There are little moments that make me quite happy. Some of them involve the way my skin warms when the sun hits me through the leafed branches as I lie on my back and look up at the sky on a summer afternoon or perhaps the goosebumps that erupt on my skin as I gaze across the ocean on a blustery grey evening. But other moments are slightly less tangible and involve my racing thoughts as I sit upright at the opera as the waves of music gallop on past my head in unceasing grandeur and more noble beauty. For some reason even in moments of beauty where the light stands still and I tilt my head to consider the momentary state of the union in my inner parts I still somehow find room for the various factions in my mind to toss taunts back and forth across the divide of consciousness. Sometimes I stretch my hand out and try and craft a perfect moment where all parties come together in delightful harmony to dance a reel and fill my heart with the kind of joy that comes but once a blue moon or so. But what am I really saying? Is it foolish of me to rank moments and consider that some are decidedly less memorable? What about a moment like now? There are moments like the present where my fingers flex and groan across the keys of this laptop and I toss back football commentary to my brother and listen to my sister sigh as she reads eternal words and sips her tea. Moments like this are not to be sold for any price.
Tag: muse
A Moment of Music
She sits at the window looking out over the courtyard in all its wintry glory and wonders why the vista before her looks so grey in a way it never quite has before. The cobblestones shine in the remnants of the afternoon rain and though it looks like there could be a rainbow, as hard as she tries she cannot quite make one out. Rainbows are fickle creatures, really. So the view before her dazzles in shades of brown and grey and even some dirty white here and there where some of the whitewash applied last fall still sticks to the fence around the square. Why did they even make an attempt at that, she wonders. A solid black wrought iron fence looks much more dignified after all, a white coat atop simply an unnecessary fanciful gilding, really. But her thoughts wander. She usually liked the dreary days, the days when the fog shimmered in front of her face and her hand disappeared when she held it before her. Those foggy days all seemed hushed and still and her thoughts belonged to her alone. It was glorious. But this day her friend the fog had fled and she sees the wet and dirty square for what it is, a faded dream of a once proud city. Perhaps that was why she feels so sad. Her own dreams dance before her eyes and she is not too proud to deny the tears that swim up to meet them. And so the girl looks out over the square and tries to see the beauty that had once met her there every day. Those were beautiful days really, those when she sat underneath the springtime blossoms and written poetry in her little notebook. Those days would come again they would say. She knows that of course. But right now she doesn’t quite feel it. Feelings are fickle creatures, really. Perhaps someday her heart would ring again in a resounding symphony of colour. Perhaps someday she would write again of summer and waterfalls and green grassy cliffs looking out over a far ocean. But for now she sits at the window and can do naught but pray.
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.
Penstroke
A morning where a
darkness reigns throughout the land
and yet there is a wind that blows,
a return of sweetness and decency
mayhaps.
A morning where a
bowl of oatmeal upon worn table sits
and brown sugar swirls in dreamy paths,
a return to first love and hopes fairest
maybe.
A morning where a
moonlit herald sings in quiet wonder
and I hear a call to that far country,
a return to truest tales of yore
perhaps.
Unwilling
Dirty feet and
dirty floors,
See how all the
filthy money pours
across counter-tops and
tables stained,
not a cent is clean
or rightly gained.
Who dares overturn
our ways,
crack the whip
and halt our days?
Who dares let his eyes
grow sharp in rage
Who dares shout aloud
and then say,
This was to be a house for prayer,
but upon this holy ground
your dirty feet quick into wickedness
have trod;
This was to be a house of love,
but upon the poor and weak
your dirty feet quick and merciless
have trod;
This was to be a house for peace
but now comes near a sword and flames,
oh how I weep,
return, return,
come nigh to God.
Soul Power
Morning all!! It’s Monday morning once again – the beginning of another (hopefully busy and exciting!) week. I’m sipping on my hazulnut mocha and enjoying the slow lightening of the western sky as the dawn continues its inexorable march. I really don’t even have that much to write about(since I just posted two days ago…two posts in three days – shocking!), but thought I would at least say hi.
A slow and ponderous turn of earth,
seems so heavy at times,
so full of nickle and iron
and far too many broken dreams.
Yet soaring through the not quite vacuum,
Soulful dance of nebulae and stars,
Not so heavy now, see?
Tapestry of space flutters,
dreamily.
Orange Shades
A needle scratches
vinyl, loss of notes so warm,
a needle patches
ripped spot in his jeans well worn.
He smooths that charismatic carpet
and so
he crooks his elbow in sympathy
just so
and rests his head upon it
like so
and he ponders the stars
dancing across his eyelids
for so
he knows
a secret.
Away spins the music down the
alleyways of his most treasured
memories
and yeah,
away spins his boot across the
vinyl, floor masquerading as
polished wood
and yeah,
away spins his thoughts upon
the streets of the true promised
treasuries
and yeah,
away spins the weight of glory,
away spins the long told story,
away spins the
song of stars,
a mystery unfurled.
Song of stars and stars of light – what promises do you tell this night?
Remind me dear and draw me near – what sweet mysteries will blaze to life?
Veil of linen and veil of stars,
one to herald, one to hide!
One proclaiming and one declaiming,
One no longer shines with light.
One veil yet whispers, whispers
Whispers to that wistful sight.
The needle trembles, I stir,
Awake my soul.
Carpet smooth under my head,
Be still my soul.
Away spins the long promised song,
Arise my soul,
For so
I do desire a better country
Just so.
Just so.
Tennis Court
Softly drooping willow fronds and
lonely little gosling feathers
and a concrete bench perches
upon the brink.
Singing these songs, we wait
for a silence to break
all these words tumbling over
each other
ceaselessly.
You can say you’re sorry
and that you love me and
that everything will be all right
and I know that you’re not quite wrong
but you’re not
quite right.
So keep singing these songs
and we’ll wait
for a silence to break
all these words tumbling over
like the tapping
on our phones.
You can grab your coffee cup
and lean forward on your elbows
in that special way you do for me
and I know that you’re not quite wrong
but you’re not
quite right.
And yeah be singing those songs
and we’ll wait
for a silence to break
all these words tumbling over
in sync
like these beating hearts.
You can put your book down
and cry your tears and my honey
I know it hurts I know
and I know that you’re not quite wrong
and you’re not
quite right.
It’s alright.
It’s alright.
There’s a cold bench
somewhere
sitting atop a brink
somewhere
and goslings under willow trees
somewhere
and it’s alright.
It’s alright.
Yes
Windswept roads and
chocolate
eyes
and leaves of
orange and red and yellow
and palm fronds dip and sway to
the music of the sun
and clouds dance and shimmer and
blue shines
the sky.
Soliloquy
I haven’t written here in a few days, partly because I wanted to make sure this entry was reserved for something special. Because, believe it or not, this is the 500th entry of this livejournal. And I had thought on waxing grandiosely on the history of my writing career or maybe discussing the merits of inscribing portions of our lives on such a public forum as this…but no. No ponderous essay for this beautiful Friday night! As the sun goes down…before I dive into my dinner of leftover spaghetti, I shall just write a little of my heart. Enjoy or not, but either way – just know that I love y’all so.
He opened the door and the thrumming music met the curtain of raindrops draped around his head. As he stepped over the pale metal threshold into warmth and light, he shook the water off his boots and closed the door firmly behind him. Leave the rain outside where it belongs. He took off his hat and shook it as well. It would still be wet, but at least it wouldn’t be dripping in his face. As he lifted his head, his eyes darted around the cozy confines of the cantina. It was a wet and dreary night and so predictably, Brother K’s was packed solid. Two huge men in plastic overcoats sitting at the bar. Table in the corner full of chattering girls, each with different colored hair – red and blue and yellow and purple. Red Hair met his eyes as they swept across her and raised her eyebrows in silent greeting. Table next to the girls had a lone couple, each with a drink in front of them and an electromag at their side. They’d be playing tonight. Table to his right was full of men just off from the refinery. They’d changed their clothes but the stink of chemoflume couldn’t be erased so easily. Table in the corner by the plasteen slots had a few musicians sitting around it, hands protective of their hardware. Table. People. Table. Music. Table. People. All thinking their own thoughts and lost in their own music.
He hit his hat against his side again to shake the last of the damp from it and smiled to himself. More than twenty people, and not a one matched the description.
As he finally stepped away from the door and toward the bar, he heard his name through the swirling tonal storm.
He waved towards the girl at the bar and stepped up to it. “Mittens, how’s things?”
She smiled wryly, “Situation normal. Nothing yet. And you’re late.”
He smiled back. “Hey, I had to make sure the perimeter was secure. Where’s Aeryn? And nice outfit.”
Mittens crinkled her nose at him, “It’s cute. And it blends in!” She did a little spin, showing off her pink shorts and brown corduroy jacket. The jacket did complement her hair and flared off her hips per the fashion du jour.
He shook his head, grinning, and said, “Duty, Mittens.”
She sighed, “You’re no fun, Jim.” As she opened her mouth to speak again, she shut it. Frowned. “Where’s Aeryn going?”
Jim looked past her shoulder to see Aeryn slipping out the door, fedora firmly planted over her flowing locks. “Must have seen something. Don’t worry. She can take care of herself.”
Mittens nodded. “She’s got heat. Still…it’s not protocol.”
Jim laughed. “She’ll be fine. Anyway, aren’t you going to play? We could use a distraction.”
Mittens grinned. “Yeah. It’s one of your favs. Watch my back.”
Jim smiled, nodding. He watched Mittens walk to the back of the bar and haul out her wooden monstrosity. He bet half the people here hadn’t ever seen an actual stringed instrument in real life. As she stepped up to the stage – in actuality only the one space of floor that didn’t have a table latched to it – the music dimmed, then shut off entirely. The barmaid had seen Mittens apparently. Brother K’s was known for good live music, and that reputation attracted those that cared for music of a higher caliber than synth nonsense.
The crowded cantina hushed and Mittens strummed the strings of her guitar and Jim smiled. He turned to the barmaid, “Hey – a Cola with cherry?”
She smiled at him – he was a regular, after all – and said, “And chocolate? You know it’s better that way!”
He nodded assent and watched as she poured a decadent amount of chocolate into his Cola. He took it and passed her his plasteen. She slapped it with her palmreader and handed it back. “Thanks, Mars.”
He turned back to see Mittens still tuning her instrument. He looked to his left and saw a man popping corn kernels into his mouth. Where had he gotten corn? It wasn’t even close to corn season. Jim’s mouth watered. He could use a snack to go with his sweet Cola, but he couldn’t let hunger distract him. Duty, Jim.
He turned back to the stage. And Mittens began to play. Music swelled beautifully and her voice rose to heights triumphant. It was one of his favorites, although he wasn’t sure if anyone else in here had heard it before. “And can it be…that I should gain…”
Jim sighed. Bliss. And then snapped. He had a job to do, and that job didn’t involve being as entranced by the music as everyone else appeared to be.
His eyes swept back around the room. Nothing.
And again.
And then, as he turned back to watch Mittens, he felt the cold touch of steel at his neck. Ever so slowly, his eyes slid to the knife and the man that was holding it. How had he gotten inside without being noticed? That was beside the point. Jim swallowed once. The man’s face was hidden in a cowl, but Jim heard the chuckle. The music was still playing. “…amazing love! How can it be, that Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?!” As Mittens’ voice soared to the next verse, he felt the steel dig a fraction deeper into his neck.
Aeryn, now would be a good time.
And then, he heard the whine. Finally. A flash of light. A scream. The hooded man slumped to the floor and Jim smiled in relief. “Thanks, sis.”
Aeryn doffed her fedora, “You got it, bro.”
Mars and Corn Man were hovering over the cloaked man. He wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon. The rest of the cantina’s patrons were starting to notice something was amiss. Mittens was still playing. “Bold I approach the eternal throne…and claim the crown, through Christ my own!”
Jim sighed, the tension finally bleeding away. Aeryn put her head on his shoulder as he put his arm around her. Mittens put down her guitar and came over, her blue eyes sparkling. Jim grinned and pulled her into a hug. They stood and they swayed in the music of the night. Soon it would be time to get back to work. But not this moment. This moment, victory. This moment, light. This moment, love.
Something Weird 