She looks at me differently this time-- more passionately. With a hunger denied for too long she finally reaches for me and we consummate a love that has smoldered for twelve years. Not in the frightened, reserved, and fascinated way that we came together as teenagers, but in the inflamed way that only adults who have yearned can properly aspire to do.
Ambiguous meetings, sweet promises, and glimpses of her in the distance, swaying her hips in casual salutations as she turns her attentions back to reality. Day breaks, responsibilities swell, and the dream of our love that has escalated all this time-- refusing to break its hold on me-- fades back into my heart. I suck it into me again-- the little glow of searing pain held so stoically inside.
Six months ago she finally pressed her lips to mine; a promise left unresolved and tingling. I vaguely wondered at the meeting-- why now? Twelve years of sidelong glances and whispers shrouded in disbelief, and she seizes my reservations without hesitation. I must be getting close to something, but I still fail to discern the meaning of the message. Drilling down on the emotion; will it be easy to see when it overcomes me?
My first love plays out scenes that would never exist except for here, in this world of vivid colors and aberrent snores. Always pools of water as she walks away... and this time, after the torrents of our passions are unleashed to their fullest-- tidal waves. Waiting for them to crash on my shores; willingly i will be swept away.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Dimples and Dragnet
I am not the cute girl.
The smart girl, the career girl, the artist, the activist, the ardent lover, the reliable friend, the person to call in a crisis… these sound more familiar to me. And sometimes I can be beautiful, in the right light, with the right make-up, in the right clothes. But my body is intimidatingly long, my features angular and sharp, my mind strategic, clever, dangerous...
The cute girl—my perpetual nemesis-- sports her round cheeks, bright eyes, bouncy short stature, and absence of substantive thought with an ease that makes love seem so simple. There is nothing complicated about her-- no mystery to unravel, no depths to plumb—eager and alert and vapid. She’s approachable and adorable, enjoying her surface conversations, pleasantries, and generic social scripts. When I speak with her, she says I use big words. When I am seated next to her smallness, smelling the demure disposition wafting from her, I imagine it must be nice to not suffer such heavy thoughts all the time.
If she weren't so genuine I'd probably be angry at her. But she can't help being who she is anymore than I can help being her opposite. And I always forfeit the game to her, mostly because she will win anyway. The one for me is never going to be the one for her, and vice versa. The one for me will be intrigued by me—drawn to me. She’ll already know that I can craft a life filled with self-actualization and happiness. That I can be her passionate equal. That I can be the one person who is actually worth the effort.
I just can't be the cute girl
The smart girl, the career girl, the artist, the activist, the ardent lover, the reliable friend, the person to call in a crisis… these sound more familiar to me. And sometimes I can be beautiful, in the right light, with the right make-up, in the right clothes. But my body is intimidatingly long, my features angular and sharp, my mind strategic, clever, dangerous...
The cute girl—my perpetual nemesis-- sports her round cheeks, bright eyes, bouncy short stature, and absence of substantive thought with an ease that makes love seem so simple. There is nothing complicated about her-- no mystery to unravel, no depths to plumb—eager and alert and vapid. She’s approachable and adorable, enjoying her surface conversations, pleasantries, and generic social scripts. When I speak with her, she says I use big words. When I am seated next to her smallness, smelling the demure disposition wafting from her, I imagine it must be nice to not suffer such heavy thoughts all the time.
If she weren't so genuine I'd probably be angry at her. But she can't help being who she is anymore than I can help being her opposite. And I always forfeit the game to her, mostly because she will win anyway. The one for me is never going to be the one for her, and vice versa. The one for me will be intrigued by me—drawn to me. She’ll already know that I can craft a life filled with self-actualization and happiness. That I can be her passionate equal. That I can be the one person who is actually worth the effort.
I just can't be the cute girl
Monday, November 16, 2009
DisAmbiguation
The decision to name this blog was born of a literary reference; in particular William Empson's Seven Types of Ambiguity (1930). In this work, Empson critically analyzes poetry and discovers different kinds of ambiguity. He describes this ambiguity as a kind of puzzle, usually crafted via metaphor, and often allegorical in nature. Furthermore, he asserts the various uses of purposeful ambiguity to achieve a desired literary effect.
Empson chose poetry as his focus because it is usually loaded with metaphors, similes, abstractions, and artistic liberties. Often the point in poetry is to make more than one point simultaneously; discerning the meaning(s) of a piece can spark quite a debate.
So it is with no small amount of irony that it occurred to me that poetry is really disambiguous-- because its very nature is so ambiguous. A person can express herself more fully and convey all of her meanings by simply employing this literary device. Thereby, she can clarify the essence of her own thoughts, and allow the mood of the piece to add that multi-dimensional flavor of blending ideologies without the interference of precision.
IE: I don't have to explain all of my emotions to you, I can just make you feel them with these words. And it will be more clear because I made it less clear.
Poetic Disambiguation. It's not really an oxymoron; just an irony.
Empson chose poetry as his focus because it is usually loaded with metaphors, similes, abstractions, and artistic liberties. Often the point in poetry is to make more than one point simultaneously; discerning the meaning(s) of a piece can spark quite a debate.
So it is with no small amount of irony that it occurred to me that poetry is really disambiguous-- because its very nature is so ambiguous. A person can express herself more fully and convey all of her meanings by simply employing this literary device. Thereby, she can clarify the essence of her own thoughts, and allow the mood of the piece to add that multi-dimensional flavor of blending ideologies without the interference of precision.
IE: I don't have to explain all of my emotions to you, I can just make you feel them with these words. And it will be more clear because I made it less clear.
Poetic Disambiguation. It's not really an oxymoron; just an irony.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Spark
We are here in the center of gravity
In perfect harmony
Absolution of accord
Honoring the invisible link
The quark traveling back and forth
Glowing gleefully as it moves
Between thought and emotion
Reconciling the two
With an errant shrug
A sideways smile
And a spark in your eye
In perfect harmony
Absolution of accord
Honoring the invisible link
The quark traveling back and forth
Glowing gleefully as it moves
Between thought and emotion
Reconciling the two
With an errant shrug
A sideways smile
And a spark in your eye
Yesterday's Girl
Some time ago
I chose pride over honesty
Rightness over whole-heartedness
Dignity over love
With a wound pulsing fresh
In a place I had only just discovered
I ceased my breath for a time
And held it fast; held it deep
Heart drowning in a thousand fires
Burning my soul
Molten passion roiling raw
Erupting without rhythm or warning
Absence of emotion
Like riptides washed to sea
Now rushing through cutting a path
Where the beacon glows bright
Reveling in wanting
Awakening the ghost of yesterday’s girl
Haunting the past
Like havoc incarnate
And there was your flightless bird
Covered in steaming ash
And there she was flying
Despite you
I chose pride over honesty
Rightness over whole-heartedness
Dignity over love
With a wound pulsing fresh
In a place I had only just discovered
I ceased my breath for a time
And held it fast; held it deep
Heart drowning in a thousand fires
Burning my soul
Molten passion roiling raw
Erupting without rhythm or warning
Absence of emotion
Like riptides washed to sea
Now rushing through cutting a path
Where the beacon glows bright
Reveling in wanting
Awakening the ghost of yesterday’s girl
Haunting the past
Like havoc incarnate
And there was your flightless bird
Covered in steaming ash
And there she was flying
Despite you
On Writing
There is never really a final version; only a supposition that everything has been said in the best way it can be expressed... for now. It is a work in progress with the potential to be accrued, deferred, written-off, or utilized--depending on the purpose of the work. Is it meant to be unresolved on that piece of paper? Or does it deserve multiple edits?
The beauty of authoring your own journey is that the exposition is your own creation. The danger has always been in deciding on what that should be. Will the story be set in foggy London or fast-paced L.A.? Who should the main characters be?
After awhile, the piece will take on a life of its own. You just have to pen it by moments and wait until the ink dries a bit before placing it in the drawer. The rest always unfolds naturally. Foreshadowing takes on a life of its own—dropping you little hints to write towards. Do accept their direction. It is usually best to go with the flow of what is being shown you when it is through your own eyes.
There are just so many ways to show it—so many words that fit together in endless combinations of meaning and tone. The opportunity for artistry has never been so abundant. Think of music where you are limited by notes and harmonies—or painting, where there are only so many colors. Writing supercedes these limitations. You can write anything in any form you want. There is poetry, short stories, long stories, narratives, philosophical pieces, declarations of love, divinations of will, passionate reveries, stone-cold stereo instructions… there’s anything and everything you want to say and even more about what you’d prefer to keep silent. Oh but to test the boundaries just once…
I am getting ahead of myself. Or perhaps I’m foreshadowing pieces to come. Either way, it is my intent for some of these works in progress to land here. They’re for everybody, anybody, and nobody in particular really. Enjoy.
The beauty of authoring your own journey is that the exposition is your own creation. The danger has always been in deciding on what that should be. Will the story be set in foggy London or fast-paced L.A.? Who should the main characters be?
After awhile, the piece will take on a life of its own. You just have to pen it by moments and wait until the ink dries a bit before placing it in the drawer. The rest always unfolds naturally. Foreshadowing takes on a life of its own—dropping you little hints to write towards. Do accept their direction. It is usually best to go with the flow of what is being shown you when it is through your own eyes.
There are just so many ways to show it—so many words that fit together in endless combinations of meaning and tone. The opportunity for artistry has never been so abundant. Think of music where you are limited by notes and harmonies—or painting, where there are only so many colors. Writing supercedes these limitations. You can write anything in any form you want. There is poetry, short stories, long stories, narratives, philosophical pieces, declarations of love, divinations of will, passionate reveries, stone-cold stereo instructions… there’s anything and everything you want to say and even more about what you’d prefer to keep silent. Oh but to test the boundaries just once…
I am getting ahead of myself. Or perhaps I’m foreshadowing pieces to come. Either way, it is my intent for some of these works in progress to land here. They’re for everybody, anybody, and nobody in particular really. Enjoy.
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