An adaptation of a translation...
Current mood: froggy

Just read an awesome poem in a neat little book I found that conveniently enough is completely written in a language in which I desperately want to be fluent.

This is my adaptation in my own vernacular.


Mom, where does the water go?

It goes very far away to the sea.

Mom, from where does water come?

It comes from tears that angels give for free.


Then I must say mom, I know my fate.

Now I know I can be something great.

I’ll be water that rolls out to the sea;

Then I’ll be cried for you and me.






(I took ample poetic license--will gladly provide anyone interested the original script, which is better read in Spanish)

4:13 AM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Human, All Too Human
Category: Writing and Poetry

Sitting without making a sound, even the muffled resonance of her own breath scares the hell out of her. The strangest part of her conviction to fear-of-self is that she knows no one's listening in the first place.

Staring around a somewhat crowded room, she asks herself why one often hates being alone. In all actuality other people scare her more than she scares herself—an insight into her personality which she finds trite, yet pertinent. None of these people are of physical threat; it's knowing eyes that send her reeling. It's the fear of being exposed…yet she can't be left alone.

Frustrated with the futility of attempting to be social, she finds a left-open door and escapes to the street. One foot glides in front of the other to carry her nowhere but deeper into her own mental landscape…a bland place she'd rather not be under most circumstances, but for now it will suffice. Her current surroundings are much too vivid for her imagination to rest at ease. The weather's unpleasantly temperate when her only wish is for extremes. The passers-by are too energetic…she craves apathy. She can't relate to this jumbled mess of over-stimulated, caffeine-quaffing-go-getters. The solace of blandness deep within her suddenly becomes comforting.

One foot—then another—she carefully observes their placement--avoiding all cracks in the archaic concrete underfoot. Her marching just seems to make more sense that way.

She wonders, with the gentle, firm progression of footsteps she takes, if she's even walking anywhere. She even momentarily debates the point of walking in the first place. She asks questions of the complexities of her own mind, which, on occasion, she begins to grasp…she also ponders the complexities of those around her, which she can't pretend, even to herself, to begin to understand--foreigners to her. They are independently unknown beings with their own individual sticks in a fire to which she often wishes she could turn her back.

A very small bird of a species unrecognizable to her darts erratically across her path, disappearing into a nearby shrub. For some unknown reason, this reminds her that deeply embedded within the disorganized, cluttered purse hanging somewhat obtrusively at her side lays an amber-colored plastic bottle with a white, childproof lid. It's contents, her daily regimen of focus, have been neglected this particular early-afternoon. "Maybe that's what's wrong with me…" She fumbles quixotically--like a toddler digging for a rattle in a garbage can. Her fingers gently wrap around the plastic medicine bottle, making her spine feel mildly cold, yet helping her heart slow to a slightly gentler place. At least her dosage is consistent. She even knows she likes things that are constant.

Her fingers seem to lack their oft-articulate nature as she tries to align two arrows, point A to point B…"Doctor's orders." After managing the airtight container she selectively rattles out a capsule and a pill—a routine she's managed to maintain for quite some time now. She tilts back her head, tosses the contents of her tiny hand to the back of her throat, and gets a mild sensation of ill-mannered humor as she finds sexual connotation in her newfound ability to open her throat and swallow with saliva as her only source of lubrication.

She looks back at the bush with the bird in it, and wonders what it must look like from the inside out, and sighs in relief. She'll be back to her normal self in a few minutes. She'll be gently placing one foot in front of the other.

1:42 AM - 4 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Worlds Collide

Our worlds were different.

My world consists of warmth, safety, money-to-be-made, and the perfect music to create a pleasant ambiance to accompany prices that many would find mildly extravagant.  My world can be slightly dimmed at the flick of a finger in order to create a mood perfect for enhancing any casual to serious business dinner or gathering of long-lost friends.

His world consists of  cold.  Ice cold--a cold indescribable within the bounds of my weak vocabulary.  Freezing sounds cliche'; frigid reminds of bad sex.
Hellishly cold.  Images of the innermost concentric rings of hell come to mind.  Many think of hell as hot...try to think colder than the hottest of hot...

One can imagine what the whirlwind of smells and tastes on the other side of the windowpane represents to someone that damn cold.  Heaven, maybe...death, maybe...A light at the end of a tunnel just bright enough to make out, but never concievable enough to grasp--several lifestyles away.

I watched as he slid along the windows to the door.

A pair of jeans, a Carhart coat and some gloves are his armor...somewhere inside of him remains a lifeforce...I am not the man to say why.

I belong to a business, he does not.  Therefore, I must ask him a question which sickens me, cause I wouldn't have to ask any business man in a $1500 suit the same question in the same inquisitive, suspicious tone..."May I help you, sir.?"

Cold eyes slowly appear directly behind a weathered, saddened face.  Amiable is one word I could possibly use to describe...beaten is another...

"May I just sit for a minute?"

I know few men who could say no to a man solely seeking warmth...The few men I do know who could deny another human being of something so imperative yet easily obtainable are men I'd be better off not ever knowing.

I told him to take a seat.

He sat, and said not one word.  He stared at the bar, and didn't move a muscle.  Didn't remove an article of clothing.  Didn't stir in the least.

I motioned to the bartender, a somewhat flamboyantly gay friend of mine, and told him I wanted the man to get warm.  He agreed that he wasn't hurting us in the least.

I went back to the kitchen and found a styrofoam cup in which I poured the remainder of our decaf coffee...It was late, we wouldn't need it anyway. 
I realized very quickly that it was lukewarm and would not serve its intended purpose.
I found hotter coffee and filled the cup, adding a little steaming water, and covered it. 
"Here." I said. "Take this with you when you go."
He looked at me in shock.
I  watched from a distance as he began devouring the cup of coffee...
I felt foolish for a second...the gentleman isn't going to leave until told to do so in all likelyhood, and he will probably take advantage of as much free coffee as we will pour down his throat, and if in his shoes, would I act any differently?  Hell no.

I returned to the kitchen to start a fresh pot of coffee only to find the aforementioned flamboyantly gay bartender had beat me to the punch, and was shortly after refilling the styrofoam cup. 

I then realized, that for some unknown reason, two worlds, one very warm, and one very cold, had collided.

About an hour had passed, along with a few cups of coffee and the remainder of my duties for the evening.  I was off work. 
I went to the bartender and told him I was leaving and asked if he prefered that I escort our friend out, or if he was comfortable with the situation.  He said he was cool.

I donned my fathers tattered army jacket, the warmest I own, and walked very complacently over to the man.  I looked him in the eye and told him I was about to leave, and that I trusted he would leave very peacefully whenever my buddy asked him to...

Sad eyes slowly turned up to me.  Suddenly a homeless guy turned into my elder.  Suddenly the cold, hovering figure became human, and with a very cold, powerful stare said one simple phrase...

"Thank you."

I patted him on the back and said good night.

As I stepped out the front door of the ornate, beautiful, warm restaurant, I found myself wondering if angels ever get cold.

1:24 AM - 5 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment