so many of us feel hollow inside, a pinata gaudily painted
and fated soon to burst
and though there are those who hoot and holler and proclaim
all is merry all is fine
the hollow ones know that the fuss is all for show
for at the end of the day the glitter and feathers
are cheap camouflage for the cracks that gape open
when she sobs her emptiness into her fingers tapping
up again and up again and up again
the phone reveals nothing new but why not a little more
but if we are hollow all
and even the full ones uneasy bite their lips
perhaps there’s more to this?
then what does this mean if we’ve written off the story
and decided the author’s all for show
i make all my decisions
autonomy and free will and agency
those fine guiding lights
i’d rather be my own
even if it means i call myself a hollow one
who cares if i’m all alone
close your eyes and don’t look to the horizon
there is no shore that beckons that’s only imaginary rain
cry and feel alive once more and scream the chorus
and paint yourselves up again
Tag: creative
Witness
the moonlight shines down slantwise upon the eastern wall
neglecting to reveal the refuse strewn down its base
but a few words from a recent traveler remain
i love you my darling Em
and then a scribble from a scoffer
that may or may not be profane
but in the stillness of that 3am hour
there is one who looks down the alley
and reading the prophecies decides against
so she leans against the corner and lets the streetlight warm her
and pulls her scarf closer now
A Far Country
She sits at the table and looks down at the scrambled eggs that sit on her plate. What is she waiting for? She slowly moves her fork in the general direction of the eggs. The fork stops. Her head rises. She looks at me. I don’t look at her. My eyes dance sideways. What do you want me to say? This conversation is not something I think I can handle just now. Am I ok with that? Maybe not. Is she ok with that? I don’t know. I don’t ask. My head drops. What of these eggs? Are they too dry? Perhaps. I take a bite. She opens her mouth.
And then it all spirals. I wish I could describe it to you but really this is between me and her. And I am not sorry to say that it goes far better than I ever could have dreamed. We talk of constellations and stars and dreams of the far beyond. Though there is still a degree of separation, I see a path through the thicket. On the other side, a river flows. I hear the water laughing all the way down to the sea. Let’s go, let’s go. I extend my hand to her. She somehow shockingly surprisingly for no reason that I could have foreseen places her hand in mine. These promises are bound with thicker cords than gold and finer threads than silk. A unity of three parts you say? You’re not far off.
Beginnings
The last party I attended, I lasted twenty minutes before I started reciting poetry at the top of my lungs. That was admittedly a low point but I argue that I was baited into such. Every time Rachel shares the memory, her inability to keep a straight face testifies to her guilt. That poetry incident is unrelated to the present tale, but I thought it would set the stage nicely for the relationship between Rachel and I. It’s complicated really. (Aren’t all relationships such, even the ones that are unburdened by any sorts of romantic feelings one for the other?) But like any enduring friendship, ours had its high points and low points. The high points include in their number such efforts as the great Christmas narrative retelling of 2023, the pizza party at the coffeeshop that somehow devolved into a long-winded argument on the merits of Augustinian theology, and the near daily reminders to write something beautiful. The low points? We’ll get there. For what’s a great story without a really, really, bold-italics-underline really, great low point? So to cut to the chase, things have changed. Of course. The drama.
Not that long ago, I promised Rachel that I’d never write again. Obviously I’ve done a great job at keeping that promise. But here my fingers go, darting across the keyboard and providing fodder for scores of psychotherapists in their attempts to disentangle my waking dreams. You may wonder why on earth I would ever make such a foolish promise, me to whom writing comes more easily than breathing (pardon the stale cliche), whyever would I decide it was a good idea to cap my pen and shut my laptop, that the time had come to hang up my cowl? Again, to refer to the low point discussion, we’re getting there.
But let’s reverse a bit. We must retreat to where I can tell you this tale in the peace and quiet and right now my thoughts are screaming at me. I’m honestly unsure whether this is a good idea, but I dare not stop now that the dam has been breached. I suppose we could make this a participation game. Maybe that would make this feel more of a real relationship, even though I am fully aware I am imprisoned in my own head and that these words exiting into cyberspace and manifesting themselves in front of your eyes and being interpreted by your own psychosocial persona will communicate a story to you quite a bit different from the looping tale that is taunting me in my dreams even now. So any relationship between me (narrator, possibly lunatic, author of sorts) and you (a reader or perhaps listener, someone who exists but other than that of unknown quality and character) will of necessity feel a bit forced and mercenary even. Still now, friend? Can I call you friend? Would you like to hear a bit more about the friendship between Rachel and I that led to such a cataclysmic end? I promise you it is not a romantic tale (as much as the suspicion may rise) and I assure you that there’s nothing fantastical about what I’m about to spill. You could call this a theological journey of sorts, and if that word scares you, I will not attempt to urge you to stay with me. Stay or go, it’s all the same for me. I’ll keep writing. The question is – will you keep reading?
Ceremonial
In that moment at the table he lifts his head and looks directly in her eyes. She blushes and stammers a response to his question and then waits with indrawn breath for his reply. He pauses. His head inclines to one side. And then he smiles. In that smile his eyes change from grey to green and she feels as if the earth has tilted and she doesn’t quite have as sure of a footing as she thought she did before this moment. And to cover for her confusion and her loss of place, she grabs for another piece of garlic bread and proceeds to stuff her face. The smile that has been slowing spreading now erupts into a hearty laugh. She likes hearing it and she at once decides to make it her life goal to provoke it as often as she can. As she is still chewing and pondering the newness of this life, she watches as he twirls some more pasta around his fork and join her in consecrating this moment that has made them anew. There are ceremonies and then there is ceremony, and this is most certainly the latter – a type of ritual that she isn’t sure will or should feature prominently in the tales they will later tell. Or maybe they will. For who else can tell their story and say that in the moment they knew their forever that they both couldn’t talk because they were eating spaghetti and garlic bread? And now Isabel laughs out loud and says, “My love – can I call you that now? I just wanted to say, this spaghetti sauce is divine. And the meatballs are better than the ones I had in New York.” And he takes a sip of wine and his rejoinder comes, “I hope so. For you’re stuck with my cooking forever now.” Her breath catches as she considers anew the promises they have made that night. It is startling to realize how the infinite can be compressed to such a small solitary point, a point of such concrete firmness that it is almost bewildering to realise that this communion is held together by a presence outside the two of them. In that reassuring thought she lifts her glass and calls for a toast. He agrees. And their words spiral up and around like smoke upon the November breeze and their words turn into a prayer. They are blessed and they know it well. He lifts out a hand and takes hers in his. And it is very good.
On the Porch
It is at times like this that I wish my pen wrote with richer ink. It is a sad thing that so often does my mind take flight and dream on the sublime in the moments when the cares of life swoop in and remind me of other more meaningful tasks on which I really ought spend my time. Of course yes, it would be lovely to write. But shouldn’t you start dinner prep? The carrots and potatoes will not chop themselves, oh no. And what is that you say? You have a poem running through your mind that you’d like to put down to page? Well, I hope you have a decent enough memory, for now it’s time to take the car to the shop and take care of that nagging issue you’ve neglected for far too long. Why is it that the time which then presents itself finally for a creative purpose is then taken up by conversations with loved ones? Of course they are far more important than the words you wish to enshrine in this moment for eternity. Aren’t they? One can acknowledge the truths of which I’ve said above, but still the heart weeps for the lost moments. But are they lost? The moments of life, of chopping vegetables on the cutting board, of driving a creaking vehicle through the quiet autumnal beauty of the late afternoon, of laughing as your sister tells you of the absurdity of her day – are not all these the precious sands upon the shores that your feet walk day to day as you breathe deep this salt air and look to the brilliant blue of heaven? I would argue that to hunker down and bunker oneself in that longed for cottage on the English coast in order to write your magnum opus would in fact be a cutting off of self and denying those little moments that thrill the soul even if in the moment they seem just the same old same old ordinary ticks on the calendar that seems to never get any less full. A foundation has been laid and now the bricks are being laid on quietly but surely. These bricks are laid with care and each one lovingly put in its proper place. Without such bricks, what is the setting but a cold marble portico upon which a banquet of plastic dreams is cunningly set forth? No I shall not abandon this simple life. I will keep on laying brick after humble brick.
Still yet. Can we not find rich beauty in these small mundane moments? I would argue so, even now as I wait for my love to walk back through this door and cheer me with her voice this quiet November night.
Grafted
I walk down the lamplit path and wonder what lies at its end. For all I know, the promises that I have clung to will in fact crumble to dust in the light that a closer perspective sheds. We shall see shall we not. But I refuse to give in to fear. I know that my boots are faded and starting to fall apart now. I know that my hair is a bit more faded and sparser than when this path my feet began to walk. Yet there is still a wonder that burns in my heart and there is still a faint taste of cinnamon on my tongue that reminds me of when I sipped the wine back at the last waystation. I hold fast to these signs that point me back to what I have believed in and forward to what lies at journey’s end. I know that the hand that picked me out of the mire that I played in so many years ago is still yet upon me, though at times the pressure seems faint and the shadows play havoc with my sight. These are the times I hum to myself songs of promise and in the darkness those hallowed lines recite. For even now in the darkness I look to my feet and see a light. I am thankful that I do not need to trust in mine own wit or valor for the aid by which I hasten on. Instead I trust in another. And this other has proven to be a trusty companion time and time again. What more can I say now? I walk forward, step by slow step my feet fall heavily upon this cobbled path. My progress is measured more slowly now, yet when I read my old notebooks I’m reminded of how much my voice has become more true. It’s a wonder, divine miracle really. I lift my voice once more in song. And as I begin to sing my favourite, I hear the voices of others join in soon enough. Thank God I am not alone on this pilgrim way. Let’s hurry on now, my brothers and my sisters. Let’s continue to faithful be. See this path does not go on forever, though so often it seems as if that may be the case. There is an ending, a slow descent when the cobbles turn to sand and the path turns down to the river that runs so merrily. I cannot promise the crossing will be entirely pleasant. It is not always. Yet look and see! On the other side, see the mountain that rises in poignant counter-harmony. I do not see it yet with these eyes but I know it’s there from what I’ve read in these manuscripts that I hold so dear. I do so long to see it but not for the grandeur of its created frame. Rather I hope to see the one walking down its slopes to meet me, the one who found me when I was alone and crying, the one who grabbed my hand and pulled me up to walk this pilgrim way. This is what I long for, to hear his voice gently call me in the way shepherds call their sheep. I will answer as I answer every day now. My Lord my Jesus be near to me. And forever and always will I be.
Unseen
It was a grey day. Grey seas sang under grey skies as grey birds soared and swooped low over the quayside. The quayside and its surroundings were also rather grey, nary a pop of colour to be found in the piles of gear and containers that lay here and there. Even the people that scurried about in the casual confidence that comes with being where they belonged could be said to wear faces set in shades of grey. Now to describe a face as grey seems to call for a bit of radical interpretation, but I believe you know what I mean. We have all seen those faces set in the default mode whereupon we decide we won’t smile and ask how’s their day. So yes. To sum up, an air of general grey-ness seemed to dominate the landscape at the shore and it would not be a stretch to say that this grey-ness seemed to stretch further than the eye could see. Ever a soul has strayed near an area where in the process of quick transit through it is felt that the colour is being leached from it. Now one may quibble with such and feel that we are getting dangerously close to invalid metaphysical applications. I will not argue and simply move on and resume my narrative and let the words stated previously sink into your soul and perhaps when you are a little older you will understand.
So to resume? It was a grey day. And so as John approached the dock and lifted his eyes to the heavens, the sigh that issued forth was an echo of the sadness within as he sought in vain for a glimmer of hope. The grey-ness of the day did not entirely escape him but it also did not startle him, for he was similar enough in mood at the moment to feel as if it was only fitting for the day to shroud itself in mourning in sympathetic communion with his yearning soul. John did not entirely abandon hope. Rather, he abandoned the idea that the hope would be consummated at any near point. It was promised and he believed the promise. But how long until hope’s longing would be fulfilled? He put his hand in his jacket pocket and felt again the letter that contained the words he had already memorized. The weight of the paper in his hand felt good, a reminder that his sanity had not entirely fled. But had it begun to fray? He thought not, but sometimes he wondered. And the doubt gnawed at him. John’s eyes narrowed. Begone, ye foul thoughts. I believe.
And so John’s firm steps took him up to the longest and greatest dock, the one at which the great ships moored. He walked up the steps and then begun the long trek down. At the end of the dock he expected to find the answer. Or if not the answer, at least a reminder of that for which his life was pointed towards. The chill wind picked up as he stepped further away from shore and his mind wandered towards the events of earlier that morning. He would not think further of what had happened to Alex. He would not. Her tears tore at him.
Without realizing, John had navigated down the length of the great dock and was even now nearing the end. He went past the inspection offices and broke again into the open air. The wind plucked at his jacket and he pulled his collar closer. His eyes were wet for more than the shrieking of the wind. The gulls hovered close by, wondering if he had a snack for them. Alas, not today my friends. I have in my pocket crumbs of something more valuable than bread. And then John’s eyes picked out the bench at the end of the dock. Upon it was a girl in a scarf of red. She was there.
Green olive tree
The wanderer turns his head
and sighs
at the beauty of the skies.
A grasp of moonlight
beckons in
from blushing day
to richer night
ever purer
ever light.
A path of moonlight
beckons on
from softer black
to deeper blue
ever honeyed
ever true.
A laugh of moonlight
beckons up
from colder earth
to star strewn sight
ever blissful
ever right.
The wanderer turns his head
and cries
at the witness of the skies.
Truly yours
Driving back home from work in the rain, grey foreboding clouds omnipresent in the sky,
I crested the hill to look out over the city of Aberdeen. Oddly enough,
a gentle light bathed the city. I looked up to see an opening in the sky,
almost as if someone standing on the clouds above had taken a giant shovel
to the grim layer and scooped a hole. A diamond shaped hole,
wedged through the scowling storm-clouds like a tent peg driven through
the earth, boldly defiant on a canvas of weeping faces drawn
in pain and deep weariness and hopeless abandon of all that is good,
like a stained glass window except without the glass and without the stain,
and through this window in the sky I could see bright blue sky and golden tinted clouds,
bearing witness to the presence of the sun. All around me was rain and gloominess,
but in the sky, I could see hope. Hope in the shape of a diamond, pure and clear and and beautiful.
And as I drove further, I could see the city glow softly in the sun,
the moisture-laden air giving the light an inviting feeling.
And then, I entered the realm of the light.
The rain ceased. The clouds were still all around me, hovering.
But above, blue. And the sun.
Something Weird 