazy beach morning; small waves barely visible as they roll silently for all time. Troy dug in his coat and pulled out his cigarette lighter, holding it in his hand and extending it out to Analise. She took it and read the inscription on the side: "Be As the Source and the Sea… Life Will Provide the River." A single tear ran down her cheek as she looked into his eyes again, beaming with every fiber in her body. They nodded slightly to each other, winked, and walked slowly in opposite directions down the river walk, neither looking back. The bench and river remained to watch as the two faded into the surrounding grey mass and a future more mysterious and personal… if only for the sake of all that was left unsaid.

11:19 AM - 12 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

Tupperware, Dildos, and Tasers... Oh My!
Category: Blogging

Taser… believe it or not, it's both a product and a brand.  Kind of crazy, right?  Well, you ain't seen nothing yet. 

To be filed under "Most Conceptual Marketing- For Better or Worse" comes the newest craze in home entertainment… the Taser party. 

Yes, the Taser party.  Just imagine getting some of your closest friends together for a little food, a little fun, and a whole lot of shocking!  It will truly be an electrifying experience! 

Typical parties include the usual sort of activities: roasting cocktail wieners via electronic pulse, pin the electrodes on the crier, high stakes and/or strip Scrabble (really, only for the adventurous/ masochistic), the list is virtually endless.

Fellas, enjoy the pure delight of causing your tough guy friends controlled pain and look cool while you're doing it.  The new clear model of Taser provides both intriguing insight into how the unit works, but also looks and feels like the toy guns you were raised on. 

Surprise the kids… show them you aren't just PLAYING fort anymore, you're taking it!

And ladies, have you ever wanted a Taser, but worried about looking too tough or butch carrying it around?  Concerned with safety throwing- off your ensemble?  Your worries are over!  Taser now offers a designer, pearlized pink version with all the same electrifying power for the fashionable woman on the go. 

Thanks Taser.  I think I can speak for everyone in saying of all the problems in my life, a lack of personal hip electro- incapacity technology is one of my biggest regrets.  I mean, really, I am going to wait for the iTaser with music, phone AND pain compatibility. 

Finally, Tasers have been taken out of the Police station and given the welcome they deserve, no longer only reserved for the elite Tupperware or dildos… today is our independence day!  Huzzah!          

11:26 AM - 17 Comments - 22 Kudos - Add Comment

Describing the Water
Category: Blogging

This is it… the obligatory, electronic, and emotional Valentine's Day massacre ladies and gentleman.

I've thought a lot about this strange holiday today.  I was originally going to rail against the ridiculousness of a canned- sentimental, consumer- driven, bastardization of a holiday… there were going to be TONS of hyphens. 

Then I thought, you know, why not write something about how Valentine's Day should be?  Love in its purest forms, free from judgment, full of understanding without words, long glances, hopes, dreams, future… all that shit. 

Instead, it seems that one phrase catches what I'm feeling and receiving from most everybody today… when it rains, it pours. 

I know people that are buried neck deep in work and love and life.  I know people that seem to have one thing after another stand at attention on her shoulders.  I know quite a few that have said Valentine's Day is just another chance to have a bad day. 

I'm not going to say that all these things should be stopped for one day, today, and love sought out.  I'm not going to say having a date tonight will make you happier and healthier. 

What I will say is maybe we have all looked for something in Valentine's Day that just can't be delivered.  The fact is love, in its many forms, is fleeting.  More than that, it doesn't actually exist.  Yet at the same time, to those who have truly felt its touch, it is arguably more real than most things we can touch or hold.  Perhaps Valentine's Day is actually the day we should catalog those we have loved, love, and accept the fact that we will all, at some point and to varying degrees, want to seek out love again. 

Let's take Valentine's Day back… not in the way of making it a "single day" or anything of the sort, but rather the chance to remind each other that love is something imperfect, ever- changing, and basically useless in our everyday lives.  Once we don't look to it to determine the rest of our love year or define our worth or even make us happy, we can let it be.  More importantly, we can let ourselves be exactly what we all are at the core… the point were potential and passion meet in emotion.

So let it rain everyone, even pour… just remember to stop and taste the water.

4:37 PM - 14 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

Seasons- FlexWriters Cafe Challenge Entry
Category: Writing and Poetry

This one was written for the Flex Writer's random challenge from today, take a look at the great stuff submitted HERE.  Enjoy and thanks for coming by!

Evening Jog
Category: Writing and Poetry

The sun shines cold today
Peering through
Gaps in branches like
Streams of light and
Tethers for the day
To compete with the night.

These hands have held before
The weight of our pasts
Melded in words from
Long gone whispers
Composing the sounds
Of our tender song.

We meet here and
Marvel at the
Times had and
Having caught the
Tail of a whim
Battled but yet unresolved.

I hear the
Sound of your words
Floating in the air
To declare "Always"
As a status
And something to share.

Our "Always" never stays long, but always comes home to rest.

7:22 AM - 10 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

Dear Sucker Emcees...
Category: Blogging

I heard you are coming to my town.  Word.  That's cool; we haven't had too many hip hop shows around here lately.  I mean, we've had some big super tours come through here and there, but not much hip hop.

So when I heard you were coming through, I was really hyped. 

I've been listening to all the old CDs I have from the three of you.  I wake up and turn on a jam, bobbing my head to the boom bap and fade into the day with a smile.  I repeat lines and beat pieces over and over again in my head while working, whispering rhymes to myself and still throwing my hands up like I just don't care, no matter what the situation. 

In fact, my girlfriend and I broke up because of that.  She complained that I didn't take things seriously; I told her LL Cool J was my Bible.  She thought that was understandable, until I starting whispering "My Radio" at her grandmother's funeral just loud enough that her extended family could hear.  They thought I was cursing the woman, I saw it as eulogizing her in song.  We fought, she yelled and I left, throwing my hands up in victory as I walked out of the church and cranked Run DMC on my iPod. 

That's why it kills me to say to you, Sucker Emcees, this time I can't act like I just don't care, because I do.

I heard that you will be in town for a night and before the show, anyone who feels their track needs to be blessed can make an appointment, give directions, and they will come and record a verse for you.  That's right, for the correct price, you too can have the voice of your favorite rapper, full of insights about inequality, thug life, or the latest in chrome accessories for the latest in vehicles.

Really, they're like lyrical Johnny Appleseeds. 

So when you're standing, packed in with hundreds of other people who accepted the 200 percent surcharge, just remember that these are Sucker Emcees we're listening to.  And when you hear the latest joint from your local crew with a voice that sounds familiar, well, that's just the sound of progress at the point where commerce and independence collide.  Hip hop hooray.   

3:25 PM - 5 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

Current Events
Category: Writing and Poetry

Settle into the long lost flavor of the days you touched with hands and eyes and tasted in dreams, like lover's calls ceased in the hollow bow of our hopes and dreams and promises of 'whatever we want to be.' 

Whatever we have to be

Bend to reveal your fibers like a tree growing in a forest that dwarfs and minimizes, as to confirm it is not a tree, but an otherwise extinct plant growing and reaching in a world that is trees.

A world that stunts growth

So travel to see and think and wonder, but always retu