I'm always shocked how difficult it can be to start writing again after not writing for three months; my hands feel almost awkward and hesitant across the keyboard. I guess I always expect picking it up right where I left off as an easy task, where "it's just like riding a bike"--which, of course, one never forgets once they have learned.
But okay, so I haven't completely forgotten how to write (saying so would be a slight hyperbole), but can't you feel something missing, can't you feel what is lost, when you don't cultivate and nourish those things you love most? I suspect that it's those things that we love most, that we are best at, that we can lose--not to mention miss--the most of if we don't keep our eyes on it, for there is so much more to lose.
This may have been a few weeks ago, but nonetheless it is worth talking about: I took a hike on July 23, 2011 that changed my life. From the very start, the the scenery was lush and green and breathtaking; it seemed magical walking along the trail with light streaming through breaks in the trees. I was with my boyfriend at the time, Scott Baird, who briskly walked in front of me and guided us along the trail--I know I didn't mind, for he was the best thing to look at on that entire mountain. During the journey of the hike, I started wondering what the trip was like for other people: Who looked at the ground the entire way so they didn't trip? Who constantly had eyes that wandered to everything but the path in front of them? And who did a mix of both? For it seems that those that look at the ground the entire way may methodically never fall or trip, yet miss the enjoyment to be had by looking at all the trees and vegetation; on the other hand, those that are constantly darting their eyes from their left to their right at all the sights to be seen may have a lot of fun, yet fall in danger of veering off the path and eventually making an indefinite fall--never to step again. I figure that this is an instance where one must not be too extreme: we can't be too uptight or cautious all the time and miss the beauty all around us; yet neither is a journey that is full of fun and entertainment that causes us to lose focus on our destination a wise path to travel.
And this is not even the best part of this two mile hike! Just as I explained, the scenery from the very beginning was absolutely beautiful. The small waterfalls, tall trees and unique rock formations acted as poppies--lulling me away into the elation of nature, to never press forward. Eventually I would be pulled away from these small beauties and the camera, for Scott continued onward and I was aware of his absence and wouldn't allow myself to fall too far behind. But it seemed as if the more that time pressed on, the more beautiful things I would see! I wanted to stop every ten steps, to get lost in what I thought would be the most exquisite thing that could be seen, as if there could be no more beauty to be had. Yet I still found myself being pulled forward.
And then finally the most divine canvas filled my view! Gallons and gallons of water poured over a green hill that was reminiscent of Ireland. Moss made safe havens on the slick, slippery rock and was fed by the angelic mist that sought to nourish any organism in its reach. And I stood in the midst of it, bewitched. Scott was no longer in front of me, and all I could see was this sensational creation that could come from nothing less than a Godly Being. So this is what it felt like to live among the clouds!
When I finally regained some of my senses and turned around to feel for Scott, there he was on his knee, asking me to marry him. Even nature and all its grandeur felt as nothing as dust compared to this man and the symbol of forever he held in his hand. How foolish I then felt, to consider the reality of how quick a base human as myself is to stop and linger at lesser beauties, when the best is yet to come if we are only patient, if we are only steadfast, if we are only focused. But I said yes and consider myself the luckiest woman alive.
And things never end up the way you imagined them to be as a small girl. I've come to know that when I was young I imagined engagement and marriage to be perfect, an easy ride where all my problems dissipate. Some may be dismayed by the disillusionment; however, though I'm still young and still figuring things out, I'm coming to appreciate that things are so much better than I ever imagined them to be as a small girl. That's not because things are necessarily easy or perfect or happy 100% of the time per say; it's because it's real, not some pie-in-the-sky dream, but reality.
And I guess some people can grow tired of their reality. I know I have before. But I am grateful for my own beautiful reality and the person I get to experience it with. I have seen many great sights, met many great people along the way; but I know that I have finally reached that last waterfall, met that one man that is greater for me than all else.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Dirty Shirt
With a tenderly hand, and heart of fear,
Such feebleness known in young year--
Scraped the skin to callous;
Smoothed the concrete into brick,
Placing each carefully 'til it hid--
Not a one was to see.
But then prancing those kittenish eyes came--
Masking a ravenous wolf--
Chiseling brick by brick, tearing concrete,
'Til, with all charming subtleties,
Rough skin was quenched to smooth;
And there it was for one to see.
Quivering with love, desire and vulnerability;
The hooks lodged on fleshy tablets--
Gripped on a tenderly hand, a heart of fear,
The feebleness of young year--
To be torn inside out like a dirty shirt,
As the lines were reeled away.
And there it was for everyone to see.
Such feebleness known in young year--
Scraped the skin to callous;
Smoothed the concrete into brick,
Placing each carefully 'til it hid--
Not a one was to see.
But then prancing those kittenish eyes came--
Masking a ravenous wolf--
Chiseling brick by brick, tearing concrete,
'Til, with all charming subtleties,
Rough skin was quenched to smooth;
And there it was for one to see.
Quivering with love, desire and vulnerability;
The hooks lodged on fleshy tablets--
Gripped on a tenderly hand, a heart of fear,
The feebleness of young year--
To be torn inside out like a dirty shirt,
As the lines were reeled away.
And there it was for everyone to see.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Eleven
I didn't write this, but I wish I did. I guess I say that about a lot of things, but at least Sandra Cisneros did a great job with it. Ever since I read it in high school, it usually frequents my mind around my birthday.
What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.
Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is.
You don't feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don't feel smart eleven, not until you're almost twelve. That's the way it is.
Only today I wish I didn't have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I'd have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would've known how to tell her it wasn't mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.
"Whose is this?" Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. "Whose? It's been sitting in the coatroom for a month."
"Not mine," says everybody, "Not me."
"It has to belong to somebody," Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It's an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It's maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn't say so.
Maybe because I'm skinny, maybe because she doesn't like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, "I think it belongs to Rachel." An ugly sweater like that all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out.
"That's not, I don't, you're not . . . Not mine." I finally say in a little voice that was maybe
me when I was four.
"Of course it's yours," Mrs. Price says. "I remember you wearing it once." Because she's older and the teacher, she's right and I'm not.
Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don't know why but all of a sudden I'm feeling sick inside, like the part of me that's three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.
But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater's still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine.
In my head I'm thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, "Now, Rachel, that's enough," because she sees I've shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it's hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don't care.
"Rachel," Mrs. Price says. She says it like she's getting mad. "You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense."
"But it's not—"
"Now!" Mrs. Price says.
This is when I wish I wasn't eleven because all the years inside of me—ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one—are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren't even mine.
That's when everything I've been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I'm crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I'm not. I'm eleven and it's my birthday today and I'm crying like I'm three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can't stop the little animal noises from coming out of me until there aren't any more tears left in my eyes, and it's just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast.
But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers! I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything's okay.
Today I'm eleven. There's a cake Mama's making for tonight and when Papa comes home from work we'll eat it. There'll be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it's too late.
I'm eleven today. I'm eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.
And that's it. Of the story, anyway.
So this doesn't have a lot to do with the whole birthday thing (although the birthday email I got from a certain someone made me so happy that I practically cried), but do you know what it's like to yearn for the same thing/person/occurrence day in and day out for months, even years? Do you know what it's like to drive in your car, imagining them to be there; or to sit at work, looking outside the window while it's slow, staring at two morning doves find food together, and feeling the anticipation build--even though you have months to go? Well, if you have, you know it sure makes the time go by slowly. And yet, even if it were to go by faster, I think it may still be too slow for me.
I start my spring term at Portland State this upcoming Tuesday! I'm not looking forward to my accounting class, except for the part about it being over. It's going to be an interesting term, considering the fact that on both Tuesdays and Thursdays my first class starts at 8:00am, which means I need to be ready to leave my house around 6:30am. I hope it isn't too hard for me to get used to waking up early! I'm such a night owl most of the time.
What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.
Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is.
You don't feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don't feel smart eleven, not until you're almost twelve. That's the way it is.
Only today I wish I didn't have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I'd have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would've known how to tell her it wasn't mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.
"Whose is this?" Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. "Whose? It's been sitting in the coatroom for a month."
"Not mine," says everybody, "Not me."
"It has to belong to somebody," Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It's an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It's maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn't say so.
Maybe because I'm skinny, maybe because she doesn't like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, "I think it belongs to Rachel." An ugly sweater like that all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out.
"That's not, I don't, you're not . . . Not mine." I finally say in a little voice that was maybe
me when I was four.
"Of course it's yours," Mrs. Price says. "I remember you wearing it once." Because she's older and the teacher, she's right and I'm not.
Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don't know why but all of a sudden I'm feeling sick inside, like the part of me that's three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.
But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater's still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine.
In my head I'm thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, "Now, Rachel, that's enough," because she sees I've shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it's hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don't care.
"Rachel," Mrs. Price says. She says it like she's getting mad. "You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense."
"But it's not—"
"Now!" Mrs. Price says.
This is when I wish I wasn't eleven because all the years inside of me—ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one—are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren't even mine.
That's when everything I've been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I'm crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I'm not. I'm eleven and it's my birthday today and I'm crying like I'm three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can't stop the little animal noises from coming out of me until there aren't any more tears left in my eyes, and it's just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast.
But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers! I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything's okay.
Today I'm eleven. There's a cake Mama's making for tonight and when Papa comes home from work we'll eat it. There'll be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it's too late.
I'm eleven today. I'm eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.
And that's it. Of the story, anyway.
So this doesn't have a lot to do with the whole birthday thing (although the birthday email I got from a certain someone made me so happy that I practically cried), but do you know what it's like to yearn for the same thing/person/occurrence day in and day out for months, even years? Do you know what it's like to drive in your car, imagining them to be there; or to sit at work, looking outside the window while it's slow, staring at two morning doves find food together, and feeling the anticipation build--even though you have months to go? Well, if you have, you know it sure makes the time go by slowly. And yet, even if it were to go by faster, I think it may still be too slow for me.
I start my spring term at Portland State this upcoming Tuesday! I'm not looking forward to my accounting class, except for the part about it being over. It's going to be an interesting term, considering the fact that on both Tuesdays and Thursdays my first class starts at 8:00am, which means I need to be ready to leave my house around 6:30am. I hope it isn't too hard for me to get used to waking up early! I'm such a night owl most of the time.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
The Way You Detract
It is where the tall things are
That I have been--
Studying the stone,
the windows, the lights--
Should I not feel small?
Should I not feel meager--
For there are more hands
Than I could count?
But I do not feel small;
I do not feel meager,
As I stand in awe of
The contrast,
The walls,
The bridges--
Until I see the places,
The places we have been,
The places we could go.
And then I feel small
And then I feel meager,
Because you are not here--
For all the beautiful places
I breathe in when you are away,
Are ugly to me
Without your face.
That I have been--
Studying the stone,
the windows, the lights--
Should I not feel small?
Should I not feel meager--
For there are more hands
Than I could count?
But I do not feel small;
I do not feel meager,
As I stand in awe of
The contrast,
The walls,
The bridges--
Until I see the places,
The places we have been,
The places we could go.
And then I feel small
And then I feel meager,
Because you are not here--
For all the beautiful places
I breathe in when you are away,
Are ugly to me
Without your face.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Donuts Taught Me How to Stop Studying
When I was a senior in high school, my AP Economics teacher brought a dozen donuts to school one day in order to demonstrate the concept of marginal utility and how it generally decreases as more units are consumed/obtained; the tiny girl eating the donuts really enjoyed the first few donuts, but the benefits she felt she was receiving started decreasing dramatically as more donuts were consumed--which was evident by the look on her face!
Little did my econ teacher know that in college I would apply such a principle to studying in college! I spent three and a half hours studying for my financial accounting final that's tomorrow morning and, as time went on, my enjoyment--which was already low to begin with--continued to decrease and the last two chapters I was to go over I reviewed quite sloppily. My logic in stopping was that my marginal benefit in continuing to study must have been decreasing and, therefore, if I continued to spend time studying, it would make a smaller difference on my test score than the difference that was made during the first chunks of time I spent studying.
We'll just pretend that makes sense and that economic principles are applicable to real life situations and that I have feasibly adequate justifications in not studying any longer.
Now if that didn't dissuade you from reading the rest of this blog than I'm quite sure nothing will!
Unless you're a guy and you're offended when I say that I'm sick of people like you :)
But okay, I'll be honest: so it really isn't the male species fault for much of my tiresome evocations. I could try to go into some detailed explanation about my complaint, but I'll just leave fact as fact.
So I came up with and wrote down eight things that truly encompass the type of person I should always aspire and desire to be:
I am honest.
I am clean.
I am chaste.
I am strong.
I choose principles over passions.
I am ambitious.
I have honor and integrity.
I don't live my life in fear.
I am humble.
I'm definitely still working on some of those, but I figured that, if I have something written out that I tell myself every day that helps me stay focused, then I'll be able to better become what I can, should and want to become. Of course, those words are vain without action; but action is so much more likely to come about when thoughts become more tangible with words and documentation--it's almost like a promise.
I could write more, but I'm in a cynically sarcastic mood and writing usually doesn't make me feel better during those moments--unless it's symbolic or poetry or a mixture of the two, which I don't have time for, unfortunately. I'll write more another time.
Little did my econ teacher know that in college I would apply such a principle to studying in college! I spent three and a half hours studying for my financial accounting final that's tomorrow morning and, as time went on, my enjoyment--which was already low to begin with--continued to decrease and the last two chapters I was to go over I reviewed quite sloppily. My logic in stopping was that my marginal benefit in continuing to study must have been decreasing and, therefore, if I continued to spend time studying, it would make a smaller difference on my test score than the difference that was made during the first chunks of time I spent studying.
We'll just pretend that makes sense and that economic principles are applicable to real life situations and that I have feasibly adequate justifications in not studying any longer.
Now if that didn't dissuade you from reading the rest of this blog than I'm quite sure nothing will!
Unless you're a guy and you're offended when I say that I'm sick of people like you :)
But okay, I'll be honest: so it really isn't the male species fault for much of my tiresome evocations. I could try to go into some detailed explanation about my complaint, but I'll just leave fact as fact.
So I came up with and wrote down eight things that truly encompass the type of person I should always aspire and desire to be:
I am honest.
I am clean.
I am chaste.
I am strong.
I choose principles over passions.
I am ambitious.
I have honor and integrity.
I don't live my life in fear.
I am humble.
I'm definitely still working on some of those, but I figured that, if I have something written out that I tell myself every day that helps me stay focused, then I'll be able to better become what I can, should and want to become. Of course, those words are vain without action; but action is so much more likely to come about when thoughts become more tangible with words and documentation--it's almost like a promise.
I could write more, but I'm in a cynically sarcastic mood and writing usually doesn't make me feel better during those moments--unless it's symbolic or poetry or a mixture of the two, which I don't have time for, unfortunately. I'll write more another time.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
The Cat
There's this cat in my neighborhood that really enjoys sitting on my car when I'm not looking; it is always leaving little brown paw prints as evidence of its stay. At first, this happening quite annoyed me; I didn't like the idea that, because of that cat, I would need to wash my car more often--maybe even multiple times a week if I didn't want residue dirt and cat hair on my front hood.
Last night, after I dropped off a movie at Redbox, I parked in my driveway and there it was: a long-haired tabby cat just waiting for my return. I sat in my car for a few minutes and just stared at it, partially to see if I could scare it away and partially because I had other things on my mind.
And the cat stared back at me--not out of fright, but in a kind sort of way. When I got out of the car, I walked over to it and started petting it. It purred and brushed its face against my hand and side in response. There was something about how sweet the cat was that eased my mind and comforted me in some little way. Why is it that I'm bound to love this thing that has caused me so much previous annoyance?
But I was touched, no longer caring about my car, nor the fact that I may have to wash it a little more because of this creature, so I scooped up the cat in my arms and set in on the hood of my car so that the warmth of the engine might make it more comfortable.
I pet it a few more times, then started to head for my front door and it followed me. It made me smile to think it'd rather be pet by me than to have the comfort of my car.
So now there's no turning back; this reconciliation is quite permanent, for I'm convinced that it will never have any reservations about sitting my car and I will no longer ever have the heart to stop it.
Last night, after I dropped off a movie at Redbox, I parked in my driveway and there it was: a long-haired tabby cat just waiting for my return. I sat in my car for a few minutes and just stared at it, partially to see if I could scare it away and partially because I had other things on my mind.
And the cat stared back at me--not out of fright, but in a kind sort of way. When I got out of the car, I walked over to it and started petting it. It purred and brushed its face against my hand and side in response. There was something about how sweet the cat was that eased my mind and comforted me in some little way. Why is it that I'm bound to love this thing that has caused me so much previous annoyance?
But I was touched, no longer caring about my car, nor the fact that I may have to wash it a little more because of this creature, so I scooped up the cat in my arms and set in on the hood of my car so that the warmth of the engine might make it more comfortable.
I pet it a few more times, then started to head for my front door and it followed me. It made me smile to think it'd rather be pet by me than to have the comfort of my car.
So now there's no turning back; this reconciliation is quite permanent, for I'm convinced that it will never have any reservations about sitting my car and I will no longer ever have the heart to stop it.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Inconstancy
I am an ocean wave
I am the seasons changing
I am the shooting star
I am the quick sand
I am a sheet of music
I am science
I am a woman
I am the constancy of inconstancy
I am the seasons changing
I am the shooting star
I am the quick sand
I am a sheet of music
I am science
I am a woman
I am the constancy of inconstancy
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Trains and Tunnels
When I ride the max--
Whether it's to school
Or back to my house--
I always look outside the window
At buildings, at lights, at people passing by,
Appreciative, yet wishing for another view.
And I wonder if he sometimes wishes that, too.
After I reach Goose Hollow,
I know my next destination:
It's Washington Park
And it's in a tunnel;
What is there to look at in a tunnel?
So when I go through the tunnel,
I close my eyes--
I'm usually tired--
And listen to the sound of the train,
Trying to guess when the concrete walls
Are no longer enclosing me.
And I usually guess right;
The train is loud in the tunnel,
Getting louder still
Getting louder still
Right before it's out--
And once the train is out,
It's finally quiet.
Things have their proper place:
Some get loud and then quiet;
Some are just always quiet;
And some are just always getting louder.
In this case--with him--
I hope things are always getting louder,
That the tunnel never ends.
Whether it's to school
Or back to my house--
I always look outside the window
At buildings, at lights, at people passing by,
Appreciative, yet wishing for another view.
And I wonder if he sometimes wishes that, too.
After I reach Goose Hollow,
I know my next destination:
It's Washington Park
And it's in a tunnel;
What is there to look at in a tunnel?
So when I go through the tunnel,
I close my eyes--
I'm usually tired--
And listen to the sound of the train,
Trying to guess when the concrete walls
Are no longer enclosing me.
And I usually guess right;
The train is loud in the tunnel,
Getting louder still
Getting louder still
Right before it's out--
And once the train is out,
It's finally quiet.
Things have their proper place:
Some get loud and then quiet;
Some are just always quiet;
And some are just always getting louder.
In this case--with him--
I hope things are always getting louder,
That the tunnel never ends.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
The Treasure to Look
I usually don't like waking up early
But I discovered something most people miss
In the biting hours of the morning
Because people are just always
Too busy closing their eyes
In this glimpse, there was a winter sunrise
And though my skin felt as stone
And my breath formed brief clouds in my face
The pink and orange looked warm
Taking root in my heart
But with pearls, nature is greedy
Colors dissipating with each step I took
And though most may need riches and gold
Something tangible to hold
I but need the treasure to look
But I discovered something most people miss
In the biting hours of the morning
Because people are just always
Too busy closing their eyes
In this glimpse, there was a winter sunrise
And though my skin felt as stone
And my breath formed brief clouds in my face
The pink and orange looked warm
Taking root in my heart
But with pearls, nature is greedy
Colors dissipating with each step I took
And though most may need riches and gold
Something tangible to hold
I but need the treasure to look
Saturday, January 1, 2011
You Have to Be Lost to Find What Can't Be Found
They say you must be old
When your age is on a speed sign
But I say you must be crazy
When how fast your mind is running
Doesn't even fit
When your age is on a speed sign
But I say you must be crazy
When how fast your mind is running
Doesn't even fit
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)