from somewhere i find myself lost in the feel in the feeling somewhere between the self righteous feeling of being able to do what i want and doing what i need to do im trapped between wishing i could do stuff i can and actually doing it at twelve when i click links to feelings to emotions to things i don’t fully understand my fingers twitch my head rolls and wonderful splinters of crashing ideas come careening into my consciousness but through some utter desire some distinctive and instinctive yearning i shake my passion heavy head and utter for those graces of life that so move me oceanfuls of life that pour into me flooding my conscious with desire and hunger for whats next for everything that i could do but i seem to turn around with ever increasing brevity to the next seemingly endless desire and now more than the time before i wonder if this thing will stick and will it? will i ever do anything i want if i cant decide as to what i should do maybe i should just run off and do what i cant but that wouldn’t be me and I couldn’t give myself up for what would be simply easy for me to do i just run into these walls that shape just before i reach them they are ever increasing in grandeur and i have no idea if anything i do will amount to anything at all but i feel like i have some innate desire and initiative to keep thinking about it all and wondering if there will ever be anything for me
I think English words taste like pickles: crunchy on the outside with savory, meaty middles.
Image: goldbelly.imgix.net
Spanish is like a Frank Lloyd Wright stained glass window, its colorful geometry sliding into place like the children’s game Rush Hour.
Speaking Arabic is like putting on gilded silk robes that I don’t deserve.
Hebrew diffuses through my veins, and Yiddish sends me spiralling into my ancestors.
When I sat in French class, I was able to peer into a manicured francophone antique store that enthralls me.
And when I preach my dreams of universal Esperanto, I feel the international interdependency of the future colliding with the frilly beauty of antiquity.
I was barely twelve when I sat on a train pouring words onto a page, words that sounded right, that fit right, that like singing nails resonated in my chest.
I was a silversmith working self-righteous metal into ornate rings around fingers black with mud.
stuck uncomfortably askew into my otherwise sweetly lapsing childhood
the odd cold memory next to geraniums and my dads’ warm hands:
it hadn’t rained in weeks but it would tomorrow
tyler and his friends tore down the highway
the truck old
the boys young
and the night infinite
four teenagers careening through space
running out of time
(twinkling like stars, the holes in the bottom of his truck shone into the cab. Twinkling not like natural light, but like reflections from yellow road reflectors and moonshine)
then as Murphy knowingly frowned
the teenagers plunged abruptly into the darkness
two flew through the night and landed bloody on the highway
but he and his passenger tumbled endlessly into that indiscriminate abyss
and someone I hadn’t thought about in years came crashing back into my life
(and those stars that lined his bare calloused toes erupted into vivid supernovas)
tyler and I were friends when i was very young. he lived in Kauai and i would visit every so often. he was a terrible influence; he would steal stupid things, and i would watch. sometimes tyler took me fishing. he would torment the fishes by cutting off their fins and sending them back to the water to die bloody but breathing. and i would watch. he told me fish don’t feel pain, but i saw that he did. he grew up between houses, neither one was particularly welcoming. he grew up never believing he had a chance. one day he was watching his younger sister, and i remember sitting where the tide leaves sandy pools on the beach. she splashed and screamed while he delicately folded her clothes placing them carefully on a log. I watched him pull a shirt over her wet sandy head and I saw how precarious tyler’s life was. he couldn’t have been more than twelve.
it barely hurts to imagine him flying down the road drunkenly focused, it doesn’t pain me to imagine his dark brown eyes, and not even the dead teenagers trapped in a combusting coffin bring me to tears
The morning is the inhale – the first air that is taken in, and held there –
Some days are more deceptive than others like a warm Thursday afternoon that manages to convince you there is nothing left to do;
It leaves you anticipating the rest. The first breath that is fully taken in and fully released in a few easy seconds. Knowing everything else may be paused for a while.
But then you remember: the light is not orange because it is summertime, when the days are so hot they seem to melt into one another, but rather because it is 4pm on a Thursday afternoon, and you are wearing sunglasses because the days are only shorter now.
And because it is a Thursday and not a Friday, you can only breathe partially.
And so the evening is the exhale – the same morning air that never really escaped finally does, though it won’t return until the sun comes up again tomorrow –
And we grow used to that feeling. Or at least I do.
