Log in

01 June 2009 @ 09:37 pm

All the movie scenes about finding yourself somewhere other than where you grew up are about your destination. Sure they give a thirty second tribute to where you’ve come from, generally using the cliché shot of the main character staring out the back of a foggy car window amid a jungle of boxes, but that is quickly forgotten in favor of a city full of skyscrapers and illusions of opportunity. It’s always the same. The story is all about the person leaving, not who or what the person left. It’s always about whom they meet, not who they forgot. But there are lies in this.

Filmmakers tend to steer away from the idea that the clip of the person’s life being portrayed is as short of a span as the past which is briefly described and abandoned for this whole new turn of the leaf. But when you turn over a leaf, you find that it’s nothing more than a leaf. Unless photosynthesis and other means of science are your fancy then there is nothing significant about that. It’s the same with life. Sure all these people in this new part of the life, the characters in the movie, are new, but soon they’ll be the ones you’re leaving in favor of new ones in the next step, the sequel.

People labor under the false impression that life is about the people with them or those in front of them. They all too quickly forget those behind them. It is ok to turn your back. It is ok to take the next few strides in your journey but dismissing the steps behind you leaves you empty without a story or a past. Life is a series of steps yes but it is more importantly a journey. The people you leave behind are as important to that as the people beside you or the people in front of you. Because in the end they’re all just people and they all have something to teach you whether or not you know it so long as you’re willing to pay attention.

As obscure and possibly convoluted as this might sound, life, I’m finding, isn’t about where you’re going. It’s about where you’ve been, where you are, and where you’ll end up.


“He doesn’t love you.”


“Then why do you bother?”

She spun around on the stool and shrugged her shoulders. Her dispassionate eyes suited her apathetic tone. “Maybe I just do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She looked down the bar at an old man hunkered over a whiskey sour, staring hopelessly into it like he was search for something. “It’s better than nothing, that’s what it’s supposed to mean.”

“But it isn’t significant.”

“But it isn’t nothing.”

She grabbed her messenger bag and dropped a couple bills next to an empty glass, looking back down at it. “You know why that glass is empty?”

“Because it’s not half full.”

“Exactly. Something isn’t empty or half-full because it’s missing something. It’s that way because you drank it, which is better than watching it sit there staring back at you. It doesn’t matter what it’s half of if you never drink it.”

“I see.”

“No you don’t.” She said, grabbing a tattered brown jacket. “But maybe someday you will.”

Then she sauntered freely out of the bar. But that lack of weight on her shoulders was also because she had nothing to weigh her down. I didn’t know whether to pity her or applaud her.

28 May 2009 @ 07:36 pm

I used to sit on the front porch and watch you pull in at night. Seven o'clock most often. You got off work at three but somewhere four hours lost itself most afternoons. I'd sit and watch as you threw a can into the truck bed and slammed the door shut, a collision of fiberglass with itself. Your jeans were always ripped from work, the frays covered in oil and dirt. Somehow I had become accustomed to the evening smell of Budweiser mixed with sweat, rust, and oil. It was like the lights coming on the front porch at dusk or an oven timer coming on before dinner. Some things are so regular you come to depend on them.

You would carry your cooler in and tell me you'd been really thirsty that day. I'd laugh because I didn't know better. You'd walk in the house and sometimes yelling would ensue- sometimes not. Then you would have dinner and fall asleep in your recliner. I learned early on that bringing home the bacon meant sleeping off your shame in a lazyboy.

I also learned other things. I learned that you never let your beer get cold- or even make it to the fridge for that matter. You never share the remote, especially when Scooby Doo is on. And when you leave carrying trash bags instead of a cooler of consolation for a less than satisfactory life, you don't even bother to explain it to your kid or tell him to keep his nose clean as you pass him on the porch. I learned that there has to be a point to everything you do and there is no point in being the good guy if you don't plan on being around anymore

I never expected the man who passed me on the porch, in the hallway, in the living room to be Batman. I didn't have anything expectations really. I just expected him to be something.

15 May 2009 @ 09:33 pm
I stared into her eyes in absolute amazement, heat radiating from the her center as the sun beat down on the brown shades which blended, flooded, and raged across her contours. Stepping on a piece of dry grass, I doublechecked my footing, afraid to see her go at the sudden movement. Her tender eyes made me feel as if I had been standing in this same spot with her for the past hundred days.

"You're beautiful." I whispered, stroking the bone just below her ear.

It was like staring at a sprite or a muse or demi-god. She was real. She was connected to the Earth and she bore the marks of mud and drying winds but at the same time she was Pegasus. She had the soul of Florence Nightingale and the fierceness of a wild stallion on a heated horizon.

"You're beautiful." I said. 

Imagine it. Imagine, in this world full of charts and maps and degrees, the dissection of every forest and possible wilderness by man, there still being something so wild and true to its form. A creature so tame in heart but free physically with no binding or fences or corrals. This, this was a horse.

As I stroked the fiery chestnut mane which danced from her ears down to sculpted back, I began to feel entranced. With each tug, I held on longer. With each grip, my fingers held tighter. Still staring patiently at me, she shook her mane but there was no fly. She did not step back and I averted my greedy gaze. She was beautiful, that was for sure. Like a little boy who has seen his first pony, I wanted to keep her. Oh to think if I had a horse like that.

I patted her jaw and turned on my heels, walking away. Imagine being something so free. Imagine man leaving it alone. Imagine it being able to escape man's grasp and the forever growing web of highways. Imagine it escaping me.

As I turned to allow one more parting glance to the girl, I half-expected her not to be there, for her to be some middle of the afternoon dream I was having. But she was there, long lashes curtaining those watchful eyes which followed me. Then I saw there was something in the distance, a man on a horse with a rope in one hand on a shotgun at his hip. He was riding toward her like a pioneer into the wilderness. And that was how I knew it was not a dream.
15 May 2009 @ 07:01 am
We were sitting in the diner. Or cafe. All the same. Tin chairs that wobbled with every shudder or gut-shaking laugh. Tables that bore the scars of lost battles with water marks and cold coke cans. She looked over a frail shoulder at a girl walking down the aisle. Of course she wasn't alone in watching the designer bag gripped by perfectly sculpted nails and heels attached to long, divinely-shaped legs, saunter saucily away.

She sighed. "You know I've never been chic." Rubbing the corner of her mouth with one hand, she shook her head and flicked ash off her cigarette.

An attractive waitress with a friendly smile balanced a tray of drinks in one hand bravely, raising it above the head of some clod who wasn't paying attention to where he was walking.

She looked at her longingly. "And I've never been graceful."

Picking a dull nail, she looked up at me awkwardly with a crooked grin and then back down at the table, staring pensively at a chipped saucer, the off-white, past its prime coat of paint being kept company by a few meaningless but nevertheless present crumbs. Brushing them aside, she said, "I suppose when you have never been beautiful you pick up honesty and rationality in the absence of a pretty face."

She was right. Her face would never be on the side of a bus for some makeup ad and she wasn't the pretty little waitress that was going to marry the high school quarterback but there was something poetically beautiful about her insecurities;  there was something to be desired about her incomplete appearance and wispy hair, yes, but something tangible and appealing all the same.
15 May 2009 @ 03:17 am
I remember it. I put a hand on each warm, flushed cheek and looked into those desirous eyes, far more desirous than I was prepared for and in a way that meant danger for me. I kissed the part of his face just out of the grasp of his lips and grinned, taunting him. We were like eight year olds and I wasn't ready to let him catch me. It started to rain and he ran his hands up the back of my shirt greedily, shifting me on his lap. Being there, powerful in his embrace, I could feel eagerness spread throughout my body. I was so close. We were so close and nobody was around. If this was ready it sure as hell wasn't defined but maybe one thing would lead to another and I'd know it when we got there.

I wrinkled my nose and gave him that pretend goodbye look and smiled. Just then I leaned in with my forehead against his and closed my eyes, sinking into the feeling of goosebumps along my arms from the cold rain. He slid his hand down my spine and rested it on my back pocket, sneaking the other up to my neck. With familiar fingers he  pushed the base of my neck so my lips rested against his and tried to kiss me. I refused to part my lips, smiling so that he could feel my dimples against his cheeks. He was also in too much of a hurry, that boy. He sighed and rubbed his nose against mine. When I could postpone it no longer I gently seized his lower lip and let him in. He kissed me like he had so long ago. Like when we were together.

After all that. After all that effort, you would think happily ever after, right? We kissed forever but that was not enough. I wasn't enough. I'll never forget that first kiss in the rain, something I'd always seen in the movies, that illusive thing that all online surveys ask you about, that experience you have to have before you have led a completely romantic life. I thought that would be it for a while. But, like all things, it's about the moment and not longevity. It's a lot like Christmas morning: incredibly anticipated with expectations that drop to the ground dead right after you finish opening your last gift. Everything ends up in the trash one day or the batteries die. Some people grind you to the ground with your unconditional love for them and need to be taken out. Unfortunately now we all have a landfill of disrespect and distrust, hurt and fear, bad heartbreaks and bad relationships. Here is to firsts and better yet, here is to lasts because that's for hell sure one kiss I'll never go looking for again.
13 May 2009 @ 06:06 pm
i am promoting an idea comm.
it is a comm. to share idea's you have
you may have an idea someone else likes, or an idea you need someones help with
whatever it is: no idea is a bad idea

why not join?

(i posted it here because you could have a writing idea, so were not off topic =P)

12 May 2009 @ 06:52 pm

I stood, one side of my body paralyzed to the wall, dependant on it. I kept just enough of my forehead against its clammy yellow surface to still keep my eyes on him.

He looked down at his foot as he tapped it against the concrete base.

"It's not going to fall down if you kick it, you know."

For the first time in minutes he looked me in the eyes, his brown pupils placing the new reality he was facing into mine. "Course not."

I sighed.

"You know what, there's one thing I never got." He said, cocking his head to the side.

Read more...Collapse )
11 May 2009 @ 04:37 am
Peering upwards, I saw them more clearly possibly than ever before. The ones who shed a tear or two and pulled back folds of wrinkled skin into grimaces. The ones who looked down as expected only breaking their dutiful though ingenuine silence to look at the road down the hill, the one leading to their homes and computers and lives, or to anxiously rub their wrists where their watches would be, time calling to them. The ones who didn't seem like they belonged there at all- in fact I don't think they did. And her. The most singular of them all. Standing behind a black skirt and next to some tie. Her. Clutching her elbows across her chest and concentrating on a painfully steady pattern of breathing, ever so often broken by a shaking wind through her body.

I stared at her and ached to reach out and stroke her palm with my index finger, to trace the lines of sorrow so delicately masked in her face, to sit her on my knee and show her the storm wasn't real- that it was only some wind and rain and thunder, just for show. I wanted to show her that this was God's way of reminding her he is there, somewhere forgotten in the plans and dates and problems of her life.

They all got their got their hands dirty. They followed tradition blindly without judging or choosing. She was the only one who couldn't go through with it, the only one who dropped a clod of soil onto the grass and walked away, disappearing behind all the black statues and blank faces. She stomped up the hill, measuring distances between each stride like she always had as a little girl when she was thinking. Then she paused, resting a hand on some stone or another and crouching down, clutching her necklace. There was nothing dramatic noticed by the rest. This was as much about her as I, as in not at all. But as the bell tolled, the one for them, she let out a shudder that shook her whole body. I heard nothing but it was then that I felt myself part from her, my hand ripped from her grasp. As I stared, I watched her push against the muddy ground with her palms and get up with dirty shins. She got into the car and drove away. Then, just then, I turned over in my grave.
09 May 2009 @ 12:35 am
I suppressed a grin as he whispered sweet nothings in nearly silent breaths which tickled my ear, setting alert every nerve along my neckline. I call them sweet nothings because that's what they were. So sugary you could hardly have such a thing every day but wonderful nonetheless. Nothings because no sooner than they had rolled off his tongue and passed in manipulative waves across his lips, had they deserted the threshold of his mind, ceasing to exist. He instilled in me a sourceless feeling that lost its purpose as soon as it was conceived.