Relationships swirl before my eyes like inconsequential flakes of snow, drifting here and there. Some linger longer than others, but all must leave. They are blown away by winds both harsh and inevitable. The rest are melted on the dark contrast of my skin, left bitter and cold on my tongue. An afterthought. A memory.
Yet the snowflakes protest. Do they not see their fate? I am a stone, a constant in the world, unaffected by all but the most severe weather. Snowfall can be both a pleasant surprise and a nuisance, but merits no more thought than this.
It is not out of spite that the frozen stars melt against me, or with regret that I watch them carried away by their own invisible tides. It is with the calm assurances that more will come as they have come and gone before.
So you see, you are nothing more than occasional pleasant company, and that's all I will ever let you be. To love you is to draw you inside of me, frozen water expanding the cracks so carefully hidden by rough walls and callous exterior. To love you, my little snowflake, is to make myself weak. So I do not love you and you will drift away into white skies or become consumed by my heat, a passing moment, one single moment of my very long life.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Blue Glass Rose
A little girl in a glass shop with ten dollars in her pocket peers into display cases.
She has seen the big muscled men pull the glowing molten globs into the delicate trumpet of a flower, the curving line of a stem, and blue rose petals. The paper weights do not attract her eye. She does not care for the shimmering dragonfly who's wings glisten a gentle green in the fluorescent lights of the storefront.
That one there, in orange, a brilliant blossom calls to her, beckoning the child, burning holes in her pocket. She buys the flower, placing it tenderly inside a white paper bag. But as she turns to leave, she sees it. The rose. The very rose made before her eyes in the warehouse of white hot ovens, where men poured sweat over vast cauldrons of superheated glass. The man had made that rose. She had watched the shining ball of melting sugar as the man flipped it upside down, gravity shaping out the stem as he took an enormous pair of crass looking tweezers to pinch out dainty petals and an inner swirl. The blue was only visible after the material had cooled, the blue called to her.
She went to the mustached man at the counter.
"How much is the rose?" she asked, eyes wide as she could force them, desire plain on her face.
"Twelve dollars." He grunted through thick eyebrows.
Her heart broke.
Despair etched on her little face the man took pity on her and asked, "How much have you got there?"
"Only four." she sighed tragically and eyed the rose once more.
The man melted in her capable hands, his will bending to her hands the way molten roses obey their muscled masters.
"Here." He reached into the case and pulled out the thing. "For a pretty girl."
Years later, after much love and abuse, the girl viewed the rose as a pure thing, the symbol of who she was and who she would become. She imagined one day that she would give the blue glass flower to a man she loved, as if to say, this is me.
But the blue glass rose was never a symbol of purity. It was the manifestation of a young girls greed, of a manipulating heart, the trademark of one who, even now, manages to lie so blatantly and with such skill, that she fools not only kind hearted storefront clerks, but even herself.
So she keeps it, it's broken beauty a constant reminder to her of what she really is, what she will someday hand to a man who loves her as proof of her unworthiness. She will hand it to him and say, "This is me. I am Nothing. Nothing but a blue glass rose."
She has seen the big muscled men pull the glowing molten globs into the delicate trumpet of a flower, the curving line of a stem, and blue rose petals. The paper weights do not attract her eye. She does not care for the shimmering dragonfly who's wings glisten a gentle green in the fluorescent lights of the storefront.
That one there, in orange, a brilliant blossom calls to her, beckoning the child, burning holes in her pocket. She buys the flower, placing it tenderly inside a white paper bag. But as she turns to leave, she sees it. The rose. The very rose made before her eyes in the warehouse of white hot ovens, where men poured sweat over vast cauldrons of superheated glass. The man had made that rose. She had watched the shining ball of melting sugar as the man flipped it upside down, gravity shaping out the stem as he took an enormous pair of crass looking tweezers to pinch out dainty petals and an inner swirl. The blue was only visible after the material had cooled, the blue called to her.
She went to the mustached man at the counter.
"How much is the rose?" she asked, eyes wide as she could force them, desire plain on her face.
"Twelve dollars." He grunted through thick eyebrows.
Her heart broke.
Despair etched on her little face the man took pity on her and asked, "How much have you got there?"
"Only four." she sighed tragically and eyed the rose once more.
The man melted in her capable hands, his will bending to her hands the way molten roses obey their muscled masters.
"Here." He reached into the case and pulled out the thing. "For a pretty girl."
Years later, after much love and abuse, the girl viewed the rose as a pure thing, the symbol of who she was and who she would become. She imagined one day that she would give the blue glass flower to a man she loved, as if to say, this is me.
But the blue glass rose was never a symbol of purity. It was the manifestation of a young girls greed, of a manipulating heart, the trademark of one who, even now, manages to lie so blatantly and with such skill, that she fools not only kind hearted storefront clerks, but even herself.
So she keeps it, it's broken beauty a constant reminder to her of what she really is, what she will someday hand to a man who loves her as proof of her unworthiness. She will hand it to him and say, "This is me. I am Nothing. Nothing but a blue glass rose."
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Why women wear Heels
There is a type of woman, of which I am one, who stands proudly in their high heels, fists held to the skies to declare "I am a woman! I need no counterpart, no other half to make me whole. I am a complete creation in and of myself!"
That type of woman confidently stands in her stilettos to bridge the physical gap between the genders. She is the woman who parades triumphantly into the weight room at the local gym, to bench press with the best of them.
She is the woman who always looks her best, not to attract the opposite sex, but to prove that she needs no reason to do so. She is the woman who is a mean and end in herself, with no singular partner as her end goal. Her flag is the snake skin purse at her side. Her battle cry is the click clack of heels across the clean marble floor of her business place, her weapons are the manicured nails kept polished as proof of her potency. She is a woman.
We wear heels as a symbol to the world, not of equality to men, but of superiority. We wear heels even as we are are plagued by sore feet and weak ankles. We wear heels because sometimes... We fall. And sometimes when we fall, there is a man there to catch us with a smile. Not a smile of arrogance. Not a grin that says, "I've saved a damsel in distress now look at my muscles you mortals and despair." it is a smile of approval. And sometimes that man will set us back upon our pedestal, the two we have strapped to our feet, and send us on our way.
I am a woman! If any man dare contest this truth, let him enter the ring he wont last long. I do not need a man! But... Sometimes I'd like one. Because I know that, sometimes, what you want the least, is what can make you the strongest you've ever been. And thats why I wear heels.
That type of woman confidently stands in her stilettos to bridge the physical gap between the genders. She is the woman who parades triumphantly into the weight room at the local gym, to bench press with the best of them.
She is the woman who always looks her best, not to attract the opposite sex, but to prove that she needs no reason to do so. She is the woman who is a mean and end in herself, with no singular partner as her end goal. Her flag is the snake skin purse at her side. Her battle cry is the click clack of heels across the clean marble floor of her business place, her weapons are the manicured nails kept polished as proof of her potency. She is a woman.
We wear heels as a symbol to the world, not of equality to men, but of superiority. We wear heels even as we are are plagued by sore feet and weak ankles. We wear heels because sometimes... We fall. And sometimes when we fall, there is a man there to catch us with a smile. Not a smile of arrogance. Not a grin that says, "I've saved a damsel in distress now look at my muscles you mortals and despair." it is a smile of approval. And sometimes that man will set us back upon our pedestal, the two we have strapped to our feet, and send us on our way.
I am a woman! If any man dare contest this truth, let him enter the ring he wont last long. I do not need a man! But... Sometimes I'd like one. Because I know that, sometimes, what you want the least, is what can make you the strongest you've ever been. And thats why I wear heels.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Poetry Alive
A story, to me, is like sitting in a field of fireflies. Words flit above and around me, twinkling like low flying stars. All I have to do is reach out into empty space and wrap my hand around a thought, pull it into my chest, and release it finally onto the paper, immortalized forever in the pages of my notebook. A story often comes in complete sentences, whole ideas, waiting nearby only to be recorded. Poetry is a little bit different.
Poetry slips through my mind, elusive, incomplete. It begs finality, a beginning and an end. A single phrase will arrest my attention, then leave me in a panicked frenzy for paper and pen. As the light drifts away, sometimes, I lose it. But, when I am quick enough, I can toss my pen into the air and spear the escaping idea, catch it with careful hands as it falls to the earth, and lovingly piece it back together, a small victory in the war that words have waged against me.
Stories come to me continually, like waves lapping against the shore of my mind. They are a common place beauty, easily taken for granted. I do not love stories the way I love Poetry. Because Poetry is the greater battle, the deeper struggle, the fiecer fight. Poetry is sacrifice and pain. I often pull stories from all my pockets like loose change. But my Poetry is something that I rip from my heart, wrenching away my most precious thoughts from inside of me, and offering them as little trinkets to the common man on the street.
Poetry is painful, precious. My private emotions on display to those who may not understand or appreciate, that scares me. But that pain, that risk, that heartache, is what makes Poetry worth while.
Poetry slips through my mind, elusive, incomplete. It begs finality, a beginning and an end. A single phrase will arrest my attention, then leave me in a panicked frenzy for paper and pen. As the light drifts away, sometimes, I lose it. But, when I am quick enough, I can toss my pen into the air and spear the escaping idea, catch it with careful hands as it falls to the earth, and lovingly piece it back together, a small victory in the war that words have waged against me.
Stories come to me continually, like waves lapping against the shore of my mind. They are a common place beauty, easily taken for granted. I do not love stories the way I love Poetry. Because Poetry is the greater battle, the deeper struggle, the fiecer fight. Poetry is sacrifice and pain. I often pull stories from all my pockets like loose change. But my Poetry is something that I rip from my heart, wrenching away my most precious thoughts from inside of me, and offering them as little trinkets to the common man on the street.
Poetry is painful, precious. My private emotions on display to those who may not understand or appreciate, that scares me. But that pain, that risk, that heartache, is what makes Poetry worth while.
A Letter to Superman
I never thought the day would come again when I would wish to tell you everything.
Now don't get me wrong, I still hate you, I don't miss you, and I hope your love life will always be as cursed as you have made mine. But I miss what you were to me.
Sometimes after a long day, I find myself checking my mailbox for one of your poems. Each one you sent me is seared into my heart and I know them so well I can read them backwards in the mirror, and upside down on my chest.
You were my Superman, my angel. You represented to me a man who could stand against the world. On the wings of your words you lifted me far into the heavens, brushing clouds and starts, claiming them for me. When you fell, I plummeted back to earth alone.
I waited there in my creator for you to rescue me and take me home. You never did, so I made the painstaking climb all by myself, dragging my body over sharp memory shards and broken dreams that had fallen with me from the skies.
You always gave me terrible advice, but I loved to hear it. Your voice was like the steady drumming of my own heart. I miss that.
I feel sorry for you, now, after years of feeling sorry for myself. No one ever means to fall. It was only that you dragged me down with you that inspired my hate.
But that's not why I'm writing this.
I miss our little Seinfeld dramas. It was the little things I loved to tell you: I drew a new picture today, I read a great book. In fact, sharing things with you made me so happy that sometimes I would make things up just to hear you laugh and call me a silly girl.
I knew from almost the very start that I did not love you, but you loved me. I'm sorry for that. But that's not why I'm writing either.
I'm writing to tell you Goodbye. This may not be my last note to you, or my final Goodbye (I've said it so many times before) but in a way, it is.
I'm writing this to give you the forgiveness you may not have known you needed. I won't condone your anger, your abuse, the things you said or what you made me do, but I will forget them, and let you go.
To hold onto the memories of you that I do cherish, I cannot continue to let them be stained with anger and pain.
Goodbye. Goodbye hate, goodbye malice, goodbye regrets, goodbye little girl, and goodbye my Superman.
Now don't get me wrong, I still hate you, I don't miss you, and I hope your love life will always be as cursed as you have made mine. But I miss what you were to me.
Sometimes after a long day, I find myself checking my mailbox for one of your poems. Each one you sent me is seared into my heart and I know them so well I can read them backwards in the mirror, and upside down on my chest.
You were my Superman, my angel. You represented to me a man who could stand against the world. On the wings of your words you lifted me far into the heavens, brushing clouds and starts, claiming them for me. When you fell, I plummeted back to earth alone.
I waited there in my creator for you to rescue me and take me home. You never did, so I made the painstaking climb all by myself, dragging my body over sharp memory shards and broken dreams that had fallen with me from the skies.
You always gave me terrible advice, but I loved to hear it. Your voice was like the steady drumming of my own heart. I miss that.
I feel sorry for you, now, after years of feeling sorry for myself. No one ever means to fall. It was only that you dragged me down with you that inspired my hate.
But that's not why I'm writing this.
I miss our little Seinfeld dramas. It was the little things I loved to tell you: I drew a new picture today, I read a great book. In fact, sharing things with you made me so happy that sometimes I would make things up just to hear you laugh and call me a silly girl.
I knew from almost the very start that I did not love you, but you loved me. I'm sorry for that. But that's not why I'm writing either.
I'm writing to tell you Goodbye. This may not be my last note to you, or my final Goodbye (I've said it so many times before) but in a way, it is.
I'm writing this to give you the forgiveness you may not have known you needed. I won't condone your anger, your abuse, the things you said or what you made me do, but I will forget them, and let you go.
To hold onto the memories of you that I do cherish, I cannot continue to let them be stained with anger and pain.
Goodbye. Goodbye hate, goodbye malice, goodbye regrets, goodbye little girl, and goodbye my Superman.
Necessary Lies
Compromises of my soul, handing myself over bit by bit to those I must assuage with my lies.
I never wanted it to be this way. As a girl I dreampted of an honest world, a world which now seems far away and impossible. Lies, like ugly little greamlins who cling to your back, have become a necessity. To spare hurt to others I add another sniviling creature to my load. They snicker and laugh at me.
"Good never comes of evil!" They sneer. They speak the truth, honestly, cutting me with words sharper than serrated teeth or claws.
"Lies. Liar. Deceiver. Fake." They accuse me.
But am I wrong?
To want to save those I love from the truth, to lie to myself and pretend to love who I do not love, to offer a sanctuary for those drenched in torrential rains of reality... am I wrong?
A storyteller always, I never imagined the power stories have and not just for those who listen and hear, but for the one that does the telling. A story will bind you to it, like a little gremlin, at one time dark and fascinating, now only a burden to be born with patience. Out of necessity.
I never wanted it to be this way. As a girl I dreampted of an honest world, a world which now seems far away and impossible. Lies, like ugly little greamlins who cling to your back, have become a necessity. To spare hurt to others I add another sniviling creature to my load. They snicker and laugh at me.
"Good never comes of evil!" They sneer. They speak the truth, honestly, cutting me with words sharper than serrated teeth or claws.
"Lies. Liar. Deceiver. Fake." They accuse me.
But am I wrong?
To want to save those I love from the truth, to lie to myself and pretend to love who I do not love, to offer a sanctuary for those drenched in torrential rains of reality... am I wrong?
A storyteller always, I never imagined the power stories have and not just for those who listen and hear, but for the one that does the telling. A story will bind you to it, like a little gremlin, at one time dark and fascinating, now only a burden to be born with patience. Out of necessity.
The things we learn
I am a loner.
Every since the days of my childhood I have understood this truth. While girls my age played with Barbie dolls and their mothers over sized clothes, I read books about space, history, the ocean, and mythology. While little children laughed in my Grandmother's backyard and spent their time plucking the stalks off the great tree to sword fight with, I sat at the grown up table and concisely explained my plans for the future.
I am an anomaly. I am a social butterfly who would rather spend her nights alone. I am a lone wolf who longs for pleasant conversation. My paradoxical nature is my right which I reserve. I will plan and re-plan my life as often as I see fit, which is often enough. I will learn something new and exciting every single day, while at the same time I will bemoan my uninteresting existence. I will adore the person that I am while at the same time looking forward to change and who I will become. I am complicated.
Every day I learn something new about myself.
Last week I discovered that I hate people. The churning masses of the world have thrown away their potential and embraced mediocrity. I am literally, the 1%, the oddball. I am a believer in logic and truth and therefore a threat to be ostracized. So I cast myself out before I can be rejected by anyone else. The world does not deserve my light or my love, which are to be earned, not given as a free handout for simply being alive.
Yesterday i realized that I hate the world simply because I love it so much. When you open the door, your heart, when you let people in, it is so easy to love them. But people are not perfect. To love is to be hurt, disappointed and rejected. That is inevitable. So because I love, I hate them.
Yet even I, the strange girl who reads a book instead of chasing the cute boys at recess, even I, the teenager who learns to read braille in her spare time, even I, the weird girl in class who writes her notes backwards out of admiration and respect for Leonard da Vinci, I wish to be loved. All the frustration, anger, jealousy, heartache and sorrow in the world stem from this one truth. We wish to be loved.
Now if we deserve that love is another issue entirely, but who are we to judge? If even I, the misanthropic loner can learn to love, then there is no one on this beautiful planet that cannot do the same.
Every since the days of my childhood I have understood this truth. While girls my age played with Barbie dolls and their mothers over sized clothes, I read books about space, history, the ocean, and mythology. While little children laughed in my Grandmother's backyard and spent their time plucking the stalks off the great tree to sword fight with, I sat at the grown up table and concisely explained my plans for the future.
I am an anomaly. I am a social butterfly who would rather spend her nights alone. I am a lone wolf who longs for pleasant conversation. My paradoxical nature is my right which I reserve. I will plan and re-plan my life as often as I see fit, which is often enough. I will learn something new and exciting every single day, while at the same time I will bemoan my uninteresting existence. I will adore the person that I am while at the same time looking forward to change and who I will become. I am complicated.
Every day I learn something new about myself.
Last week I discovered that I hate people. The churning masses of the world have thrown away their potential and embraced mediocrity. I am literally, the 1%, the oddball. I am a believer in logic and truth and therefore a threat to be ostracized. So I cast myself out before I can be rejected by anyone else. The world does not deserve my light or my love, which are to be earned, not given as a free handout for simply being alive.
Yesterday i realized that I hate the world simply because I love it so much. When you open the door, your heart, when you let people in, it is so easy to love them. But people are not perfect. To love is to be hurt, disappointed and rejected. That is inevitable. So because I love, I hate them.
Yet even I, the strange girl who reads a book instead of chasing the cute boys at recess, even I, the teenager who learns to read braille in her spare time, even I, the weird girl in class who writes her notes backwards out of admiration and respect for Leonard da Vinci, I wish to be loved. All the frustration, anger, jealousy, heartache and sorrow in the world stem from this one truth. We wish to be loved.
Now if we deserve that love is another issue entirely, but who are we to judge? If even I, the misanthropic loner can learn to love, then there is no one on this beautiful planet that cannot do the same.
A song
"Write a song" I told myself
About them so they'll listen.
"Show them what talent really is
Not some stupid pointless whim."
So I set out of my own volition
To write a song of lies.
I wrote about the strength, beauty and light
That sparkled in their eyes.
"I love you all!" I told them.
"You saved me from the dark!"
When the darkness lay around me
No intention to let go.
It was they themselves who caused it,
Fed it, anxiously watched it grow.
"It was you!" I realized screaming.
"You're who I should fear!
You'll suck me dry and beat me down
Until I disappear!"
But you hid beneath the shadows
Poisoning me all along
And I never would have known it
If I hadn't wrote that song.
About them so they'll listen.
"Show them what talent really is
Not some stupid pointless whim."
So I set out of my own volition
To write a song of lies.
I wrote about the strength, beauty and light
That sparkled in their eyes.
"I love you all!" I told them.
"You saved me from the dark!"
When the darkness lay around me
No intention to let go.
It was they themselves who caused it,
Fed it, anxiously watched it grow.
"It was you!" I realized screaming.
"You're who I should fear!
You'll suck me dry and beat me down
Until I disappear!"
But you hid beneath the shadows
Poisoning me all along
And I never would have known it
If I hadn't wrote that song.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Empathy
There is pain in this life which no words or amount of time can heal. There are wounds which never close, there are scars which never fade. There are people out there who I cannot help.
When a boy tells me in the quite of his car that he stopped doing drugs when he nearly hung himself in front of his cousins.. .when a girl explains the horrors her mother went was put through as a child because of her Father and Uncle... when the most wonderful boy I've ever met is hated by his parents and my two dearest friends come to school bruised and broken because of domestic abuse... That is when I realize my own inadequacy as comforter, counselor and friend. That is when my carefully guarded walls come crashing down and my heart is seized by an emotion greater than that which I have felt before.
That is when I realize my own selfish stupidity, my own awkward bubble that blinds me to the suffering of others. That is when my prideful egotism is shattered and I can think of no greater wish than to stop being me. I can accomplish no good, I can do nothing but hurt the ones I care for and pretend at what I do not know.
The world would be better off without me wasting its precious air. But whilst I am here, selfishly so, I'll do the best I can do. And that is to breathe, take a step back, and empathize.
When a boy tells me in the quite of his car that he stopped doing drugs when he nearly hung himself in front of his cousins.. .when a girl explains the horrors her mother went was put through as a child because of her Father and Uncle... when the most wonderful boy I've ever met is hated by his parents and my two dearest friends come to school bruised and broken because of domestic abuse... That is when I realize my own inadequacy as comforter, counselor and friend. That is when my carefully guarded walls come crashing down and my heart is seized by an emotion greater than that which I have felt before.
That is when I realize my own selfish stupidity, my own awkward bubble that blinds me to the suffering of others. That is when my prideful egotism is shattered and I can think of no greater wish than to stop being me. I can accomplish no good, I can do nothing but hurt the ones I care for and pretend at what I do not know.
The world would be better off without me wasting its precious air. But whilst I am here, selfishly so, I'll do the best I can do. And that is to breathe, take a step back, and empathize.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
The way I do
If I could change the world I would not wish for everyone's chances to be the same. I would not wish away poverty or pain. If our trails are our chance to grow, to develop and reach our goals, then give me more! I want to reach the stars! But to do that I need to climb over the mountain of trails that I've beat down and kicked over, and use them as my own personal staircase of success.
If I could wish for anything I might wish for the strength and endurance of a warrior. Then when challenges come my way I would meet them with a 22 gauge shotgun. When the time comes to evaluate my life's test I'd look the administrator in the eye and know that I passed with flying colors. I know that.
But I also know that people do not understand. There are people within the sound of my voice who would wish away the worlds sorrows. Please do not think that way.
Someone once said that the only difference between a stumbling block and a stepping stone is how you use it. If you believe that, then the people with the hardest trails are the ones that can rise highest above the world. They are the ones who will truely reach the Heavens, not I.
So look around you, see the world through new eyes. It is in soup kitchens and hospitals that the greatest human potential exists. It is in poverty and pain that the skies are opened up to us and our limiting shackles of selfishness removed.
If I could wish for anything, I would wish that people could see themselves that way, the way I do, and that would change the world.
If I could wish for anything I might wish for the strength and endurance of a warrior. Then when challenges come my way I would meet them with a 22 gauge shotgun. When the time comes to evaluate my life's test I'd look the administrator in the eye and know that I passed with flying colors. I know that.
But I also know that people do not understand. There are people within the sound of my voice who would wish away the worlds sorrows. Please do not think that way.
Someone once said that the only difference between a stumbling block and a stepping stone is how you use it. If you believe that, then the people with the hardest trails are the ones that can rise highest above the world. They are the ones who will truely reach the Heavens, not I.
So look around you, see the world through new eyes. It is in soup kitchens and hospitals that the greatest human potential exists. It is in poverty and pain that the skies are opened up to us and our limiting shackles of selfishness removed.
If I could wish for anything, I would wish that people could see themselves that way, the way I do, and that would change the world.
Spoken Word Poetry
I've discovered Sarah Kay's spoken word poetry. It's beautiful and inspiring and wonderful. Look her up on youtube especially "if I should have a daughter." Just so you know what's going on, I've decided to share some of my own poems here, even though they're meant to be performed. Just use your imagination for a little bit.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)